tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20242550499994826762024-03-19T03:00:38.031-07:00Blue Heron Book WorksUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-26223150802494914392018-06-08T01:19:00.003-07:002018-06-08T01:19:55.145-07:00Introducing our #newrelease : #Memior BORN TO FLY by #pilot Paul Misencik<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Rh8v80JRYwEwqSSNphWAJio_5qrHnhNbwKWDgApPnMIatcOv72pvNG_2dCoQ4yRgkHNuQnyyPnLvGNp5G806v6uvnSB6bfJT4QDPbQAWr_5GCDQpaZIYdC25bdPb0noMEHoBhxXJL7_Z/s1600/Flying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Rh8v80JRYwEwqSSNphWAJio_5qrHnhNbwKWDgApPnMIatcOv72pvNG_2dCoQ4yRgkHNuQnyyPnLvGNp5G806v6uvnSB6bfJT4QDPbQAWr_5GCDQpaZIYdC25bdPb0noMEHoBhxXJL7_Z/s320/Flying.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Born-Fly-Fabric-Wings-Jumbo/dp/0999146033" target="_blank">Available here!</a></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Paul R. Misencik was born to fly. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Since he was four and tagging along
with his father to air shows in rural Ohio, through his career as an
airline captain with American, Middle Eastern and African airlines,
Misencik spent his life doing what he loved: flying airplanes. <span style="color: blue;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Born-Fly-Fabric-Wings-Jumbo/dp/0999146033" target="_blank">BORN TO FLY</a></span> chronicles both the inside scoop on a pilot's career as well as the
exotic locations his airplanes took him, sometimes being joined by the
love of his life, Sally. Highly entertaining and enormously informative. Now available in paperback right <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://Paul Misencik, native of Northern Ohio. Graduate University of Akron, 1963, M.A. American History specializing in Native American Culture and Colonial American History. While in high school, he was regular on Saturday afternoon TV show hosted by Jim Breslin, where Paul discussed Ohio Native-American culture and society. After college, Paul taught school and coached high school football in Akron Ohio. On weekends and during the summer he worked as a flight instructor, stunt pilot, and aerobatic instructor. He fondly recalls flying with Richard Bach the author of Jonathon Livingston Seagull, and he provided aerobatic instruction to George Peppard, the star of the WWI flying movie, The Blue Max. In 1967, Paul was hired as a pilot with Eastern Airlines and flew as a captain, flight instructor, and check-airman until they ceased operations in 1991. While at Eastern, h was artist and cartoonist for the Air Line Pilots Association (ALPA) Airline Pilot Magazine. After Eastern Airlines, he flew as an international airline captain with four other airlines including USAfrica Airways which was headquartered in Reston Virginia. As a captain with non-scheduled Airlines, Paul has had some of his most memorable aviation adventures. In 1996 Paul was hired as a major air carrier investigator with the national transportation safety Board and in 1998 he was promoted to his present position as the chief of the operational factors division at the NTSB. " target="_blank">here.</a></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxWdJfK5gS-u8A-tec-_Buh34Km2vU46M41qVfFZjD3KI1vIC-coeGlB2bQ4Rl3vEgqM8wwXNx8SfaN8AfFo9E6loQw4b6N2GGx1qd98kcinCIcn9vsRXl9Pvbq0nfqRPGb3_qB4xiJcz/s1600/PaulM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="398" data-original-width="368" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxWdJfK5gS-u8A-tec-_Buh34Km2vU46M41qVfFZjD3KI1vIC-coeGlB2bQ4Rl3vEgqM8wwXNx8SfaN8AfFo9E6loQw4b6N2GGx1qd98kcinCIcn9vsRXl9Pvbq0nfqRPGb3_qB4xiJcz/s320/PaulM.png" width="295" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Paul Misencik, native of Northern Ohio.</span></span> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Graduate University of Akron,
1963, M.A. American History specializing in Native American Culture and
Colonial American History. While in high school, he was regular on
Saturday afternoon TV show hosted by Jim Breslin, where Paul discussed
Ohio Native-American culture and society. After college, Paul taught
school and coached high school football in Akron Ohio. On weekends and
during the summer he worked as a flight instructor, stunt pilot, and
aerobatic instructor. He fondly recalls flying with Richard Bach the
author of Jonathon Livingston Seagull, and he provided aerobatic
instruction to George Peppard, the star of the WWI flying movie, The
Blue Max. In 1967, Paul was hired as a pilot with Eastern Airlines and
flew as a captain, flight instructor, and check-airman until they ceased
operations in 1991. While at Eastern, h was artist and cartoonist for
the Air Line Pilots Association (ALPA) Airline Pilot Magazine. After
Eastern Airlines, he flew as an international airline captain with four
other airlines including USAfrica Airways which was headquartered in
Reston Virginia. As a captain with non-scheduled Airlines, Paul has had
some of his most memorable aviation adventures. In 1996 Paul was hired
as a major air carrier investigator with the national transportation
safety Board and in 1998 he was promoted to his present position as the
chief of the operational factors division at the NTSB.
</span></span><br />
Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-38318906008152168712018-04-09T01:27:00.000-07:002018-04-09T01:29:28.803-07:00#NewRelease Blue Heron Book Works presents A LIFE IN #TUSCANY #cooking <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJoBLeTq2l6s2ELOb_LKk939YP6RLKCm2WmjXQ7dWulr0w0IHlAyziydyiXz4wObqqKuda0jHf3F4zzPNsmUKCPk1R30q708PO6syyTVcGVxAItRnMi6cCMctAaYhMB7NMjRyvD6PE-nhe/s1600/Tuscuany.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJoBLeTq2l6s2ELOb_LKk939YP6RLKCm2WmjXQ7dWulr0w0IHlAyziydyiXz4wObqqKuda0jHf3F4zzPNsmUKCPk1R30q708PO6syyTVcGVxAItRnMi6cCMctAaYhMB7NMjRyvD6PE-nhe/s320/Tuscuany.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Life-Tuscany-Alessandra-Benvenuti/dp/0999146041/" target="_blank">Discover this hot #1 New Release by Alessandra Benvenuti!</a></span></span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Allesandra Benvenuti shares the joy of her inheritance of sun and cooking and
family in this charming book about growing up Tuscan. Contains
authentic Tuscan family and regional recipes. She was born in 1969 in Arezzo -Tuscany. In spring 2001
she started her own business, the best in the world: she rents her
family villa in the Tuscan countryside where she hosts guests from all
around the world! She has a degree in political science and studied
racial discrimination in the USA, particularly Supreme Court's
decisions. She is married to Massimo Boncompagni and they have 2
children: Federico 12 years old, and Elena 8 years old. Visit La Maestà
at <a href="http://www.lamaestatoscana.com/" target="_blank">http://www.lamaestatoscana.com.</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Read an excerpt here: <a href="https://blueheronbookworks.blogspot.de/2018/03/heres-little-present-for-you-friends.html" target="_blank">A Life In Tuscany</a> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Get your copy here: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Life-Tuscany-Alessandra-Benvenuti/dp/0999146041/" target="_blank">https://www.amazon.com</a> </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbSlKQ371jI1LlOcsjuur95_50YmXqtsILQXQ12gKDaeUYV3B0pptGrmSXNGfBhW8IUc7U18Vu64F6NmpRL4E5dQyiv1d5oqHADLJ0zolnRV5f-v0cyXfdQBrRGaYSB0EGZii8-OZhNz8/s1600/Alessandra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbSlKQ371jI1LlOcsjuur95_50YmXqtsILQXQ12gKDaeUYV3B0pptGrmSXNGfBhW8IUc7U18Vu64F6NmpRL4E5dQyiv1d5oqHADLJ0zolnRV5f-v0cyXfdQBrRGaYSB0EGZii8-OZhNz8/s1600/Alessandra.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-18331658978835194362018-03-23T12:18:00.002-07:002018-03-23T12:18:35.038-07:00#BHBW author Jim McGarrah @jmcgarra anounces new #poetry collection<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wo85Si4TDYXge1LV19_aVpQd9aiQTwSKW6bvm38-64HYca7-m1K8JvggQcwPokgmD2mHTZFT6tJz3vMubfxyvQFAp8XMEXNLYUhPn19QNLS_554wsSo45jsGyMked2RNNRictoL5nmyR/s1600/Jim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wo85Si4TDYXge1LV19_aVpQd9aiQTwSKW6bvm38-64HYca7-m1K8JvggQcwPokgmD2mHTZFT6tJz3vMubfxyvQFAp8XMEXNLYUhPn19QNLS_554wsSo45jsGyMked2RNNRictoL5nmyR/s1600/Jim.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jim McGarrah, author of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Jim-McGarrah/e/B001JSD92S" target="_blank">OFF TRACK </a>and <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Misdemeanor-Outlaw-Jim-McGarrah-ebook/dp/B075742F1L" target="_blank">MISDEMEANOR OUTLAW</a> is very pleased to announce that Lamar University Press will be doing a
20-year retrospective of his work this summer entitled "A Balancing Act,
Selected and New Poems 1998-2018." </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There's a
wide spectrum of subject matter and styles to make even the most
critical of you happy. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's a sample. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">National Anthem</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> David writes the President once a month<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> ever since he walked, stoned outta his gourd, off Khe Sahn.<br /> Swear-to-God, once every month, no matter who’s President.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He hopes someone in the White House might remember<br /> what could have been had we not stumbled on our own clichés,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> trading handmade tie-dyes for MTV stock, swapping<br /> vinyl records & beer bottles that pry open, for IPods, Blue Rays,<br /> anthrax in the mail & malt beverages flavored with exotic fruits.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> He chooses to ignore why we deal conscience, <br /> like scrap metal, for corporate logos and Kalashnikov’s.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Instead, David asks the President to replace<br /> our Star-Spangled Banner with “Sugar Magnolia” and have <br /> a marble statue of Jerry Garcia sculpted for the Rose Garden,</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> painted black and back-lit with a neon bulb flashing <br /> —Gratefully Dead—twenty-four hours a day.</span></div>
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Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-51529808910350081682018-03-14T02:37:00.000-07:002018-03-14T02:37:12.768-07:00Celebrate #womenshistorymonth2018 : Read about living legend @LynnieGodfrey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_LG8ZP_roCBNEx1A7n318QobjGpd2lg2CGQJJL8fHPwAJ86CvrbCqEmDlNpDy45hKC5lKagQgBH6ZXIMpcm9CKYc2KLK8w0CY236jurH_zYZhJ3eK7plIXLIzAtyKE7uzTEfMwouUO42/s1600/Lynnie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_LG8ZP_roCBNEx1A7n318QobjGpd2lg2CGQJJL8fHPwAJ86CvrbCqEmDlNpDy45hKC5lKagQgBH6ZXIMpcm9CKYc2KLK8w0CY236jurH_zYZhJ3eK7plIXLIzAtyKE7uzTEfMwouUO42/s320/Lynnie.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span class="a-size-large" id="productTitle" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Lynnie-Godfrey-Sharing-Lessons-Spotlight/dp/0996817751">Lynnie Godfrey: Sharing Lessons Learned While Seeking the Spotlight</a></span></span></h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrN52I2z_fDw7VT8YCYCjr26BqHO0bcW7a8RhKdYmaqExPcLqcojsX7VtJ_n93fjNu2WvZ2s3VadX9jrK0ZAsUoMQu14i1b8x0zFjNmw7Q5Ch-FhFT1Z9Q-haIovtbmwezDcm1QCFGpNwA/s1600/5STar.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="374" data-original-width="1600" height="74" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrN52I2z_fDw7VT8YCYCjr26BqHO0bcW7a8RhKdYmaqExPcLqcojsX7VtJ_n93fjNu2WvZ2s3VadX9jrK0ZAsUoMQu14i1b8x0zFjNmw7Q5Ch-FhFT1Z9Q-haIovtbmwezDcm1QCFGpNwA/s320/5STar.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<h1 class="a-size-large a-spacing-none" id="title" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 21px !important; line-height: 1.3 !important; margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;">
<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;"><br /></span></h1>
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<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;">"Lynnie writes with such a warm narrative style, you can just envision yourself sitting down on a porch with her and drinking a glass of home-style lemonade.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #111111;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;">You feel her passion for the creative arts as she takes you on her personal journey in show business.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #111111;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #111111;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;">"Lynnie's drive and discipline for her art and humanity weaves a thread through all the chapters. Her love for her parents and her heartbreak in missing them, and other members of her family is truly evident. The morals, values, and strong Christian faith Lynnie learned from her mom and dad, is a part of her DNA; which she so eloquently expresses in her book.</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #111111;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #111111;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;">"Lynnie's guide to working toward your passion and keeping it authentic, resonates with the reader throughout this book. I am forever moved and inspired by Lynnie's book."</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #111111;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #111111;" /><i><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">-Deborah Fudge - Rhem</span></span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #111111;" /><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">College Instructor of Communications</span></span></i></span></span></div>
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<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></i></span></span></div>
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<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-weight: normal;">Connect with Lynnie online: <a href="http://www.lynniegodfrey.com/" target="_blank">http://www.lynniegodfrey.com</a></span></span></span></h3>
