Beem Weeks's Blog, page 2
April 26, 2019
The Celebration of a Life!
Sammy Hero At Age Five by M. SchmidtMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
This is the true story of a five year old boy named Sammy. Though Sammy is the story’s narrator, it is told through the eyes of his mother and older brother. Sammy had cancer, the disease he succumbed to at age five.
The first part of the story shares insight into the daily life of a typical American family, detailing the goings-on with Sammy, his brother, and his mother. Readers get to know Sammy and his budding personality. Most American boys will recognize the activities of riding Big Wheels, messing with snakes, and sneaking off to forbidden areas. There are some humorous stories here, like the older brother, Gene, accidentally locking Mom out of the house. A neighbor had to bring a ladder, allowing Mom to climb in through the attic to unlock the door.
The second part is entitled Cancer Arrived. Sammy began to be sick—all the time. Sinus infections, inner and middle ear infections, mononucleosis, and upper respiratory disease took over Sammy’s body. Doctors couldn’t pinpoint a cause and medicines didn’t clear things up. A radiologist even misread the x-ray. Because of this, he missed the tumor mass in Sammy’s neck and head. The cancer diagnosis left the family reeling. No parent wants to hear that awful disease pronounced on their child. The battle against Rhabdomyosarcoma became a family fight.
To a young boy, this would be a scary situation to be in. Sammy certainly had those moments. But what we learn from this personal story is the wisdom and courage this boy gained in his all-too-brief time in this world. While cancer is a dark subject, this book is anything but dark. I found in these pages a celebration of a life that is still touching others, even nearly thirty years after his departure. As long as his mother, brother, family, and friends are here in this world, Sammy will be here too.
View all my reviews
February 17, 2019
My Review of Outshine: An Ovarian Cancer Memoir
Outshine: An Ovarian Cancer Memoir by Karen IngallsMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
This book is more than a simple memoir telling a story. This is a book filled with harrowing moments in the life of the author. Through sharing the darkness of a cancer battle, Karen Ingalls shines light on her faith and the events that led her to courage in the face of deep uncertainty.
Ovarian cancer is a serious issue—as is any cancer diagnosis. In a moment, a person must stand face to face with his or her own mortality. Karen Ingalls not only found victory in her personal battle, she has chosen to share her journey, offering comfort to those who may be fighting adversity in their own lives.
Ingalls writes from a point of view of a gentle friend telling the reader what God has done in her life. She is a deeply spiritual human being. There is much to learn from those who have faced such battles.
In the chapter entitled Spirituality, she writes the following: I believe we always have lessons to learn, and that’s what life’s experiences are about. If we don’t learn our lessons the first time, then life will keep bringing us new opportunities to learn.
That really spoke to me because that’s been my belief for the last twenty-odd years—since I became born again in 1996. It’s a truth that I abide by. Life is filled with lessons designed to make us into the people God intends us to become—the person we’re meant to be. I especially love the way Karen describes the trying times as “opportunities” for us to learn. Growth doesn’t come without struggle. Many of us won’t know the dread of cancer. But our own struggles will come. They can most certainly be strong enough to defeat us. But if we take the mindset and determination that Karen used in facing down her own fears and struggles, we can know we have a fighting chance. If you’re struggling with adversity or have a loved one going through trials, I highly recommend this memoir of perseverance and faith.
View all my reviews
November 26, 2018
NEW RELEASE! Strange Hwy: Short Stories by Beem Weeks is Now Available!
Strange Hwy
Fresh Ink Group is pleased to announce the release of Strange Hwy: Short Stories by Beem Weeks. This collection of short stories makes a perfect Christmas gift for the reader in your life.
Strange Hwy: Short Stories is available in full-sized trade paperback, dust-jacketed hardcover, and all ebook formats. You can purchase Strange Hwy: Short Stories at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBooks, Google Books, and many other online retailers.
Whether you’re into horror, historical fiction, coming of age, or slice of life stories, this collection has something for you.
Blurb:
If you ever find yourself on the Strange Hwy—don’t turn around. Don’t panic. Just. Keep. Going. You never know what you’ll find.
You’ll see magic at the fingertips of an autistic young man,
•A teen girl’s afternoon, lifetime of loss.
•A winged man, an angel? Demon—?
•Mother’s recognition, peace to daughter.
•Danny’s death, stifled secrets.
•Black man’s music, guitar transforms boy.
•Dead brother, open confession.
•First love, supernatural?—family becomes whole!
You can exit the Strange Hwy, and come back any time you want.
See, now you know the way in, don’t be a stranger.
Fresh Ink Group is pleased to announce the release of Strange Hwy: Short Stories by Beem Weeks. This collection of short stories makes a perfect Christmas gift for the reader in your life.
Strange Hwy: Short Stories is available in full-sized trade paperback, dust-jacketed hardcover, and all ebook formats. You can purchase Strange Hwy: Short Stories at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBooks, Google Books, and many other online retailers.
Whether you’re into horror, historical fiction, coming of age, or slice of life stories, this collection has something for you.
Blurb:
If you ever find yourself on the Strange Hwy—don’t turn around. Don’t panic. Just. Keep. Going. You never know what you’ll find.
You’ll see magic at the fingertips of an autistic young man,
•A teen girl’s afternoon, lifetime of loss.
•A winged man, an angel? Demon—?
•Mother’s recognition, peace to daughter.
•Danny’s death, stifled secrets.
•Black man’s music, guitar transforms boy.
