Bill (continued) by John E. Stack

Bill has been in foster care for two and a half years now.  He has been the topic of my writing several times over the past two years, and we thought that last month we had a forever (adoptive) family for him.  Prayers were answered and visits were started.  Then Satan decided to get involved, again.  He placed a grain of doubt in the perspective father’s head and he couldn’t break free of it.

Adoptive mom had fallen head-over-hills in love with Bill and could just see him being an integral part of their family.  She spent time with him 3-4 times a week for around four weeks.  After a few visits, adoptive dad started to come to visits.  All indications were that he was “in,” meaning that he was ready to take on the responsibility.   They were going to proceed with getting the adoption started.

In watching Bill’s interaction with them, he didn’t warm-up quickly.  But, that is true with anyone that he doesn’t see on a daily basis.  Usually, about half-way through the visit he would  start warming up and by the end, he would be sitting on their laps.  It was evident that the mom was all in, but dad never seemed to truly get comfortable.  Before their last visit, all was good, but by the next day all had changed.  We don’t know why, just that dad had changed his mind.

We are glad that it happened before they started the proceedings, but dad should have been more honest from the beginning.

Bill was starting to bond with this family.  He was starting to get comfortable with them being there. Then, when visitation stopped.  Bill’s behavior changed.  For a while, he was angry – hitting screaming, biting. Things have calmed a bit, but Bill is now more weary of strangers coming in to the house.

We have not given up hope that right adoptive family will come along.  Bill deserves it.

Today, there are over 10,000 kids in foster care in North Carolina.  Two to three thousand of them are available for adoption right now.  These kids did nothing wrong, but many have problems.  Many have been abused: physically, mentally and sexually.  Many have done without food for days because their birth parents would rather party or spend money on drugs/alcohol.  These kids were not a priority in their own families.  Most of the babies that are in foster care are victims of mothers doing drugs and drinking alcohol while pregnant.  Fetal alcohol syndrome and ADHD show up in lots of these babies.

These kids have done nothing wrong, so they deserve a chance to have a family that loves them.  Will there be problems? Yes.  Will the children be angry? Yes.  Will there be some learning disabilities? Probably.  But, these kids deserve a home with loving, understanding parents.

What happens to a child that does not get adopted?  Unless they sign an agreement to stay in foster care and go to college, they are released at age 18.  Hopefully, they have bonds with their foster family so they can have some stability.  Most often, they turn to drugs and alcohol.  Many are homeless and get money through various ways.  More often than not, they end up in jail for theft, prostitution, drugs…

Most of the girls end up pregnant.  They continue using drugs and don’t/can’t get prenatal support.  So, if the baby or the mother has drugs in their systems, the babies go into foster care.  It’s a cycle that needs to be broken.  It costs $1200 to $2000 per month for a child to be in foster care, but it costs the child a lot more.

These kids have done nothing wrong.  Open up your heart and home and change the life of a child.  Is it tough?  Yes, but worth it a thousand times over.

Consider a career in foster care.  There is a vast shortage of foster families and even a greater shortage of adoptive families.  Step out of your comfort zone and do something that could change the world.  Open up and change a life.  Some how, some way, just get involved.


***John E. Stack is the author of Cody’s Almost Trip to the Zoo, Cody’s Rescue Adventure at the Zoo and Olivia’s Sweet Adventure.

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Two countries separated by a common language, by Sheila Deeth

Fields mountains and houses covered in snow.

A photo posted by Sheila Deeth (@sheiladeeth) on

I was walking on the green and saw this view. Suitably inspired, I suggested two friends go onto the green as well. They looked at me with that what in earth does she mean expression I’ve grown to accept as my due,  then agreed “Oh yes,  let’s walk on the greenway.”

Back in England the green, as in village green, is that common area of grass where people congregate,  play cricket, or maybe read books on benches while watching the ducks. But here,  it seems,  it’s the place where people play golf …

… which explains a curious  mystery I’d been trying to solve. How did I,  from a family where no one plays golf,  end up on so many golfing email lists? Perhaps some Internet spying machine saw me use the word green on Facebook,  Twitter and in blog posts. But why and how were they looking?

And who else is looking?

And who else is so completely mistaken about me?

‘Tis a strange new world, even more so when you wander into that gap where two nations are separated by a common language.

Sheila Deeth is an English American author,  with two novels,  Divide by Zero and Infinite Sum, published by Indigo Sea Press.


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Carry On by Chuck Thurston



We were talking with old friends – a couple – that we had not seen for some time. It was the tail end of the holiday season. The grey of a gloomy day had darkened into a cold night. An outside light showed snow flurries swirling around the bare limbs and darkened evergreens. We were digging into memories of past times good and bad. The short days and long nights of the winter solstice often seem to invite these reflections. The setting and time of year lent itself to nostalgia.

