Firework by Christine DePetrillo

I'll admit to not feeling very patriotic this Fourth of July. My faith in our country, my fellow citizens, humans really, has been greatly shattered by events that don't belong in real life. I watch the news--not even certain I'm getting any truth anymore--and after about sixty seconds, I want to pack my bags and move to Canada. (My Vermont home is pretty far north. Maybe I can get someone to lower the Canadian border, eh?)

I know I'm not the only one who feels this way.

On this Fourth of July then, I encourage everyone to remember what ideals this country was built upon. Remember the outstanding men AND WOMEN who worked so tirelessly to make a place where opportunity and freedom are the cornerstones for a better life. Remember that our future depends on the decisions made today.

And don't forget to be a nice human to your fellow humans. Hate is infesting the land currently. We need more smilepower. Urgently. Be the reason someone else feels good.

Be like fireworks. Burst with light and color. Rumble with power. Spray fun in all directions. Collect oohs and ahhs.

Sparkle in the darkness.

Toodles,
Chris
www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com

Red, White, and Do by Christine DePetrillo

On this Fourth of July, let's remember the brave colonists who risked being hung for treason by standing up for what they believed in - freedom. Underdogs in every sense of the word, these folks saw something they didn't think was fair and instead of whining and complaining about the injustice of it all, they united and rose up against a powerful country in the name of liberty. It is because of their passion, their enthusiasm for their cause, their drive for independence that we have the United States of America today.

I like to think of America as a nation of doers. We do stuff here. We get things done. The political climate of the present day gets me down from time to time (more often lately), but I remain hopeful that we'll continue to be doers. We'll raise more doers. We'll move forward. We'll reach new levels of achievement. We'll protect those unalienable rights Thomas Jefferson outlined in the Declaration of Independence - life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Because if we're not happy, what's the point?

The colonists were not happy and they did something about it. Something globe changing. Life altering. Being happy is top concern. Happiness brings so many rewards and seeking it should be our main objective.

Always.

If you're not happy right now, take this Fourth of July to free yourself. Define what would make you happy. Plan steps to capture that happiness.

Then go out there and... DO.

Enjoy your Independence Day!

Toodles,
Chris
www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com 

Free by Christine DePetrillo

I am free to write a book. So are you.

We are free to read books. Any kind we want.

We are free to hop in our cars, zoom over to the bookstore, and pick up (and inevitably sniff) as many books as we wish.

We are free to visit spots online that offer books in any genre that interests us.

We are free to support our favorite authors.

We are free to write reviews, sharing our opinions on the books we’ve read.

We are free to connect with authors and readers online.

We are free to love the book more than the movie.

We are free to have jobs that allow us to buy books.

We are free to learn to read and write so we may experience books and share our thoughts.

We are free to use our imaginations to get lost in books or create them.

We are free to love words and the power they possess.

On this Fourth of July, give thanks for the freedom you enjoy. The more I watch CNN (and look at the horrendous options for presidential candidates), the more I wonder how long that freedom will last. How much will we have to fight to preserve it?

If you’re wondering the same thing, try A Less Perfect Union, by Goodwin Reed, the writing team of The Husband and Me. It’s political. It’s speculative (or is it?). It’s seductive. We published this book in 2014, but its themes are alive today. 

Who will lead in the time of crisis? Amazon: http://tinyurl.com/jaak3vm 

Toodles,

Chris

www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com

The Maple Leaf Series, Books One to Six, available now. Book One is FREE in ebook. Always.

SAFE, The Shielded Series, Book One, coming August 2016.

THE SCHOOL YEAR GOVERNS OUR LIVES FOREVER!

The topic for September is “Feeling Nostalgic…kids going back to school…sharing our roots, families and Fall traditions.”

I want to talk about September as a boater, which is intricately tied to the ‘back to school’ calendar.  Turns out, no matter how old we are, we’re forever dependent on the ding-danged school calendar!

Not only was I a student in the public school system and attending college when September was ‘a beginning,’ but I also taught high school English, followed by several years as a high school principal.  The last week in August and the first week in September always signaled a time for hard work, angst, excitement and tension. 

You would think that after I retired from my principalship, I’d be happily ignorant of school starts.  I wish!

