Don't Know Jack - by Diane Capri - A Book Review

Don't Know Jack is the first book in the Hunt For Jack Reacher Series by Diane Capri. Its corollary book by Lee Child, Killing Floor, was made into a TV Series starring Alan Ritchson.

This fun read is a find for Reacher's die-hard fans who yearn to keep the Reacher story going. Diane Capri's novels give fans exactly they're hoping for, reuniting the reader with familiar characters and introducing new, memorable ones.

In this story, Kim Otto, Special Agent with the FBI, is assigned is to track down a trained killer, Retired Army Major Jack Reacher who's suspected in the murder of multiple people in Georgia.

Otto is a tightly-wound, overachiever. The daughter of a Vietnam veteran and a Vietnamese woman, Kim Otto is ninety-eight pounds of dynamite in a ten-pound package.

As the senior agent on the Special Personnel Task Force, she's paired up with Agent Carlos Gaspar, a 44-year-old with four kids. He's recovering from an on-the-job injury that keeps him in constant pain. Otto at times questions his suitability when she catches him limping and popping pain killers.

Gaspar hopes to put in his remaining twenty years and retire to Florida with the family. His calm demeanor both agitates and calms his new partner as he eats and sleeps his way along passing out deadpan remarks like candy.

The pairing of this odd couple adds a light-hearted element as they weave in and out of tricky situations and grow more efficient at guessing one another’s strategies.

Kim Otto finds no track record of Reacher in any of the alphabet agencies. No one seems to know where Reacher is and, more than likely, he doesn't want to be found. He has no footprint on social media, no known address, no phone, and no financial ties. He was last seen 15 years earlier in Margrave, Georgia after a crime syndicate was busted and a bunch of criminals were left dead, likely Reacher’s doing.

“Reacher had investigated, arrested, subdued, and otherwise dealt with some of the most highly trained soldiers on earth, all of them capable of extreme violence. He had done it by matching their violence with his own. He was a killer.”

Flying white-knuckled aboard a pre-dawn flight from Detroit to Atlanta, Agent Otto uses the time to review the case files sent encrypted by her boss. She's been instructed to keep the assignment completely off-the-books and under the radar. There will be no official acknowledgement of her duties which makes her job more difficult. 

The more she studies the scant files the less comfortable she becomes with the case. She knows if she messes up her career is in jeopardy.

Before she left home, street-smart and business-savvy Kim Otto had copied the documents into a separate file on a non-shared device. Too many people had access to the general FBI files and too many careers had been destroyed by loose lips.

She’d learned to CYA when it came to assignments.

Otto and Gaspar begin their search by conducting interviews of Reacher’s last known associates starting with Chief Roscoe of the Margrave Police, one of the few remaining officers that were on staff at the time.

To cover their real mission, Otto explains that the FBI Specialized Personnel Task Force is conducting a thorough background investigation of retired major, Jack Reacher. Having been in direct contact with Reacher in the past, Roscoe's was one of the case files sent from the boss.

The secrecy and urgency of the assignment worries Otto as too much information is missing. Having reviewed Reacher’s military file, she knew her task would not be easy. He would be like no candidate she’d investigated before.

“Reacher had investigated, arrested, subdued, and otherwise dealt with some of the most highly trained soldiers on earth, all of them capable of extreme violence. He had done it by matching their violence with his own. He was a killer.”

There had been one strongly-emphasized point in the 3-minute pre-dawn telephone call from Otto’s boss. They were to arrive at the interview location of the first subject no later than 11:30 am. Gaspar and Otto arrived at the Margrave police station by 11:15 am, giving them fifteen minutes to chat up the local Chief of Police before the deadline.

The timing of their arrival proved to be a key factor of the entire operation, putting them in position to investigate a local murder alongside of local law enforcement.

At precisely eleven-thirty a call came into the Chief of Police’s office. Someone’s been murdered and Otto and Gaspar’s interview is interrupted. They convince the Chief to let them tag along to the crime scene. While still in pursuit of their main target, clues took them down a  new path that revealed a stash of hidden cash, a treacherous wife and the murder of another police officer.