We talked of the parties of long ago – the candles, the music, the gaiety, those then present; the several now gone. The lady said that she got in this mood after her father died, and that she missed him and grieved for his absence every day. I had not heard of her father’s death and told her I was sorry for her loss. I asked when it had happened. “Eight years ago,” she replied.

Had she lived in Victorian times, her job would have been much easier.

Back then the process was highly ritualized, and twelve months was considered appropriate for a child mourning a parent, or vice versa. If you’re wondering, yes, there was a sliding scale. A full two years was considered appropriate for a widow; first cousins merited only four weeks. Everyone else – a sibling, aunt, uncle, grandparent, was somewhere in between.

The Victorians wore the appropriate clothes, conducted the appropriate ceremonies, had a lavish funeral and erected an ornate monument for the grave. Manuals and journals described the mourning etiquette in the event the survivors needed guidance. I am sure they continued to miss the departed for a longer or shorter period of time depending on the nature of the relationship, but as far as formal mourning went, they dropped it after the prescribed period.

Life then, if less complicated, was harsher. Household tasks had to be taken care of; farm or home tended to, children to be raised with few of today’s conveniences. In many cases efforts were begun to acquire a new mate or partner to fill the void. “There’s no limit to what a person can accomplish,” the saying is, “but they can rarely do it by themselves.” So it often seemed desirable in those days to hook up with another solo soul and carry on. My grandfather’s first wife died leaving him with nine children, and he wasted no time finding another mate.

The Victorians believed in curtailing social behavior for a set period of time, but that practice seems outmoded now. Many losing a loved one today feel obligated to advertise the extent of their pain across the internet. Perhaps this is a part of the healing process, but many of the posts are troubling; some are frightening in their description of despair and the feeling that life has lost much of its meaning.

Viktor Frankl was a Jewish psychiatrist imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp during the Second World War. He later wrote that suicides were not uncommon under these brutal conditions. Two prisoners in his building were talked out of their intent to kill themselves. Others reminded them that they had important things yet to do. One had a child who had escaped to Canada and would want to join him after the war. The other was a noted scientist who had begun a series of books that only he could finish. When others reminded them of their duty to their future, they abandoned their suicide plans.

And that is key – our duty to the future. I do not know what cognizance the departed have of the lives they leave behind, but I would be saddened beyond belief if I knew that a loved one of mine was crippled with inconsolable grief by my going. It would seem to speak poorly of my earthly contributions to our happiness. Was the time we spent together so vapid and unfulfilling that he or she can’t summon up memories of shared joys to buffer the pain of my departure? If the spirits of the dead are permitted anger, I think mine would be angry.

For life is not a three-legged bag race. Barring some catastrophic event, one of a loving couple will die before the other. My wife and I brush on this topic now and then. One or the other of us usually mentions that it would be extremely difficult to carry on alone. But the answer to the statement that “I couldn’t go on without you,” is certainly, “Yes, you could; you must, really.” Each person will find the tools necessary to build a new life and directions for the path going forward. The tools are the good memories of years gone by. The path will reveal itself through them. Healing will commence, because it must; grief is not a career and doesn’t deserve that consideration.

So back to Viktor Frankl…how did he come through? Was he empowered by the knowledge that he had something important left to do? As a matter of fact he did. When he first entered the concentration camp he set three goals for himself. He first determined that he would survive; he made a commitment to use his medical skills to help where he could, and, remarkably – that he would learn something from the experience. His book, “Man’s Search For Meaning,” came out of the misery of Auschwitz.

Carry on.


Chuck Thurston lives and writes in Kannapolis, NC. His two volumes of Senior Scribbles (Unearthed and Second Dose) will be joined by a third in 2017: Senior Scribbles Bathroom Reader. His work is available from the Indigo Sea Press and Amazon.

Joel Barker’s The Power of Vision documentary tells the story of Viktor Frankl.


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Witty Writer Book Buttons

I discovered early on that a really good way to learn about becoming a mystery writer was to attend writers’ conferences and conventions. Not only did I learn a lot, but I made lots of friends and had the opportunity to meet my favorite authors as I scampered between classes and also sessions where authors talked about their careers and experiences, and I saw awards being presented and interviews and speeches being made and then there was—shopping! Shopping? What’s shopping got to do with anything? Well, let me tell you.

Conventions always have a book store so fans can purchase the books authors talk about during the event and I did plenty of that. But not all book stores only sell books. One of my favorites sells puzzles, jewelry, clothing (including T-shirts), even tea pots and book buttons!

I have a small collection of clever book buttons mounted on ribbons that hang from a shelf in my office, just to the right of my work space. Whenever I pause to think or rest, I can’t help seeing those buttons. They make me smile, bring me back to where they were purchased, remind me of those writers who have fulfilled my life with their stories and friendships. But I digress.

Topics of book buttons are as varied as the authors who create them. Some are about writing itself, while others have to do with a furry pet assistant, or perhaps the problem of owning too many books, or they may be quotes by famous people.

