June Collins's Blog, page 2

American Fighting Man in Vietnam

American Fighting Man in Vietnam.

THINGS THAT GO SQUEAL, GROWL, THUMP, IN THE NIGHT.

Three o’clock must be the bewitching hour because that is when those heart stopping noises wake me. We are talking ‘AM” here. And it is barely past that now, as I sit here groggily pecking away at the keyboard. 

And NO, I don’t live in New York – although I used to, and the sounds are different there. Sure, they have their screams, their sirens, their loud-mouth street work crews and their late-night party revelers. But Manhattan’s sounds are so constant that New Yorkers learn to shut them out and sleep through any ear-destroying catastrophe.

These current disturbing sounds, which wake me night after night, all emanate from animals. Real ones – not the partying kind. They lust, mate, scream, beat their chest, scurry, forage, fight, slither, and God knows what else, outside my office window. It might not be so bad if the office was not attached to my bedroom and the window is left open at night. But everything has a reason. I need quick access to the computer in case a brainwave for a new book or a bog post should suddenly arouse me. (If you follow my blogs, you know that hasn’t occurred lately.) And as for the open window, well I live on a mountaintop overlooking the Pacific ocean and I love the fresh air.

Right this minute the noise has stopped. That is unusual as usually the wild and varied sounds continue until almost dawn when the Kookaburras awake and scream laughing at them. That usually shuts them up. 

By now I suppose you’re thinking I live in a really noisy place but that isn’t really so. It is actually deathly quiet. There is rarely any traffic at night and in Australia, planes are not allowed to fly overhead while the populace is asleep. Besides, I and my neighbors all have at least an acre of land surrounding our homes on this short street. And that acre of land is my problem. You see, I have an envirocycle. Envirocycles are a wonderful invention and possibly unknown to you city-folk. Being semi-rural out here, we inhabitants must think a lot about water. We don’t turn on the tap and out comes dam water – the way you city folk do. No sireee! We must catch our water in big tanks whenever it rains. And considering it can go for months without rain around here, we treat that water like liquid gold. Indeed, in dry seasons, we restrict our showers to three minutes by putting an egg timer on the shower wall before lathering up. Some of us can lather and rinse faster than Lance Armstrong on steroids. But I digress – and digress – we were talking about envirocycles. Those wonderful inventions save our grey (waste) water, treat it until they say you could drink it (I won’t try) and then dispel it to irrigate our gardens.

I planted a tropical garden ten years ago when I first came here. Due to the daily waterings from the envirocycle, it has grown and grown, almost blotting out the sky at the back side of the house. This may not be the story of Jack And The Beanstalk but it is definitely June and The Banana Tree. So you see, this dense rain forest is the cause of the noise. The animals all love it. Add to that, I put ponds everywhere which also attract thirsty animals and you have got it.

Besides several families of cheeky possums, we have constant wild turkeys, frequent wallabies, a resident six foot goanna (which frightens the hell out of my American friends who all mistake it for a crocodile) and more recently, several koalas. The koalas are unfortunately diminishing in numbers throughout Australia (due to the burgeoning population of migrants) so we are privileged to have these beautiful creatures on our property. They are nocturnal animals and it has recently been mating season and BOY, how they can mate. The females scream and squeal continually and the males grunt, growl and moan. The noises are so loud that they carry for miles and it certainly sounds vicious. The first time I heard it I thought I was deep in Africa. When I gathered my senses and knew where I was, I thought it was wild pigs. It’s hard to believe that such delightful and harmless little things could roar like that.

It wasn’t Koalas that woke me this time. Whatever it was, it sounded more like someone sawing with a blunt blade through a piece of rusty tin. I wonder what it was? But no time to sit and wonder any more. The Kookaburras have started their pre-dawn racket; laughing uproariously at my attempt to write this post, I suppose. The sky is showing the first traces of light – so until next time, CHEERS!

A LONG TIME IN BETWEEN DRINKS.

That heading was meant to be ‘a long time in between posts’. Thanks to my tardiness I have probably lost a few of my valued followers now. I offer no decent excuses. The writing bug has been dormant recently.

With great uncertainty, I have started writing another book in the Junie Moon series. Because I haven’t been sure that I want to write this one, I have got off to several false starts. However, yesterday I went to my usual bi-monthly writing group where I read what I have written so far to the members. Their comments were most encouraging so I guess I will press on.

Initially, Goodbye Junie Moon was about one thousand pages long. Recognizing my lack of fame, I knew it was too long for an unknown writer and turned it into two books – publishing Junie Moon Rising as the sequel. Now I have readers still asking “What next?” Well, as I’ve said before, I didn’t want to write about the years when I had all the children at home. I like to write about positive things and frankly, some of it was hell. Nevertheless, they have all turned out well and got on with their lives – a far cry from where they would be had I not given them that opportunity, so I suppose I will give my story one last shot. At this point I am undecided if I should post early chapters here. It could work two ways. A, either titillate you for more, or B, turn you off – particularly if it has not been fully edited. I will leave that decision for a later date.