•Dead brother, open confession.
•First love, supernatural?—family becomes whole!
You can exit the Strange Hwy, and come back any time you want.
See, now you know the way in, don’t be a stranger.
July 30, 2018
"Slivers of Life: A Collection of Short Stories" Now Just .99!
Sliver of Life: A Collection of Short Stories is now available for just .99 on Kindle for a limited time. Grab a copy before it's over!
"There is no time to lose when crafting a short story. In order to hook the reader, the author must instantly bring the narrator's voice to life and create a compelling drama. In each of the "Slivers", Beem Weeks plunges us into an intimate emotional encounter faster than Alice down the rabbit hole."--S. Rose, author of Bridge Ices Before Road
These twenty short stories are a peek into individual lives caught up in spectacular moments in time. Children, teens, mothers, and the elderly each have stories to share. Readers witness tragedy and fulfillment, love and hate, loss and renewal. Historical events become backdrops in the lives of ordinary people, those souls forgotten with the passage of time. Beem Weeks tackles diverse issues running the gamut from Alzheimer’s disease to civil rights, abandonment to abuse, from young love to the death of a child. Long-hidden secrets and notions of revenge unfold at the promptings of rich and realistic characters; plot lines often lead readers into strange and dark corners. Within Slivers of Life, Weeks proves that everybody has a story to tell—and no two are ever exactly alike.
Slivers Of Life
Book Trailer
"There is no time to lose when crafting a short story. In order to hook the reader, the author must instantly bring the narrator's voice to life and create a compelling drama. In each of the "Slivers", Beem Weeks plunges us into an intimate emotional encounter faster than Alice down the rabbit hole."--S. Rose, author of Bridge Ices Before Road
These twenty short stories are a peek into individual lives caught up in spectacular moments in time. Children, teens, mothers, and the elderly each have stories to share. Readers witness tragedy and fulfillment, love and hate, loss and renewal. Historical events become backdrops in the lives of ordinary people, those souls forgotten with the passage of time. Beem Weeks tackles diverse issues running the gamut from Alzheimer’s disease to civil rights, abandonment to abuse, from young love to the death of a child. Long-hidden secrets and notions of revenge unfold at the promptings of rich and realistic characters; plot lines often lead readers into strange and dark corners. Within Slivers of Life, Weeks proves that everybody has a story to tell—and no two are ever exactly alike.
Slivers Of Life
Book Trailer
January 30, 2018
If Only There Was Music - Review
"If Only There Was Music..." The Poetry of Forbidden Love by Nonnie JulesMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
A forbidden dance spelled out in words that spill emotion across the pages. These words become real, palpable, designed to yank the reader into the very world in which the two participants live. "If Only There Was Music" is a poetic back and forth between individuals who find themselves entangled in feelings that, on the surface, should not exist, should not even be considered. But here they are, drawn to one another when they should not be. It's a situation in which many have found themselves. One cannot help to whom one is attracted. It's just a simple fact of life. There is a vivid sensuality within the forbidden. It is human emotion at its rawest level. The authors capture it and put it on display for all to witness. I am a fan of well-written poetry. This collection fits that bill.
View all my reviews
June 11, 2017
Whatever Happened to Baby Teegarten?
In the years since Jazz Baby first saw publication, some readers have been curious as to what happened to Emily Ann “Baby” Teegarten. Did she ever make it to New York? Were her dreams of singing jazz professionally ever realized? Did she find success? Well, presented here, is an interview with Baby Teegarten, which takes place ten years after the novel ends. This is meant to be a glimpse into the life our protagonist may have created for herself.
THE INTERVIEW
Monday, April 15, 1935
She chose the meeting place. I could lie and tell you readers that I arrived thirty minutes early just to get a feel for the room. But the truth of the matter is, I get a little nervous with this one. Most of you have been reading my column for the better part of 15 years. You know the names that have graced my page: Babe Ruth, Harry Houdini, Clara Bow, Harold Lloyd—even Charlie Chaplin agreed to a sit-down chat back in 1924.
Still, this one is different.
The she I’m referring to is popular jazz vocalist Baby Teegarten. They don’t come any bigger than Baby these days. Three consecutive years as the country’s highest-paid entertainer proves this fact.
I lock down a table at the rear of McSorley’s Tavern on East 7th Street—which also happens to hold a strict policy for not allowing women inside.
But Baby Teegarten, well, she’s not just any woman.
“This is her neighborhood,” the fellow tending bar tells me. “She has a swanky place overlooking Central Park. Bought it from Babe Ruth himself.”
It’s the Babe who introduced Baby to McSorley’s.
“Nobody bothers her in here,” the barkeep explains. “Besides, if she’s pals with the Babe, she’s all right by us.”
I knock back a Scotch and soda. It’s what steadies my nerves. Only Mae West ever had me taking a nip before an interview.
I’ve seen Baby perform a dozen times easily—this going back to those first shows she did at Swelby’s Joint. Two thousand patrons lined up every night just to witness the Baby. She’d been just shy of her fourteenth birthday back in those early shows. But any fool with eyes and ears could tell she was special.
Oh, sure, we all recall the backlash at allowing a mere child up on those club stages. But nobody could—or would—stand in that girl’s way. No, sir. She’d have busted any full-grown man in the chops, should one be so bold as to try.
Prompt, this one. She arrives at 3 o’clock sharp, with her entourage in tow. By entourage I mean her manager, Abe Horowitz, and Job Pritchett, husband of Baby.