The following fit that category:

“But for my own part, if a book is well written, I always find it too short.” —Jane Austen

“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.” —C.S. Lewis

“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”   —Jorge Luis Borges

“To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all the miseries of life.”  — W. Somerset Maugham

Since I write in the mystery field, cats are common in that genre.

To a cat, “No!” means “not while I’m looking.”

Cat hair is the new black.








Or catchy phrases:

Books: the original search engine.

Lit Happens!

Grammar Police: To correct and serve

Grammar Ninja

Warning! Anything you say can and may be used as dialogue in my next book.

The book was better.

Don’t judge a book by its movie.

First drafts don’t have to be perfect. They just have to be written.

Writer’s block: when your imaginary friends won’t talk to you.

Some of my best friends are fictional.

My weekend is all booked.

If you walk a mile in my shoes you’ll end up at a bookstore.

Some more of my favorite book buttons below. Do you have favorites, too?















Coco Ihle is the author of SHE HAD TO KNOW, an atmospheric traditional mystery set mainly in Scotland.

Join her here each 11th of the month









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“Not My Time to Go” by Thornton Cline

Chapter Five: The Attempted Abduction

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First Scene in No Honor Between Brothers


He had only gone to the funeral for one reason, to make sure his father was dead. Mitch Wilder waited in his rented Mercedes across the street from Wharton’s Funeral Home and watched the people fight the blustery wind to go inside. What a hell of a day for a funeral. He took stock of who showed up for his old man’s service. He certainly didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to be…home.

It had taken him twice as long to drive from Hamilton than usual. Wind blowing snow across the highway slowed traffic significantly. But by the time he’d gotten to Highway 15 and driven into Port Shetland the wind had eased somewhat.

Mitch picked up the single red rose on the seat beside him and held it up to his nose. With eyes closed he inhaled the sweet fragrance and brought the image of his mother to his mind. Her arthritic hands was what he saw first, disjointed fingers curving over her thumbs. He could hear her labored breathing as she pushed her heavy body out of a chair. Her knees would crack.

A tear dampened his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. Mitch remembered the last time he was inside this funeral home. It had been fifteen years ago when his mother died. Then: a week after his mother’s funeral, he’d been drinking—which gave him courage—and walked up to his old man. “So, you going to move in with Stella?”

Len had taken a step back. “How do you know about Stella?”

Mitch glowered. “I’ve known about your mistress for years, Dad.”

Len eyed Mitch for a few heartbeats before he said, “I hope you don’t hate me, son. I’m going to move in with her.”

Mitch’s eyes were cold as he raised his chin…then hit his father. It had taken his old man by surprise. After he staggered backward Len wiped the blood from his nose. “That’s the last time you hit me, Mitch. The next time you’ll be written out of my will for good.”

“I don’t want your damn money.” Mitch held his clenched hands at his sides.

“Watch your step, Mitch.” His father glared at him. “I can take the company away from you.”

“You were the one who kept begging me to work for you.”

Len nodded. “And I’ll make sure you don’t inherit it too. Maybe…”

“Maybe what?” Mitch finished his whiskey and set the glass down.

Len took several breaths then said, “Maybe I’ll leave it to your brother.”

“What?” Mitch blinked several times. “What brother?”

“You have a brother, Mitch. His name is Tom.”

Mitch clenched his hands again, then thinking better of it, he let them hang loose at his sides. “Well, I don’t want anything to do with your bastard.”

Len held onto Mitch’s sleeve, his eyes glistening. “I’m sorry, son. But your mother couldn’t… I needed…”

Mitch had stormed out of the house and despite his father’s attempts to reconcile throughout the years Mitch kept them from getting close. Even as they worked together. After that day, every time Mitch had a few drinks they’d end up in an intense argument. More than once Nora’s husband, Joe, stepped in between them. Then Mitch and Len would come to an uneasy truce until the next time Mitch had a few too many.

Mitch sighed as he opened his eyes. The rose in his hand didn’t seem to be as bright as it was when he bought it that morning. He twirled it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. The idea was to place it on his mother’s grave after the service. But as a gust of wind shook the car and made him shiver he decided not to go out to the cemetery. “This stupid little flower would just blow away, anyway.” Scowling, Mitch whipped the rose against the back of the seat beside him. Three petals flew off. “Sorry, Mom.”

Mitch set the rose back on the seat. A quick glance at his watch told him he couldn’t delay this any longer. He checked his image in the rear-view mirror and straightened his tie. After a deep sigh Mitch forced himself to open the car door.

He stepped into the lobby of the funeral home. JT Wharton, the owner’s son directed him to the room on the left. To get his bearings, and to delay this for as long as possible, Mitch picked up one of the announcements and read it. In Loving Memory, it said. He scoffed. Maybe in Nora’s loving memory but not his. Leonard J. Wilder passed away March 25, 1967. Mitch stuffed it into his pocket before he took off his coat, hanging it up on the rack where dozens of others mingled with his tailored one. It surprised Mitch to see so many people there, he didn’t think his father was very well liked. He had to force himself to walk through the double doors and down the aisle, between the two rows of seats, toward the front.