<span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #bd081c; background-image: url(data:image/svg+xml; background-position: 3px 50%; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 14px 14px; border-bottom-left-radius: 2px; border-bottom-right-radius: 2px; border-top-left-radius: 2px; border-top-right-radius: 2px; border: none; color: white; cursor: pointer; display: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: bold; left: 246px; line-height: 20px; opacity: 1; padding: 0px 4px 0px 0px; position: absolute; text-align: center; text-indent: 20px; top: 18px; width: auto; z-index: 8675309;">Save</span><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: #bd081c; background-image: url(data:image/svg+xml; background-position: 3px 50%; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; background-size: 14px 14px; border-bottom-left-radius: 2px; border-bottom-right-radius: 2px; border-top-left-radius: 2px; border-top-right-radius: 2px; border: none; color: white; cursor: pointer; display: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: bold; left: 246px; line-height: 20px; opacity: 1; padding: 0px 4px 0px 0px; position: absolute; text-align: center; text-indent: 20px; top: 18px; width: auto; z-index: 8675309;">Save</span>Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-72451079159200845182018-03-02T00:31:00.000-08:002018-03-02T00:31:21.529-08:00Here's a little present for you, friends! Our newest book preview #tuscany #reading #cooking <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NAs9CCHslrG6v3cUJuZ8HGC_1NAxlQczg1hOg7lYgk6y-QQ9mnSS_JsvK0WhY9BpKl0HIICVIT6YgWy03I46LXp2-DnYPmWDZFwqtNUa7HVGKTpAFvU1lIoaCwB7UF-uSaJTdUETgNdQ/s1600/Tuscuany.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_NAs9CCHslrG6v3cUJuZ8HGC_1NAxlQczg1hOg7lYgk6y-QQ9mnSS_JsvK0WhY9BpKl0HIICVIT6YgWy03I46LXp2-DnYPmWDZFwqtNUa7HVGKTpAFvU1lIoaCwB7UF-uSaJTdUETgNdQ/s320/Tuscuany.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: -0.11999999731779099px;">Here's a snippet from an upcoming book by </span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard-prefer-more-content-show="1" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=100008414671575&extragetparams=%7B%22fref%22%3A%22mentions%22%7D" href="https://www.instagram.com/alessandrabenvenuti/" style="cursor: pointer; letter-spacing: -0.11999999731779099px; text-decoration: none;">Alessandra Benvenuti</a><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: -0.11999999731779099px;"> who combines life with cooking in a totally original way!</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; letter-spacing: -0.11999999731779099px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Even those beloved people who have passed away are kept alive by a memory of a particular food, the way it was cooked in the past and how it’s done now. It’s not just about some ingredients mixed in a rational way following a process, it’s an alchemy of love that memory keeps alive with smells and tastes we are able to recreate every time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; letter-spacing: -0.11999999731779099px;">"I’ve carefully and jealousy kept gorgeous sets of dishes, silverware, cutlery, crystal glasses from the ‘20s that belonged to my Grandma Lelli and to Aunt Lina that I still use on special occasions with family, friends and my guests at La Maestà. But I’ve also kept simple dishes, wooden or marble rolling pins, tools, pots, lids, some of them fixed by my Grandpa Giorgio, that I still use every day … and every day and every time they bring me back to people I loved.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129;"><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: -0.11999999731779099px;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; letter-spacing: -0.11999999731779099px;">"Still cooking recipes that my family have always cooked before, it’s like having them beside me, continuing together the long journey of life."</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">Discover Alessandra Benvenuti <a href="http://www.lamaestatoscana.com/">here</a> at<a href="http://www.lamaestatoscana.com/"> LA MAESTÀ TOSCANA</a>, </span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">located in the central part of Tuscany. </span></span></div>
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Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-43160778430292064692018-02-23T07:56:00.000-08:002018-02-23T07:56:47.671-08:00Spotlight on #author Nicholas DiGiovani @nidigiovanni @VCCA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Today's Friday Fellow is Nicholas DiGiovanni, a fiction writer, essayist and award-winning journalist from New Jersey. Nick is currently completing his fifth residency at <a href="http://www.vcca.com/main/index.php" target="_blank">VCCA</a> (Virginia Center for the Creative Arts) and reports that he has written over 10,000 words during his stay! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">His essay collection, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Man-Has-Premonition-Own-Death/dp/0692879374" target="_blank">'Man Has Premonition of Own Death,'</a> was inspired by his strange tale of his great-uncle, a 23-year-old carpet-mill worker, in the 1920s -- and by the author's own sudden encounter with serious illness. Below is a s<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">ample. The complete work is available on Amazon. <a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="origin" href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Famzn.to%2F2BIWO6w&h=ATOEC-tYFvQQUPy4AYrXv1ig83lY6xxh3WY0rld7S8wlrVZ4ImoPmRnYlwvWytk1EK0zwnsXKuBBOfsxhbar_ocGaWt-6KC8PtTONZ3Mn0L_iF6Q33YIKiBC3iYVnINdMTFDyJrYBcOdjmW76n27lDK_qy1MhP1aFQVEJLh63iGY0yy7QH5LBinihZUaJCvgWC7B8cmWT2sApY2XJWROAV4ImEasiXIitf1OS0j0lLwjpRx-MaNYdagvQQ" rel="nofollow" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://amzn.to/2BIWO6w</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The old radio star Edgar Bergen had a ventriloquist dummy named Mortimer Snerd who had a well-known catchphrase: “Who woulda thunk it?” </span></div>
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I’m here to say “Who woulda thunk it?” And I’m here to talk about death, mortality and a young man named Thomas Crooks.</div>
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Years ago, I stumbled upon, in an old Bible, a yellowed newspaper clipping from a now-defunct daily newspaper in my old hometown, The Yonkers (N.Y.) Herald Statesman. The headline read: MAN HAS PREMONITION OF OWN DEATH. The article, from 1923, was about the death of a 25-year-old worker at the Alexander Smith carpet mill.</div>
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It reported that young Crooks had met his fiancé for lunch one afternoon at a lovely old burial ground across the street from the mill. When the whistle blew at the carpet mill, young Thomas headed back to work. That’s when, the article reports, Thomas stopped, turned around, looked back at his fiancé and declared, “I am going in. But I shall be carried out.” </div>
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Fifteen minutes after relaying his bizarre message to his girlfriend, Thomas “fell” into a shallow vat of acid that was used in the carpet-curing process. Workers pulled him out. Others ran to fetch the lad’s mother. She rushed to the hospital, got there while Thomas was still alive but mortally injured, and held her son in her arms. The last sentence of the newspaper article:: “Mrs. Crooks was burned about the face as she continually kissed her dying son.”</div>
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Mrs. Crooks was my maternal great-grandmother. Thomas was my mother’s uncle and my grandmother’s brother. I, of course, never knew him, but I have been to his grave – in the same cemetery, across from the same carpet mill.</div>
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I’d been working on this eclectic collection for a while when I had my very own Mortimer Snerd moment. One night, I went to plug my telephone charger into a wall outlet and toppled over as I lost my balance. After that, it’s all very vague. I remember a couple of young policemen, I remember being in the emergency room. I don’t remember getting there. An emergency CAT scan determined that I had a foreboding mass of some kind at the back of my head. The tumor was removed in emergency surgery – and so my own battle unexpectedly began.</div>
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Who woulda thunk it?</div>
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Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-27305429063487975142018-02-19T08:23:00.002-08:002018-02-19T08:25:47.996-08:00Read the 5* buzz for THE SOLDIER'S RETURN @historicalfiction #series from #BHBW <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Soldier's Return, the second book in our historical fiction series, just concluded a virtual book tour. We'd like to share some of the buzz with you! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://donnasbookblog.wordpress.com/2018/02/16/blogtour-review-for-the-soldiers-return-by-laura-libricz-lauralibricz-hfvbt/" target="_blank">From Donna Maguire of Donna's Book Blog</a>: "This is a great story and a really good historical fiction novel. I love the setting and I am a fan of that period of history and crave reading anything by new authors to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"The plot in the book was well researched and it was historically accurate for the period. The writing style and pace is spot on for the book and I loved the characters and their interaction. They work so well together to give an excellent book all round.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"The Soldier’s Return is the second book in the Heaven’s Pond Trilogy, I am yet to read the first book and did not feel at any detriment from this so I would say that the book is fine to read as a stand alone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Five stars from me for this one – a really enjoyable read!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">THE SOLDIER'S RETURN is available here: <a href="http://bit.ly/TheSoldiersReturn" target="_blank">Kindle Edition</a> <a href="http://bit.ly/PaperSoldierReturn" target="_blank">Paperback Edition</a></span></div>
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<i style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The year is 1626. A senseless war rips through parts of Germany. Ongoing animosity between the Catholics and the Protestants has turned into an excuse to destroy much of the landscape situated between France, Italy and Denmark. But religion only plays a minor role in this lucrative business of war.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The young dutchman, Pieter van Diemen, returns to Amsterdam in chains after a period of imprisonment in the Spice Islands. He manages to escape but must leave Amsterdam in a hurry. Soldiers are in demand in Germany and he decides to travel with a regiment until he can desert.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">His hope of survival is to reach Sichardtshof, the farm in Franconia, Germany; the farm he left ten years ago. His desire to seek refuge with them lies in his fond memories of the maid Katarina and her master, the humanist patrician Herr Tucher.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But ten years is a long time and the farm has changed. Franconia is not only torn by war but falling victim to a church-driven witch hunt. The Jesuit priest, Ralf, has his sights set on Sichardtshof as well. Ralf believes that ridding the area of evil will be his saving grace. Can Pieter, Katarina and Herr Tucher unite to fight against a senseless war out of control?</span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">February 22, 2018: Blue Heron Book Works author Jim McGarrah will offer a memoir workshop at the TYCA-SE (Two-Year College Association) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Marine, social worker, carpet layer, janitor, bartender, race horse trainer, and college professor, Jim McGarrah lives in Louisville, Kentucky, close enough to Churchill Downs to hear the crowd roar each year at the Kentucky Derby. His memoir of war, <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">A Temporary Sort of Peace</em> (Indiana Historical Society Press, 2007) won the national Eric Hoffer Legacy Non-Fiction Award, and the sequel, <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">The End of an Era</em>, was published in 2011. He is editor, along with Tom Watson, of the anthology <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">Home Again: Essays and Memoirs from Indiana</em> and the former managing editor of <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">Southern Indiana Review</em>. His most recent memoir, <em style="word-wrap: break-word;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Misdemeanor-Outlaw-Confession-Jim-McGarrah/dp/0996817794/" target="_blank">Misdemeanor Outlaw: A Confession of Life</a></em>, was published in June 2017.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Jim is also a poet and author of three award-winning books of poetry: <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">Running the Voodoo Down</em> (Elixir Press, 2003); <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">When the Stars Go Dark</em>(Main Street Rag, 2009); and <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">Breakfast at Denny's</em> (Ink Brush Press, 2013). His poems, essays, and stories appear frequently in literary journals such as <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">Bayou Magazine</em>, <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">Breakwater</em>, <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">Cincinnati Review</em>, <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">Chamber Four</em>, <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">Connecticut Review</em>, and <em style="word-wrap: break-word;">North American Review</em>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">For more information, please visit the conference website: <a href="http://www.tycase.org/2018-conference-info">http://www.tycase.org/2018-conference-info</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Or visit the event's Facebook page: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/514318808952575/" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/events/514318808952575/</a></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZZGAuCSAjmkzA69xLBJ5OLlLXPCsWhv0CydjAVm8nMtQWssIWo2FNCg8nDA30NiCfBl96ao8bR62GU2fGsKBgD24-YN4kdaVyuEsarW_NyDyNZt9JJleEqZVqHPl0MTiLX3GJqhCIPE8/s1600/JimMisdemOutl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZZGAuCSAjmkzA69xLBJ5OLlLXPCsWhv0CydjAVm8nMtQWssIWo2FNCg8nDA30NiCfBl96ao8bR62GU2fGsKBgD24-YN4kdaVyuEsarW_NyDyNZt9JJleEqZVqHPl0MTiLX3GJqhCIPE8/s320/JimMisdemOutl.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Misdemeanor-Outlaw-Confession-Jim-McGarrah/dp/0996817794/" target="_blank">Available here!</a></span></td></tr>
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Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-45034528555187667022018-01-23T03:12:00.000-08:002018-01-23T03:12:07.767-08:00Nothing cozy about this #cozymystery by #BHBW author @BathshebaMonk <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PH15nRlRyol8TYMmUjHJqpvi9R1cq0I8v2L496Efi6hgLTW1nc1-EjlhyphenhyphenyFSyHxtJbRj-wdL7vXd0rd7Q17KMq0f3lY59aVwkqrB6GMmefd3GAneKAW6gdJS-LFl2UiTvFyr59L_CQHN/s1600/DeadWrong1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PH15nRlRyol8TYMmUjHJqpvi9R1cq0I8v2L496Efi6hgLTW1nc1-EjlhyphenhyphenyFSyHxtJbRj-wdL7vXd0rd7Q17KMq0f3lY59aVwkqrB6GMmefd3GAneKAW6gdJS-LFl2UiTvFyr59L_CQHN/s320/DeadWrong1.jpg" width="213" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"> </td><td style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dead-Wrong-Cozy-Mystery-Herbinko-ebook/dp/B00EXWNUOO" target="_blank">AVAILABLE HERE!</a></span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="a-size-base review-text" data-hook="review-body">I don't
like cozy mysteries and I don't like amateur detectives, which is why I
did like Bathsheba Monk's <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dead-Wrong-Cozy-Mystery-Herbinko-ebook/dp/B00EXWNUOO" target="_blank"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">DEAD WRONG</span></a>, her first Swanson Herbinko crime
novel. The Swedish and the French, with their absolutely gruesome
fictional mysteries, have shown us, once and for all, that murders never
are cozy, and only the British still believe that gentlemen (or
gentlewomen) operatives can ever get anything done, which may explain
why they lost their empire to the Cambridge Spies. Ms. Monk's
surprisingly good-natured (and funny) book has crimes gruesome enough to
be Scandinavian, but her investigator, a neophyte divorce lawyer who
doesn't see herself as a detective, wisely employs a proper ex-cop (the
multi-purpose Dick) to do her sleuthing. Which is a good thing because
the book's central skullduggery is slowly revealed as a complicated
tangle, and so the breathless reader is genuinely grateful to have Ms.
