Using Native American Elements to Center a Series

~~Vonnie Davis

I have always enjoyed reading about Native American lore. I've got a notebook filled with delightful gems I want to use someday. Through my research I've made friends with some Natives who follow the Red Road, or live the Native life as much as possible in this modern world. One I met through my son--his former mother-in-law. Ryan's Grandma Grace of the MiqMaq tribe sent me a shell, a large feather, and dried sage with instructions on how to purify my home and myself--smudging.

In fact here is a picture of Grace in her full regalia holding Ryan before taking him into his first dance circle when he was a year old. His Native name is Lil Muin, or little bear. Don't you love his pasty white German skin against hers? Now that he's grown, he's simply called Muin. The MiqMaq tribe is originally from the New Hampshire and lower Canadian areas.

In my Black Eagle Ops series, the small town of Warrior Falls was built around Wounded Warrior Falls. As "my" legend would have it, Natives would bring their wounded and carry them beneath the waterfalls, reported to have healing properties. But was that it or was there more to the legend? In both books of the series, these waterfalls come into play.

In book one, HER SURVIVOR, Kelcee is going to take Dustin under the waterfalls. Dressed in their swimming suits, she leads him to the edge of the pond beyond the falls...

Once they stood at the edge of the path to the pond’s edge, he asked how deep it was in the center.

“There are smooth stones shaped like steps that go out for about five or six feet. Then it drops over my head.” She tugged off her shirt and tossed it on top of the towels.

He held her hand and together they descended the natural stairs or had they been placed there centuries ago by Natives? The water was the temperature he expected; initially cool, but easy to warm up to since the sun had beat on it all day.

A few steps and they were under the surface. He looked around. The current created by the waterfalls felt like home. Damn, I missed this. The frogman swam around, investigating plants and rocks. Kelcee tapped his shoulder and pointed to the falls. She was eager to show him. He nodded and took her hand.

She led him toward the muffled roar of the waterfalls. They surfaced to walk under them, picked their way over the mound of rocks worn smooth over time, breeched the force of the falls, and stepped into a cave. After the initial foot or two, the grotto was dry and about the size of a small bedroom.

He turned slowly, imagining Apache women treating their Native sons, fathers, and husbands who’d returned from battle injured. “If only these stone walls could talk.”

“Wait, there’s more to see.” She grabbed a flashlight from the top of a high boulder, took his hand, and led him back an opening, so narrow they had to turn sideways to maneuver through to whatever she wanted to show him. At one point, she flashed the beam higher. “Look.”

There were crude, yet beautiful etchings of horses, men, deer, and buffalo. How old could these be? Centuries? If one had a more powerful light and the time to do it, Dustin bet they’d find these drawings were stories of battles of long ago. Important stories. His curiosity was definitely chugging in high gear.

A sharp turn illuminated by the flashlight’s beam veered toward the left and eventually they stepped into an opening. A bubbling pool of water about eight feet across centered the area with a six-foot flattened dirt perimeter.

“In here are the famed healing stones with magical healing properties. It’s kept secret. Only a handful of people know about it, otherwise it would become infested with tourists. Our town, these falls, this spot, we keep as pristine as we can in honor of the Apaches who once lived here.”

“Wow. I read both of the books you gave me  and there was no mention of these boiling springs.” He dropped to his knees and dipped his hand into the water. On an impulse, he scooped a handful over his scared cheek. What the hell? What could it hurt? The water burned his skin, made it tingle below the surface.

“If the book’s written by an outsider, we block off the narrow passage with boulders so the author or researcher has no idea there’s more than the initial grotto.”

“Good idea. I wonder how deep this pool is. Have you ever gotten in here?” He glanced at Kelcee.

“No. I was afraid there might be bones of Apaches and other warriors down there and I didn’t want to disturb them.”

She was very big on protecting the sanctity of this place. He could understand why. There was a spirit here; he could sense it. To stay too long would be an intrusion.

“Please understand I’m trusting you with something very special. Frank didn’t show this to me until he was almost too ill to make the swim here. Owning the property across the street, he was always the unofficial caretaker of this secret. The town council knows and he was on it. Now, as owner of the bookstore, I serve on it, too. I’m one of the secret bearers. We reveal the secret to no one or the one person we trust the most.” She placed a hand on his chest and pierced his gaze with her green eyes. “For me, that’s you.”