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Steve vs the Ice Dam by Steve Hagood


January in Michigan. It’s that special time of year when we get Alberta Clippers, Polar Vortexes and snow and ice piled higher than a hippie at the hash bash. It’s the time of year that makes me wonder why my ancestors ever chose to settle in this God forsaken land.

Something else we get in Michigan in winter is ice dams. Ice dams come from the melting and refreezing of snow on the roof. A buildup of ice forms on the outer edge of the roof not allowing the water from melted snow to run off. The water that puddles behind the dam backs up under the shingles causing all sorts of problems with the roof, ceiling, and life of the homeowner.

Many years ago my young family was experiencing our first winter in our first house. I noticed that my gutters were filled with ice. I was young and dumb, and didn’t have Google to tell me that frozen gutters don’t lead to ice dams, so naturally I was terrified. I needed to clear my gutters!

The only problem, I didn’t have any idea how one goes about clearing ones gutters of ice. Remember, this was PI (pre-Internet). I could not go to You Tube University to learn how to do this the correct way. I had to figure this out on my own, like my ancestors who had decided to live in this damn place to begin with.

So, how do you break up ice? With an ice pick. But I didn’t have an ice pick. It was PI, but it wasn’t the stone ages, we had ice makers. We didn’t hack the ice for our drinks off of a block like cavemen. The closest thing I could come up with was a screw driver.

So, I climbed up my ladder with screw driver in hand to save my house, and by extension my family, from the dreaded ice dam. I started to chip away at the ice. And chip. And chip. And chip. I was getting nowhere. I needed to speed the process up. It was Saturday, and I had some serious TV watching to do. I thought I could sprinkle road salt on the gutters and melt the ice, but that would take longer than chipping with a screw driver. How else could I melt the ice? Hot water!

So, I climbed down from the ladder and went in search of a bucket. I filled a mop bucket with steaming hot water, returned to the front of the house and mounted the ladder. Ever so carefully I poured the water onto the ice-filled gutter and waited for the result. Not much happened. But…maybe…it was hard to tell. I climbed back down the ladder and headed off for more water.

The second bucket definitely made some head way with the ice buildup in the gutter. It would only take about another hundred and thirty seven buckets and I’d be back in front of the TV.

I mounted the ladder with the third bucket. I reached the top of the ladder and proceeded to swing the bucket from thigh level, where it hung at the end of my arm, up to pouring height, and lost my balance. The bucket flew from my hand and I flew off the ladder. The bucket went one direction and I went the other, landing flat on my back in the snow at the base of the ladder.

The air was driven from my lungs and I lay there like a fish out of water gasping for breath, and wondering if I had broken my back and if I’d ever walk again.

My eight-year-old son Ryan called over from where he had watched the whole scene unfold. “Hey, Dad?”

“What?” I managed between gasps.

“Did you get any of that hot water on you?”

Gasp. “No.” Gasp.

“That’s good,” Ryan said. “That would have hurt if you’d have gotten any of that hot water on you.”

Yeah. Lucky me.

Twenty minutes later I determined that I was going to live. I got up out of the snow and found my bucket. I then put it and the ladder back in the garage and went inside to watch TV.

Ironically, no ice dam ever formed. Google would have told me that iced over gutters don’t lead to ice dams and I could have avoided the whole disastrous event. Maybe if my ancestors had had Google they would have avoided moving to Michigan in the first place.

I’m now old and dumb, and I still live in Michigan. But, I live in a condo where someone else worries about ice dams. So maybe I’m not so dumb after all.


Steve Hagood is the author of Chasing the Woodstock Baby from Indigo Sea Press. Learn more at–Crime-and-Mystery-Authors-A-H.php#Steve



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2016 Election – A Woman In Mourning

I’ve been a Hillary Clinton supporter ever since she came on the national scene in the early 1990’s. From the minute she began opening her mouth, I knew she was no ordinary First Lady.  It was evident that she was a seriously independent woman who was strong-willed, confident, and fiercely assertive.  I was fascinated by her chutzpah and her take charge persona.  I laughed loudly at both her Tammy Wynette and baking cookies comments.  I was even happier when I learned she was my age.  She was kicking ass and taking no prisoners.  My kind of woman!

In a tizzy, the media was questioning her insistence that, as First Lady of Arkansas, she continued to practice law as she pursued her own formidable career versus behaving exclusively as the first lady.