Herbinko along as a tour guide for the bumpy, surprising ride.
Swanson's job is to share the reader's dumbfounded reaction to the
book's felonious gumbo even as her smart mouth and wicked sense of humor
function to take the edge off a series of bloody murders committed by a
set of comic opera villains. The intestinal respite this
amusing-yet-frightened voice provides from the drippy mayhem is a
service to the reader that Henning Mankell might consider adopting as he
moves forward.<br /><br /> As I read<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dead-Wrong-Cozy-Mystery-Herbinko-ebook/dp/B00EXWNUOO" target="_blank"> <span style="color: #3d85c6;">DEAD WRONG</span></a>, I thought of Janet
Evanovich and Jennifer Weiner and their sassy female PIs, but now, with
the mayhem and revelations over, I think of the book as the print
incarnation of Gosford Park, the wonderful country house murder film by
Robert Altman and Julian Fellowes. Both pretend to be murder-filled
cozies. Both have intriguingly messy plots with dozens of quirky
characters. And both of them are stage-managed by an inept police
officer who simply joins the agog reader for the ride through the
thicket of man's inhumanity to man. The cop in Gosford Park is a
bumbling Lestrade-like detective played marvelously by Stephen Fry,
while the often clueless mistress of ceremonies in Ms. Monk's book is
her heroine, Swanson Herbinko, who claims she got her name from a TV
dinner and who sometimes seems more worried about her expansive
waistline and her nicotine habit than she is about the bodies dropping
around her. I enjoyed Fry's performance in the Altman movie immensely,
and I was just as pleased with Ms. Monk's use of Swanson as an
everywoman, who should be told--by the way--that a size i2 is
undoubtedly smaller than the dresses worn by most American women. Give
yourself a break, Swanson.</span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV_Gkp50BLWwGY0woexlgVZTcldSsJ_N1m4keUPbswC5wzvx1TeU_wr_i3-frPb4Gws2bDTuo_XaXDqy2_Lly1grEOuXssUo9dIh4o3PxsSV8O1wPow92nywj-mFtUDEFWyRlx5IX1AqJq/s1600/bathsheba2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV_Gkp50BLWwGY0woexlgVZTcldSsJ_N1m4keUPbswC5wzvx1TeU_wr_i3-frPb4Gws2bDTuo_XaXDqy2_Lly1grEOuXssUo9dIh4o3PxsSV8O1wPow92nywj-mFtUDEFWyRlx5IX1AqJq/s320/bathsheba2.jpg" width="309" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bathsheba-Monk/e/B001HMPS4I" target="_blank">Bathsheba Monk</a> is the author of 7 novels, three plays, editor at
Blue Heron Book Works and the creator of the popular Swanson Herbinko
Mystery series which is being written by Andrew Sloan, Joe Taleroski,
and Paul Heller. She writes young adult novels under the pen name,
Maddy Wells.
</span></span></span>Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-80525296515879571982018-01-07T06:17:00.002-08:002018-01-07T06:17:36.969-08:00#BHBW author Nicholas Digiovani is awarded @VCCA fellowship @nidigiovanni <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifpLB8E2Z0QOgNUpyi5cZpBysyelJcxV_PkqtDhvr11chjfuGQ0EFYqhkmYfdIThamWgTfwmj3Y4VyPxSKawbol5gsCSmBIqMK9wudJ-i3Qqek3quyi2ebTc_zHJbG-i4sDYI2MVKgfR1Y/s1600/Nick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="445" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifpLB8E2Z0QOgNUpyi5cZpBysyelJcxV_PkqtDhvr11chjfuGQ0EFYqhkmYfdIThamWgTfwmj3Y4VyPxSKawbol5gsCSmBIqMK9wudJ-i3Qqek3quyi2ebTc_zHJbG-i4sDYI2MVKgfR1Y/s320/Nick.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://nicholasdigiovanni.com/">https://nicholasdigiovanni.com/</a></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Nicholas DiGiovanni, author of the essay collection <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Man-Has-Premonition-Own-Death/dp/0692879374" target="_blank">“Man Has Premonition of Own Death,”</a> published in June by Blue Heron Book Works,
has been awarded a month-long fellowship and writing residency at the
prestigious <a href="http://www.vcca.com/main/" target="_blank">Virginia Center for the Creative Arts</a>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> VCCA fellowships
aim to intensify creativity by freeing more than 350 artists a year, up
to 25 at a time, from the disruptions of everyday life. Fellows have a
private room and studio, with three meals a day.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> Fellowships have <span class="text_exposed_show">been
awarded to more than 4,000 writers, composers and visual artists
nationwide and from 63 different countries since 1971. Honors accorded
VCCA Fellows have included MacArthur genius grants, National Book
Awards, Pulitzer Prizes, and fellowships from the National Endowment for
the Arts, the American Academy in Rome, and the Guggenheim and
Pollock-Krasner Foundations.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Admission to VCCA is highly selective,
based on a review of applications by panels of professional artists.
There are separate panels for each category (poets, fiction writers,
nonfiction writers, playwrights, performance, film and video artists,
painters, sculptors, photographers, installation artists, composers and
cross-disciplinary artists) with over 50 panelists serving at any one
time.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> DiGiovanni plans to work on a new novel while in residence at VCCA.</span></span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimr1MzyZT-5IrhybDA_YQa3_sXYqcD3Z02bS58YWbEoPQtWG-VzInCJ7DwxVNHzexapRiqdu8w8BNj4S7Y9tO9sCtsd-RYFiFkhQnUUwRJujt-F5wpu5BiakgPM50mkBlL4L3NDPXswv2N/s1600/ManNicholas+Dig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimr1MzyZT-5IrhybDA_YQa3_sXYqcD3Z02bS58YWbEoPQtWG-VzInCJ7DwxVNHzexapRiqdu8w8BNj4S7Y9tO9sCtsd-RYFiFkhQnUUwRJujt-F5wpu5BiakgPM50mkBlL4L3NDPXswv2N/s320/ManNicholas+Dig.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Man-Has-Premonition-Own-Death/dp/0692879374">Available here!</a></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="text_exposed_show">"</span></span>How strange that a book so unrelentingly about death should contain so
much life. But that’s what we have in <a href="https://nicholasdigiovanni.com/2017/07/24/what-do-you-think-about-your-blue-eyed-friend-now/" target="_blank"><i>Man Has Premonition of Own Death</i></a>, which stands athwart decay and demands to know why."</span><br />
Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-70298266679252214062017-12-22T04:13:00.000-08:002017-12-22T04:13:11.205-08:00Misdemeanor Outlaw: Jim McGarrah's Path and Some #Boomer Criticism from a Gen Xer #genx<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqYKLZ4G7w0Di_CGfSpuyQUv4jOGDV5YtlwKAk_loEzvgtgqrIfVUpDLgUSsdXrkb9uHXOnlDlxMwtEYHpNtlkM5m_i8lP_-hIzNEvQ4N-XRI2AxFZrgj9NiFCnYBFDAr0J5mXpIjFBI6/s1600/Vincent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqYKLZ4G7w0Di_CGfSpuyQUv4jOGDV5YtlwKAk_loEzvgtgqrIfVUpDLgUSsdXrkb9uHXOnlDlxMwtEYHpNtlkM5m_i8lP_-hIzNEvQ4N-XRI2AxFZrgj9NiFCnYBFDAr0J5mXpIjFBI6/s1600/Vincent.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.vincentfrancone.com/dig/2017/12/14/misdemeanor-outlaw-jim-mcgarrahs-path-and-some-boomer-criticism-from-a-gen-xer" target="_blank">Vincent Francone</a></span></span></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Vincent Francone is a writer from Chicago whose memoir, Like a
Dog, was published in the fall of 2015. He won first place in the 2009
Illinois Emerging Writers Competition (Gwendolyn Brooks Award) and is at
work on a collection of poems and stories. Visit
<a href="http://www.vincentfrancone.com/">www.vincentfrancone.com</a> to read his work or say hi. </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">#BHBW author Vincent Francone reviews Jim McGarrah's memoir, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Misdemeanor-Outlaw-Confession-Jim-McGarrah/dp/0996817794" target="_blank"><i>Midemeanor Outlaw</i></a></span></span></span></h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i> </i></span></span></span></h2>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In his funny, self-lacerating look at Baby Boomers, <em>Balsamic Dreams</em>,
Joe Queenan accuses his generation of navel-gazing and premature
nostalgia. He cites Carol King’s “So Far Away” as being the beginning
of the Boomers’ descent into soppy, untimely ennui. To be sure, 1971
was too soon for this generation to be so goddamn depressed about the
loss of time, considering the average Boomer was around 20-30. Yeah,
Queenan’s making a bit of hasty generalization, but for the sake of
argument let’s accept his point. If we do, we can easily see how,
though not unlike other self-absorbed generations, Boomers tend to
mythologize their heyday, perhaps driven to do so after the utopian
dreams of the late 60s gave way to the disillusionment of the 70s and
the crass materialism of the 1980s. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Most of the Boomers I
know</span></b>— hi, family!—tend to agree that the music and culture of their
generation represents the pinnacle of human achievement, which always
makes me want to smother those aging pricks in the bubbling tar of punk
rock. This boomer insistence that their version of rock and roll is the
greatest thing ever, that Woodstock was <em>the</em> event, man, and
the agonizing claim that they ended a war (sure took them long enough)
via smoking weed and sitting in the dirt playing bongos has always made
me roll my eyes. Which is why I approached Jim McGarrah’s book <em>Misdemeanor Outlaw</em> with a bit of trepidation. <em>Do I really want to read 180-pages of Boomer self-aggrandizement? </em>I asked myself. Turns out I was wrong about the book, though not 100% wrong about Boomers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZZGAuCSAjmkzA69xLBJ5OLlLXPCsWhv0CydjAVm8nMtQWssIWo2FNCg8nDA30NiCfBl96ao8bR62GU2fGsKBgD24-YN4kdaVyuEsarW_NyDyNZt9JJleEqZVqHPl0MTiLX3GJqhCIPE8/s1600/JimMisdemOutl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZZGAuCSAjmkzA69xLBJ5OLlLXPCsWhv0CydjAVm8nMtQWssIWo2FNCg8nDA30NiCfBl96ao8bR62GU2fGsKBgD24-YN4kdaVyuEsarW_NyDyNZt9JJleEqZVqHPl0MTiLX3GJqhCIPE8/s320/JimMisdemOutl.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Misdemeanor-Outlaw-Confession-Jim-McGarrah/dp/0996817794" target="_blank">Available here!</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">(Side
note: All writers are self-aggrandizing. I aspire to be part of the
club; I wrote a <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Like-Dog-Memoir-Vincent-Francone/dp/0692507450" target="_blank">memoir</a> and asked people to read it</span></b>; I write poems and
get them published in corners of the internet and then ask people to
peek into those corners. I am as self-aggrandizing as the next damaged
bastard. Even those of my generation with the good sense to try their
hand at pursuits other than writing are myopic and sentimental. So yes,
we Generation Xers, and certainly the much-maligned Millennials, are
equally guilty of the above accusations leveled at Boomers. And while
we’re at it, so are the members of the so-called Greatest Generation.