*** For now, HER SURVIVOR is on sale for 99 cents. I love a bargain. Don't you?

BUY LINKS: https://amzn.com/B0174PTMU2

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/her-survivor-vonnie-davis/1122885268?ean=9781101967928

Someone, please give me a action book!

-- Vonnie Davis

What kind of books do you enjoy reading?

I enjoy political intrigue, action thrillers with spies and covert operations. As a romance author, they are my guilty pleasure. Next up on my list is Robert Lundrum's The Matarese Circle. I've already read eight of his Bourne books (don't judge). I also adore most of David Morrell's earlier books. The Fraternity of the Stone and The League of Night and Fog are two of my favorites. Then there are the Dan Brown books my oldest son buys me for Christmas.

Mostly, I love a good conspiracy.

Yep, I still believe the man on the grassy knoll theory in the assassination of JFK. Well, kind of...

It can be said that romance is a conspiracy, of sorts. That darn Cupid and his whacky arrow, anyhow. I mean what would make some of our characters fall for each other? Especially when they're so different with often opposite goals in life.

In my recent book, Dustin is a wounded Vet with PTSD. He's trying to come to grips with losing part of his leg and a wife who couldn't handle his injuries. While he's undergoing grueling therapy to learn to walk with a prosthesis, she's divorcing him. So, he's a snarly man, functioning on self-pity.

Kelcee has just inherited a small bookstore with an apartment above it from her elderly employer. She can't believe her luck. After all, she's in the Witness Protection Program, hiding from her brother who's gotten involved with a branch of the Russian Mafia. Although she's living in fear, she refuses to allow it to define her.

EXCERPT:

He bought their tickets—finally—and they walked inside the lobby. He glanced around. “Wow, this is the smallest theater I’ve ever been in. They’ve even got it decorated in the vintage style of early movie houses.”

“This is the original décor, Dustin. Nothing much gets updated around here.”

He bought some snacks and held her hand. “Let’s find some seats.”

When the first explosion hit the screen, Dustin tensed. He had his hand on Kelcee’s thigh at the time and his gentle hold morphed into a grip. She watched him more than the movie. His breathing rate accelerated and his blinking response all but stopped. He just stared. She rubbed his arm and squeezed his thigh, but he wouldn’t or couldn’t respond.

This flick had been a really bad idea. It was more gunfire and detonations than spying. A loud blast lifted an SUV off the road in a fiery ball. Dustin squeezed and twisted the bag of popcorn, they’d been sharing, until it was nothing but crumbs.

She had to get him out of there. “Dustin.” She shook his arm. “Can we go? I have a headache. It hurts really bad.”

He slipped his arm around her shoulders and pressed her head into the crook of his neck. “I’ll take care of you, baby.” He kissed the top of her head. “See that sniper on the roof at two o’clock? I can take him out. I’ve had plenty of kills at a thousand yards. Become one with the world around you, know how high up you are, the wind velocity, the distance to the target and whether it’s stationary, or not. Relax. Breathe slowly. So, slow, you can hear your own heartbeat. Exhale and between the beats, squeeze the trigger.”

He was in a dark place, confused by the reality of her, the fantasy of the film, and his memories of war. She had a couple of those spaces in her mind, too. When she’d initially arrived at Warrior Falls, she’d had to really struggle to pull herself out of them. She had to play mental tricks on herself. While hers were bad, she imagined his were catastrophic. How could she help him? How?

The movie ended and time was critical. How was she going to get him out of the theater? The credits were rolling and people were exiting. The screen went blank and he blinked. “Dustin…Dustin, the movie’s over. We have to go.” She stood and reached for his hand.

He stared for a few seconds at the crushed bag of popcorn he held. His head snapped up to look at her. “I lost it, didn’t I?”

Crap, I don’t want him to feel bad. He might sink into a depression.

The overhead lights blinked on and off.

At least he’d spoken to her; that was progress. “We have to go. Let’s walk outside and get some fresh air. What an awful movie. I’m glad it’s over.”

He stumbled a little when he stood and, much as she wanted to help steady him, she allowed him to gain control on his own. “Sorry I checked out on you.”

“Did you? I had my eyes shut after the guy pulled out a knife. Knives scare the crap out of me for some reason.” She shuddered.

He held the door open for her, and they stepped into the fall air. The wind was blowing stronger, now. “If knives freak you, I guess you don’t want to know about the one I have strapped to my real ankle.”