Here was this attractive woman with big, beautiful blue eyes and long blonde hair, pulled back with a headband speaking words which were then and now considered outrageous.  “I’m not sitting here like some little woman standing by my man like Tammy Wynette.”  Hillary later followed that up with, “I suppose I could have stayed home baking cookies and having teas, but, what I decided to do was to fulfill my profession which I entered before my husband was in public life.”  She immediately became news, controversial news.  How dare she consider her own profession to be equally important to her husband’s.  How dare she not put her career on the back burner to present the image of the stand by your man First Lady.  After all, how many sacrifices would she be expected to make?  She had already relinquished her identity when, as First Lady of Arkansas, she legally changed her name from Hillary Rodham to Hillary Rodham Clinton.  When she exchanged marriage vows with her husband, Bill, she did so while keeping her birth name, the name of the person she knew herself to be.  After all, she married Bill because she loved him.  It had nothing to do with becoming his property or his obedient second-class citizen wife.

Hillary resonated with me like no other woman in public service.  She was strong-willed, confident and took no bull.  She was her own woman, and she wasn’t afraid to let everyone know who and what she was, an “uppity” woman who refused to take her assigned chair at the table, a chair far removed from the head of that table.

During that period of my life, I was struggling in a man’s world trying to make my own way as a formidable colleague and, if necessary, opponent to my male counterparts.  I had spent my life as a second-class citizen and, like Hillary, I wasn’t going to let the world get away with putting me in that hole.  My shape was an octagon.  However, society was trying to pound me into a square hole.

I grew up in a military family with a mean-spirited, arrogant father who happened to be a pedophile whose crimes I knew intimately.  My dad was constantly trying to hammer my octagon personality into that square hole.  Later in life, as I entered the workforce, he and my mother demanded that I hand over all my earnings every week from which they would give me an allowance.  They did this while my older brother, not only kept all his earnings, but my mom also bought him his toiletries.  I was expected to purchase them out of my allowance.  My mother was an obedient wife who goose-stepped around her husband.  She marched to his drum and even went so far as to look the other way at what he was doing to me.

In the workplace, I got to know the male world well.  I recall, at 18 years old, the day a boss smacked me on the ass.  That was before HR diversity and sexual harassment training.  It was before sexual harassment was considered to be wrong.  So, I said nothing to his superiors, cried in front of that boss as he apologized for his behavior.  I’m sure he simply didn’t want to be reprimanded.

Being a daughter/victim of a pedophile had its silver lining.  My torment caused me to remain hidden from my family as, while in my home, I lived exclusively in my head.  The gift of having been molested was that I became keenly aware of my environment and I was always watching for males who wanted to either abuse me or shut me up.  I began to develop my strong-willed, confident, assertive personality.  I honed my uppity skills.

For example, I avoided being kidnapped or raped one evening when I was returning to my car I had parked in the Asbury Park, NJ train station parking lot.  I was taking a night class in Asbury Park.  It was February.  The streets were covered with new snow and ice from a previous storm.  As I waited to cross the street at a traffic light, I noticed a black, slightly beat up car stopped at the light as I began to cross in front of it.  I caught the image of a man behind the wheel.  The temperatures were in the teens, and this man wore no coat.  Instead, he wore only a white undershirt on his upper body.  I became alarmed because I could see he was watching me as I walked toward the train station parking lot. Instinctively,  I knew I needed to get in my car before this man, and his car could turn into the lot.  My gut told me I was in trouble.  Thank you, dad, for giving me that skill of knowing my environment!

As I crossed the street, in my head, I talked to myself.  I told myself to calm down, walk quickly but carefully.  I didn’t want to fall on the ice.  I then grabbed my keys from my coat pocket and held the key in a ready to unlock position.  I continued to tell myself to stay calm and get in the car as soon as I could, start the motor and back my car out.

Just as I backed my car out of its parking space, I saw the black car turn into the lot.  I passed the man in the black car as I exited the lot and sped down the street toward the Interstate.  I ran the same red light this man and his car originally sat.  I watched in my rear view mirror making sure I had lost him.  I was shaking the entire time, but, I had already become a warrior woman who was smart enough and keenly aware enough to avoid danger.  I had been a victim once; I was not about to become one again.

Later in my work career, I worked at a Kroger store in Nashville, TN.  I was 31-years-old, was a recent college graduate, who had previously taken a man’s job as an apprentice bricklayer.  I was that store’s first head seafood manager.  I had also recently requested entrance into Kroger’s management training program.  The male zone manager for my store didn’t care for me.  He could see I wasn’t your typical subservient female, and, so, he tried to block my request.  However, again, I was not about to be told I couldn’t do something because I wasn’t a submissive female.  So, I typed up a letter, addressed and mailed it to the zone manager.  In that letter, I insinuated that if he continued to block me, I would visit the EEOC office to file a suit against him.  I was admitted soon after that.

My thirteen-year career at Kroger ended after a job review.