We’re all human; we’re all flawed and beautiful. We all suck.) </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">But here’s the thing about <em>Misdemeanor Outlaw</em>:</span>
</b>it’s a book by a Boomer, not a Boomer book. Meaning it’s not overly
sentimental; it’s not the equivalent of one of those goddamn Facebook
memes with a photo of a 45 record adapter and the request to “Like and
share if you ever used one of these!” It’s a damn fine collection of
loosely connected essays that jump through time in a mostly linear
manner, forming a meditation on the author’s inability to find his place
among rules and authority figures. Along the way, he makes and loses
friends, gets married and divorced, picks up a social disease, faces the
horror of combat in Vietnam, swallows an apothecary worth of dope, and
even tries his hand at the post office (which I, a former mail sorter,
was delighted to read about).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The epilogue does, as
expected, contain a sort of case for the 1980s—a decade I tend to
romanticize—being the example of how corporate culture corrupts true art
and beauty, evidenced by the rise of pop songs like “Wake Me Up Before
You Go Go” a nauseating tune, indeed, though the boomers would have us
believe that their generations’ musicians never recorded anything as
soulless and vile. One need only recall the Ohio Express’s “Yummy Yummy
Yummy” to debunk that claim. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Aside from that one paragraph, I was far more engaged, amused, and compelled by <em>Misdemeanor Outlaw</em>
than I expected to be.</span></b> I was familiar with McGarrah’s work. (We share
the same publisher, which, were we musicians, would make us
label-mates; not sure what we are. . . Blue Herons of a feather? A Flock
of Herons? Being close to “A Flock of Seagulls,” a 1980s band I assume
McGarrah dislikes, I’ll go with that one.) He is a writer who seeks to
recollect things with less tranquility than honesty. When McGarrah
writes of his childhood, he eases up on the idolization of the
all-American small town and presents not so much a Norman Rockwell Eden
as a confining place of mores and customs that, even as a wee lad, he’s
inclined to challenge. Soon he’s dropping out of college to enlist in
the Marines, a decision that sends him to Vietnam, then to a crisis of
identity. Rejecting the scare tactics and justifications of
politicians, McGarrah actively opposes the war, grows his hair and
embraces the hippie idealism that engulfed his generation the way
Techno-solutionism is currently seducing Millennials. When the limits
of commune life are reached, McGarrah seems at his most unmoored.
Plagued by survivor guilt from Vietnam, unable to comfortably fit back
into his hometown, and beset by uniformed men seeking to get over on him
regardless of the length of his hair and manner of dress, our hero is
the true representation of a man without a country, an outlaw, albeit of
the misdemeanor variety. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>It would be remiss not to
remark on the quality of McGarrah’s humorous, unflinching prose.</b></span> I
laughed often while reading these pages, though the most impacting
moments are the honest appraisals of the injustice done to the young men
of his generation and the “true cost of these foreign policy adventures
urged on by corrupt politicians and controlled by corporate interest.”
Recalling his stint in Vietnam, McGarrah writes, “On quiet nights, when
the dead visit, I greet them with respect and we talk. They speak of
the loneliness of their fate and I speak in awe of mine.” Though I know
the man is writing of a time and place I can never understand, he may
as well be discussing what it means to write a book. Or, for that
matter, to read one—we are seeking to converse with the dead, to compare
our fates to theirs, to measure our struggle against theirs, to see
what insights we can glean. The result, in <em>Misdemeanor Outlaw</em>,
is a book for anyone interested in walking in the shoes of a man on an
absurd road toward self-actualization, though not in the trendy way
Boomers sought to do as they went from well-meaning young idiots to
1980s sell-outs looking to reclaim their idealistic past. McGarrah is
too raw for that sort of thing. His self-examination is his own, but in
offering it to us, we’re privy to insights and anecdotes that are
surprisingly familiar to anyone who’s ever felt mystified at the
conventions the rest of the world is all too happy to obey. </span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfQaHcCxKNuHan0smU7NQW8gqajpcuT3Xe9qhV_K5rCFERGSfYkI5o-_KB81mo1wZ01knvbN-6TrV6d3dJgtUb8UB0HD-2LYoCGFZrtUj-KSD-B6nMe-i33TlAcrl2hNc2kIQJyxmprTR/s1600/LikeADogVin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfQaHcCxKNuHan0smU7NQW8gqajpcuT3Xe9qhV_K5rCFERGSfYkI5o-_KB81mo1wZ01knvbN-6TrV6d3dJgtUb8UB0HD-2LYoCGFZrtUj-KSD-B6nMe-i33TlAcrl2hNc2kIQJyxmprTR/s320/LikeADogVin.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Vincent-Francone/e/B01IWYBM7U" target="_blank">LIKE A DOG by VINCENT FRANCONE available here!</a></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span>Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-88450103226973959262017-12-13T07:06:00.003-08:002017-12-13T07:06:51.603-08:00Read the 5* buzz for Man Has Premonition of Own Death #memoir #bookreview<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimr1MzyZT-5IrhybDA_YQa3_sXYqcD3Z02bS58YWbEoPQtWG-VzInCJ7DwxVNHzexapRiqdu8w8BNj4S7Y9tO9sCtsd-RYFiFkhQnUUwRJujt-F5wpu5BiakgPM50mkBlL4L3NDPXswv2N/s1600/ManNicholas+Dig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimr1MzyZT-5IrhybDA_YQa3_sXYqcD3Z02bS58YWbEoPQtWG-VzInCJ7DwxVNHzexapRiqdu8w8BNj4S7Y9tO9sCtsd-RYFiFkhQnUUwRJujt-F5wpu5BiakgPM50mkBlL4L3NDPXswv2N/s320/ManNicholas+Dig.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Man-Has-Premonition-Own-Death/dp/0692879374" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">AVAILABLE HERE!</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">A quirky walk through many graveyards, both literal and figurative,</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">...with delightful side trips through history, literature and popular culture. The series of essays offers the research and straight-forward prose of a veteran journalist, one with a fascination for the gently gothic and an near-childlike wonder at his own mortality. A bizarre accident that cuts an ancestor off in his prime inspires this collection, which explores every aspect of death while succeeding in being entertaining, amusing and pleasingly weird. The author is a fan of folk music and the spirit of a well-rendered folk tale makes this an enjoyable book to read and re-read. It will definitely make you want to pay an actual visit to the graveyard that houses some of his family members, as well as American icons including Alan Freed, Judy Garland, James Baldwin, Jim Henson and Malcolm X. The author's own brushes with death serve as a serious counterbalance to an often amusing journey where Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper'' shares a Final Supper dinner table with yellowing newspaper clippings, marble headstone epitaphs and an American past of union laborer, printing presses and the innocence of a boy forever changed by an empty seat in his grade school classroom, a family photograph of relatives who don't stop knocking even though they will never again show up at his Yonkers' front door.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<h1 class="a-size-large a-spacing-none" id="title" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 21px !important; line-height: 1.3 !important; margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding: 0px; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;">
<span class="a-size-large" id="productTitle" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Man Has Premonition of Own Death: An Ancestor's Strange Demise and Other Mortal Matters:</span></span></h1>
<div>
<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px;">is Nicholas DiGiovanni’s contemplation of the un-ignorable reality of death is really a celebration of the relationships we form over time with the people around us, with our own histories, and with living itself. I can think of few authors able to write about death this honestly while maintaining the warmth, thoughtfulness and humor that make life worth living. “Man Has Premonition of His Own Death” is a welcome reminder for readers of all ages that we discover the meaning of life through living it deeply and fully. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Michael N. McGregor, author of <i>Pure Act: The Uncommon Life of Robert Lax</i></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifpLB8E2Z0QOgNUpyi5cZpBysyelJcxV_PkqtDhvr11chjfuGQ0EFYqhkmYfdIThamWgTfwmj3Y4VyPxSKawbol5gsCSmBIqMK9wudJ-i3Qqek3quyi2ebTc_zHJbG-i4sDYI2MVKgfR1Y/s1600/Nick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="445" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifpLB8E2Z0QOgNUpyi5cZpBysyelJcxV_PkqtDhvr11chjfuGQ0EFYqhkmYfdIThamWgTfwmj3Y4VyPxSKawbol5gsCSmBIqMK9wudJ-i3Qqek3quyi2ebTc_zHJbG-i4sDYI2MVKgfR1Y/s320/Nick.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://nicholasdigiovanni.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">https://nicholasdigiovanni.com</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></div>
Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-56301266772093970292017-11-28T02:39:00.000-08:002017-11-28T02:39:12.203-08:00Read our #TuesdayThoughts as a midweek #poetic outburst<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfQaHcCxKNuHan0smU7NQW8gqajpcuT3Xe9qhV_K5rCFERGSfYkI5o-_KB81mo1wZ01knvbN-6TrV6d3dJgtUb8UB0HD-2LYoCGFZrtUj-KSD-B6nMe-i33TlAcrl2hNc2kIQJyxmprTR/s1600/LikeADogVin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfQaHcCxKNuHan0smU7NQW8gqajpcuT3Xe9qhV_K5rCFERGSfYkI5o-_KB81mo1wZ01knvbN-6TrV6d3dJgtUb8UB0HD-2LYoCGFZrtUj-KSD-B6nMe-i33TlAcrl2hNc2kIQJyxmprTR/s320/LikeADogVin.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Like-Dog-Memoir-Vincent-Francone-ebook/dp/B0178IC8IS" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Like a Dog: available here</span></a></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Slashie</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Best of both worlds:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">purveyor of packaged goods</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">just five steps from the bar,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Janus of the neighborhoods</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">pre-gentrification relic</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">bravely facing gritty renewal,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">ideal place for odd occasions.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">I miss your neon and smoke,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">the old men ribbing me in Polish,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">as the barkeep worked molasses</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">out of his legs to grudgingly pour</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">a shot while I wasted time between classes</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">pretended I understood the barfly’s joke,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">nodded at midday mothers pushing strollers.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqYKLZ4G7w0Di_CGfSpuyQUv4jOGDV5YtlwKAk_loEzvgtgqrIfVUpDLgUSsdXrkb9uHXOnlDlxMwtEYHpNtlkM5m_i8lP_-hIzNEvQ4N-XRI2AxFZrgj9NiFCnYBFDAr0J5mXpIjFBI6/s1600/Vincent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqYKLZ4G7w0Di_CGfSpuyQUv4jOGDV5YtlwKAk_loEzvgtgqrIfVUpDLgUSsdXrkb9uHXOnlDlxMwtEYHpNtlkM5m_i8lP_-hIzNEvQ4N-XRI2AxFZrgj9NiFCnYBFDAr0J5mXpIjFBI6/s1600/Vincent.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Amazon Ember', Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Vincent Francone</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: 'Amazon Ember', Arial, sans-serif;"> is a writer from Chicago whose memoir, Like a Dog, was published in the fall of 2015. He won first place in the 2009 Illinois Emerging Writers Competition (Gwendolyn Brooks Award) and is at work on a collection of poems and stories. Visit <a href="http://www.vincentfrancone.com/">www.vincentfrancone.com</a> to read his work or say hi.</span></div>
Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-67857590810650714582017-11-08T04:51:00.000-08:002017-11-08T04:51:03.165-08:00For your #Wednesday: #flashfiction The Port of Going @lauralibricz<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcu1RZ6R7QNReXusLhed351BNRLCVZjJM4t7_yMqWgh0JlmvJgCzFrWTX680vS0F1fD8M4z3TCQOwdEZJWmCgJDvzCsNKyW3GAcq82nlTnaNLY3cDH-6W_IraxUgLLOLlA2OvH9YGRURr9/s1600/IMG_6642sq_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1513" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcu1RZ6R7QNReXusLhed351BNRLCVZjJM4t7_yMqWgh0JlmvJgCzFrWTX680vS0F1fD8M4z3TCQOwdEZJWmCgJDvzCsNKyW3GAcq82nlTnaNLY3cDH-6W_IraxUgLLOLlA2OvH9YGRURr9/s320/IMG_6642sq_sm.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.lauralibricz.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">http://www.lauralibricz.com</span></a></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>The Port of Going</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The air hung thick with humidity, strangely conductive after the last few days of cold. Caroline pulled the heavy wrap off her shoulders as she walked to work. She passed the neglected dance hall on the pier by the Port of Coming and ducked away from a group of women who’d just arrived in the village. Caroline wondered why each new wave of settlers heated the water vapor in the air. The transports must disrupt some fine balance there when they entered the port.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They called the village ‘Coming and Going’ after the two ports. The village had historically been a crossroads, a meeting point, a stop-off place where people came to be picked up, rescued or to find themselves a new fate. A haven, a port of souls if you want to call it that. There were airways and seaways and a lawlessness that came with this sort of to-ing and fro-ing. Caroline had come to the village six months ago, looking for passage away. Too scared to go on, she got stuck in a job at the Port of Going overseeing the main gate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There was a time when noble buildings made this a desirable place to begin a show-off journey. Back then, the gaming attracted a better sort, nicely-dressed folk out to raise the stakes of an expensive evening. Now, the gaming brought nothing but fortune hunters, organized crime, and plenty willing to sell themselves for another go with lady luck. As Coming and Going went to seed, the well-dressed, better sorts moved on to build a new port, leaving the village to decay. Those desperate for passage, like Caroline, were sent here. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Port of Going hummed with early-morning traveller-seekers. Caroline unlocked the gate, fearing the humidity would irritate them. A siren blared three short shots. Overhead, the lights flickered. It happened at least once an hour, sometimes more. The humidity also seemed to mess with the way the sun’s energy was stored in the batteries. Then the lights went out, complete darkness. It would last five seconds. Five seconds of darkness brought thieves out of the cracks like cockroaches. They had the gift of Dark Sight, they were born with it, an undesirable gift. They meandered in and out of the traveller-seekers, the goers. After five seconds, the lights would come back on. Those who were thrown to the ground would shake themselves and look around, searching for their belongings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“This is terrible,” the first traveller said. “Why is this port be so dangerous? The Port of Coming is heavily guarded, controlled to the hilt, not like this dump.