“You better be kidding me.” She had to keep him talking so he didn’t dwell on zoning out during the movie. She had an idea he’d take it as a personal failure. “Are you packing a gun, big guy?”

HER SURVIVOR -- http://a.co/1mNtMDE (Amazon)

Our World By the Numbers by Vonnie Davis

I've shared my plight with you in previous posts. An editor who wanted me to dummy down my writing for the millennials. Is it that I don't know my market or she doesn't? Stick with me ladies, there's more to my tale.

Perhaps too much attention is being paid to the numbers. Publishers want books that are overnight best sellers. You know, the ones that hit the USA Today Best Seller list the first week after they're released. Dream on, I tell myself. I'm lucky if I break the top one-hundred on Amazon.

I'll never be a best seller out of the gate or after a long stroll. My books take awhile to build a following. But eventually, they do. I just got a gift card in the email for a restaurant from a reader who says she's read my books several times. I cried. My sales might not be fabulous, but my readers are. My publisher, however, wants instant success, a mercurial rise to the top of the ratings. With me, that's not happening.

For example, take my Black Eagle Ops series. Based on pre-orders of just over 120 for book one, my publisher had decided the series wouldn't do well. Book two had already been turned in, so they told me they wouldn't want book three unless they were surprised by sales. Shortly after that, I got an email from my editor that over 500 reviewers/readers had requested book one, HER SURVIVOR, on NetGalley and wasn't that awesome? I'd have close to 500 reviews. I just scoffed. What world does she live in? These people were looking for a free read, what reviews they do post are super low and downright nasty. My book released with 26 reviews. Where were the other 474? Sales have been poor and have just topped a thousand copies (would they be higher if 500 copies hadn't been given away on NetGalley?). Whatever. In my publisher's eyes, this series is a failure.

I need a book to fulfill my three-book contract. As I told you before, our flight home from granddaughter's wedding provided me with a story idea. I submitted it to the publisher. I was told to keep the plot thin. I did.

I was told to keep my humor down. I tried.

I was told to submit every chapter to my editor so she could see I was keeping on track. I bristled. Oh, ladies, I was mad as hades! I'm not some errant child to be constantly checked on.

After I'd sent in my sixth chapter, my editor called me. She and her superior didn't think I could write this book per their guidelines. What I'd written in her superior's words was "a parody of every erotic book out there with a hero that was a hoot!" NOW, I was in bitch mode. My jaws ached from keeping them closed. I wanted to voice my opinion so much, I'd kicked off my flip-flops, ready to do battle.

She continued, "We're doing you a dis-service by making you write in a different way. Your humor is your voice. But your humor doesn't work well in contemporaries where readers expect reality." I thought of my Wild Heat series with another publisher that's doing fairly well, even with my off-the-wall sense of humor...and kept my big mouth shut.

"We'd like you to write more bear shifters. We checked your numbers and were shocked. You've sold over twenty thousand of each book in the series. Your sales are slow, but steady. You've got a following there. Besides, in paranormal romance you don't have rules to follow. Your humor fits that sub-genre."

I was thrilled! I could keep Effie alive, my readers' favorite character. I'd always planned for Highlanders Beloved to be a longer series. I had my heroes already in place. My ear may have been pressed to the phone, but my mind was racing ahead with plotting and planning.

"This will be a spin-off, you can use the romantic couple you'd set up in book three of the original series, but place them in another location. You won't be able to use Effie," my editor continued. I could hear the hissing of air escaping my red balloon of excitement. "I know how you love to create secondary characters, but keep the plot focused on the heroine and hero. Okay?" More hissing of air. "Oh, and no magical elements. Only bear shifters." Empty, floppy balloon fluttered to the floor.

I submitted my vision for the series and four paragraphs about each book as requested. It was approved, although the titles were changed. So, I'm working on chapter one of SHIFTERS OF SONAS ISLE: Kendric. Now Kendric was a police detective in the original series and will be a law enforcement officer in this series, as well--a sheriff. So, knowing I can't use Effie or many side characters...hehehe....well an idea occurred. A sheriff needs a deputy. Right? Right! Enter Arlo Rogers, the Highland version of Barney Fife. Have I got a lot planned for this American character with an eye for any sway of a skirt.