Mr. Pritchett, he’s a large fellow, to be sure. Tall and wide; real sturdy; the sort of man who likely spent his youth throwing bales of hay around the farm, maybe even punching cows—literally. Hollywood handsome: blond hair worn messy, pale blue eyes, an easy laugh. He’s more threatening than threatened. Famous in his own right, he’s known the world over for his paintings and sculptures.
Baby is a true vision, greeting patrons by name up by the front door. She’s resplendent in a violet-colored summer dress that falls just below her knees. Diamonds sparkle on her fingers and wrists, her ears, at her delicate throat. There’s even a gold bracelet on her right ankle.
Eyes as green as emeralds track me down in my corner.
There’s a subtle sweetness in her scent.
Lilacs.
“Hey, there,” she says. “I’m supposed to talk with you today?”
I’m lost for words in this moment, so I just nod like a mute fool.
“You don’t mind it here, do you?” Her accent is rich, wrapping her every word in a southern twang thicker than molasses—and just as sweet.
My voice carries a slight tremble, but I manage a quick, “No, ma’am.”
Baby Teegarten settles on a bar stool next to mine. “This is Mister Pritchett, my husband,” she says.
Job Pritchett’s massive hand takes mine with a gentle squeeze. “Good to meet you,” he tells me in a boyish tone. A lucky fellow, this one.
Abe Horowitz needs no introduction: Club owner, manager of a handful of singers and musicians. Connected. He mined gold when he discovered Baby Teegarten.
Job’s lips brush Baby’s lips. His voice comes soft, almost a soothing thing. “Me and Abe will be up at the bar—if you need us.”
It passes there in the space between them: his subtle caress of her cheek, her gentle squeeze of his hand. These two are infatuated with one another.
“Lord a-mercy, I love that boy,” she says, once we’re alone. “We got our tenth anniversary coming this summer.” She waves her right hand in my face. “He just got me this one right here.”
She means the full carat diamond set in white gold on her ring finger.
“What does it feel like to make more money than the president of the United States?” I ask, leading us into the interview.
Her petite shoulders give up a shrug. “Just means I can buy whatever I want—’Cept Jobie’s the one buys my jewelry. That boy makes nearly as much as me.”
She’s a tiny thing, maybe five foot two. I’m guessing it might take an extra big lunch to push her past a hundred pounds. And though she doesn’t mention it, this day is her twenty-third birthday.
I ask, “When did you first start singing?”
“Since I can recollect. Pastor Pritchett first had me up in front of the congregation when I was just five. That’s when I took to singing for other folks who ain’t just my kin.”
“Mississippi, right?”
Her head tips a short nod. “Down Rayford—up a piece from Biloxi.”
“A Delta girl, huh? You pick cotton down there?”
A silver cigarette case finds her hand. “Picked a bunch. Mister Kuiper used to pay me a dime for each sack I managed. I made a dollar a day most days.”
“Doesn’t sound like much.”
“It does to a little girl ain’t got much of nothin’.”
A Lucky Strike settles between her lips. Smoke rolls from her dainty nose.
Questions my editor suggested filter through the small talk. “You’re working a lot with George Gershwin. How’d that come about?”
“Georgie’s sweet,” she says, sending smoke rings chasing after her words. “His family knows Mister Horowitz’s family. He liked my voice and wrote some songs for me—’Cept I’m the one writes the words, since I’m the one has to sing ’em.”
Sales figures wedge their way into the conversation—nobody sells more phonograph records than Baby Teegarten.
“A million,” she offers. Says it as if she doesn’t really believe it herself. “I mean, a person can reach into his pocket, grab a hundred of something, and toss it on the floor and say, ‘Yep. That’s a hundred.’ But nobody can throw a million anything on the floor and count that.”
She’s had three of them reach that plateau in recent years.
“Where’s your favorite place to play?” I ask, scratching off another one from my editor.
“Paris is nice.” Her hand gives up an abbreviated wave, catching the barkeep’s attention. “What’s so amazing there is, those folks don’t speak no English, but they sure know all the words to my songs.”
A bottle arrives at our table. Not exactly what I expected.
“Co-cola,” she says, drawing a long pull. “Mister Horowitz don’t like for me to drink liquor while I’m gabbing with newspaper fellas. He says I just might talk too much.”
I feign shock. “Secrets?”
There’s an endearing sweetness in her giggle. “Oh, I got plenty of secrets.”
“Horowitz really looks after you, huh?”
“He’s the best. Like a second daddy. Doesn’t let anybody get close enough to take advantage.”
She spends a lot of time on the road, traveling by train, singing in places like Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, St. Louis, and Kansas City. Big theaters, is where she sings these days. Gone are the smoke-filled clubs with dance floors and drunken revelers.
“I like the theaters,” she says. “And I really like seeing different places. But I do miss the New York clubs. I could do two shows a night and be at home with Mister Pritchett by one in the morning. Now, I do one show for five thousand people—nobody drinking or dancing—a night at a hotel, then up before the devil and off to the train station and the next city.”
There’s a weary tone creeping into her answers. Well, maybe weary isn’t the right word. Cautious, perhaps.
“Do you ever take time off? Maybe stay home for a while?”
She does—but only because the men in her life force her to do so.
“Once Mister Pritchett and Mister Horowitz get together, they’re worse than two fathers.”
Baby Teegarten will soon add actress to her resume. She just this week signed to play a role in a new James Cagney movie.
