Honoring Those Who Serve

At my age, few things actually blow me away these days. Four kids raised to adulthood and now with an assortment of grandkids in the mix, not a lot surprises me.

Though there is one thing that fills me with awe and chokes me up every time – and has to do with those individuals we honor and celebrate today – Veterans Day 2015. Those fellow citizens of ours who are willing to put aside the comforts of hearth and home, to enter harm’s way for us. All to defend and preserve the lifestyle we all hold dear.

Our Freedom.

Brett, my insightful and brilliant grandson (but aren’t they all?) provided his take on this in an essay he wrote a few years ago. The one I framed and display in my living room. He was chosen to broadcast his work over the public address system at school. This is what he said.

“Every year on November 11^th the United States honors those who have served in our armed forces. The holiday originally marked the anniversary of the Armistice between the Allies and Germany. The signing effectively ended all fighting in World War I. However, in 1954 Congress approved a name change from Armistice Day to Veterans Day. This was done as a tribute to honor and thank all veterans of all wars. On Veterans Day it is encouraged to fly flags at full staff in observance of the holiday. At this time, we would like to take a moment of silence to honor all the service men and women who have died.”

As he suggests, shall we take that moment?

 

 

Thank you. And thank them.

I would only add, as the Disabled American Veterans remind us – Freedom Is Not Free.

 

Just ask those who have sacrificed so much – for you and for me.

 

Margo Hoornstra

www.marghoornstra.com

A Day To Give Thanks For Their Service To A Veteran

By Margo Hoornstra

Today, I'd like to add my voice to a grateful throng of Americans with a heartfelt Thank You! to all those who served and sacrificed to protect us and our freedoms. All who serve in the military are heroes who have earned our respect, our support and our unfailing gratitude.

Veteran's Day honors them!

On the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918, the armistice was signed which ended the World War I hostilities between the Allied Nations and Germany. November 11th the following year was designated Armistice Day. A day set aside to thank veterans for their service. In 1954, Congress declared November 11th Veteran's Day for the same purpose.

 My husband, brother, father, brother-in-law, cousin, uncle, grandfather and great-grandfather are or were veterans. Not career veterans, but ordinary citizens who fought to protect us and our freedoms. My oldest son, like his dad, serves in law enforcement.

Having that type of family history made it easy for me to create and craft Jonah Colt, a multi-decorated war veteran who brings residuals of wartime back to civilian life. Jonah suffers from PTSD. Silently, suffers, because he doesn't want to admit to what he sees as being weak.

He never set out to do much more than have a good time when someone like Cynthia Buckingham literally fell into his life. Alone in his living room on a Saturday, kicked back in the dark brown leather recliner, he’d sat for so long he hadn’t noticed the room growing darker as late afternoon gave way to early evening. A million dollar view through floor to ceiling windows had been a major selling point when he bought the top floor condo five years ago. But when was the last time he’d actually slowed down long enough to enjoy it?

 

The shades were drawn on a sight that was only worth seeing in the day time anyway. A man made forest was to the right, complete with squirrels, birds and other indigenous critters. And to the left, a precisely trimmed and pruned golf course stretched along the edge of the city. Also man made. Another one of the original attractions when he bought the place, thinking he’d like to learn to play. Then finding out, after a year of lessons, the pace of the sport bored him to tears. He didn’t like golf because he didn’t like golf. Period. Not because he was losing interest in life or in any other damned way becoming depressed or antisocial. Nor was he embarking on any excessive behaviors involving liquor, sex or drugs.

 

What could he say? Two out of three wasn’t bad.

 

The last swallow of the two fingers of high end vodka he’d indulged in gave off a subtle heat as the thick liquid slid down his throat and trickled into an empty stomach. As he moved to put his glass on the table, it slipped sideways on a clatter. With his legs pushed down to bring the chair upright, he steadied the tumbler to set it firmly on its base. Then snatched it up as he stood to walk out to the kitchen where he opened the dishwasher, dumped the glass onto the top shelf then slammed the door.

 

There. Evidence disposed of.

 

Turning back toward the living room, he stopped and shook his head. Why in hell did he feel so strongly he had to hide anything? Because alcohol abuse is a prime symptom of posttraumatic stress disorder. Which made his over-reaction so much bullshit. One shot of hard liquor—his first in a couple of weeks—and prior to an evening out hardly meant he was a problem drinker. So what made him think maybe he was one? Run of the mill stressors happened to everyone. They were part of being human in a modern world. Part of being alive. What separated man from the other animals of the Earth. Which didn’t explain why he had begun to tear apart every detail of every recollection of his time in the warzone as if he was some psycho frickin’ time bomb set to go off at the slightest provocation.

 

Because he’d lied to her, and he couldn’t stand himself for it.

 

He and Cynthia, a counselor specializing in PTSD, have other issues as well. They have enjoyed, what they believe will be a one night stand, and only a one night stand.

Turns out life has other ideas.