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The traveller was right, of course. All comers to the village were closely guarded, whereas goers could go. People escaping were happily transported away, someone else’s problem. Caroline watched the motley goers line up: a girl holding hands with a child; a man with a dream; three children chained together, to be transported and sold into slavery; a girl with a look on her face that said she was going to pay back every asshole who ‘dun her wrong.’ A teenage boy stood behind her, dressed as a soldier.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“This is the Port of Going,” the man with the dream said. “Nobody cares who goes. All are allowed to leave.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Behind him, a young woman appeared in line. She was heavy with child, visibly unwell. She waddled up to Caroline and waved her papers in Caroline’s face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I don’t want your papers,” Caroline said. “I need to scan your chip.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The young woman flapped the papers. The edge just missed Caroline’s eye. The woman pounded her fist on the papers. She wanted to go and she needed her papers stamped to pass to the Nether Region, at least that was what her application said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Don’t you understand me?” Caroline said. “Your chip.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The young woman lifted her braids to show she had no visible ears. Caroline had never seen this new breed, those with no hearing organs. They were supposedly better beings because they were compliant and could be remotely commanded by some other sensory perception. If that was true, how did she manage to escape to this port?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The lights went off again. Caroline saw the young woman go down. The lights came back on after five seconds. Those who were thrown to the ground stood back up. They shook themselves and looked around. In five seconds, the thieves had moved soundlessly through the goers and collected the spoils. The young woman had trouble getting to her feet. The line bottlenecked and people were visibly angry. The young woman must now stand or be trampled. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The lights flickered and went off again. Caroline saw the young woman go down again, swallowed in the angry crowd. Caroline was afraid of the violence the crowd could produce. The next angry traveller stepped over the young woman, saying nasty things and giving her a little shove with their foot. Caroline scanned him and let him pass. The next traveller was not as patient and shoved the young woman to the side. As the young woman came to her feet, the next traveller kneed her in the thigh and she went down again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Caroline shut her gate, stoppering the bottleneck. “I will turn out the lights forever!” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The lights flickered and went out. Caroline also had the gift of Dark Sight. She watched the thieves hush like spirits between the traveller-seekers and strip them of their valuables. The travellers never saw them coming. Caroline grabbed the young woman, pulled her under the gate and towards the transport area. She would leave now on the next transport away from this horrible place. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>About the Author: </b></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="background-color: white;">Pennsylvania native Laura Libricz earned a BA in German at The College of New Paltz, NY in 1991 and moved to Germany, where she resides today. When she isn’t writing she can be found sifting through city archives, picking through castle ruins or aiding the steady flood of musical instruments into the world market. A fascination with the country’s history has led her to recreate the 17th century for English speaking readers in the historical novel series </span><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Laura-Libricz/e/B009CB79DO/" target="_blank">Heaven’s Pond</a></em><span style="background-color: white;">. </span><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://bit.ly/MasterMaid" target="_blank">The Master and the Maid</a></em><span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://bit.ly/MasterMaid" target="_blank"> </a>is the first book in the series. </span><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://bit.ly/TheSoldiersReturn" target="_blank">The Soldier’s Return</a></em><span style="background-color: white;"> is the second.</span></span></span></div>
Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-35833551860261114002017-11-01T05:56:00.000-07:002017-11-01T05:56:19.996-07:00Read the incredible buzz for #BHBW author @jmcgarra MISDEMEANOR OUTLAW #vietnamvet<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Misdemeanor-Outlaw-Confession-Jim-McGarrah/dp/0996817794" target="_blank">CLICK HERE!</a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 19px !important; text-decoration: none;">An Impactful, Wise, and Lively Memoir</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;">J</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;">im McGarrah is a master storyteller, and his latest, "Misdemeanor Outlaw" is no exception. With a traveler's casual warmth, he invites the reader into his coming-of-age in the 50s with humor, illumination, and a good dose of self-deprecation. From Midwest small town America, that age of innocence takes a sharp turn as we are led to Vietnam, the young boy still so young and yet a Marine fighting an endless war. McGarrah is a savvy truthteller, but also a philosopher, and his steady reflection and interrogation of this time and its impact keep circling the larger questions whose answers we should never stop seeking. This book is full of life--it sings with it--the arc and folds that follow one's early entrance into manhood and all the ways one can be led forward, seeking, breaking, putting oneself back together again.</span></span><br />
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<span class="a-size-large" id="productTitle" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Misdemeanor Outlaw: A Confession of Life</span></span><br />
<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jim McGarrah was born into the halcyon bubble of post-World War Two small town America, a bubble burst by the trauma of the Vietnam War in which he fought as a marine. His recall of his youth in Princeton, Indiana will take you through the looking glass of a Norman Rockwell magazine cover. His recall of a nighttime patrol in the MeKong Delta rice paddies will make your hair stand on end and bring you to tears. Misdemeanor Outlaw is a split personality of a memoir: part anecdotal paean to a seeming Paradise Lost, part wised-up epiphany about how things really work. It is a read you will come away from questioning even what you are most fond of.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">CONNECT WITH JIM ON FACEBOOK:</span><span style="color: #333333;"> </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/JimMcGarrah.author/" style="color: #333333;" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/JimMcGarrah.author/</a></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wo85Si4TDYXge1LV19_aVpQd9aiQTwSKW6bvm38-64HYca7-m1K8JvggQcwPokgmD2mHTZFT6tJz3vMubfxyvQFAp8XMEXNLYUhPn19QNLS_554wsSo45jsGyMked2RNNRictoL5nmyR/s1600/Jim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wo85Si4TDYXge1LV19_aVpQd9aiQTwSKW6bvm38-64HYca7-m1K8JvggQcwPokgmD2mHTZFT6tJz3vMubfxyvQFAp8XMEXNLYUhPn19QNLS_554wsSo45jsGyMked2RNNRictoL5nmyR/s1600/Jim.jpg" /></a></div>
<span class="a-size-large" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 1.3 !important; text-rendering: optimizelegibility;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></span>Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-44462824688996040292017-10-22T23:00:00.000-07:002017-10-22T23:00:11.629-07:00The best way to brighten your week with love #poetry #MondayBlogs <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggp4K92rcD8w7GALMyeESHmU7_S16BsnDwD1i0kppp8gb54HaxAuPWINI7LTV1MiKtP2dHwL83xdgfLhw0x1RMvtSx0-1QccAgVs_Xmwv5UJKVYS1IKs3V-qTs5M-Z_QSphvanFoFhDV6O/s1600/E%25CC%2581mile+Friant+%2522Study+for+Les+Amoureux+%253A+Soir+d%2527automne%2522+%2528Lovers+%253A+Autumn+evening%2529+1888.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="268" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggp4K92rcD8w7GALMyeESHmU7_S16BsnDwD1i0kppp8gb54HaxAuPWINI7LTV1MiKtP2dHwL83xdgfLhw0x1RMvtSx0-1QccAgVs_Xmwv5UJKVYS1IKs3V-qTs5M-Z_QSphvanFoFhDV6O/s400/E%25CC%2581mile+Friant+%2522Study+for+Les+Amoureux+%253A+Soir+d%2527automne%2522+%2528Lovers+%253A+Autumn+evening%2529+1888.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #f3f5f6; color: #212124; font-weight: 600;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Illustration</i>: Émile Friant "Study for Les Amoureux / Soir d'automne" (Lovers / Autumn evening) 1888</span></span></span><br />
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<i><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Polemics </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">by Jim McGarrah</span></b></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Here’s a mistake I frequently make,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I say poems are made from words. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But that is to say killing is an ordinary</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">task in war or all the tools for every job</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">come from Sears. Tonight, my poem</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">works as a bartender who, like an acrobat, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">leaps on a narrow shelf. Steadied</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">by one leg and a waitress </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">with arms covered in pagan tattoos, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">he retrieves a bottle high</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">above the bar’s mirror breaking</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">neither neck nor sweat. Tonight</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">my poem is love as these two people</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">brush against each other and hesitate</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">till all that needs said is said in silence.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">away each time she returns for an order.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wo85Si4TDYXge1LV19_aVpQd9aiQTwSKW6bvm38-64HYca7-m1K8JvggQcwPokgmD2mHTZFT6tJz3vMubfxyvQFAp8XMEXNLYUhPn19QNLS_554wsSo45jsGyMked2RNNRictoL5nmyR/s1600/Jim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-wo85Si4TDYXge1LV19_aVpQd9aiQTwSKW6bvm38-64HYca7-m1K8JvggQcwPokgmD2mHTZFT6tJz3vMubfxyvQFAp8XMEXNLYUhPn19QNLS_554wsSo45jsGyMked2RNNRictoL5nmyR/s1600/Jim.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b>Jim McGarrah</b></span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">'s poems, essays, and stories have appeared in many literary magazines over the past decade. His play, Split Second Timing, received a Kennedy Center ACTF Award in 2001. He is the author of four books of poetry, Running the Voodoo Down (2003), When the Stars Go Dark (2009), Breakfast at Denny's (2013), and The Truth About Mangoes (2016), a critically acclaimed memoir of the Vietnam War entitled A Temporary Sort of Peace that won the 2010 Legacy Nonfiction Award from the Eric Hoffer Foundation and the sequel entitled The End of an Era. His nonfiction books, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/306452.Jim_McGarrah" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><i>Off Track </i>and<i> Misdemeanor Outlaw</i></a>, were published by <a href="http://www.blueheronbookworks.com/" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Blue Heron Book Works of Allentown, PA</a>. Jim is also co-editor of Home Again: Essays and Memoirs from Indiana and a founding editor of RopeWalk Press, as well as the former managing editor of Southern Indiana Review. </span></span></div>
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<b style="color: #181818; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;">Connect with Jim online: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/JimMcGarrah.author/" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/JimMcGarrah.author/</a></b></div>
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Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-64328487200618871512017-10-19T02:23:00.000-07:002017-10-19T02:23:02.775-07:00Look behind the mind's eye #Poetry #ThursdayThoughts <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8IOxuxqLMYFIKejZojTVIL4d46KBsgKwO9HJMXrdxvg-InnCtvVR4nAokALdwE_kicfXz21U0FIT9fqcgN7qoFfwUDffPhNC_8Hvf1_BsWZqyeWaDQnTaY7LySjT1HCqoZaO0bs0lz4T/s1600/Wem+Town+Hall+Ghost+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="353" data-original-width="500" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX8IOxuxqLMYFIKejZojTVIL4d46KBsgKwO9HJMXrdxvg-InnCtvVR4nAokALdwE_kicfXz21U0FIT9fqcgN7qoFfwUDffPhNC_8Hvf1_BsWZqyeWaDQnTaY7LySjT1HCqoZaO0bs0lz4T/s400/Wem+Town+Hall+Ghost+001.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Illustration: Wem Town Hall Ghost, public domain<br /><br /></span></span><h2>
<a href="" name="m_5074751109222181834__Toc416616052" style="font-weight: normal; text-align: start;"><b><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Butter and Bread</span></b></a></h2>
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<a href="" name="m_5074751109222181834__Toc416616052" style="font-weight: normal; text-align: start;"><b><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">by Vincent Francone</span></b></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">I said: It’s a certainty that you’ll live </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">In an effort at levity, you replied </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">You smiled, said you’d be well taken care of— </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">more than I gave you living or dead.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqYKLZ4G7w0Di_CGfSpuyQUv4jOGDV5YtlwKAk_loEzvgtgqrIfVUpDLgUSsdXrkb9uHXOnlDlxMwtEYHpNtlkM5m_i8lP_-hIzNEvQ4N-XRI2AxFZrgj9NiFCnYBFDAr0J5mXpIjFBI6/s1600/Vincent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqYKLZ4G7w0Di_CGfSpuyQUv4jOGDV5YtlwKAk_loEzvgtgqrIfVUpDLgUSsdXrkb9uHXOnlDlxMwtEYHpNtlkM5m_i8lP_-hIzNEvQ4N-XRI2AxFZrgj9NiFCnYBFDAr0J5mXpIjFBI6/s1600/Vincent.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Vincent Francone</span></span><span style="color: #575757; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"> was born in 1971. A veteran of the legendary Aspidistra Bookshop, he spent years as an autodidact before earning a BA from Roosevelt University, where he now teaches first year composition and the occasional literature class, and an MA from Northwestern University. His work has been published in Rhino, New City, Akashic, and The Oklahoma Review among other journals, and he won first place in the 2009 Illinois Emerging Writers Competition. He lives in Chicago with his wife and his Chihuahua, Haruki. </span></span><span style="color: #575757; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Connect with Vince online:</b></span></span><span style="color: #575757; font-family: 'Open Sans', sans-serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://www.vincentfrancone.com/" target="_blank">http://www.vincentfrancone.com</a></span></div>