“It’s only a small part,” she explains. “I play a singer in a jazz club. I’ll sing two new songs they wrote just for the film.”
“Any lines?”
Just one. But that’s fine by her. “I ain’t no movie star.”
No, she’s not. But that doesn’t stop the real movie stars from turning out wherever Baby Teegarten treads a stage. It’s fashionable to be seen at her shows.
“Jean Harlow got my autograph last summer in Chicago.” She says it like it’s a normal thing that happens to most people.
“How’d you come to be friendly with Babe Ruth?”
That shrug raises her shoulders again. “He came to my shows most nights he was in town—back when I still played the clubs. Once he decided to buy a house in the country, I bought his apartment.”
“I guess that makes you a Yankees fan, huh?”
It’s a playful thing, that sideways glance she throws at me. “Ain’t no self-respecting Mississippi girl gonna ever cheer on no Yankees.”
Abe Horowitz’s approach signals a wrap to our discussion. I’d been promised twenty minutes, Baby gave me thirty.
“Gotta get ready for the trip to Hollywood,” she says, gaining her feet.
She offers a handshake, which abruptly becomes a friendly hug.
Job Pritchett, arm around Baby’s waist, sweeps the girl away, following Abe Horowitz out the front door, into the crowd moving along 7th Street.
It takes a few moments for my head to clear itself of her scent, her voice, her very presence. It’s not a difficult thing to see why so many have fallen for this lovely young woman.
“She just has a way about her,” the barkeep says as I make my getaway.
She certainly does, I tell myself. She certainly does.
THE INTERVIEW
Monday, April 15, 1935
She chose the meeting place. I could lie and tell you readers that I arrived thirty minutes early just to get a feel for the room. But the truth of the matter is, I get a little nervous with this one. Most of you have been reading my column for the better part of 15 years. You know the names that have graced my page: Babe Ruth, Harry Houdini, Clara Bow, Harold Lloyd—even Charlie Chaplin agreed to a sit-down chat back in 1924.
Still, this one is different.
The she I’m referring to is popular jazz vocalist Baby Teegarten. They don’t come any bigger than Baby these days. Three consecutive years as the country’s highest-paid entertainer proves this fact.
I lock down a table at the rear of McSorley’s Tavern on East 7th Street—which also happens to hold a strict policy for not allowing women inside.
But Baby Teegarten, well, she’s not just any woman.
“This is her neighborhood,” the fellow tending bar tells me. “She has a swanky place overlooking Central Park. Bought it from Babe Ruth himself.”
It’s the Babe who introduced Baby to McSorley’s.
“Nobody bothers her in here,” the barkeep explains. “Besides, if she’s pals with the Babe, she’s all right by us.”
I knock back a Scotch and soda. It’s what steadies my nerves. Only Mae West ever had me taking a nip before an interview.
I’ve seen Baby perform a dozen times easily—this going back to those first shows she did at Swelby’s Joint. Two thousand patrons lined up every night just to witness the Baby. She’d been just shy of her fourteenth birthday back in those early shows. But any fool with eyes and ears could tell she was special.
Oh, sure, we all recall the backlash at allowing a mere child up on those club stages. But nobody could—or would—stand in that girl’s way. No, sir. She’d have busted any full-grown man in the chops, should one be so bold as to try.
Prompt, this one. She arrives at 3 o’clock sharp, with her entourage in tow. By entourage I mean her manager, Abe Horowitz, and Job Pritchett, husband of Baby.
Mr. Pritchett, he’s a large fellow, to be sure. Tall and wide; real sturdy; the sort of man who likely spent his youth throwing bales of hay around the farm, maybe even punching cows—literally. Hollywood handsome: blond hair worn messy, pale blue eyes, an easy laugh. He’s more threatening than threatened. Famous in his own right, he’s known the world over for his paintings and sculptures.
Baby is a true vision, greeting patrons by name up by the front door. She’s resplendent in a violet-colored summer dress that falls just below her knees. Diamonds sparkle on her fingers and wrists, her ears, at her delicate throat. There’s even a gold bracelet on her right ankle.
Eyes as green as emeralds track me down in my corner.
There’s a subtle sweetness in her scent.
Lilacs.
“Hey, there,” she says. “I’m supposed to talk with you today?”
I’m lost for words in this moment, so I just nod like a mute fool.
“You don’t mind it here, do you?” Her accent is rich, wrapping her every word in a southern twang thicker than molasses—and just as sweet.
My voice carries a slight tremble, but I manage a quick, “No, ma’am.”
Baby Teegarten settles on a bar stool next to mine. “This is Mister Pritchett, my husband,” she says.
Job Pritchett’s massive hand takes mine with a gentle squeeze. “Good to meet you,” he tells me in a boyish tone. A lucky fellow, this one.
Abe Horowitz needs no introduction: Club owner, manager of a handful of singers and musicians. Connected. He mined gold when he discovered Baby Teegarten.
Job’s lips brush Baby’s lips. His voice comes soft, almost a soothing thing. “Me and Abe will be up at the bar—if you need us.”
It passes there in the space between them: his subtle caress of her cheek, her gentle squeeze of his hand. These two are infatuated with one another.
“Lord a-mercy, I love that boy,” she says, once we’re alone. “We got our tenth anniversary coming this summer.” She waves her right hand in my face. “He just got me this one right here.”
She means the full carat diamond set in white gold on her ring finger.
“What does it feel like to make more money than the president of the United States?” I ask, leading us into the interview.