Meantime, I have been trying to relax and catch up on some of my reading. Only hours ago I finished reading Michael Caine’s autobiography, The Elephant to Hollywood. Now I have read many celebrity auto-bios and some of them have been little more than a litany of movies they have appeared in or other famous people they have known. The fascination of this soon palls. Not so Michael’s book. Sure, he tells us of every film he’s ever been in and every actor he has ever performed with. But the real person comes across with Michael, and not just the actor, exposed. One of the heart-warming themes of his book is his love for his mother and his family. In the instability of Hollywood, he seems to have remained loyal to, and totally in love with his wife throughout. Loyalty and even humility seem to be strong characteristics in this man whom I grew to admire, the longer I read. His book reveals several facets of his personality and habits, even his delight in gardening and cooking in later years. In fact he includes some of his recipes, although I skipped the one on preparing garlic snails.

A fortnight ago my Kindle went on the blink. I don’t like reading on the small screen of my iphone so I did something unusual for me, an avid ebook reader; I borrowed Michael’s bio, in hard copy, from the local library. Now I hate to take it back. When I really love a book I like to browse through it again. Meantime, I’ve bought a new ipad so I think I’ll have to order the book from Amazon.

Regarding my own two books, they are doing the usual. That means they are showing short bursts of good activity followed by periods of the doldrums. Goodbye Junie Moon is in the doldrums at the moment. I plan to let her rest for the moment until I do a bit of proof-reading and correct numerous punctuation flaws. I would have done it sooner but, as I frequently reiterate, I am computer illiterate and it is a great challenge for me to work out how to put the corrections onto amazon.

This self publishing is one helluva learning experience. I plod along like most of us, trying this and trying that, trying to crack the nut and get recognition. And when I do, you will be the first to know – those of you who are still with me.

In my efforts to promote my books I have joined several online writers’ forums. There are so many authors telling us all about their latest four or five star reviews that I mostly skip the review copies. Consequently, I rarely post copies of my own reviews here or on the forums. Immodestly I tell you, I am slowly building a healthy number of good reviews. Goodbye Junie Moon has accumulated 63 five star reviews and 39 four star reviews. Junie Moon Rising has only been out a short while and it has received 1 four star review and 14 five star reviews.

It is my most recent review for Junie Moon Rising that I am going to post here. Any writer is thrilled to get a five star review. I always value the time and effort the writer took to post a review, not to mention the joy I feel in knowing they liked my book. I always want to thank them but usually don’t know how. There is a small box beneath the review section where I can write a comment but I don’t think many reviewers ask to be  notified of comments.

The review which has thrilled me so much this morning is this;

An Outstanding Memoir

By James A. Anderson on September 15, 2013

Format: Kindle Edition
This is simply an outstanding memoir and one of the best I’ve ever read. That includes memoirs by some of the biggest names in entertainment and politics.I must admit I have not read June Collins’s first book Goodbye Junie Moon yet, nor The Khakhi Mafia bestseller she co-authored with Robin Moore of The Green Berets and French Connection fame, but after this I simply will have to.

This book is captivating beyond words and a real page turner as she tells of her many exploits and activities. She has packed more in a lifetime than many people could even dream of.

This sequel to Goodbye Junie Moon picks up where she left off in Washington, after escaping death threats by testifying in Senate hearings about widespread army corruption in Vietnam. Collins was a whistleblower driven by conscience to expose this scandal. A flamboyant, divorced, ex-stripper and dancer, suffering PTSD from the Vietnam War, she writes a memoir of outstanding forthrightness and courage which shows us we should not judge a person for their occupation. Underneath it all, emerges the picture of a woman of real heart, courage and compassion for the downtrodden. I don’t know June Collins, but I would be proud to meet her one day and shake her hand.

In this book she writes of her hopes to become an adoptive parent for streetkids in Asia but has little hope because of her background and the lack of a husband. I don’t want to give too much away, but this book has a real heartwarming ending. A triumph of the human spirit over adversity. It would make an excellent movie. Any producers out there take note and snap up the rights.

SHOULD I OR SHOULDN’T I?

I’m talking about whether I should write a second sequel, or not, to Goodbye Junie Moon.

Several readers have contacted me via Facebook and asked me ‘What happened next?’

I feel as if I have left some of them hanging as I never went on to talk about life with the adopted children. I ended where they started coming. There were two reasons for this.

1st. I was considering their privacy. However, that is not much of an issue as I use a pen name on my books.

2nd. It was far from easy and I do not want to discourage anyone from adopting the ‘older child’. They need homes even more than the infants and yet there are many people willing to take the babies and infants.

However, I have started considering it and I’ve even gone so far as to write a prologue. This leaves me with more questions. For one thing, both Goodbye Junie Moon and Junie Moon Rising read more like a novel. They have a beginning, a middle and an end. They move along at a pretty smart pace and include some action and drama.