When I graduated from management training,  Kroger immediately promoted me to the newly created  Seafood Field Specialist position which gave me jurisdiction over  fifty seafood store departments.  I had proven myself as an innovative leader while managing the first seafood department in that division.  The Seafood Specialist position was not yet defined.  So, I basically created it as I worked in that capacity.  My last above average review, came before my going back to the stores for a short-lived store management experience.  I was then brought back to the Meat Merchandising Department as the company’s first female Meat Merchandising Field Specialist.  I oversaw twenty Nashville City Meat departments and fifteen Kentucky country stores.   I loved being a pioneer.  So, instead of approaching my new position as so many other field specialists did, i.e., a merchandiser enforcement officer,  I approached my position as a teacher.  I had a firm grasp on merchandising and marketing and so, I went about training my meat managers to become better merchandisers.  The result was that my stores began to perform above their expected gross profits which were a first for both the city and country zones.  Meat managers, store managers, and zone managers loved me for what I was doing.  I was helping them, and the Division look better to Corporate Kroger.  However, the man I worked for, the division Meat Merchandising Manager, didn’t like me and didn’t like what I was doing.  This man was a short man with a Napoleon complex.  Instead of being grateful for helping him also to look good; he felt threatened that I was trying to take his job.  So, during that year’s evaluation, on paper, he rated my performance as average. However, it was what he said verbally to me that sent me looking for another job outside of Kroger.

This little man told me I was too aggressive instead of what he felt my behavior should be.  He said, “Women should have a quiet power.”  He’s fortunate I didn’t anticipate his demeaning words because I would have brought a recorder into that meeting.  I would have not only filed a complaint but, since diversity and sexual harassment training was in full swing, I probably would have cost him his career.  Lucky him.  Not so lucky me.

As a small manufacturing company named Golden Dipt began courting me, I asked for a meeting with my Meat Manager’s boss.  During that meeting, however, It became evident that the Merchandising Director was not going to support my position over his Meat Merchandiser’s position.  I smiled and thanked this man for the meeting, knowing that I was now, more than ever, determined to leave Kroger.  Two weeks later I was offered a Regional Manager position with Golden Dipt.

As a woman in a male-dominated world, this was who I was when Hillary Clinton first ran for the Democratic nomination in 2008.  I was a woman, who, against all the odds, fought my way through the ranks and salary scale.  I was thrilled that a woman was in the race for the highest position in the country and world.  I felt crushed when she lost to Obama and swore I would not support him.  I did, and part of what convinced me to support him was Hillary’s humility and her strong endorsement of Barack Obama.  She asked me to throw my vote behind Obama.  I did.

During this last campaign, as the accusations of lying and other ugly indictments were launched, I was baffled that people believed all the accusations.  While Secretary of State, except for the GOP Congress who hated Obama, Hillary was lauded by many as the best Secretary of State in decades.  Her popularity was high.  That all disappeared as she made it public she was running in 2016.

One of the unfortunate facts of this last campaign:  in the guerilla warfare arena, Democrats are amateurs compared to Republicans.  Democrats behave in a more respectful manner than do the Republicans.  This comparison is especially true since the emergence of the Tea Party candidates such as Trey Gowdy.  This group of Republicans is nastier than many of the old guard Republicans.

On the evening before Obama was sworn in for his first term, several members of Congress held a secret meeting.  During that meeting, they vowed to obstruct all Obama’s proposals.  They were determined to ensure he would be a one-term president.  When Obama won his second term, these same Republicans along with the New Tea Party members revisited their vow.  Thus, the GOP Congress declared a state of obstructionism during Barack Obama’s entire presidency.

From the minute Hillary declared her candidacy in 2008, the GOP connived and, through the media, created a false image of who Hillary Rodham Clinton was.  They did not like that she was still not just uppity, but, in their minds, she was blatantly arrogant.  So, during her Secretary of State years, the GOP launched a campaign against her with the intentions of creating a false, ugly perception of her.  They then backed it up with hearing after hearing of false, baseless accusations.  A Republican politician once unashamedly repeated to a reporter a quote which was first written by Adolph Hitler in his book Mein Kampf.  Hitler’s Propaganda Minister, Joseph Goebbels later repeated the quote.

“If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.”

Thus, the members of the GOP repeated their accusations over and over again to the point of creating a false perception of reality.  During the eight years between 2008 and 2016 those voters who didn’t know Hillary Clinton and failed to find out who she  was, believed the lies.”

I worked for the Hillary Clinton campaign before the South Carolina primary and again during her run for President.  I worked the phone banks.  During that time, I also joined the Horry County, SC Democratic Women’s Council.  On November 8th, I spent all that voting day at two polling stations.  I was the Democratic Party Poll Watcher.  In other words, I gave my all to Hillary’s campaign.

During my watch on November 8th, I consoled a woman who broke down in tears when a poll manager informed her that, according to South Carolina law, she was not allowed to vote.  The woman had recently moved to the State and registered to vote.  However, she registered two days past the 30-day- prior deadline required for the General Election.  I also watched many young mothers cast their votes for Hillary as their daughters looked on.   It was a proud day for women.  We were going to vote to office our first female President.  With Hillary Rodham Clinton, we were going to gain a gloriously qualified woman president.

