May 15, 2009
After Dad passed away Mother kept a loaded pistol in her bedside table. She was fully capable of using it as Dad had taught her how to shoot, clean and care for it. One night a guy who was living with a neighbor called the sheriff and told him Mother had been shooting at him. Mother was in her 80s at the time and not in the habit of using the gun at all. However, she had told her family that if anyone came into the house at night not to come into her bedroom without knocking if they didn’t want to be shot.
On this night two police cars came up the drive and knocked on her door at 9:30. When she answered it they asked if she owned and gun and could they inspect it. She showed them the drawer, they removed the gun, dismantled it, determined there had been no shots fired recently and left, with the gun still dismantled in the middle of her bed. My sister, Janet, who lived next door, saw the ruckus and came over just in time to see the cars leave. Mother told her what happened and Janet stormed into her bedroom expecting to see the gun still dismantled on the bed. Instead, Mother had calmly reassembled it and put it back in the drawer. Not bad for an old woman. Needless to say, the Sheriff’s department got a call from a very indignant daughter.
Even though Mother had four first names, her nickname was Bobbie. That name stuck with her all her life. She was on the baseball team with Dad and was reputed to be the best catcher they ever had. She could put two fingers in her mouth and whistle so loud she could be heard across an 80-acre field and the kids knew that whistle meant we were wanted in the house. She was a voracious reader and kept a prayer list in her Bible and she sometimes threatened to take a Preacher off that list if she disagreed with him.
One day Mother was reading the Lafayette paper and saw an article about the death of the last daughter of a civil war veteran in Indiana. “Hmph!” was Mother’s reaction. “She was not!” and she sat down and wrote to the paper informing them she was still living and her father had, indeed, served in the Civil war. The paper sent out a reporter and she got her own story in the paper. You didn’t mess with Bobbie.
May 11, 2009
Welcome to my nest, Twitterbirds. Settle in, fluff your feathers and have a cuppa. If you like language, sci fi and poetry, let’s talk. I’m an old bird but a wise one. Aunti D is my handle given me by my nephew, Les Booth, who is my computer genius guru. I have imbued it with several translations i.e. Aunti Dense, Aunti Dumb, Aunti Dubious, and my personal favorite, Aunti Delightful. Les has inspired me to open several weblogs and this webpage, from which all others can be accessed. Now he has put me in a nest on Twitter. Oh, my, and I am afraid of heights. However, he assures me I need not climb a tree to twitter. All I must do is post daily and through the magic of cyberspace, I will have laid an egg in my Twitter nest. Well, I’ve laid plenty of those in the past so a few more shouldn’t be terminal. Perhaps a smattering of history will be appropriate here. I am a wise OLD owl. And the emphasis is on the right word. White hair and nimble fingers do not often go together, but in my case it is a matter of try/fail, try/fail, and then try again. Don’t know where the creative energy comes from, it is certainly not physical. I’ve raised four children, lost one to cancer along with two sisters, one brother, mother and various cousins and nieces. That is a rather impersonal statement. Believe me, cancer is not impersonal. I’ve been married to John for 54 years in June, and I am a writer, poet, songwriter and artist. I’ve written eight books, self-published six as ebooks and two as paperbacks with a POD. (Not a path I recommend!) Now I am ¾ of the way through my autobiography. Time to fly away until tomorrow… ~/~ ~/~ ~/~
Aunti D, the Mindsinger
This is an excerpt from the sixth book in the Windfallow series. I thought you might like to see the teaser I will send to editors when I begin trying to find a publisher.
(The Barrier wood encircles Windfallow at its equator and is the only place a demon can live. Angari is an angel on the planet, Windfallow.)
Just beyond Angari’s comprehension there lurked in the Barrier Wood a being more dangerous to the Alari than anything he had met in the millennia he had been alive. Word had finally come to Lucifer, the great deceiver, the great dragon of Revelation, that an innocent world still existed. A shining light in the galaxy. A world not his. And protecting that world, an angel, an Alari he was called. Angari was his name. And Lucifer had it.
- “Your Maker has given you free will, Angari! Just as he gave it to Eve and Adam! Your downfall, Alari!” Had Angari been watching the Wood he would have seen it tremble as though a mighty wind sent ripples over its surface.
Angari stood before the completed tower. Rising a thousand feet into the blue/green sky of Windfallow, it dazzled even the eternal eyes of the Alari. Gemstone left undressed, used just as it came from the quarries, rivaled Windfallow’s sun. Ruby, Sapphire, Emerald and Diamond reflected and refracted the light until a million rainbows fused into one and created a new horizon.
Angari stood before the tower. The marvelous tower. The tower he had designed and built with his own skill and craftsmanship. His tower. The Tower of the Angels. No Great Bell hung here – “Though it should” he thought. No, rather a huge wind chime, suspended from the topmost spire, caught the breeze and the light together and sent echoes of music across the valley.
Suddenly he was not alone. Standing beside him, bathed in light unapproachable, was Michael. “What have you done, Angari?” The words came to the Alari like icy flames in his heart. “What have you done?”
The Alari fell to his knees, head bowed, hands turned palms up in reverence.
“RISE! DO NOT COMPOUND YOUR FOLLY BY WORSHIPPING ME!”