Once Junie Moon became a mother to so many children, the parties stopped. And so did the action…other than the normal dramas of a different kind; those associated with raising emotionally injured children.

I realized I did not want to write a chronologically continuous story such as – 1st so-and-so arrived and then came , blah, blah, blah.

If I write it at all, I want it to be in the form of random vignettes interspersed with initial perceptions, leading to philosophical conclusions. This won’t necessarily hold the reader’s attention because the book could be opened and read at any spot. Consequently I would keep it short and hopefully, sweet.

As I waver back and forth on this decision, I would appreciate some input from others – especially other authors. I will also bring up the subject at my next Writer’s Group meeting.

To give you some idea of my tentative direction at this moment, I shall include the prologue in this post;

 

PROLOGUE.

Breeeeepp, breeeepp, breeeepp! I tried shutting out the sound. Still it continued, somewhere in the background, like a sticky fly that annoys you on a hot summer’s day. I was at peace; warm, restful, mellow. Breeepp, breep, breeep, the shrill sound persisted, dragging me reluctantly back to life.

The room was pitch black. Groggily, I reached for the phone while trying to remember who I was, where I was. Phone calls late at night were a no-no. My last one occurred at 3 am one unforgettable morning when my mother phoned to tell me that Russell, my brother, had killed himself.

The digital clock blinked at me in the darkness. Two a.m.! I lifted the receiver with trembling hands.

“Hu…hullo?” I quavered.

“You will pay for this, you bitch,” an unfamiliar screeched over the phone. “And if he dies it’s all your fault.”

Who was this nut? If who dies?

“You must have the wrong number.” I answered, now fully awake.

“Are you Jose’s mother?” The female voice was hysterically loud. I pulled the receiver away from my ear.

“Well…yes.”

“There’s no wrong number,” the words fell in incoherent gasps, “And when I hang up here I’m calling the police.”

This was ridiculous. “Lady, whoever you are, I haven’t a clue what you are talking about.”

“David…David my son. He slept at your house last night. You were supposed to watch him and now he’s in emergency, dying… not breathing.” The words gushed out in a sob.

David? That rang a bell. Wasn’t he the school mate who came home with Jose yesterday? A polite boy…he made a good impression on me. But what was this hysterical woman talking about? I made them stop playing Pac-man and go to bed at 11 pm, after they finished the pizza.

“He and Jose are downstairs sleeping,” I answered as calmly as I could. “Is this some kind of a sick joke?”

She spluttered into the phone and released a string of expletives.

“….you fucking dumb bitch…he’s here in the Good Sam, fighting for his life. He’s got alcohol poisoning after chug-a-lugging a bottle of scotch. Where the hell were you?”

The Good Samaritan was the local hospital in Puyallup where we lived, on the outskirts of Seattle.

I still couldn’t comprehend what the woman was saying. We never kept scotch in our house and the boys hadn’t even had any beer. Jose was sixteen and my husband had told him he couldn’t drink beer until he turned eighteen. We thought we were being pretty liberal with that rule as twenty one was the legal  drinking age in the USA. It was a compromise of course. My husband was American but I was Australian and eighteen was the legal drinking age in Australia. I always thought Americans were crazy – sending their young men to war to possibly die at eighteen but not allowing them to drink.

Trying to make sense of this whole, confusing turn of events, I answered, “I’m running downstairs to the boy’s room now. I’ll call you back at Good Sam’s emergency in a few minutes.” I hung up before she could abuse me again.

Jose was the eldest of my six adopted children. When I adopted him and brought him from Columbia, he was thirteen years old. Raising him hadn’t been trouble free. Prior to being adopted he had lived in an orphanage where he gained advantage by using both charm and lies. He could charm people easily, being handsome and quick with compliments. He was always obliging, quick to carry the ladies parcels and so on. I didn’t blame him for that. In his situation, he had to survive as best he could. However, the lies I had a little more trouble with. There were occasions when I smelled marihuana and alcohol on his breath but I was yet to find any in his room.

I was thinking of these things as I entered the downstairs hallway to his room. In the darkness I smelled an unpleasant sourness. I switched on the light, revealing the source of the odour. Vomit lay in puddles and splattered the walls. Holding my breath, I sidestepped it and opened the door. Jose was asleep, fully clothed, on top of the blankets. When last I saw him, he had been in his pyjamas, under the blankets. David was not in either bunk. Now I was alarmed. I shook Jose roughly while calling his name.  He was dead to the world. I tried again before going to the kitchen and filling a glass with water. Back in the bedroom again, I threw the water in his face. He didn’t even stir. Worried now, I checked his pulse and his breathing. He was okay – just deeply, drunkenly, passed out.

Angrily, I made my way back to the kitchen, lifted the wall phone and called Good Sam. Five minutes later I had David’s distraught mother back on the phone.

“How is David?” I asked. “Any improvement?”

“As if you care,” she spat “but thank God he is breathing at last.” She inhaled noisily. “We have to wait to see if there is any brain damage…you…you neglectful… bad, bad person.”