If you'd like to read how my humor doesn't work in contemporary romance, FOR THE LOVE OF A FIREMAN is only 99cents. http://a.co/0qAhfNn 

Changes Make Us Grow by Vonnie Davis

As you read this, I'm at Mount Saint Mary's College in the mountains of Thurmont, Maryland for my grandson's high school graduation. Evidently Oakdale High School wasn't big enough to hold all the parents and grandparents, their heads swollen with pride for their loved one's big day--graduating from high school.

Ryan will graduate at the top of his class. For the past year, he's been working as an intern at the branch of the American Cancer Institute at Camp Detrick, slicing cancer cells and removing the nucleus and also working with DNA. In the evenings, he tutors six students in calculus and physics. He also took second place in the state in wrestling. He'll be attending MIT in the fall.

Changes. So many. And, in a way, so fast.

I worry about my son, Mike. He was a single dad with custody from the time Ry-man, as he called him, was 17 months old until he was 8 when Mike remarried. Ryan has always been at the top of his priority list and wife number two, bless her heart, loved that about her husband. How will he handle the empty nest? I suppose the same way we mothers have for eons as our little ones leave the nest to try out their wings. Tina, who could never have children, is not looking forward to Ryan's leaving either. She's been an excellent step-mom. Both Mike and Ryan needed her when she entered the force field of their lives. She changed them both--for the better.

But not all changes are good, are they?

Take my upcoming series about wounded warriors--"Black Eagle Ops." Men and women changed by war. They need healing, both physically and mentally. Book one--HER SURVIVOR--releases next month.

Each book in the series begins with a similar Prologue...
      In the Hill Country of Texas, a community developed around an old Apache legend—wounded warrior falls. Myth or truth, the story has been handed down, generation to generation, that the rocks in Warrior Falls carry magical healing powers. Wounded Apaches would stand or be carried beneath the waterfall for the healing-infused water to flow over them.
       Over time, the small town, Warrior Falls, has grown to a population of six-thousand. Its few streets boast shops, restaurants, and supply stores kept afloat by the townsfolk and nearby ranchers. Many of these businesses are owned and operated by quirky, yet salt of the earth characters who love their town just the way it is. That’s why the deep secret of Warrior Falls is so closely guarded.
        This is Dustin Frank’s (Dust’s) story.


Pre-order at Amazon: https://amzn.com/B0174PTMU2
Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/her-survivor-vonnie-davis/1122885268?ean=9781101967928

When a Pet Becomes One of the Characters by Vonnie Davis

Grandchildren's allergies and our traveling mean no pets for us. So I often put them in my books. I think we can tell a lot about a character by the way he or she reacts to animals. Plus, they bring a furry or feathery delight to the story.

I've talked before about my wounded warrior series, former SEALs who come to their retired CO's ranch in the Hill Country of Texas. Eagle Ridge Ranch provides a serene place  away from the hurried life and loud noises of the fast paced world to heal emotionally from the effects of war. There are physical wounds, of course, but the PTS elements play a larger role. The series is called "Black Eagle Ops."

One of the characters is Nance, the team's service dog. She's introduced in chapter one. Mail call has just happened and Dustin, the hero, has received a box from Eagle Ridge Ranch. One he's in no mood to open. Remember, these are hardened war veterans. Their language is salty with no filter, so I'll space out the worst words.

A muted “Set Fire to the Rain” drifted from the box. What the hell? That was the team’s theme song they sang as they drove away from a fight. What was his old Commander from SEAL Team Five up to now? Dustin ripped open the box only to find a cell phone and a note. “If you don’t call me ten minutes after receiving my awesome, one-of-a-kind gift, I’m calling you, you candy-as$ed ba$tard. And I’ll keep calling until you answer. ZQ”

The music stopped, and Dustin sighed. Thank God. When he arrived here eight months ago, ZQ was waiting and sat with him for the first three days. He talked to Dustin when he wanted to be left alone and read him poetry by Walt Whitman, which he liked but was too stubborn to admit. ZQ’s actions only reinforced what Dustin had always known; he cared for his men.

The song started again. Ah hell, ZQ. Give me a f---in’ break here. He swiped his index finger across the phone’s screen only to find a picture of Nance, her tongue lolling crooked from her mouth. Her one ear missing after being shot off. The day it happened as they fought their way through Al Hasakah in Eastern Syria, her handler JJ—Jerryl Jacoby—had nearly lost his mind. Hell, they all had.