For the last fourteen years, the beginning of September means my husband and I, aboard our forty-five foot trawler, Intrepid, turn our boat south and make way to our marina slot in Anacortes, Washington.  On purpose, we hold back in British Columbia, waiting for the ‘get-ready-for-school’ boaters to head back to the U.S./Canadian mainlands.   You should know that both countries share the labor day weekend holiday, so the majority of boaters cruise south BEFORE that weekend. 

Parents, grandparents and students alike, want to reach home a good week before school starts.  That means the oceans are ours the last week in August.  So we plan carefully around the boat stampede.  For instance, we hit the gorgeous boating haven called Desolation Sound the last week of August when the crowds have left.  Next we putt through the Gulf Islands and San Juan Islands, gleeful not to to dodge boats and their wakes.  Once we’ve slid into our slip in Anacortes, we’re smiling about a stressless, traffic- free three month sojourn to the hinterlands of B.C. and back.

So our Fall tradition, given the lovely temperate climate of the Pacific Northwest in September, is to let the school-focused crowds empty our ocean playgrounds so we can enjoy a pleasant trip south.

Have you noticed this phenomena?  Have you tapped into it like we have?  Are resorts, cruise ships and other touristy venues empty by the last week in August?  If so, are prices down and opportunities abounding?  Curious minds want to know!

Happy Fall, everyone.  Let’s hope the pace is slower for you in the Fall as it is for those of us who are boaters!   Rolynn

Friends and Fireflies by Leah St. James

I’ve been married for about a hundred years to a man who hates going to see the fireworks. My sons for some reason never took to them either, so ever since they got to the age where they could beg off the annual fireworks show, I’ve consigned myself to watching them on TV. Watching on TV is a pale second though. You can’t feel the big boom when the explosive charge goes off, can’t smell the sulfur in the air, hear the oohs and aahs of the people to your right and left. Still, I’m accustomed to what has become our annual celebration.

That changed this year, however. Sort of. I didn’t see fireworks on the 4^th of July, I saw them on the last weekend in June. I’d driven from my home in southeastern Virginia to a writers’ retreat called The Porches about three hours west. The inn is an antebellum six-bedroom farmhouse converted by writers, for writers, where the house rules call for quiet all day, and socializing is permitted only after 5:30 in the evening. The two levels of porches overlooking the Appalachian mountains give the home its name. I was joining four writing buddies for a weekend of peace, quiet, friendship and writing. Heaven, right?

When you travel to The Porches, you bring your own food, and luckily for me, some of my friends are really good cooks. (To say I ate well doesn’t do justice to the increase in my girth after the weekend.) One friend is a bartender who’d arrived with a case of wines and liqueurs with pretty labels and exotic-sounding names. (I did say this was a writer’s version of heaven.)

Being that we’re all friends, we bagged the “no socializing till 5:30”rule that first night and hunkered down for some serious girl talk. We lingered over dinner, which was served on the first-floor porch, and watched hummingbirds hover at the birdfeeder, sipping their own dinner. When the mosquitoes started to bite, we headed to the second-floor porch and its view of the surrounding mountains.

Wine was poured, talk and laughter  ebbed and flowed, and aside from our conversation, all was quiet, except for the sounds of nature. We heard birdcall (including an honest-to-God Whippoorwill!), frogs doing their mating thing, and the lonesome clacking of a nearby freight train passing by. As giant birds that might have been eagles soared over the trees, I squelched the urge to burst out into a chorus or two of "God Bless America." :-)

Eventually night fell, and with the darkening sky came lightning bugs, or fireflies. I say “lightning bugs” as if they were the same creatures I  used to run around and chase in my backyard in Central Jersey. We’d catch them in jars with holes punched in the lids, and watch them light up for a while before releasing them back to nature.

Those were Jersey lightning bugs. What I saw at The Porches was a whole different species. 

Their show started out slowly, subtly. A flash here and there. “Oh, look, lightning bugs,” one of the ladies said, and we all paused to watch. Then it built – the intensity, the number – and pretty soon the air around us filled with lights, twinkling on and off, high up in the trees that stretched for another fifty feet or more above us. At one point, those tiny little insects lit up so big and bright, they looked like golf balls flitting playfully among the branches. 