Her petite shoulders give up a shrug. “Just means I can buy whatever I want—’Cept Jobie’s the one buys my jewelry. That boy makes nearly as much as me.”
She’s a tiny thing, maybe five foot two. I’m guessing it might take an extra big lunch to push her past a hundred pounds. And though she doesn’t mention it, this day is her twenty-third birthday.
I ask, “When did you first start singing?”
“Since I can recollect. Pastor Pritchett first had me up in front of the congregation when I was just five. That’s when I took to singing for other folks who ain’t just my kin.”
“Mississippi, right?”
Her head tips a short nod. “Down Rayford—up a piece from Biloxi.”
“A Delta girl, huh? You pick cotton down there?”
A silver cigarette case finds her hand. “Picked a bunch. Mister Kuiper used to pay me a dime for each sack I managed. I made a dollar a day most days.”
“Doesn’t sound like much.”
“It does to a little girl ain’t got much of nothin’.”
A Lucky Strike settles between her lips. Smoke rolls from her dainty nose.
Questions my editor suggested filter through the small talk. “You’re working a lot with George Gershwin. How’d that come about?”
“Georgie’s sweet,” she says, sending smoke rings chasing after her words. “His family knows Mister Horowitz’s family. He liked my voice and wrote some songs for me—’Cept I’m the one writes the words, since I’m the one has to sing ’em.”
Sales figures wedge their way into the conversation—nobody sells more phonograph records than Baby Teegarten.
“A million,” she offers. Says it as if she doesn’t really believe it herself. “I mean, a person can reach into his pocket, grab a hundred of something, and toss it on the floor and say, ‘Yep. That’s a hundred.’ But nobody can throw a million anything on the floor and count that.”
She’s had three of them reach that plateau in recent years.
“Where’s your favorite place to play?” I ask, scratching off another one from my editor.
“Paris is nice.” Her hand gives up an abbreviated wave, catching the barkeep’s attention. “What’s so amazing there is, those folks don’t speak no English, but they sure know all the words to my songs.”
A bottle arrives at our table. Not exactly what I expected.
“Co-cola,” she says, drawing a long pull. “Mister Horowitz don’t like for me to drink liquor while I’m gabbing with newspaper fellas. He says I just might talk too much.”
I feign shock. “Secrets?”
There’s an endearing sweetness in her giggle. “Oh, I got plenty of secrets.”
“Horowitz really looks after you, huh?”
“He’s the best. Like a second daddy. Doesn’t let anybody get close enough to take advantage.”
She spends a lot of time on the road, traveling by train, singing in places like Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, St. Louis, and Kansas City. Big theaters, is where she sings these days. Gone are the smoke-filled clubs with dance floors and drunken revelers.
“I like the theaters,” she says. “And I really like seeing different places. But I do miss the New York clubs. I could do two shows a night and be at home with Mister Pritchett by one in the morning. Now, I do one show for five thousand people—nobody drinking or dancing—a night at a hotel, then up before the devil and off to the train station and the next city.”
There’s a weary tone creeping into her answers. Well, maybe weary isn’t the right word. Cautious, perhaps.
“Do you ever take time off? Maybe stay home for a while?”
She does—but only because the men in her life force her to do so.
“Once Mister Pritchett and Mister Horowitz get together, they’re worse than two fathers.”
Baby Teegarten will soon add actress to her resume. She just this week signed to play a role in a new James Cagney movie.
“It’s only a small part,” she explains. “I play a singer in a jazz club. I’ll sing two new songs they wrote just for the film.”
“Any lines?”
Just one. But that’s fine by her. “I ain’t no movie star.”
No, she’s not. But that doesn’t stop the real movie stars from turning out wherever Baby Teegarten treads a stage. It’s fashionable to be seen at her shows.
“Jean Harlow got my autograph last summer in Chicago.” She says it like it’s a normal thing that happens to most people.
“How’d you come to be friendly with Babe Ruth?”
That shrug raises her shoulders again. “He came to my shows most nights he was in town—back when I still played the clubs. Once he decided to buy a house in the country, I bought his apartment.”
“I guess that makes you a Yankees fan, huh?”
It’s a playful thing, that sideways glance she throws at me. “Ain’t no self-respecting Mississippi girl gonna ever cheer on no Yankees.”
Abe Horowitz’s approach signals a wrap to our discussion. I’d been promised twenty minutes, Baby gave me thirty.
“Gotta get ready for the trip to Hollywood,” she says, gaining her feet.
She offers a handshake, which abruptly becomes a friendly hug.
Job Pritchett, arm around Baby’s waist, sweeps the girl away, following Abe Horowitz out the front door, into the crowd moving along 7th Street.
It takes a few moments for my head to clear itself of her scent, her voice, her very presence. It’s not a difficult thing to see why so many have fallen for this lovely young woman.
“She just has a way about her,” the barkeep says as I make my getaway.
She certainly does, I tell myself. She certainly does.
December 28, 2016
A Peek into the Past
With Jazz: America’s Gift, author Richie Gerber has created a layered and textured look at the incredible history of this uniquely American genre of music. However, Gerber’s book goes beyond the standard investigation. What we learn in this in-depth examination has more to do with the transformation of jazz at the hands of George Gershwin.
Gerber’s book is chock full of historical facts, anecdotes, and once-famous names that have been lost to time. He takes readers on a guided tour of the Gershwin song book, offering insight into influences and meanings behind so many songs that continue to enjoy popularity so many decades after their creation. And then there are the lesser-known tunes; the ones that were written for various films and other projects, only to go unused.