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Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-24930001913916331302017-10-11T23:00:00.000-07:002017-10-11T23:00:00.332-07:00What #value does #music have in the Outlaw Life? @jmcgarra <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Misdemeanor-Outlaw-Jim-McGarrah-ebook/dp/B075742F1L" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZZGAuCSAjmkzA69xLBJ5OLlLXPCsWhv0CydjAVm8nMtQWssIWo2FNCg8nDA30NiCfBl96ao8bR62GU2fGsKBgD24-YN4kdaVyuEsarW_NyDyNZt9JJleEqZVqHPl0MTiLX3GJqhCIPE8/s320/JimMisdemOutl.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Misdemeanor-Outlaw-Jim-McGarrah-ebook/dp/B075742F1L" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">GET YOURS HERE </span></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>The music of the sixties</b></span>, especially protest music, has ruined all other rock music for me. The era was a time of innovation unlike any other in rock & roll history and I was an impressionable teenager then, overwhelmed by the unique and powerful sounds. It was as if gods tied lightning bolts together and wrestled them apart through thunderous clouds. It was the magic of coming alive once and for always. So much so that everything I hear now seems derivative, either language-wise, thematically, or melody-wise. The only other time in music that I can compare it to as a touchstone is the bebop jazz era that preceded it by a decade or so. Interestingly, both groups of musicians working in both genres rose to fame considered as outlaws in the music world by their contemporaries. It was almost impossible to hear the music on or in conventional venues during their perspective eras.<br /><br /><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, Jack Bruce, Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page,</b></span> Carlos Santana, John Mayhall, Roger McGuin, Keith Emerson, Rick Wakefield, Leslie West, Keith Richards, Duane Allman, Johnny and Edgar Winters, not to mention the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, were doing things with guitars and keyboards and the new synthisizers that the great jazz innovators of the fifties had attempted with horns and pianos (i.e. Coltrane, Monk, Davis, Parker, Mingus, etc.). I still listen to the unprecedented and iconic riffs, finding something I missed every time. It’s almost like reading great poetry over and over again. The same thing is true of Dylan’s imagistic lyrics and the vocal harmonies of the Beatles and Crosby, Still, & Nash.<br /><br /><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Along with that is the emotional resonance</b></span> created by some of the great songs. I can hear the opening notes of Street Fighting Man, Master of War, Eight Miles High, Fortunate Son, or a dozen other songs and be transported instantaneously to a march or a sit in where I was making some anti-war speech and the crowd was roaring. At a time when sex was as casual as shaking hands—just a way to say hello—I can hear Guinevere or Suite Judy Blue Eyes, Girl from the North Country, Spanish Harlem Incident, A Case of You, and be making love to Mary O'Donnell on a blanket at Bear Creek in upstate New York, or Black Magic Woman and be slipping off Roceria’s black lace panties in Mazalan, Mexico. I can hear Strawberry Fields Forever and suddenly be coming down off my first acid trip at 3am over a plate of half-cooked scrambled eggs in a booth at the Big O all-night diner in Owensboro, Kentucky. I can’t listen to Reflections by the Supremes or Paint It Black by the Stones or Magic Carpet Ride by Steppenwolf without finding my way through a maze of jungle somewhere near the DMZ in Vietnam. I can’t hear Whipping Post without remembering Cathy leaving me over for a mediocre musician who had an unlimited supply of good dope and forgiving her because I might have done the same thing.<br /><br /><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>The very fact that this music was interwoven with the social and cultural revolution</b></span> that was my history, the time in my life when I worked hardest at finding my own identity, makes it iconic to me. Unlike classical music, or jazz, when I hear this music I remember who I am and why I am and how I got to be this person I am, a Misdemeanor Oulaw. And as I approach my seventh decade of life I’m finally getting to the point that I like who I am…consequently, I will continue to despise Clear Channel radio and the banal imitators that pollute the airwaves pretending the noise they make is somehow original. I’ll climb into my time machine constructed from vinyl and fueled with Rye whiskey (my doctor lets me have one drink every now and then). Once settled behind the wheel, Van Morrison and I may travel Into the Mystic or maybe I’ll Take the Highway with the Marshall Tucker Band. Regardless, my journey will be as free and joyful as it was forty years ago. I guess that’s why they call this music “classic.” And, why I write so often about that time with respect.</span><div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Jim McGarrah</b></span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'s poems, essays, and stories have appeared in many literary magazines over the past decade. His play, Split Second Timing, received a Kennedy Center ACTF Award in 2001. He is the author of four books of poetry, Running the Voodoo Down (2003), When the Stars Go Dark (2009), Breakfast at Denny's (2013), and The Truth About Mangoes (2016), a critically acclaimed memoir of the Vietnam War entitled A Temporary Sort of Peace that won the 2010 Legacy Nonfiction Award from the Eric Hoffer Foundation and the sequel entitled The End of an Era. His nonfiction books, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/306452.Jim_McGarrah" target="_blank"><i>Off Track </i>and<i> Misdemeanor Outlaw</i></a>, were published by <a href="http://www.blueheronbookworks.com/" target="_blank">Blue Heron Book Works of Allentown, PA</a>. Jim is also co-editor of Home Again: Essays and Memoirs from Indiana and a founding editor of RopeWalk Press, as well as the former managing editor of Southern Indiana Review.</span></div>
Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-24832233130973813002017-10-09T04:34:00.000-07:002017-10-09T04:34:16.400-07:00The best response to the request for a #love #poem #MondayBlogs <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Response to a Request for a Love</b> <b>Poem</b></span></h3>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">by Vincent Francone </span></h4>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">My wife wears her gold earrings in the summer nights</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">going to dance wearing black looking like the small hours </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">her skin the cinnamon of angry skies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Her eyes match her clothing </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">which she wears like fog combing over the skyline.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Her fingers are peninsulas </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">her back is a map with rivers from my fingers</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">her feet hold her to the earth </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">her toes are painted like beach-washed stones</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">her hair falls like empires </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">or is coiled like the center of a sunflower.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">She wears her hair off her shoulders</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">and I never fail to lock onto what little memory remains </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">of our first careless ardor</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">while she meanders through our conflict </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">taking her time to make up her mind<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2024255049999482676" name="m_-1852437203102926302__Toc245973216"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2024255049999482676" name="m_-1852437203102926302__Toc245975439"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2024255049999482676" name="m_-1852437203102926302__Toc246210089"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2024255049999482676" name="m_-1852437203102926302__Toc246567785"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2024255049999482676" name="m_-1852437203102926302__Toc382819318"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2024255049999482676" name="m_-1852437203102926302__Toc416616017"></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">as assiduously as she works on her make up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Vincent Francone</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;"> is a writer from Chicago whose memoir, Like a Dog, was published in the fall of 2015. He won first place in the 2009 Illinois Emerging Writers Competition (Gwendolyn Brooks Award) and is at work on a collection of poems and stories. Visit </span><a href="http://www.vincentfrancone.com/" style="color: #888888; text-decoration: none;">www.vincentfrancone.com</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;"> to read his work or say hi.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfQaHcCxKNuHan0smU7NQW8gqajpcuT3Xe9qhV_K5rCFERGSfYkI5o-_KB81mo1wZ01knvbN-6TrV6d3dJgtUb8UB0HD-2LYoCGFZrtUj-KSD-B6nMe-i33TlAcrl2hNc2kIQJyxmprTR/s1600/LikeADogVin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfQaHcCxKNuHan0smU7NQW8gqajpcuT3Xe9qhV_K5rCFERGSfYkI5o-_KB81mo1wZ01knvbN-6TrV6d3dJgtUb8UB0HD-2LYoCGFZrtUj-KSD-B6nMe-i33TlAcrl2hNc2kIQJyxmprTR/s320/LikeADogVin.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Like-Dog-Memoir-Vincent-Francone/dp/0692507450" target="_blank">GET YOURS HERE</a></span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #3d85c6; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Read a review for Like a Dog: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;">A Chicago critic once asked Nelson Algren," Why can't we ever read about happy marriages?" Algren replied, "Because there are none."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;">Like a Dog shows us the same can be said of the average job. Francone leads us from a purgatorial mail sorting job on the South Side to a rat-infested North Side bookstore (where a budding writer can find a kind of happiness), and finally into academia, where so many writers are forced to labor. Well-told stories, original characters, lots of laughs.</span></span><br />
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Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-24927611804752433852017-10-04T04:08:00.000-07:002017-10-04T04:08:04.961-07:00VINCENT FRANCONE: a voice to reckon with #review #memoir <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfQaHcCxKNuHan0smU7NQW8gqajpcuT3Xe9qhV_K5rCFERGSfYkI5o-_KB81mo1wZ01knvbN-6TrV6d3dJgtUb8UB0HD-2LYoCGFZrtUj-KSD-B6nMe-i33TlAcrl2hNc2kIQJyxmprTR/s1600/LikeADogVin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsfQaHcCxKNuHan0smU7NQW8gqajpcuT3Xe9qhV_K5rCFERGSfYkI5o-_KB81mo1wZ01knvbN-6TrV6d3dJgtUb8UB0HD-2LYoCGFZrtUj-KSD-B6nMe-i33TlAcrl2hNc2kIQJyxmprTR/s320/LikeADogVin.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Like-Dog-Memoir-Vincent-Francone-ebook/dp/B0178IC8IS" target="_blank">GET YOUR COPY HERE!</a></span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Review for LIKE A DOG:</span></span></h3>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Vincent’s colorful escapades in Chicago’s workplace offer the reader witty, dark humor that provides the perfect balance of genuine suspense and Gen-X satire. The book starts out in the Southwest Suburbs with Vincent toiling in dead-end mail sorting job that provides several memorable moments and characters that keep the pages turning. The middle part of the book finds Vincent moving to the North Side and encountering a serious of hilarious encounters with eccentric roommates and questionable residences. Vincent’s time at the storied Aspidstra Book store is where the book really takes off. The various employees and patrons of the book store felt both familiar and timeless. The final portion of the book finds Vincent traversing the world of academia. Rich storytelling combined with razor sharp dialogue painted against the backdrop of 1990's Chicago make this an excellent read, and more importantly, Vincent, a voice to reckon with.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">LIKE A DOG:</span></span></h3>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Vincent Francone’s “Like a Dog,” as in “Work like a dog,” is a great read. A working class guy who comes up on the South Side of Chicago and moves north in a quest a better life, Francone takes us on a dazzling tour of minimum wage America over the last couple of decades. He’s has done it all; “I’ve tried telemarketing, copy writing, editing; I managed a courier center, I conducted background checks on potential healthcare employees, and worked in a stock room. . . .” And that’s before he goes to university and winds up, like so many other academics today, as a part-time instructor in a string of economically stressed public colleges. Francone’s descriptions of boring and soul-destroying work, the places where it’s done, and the people who do it are beautifully written, wildl entertaining, deeply poignant, and mysteriously inspiring. This is what it’s like to be alive in these times, “Like a Dog” insists, this is the battlefield of everyday life. These are your adversaries: mindless repetitive work, bored and boring co-workers, feckless bosses, plus your own inclination to work as little as possible, spend every penny you earn right away, and escape from bad job to bad job, without ever climbing any ladder that might lead to better paid if equally meaningless work. Best of all, this post-industrial odyssey down mean streets and corridors to mean offices and classrooms, dingy apartments, and dead end bars is full of gritty life. Francone is a gifted story- teller with a great, street smart voice. His protagonists and characters are brilliantly drawn.. And in their bafflement and self-destructive resistance to the work regieme that claims them they press back in an utterly realistic way against our recession-bred equation of employment, almost any employment, with salvation. Studs Terkel would have loved this book--John McClure, Phd</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqYKLZ4G7w0Di_CGfSpuyQUv4jOGDV5YtlwKAk_loEzvgtgqrIfVUpDLgUSsdXrkb9uHXOnlDlxMwtEYHpNtlkM5m_i8lP_-hIzNEvQ4N-XRI2AxFZrgj9NiFCnYBFDAr0J5mXpIjFBI6/s1600/Vincent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQqYKLZ4G7w0Di_CGfSpuyQUv4jOGDV5YtlwKAk_loEzvgtgqrIfVUpDLgUSsdXrkb9uHXOnlDlxMwtEYHpNtlkM5m_i8lP_-hIzNEvQ4N-XRI2AxFZrgj9NiFCnYBFDAr0J5mXpIjFBI6/s1600/Vincent.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: 'Amazon Ember', Arial, sans-serif;">Vincent Francone is a writer from Chicago whose memoir, Like a Dog, was published in the fall of 2015. He won first place in the 2009 Illinois Emerging Writers Competition (Gwendolyn Brooks Award) and is at work on a collection of poems and stories. Visit </span><a href="http://www.vincentfrancone.com/" style="font-family: 'Amazon Ember', Arial, sans-serif;">www.vincentfrancone.com</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: 'Amazon Ember', Arial, sans-serif;"> to read his work or say hi.</span></div>
Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-79937213458539977882017-09-28T01:30:00.000-07:002017-09-28T01:30:14.522-07:00Tales from The Hot Dog Grill #review #cabaret <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfs2tD8UxrzeW2zVo_frj35pbmUcDLsin3yeqs0FbZg8-Fg8hKqVnaM5L2EthqHlmH0Uj6tYREIX4n9B_Zj0TlI5PyqisuJM3V2L3qi9hVJn1pvdyoiyRv4fwJKy7Sk2MjKuiBU-p1Xz0C/s1600/BiilyTales.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfs2tD8UxrzeW2zVo_frj35pbmUcDLsin3yeqs0FbZg8-Fg8hKqVnaM5L2EthqHlmH0Uj6tYREIX4n9B_Zj0TlI5PyqisuJM3V2L3qi9hVJn1pvdyoiyRv4fwJKy7Sk2MjKuiBU-p1Xz0C/s1600/BiilyTales.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tales-Hot-Dog-Grill-Uncensored/dp/0999146009" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">GET YOURS HERE!</span></a></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Five Star Review for <i>Tales from the Hot Dog Grill</i> by Billy Ehrlacher!</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is a wonderfully imagined and executed book! A comic, satirical novel disguised as a memoir, it follows the adventures of Jon and Kikki through the underbelly of fast food America paying particular attention to the pomposity of people with power over other people. The author is a seasoned (no pun intended) cabaret performer who uses his biting wit on those whose specialty is making other people's lives miserable, but the reader still emerges with their faith in humankind.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tales from the Hot Dog Grill: </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"The setting of our tale is Doomsdale" and Jon and Kiki's story goes downhill from there! College students, Jon and Kiki work for the OTHER hot dog stand in Doomsdale and their boss, Wicked Wilma, hires them to go underground and work for the popular competition to discover their secret ingredient....hint: it's not the sauce! A modern day Candide, Jon romps through the absurd world of fast food and concludes it's the WORST of all possible worlds.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">About Billy Ehrlacher:</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.blueheronbookworks.com/billy-ehrlacher.html" target="_blank">Billy Ehrlacher</a> obtained a bachelor's degree in theatre from DeSales University. SInce graduating Billy has performed all over the Lehigh Valley as well as in New York City. Some of his past theatre roles include: Robert in Ceiling Art, Forrest in Warped Speed Dating, Lab Tech in Women are From Venus Men are From Uranus, Ahmed in Getting Complete, Barry in Lois's Wedding, Mickey Black in Tony & Tina's Wedding, Sal in Tony & Tina's Wedding, Grumio in Babes in Toyland, Al in The Philadelphia, Snout in a Midsummer Night's Dream, Mike in Dinner With Marney, and Etienne in The Vampire Lesbians of Sodom. and Mohameed in The Tale of the Allergist's Wife among many others. He has performed his well received cabaret act at The Duplex Cabaret Theatre, Don't Tell Mama, and The Laurie Beechman Theatre all in New York City. A civic minded individual Billy is a longtime advocate and a staunch supporterof Downtown Allentown. In 2012 his efforts were awarded with the 2012 Downtown Ambassador Award. Billy also previously hosted his own radio show called, The Billy Show. He is presently working on developing not one but two web soap operas. One has a working title of The Neighborhood, and the other Dumpster City. Billy Ehrlacher resides in Allentown, PA.</span></span></div>
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Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-9247549562356522512017-09-26T03:07:00.004-07:002017-09-26T03:08:43.107-07:00"Since you asked." Behind the Scenes with #BHBW Mastermind @bathshebamonk <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Every fiction writer has a moment... </span></span></h2>
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...when she realizes she wants to spend her life telling stories, and mine is this: I was seven years old, walking to the library on Saturday morning with my older brother. I had been reading since I was four and was addicted to reading for escape, and by Saturday morning, I usually had five books, the library’s limit, ready to exchange. But that week there was one I hadn’t gotten to. I don’t remember its name; only that the cover was illustrated with sepia drawings of owls and woodland creatures. On the top of the pile in my arms, it caught my brother’s attention. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">“What’s that one about?” he asked.</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">My brother never talked to me. He was two years older, involved in his boy’s life and found my world unworthy of his attention. When he asked me a question that required more than yes or no, I was determined to impress him. So I made up a story. For five minutes, as I spun a yarn about a not-so-wise owl raising a skunk, my brother listened attentively and, unbelievably, laughed. I suppose if there had been a dancing bear on the cover, I might be wearing tap shoes right now, but a story was what was wanted, and that was that.</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">My parents had moved from a coal patch near Hazelton, Pennsylvania, and we were living in Bethlehem, the steel Mecca two hours to the south. My father worked days in the steel mill’s blast furnace and nights in a silk mill. My mother worked in a sewing factory. Because they hadn’t the time to make friends in Bethlehem, our entire social life took place on weekends when we drove back to Hazelton to visit our huge extended family. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">It was the early 1970s.</span> </span></span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Many of the underground coal mines in that part of Pennsylvania were closing down, and most of the damage that mining could do to my family had already been done—uncles who died before I knew them, a grandfather who lost an eye in a cave-in, a handsome cousin who dragged an oxygen tank behind him because of black lung. My family seemed to me to be a stable of beasts of burden, discarded when no longer needed and left to wonder what the hell happened to them; a painful exercise, because pack mules are not trained for introspection. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">But life went on. A few of the men got jobs in strip mining, running huge steam shovels that scooped the skin off the ground to access the coal near its surface. It was easier on the men than tunnel mining, but more brutal on the earth, and the landscape of my youth was covered in slate. </span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">I have sixty-four cousins, all older, so I attended lots of weddings where we children were allowed to drink whiskey sours and eat maraschino cherries till we turned red, then green, and a reception could last for days, the polka band playing on until the last dancer dropped a last dollar bill into the accordion player’s case. Everyone in my family danced. It was our way of making recreational conversation. Talk that didn’t impart practical information was suspect.</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">Religion permeated every aspect of our life, as it does for all people whose survival is a lottery. Because my father was Roman Catholic and my mother was a Byzantine Catholic whose church followed the Gregorian calendar, we celebrated every holiday twice: two Christmases, two Easters, two New Years. Services at my mother’s church, St. Peter’s and Paul’s Ukrainian Church, went on for hours; the priest, resplendent in gold lamé, intoned the service in English first, then in Church Slavonic, then in Latin. At Sunday supper at my grandfather’s house after church, before we were allowed to start eating, my mother and her sisters would chant an a cappalle prayer that lasted ten minutes. My mother had sung in the church choir and they all had beautiful voices. But it shocks me now to remember what we prayed for: that the tunnel mines, which paid better wages, would reopen, and our men, by God’s intercession, could go back to being beasts of burden.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">My parents were always exhausted: with three full-time jobs between them, children to support, a house to maintain, and the weekly pilgrimage to the coal region. </span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">P</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;">lus we had taken in a magical, slightly unhinged creature, Babba, my father’s mother, who nicked, scorched, or broke just about every valuable object in our house during manic bouts of housekeeping. My mother spent hours trying to repair the damage, especially Babba’s biggest offence: filling my head with bizarre ideas about life and fantastical gossip about the other neighborhood Babbas: Mrs. Marzak, Mrs. Horwath, and Mrs. Szilborski. To me they looked like Humpty-Dumptys in aprons, but Babba spun stories that made them the most remarkable people in our neighborhood. The clash between Babba’s fanciful visions and my mother’s pragmatic version of life kept our house on constant edge. To escape, I retreated further into books, reading under the sheets until three in the morning by flashlight, and, when allowed, sleeping over in the homes of friends from school. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">Bethlehem was a company town and Steel poured money into the local school system. The kids whose parents managed the steel (among the highest paid executives in the country at that time) attended the local public schools alongside the kids whose dads manned the mills. Reading and writing were top priority, and I seized on the opportunity to write. I wrote for the school weekly. I had a column in the “student” section of the local daily and co-edited an alternative newspaper put out by kids from all the local high schools. By the time I graduated from high school, it was clear I was going to be a writer. Wasn’t I one already?</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So I was outraged when my parents told me that not only would I not be going to college (“Why would a girl go to college, except to find a husband?”) </span></span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">...but that my mother had arranged for the sewing mill where she worked to hire me. They had earmarked me all along to fit into their blue collar niche where, if I got lucky, I’d eventually marry a neighborhood stoker. When I protested that I was a writer, my father said that there was plenty to write about in my spare time “right here, unless you’re blind,” and I answered “maybe, if you’re a brute.” Who wanted to read about the black and blue collar life? John O’Hara and John Updike, my Pennsylvanian writing heroes, never mentioned mines or mills, babbas or their grandfathers’ homemade hootch. Their characters had martini glasses welded to their fists and dressed for work in suits and silk ties.</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">You don’t have be in a cave-in to be buried alive. On my eighteenth birthday, I moved into a boarding house. To everyone who said: once you’ve left, you can’t go home again. I answered: who cares?</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">I was rescued by my mother’s brother, Uncle Mike, who had broken with the family tradition of mining and gone into another business—crime. He invited me to lunch at a swank private club in Allentown, ostensibly to give me some avuncular advice. Like him, I was different, he said, and as he didn’t have any children of his own, he’d decided to help me out. He handed me an envelope full of hundred dollar bills to get me started on my own.</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">I was adrift but afloat, and by the time Uncle Mike’s money began to run low, I had concluded that moving out wasn’t enough of a break with my past. I needed an official annulment, so I enlisted in the Army and got myself stationed in Germany. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Once in Europe, away from coal patches and steel mills,...</span></span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">...I would find out what “real life” was like and would reinvent myself to fit in. I spent my leave in museums and galleries. I traveled to every country I could get to by train, and I ingratiated myself into the European milieu by telling people I wanted to be a painter. I knew enough German and French, which I’d taken in high school, to tell new acquaintances in their own language that I didn’t speak it at all, which they found charming. I was well-read enough to alight comfortably on the surface of most subjects without being asked to bore down. I was an exotic to the Europeans I met: an American who wasn’t an American. I don’t know why I found that flattering, because it meant I was nothing at all. What was I?</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">After my enlistment was up, I stayed in Europe, getting my undergraduate degree from the University of Maryland’s European Division, working in the university textbook office, and studying painting with a teacher there. If I occasionally met someone from Pennsylvania and they asked where I was from, I said I was an army brat who’d never stayed in one place long enough to call it home. Or I claimed that my entire family had died in a plane crash, which people found too grisly to pursue or too preposterous to believe. I wasn’t alone in this. Expatriate communities are full of people who have discarded former selves and no one asks for details.</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">Part of my metamorphosis included marrying someone as far away from me on the social meter as possible: a WASP I met in Paris. We came back to the States briefly to make it official. We got married by a JP on the wrong side of Bethlehem, with a junkie banging on the door during the ceremony, trying to “borrow” ten bucks. I wore a black motorcycle jacket and our wedding pictures were taken in a photo booth in a mall.</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">That my family couldn’t understand what he did for a living (banking) was part of his appeal. </span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">“What does he do? What does he make?” </span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">“Money. He makes money, Mother.” </span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">My appeal to him was that I had never seen the inside of a country club. I was refreshing. He wanted to disown his background too and marrying me was a coup because his family had never encountered anyone from my social class before, at least not at the dinner table. One of the few times I saw any of them, we visited two of his cousins in London, where one taught acting and the other worked as the financial advisor to an Arab sheik. When they tired of tearing each other apart after too many glasses of Cutty Sark, they turned on me and told Polish jokes. I felt like I was in a Tennessee Williams play, but at least I was now part of a people who didn’t carry their lunch in a pail when they went to work. </span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">Somewhere along the way, my husband and I decided to stop being the heavy artillery for the each other’s wars. And after we parted, I began to write in earnest. I had tasted enough life beyond the “dark satanic mills” to allow me to invent sophisticated worlds that starred me as a really cool person. </span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">My divorce made me think I could write about divorce, specifically a hip divorce lawyer with a Scottish terrier (I’d always wanted a dog, an unthinkable luxury in a family that had enough work taking care of its humans) who solves a murder! The pages dripped with characters saying what I thought were cool, witty things to one another, in a cool, hip environment. The murder was incidental. Nobody liked the guy or missed him when he was gone. And the divorce part was weak: I was friends with my ex, so what could I know about the real pain and loneliness caused by a less-than-friendly separation? The feedback I got on that novel was, “Are you making fun of divorce, divorce lawyers, or the entire mystery genre?”</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">But like a train unable to brake, I kept going, manuscripts piling up behind me like squashed box cars. If I was unsure of myself because of my unsophisticated upbringing and patchwork education, my literary alter-ego could be brazen, confident. I would write about things that were shiny and smart and “full of money”.