They didn’t shake the ground with the force of an explosion, and they didn’t release the scent of sulfur into the sky, but those lightning bugs put on a show worthy of 4^th of July fireworks. And as I sat there, sipping my wine, listening to the quiet oohs and aahs of friends, I thanked God for the opportunity to share that memory. 

God bless America, and lightning bugs.

Freedom Isn't Free

by Betsy Ashton

Until you've lived in a different country, you don't know how free freedom can be. Or how patriotic you can be. This post is all about me and what I learned about myself after living in a different country for two years.

Cast yourself back to 1969 to 1971. The war in Vietnam continued to divide the country. Patriotism wasn't cool. Drugs were. Protests were. Whether your cause was feminism, the war, civil rights or not believing parental authority, you had something that tied your gut in knots.

For me, it was getting into the grad school of choice. I planned to do a Masters overseas. I applied to two programs. What luck! I got into both. What bad luck! My first choice university was on strike and would continue to be on strike for two years. Phooey. Accepted admission to my fallback school.

With a naivete that shocks me today, I packed a trunk, consigned it to a shipping company, and bought a one-way ticket to Japan. I was so cool. A total hippie from Southern California. I was tall. Long brown hair. And I was an Anglo. I was also an American with a certain arrogance that came with citizenship.

Nothing says far from home like dropping yourself into a homogeneous country. I walked down the stairs from my Pan Am jet with this reaction. "OMG, they're all Japanese." What did you think, stupid? They'd be just like you?

I became a stranger in a strange land. I didn't come home for two years. In that time, I set foot on "American" soil six times, two at the US Embassy where I went to vote and try to find out information about a friend who went missing in Vietnam (that's fodder for a different blog). Four times on a US Air force base. See previous sentence for reason.

It wasn't until I was on a ship coming home from my MA program that I realized how much I missed being an American. Being surrounded by Americans. Miss our societal warts and stretch marks. When the ship pulled into Honolulu harbor at midnight, I joined a group of other homesick travelers and marched arm in arm around the ship singing "Yankee Doodle Dandy," "God Bless America," "America the Beautiful" and other songs of longing and belonging.

I all but kissed the ground when we were finally released for twenty-four hours on the town. I walked everywhere I could, so proud to be home where I could really breathe freely.

This is not to say that Japan doesn't feel free. It does. But as a gaijin, you can never assimilate. And you know at ever turn in the road, every staring eye, that someone knows you don't really belong.

I didn't decide to fly Old Glory in front of my house until 9/11. For some reason, all those feelings of belonging rushed back. I was home-sick this time for what had befallen our nation. But like that long-ago naive foreign student, our nation found its balance and moved ahead. It's what we do.

Fantasy? Why not?

by Jena Galifany

Fan·ta·sy

[fan-tuh-see, -zee] noun, plural fan·ta·sies, verb, fan·ta·sied, fan·ta·sy·ing. noun

1. imagination, especially when extravagant and unrestrained.

2. the forming of mental images, especially wondrous or strange fancies; imaginative conceptualizing.

3. a mental image, especially when unreal or fantastic; vision: a nightmare fantasy.

4. Psychology . an imagined or conjured up sequence fulfilling a psychological need; daydream.

5. a hallucination. 

(Courtesy of Dictionary.com)

Okay, now we have the dictionary description of Fantasy. I particularly enjoy number one. 

Imagination. The beginning of all fantasy writing is imagination. It is the "what if" and the "how about" that live in our mind just behind the reality of life that we are forced to live with.  It is seeing things in a new and different way. It's believing that the world could be so much better, so much richer, so much more to ones own liking. 

Extravagant. Absolutely. Everything about fantasy should be extravagant. The characters should all be over the top in looks, elegance, riches, abilities and even evil. The men should be everything a man can be, according to the writers' whims. So hot you can get a sun tan by standing too near. So hot, to actually be in physical contact with could leave his brand on your soul. The women are no slouches either. Perfect build, perfect hair, make-up, eye color, skin tone and attitude. 

Unrestrained. Wow! That opens the doors to almost anything the heart desires. That man you always wanted to get your hands on? He's yours for the taking. He'll do anything and everything to please you. There are no consequences to your actions. There will never be a negative to your positive. No accidents, no back-lash. Absolute freedom of personal expression. 