I sighed heavily. “Look, I could hardly stay up all night watching over them as they sleep. I’m not a robot. But please…tell me what happened. Jose is passed out so I know nothing.”

“Apparently, while you were not paying attention, they went to a party at another teen’s house. The parents were away and when the noise got too loud, the neighbors called the police. Thank God they did. The police found David unconscious and called an ambulance. If he survives, it’s no thanks to you.” She hung up.

There was no sleep for me the remainder of the night. I sat at the kitchen table nursing innumerable cups of tea and thinking about my situation. Had Doug and I made a mistake by adopting so many children? There were times when I thought we had.

It wouldn’t be so bad if Doug’s work didn’t take him away from home, but as a ship’s captain, he was gone half the time and I was left in the role of a single mom. None of the children were babies when we took them and the six of them carried deep emotional scars to varying degrees. Each one had experienced horrors that no child should. The adoption agencies had never warned us of some of the problems we were inheriting. I gave them the benefit of the doubt and considered they may not have known, or wanted to know, the full stories. Our Korean son, Choi, whom we adopted as a healthy, thirteen year old boy, had barely unpacked when we had to rush him to hospital. Two operations later and we had saved his life. The doctors said his heart would have killed him before he turned sixteen.

My heart had been filled with love and a desire to help some of the world’s most needy. You might well call me naive. Good intentions are not always enough and I had unknowingly been unprepared for the problems that I encountered. It would take all my strength and resilience to succeed in the job that I was determined to finish.

 

If you can’t feed a hundred people then feed just one.

Mother Teresa.

AUTHORS AND EGOS.

There is really nothing wrong with ego as long as one does not allow it to become inflated. In fact, I think ego is a good thing. It spurs us on, it allows us some pride. It is a sad thing if someone has lost their ego. This generally does not occur with writers. We may write for ourselves but in the final count, most of us definitely want others to read…and hopefully like, what we have written. Why else are there millions of people out there writing their stories in this age of self-publishing? Just about everyone today has written, or knows someone who has written, or is writing, or is planning to write, their story. Why else am I, and others like me, blogging.

So many of us want to speak, we want to be heard. And whether anyone cares what we write or not, we have this great desire to share out thoughts.

I am no different. I want to communicate – whether it be by writing or in conversation. I have been known to gabble on but I hope I am not one of those I have heard of ‘ who have nothing to say yet keep repeating it’.

And so, in this quest for communication, I have written several books about myself. First, I was privileged to write The Khaki Mafia with Robin Moore (author of The French Connection and many others.) This was indeed a privilege because Robin was a well established author and I had much to learn.  He was generous in sharing his knowledge and time. One of the things he often repeated was “There are many writers out there who write beautiful words but have nothing to say.” Robin always had plenty to say…while holding the reader’s interest. I hope I have learned to do the same.

The Khaki Mafia was actually a true story of the corruption I encountered within the U.S. Army clubs in Vietnam and how I risked my life when I ‘blew the whistle.’ Robin said that it would sell better if presented as fiction so we changed the names and embellished a few facts. He was right. It sold a million copies.

Since then I have written the true story of the same events. In Goodbye Junie Moon I did not write in depth about the corruption as I did not want a repeat of our first book. I was trying to show how the events effected and changed me. A few ( very few) readers have complained about this, saying they wanted a deeper look at the corruption and less of me. (It is a memoir – which usually means a good look at the author. )

More recently, I wrote the sequel, Junie Moon Rising.

Promoting a book today is vastly different from the days when Robin and I wrote The Khaki Mafia. Back then, we were treated like celebrities as our publisher set up TV appearances and book signing tours for us. We traveled the country accompanied by a PR woman. We were accommodated in five star hotels and all our TV, magazine and newspaper interviews were pre-arranged.

I long for those days now, as I slog away, trying to write this blog, chat on Facebook and Twitter and other writer’s forums. And sadly, I am not very good at this new type of promotion, being rather inept at computer savvy.

My latest attempt at promoting Goodbye Junie Moon occurred between the 17th – 21st July. I offered the book for free during those days through amazon. Much to my delight, 33,000+ people downloaded the free copies. This is turn, generated an additional forty six reviews to date. Now reviews help sell books and prior to that Freebie, my reviews were pretty good and I must admit, I was beginning to get a swelled head. This last week has certainly brought me crashing back to earth. Some of those ladies who downloaded the freebies have not liked the story at all – couldn’t even finish it. I was found to be, raunchy, horny, boring and ungrammatical. One even asked for a refund. (LOL). Now, this should not matter. While writing, I did not have to put myself ‘out there’, warts and all. But I did, hiding nothing – the good and the bad. At times my life was raw. Sure I could tell the good things about myself and sugar-coat the bad. But that would not be honest and discerning readers know and appreciate honesty.

I have always been a person who danced to my own tune and never gave a fig (funny saying, that.) what others thought of me, as long as I liked myself. So why should I care about some negative (Not constructive) reviews? Especially when they were so outnumbered by the good ones.