Gerber grew up in Gershwin’s old neighborhood. He understands the lay of the land. It is this personal investment that really opens the door, allowing the rest of us a good look at what many consider to be the prime era of the jazz movement.
The drawings of Jazz Age artist Miguel Covarrubias are featured prominently throughout this book, giving a wonderful visual to many of the stories, setting a mood that really pulls the reader into the era and those long-ago moments.
This book is a must for jazz enthusiasts, music fans, and those who appreciate history.
Gerber’s book is chock full of historical facts, anecdotes, and once-famous names that have been lost to time. He takes readers on a guided tour of the Gershwin song book, offering insight into influences and meanings behind so many songs that continue to enjoy popularity so many decades after their creation. And then there are the lesser-known tunes; the ones that were written for various films and other projects, only to go unused.
Gerber grew up in Gershwin’s old neighborhood. He understands the lay of the land. It is this personal investment that really opens the door, allowing the rest of us a good look at what many consider to be the prime era of the jazz movement.
The drawings of Jazz Age artist Miguel Covarrubias are featured prominently throughout this book, giving a wonderful visual to many of the stories, setting a mood that really pulls the reader into the era and those long-ago moments.
This book is a must for jazz enthusiasts, music fans, and those who appreciate history.
December 26, 2016
Jazz Baby Gets a New Trailer!
Introducing the brand new video book trailer for Jazz Baby. This video is produced by Fresh Ink Group. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9HyH...
August 29, 2016
Sparrow In The Wind (Review)
Sparrow In The Wind is the fourth novel I’ve read by S. Rose. The middle two books, while well written and entertaining, are science fiction. I’m just not a big fan of that genre. This most recent novel—along with her debut title—falls into my favorite genre: coming of age.
Sparrow In The Wind tells the story of young Cassandra Parsons, a girl living with her parents in 1962 Wisconsin. As the story’s narrative voice, Cassandra shares her life’s experiences with readers, telling us about her move from the “big city” of Racine, to the backwoods of northern Wisconsin.
Along the way Cassandra learns of several long-hidden family secrets—some of which have the potential to destroy relationships within her family structure. Upon her move to the sticks, she befriends a half-Ojibwa Indian girl called Sparrow. The stark contrast between these two girls’ worlds is painted onto the pages of the book in vivid living color.
Cassandra, brought up in a solid middle class home filled with love and family, has never gone without the necessities of life. Sparrow, living in abject poverty, has never known any but a life of nothingness.
Despite these contrasting situations, these two girls forge a bond that holds their lives together even as the world around them spins recklessly out of control.
Ms. Rose writes coming of age stories as well as anybody within the genre—and this includes both indie authors as well as the traditionally published. To say I am a fan is an understatement. Her ability to bring characters to life is an admirable skill, to be sure. However, it is her rare gift of moving readers to actually care for her characters that sets her stories apart from other writers working in the coming-of-age genre.
I read her debut novel, Bridge Ices Before Road, several years ago. The story and characters remain with me to this day. Good writers do this with regularity. S. Rose has two books now that occupy the book shelf in my mind. If you haven’t yet discovered this incredible talent, the loss is yours.
Sparrow In The Wind tells the story of young Cassandra Parsons, a girl living with her parents in 1962 Wisconsin. As the story’s narrative voice, Cassandra shares her life’s experiences with readers, telling us about her move from the “big city” of Racine, to the backwoods of northern Wisconsin.
Along the way Cassandra learns of several long-hidden family secrets—some of which have the potential to destroy relationships within her family structure. Upon her move to the sticks, she befriends a half-Ojibwa Indian girl called Sparrow. The stark contrast between these two girls’ worlds is painted onto the pages of the book in vivid living color.
Cassandra, brought up in a solid middle class home filled with love and family, has never gone without the necessities of life. Sparrow, living in abject poverty, has never known any but a life of nothingness.
Despite these contrasting situations, these two girls forge a bond that holds their lives together even as the world around them spins recklessly out of control.
Ms. Rose writes coming of age stories as well as anybody within the genre—and this includes both indie authors as well as the traditionally published. To say I am a fan is an understatement. Her ability to bring characters to life is an admirable skill, to be sure. However, it is her rare gift of moving readers to actually care for her characters that sets her stories apart from other writers working in the coming-of-age genre.
I read her debut novel, Bridge Ices Before Road, several years ago. The story and characters remain with me to this day. Good writers do this with regularity. S. Rose has two books now that occupy the book shelf in my mind. If you haven’t yet discovered this incredible talent, the loss is yours.
February 22, 2016
Democracy or Republic?
We hear it all the time on those dime-a-dozen twenty-four hour cable news channels, with the talking heads informing the American citizenry of our troops’ efforts to keep the world safe for democracy. Even our elected officials, during an election year, proudly proclaim their intentions to fight for our democracy. But I challenge anybody reading this article to search the Constitution of the United States of America and point out where the word democracy appears even one time in that document.
Article four, section four of the U.S. Constitution informs those who care to study this amazing document that we are, in fact, a republic. Nowhere in all of the Constitution will you find the word democracy.
There are those, when challenged on this subject, who will pronounce a democracy is the same system as a republic. But I’ll point the reader to the Federalist Papers. Paper ten, to be exact. In this particular paper we find James Madison explaining the differences between a democracy and a republic. He even explains why the founding fathers chose a republican form of government over a democracy.