Can you imagine this kind of freedom in your lifetime? It can happen when you write. It's all right there, at your fingertips. Find a keyboard and start with a small expression of your own fantasy. Build a character that you'd love to work with. One that you'd love to be, for that matter. After all, you are your characters. You are in their head, thinking their thoughts, living their lives, and leading them in the direction you want them to go. 

In fantasy, you can add magic, dragons, flowers and Fae to help your characters along. There are not longer limits to the world of fantasy. It can be crossed with other genres. How about this idea?

Boy meets Girl with a stick. Dragon grabs Girl. Boy hunts Dragon. Boy finds Dragon with Girl with a stick. Boy battles Dragon. Dragon flame broils Boy. Girl rolls eyes and points stick at Dragon. Girl flame broils Dragon and invites the village to a feast. Village roasts Girl at stake because Dragon tasted just like liver. The End.

Well, it needs a little work. I can fill in a few more details and add some clever dialogue but you get the idea. Fantasy can be a fun way to pass the time and is one of the most popular genres on the market. If you haven't tried it yet, I suggest you give it a shot. It can lift your spirits, even if you write it strictly for yourself. 

I wrote about a fantasy man, Velcon, in 1979. In 1989, I met him and we've been married since 1990. I've told you about Steve before so I won't bore you with the details again. I have a manuscript that I wrote in 1979 that needs a good going over. It is a fantasy. It's titled "The Ice Child" and some day I will publish it. Then the world will know more about Velcon Vespersley and his lady love, Jena' Galifany. Yes, that is where I got my author name.

Excerpt from "The Ice Child" 

After traveling what seemed like miles, the party came to the maze. Velcon kept himself between Cavoth and Devlin as well as having Caleth by his side. It was more simple to keep the mystery person from the child with the child in the lead with Alverian. Velcon decided that the next time they came to an outer door, he could be ready to free Dawnia and Jena from their current condition. All that was required was a little timing, some help from Caleth and Devlin, and a lot of luck, mixed with a few spells. Telepathy would have to be employed to tell Caleth and Devlin what to do as, chances were, he wouldn't get the opportunity to speak with them alone. Simple, right?

Velcon wondered why Cavoth hadn’t taken them all under mind possession. Why hadn’t he noticed the relic Devlin found? But, then, maybe he had. He tried once to take her. Velcon had to travel back to Gaelfar, if only for a split-second, for the components for the spells needed to free the women.

Velcon though about the maze as they entered it. This would be a good time to go. He quickened his steps and came up beside Alverian and Devlin. Velcon concentrated to gain Alverian‘s attention. "After I pass you, walk behind her, following her footsteps."
Alverian dropped back as Velcon walked ahead. Velcon's long strides quickly carried him forward until he put some distance between them.

Alverian paced Devlin's steps to stay between Cavoth and the youngest member. Suddenly, Velcon spun around, and threw blue-black handfuls of light over the entire party. His six companions stopped in their tracks, suspended in mid-motion. With a long look at Jena, Velcon filled his hands once again with the blue-black mist and poured it over himself. His destination: Gaelfar.

* * * *

The shop keeper never quite got used to his customers popping in and out as they pleased. He lost more stock that way. Magic users and thieves were always showing up just long enough to take what they wanted and disappear without paying for it. The sudden appearance of a person somewhat unnerved the small man.

Lithmar was glad to see that the day came to a close, when he could ward his store and retire upstairs with his family to enjoy the privacy and quiet. Only moments to go and his dream would became reality.

"And why not close a few moments early. The day has brought a good income already. What is a few more moments going to matter?" He jumped from his tall stool, and stepped around the end of the counter, starting toward the door. His steps were halted by a blue black cloud of shimmering air, followed by the appearance of one of his best customers suddenly standing before him.

"The mighty Velcon." He clapped his hands with delight. He took Velcon by the arm and firmly held him. "Welcome, my friend. Come and have mead with me. I was just closing up..."

Velcon returned Lithmar's welcome with a quick smile and, releasing the little man's arm, stepped around him. "I must have supplies. Dawnia and Jena, their lives depend upon my haste. Here." He moved from one shelf to the next, Lithmar following him from aisle to aisle. "Take these things to the counter. I know the others would most likely have them but I must be sure." Velcon handed several items to Lithmar, a small piece of iron, a vial of pure water, a string of chanting beads, and various other items.

