Read the 5* buzz for THE SOLDIER'S RETURN @historicalfiction #series from #BHBW

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! 

From Donna Maguire of Donna's Book Blog: "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.

"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.

"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.

"Five stars from me for this one – a really enjoyable read!"

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN is available here:    Kindle Edition     Paperback Edition

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.

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?

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Misdemeanor Outlaw: Jim McGarrah's Path and Some #Boomer Criticism from a Gen Xer #genx

Vincent Francone

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 www.vincentfrancone.com to read his work or say hi. 

#BHBW author Vincent Francone reviews Jim McGarrah's memoir, Midemeanor Outlaw

 

In his funny, self-lacerating look at Baby Boomers, Balsamic Dreams, 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. 

Most of the Boomers I know— 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 the 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 Misdemeanor Outlaw with a bit of trepidation.  Do I really want to read 180-pages of Boomer self-aggrandizement? I asked myself.  Turns out I was wrong about the book, though not 100% wrong about Boomers.
 

Available here!

(Side note: All writers are self-aggrandizing.  I aspire to be part of the club; I wrote a memoir and asked people to read it; 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.) 

But here’s the thing about Misdemeanor Outlaw: 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).

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. 

Aside from that one paragraph, I was far more engaged, amused, and compelled by Misdemeanor Outlaw than I expected to be.  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. 

It would be remiss not to remark on the quality of McGarrah’s humorous, unflinching prose.  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 Misdemeanor Outlaw, 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. 

LIKE A DOG by VINCENT FRANCONE available here!

 

"Since you asked." Behind the Scenes with #BHBW Mastermind @bathshebamonk

Every fiction writer has a moment... 

...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. 

“What’s that one about?” he asked.

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.

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. 

It was the early 1970s.  

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. 

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.  

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.

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.

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.  

Plus 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. 

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?

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?”) 

...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.

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?

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.

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. 

Once in Europe, away from coal patches and steel mills,...

...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?

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.

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.

That my family couldn’t understand what he did for a living (banking) was part of his appeal. 

“What does he do? What does he make?” 

“Money.  He makes money, Mother.” 

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. 

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. 

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?”

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”.

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. 

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. 

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.

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.  

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.

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.

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.   

In my writing I had already come home, so I decided to stay.  

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. 

Because what, he asks me, is there to say? 

Well, as it turns out, I answer, quit a bit.     

Connect with Bathsheba Monk here: http://www.bathshebamonk.com

View rare #video footage of Bethlehem #steel plant #KU

Spotlight on #BHBW author Larry James Neff

On November 16th, 1990 at 8:04 AM, rigger Larry James Neff filmed his Bethlehem Steel crew working on ore bridge #1 in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, USA. Dedicated to brother rigger Pete Chando (1951-2010).

Larry's memoir, Rigger: A Memoir from High School to High Steel, is now available for Kindle and can be read for free with the Kindle Unlimited lending library!

Rigger:

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.

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.

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.

About Larry:

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.

BHBW Swanson Herbinko #cozymystery series is free on #KU @bathshebamonk

Boston society divorce lawyer Swanson Herbinko knows better than to mix business with pleasure, but what if this particular pleasure is Hidalgo, a man who knows his way about her BMW as well as he knows his way around her body? And what if the business is finding out who murdered Carlton Stubbs, a Trump-like developer whose wife, Matilda, Swanson is representing in their pending divorce?Swanson dives into the stormy waters of Beacon Hill society—becoming a target herself as her sources turn up dead—to solve the murder with the help of her fierce dachshund Devil Dog. The only question that remains is whether Swanson will wind up just like her sources… DEAD.​

Did you know the fabulous Swanson Herbinko Series is available for Kindle it's FREE to read in the Kindle Unlimited lending library?

Get yours here:

Dead Wrong (Cozy Mystery): A Swanson Herbinko Mystery (The Swanson Herbinko Mystery Series Book 1)

Dead Silence (Cozy Mystery): Swanson goes to France and gets in an international food fight (The Swanson Herbinko Mystery Series Book 2)

Dead Karma (Cozy Mystery) (The Swanson Herbinko Mystery Series): Swanson on a yoga retreat in Tulum, Mexico

Dead Stick: A Swanson Herbinko Mystery by Bathsheba Monk and Joe Taleroski

More books by Bathsheba Monk:  Bathsheba's Amazon Author Page 

Connect with Joe Taleroski here: http://www.joetaleroski.com

#BHBW Books you can read for free with #KindleUnlimited

Blue Heron Book Works books now available in Kindle!

Did you know you could read our best-loved books for free with the Kindle lending library program?  Here's an overview of our titles now available for immediate download:

Rigger: A Memoir from High School to High Steel

by Larry James Neff

Man Has Premonition of Own Death: An Ancestor's Strange Demise and Other Mortal Matters

by Nicholas DiGiovanni

Like a Dog: A Memoir

by Vincent Francone

Off Track: or How I Dropped Out of College and Came to be a Horse Trainer in the 1970s While All My Friends Were Still Doing Drugs

by Jim McGarrah

Misdemeanor Outlaw: A Memoir

by Jim McGarrah

Map of Life and Beauty

by Fanny Barry

Last Call (Memoir): My Mother's Descent Into Darkness

by Paul Heller

Have Love (Have a Life Book 1)

by Maddy Wells

FOLLOW US ON TWITTER! https://twitter.com/BlueHeronBW

FOLLOW US ON FACEBOOK! https://www.facebook.com/blueheronbookworks/

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#BookRelease BHBW announces new #memoir by Billy Ehrlacher!