They’d grown somewhat accustomed to the screams and moans of wounded men, but to hear their furry girl’s yelps ripped at what goodness remained intact within their souls.

On the cell’s photo, a sign hung around Nance’s neck that read, “Call me! Press 2.”

“Damn you, Zane Quinlan.” Dustin muttered as he shook the phone in frustration. The Commander always did know his men’s weak spots and played them to his advantage. He claimed Dustin’s was his curiosity, which it wasn’t. Still, just how had ZQ gotten ahold of Nance?

Dustin pressed two and, after a couple rings, Nance barked a response. He talked to her a minute, teasing her like he always had. “Dance for me Nance! Dance.” Evidently recognizing his voice, she whined and howled. There was some slurping, and Dustin smiled for the first time since forever. The damn, sweet dog was licking the phone to get to him…and he lost it.

Neither realizing the explosion had taken his leg from the middle of his calf down, nor seeing his mother’s tears when he initially reached Walter Reed Hospital or finding out he’d missed his dad’s funeral… not even his wife’s—hell, ex-wife, now—revulsion when she saw his damaged body tore at him so deeply as this dog’s reaction. Why the hell was that?

JJ’s firm voice in the background calmed her, while Dustin wiped his damp face.

Then ZQ took over the conversation.

“Hey, Dust, I knew if anyone could get to you, it would be Nance. Took you long enough to call me.” His team leader sounded like he’d just finished gargling with razor blades. Shit, Dustin wouldn’t be surprised if he had. The old man was hardcore. Not that he was really ancient, but any officer who’d survived fifteen years or more in an official capacity in special forces was respectfully labeled as “Old Man,” just not to his face.

“Is she at the ranch or are you visiting JJ?”

“Hell, they’re here at Eagle Ridge with me. Have been for over two months. JJ adopted her when his enlistment was up. The dog still had some time to serve but, having lost an ear, the big wigs gave her an early retirement.”

“I figured he would do his best to keep her, as tight as those two were. Nance trusted JJ with her life.”

“Still does. I was coming from the stables when this god awful racket echoed on my dirt lane. A man rode a vintage Harley with a sidecar, of all things. The dude wore a black leather vest a few shades darker than him and a black brain bucket for a helmet. And who was sitting in the sidecar, strapped in and wearing a matching black brain bucket with “War Vet” and a Trident decal on the front? Ol’ Nance. Pretty as you please.”

Ice cubes rattled in a glass, and the sound of his sipping and swallowing filtered over the phone. ZQ was probably into his treasured double-malt Scotch. He hacked a laugh. “Soon as our pup saw me, she damn near went berserk. JJ stopped the bike and unhooked her. She cleared the side and ran like hell for my outstretched arms. I ain’t ashamed to admit I was already on my knees, crying like a damn fool baby. There was always something extra special about our Nance.”

Once Dustin is released from the hospital, he  moves to Eagle Ridge Ranch near Wounded Warrior Falls. His first meal prepared by Junebug, ZQ's mother, is a real experience.

“I love hearing about my son’s SEAL life.” June, referred to by most everyone as Junebug, carried over a bowl of mashed potatoes. Then she placed two clean chrome dog’s dishes—one full of dry food and the other full of water and ice cubes—at the empty chair at the foot of the table. JJ nodded and Nance quietly jumped onto the chair. Junebug stood behind the dog and tied a bib around her furry neck. I can’t believe I’m seeing this. A damn bib on a SEAL service dog.

Junebug sat and looked at Dustin. “In this house, we say grace before we eat and hold hands while the head of the family prays.” She reached over and ZQ took his mom’s hand and, when she extended her other hand toward Nance, the dog placed his paw on top of hers, as if the canine knew what all was happening. Nance did the same for JJ’s hand and he whispered what a good girl she was. She licked his thumb and looked at him with adoring eyes.

If that dog mutters “amen,” I will crap myself laughing.

 

Vonnie Davis welcomes readers to Wounded Warrior Falls! In this sizzling contemporary series, broken heroes meet women worth fighting for—and discover the healing power of love.

Navy SEAL Dustin Franks can handle physical pain; it’s his soul that needs mending. After losing part of his leg in an explosion, the panic triggered by his PTSD nearly drives him over the edge. So Dustin retreats to the Eagle Ridge Ranch, a charming hideaway tucked into the Hill Country of Texas. There he finds solace in the arms of a shy beauty who reawakens desires he thought he’d lost forever—and who makes him want to lose control, just when he needs it most.