</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">I wrote another novel, about a woman from a bourgeois family, who brings a cell of terrorists to their knees; a screenplay about a painter who becomes the toast of the New York City art world; a novel about twin child actresses who……It doesn’t matter. A friend who read everything I’d written at the time asked me if it was just a coincidence that the father character in every story was killed off. </span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">By this time, I had stayed away from home for almost twenty years. I’d returned to the States, and was living in Boston, selling paintings out of my studio. It was the first time in my adult life that I owned a television. I can testify to its addictive quality because I know more about Boston sports teams than I think is normal. But there was one interview that struck me, an old re-run (Boston loves to replay its glory days) of a local sportscaster talking to a then-young Larry Bird. How, the interviewer asked, could he anticipate where he was supposed to be on the court? Bird said that when he was playing, it was as if suddenly everything was in slow motion, and a split second before it actually happened he saw the play unfold in front of him—saw where the ball would end up—and he would go there to catch it, shoot it, or hit the open man. </span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">That seemed like good advice for writing. Slow life down, see the ball arcing through the air, landing in the hands of the open man. But to anticipate what happens next, you have to have practiced on the terrain. You can’t write about what you don’t know.</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">And what did I know? I knew myself, of course. I knew my own struggle to deny where I had come from, thinking a change of scene would change who I was. The human heart in conflict with itself, as William Faulkner said, is the only thing worth writing about. And I knew all about that. </span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">The settings for my next stories chose themselves--slate piles and slag heaps, breakers and blast furnaces. The characters were varied: Babbas bargaining with God, men defining themselves by their jobs and despairing when they lost them, runaways trying to succeed in Hollywood, working class women selling their souls to step into the middle class. I’m always startled when people ask which character I identify with, because it’s obvious: they’re all me.</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">My brother phoned me two years ago to tell me that my father was ill and that I should go home to make peace with him. I had sent him my writing over the years, still fishing for fraternal approval, and he admonished me: don’t show Dad your new writing. It will upset him to see how you see him.</span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">My father and I had kept up a barely civil connection—Christmas cards signed with his full legal name as if I might not remember who “Dad” was. At our first meeting, because we were both nervous and because we’d never really talked, I handed him a couple of my latest stories to break the ice. He read them right then, and, amazingly, he laughed. He didn’t, he said, think I’d been paying attention. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In my writing I had already come home, so I decided to stay. </span></span></h2>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 13px;">Occasionally now, I take my Dad for drives. We inspect the ruins of the steel mill where he worked, which, in a cosmic joke, is being converted into gambling casinos. We drive up to the coal region to see who--a few relatives--and what--a little strip mining--is left. When the coal miners in West Virginia were asphyxiated in a tunnel explosion this winter, he took it with a matter-of-factness I’d always found brutish but which I now saw was the stoicism of our kind. He’s from a breed of people that do dangerous work, live hard lives, let God decide their fate, and don’t talk about it much. </span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">Because what, he asks me, is there to say? </span><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><br style="font-size: 13px;" /><span style="font-size: 13px;">Well, as it turns out, I answer, quit a bit. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;">Connect with Bathsheba Monk here: </span><a href="http://www.bathshebamonk.com/">http://www.bathshebamonk.com</a></span></div>
Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-51003220510688463452017-09-18T07:46:00.000-07:002017-09-18T07:46:59.854-07:00What inspires the setting of a novel? #mondayblogs #amwriting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the base of the low mountain range Steigerwald, in a fertile little hollow called the Edelgraben, there once stood a sheep farm. The first inkling of this farm appears in the Dachsbach registry in 1450 as ‘Sigartzhoffe’ belonging to a man named Peter Sighart. The good man paid a chicken and some grain to settle his taxes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Over the years, thorough searches in the archives have produced a few registry entries, a sentence here, a mere crumb of information there, regarding this mysterious farm: Sigartshoff, Sycharczhoff, Sichartshof. According to an undated entry in the Dachsbach registry that is believed to be before the Thirty Years War, around the year 1600, the little farm had grown into an accumulation of acreage of farmed fields, grasslands, and ponds for farming fish.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A patrician from Nuremberg named Sebald Tucher is then documented as having owned Sichartshof in 1629. He bought the farm from the widow Margarethe Hansen and had acquired more land to work. By this time, Sichartshof lay unprotected in the Aisch River Valley, the valley a well-travelled route for mercenary troops involved in the Thirty Years War.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why would Sebald Tucher leave Nuremberg, a city protected behind massive, impenetrable walls, and move out to a country manor amid this time of agitation? Did he want to hunt? Did he want to drink? Did he need the products that the farm could yield for his family in Nuremberg? How did he live? Who lived there with him?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This forgotten hamlet is the inspiration for the farm named Sichardtshof in the historical novel series Heaven's Pond. For the answer to these questions and more, read the historical novel <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Master-Maid-Heavens-Pond-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B01F9KYWCC" rel="noopener" target="_blank">The Master and the Maid</a> and <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Soldiers-Return-Heavens-Pond-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B074RKR9R1/" target="_blank">The Soldier's Return</a>. The forgotten hamlet comes alive again, its story just waiting to be told!</span>Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-72754030837072275772017-09-15T01:00:00.000-07:002017-09-15T01:00:17.988-07:00#newrelease THE SOLDIER'S RETURN #histfic <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B074WCJGDR/" rel="noopener" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">Book 2 in the HEAVEN’S POND Trilogy</a> is now available in paperback, for your Kindle, and FREE with the Kindle Unlimited lending library.</span></strong></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW_gTjTCHRvjjIBscQ_S4EafzdBJ4pLJnU2cmXYD7Zpgr0fAth8mfXDkcfIAjDd3Qy19a4MohplgiSm343BAjmD_gvRDDKthbrfTWASSHbRFabDML31DyWBX9JQJup_d8H_BdEFSmAZ-xQ/s1600/SoldiersReturn+700k.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW_gTjTCHRvjjIBscQ_S4EafzdBJ4pLJnU2cmXYD7Zpgr0fAth8mfXDkcfIAjDd3Qy19a4MohplgiSm343BAjmD_gvRDDKthbrfTWASSHbRFabDML31DyWBX9JQJup_d8H_BdEFSmAZ-xQ/s320/SoldiersReturn+700k.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://bit.ly/TheSoldiersReturn" target="_blank">Get yours here! </a></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The year is 1626. A senseless war rips through parts of Germany. Ongoing animosity between the Catholics and the Protestants has turned into an excuse to destroy much of the landscape situated between France, Italy and Denmark. But religion only plays a minor role in this lucrative business of war.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The young dutchman, Pieter van Diemen, returns to Amsterdam in chains after a period of imprisonment in the Spice Islands. He manages to escape but must leave Amsterdam in a hurry. Soldiers are in demand in Germany and he decides to travel with a regiment until he can desert. His hope of survival is to reach Sichardtshof, the farm in Franconia, Germany; the farm he left ten years ago. His desire to seek refuge with them lies in his fond memories of the maid Katarina and her master, the humanist patrician Herr Tucher. But ten years is a long time and the farm has changed. Franconia is not only torn by war but falling victim to a church-driven witch hunt. The Jesuit priest, Ralf, has his sights set on Sichardtshof as well. Ralf believes that ridding the area of evil will be his saving grace. Can Pieter, Katarina and Herr Tucher unite to fight against a senseless war out of control?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLTsTVYI_9V31t3BdyzNsv_E2a7XbX4jLVCIaLwv_7_gEd9-HOra-4AiGFeRSnxINkMbMegwp5ie3lj83PnMmBSjpmfHfk5KvWu_8MqVgyWO7Ywqhvfcgo35r2gDYcybd9-VO-dMTc2vP/s1600/IMG_6642sq_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1513" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLTsTVYI_9V31t3BdyzNsv_E2a7XbX4jLVCIaLwv_7_gEd9-HOra-4AiGFeRSnxINkMbMegwp5ie3lj83PnMmBSjpmfHfk5KvWu_8MqVgyWO7Ywqhvfcgo35r2gDYcybd9-VO-dMTc2vP/s320/IMG_6642sq_sm.jpg" width="302" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.lauralibricz.com/" target="_blank">Laura Libricz</a> was born and raised in Bethlehem PA and moved to Upstate New York when she was 22. After working a few years building Steinberger guitars, she received a scholarship to go to college. She tried to ‘do the right thing’ and study something useful, but spent all her time reading German literature.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She earned a BA in German at The College of New Paltz, NY in 1991 and moved to Germany, where she resides today. When she isn’t writing she can be found sifting through city archives, picking through castle ruins or aiding the steady flood of musical instruments into the world market. <span style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Her first novel, </span><i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Master and the Maid</i><span style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">, is the first book of the Heaven’s Pond Trilogy. </span><i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Soldier’s Return</i><span style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> and </span><i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Ash and Rubble</i><span style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> are the second and third books in the series.</span></span></div>
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<span style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Connect with Laura online: <a href="https://about.me/lauralibricz" target="_blank">https://about.me/lauralibricz</a></span></span></h3>
Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2024255049999482676.post-1358739246206193152017-09-12T04:14:00.001-07:002017-09-12T04:14:16.348-07:00View rare #video footage of Bethlehem #steel plant #KU <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/5Y0tm1X4qrc/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/5Y0tm1X4qrc?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">Spotlight on #BHBW author Larry James Neff</span></h3>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">On November 16th, 1990 at 8:04 AM, rigger</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Larry-James-Neff/e/B00N66NSUY" target="_blank">Larry James Neff</a> filmed his Bethlehem </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">Steel crew working on ore bridge #1 in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, USA. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dedicated to brother rigger Pete Chando (1951-2010).</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">Larry's memoir, </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Rigger-Memoir-High-School-Steel-ebook/dp/B00N0D2OQW/" target="_blank">Rigger: A Memoir from High School to High Steel</a>, is now available for Kindle and can be read for free with the Kindle Unlimited lending library!</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUa-ovBKDeKSpjg1GmUN1HDL6qZxl_NPET053RbxvFK1ef1v7J3YYuqxY-FUkez76ljd-AJYo4BT6u0uDKrV1hm97ABvis_DUwY0nHQR9i75cUEBF4fFe1kLnbfEk6UJIIs66G45nElA_/s1600/RiggerLarry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUa-ovBKDeKSpjg1GmUN1HDL6qZxl_NPET053RbxvFK1ef1v7J3YYuqxY-FUkez76ljd-AJYo4BT6u0uDKrV1hm97ABvis_DUwY0nHQR9i75cUEBF4fFe1kLnbfEk6UJIIs66G45nElA_/s320/RiggerLarry.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">Rigger:</span></h3>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">This world doesn’t exist anymore. It was a time when jobs were plentiful and workers were scarce. The Vietnam War raged on, dividing the county. The sexual revolution was here, embraced with open arms. The selective service was collecting young men who didn’t wish to be soldiers. Women sought a well-deserved equality. Music was changing, giving us protest songs to help stop a war. It was a time when, with only a high school diploma, you could follow your father into a high-paying but very dangerous industry. This is a story of a young man’s quest, raised on traditional morals and values, to find his way through this tumultuous era, adhering to some of his values and discarding others.</span></div>
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<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">It is also a story of survival in the very dangerous occupation of “hanging iron”. Mr. Neff, the son of a steelworker, joined the ranks of Bethlehem Steel employees in 1972, and became a rigger in 1975. The rigger crews in the Steel Company did the jobs that were deemed too high, too hard, or too dangerous for other departments to handle. They also had a certain reputation for being somewhat crazy, but able to get the job done.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">This is a sometimes light-hearted and always uncensored view of day-to-day work in the Bethlehem Steel mill. You’ll read about close brushes with death, about a young woman’s quest to become the first female rigger in a male-dominated workplace, and the playful and sometimes rough antics of co-workers. This book talks of life among rivers of molten iron, walking steel hundreds of feet in the air, and the men (and the woman) who were tough enough to do it. You’ll read of “snakes”, rats, ghosts, picking locks, explosions planned and unplanned. It will illicit snorts of laughter and perhaps a tear or two, and give you a view into a world that few have ever known.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">About Larry:</span></span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: 'Amazon Ember', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Larry Neff was born and raised in Bethlehem, PA, the son of a steelworker. He worked at Bethlehem Steel from 1972 until the plant closed in 1999. His love of climbing helped him earn a place with the rigger crews that did the jobs deemed too high, too hard, or too dangerous for other Bethlehem Steel departments to handle. Larry has two sons, Jared, 33, and Adam, 29. He still lives in Bethlehem, still loves hiking and climbing, and is working on his next book.</span></div>
Laura Libricz, Authoresshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12794277166597726678noreply@blogger.com0