Available here in paperback!

Tales from the Hot Dog Grill: The Uncensored Memoirs of a Food Service Engineer 

by Billy Ehrlacher

"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.

About the author:

Billy Ehrlacher 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.

Tales from the Hot Dog Grill is available here: click here to view the paperback book

Here's Billy's author page over at BHBW: http://www.blueheronbookworks.com/billy-ehrlacher.html

Spotlight on #BHBW author Paul Misencik, Sr. #memoir

While most people scramble to keep up with one life, Paul Misencik Sr. is busy living about five. And Blue Heron Book Works is thrilled to announce that we are publishing his memoir FLYING early next year. 

This is Paul: At the age of four Paul took his first airplane ride in a 1929 Ford Trimotor, made of corrugated aluminum and lovingly nicknamed the “Tin Goose.” He still vividly remembers that first plane ride. From then on, Paul was hooked on airplanes, learning to fly before he could drive. He wooed the love of his life, Sally, at the age of fifteen by taking her on several airplane rides. Sally was blissfully unaware at the time that Paul wasn’t yet old enough to qualify for a pilot’s license.

Paul is a native of Northern Ohio. Graduated University of Akron, 1963, M.A. American History specializing in Native American Culture and Colonial American History. While in high school, he was a regular on a Saturday afternoon TV show hosted by Jimmy 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, he 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.

Paul love of American history has resulted in three published non-fiction books that are based on his life-long research. The titles are: The Original American Spies: Seven Covert Agents of the Revolutionary War, and George Washington and the Half King Chief Tanacharison: An Alliance That Began the French and Indian War. His third book is Sally Townsend: George Washington’s Teenage Spy, which will be published in 2015. Besides compiling Paul’s memoirs, he and Sally are currently researching their fourth book on 18th Century Indian villages and trails in the Ohio territory.

Paul has been married to Sally Misencik since 1963, and they live in Reston, Virginia. They have two children Karen Misencik Carter and Paul Jr. Karen and her husband Tom live in Arlington, Virginia, and Paul Jr. and his wife Altamira live in Javea, Spain with their two children Diego and Mateo.

The ceremonial handing over of the manuscript! Aviator and historian Paul Misencik traveled to Alllentown to turn in his memoir, well also to do some research on his fourth book which he is writing with his wife, Sally Misencik. Of course, they didn't have to come to Allentown to turn in his manuscript, that's what email is all about, but it's a lot more fun to celebrate in person! These are tales from inside the cockpit, and really, you can't make this stuff up and we can't wait to have it ready for you to read.

Spotlight on #BHBW author @LynnieGodfrey #memoir

Sharing Lessons Learned While Seeking the Spotlight

This book includes Lynnie Godfrey’s memories of working with celebrities, including the late dancer and actor Gregory Hines, who introduced her to her husband Carl E. Lee and was the best man at her wedding; songwriters Burton Lane and Sammy Cahn; and Norman Lear, producer of “All in the Family” and its spinoff “704 Hauser.” Godfrey had a leading role in that later show. She even forgot until recently that she was in a play called “Mama Liberty” with Tim Robbins (in fairness, he wore a mask for his part.)

The book follows Godfrey’s career, including performing a show-stopping number in “Eubie!” on Broadway, right before Gregory Hines’ number and right after one by his brother, Maurice. She played Lola in “Damn Yankees,” the stepmother in “Cinderella,” and the title role in “The Snow Queen,” parts rarely or never done by black women. She even landed a role originally designed, she says, for a “Cybill Shepherd type,” playing Helen the Computer for “The New Monkees” TV show.

Connect with Lynnie online: www.lynniegodfrey.com

Connect with Lynnie on twitter: https://twitter.com/LynnieGodfrey

On Facebook: www.facebook.com/Lynnie-Godfrey

Spotlight on #YA author Maddy Wells @BlueHeronBW

Maddy Wells (born 1986) is the author of the "Have a Life" series, three novels which explore the moral landscape of American woman from 1967 to the present. The first book in the series, "Have Love", released on Kindle on Oct. 15, 2016, is set in the Summer of Love, in New York City. The second novel, "Have Mercy", is about the daughter and granddaughter of the heroine in the first--the granddaughter having to navigate the waters of finding her voice as an artist at the same time dealing with an immature mother who is arrested for having sex with a student.The third book, "Have Faith", to be released next year, continues the theme of abortion and love which is begun in the first book.

Here is Maddy Wells' author page at Blue Heron Book Works

Have Mercy: 

Mercy O'Reilly's life plan is to become a rock goddess, a deity in the tradition of Patti Smith or Lady GaGa or maybe Madonna.  This is no pipe dream:  she's got the blue's blood because rock n' roll is the family business.  Her father is The Griffin, a metal rock god, her mother a mere mortal ex-groupie turned high school teacher.  Mercy is their love child so all the mythic elements are in place.

Mercy's made a fine start.  She has: a band, a hand-me-down Fender, juvenile deliquents for parents, ambition and talent.

What she needs now are words for her songs.  When Jane is arrested for conduct unbecoming a teacher the court awards custody to her dreadful grandmother.  

"Universe have mercy," she prays and the response is "Go on the road, my dear!  It's the ultimate rock place and solution to what ails the rock soul.  And most importantly:  it's fun!