Only If You Dare is now available on Amazon. Check it out with a click HERE Only If You Dare will be free on the KDP Select Program December 10-14, 2013.

 

My days to blog at the Roses of Prose are the 11th and 23rd.

 

More about me and my stories can be found at my WEBSITE or BLOG

 

 

  

The Men Won't Leave Me Alone -- by Vonnie Davis

Men flock to me.

I’m serious.

Well, my heroes, anyhow. They come to me at night when I’m in that fragile, fluttery state between wakefulness and sleep. This is how all my stories are born—with my heroes' appearances. And they've all been dramatic in their own way.

For some writers, it’s the nub of a thought, or a snippet of an overheard conversation, or something read in a newspaper or magazine that sparks a “what if” idea.

 

Not for me, though.

For me, it’s the men.

 

One night, a couple years ago, a man sauntered into our bedroom wearing nothing but a black Stetson and a pair of cowboy boots. I glanced over at Calvin, who was snoring away and then at our handsome intruder. His sneer was intimidating. The man was clearly aggravated, while I was spellbound. He took off his hat and placed it in a more strategic location. “Ever notice how the full moon brings out the madness in people?”

I couldn’t respond--I mean, I thought I was near mad, myself. I just left Storm talk about the blue-eyed woman he’d been dreaming of while I drooled onto my pillow.

Several months later, I was writing a romantic suspense set in Paris. My hero was a French government agent and my heroine an older American school teacher. Things were going fairly well for this pantser. After all, writing a story set in the City of Light was like revisiting the jewel along the Seine. I was enjoying the process.

 

After we’d gone to sleep one night, someone slammed our bedroom door. I sat straight up in the bed. Wh…what was that? I glanced at Calvin, who hadn’t so much as shifted at the sound of that door slam. I must be dreaming.

I’d just dropped back to sleep when the door banged shut again. This time I saw who the culprit was—Niko, my French government agent. “What? What do you want?”

 

He pointed to me and issued an order. “Watch.”

 

And so I did. He stormed down a hallway, fluorescent lights humming overhead. His hands were clenched in fists. As soon as he opened a door, I saw my heroine tied to a chair in an interrogation room. She was blindfolded. Niko slammed the door and she jumped. Then the vision faded.

“That’s it? You woke me up for that piddlin’ little bit? Why is Alyson tied up? Why are you angry?” Oh, I was not happy. It took me four chapters to set-up that door slamming scene in Mona Lisa’s Room.

Another night, a man roared into our bedroom on a Harley. Niko and I were still arguing. Seems he didn’t think he needed to wear his Kevlar vest. Frenchmen and their egos—go figure. So, really, the absolute last thing I wanted in my crowded mind was another man. I grunted and rolled against Calvin’s back.


Mr.-Harley-Man started circling our bed, slow and easy just the way my youngest boy resorted to when he wanted to get on my last nerve. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I flopped onto my back. “What? What is it?” He got off his bike, took off his helmet, and adjusted his prosthesis. Somehow I knew he’d lost part of his leg in Iraq. “My name’s Win, short for Sherwin. Would you write my story?” Well, he was so polite with that Texas twang. I mean, what else could I do?

Not all the men who come into my bedroom late at night are grown. Eli, a golden-haired three-year-old threw a tantrum on my bedroom carpet one night. His chubby little hands were clenched in someone’s blue calico skirt. “Mine. Mine.” I had no clue what to make of him. Then a tumbleweed blew into our room with a piece of matching blue calico tied to it. And Tumbleweed Letters was born.

 

Nearly a year ago, I had a cancerous cyst removed from my saliva gland. A couple months into the healing process, two small golden orbs started shining in the back of my mind. Brain tumors, I thought. When I finally worked up the courage to call the doctor, the golden orbs blinked. Eyes? Were they eyes? They kept a steady blinking rhythm as they silently watched and waited. I was losing my mind, I thought. No doubt you're thinking the same thing.

 

Then one night the golden eyes glowed bright and moved from the back of my mind into the body of a bear. He stood at the foot of my bed. “Sorry,” I yawned. “You’ve got the wrong house. I don’t write children’s books.” The bear shook his head. “What? You’re not from a children’s story?” The bear shifted into a Scottish man in a kilt. Once more I quickly looked at Calvin, wondering if I should nudge him awake—I mean, really, the man does miss the most interesting stuff.

 

Deciding to keep the man in a kilt to myself, I ditched that idea and turned my gaze on his plaid. “I don’t write paranormal.”

 

He swaggered toward me and stood. “Aye, lassie, ye do and ye will.” He lifted the covers and slipped into the bed. Calvin snorted. “Me name is Creighton. Let me tell ye the story of how bears came to be extinct in Scotland.”

 

I’m telling you, ladies, the men just won’t leave me alone… I'm a romance writer and I LOVE my job.

One lucky commenter will be chosen at random to win a copy of Storm's Interlude. Paperback or eBook, your choice. All you have to do is tell me what kind of dreams you have about men...well, the PG parts, anyhow.