Ego, of course E.G.O! I’m a little bit ashamed of that. I know better. I am bigger than that. Have I become a whiner? So many writers have endured the same rejection – the same criticism, and accepted it in silence.  So if other people’s opinions never mattered before, what is different? Is it because I am older? I think not! I believe that whereas my ego is within bounds generally, when it comes to my writing, it is desperate for approval. Stupid woman! My brain tells me that we can’t please everyone. We are all different. Let it be water off a duck’s back! I’m certainly not alone and even far better writers than me get negative reviews. So bring them on – and shut up, June.

And now for the happy ending. After that huge whinge, here is the end result; CONTROVERSY sells books! Although my rating has dropped a few points, my book has never sold so well. Take heart fellow authors and welcome those negative reviews. Smile as you run to the bank!

Until next time, Cheers.

Those Twirling, Swirling, Terrific NBA Players.

I have never been a big team-sports fan. I enjoyed playing AND watching tennis, water-skiing and surfing. Then I married an addicted sports fan nut. Fortunately he was at sea a lot but when he was home, the TV was tuned into sports shows almost continually, especially grid-iron.

He was my second husband, an American. The first one was an Aussie and he played rugby league. Rugby League and Rugby Union are played slavishly in Australia and my first husband was not only a fan, but a player (5/8th position, for those who care.) I lost count of the times I dragged him off to the hospital – usually with a broken nose. Unlike the USA where footballers are padded and helmeted, Aussies play almost naked and the injuries they sustain makes me wonder if they are all nut cases to begin with. But that’s the way it is in Australia – a man has to prove he’s a man, even if it means brain damage.

In my third life – the one in the USA, I did my best to ignore the TV sports shows, just the same as my husband ignored me whenever he had his nose stuck in the sports page of the newspaper. That was until one night when he asked me to meet him in downtown Seattle for dinner. I waited in the designated Sports Bar and he was late. The place was kinda deserted and the TV was switched to a game of basketball. Despite myself, I began to watch – and watch – and watch. By the time my husband arrived, I barely acknowledged his presence. How those hulking men could spin, and leap, and dart, and weave, and twirl. They left me breathless. As a former dancer I had always admired terrific body movement and these big men were as agile and graceful as any dancer I had ever seen. I was hooked – and how! Dinner was late that night. I could not be moved until the game had finished.

I remember it was the Seattle Sonics playing against the Portland Trailblazers. The Seattle Sonics won and Gary Payton, Shawn Kemp, Detlef Schrempf had unknowingly found an ardent new fan.

At first my husband was pleased with my new-found sports interest. He took me and the kids to a match at The Key Arena but he seemed less than amused by all my boisterous screaming.

Those basketball players, stars, received gigantic salaries so the cost of game tickets was pretty steep for a large family. The sad thing was, when our Seattle Sonics played a home game, the game was blocked out on TV for a distance of 20 miles (I think it was 20), thus forcing us to keep Key Arena always packed. I overcame this obstacle by finding several sports bars outside Tacoma and convincing my husband we must bundle up the kids so we could travel to watch every game. We could not take the kids into the drinking area but there was always seating for a food area where we could sit and watch. This worked well except my husband continued to be annoyed when in wild exuberance I leaped up, yelling and slapping those strangers nearest me across the back every time a Sonic shot a three.

“Think of your reputation,” he would say. (I owned Diamond Lil’s, a large shop/tea room in Seattle and was well known) “Think of the children.”

His admonishments were to no avail. Once all that court activity started, I was lost – whooping, jumping, yahoo-ing. So much for decorum.

I had my favorites and also a couple I disliked immensely. I thought Dennis Rodmann , that inked up, metal studded, spit dribbler who played for the Chicago Bulls – that great team, for God’s sake, was an utter and total jerk…which he lately proved in North Korea, embracing that short, pudgy ‘leader’.  I saw him again recently when he performed on the TV series, intervention. Ugh!!!

Charles Barkley (The Phoenix Suns) was another I had no time for. A great player but arrogant and contemptuous. During a game we watched him spit on fans who had paid big money for front row seats.

By that time Michael Jordan was in his last season. I loved Mike. I also loved Karl Malone of another great team – the Utah Jazz. But then, along came my favorite sports hero of all time.  David Robinson of the San Antonio Spurs. What a big and handsome man he was. And what a good man. Unlike Barkley, I never saw him play dirty. He played center and he became the team Captain. Besotted by him I read everything I could about his background. As a young man he had won a scholarship to the prestigious Naval Academy in Annapolis (I visited there). Spotted by some professional Scouts, he was offered a great salary to leave the Academy before his commitment was up. He refused, citing the academy for giving him his first break.

“Come see me again when my time here is finished.” he told them, like the honorable, decent man he was and is.

Well I moved to Australia and boy, how I miss the NBA. There are other good basketball teams in the world but for me, there will only ever be the NBA.