The day began with a lot of optimism.  By the time I arrived home around 8 p.m. and ate dinner in front of the TV, I felt optimistic.  By 9 p.m. my heart began to sink.  At 9:30, I told my husband I could watch no longer.  I was going to bed.  During the night, I got up twice, went to the living room and turned on the TV.  My second trip to the TV was around 3 a.m.  When I turned the TV on, Trump was making his victory speech.  I spent the next hour crying as a sleepless female friend and I instant messaged each other.

I was so distraught for the next few days, that, although I got out of bed, I didn’t get dressed.  I would find out later in the month at a Council meeting; I wasn’t the only female Council member who became immobilized.  I also felt lost.

I am a news junkie and passionate about staying ahead of current events.  I could no longer bear to watch CNN or MSNBC.  I’m just now finding alternatives during the day when I’m not writing or doing something else.  Too, immediately post election I joined my Facebook friends in venting our anger and consoling each other with posts.  I was so distraught for several weeks that I spent a lot of time on FB sharing political posts and writing political posts.  I had a lot of company too.

In the wake of the election, and a month later, I realized that I was not just distraught; I was depressed.  I experienced clinical depression one other time in my life.  It was after my mother’s death and when I opened my Pandora’s Box of childhood sorrow at what my dad did to me.  During that time, I saw a therapist and took Zoloft as a means of getting my brain to release serotonin as I worked my way out of depression.  So, as hard as it was to admit I had once again become clinically depressed, I need to get my serotonin flowing again.  I know I will overcome my depression as I work my way back to my usual happy emotional state of mind.  I am also not visiting FB as often.  I will persevere because, when I put my mind to anything, I accomplish what I set out to accomplish.

In the meantime, I am writing again and am becoming even more active in the Council.  I’m on the board that will solicit young high school female writers to participate in the Council’s Annual Scholarship Essay Contest.  As a board member, I will also participate in judging the entries.

I am sad my dream of living to see a female president lost to the least qualified male candidate in recent history.  I am sad that this man is one of the most hateful and hate mongering candidates to come along in my lifetime.  I could have lived with a Jeb Bush or a John Kasich presidency.  However, I’m not just sad but angry, that, despite knowing the hatred this man has spread, voters looked beyond all his hatred to vote him to the highest office in the world.  I’m sad too that this man is determined to continue to destroy our fragile environment as he betrays the working middle-class voter he promised so much to.  I am sad for his hatred and desire to persecute Mexican immigrants and Islamic refugees.  I am sad that the woman who most deserved to be president lost to the crassest and crudest of all nominees in modern history.  I’m mostly sad that Hillary didn’t have the chance to smash to smithereens that highest glass ceiling for me, my generation and all the generations of young women and young girls coming behind me.  With all my heart I hope I do live to see a Madam President.  Till then, #StillWithHer and, for the man with the orange skin, #NeverMyPresident!


Filed under Maribeth Shanley, writing

Out With the Old by L.V. Gaudet

where the bodies are

It’s the old New Year’s adage, “Out with the old, in with the new.”  It’s the old over-done cliché that seems ageless and inescapable; along with the requirement to have a new year’s resolution.

I resolve to not resolve.  There, is my resolution for the new year.  It’s the same one from last year, and, I found, quite successful.

There will be changes.  The first month after the new year will mean leaving early where possible and dropping the kids to run in to their activities at the YMCA alone, while I spend a good half hour waiting for a parking spot to open and racing the other pacing vehicles for it.  After that, the new year’s resolutioners will have mostly abandoned their new exercise resolve.

We, as in me, also decided to go on a non-junk binge.  An anti-binge, if you will.  This isn’t a New Year thing, but more of a reluctantly waiting a few months after the great Halloween Binge of 2016 until everyone has finished scarfing down their Christmas goodies.  A healthy eating reset is long overdue.

The closest to an actual resolution was perhaps the choice of early December.  After utterly failing at all my writing goals, including miserably failing at NaNoWriMo, I made a decision.

Happy birthday to me, I made the decision on my birthday and it weighed heavily on me.


Between the need to earn a living, kids’ activities, keeping house and home in one piece, dog time, and family time, writing is unfortunately pushed to the edges of what everyone else needs from me.

And, once you are published (and even before that), you need to promote.  No one will ever read your work if they don’t know it exists.  You must promote yourself and your writing.  Writing is also a community.  So there is time spent promoting and helping your fellow author friends too.  That leaves gaps of minutes to stop and breathe, or write or edit.

It is a decision I struggled with over the past few years, tried to ignore in the hope it would go away, and found myself repeatedly visiting unhappily.

I’ve hit a roadblock where, once again, I feel I have no choice but to let writing hit the sideline for the next few years or so.  Writing, you have been indefinitely benched.


How do you let go?  That’s the next big question I faced.

When I can’t write, I feel more stressed.