Here is a sample of Federalist Paper 10:
From this view of the subject it may be concluded that a pure democracy, by which I mean a society consisting of a small number of citizens, who assemble and administer the government in person, can admit of no cure for the mischiefs of faction. A common passion or interest will, in almost every case, be felt by a majority of the whole; a communication and concert result from the form of government itself; and there is nothing to check the inducements to sacrifice the weaker party or an obnoxious individual. Hence it is that such democracies have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention; have ever been found incompatible with personal security or the rights of property; and have in general been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths. Theoretic politicians, who have patronized this species of government, have erroneously supposed that by reducing mankind to a perfect equality in their political rights, they would, at the same time, be perfectly equalized and assimilated in their possessions, their opinions, and their passions.
A republic, by which I mean a government in which the scheme of representation takes place, opens a different prospect, and promises the cure for which we are seeking. Let us examine the points in which it varies from pure democracy, and we shall comprehend both the nature of the cure and the efficacy which it must derive from the Union.
The two great points of difference between a democracy and a republic are: first, the delegation of the government, in the latter, to a small number of citizens elected by the rest; secondly, the greater number of citizens, and greater sphere of country, over which the latter may be extended.
The effect of the first difference is, on the one hand, to refine and enlarge the public views, by passing them through the medium of a chosen body of citizens, whose wisdom may best discern the true interest of their country, and whose patriotism and love of justice will be least likely to sacrifice it to temporary or partial considerations. Under such a regulation, it may well happen that the public voice, pronounced by the representatives of the people, will be more consonant to the public good than if pronounced by the people themselves, convened for the purpose. On the other hand, the effect may be inverted. Men of factious tempers, of local prejudices, or of sinister designs, may, by intrigue, by corruption, or by other means, first obtain the suffrages, and then betray the interests, of the people. The question resulting is, whether small or extensive republics are more favorable to the election of proper guardians of the public weal; and it is clearly decided in favor of the latter by two obvious considerations:
In the first place, it is to be remarked that, however small the republic may be, the representatives must be raised to a certain number, in order to guard against the cabals of a few; and that, however large it may be, they must be limited to a certain number, in order to guard against the confusion of a multitude. Hence, the number of representatives in the two cases not being in proportion to that of the two constituents, and being proportionally greater in the small republic, it follows that, if the proportion of fit characters be not less in the large than in the small republic, the former will present a greater option, and consequently a greater probability of a fit choice.
In the next place, as each representative will be chosen by a greater number of citizens in the large than in the small republic, it will be more difficult for unworthy candidates to practice with success the vicious arts by which elections are too often carried; and the suffrages of the people being more free, will be more likely to centre in men who possess the most attractive merit and the most diffusive and established characters.
It must be confessed that in this, as in most other cases, there is a mean, on both sides of which inconveniences will be found to lie. By enlarging too much the number of electors, you render the representatives too little acquainted with all their local circumstances and lesser interests; as by reducing it too much, you render him unduly attached to these, and too little fit to comprehend and pursue great and national objects. The federal Constitution forms a happy combination in this respect; the great and aggregate interests being referred to the national, the local and particular to the State legislatures.
The other point of difference is, the greater number of citizens and extent of territory which may be brought within the compass of republican than of democratic government; and it is this circumstance principally which renders factious combinations less to be dreaded in the former than in the latter. The smaller the society, the fewer probably will be the distinct parties and interests composing it; the fewer the distinct parties and interests, the more frequently will a majority be found of the same party; and the smaller the number of individuals composing a majority, and the smaller the compass within which they are placed, the more easily will they concert and execute their plans of oppression. Extend the sphere, and you take in a greater variety of parties and interests; you make it less probable that a majority of the whole will have a common motive to invade the rights of other citizens; or if such a common motive exists, it will be more difficult for all who feel it to discover their own strength, and to act in unison with each other. Besides other impediments, it may be remarked that, where there is a consciousness of unjust or dishonorable purposes, communication is always checked by distrust in proportion to the number whose concurrence is necessary.
Hence, it clearly appears, that the same advantage which a republic has over a democracy, in controlling the effects of faction, is enjoyed by a large over a small republic, — is enjoyed by the Union over the States composing it. Does the advantage consist in the substitution of representatives whose enlightened views and virtuous sentiments render them superior to local prejudices and schemes of injustice? It will not be denied that the representation of the Union will be most likely to possess these requisite endowments. Does it consist in the greater security afforded by a greater variety of parties, against the event of any one party being able to outnumber and oppress the rest? In an equal degree does the increased variety of parties comprised within the Union, increase this security. Does it, in fine, consist in the greater obstacles opposed to the concert and accomplishment of the secret wishes of an unjust and interested majority? Here, again, the extent of the Union gives it the most palpable advantage.
We the people of these United States of America are not a democracy. We are a republic. The problem is we’ve allowed politicians and media pundits to continually tell us we are something we really are not, until what we truly are has been stolen away. This knowledge must again be taught in our school systems across this nation.
If you’ve never read the Federalist Papers, I encourage you to educate yourselves with a read. If you haven’t bothered with the U.S. Constitution, please take the time to study this document. Otherwise, how will you know when your rights have been taken?
Knowledge is power!
Share it now!
Article four, section four of the U.S. Constitution informs those who care to study this amazing document that we are, in fact, a republic. Nowhere in all of the Constitution will you find the word democracy.