Panhandlers – Street-bums – Hitch-hikers. To be pitied, scorned, or none of the aforementioned.

How do you react when approached by one of the above? It’s not an easy question to answer because they seem to come in many-layered categories.

As for me, before retiring to anonymity on my mountain top where there are no such people, I seemed to come into contact with many. Actually, I seemed to attract them – hobos and drunks.

Digressing for a moment to the drunks, I recall a time when my very conservative, dairy-farmer mother came to visit me in Seattle. She was accompanied by my sister who is 21 years my junior and was then extremely shy. While I was taking them on a bus trip to Vancouver, Canada, a drunken African-American knelt in the aisle of the bus, singing loudly to me and inadvertently spitting on me the whole way. My mother and sister looked pointedly out of the window, distancing themselves from me. I always try to look on the bright side -he DID have a nice voice. However, I was thankful when we reached our destination and he left us once I rejected his offer of marriage.

My mother sighed with relief and we walked the streets of Vancouver, lost, and looking for someone to give us directions. I approached a neatly dressed gentleman and asked him to help. He immediately went into a paroxysm of unintelligible sounds, eye rolling and arm-waving, which frightened my mother and sister and didn’t help me. Still lost, I soon  attracted yet another drunk(?) who then persisted in following us. My mother and sister had, by that time, had enough and would no longer walk with me. I can only assume I have an ‘approachable’ face.

Now back to the beggars asking for money or those merely thumbing a ride. I think I first started picking up hitch-hikers when I lived in Alaska. The winters there are dark and cold. I was managing a trucking company at Fox, a few miles outside of Fairbanks. Thousands of workers had flocked to Alaska to work on the Trans-Alaska pipeline which was under construction. They were not all savory characters and my husband became furious each time he learned I had picked up a hitch-hiker. But how do you pass someone in the frozen wilderness?

Vignettes tumble through my mind.

There was the grubby-looking young man sitting on the steps of the South Seattle post office. He was not begging. His head was in his hands and he looked so dejected. My twelve year old adopted son from India was sitting in the pick-up, waiting for me, as I went to collect the mail.

“Are you alright?” I asked the man. He nodded and I passed by.

When I returned, he was waiting. “Could you buy me a cup of coffee?” he asked.

As the man went on his way, I climbed back into the pick-up.

“Why did you speak to that man?” my son asked.

“Because he is a human being.” I replied.

Another vignette;

That same son was with me when I closed up Diamond Lil’s, my shop/tea-room, in downtown Seattle. We were going to the Chinese Restaurant next door to have dinner.

There were two young men sitting on the pavement with their backs against the wall.

“We are hungry.” One said “Could you spare us some money?”

I looked at them. They were clean shaven and were wearing Nike shoes.

“No.” I said and passed by.

Inside the restaurant my son and I began to eat our meal. My conscience was ruining my appetite. Those two boys had not looked like street kids. Probably having a week-end in the city – spent their money and couldn’t get home. Didn’t look as if they had been on the streets long but maybe they were hungry. I ordered two more meals-to-go and carried them outside to the grateful boys. My own food tasted better after that.

Am I a sucker??? That particular son has grown into a ‘soft touch’. When I try to warn him, he says ” You taught me, Mum.”

Back in Australia, my youngest son, Chip, and I were driving out in the country when we saw an old farmer walking along the ride and not a house to be seen for miles. It was a terribly hot day. Not until he climbed into the car did I realize he had dementia and he had poo’d his pants. We were so pleased when we could unload him but we had to keep the windows open for weeks.

Again in Australia, driving back to our motel, we saw a strange young man walking in the rain. His odd dress contained feathers, skulls and metal billy cans. Despite his appalling appearance, I stopped. After ascertaining he seemed harmless I told him to climb him in. We took him back to our motel where I ordered him to take a shower while we waited for pizza to arrive. After dinner he drew us some rather clever cartoons while we waited for the rain to abate and he went happily on his way. My son later told me he had been scared at first.

I realize I have placed myself in harm’s way on occasion and I thank God that he has always kept me protected.

There are many incidents. I could bore you by going on and on. I seem to have been afflicted with this inability to pass on by and mind my own business. Fortunately I am no longer given these opportunities on this serene mountain top.

I will finish with one last vignette that remains with me. It happened In India about five years ago. My youngest son and I were on a train. At every train stop, peddlers jumped aboard and quickly passed down the aisle, selling chai and fruit or snacks. One very old man came on. He was blind, and a ragged little girl about 8 years old was leading him by one hand. In the other hand she carried a tin containing few coins. The silent man was tall and bony and one gnarled hand held a walking stick. After I placed enough money in the tin to feed them for a week, I felt it was more important to have contact with the old man. I placed my hand over his, on the cane, and left it there for a few moments – my way of embracing him. He flinched momentarily then spoke to the girl. She answered and they moved on – out of my life- but not before touching my heart.