"Spell components, I see. Bad, is it? Dawnia and Jena? Did Jena try for another black stone?"

Velcon wasn't listening as he grabbed this way and that for any item which might come in handy.

Lithmar frowned at Velcon‘s distraction. "Well, I am sure that when you have more time, you will explain it all to me. Don't worry about that," Lithmar told Velcon as he reached for his pouch of gold coins. "I'll remember what you owe when you have more time and I have a shortage of funds, my friend."

Velcon offered an appreciative smile. "I wish I had time for that mead. It would do me well. But, if I fail, the bill may just have to be forgotten on this plane of existence. If so, I will pay you in the next. Fare well, my friend." Velcon was gone as suddenly as he had appeared, his purchases with him.

Lithmar thought to himself, "Velcon, I can trust but I surely wish he would use the door once in a while."

_______________________________

Fantasy can take you anywhere, at any time, you want to go. I hope you've enjoyed this little piece of the first book I ever attempted to write. With a bit of luck, "The Ice Child" may make it to publication some day. That's just another one of my fantasies.

Cheers,

Jena Galifany

http://jenagalifany.bravehost.com

Fortuitous Freedom

Okay, I managed to fit two of suggested topics for July into this blog. I’m going to mention freedom first. Retirement means freedom. Hubs and I did without a lot of things during our working lives to make sure we had enough money for retirement. Three permanent layoffs just about depleted our savings each time. It was fortuitous that we were able to recover. Sort of. Thank goodness for pensions and 401k’s and a financial planner who worked miracles during the recession.

When we had to move from West Michigan to Chicago for Hubs’ job, I made him promise we would retire back there. Since he likes the area, too, he agreed. Another job took us to mid-Michigan—close but no cigar. Then our grandchildren arrived. Good news/bad news. They lived in Indianapolis. Nothing was keeping us in Michigan. It wasn’t the Lake Michigan shoreline, but grandchildren mean more than location. So I started looking online at houses. Hubs was not as eager to uproot.

Then Fortune shined on us. The grandchildren (their parents, too) moved to West Michigan. Wow. My dream come true. Hubs kept thinking about all we had to do to make our current home saleable. Optimistic me started looking for houses online again. Ultimately—after many 200-mile trips for dance recitals, Christmas Pageants, babysitting, etc.—he came around. A year ago, we started looking at houses with a realtor. Okay, I thought, we can be picky this time—not try to find a house over a weekend, as had been my previous modus operandi. We took our time. And maybe we were being too picky. If you’ve ever watched House Hunters on HGTV, you know there are always compromises whether finding an existing house or building a new one.

After ten months of looking at houses where we would have to make changes, remodels, all the stuff we’d done six times before, we decided to build. Everybody has heard horror stories of construction nightmares. We mentioned to the banker an oft-repeated saying of adding 20% to the cost of construction. She looked surprised. Not Mike, she said. That was a nice surprise. When she asked our projected move-in date, we repeated the builder’s estimate of six months from ground-breaking. When she shook her head, we figured she’d say good luck with that. Instead, she said he always finishes sooner. Plan on five months. Yeah right, we thought.

Right now we are three months from ground-breaking and the builder is telling us we could be in at the beginning of September. The rooms have drywall up, the furnace and all the electrical are in. Not all the plumbing, but the tub and shower are in. As is the driveway and garage floor. Tomorrow we pick out paint colors, carpet, kitchen counters and backsplash. While the siding isn’t on yet, we've been told that’s a one-day job. I’m totally amazed at how much is done each week when we drive over to check. Hubs takes his measuring tape each visit to check measurements against the plans. One day, he took the 3-year-old grandson to hold his tape. The kid was thrilled to help Papa. Granddaughter, who had been miffed at missing out, was mollified last Thursday to be the first one in the house.

While I’m excited at moving in early, I’m not thrilled about packing up a house where we’ve lived over thirteen years—our longest. Deciding what goes with us and what to discard gives me nightmares. Almost. What I keep in the forefront of my mind is that in, maybe, two months we’ll be close to our family.

Through a fortuitous event, son-in-law’s new position brought the family to West Michigan where we wanted to retire. How fortunate for us that we have the freedom to do so.

Diane Burton