There are those, when challenged on this subject, who will pronounce a democracy is the same system as a republic. But I’ll point the reader to the Federalist Papers. Paper ten, to be exact. In this particular paper we find James Madison explaining the differences between a democracy and a republic. He even explains why the founding fathers chose a republican form of government over a democracy.
Here is a sample of Federalist Paper 10:
From this view of the subject it may be concluded that a pure democracy, by which I mean a society consisting of a small number of citizens, who assemble and administer the government in person, can admit of no cure for the mischiefs of faction. A common passion or interest will, in almost every case, be felt by a majority of the whole; a communication and concert result from the form of government itself; and there is nothing to check the inducements to sacrifice the weaker party or an obnoxious individual. Hence it is that such democracies have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention; have ever been found incompatible with personal security or the rights of property; and have in general been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths. Theoretic politicians, who have patronized this species of government, have erroneously supposed that by reducing mankind to a perfect equality in their political rights, they would, at the same time, be perfectly equalized and assimilated in their possessions, their opinions, and their passions.
A republic, by which I mean a government in which the scheme of representation takes place, opens a different prospect, and promises the cure for which we are seeking. Let us examine the points in which it varies from pure democracy, and we shall comprehend both the nature of the cure and the efficacy which it must derive from the Union.
The two great points of difference between a democracy and a republic are: first, the delegation of the government, in the latter, to a small number of citizens elected by the rest; secondly, the greater number of citizens, and greater sphere of country, over which the latter may be extended.
The effect of the first difference is, on the one hand, to refine and enlarge the public views, by passing them through the medium of a chosen body of citizens, whose wisdom may best discern the true interest of their country, and whose patriotism and love of justice will be least likely to sacrifice it to temporary or partial considerations. Under such a regulation, it may well happen that the public voice, pronounced by the representatives of the people, will be more consonant to the public good than if pronounced by the people themselves, convened for the purpose. On the other hand, the effect may be inverted. Men of factious tempers, of local prejudices, or of sinister designs, may, by intrigue, by corruption, or by other means, first obtain the suffrages, and then betray the interests, of the people. The question resulting is, whether small or extensive republics are more favorable to the election of proper guardians of the public weal; and it is clearly decided in favor of the latter by two obvious considerations:
In the first place, it is to be remarked that, however small the republic may be, the representatives must be raised to a certain number, in order to guard against the cabals of a few; and that, however large it may be, they must be limited to a certain number, in order to guard against the confusion of a multitude. Hence, the number of representatives in the two cases not being in proportion to that of the two constituents, and being proportionally greater in the small republic, it follows that, if the proportion of fit characters be not less in the large than in the small republic, the former will present a greater option, and consequently a greater probability of a fit choice.
In the next place, as each representative will be chosen by a greater number of citizens in the large than in the small republic, it will be more difficult for unworthy candidates to practice with success the vicious arts by which elections are too often carried; and the suffrages of the people being more free, will be more likely to centre in men who possess the most attractive merit and the most diffusive and established characters.
It must be confessed that in this, as in most other cases, there is a mean, on both sides of which inconveniences will be found to lie. By enlarging too much the number of electors, you render the representatives too little acquainted with all their local circumstances and lesser interests; as by reducing it too much, you render him unduly attached to these, and too little fit to comprehend and pursue great and national objects. The federal Constitution forms a happy combination in this respect; the great and aggregate interests being referred to the national, the local and particular to the State legislatures.
The other point of difference is, the greater number of citizens and extent of territory which may be brought within the compass of republican than of democratic government; and it is this circumstance principally which renders factious combinations less to be dreaded in the former than in the latter. The smaller the society, the fewer probably will be the distinct parties and interests composing it; the fewer the distinct parties and interests, the more frequently will a majority be found of the same party; and the smaller the number of individuals composing a majority, and the smaller the compass within which they are placed, the more easily will they concert and execute their plans of oppression. Extend the sphere, and you take in a greater variety of parties and interests; you make it less probable that a majority of the whole will have a common motive to invade the rights of other citizens; or if such a common motive exists, it will be more difficult for all who feel it to discover their own strength, and to act in unison with each other. Besides other impediments, it may be remarked that, where there is a consciousness of unjust or dishonorable purposes, communication is always checked by distrust in proportion to the number whose concurrence is necessary.
Hence, it clearly appears, that the same advantage which a republic has over a democracy, in controlling the effects of faction, is enjoyed by a large over a small republic, — is enjoyed by the Union over the States composing it. Does the advantage consist in the substitution of representatives whose enlightened views and virtuous sentiments render them superior to local prejudices and schemes of injustice? It will not be denied that the representation of the Union will be most likely to possess these requisite endowments. Does it consist in the greater security afforded by a greater variety of parties, against the event of any one party being able to outnumber and oppress the rest? In an equal degree does the increased variety of parties comprised within the Union, increase this security. Does it, in fine, consist in the greater obstacles opposed to the concert and accomplishment of the secret wishes of an unjust and interested majority? Here, again, the extent of the Union gives it the most palpable advantage.
We the people of these United States of America are not a democracy. We are a republic. The problem is we’ve allowed politicians and media pundits to continually tell us we are something we really are not, until what we truly are has been stolen away. This knowledge must again be taught in our school systems across this nation.
If you’ve never read the Federalist Papers, I encourage you to educate yourselves with a read. If you haven’t bothered with the U.S. Constitution, please take the time to study this document. Otherwise, how will you know when your rights have been taken?
Knowledge is power!
Share it now!