Now I know this all sounds like I am a ‘goody-two-shoes’. I suppose I am in a way. But I am also kinda street smart and I can recognize a scammer. No-one wants to be taken for a sucker. Maybe on rare occasions I have been. But I would rather that than I develop a hard heart. We have to all make our own judgement calls. We shouldn’t place ourselves or our children in danger.

But I never forget, no matter what their circumstances – no matter how they look- or even sometimes, smell…we are all human beings.

COSMETIC SURGERY. BEAUTIFYING-HORRIFYING-HUMOROUS.

Do we dye our hair? Do we cap our teeth? Do we tan our skin? In many ways, some of us do our best to look good. And that is how I feel about cosmetic surgery – it is just another way of looking our best.

When I lived in the USA, no-one thought us terribly vain if we admitted to a small nip-and-tuck. Or even a bigger one. When I returned to Australia I discovered a different outlook. Women who indulged went to great lengths to keep it secret. I neither understood nor liked this attitude. Was it because they feared other women would make catty remarks behind their back? Possibly! But whatever, few women freely owned up to it Down Under.

Now Joan Rivers admits to over 400 procedures. Wow! That is a lot. But I for one, think she looks terrific. At her age, imagine how she would look without all that. Not a pretty sight for any of us. And I don’t give a darn about all that ‘aging gracefully c***. I’d rather be graceless and only wish I had the funds to follow in Joan’s footsteps…although, maybe not as many.

Now back to my heading;

Beautifying = Joann Rivers.

Horrifying= New York’s Cat Woman.

.                                                    Humorous= Me!

Well you might just wonder what is humorous about cosmetic surgery. Actually nothing. It was the aftermath that I found funny. This is not in any of my books and so I thought I would share it here. To hell with anyone who wants to whisper “I always KNEW she had some work done.”

A few years ago, before my books were selling well, (I’m STILL waiting) I was looking for a way to tighten my face a little without it costing an arm and a leg. (Get that?)

I discovered an Indian surgeon who had studied in the USA. His qualifications sounded good enough to inspire some confidence. It just so happened that I was travelling to India to meet my new daughter-in-law for the first time. One of my adopted, Indian sons had married her, and although he was back in the USA, she was still in India awaiting her visa. This first meeting with her and her family was important and I wanted to make a good impression.

I arranged my trip to arrive in Delhi two weeks early, thus allowing myself time to check into the Fortis Private hospital, get the job done, then travel around to the Taj Mahal and other exotic places while I healed. A different son, my youngest, accompanied me on my travels by private car with driver. And yes! I do believe I am a regular Auntie Mame, although  I must have looked a site myself with my face swaddled in bandages and a few inches of bruised skin peeping out.

We returned to Delhi and my bandages were removed. However, there were several strands of ugly black thread hanging from beneath my chin which did nothing to enhance my appearance. My doctor told me to return in a few more days to have the stitches removed.I was beginning to shape up and becoming quite excited about the impression I would make on these new family members – even though we had no common language.

Alas, my plans forever seem to go astray. I was not expecting the entire family to drive down from Punjab, an eight hour drive, to greet me and take me back with them – before I was ready. There they were in the hotel foyer, greeting me joyously and trying not to stare at the network of black wires which looked like horse-hair dangling from my flesh.

What to do? I could hardly ask them to wait two days until I was ready to have my stitches removed. (Especially as I was not ready to admit to such vanity which I doubted they would understand.) Of course not. So my son and I piled into the vehicle with them and returned to the small northern town of Raikot.

Days passed and so did the date for the removal of the horse hair. It was beginning to embed deeper into my flesh. The distance to Delhi was too great to run back for one day so I looked around Raikot for a clinic. Now there are no shortages of clinics throughout India – they are easily identifiable by the large painted red cross signs that sit high upon the roof tops. Dragging my reluctant, twenty five year old son with me, I went in search of a Red Cross sign. We dodged the heavy traffic on the dusty road, barely avoided a mound of camel dung and entered the long, narrow cement room. Along one side of the room, a row of old kitchen chairs sat against the wall. These were all occupied, mostly by elderly, bearded men wearing colorful turbans. Against the opposite wall, within an arms reach, was a battered iron bed covered with a graying sheet. At the very end of the small clinic was a desk and a recognizable doctor sporting the usual stethoscope. Thankfully, he spoke English.

Taking my place on a seat among these silent gentlemen, I waited my turn, just slightly out of my comfort zone. After quite awhile, the doctor beckoned me over to the un-screened metal bed. I hopped up and lay down like a good girl – grateful that I was wearing jeans. Just then the power failed. This apparently was not unexpected because within moments the nurse appeared with a flashlight. Both of them peered at me as I turned my head this way and that, allowing them to inspect the black stitches almost hidden in my swollen flesh. With the beam of the flashlight glaring in my face, I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. No matter how much those darned threads hurt as they were dragged out – no way was I going to yell and moan and let down the white women of this world. No indeedy!  I could show them that we were tough!