Kelcee Todd sees beyond Dustin’s scars to the real man beneath: fiercely protective, strong yet tender. She wants nothing more than to feel his battle-hardened hands on her body. However, Kelcee is not the ordinary small-town girl she appears to be. Her brother is a killer with ties to the Russian mob, and after her testimony put him in prison, he’s out and eager for revenge. Now Dustin is her best defense, even if it could cost him everything. Kelcee could never ask him to make that sacrifice . . . but she can’t stop him, either.

 

You may pre-order at http://amzn.com/B0174PTMU2

 

When a Writer Has Nothing to Say by Vonnie Davis

I'm writing this on Super Tuesday. So politics are on my mind. I don't appreciate others shoving their political views down my throat. In like manner, I'm not shoving mine down anyone else's. We're all smart enough to make up our own minds.  'Nuff said there.

My cover for Her Survivor is finally up on Amazon. It's book one of my "Black Eagle Ops" series and releases in July. I was so tickled to see my hero make his splash on the empty listing, it took me a few seconds to realize there was another coverless listing. For book two--Hers to Heal. The one I'm still writing! Panic set in and my fingers have been furiously kissing the keyboard ever since. I wrote slightly over 2000 words today. Maybe I'll get a few hundred more written before bedtime. I thought of part of a scene while I was supposed to be taking my pre-dinner nap. Yes, this old bird has reverted to some behaviors from childhood, like naptimes.
But I don't want to talk about the "A" word.

As soon as I finish this post, I'm critiquing ten pages for an author friend who has a novella she wants to submit. I think I edit more than critique. I worry the overall theme is a little dark, but I'm not in the mood to talk about that either.

What would I like to talk about? Weddings! My oldest granddaughter's wedding is June eleventh, two weeks after she graduates from college with a double major in Psychology and Criminal Justice. Odd, really. It was just a few years ago I helped deliver Eleni. The doctor was running late and little Eleni Elizabeth--five weeks premature--couldn't wait to get here to boss her two big brothers around. The nurse ordered me to put on a pair of latex gloves and I did. What an experience! My Sugar Dumplin' weighed in at five pounds. An hour later, I stood at the nursery window watching the pediatrician and nurses hovering over Eleni's incubator. Not that I'm nosy, mind you, but I slipped in to hear what was going on with my grandbaby. She wasn't breathing right and they were discussing whether to airlift her to a larger hospital. "I'll be riding along," I said nonchalantly. The pediatrician whipped around and asked me who I was. "I'm the grandma. I go where she goes." I pointed to the incubator while the nervy doctor pointed to the nursery door. I stared; she glared. The nurses suited me up and allowed me to touch Eleni and talk to her. Before long her breathing regulated. I took credit, of course, much to the irked doctor's annoyance. I sent Sugar Dumplin' a check for her wedding gown and veil. All I asked was that she not tell me one thing about it, so I can't even talk about that. Sigh. See, I want to be blown away when I see her ready to walk down the aisle (Investment tip: Buy stock in Puffs tissues!).

My grandson, Ryan, qualified for States in wrestling. The tournament is this coming weekend. He's on my mind, too. Ryan is a goal-setter. At the end of every summer vacation, he sets goals for the coming school year. This year, they were to get all A's, be admitted to MIT, and win a medal at States. He's an over-achiever, yet a gentle kid with a quirky sense of humor. I wouldn't want to say he was raised to be a wrestler, but here he is shortly before his second birthday pinning Wile E. Coyote. Last year he got a B in Honors English and called me, heartbroken. I told him I was glad. He paused. "Why?" I told him I was glad he'd missed his anticipated A and had to face he wasn't perfect. "We're all human, Ry-man (okay, so I'm a nickname freak, it's a sickness, I tell you). We don't always reach the goals we set. The secret is to never give up, to keep trying." His one and only B didn't hurt his admission to MIT. All I wish for him this coming weekend is that he win at least one match. Okay, maybe two, but I won't talk about that. Grandmas can be SO boring.

 

Next time I blog, I hope I have something to say. Follow me on Twitter on @VonnieWrites. Tell me, what do you have to say today. It has to be more interesting than my rambling.