Am I the only writer who drifts into something resembling depression when denied the ability to write?  Am I the only writer who is miserable when I feel like by taking time to write, I am taking time from commitments more important to everyone else?


Writing is the one passion I have ever allowed myself.  When you take away your only passion, that leaves you empty and hollow.

It is more than an outlet for stress relief.  It is a way of expressing myself.  It is a way of being – me.  It is the one and only thing that is me and me alone, not mother to-, wife to-, sister/daughter to-.  It is uniquely me and the one thing I do only for me.  No one else owns that.  Every other part of me belongs to everyone else.

It is a decision that, like so many others’ New Year resolutions, has failed.   I’m weak.

I cannot not write.


So, while the new year will bring little real changes for my life, except maybe trying to force my family to eat a little healthier until summer, I will continue stealing those few loose minutes to write … a word, a sentence, whatever time allows.

And, who knows, maybe I’ll manage to edit one of my finished or nearly finished books into something publishable.  I have a virtual stack of them sitting on a hard drive.



Resolutions, life choices, self-betterment, decisions, whatever tag you want to put on it.  What are your big or little decisions?  Decisions you felt coerced into (like sidelining writing), yearned for, or life simply put in your path?  How did it go and what are you looking forward to in the new year?


Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000035_00023]

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000035_00023]

L.V. Gaudet is the author of Where the Bodies Are and The McAllister Farm

What kind of dark secret pushes a man to commit the unimaginable, even as he is sickened by his own actions?


The McAllister Farm:  book 2 in the McAllister series.  The secret behind the bodies is revealed.


Links to purchase this and other upcoming L.V. Gaudet’s books

Link to reviews of Where the Bodies Are on Angie’s Diary


Follow L. V. Gaudet:

Facebook author page




WordPress:  LV Gaudet, author




Filed under blogging, L.V. Gaudet, life, writing

2017 – A Blank Canvas by Sherrie Hansen

One of the highlights of 2016 for me has been that I’ve started to paint. I won’t say I learned to paint, because except for a 3-4 minute online tutorial on how to paint flowers and leaves, I haven’t had a teacher. I have had a lot of inspiration and encouragement, from both people and places. And somewhere, hidden deep inside me, there was evidently a smidgen of artistry waiting to be brought to life.

Droid August 25 2016 003

A favorite quote from my favorite author, Maud Hart Lovelace, who wrote the Betsy Tacy books –  “Isn’t it mysterious to begin a new journal like this? I can run my fingers through the fresh clean pages but I cannot guess what the writing on them will be.” (from Betsy in Spite of Herself). For me, the new year has long been the time to start a new diary, write the first words in a blank journal, or begin a new book. I’ve always had a wild imagination, an abundance of curiosity, and plenty of thoughts and opinions. But painting has taken me to a whole new layer of creativity. Here’s why I like to think of 2017 as a blank canvas.


When we write, we start out with white pages. When I paint, I begin with a stretched linen canvas, painted black. It provides a good base, a medium for blending, and the perfect contrast and background for other colors. Black separates the colors and keeps them from becoming muddled. It gives the painting a sense of unity. Unless you’re a lot younger and much more pristine than I am, it seems fitting to start out with a canvas that’s been woven, wet, starched and stretched, maybe even painfully so.

Droid August 25 2016 056

To me, the black represents the past – triumphs and treasures, mistakes I’ve made and ongoing struggles. Much as I might wish that some of those events never happened, I realize that they’re the foundation of who I am, and that the finished painting will be many times more beautiful because of the richness of my past experiences and the things I’ve learned along the way. The wonderful thing about painting is that I can start out fresh and cover the background with colorful new dreams and experiences.

Droid August 25 2016 005

I can paint whatever I like on my canvases. If I don’t like how they turn out, I can choose new colors, or alter the lines, or even start completely over again. There are no rules, no rights or wrongs, no preconceived notions to worry about. It’s all good.

Painting - Northern Lights

I don’t begin to know what 2017 will hold. I hope to see Golden Rod finished and published. All things considered, I feel a great sense of anticipation about what the year will bring. I wouldn’t be human if it wasn’t mixed with a little trepidation about what lies ahead. There are some significant milestones in store for me – a big birthday, and the 25th anniversary of the opening of my bed and breakfast and tea house.

BBI - Spring 2012

The important thing is that 2017 will be filled with all kind of opportunities – to choose the high road, focus on the good, to choose hope over despair, and people over technology – to be positive, and grateful, and loving and kind. Don’t be afraid to add some color to the mix. Create some new hues, try something you’ve never done before. Travel to new places and sing a new song or two. For the rest – “Brothers, whatever things are true, whatever things are honest, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things. “ (Philippians 4:8)

Zion - Sunset 2015 2

Wishing you many blessings and rich, colorful landscapes in 2017. It’s a blank canvas – why don’t you pick up your brush and paint!


Filed under photographs, writing