At last it was over and I opened my eyes. What a surprise! I was encircled by a sea of wizened, curious faces, some only inches from my own, as their white beards swept over me and a sea of colorful turbans bedazzled as the lights came back on. Not a man had remained sitting but I suppose I had given them something to talk about that day.

And that’s what I love about travel…we just never have these experiences at home.

Top that one, Joan Rivers.

TUT, TUT.

It has been a long while since I have heard anyone use those words, tut, tut. They may have been dropped from the dictionary by now – if they were ever in it. However, it is a self- reprimand because I have allowed 17 days to pass since my last blog post. When will I graduate from the procrastinators club?

My feeble excuse is that I have been busy with Goodbye Junie Moon. I know it has been on Amazon for a year now but it needed some punctuation clean-up. It is amazing how often I forgot to put the last book-end on parentheses. And, worse still, I sometimes forgot to place a period at the end of a sentence. This is the result of writing fast and not using a proof-reader. Then there are those pesky commas. Have you noticed that they seem to be disappearing from the written word? I’ve had a few complaints about mine. Either I had too many or they were not placed correctly. Years ago I belonged to Toastmasters International. By pausing at the appropriate spot in my speeches, I gave particular words more emphasis. I write as I speak and there is the little matter of flow and rhythm. I read all my work aloud and I love to get a real rhythm going. Times have changed though, and many people no longer seem to have time to pause.

So, after going through 314 pages it is all done now and back on Amazon, better than ever. Or so I thought – until a couple of days ago when I received an email from the Quality Control Department of Amazon. They complained that I spelled reread as re read. This oversight threw me into the doldrums. I don’t have the energy to pull it again right now so I will apologize to anyone who may read my memoir in the next few months. Please forgive me. And if you have never read my rousing, rollicking memoir, Goodbye Junie Moon, I’m giving you advance notice – the ebook will be free on Amazon for five days from 17th July until 21 July. If you will not be totally put-off by that glaring error, please grab a download. And better still, if you read Goodbye Junie Moon and enjoy it, how about leaving me a review? It’s a hard world out there and reviews help sell books. Just don’t mention that damned, cursed word ‘re read’. So mark your calendars with these dates, unless you prefer to wait until I find the time and energy in the future to make that final correction.

http://www.amazom.com/-/e/B008BDWE1Q

ANOTHER FOUR LETTER WORD – FEAR.

Conformist or non-conformist? To different degrees, we all try to fit in with society. I do my best NOT to be too swayed by society because I am not a follower. Many things come and go. Beehive hair styles have been long forgotten. And what about the latest fad of tattoos? At first, people with tattoos were looked at as making a statement – non-conformists. But now there are so many of them that they are merely another fad obsessed sheep. And that ink won’t be as easy to brush out as an unfashionable hairstyle, once the craze has passed.

And what about our choices of food? Don’t most people prepare a salad with the basic ingredients, lettuce, tomato, cucumber? Why not lettuce, bananas, onion, scallops? Because we do it the way our mothers did – our sister does- our neighbors or friends do. We accept it without much thought.

So even while people may wish to make a statement with outlandish hairdos or painted bodies, generally, they are still living well within the bounds of society. And why should they not? It is easier. (This does not mean I object to their statements.)

Now addressing the heading of ‘Fear’. It is fear that shackles us and limits where we may go and what we may accomplish in life.

I greatly admire Richard Branson. He is one of the few who has thrown caution to the winds and stepped out boldly – win or lose. How can you not admire the mans spirit? Despite some enormous failures,( he did lose 45 million when he tackled Coca Cola) he is a huge winner, not even allowing earth itself to shackle him. The late Margaret Meade, a famous anthropologist and a champion of women’s rights was another fearless soul.

So what are the fears that prevent most people from stepping out more boldly and leaving their comfort zones?  To name just a few;

Fear of being different.

Fear of the unknown.

Fear of insecurity.

Fear of what others will think.

Fear of being alone.

Fear of death.

And have you ever noticed that those who appear to love life the most, fear death the least?

The following are quotes from various people, regarding fear.

Erica Jong, author of the best-seller, Fear of Flying; ‘I have accepted fear as part of life – specifically, the fear of change.

Bill Cosby, TV star; Decide that you want it more than you are afraid of it.

President Jack Kennedy; Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate.

Henry H. Tweedy; Fear is the father of courage and the mother of safety.

Maurice Freehill; Who is more foolish, the child afraid of the dark or the man afraid of the light?

Rosa Parks; I have learned that when ones mind is made up, fear diminishes.

Mike Dolan; Those that walk with fear will always be too busy hiding.

Betty Bender; Anything I’ve ever done that ultimately was worthwhile, initially scared me to death.

Donald Dowes: Fear can be headier than whisky, once you have acquired a taste for it.

AND FINALLY, MY FAVORITE, BY BERTRAND RUSSELL;

Those who fear life are already three parts dead.

So that’s it, friends. Step out of your comfort zone and have a helluva great week. Until next time, CHEERS!