After taking some photos and making their own private observations, they drive back toward Atlanta to rest and regroup. As they’re checking into their hotel, Otto’s phone rings. It’s her boss. She feels certain he’s planted a GPS tracking device since he always seems to know where she is. Sleep deprived, rain soaked, and hungry, she’s ordered to submit a complete report by ten pm. By ten-thirty, they’re to be on a plane headed for Kennedy Airport in NY.

Their second target interview also has precise timing built into their two am arrival. As time ticks away and their plans falter. Elegant, immaculately dressed, politically well-connected, Finlay shows up late with cryptic bits of knowledge that he keeps close at hand. In a short twenty minutes, the agents realize this assignment goes far deeper than expected and their hopes for a swift conclusion to the assignment are dashed.

Weaving in and out of tricky situations, twists and turns keep the reader turning pages as the agents grow closer to their ultimate target, Jack Reacher.

This fun read meets the needs of Reacher's die-hard fans who want to keep the Reacher story going. A fast-paced crime thriller Diane Capri's novels give fans exactly they're hoping to find when searching for Jack Reacher.

A Glimpse of Office Work in 1979

Salander, Nils, CC BY 4.0 Wikimedia Commons

How I miss the clacking of typewriter keys in the claustrophobic office where I worked in 1979. Yes, that was the dark ages before the Internet and personal computers.

Things were different in offices.

As loan clerks we slaved over hot typewriters shuffling paper files around on our desks trying to look busy. The constant keyboard noise made our supervisor think we were hard at work. Most of the time we weren't.

My office co-conspirator was a gorgeous blonde with plans to move beyond the limiting duties of a file clerk. Our daily tribute to the company was singing in the breakroom, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose . . ." while we sipped coffee. When we weren't singing we were reading the want ads and looking for new jobs.

I was going through some difficulties. I'd closed my hair salon after my partner bailed. Now, she was suing me for "her half" of the business, a joke, since we had three mortgages and no equity. Clearly, she was going through life's hardships, too, a messy divorce. For the first time in her life, she was trying to support herself. Me, too. Although my divorce was years behind me.

Working at the mortgage company, Trish (the dish) and I would clack away on our typewriters writing personal notes whenever we got bored with our files, which was often. Surprisingly, we were the most productive clerks in the department with loads of files cleared so they could be sold to investors.

Going through old things this morning I found a couple of our silly notes and they made me laugh. What good times those were, despite the low salary, the grueling rush-hour traffic, and the abysmal bull pen where we spent our youthful days. Still, we laughed, went to lunch together, complained about the free coffee and tried to earn our keep until we moved on with our careers.

Ah, the carefree days of youth. Here's a song that reminds me of the times: Me and Bobby McGee.

Auld Acquaintances

Sometimes at night they come to mind

The obscure folks long left behind

The kids I knew in second grade

What fine life choices have they made?

Which random paths have intertwined?

Were theirs of fate or well-designed?

Did they falter or succeed?

What became of them, indeed?

Would our lives have changed or veered

From the trails we felt them steered?

What became of Mrs. Price?

She made a point to treat me nice.

What tales of Linda, Meg and Mike

Who rode to school upon a bike

Grandmas now or soon to be

Who've grown and raised a family

The days of carefree joy long-past

Have they led lives that long will last?

Or hidden in obscurity

And picked a recluse life like me?

What tales we'll tell again we meet

By chance upon some pearly street

Remembering days of youth long-past

Those days grew short and went by fast.

© Peggy Cole 2019

All rights reserved.

Everyone Has A Story - The Tough Part is Getting It Out

 

Memoirs & Other Tall Tales, Peggy Cole

Coming soon to Amazon on eBook and in Paperback

It's been a long, hot summer and my muse has been mostly on vacation until this week. My recent desire to work on my latest book is a welcome change to previous neglect. I find that posting about my progress (or lack of it) makes me work harder either out of guilt or shame. Who knows?

I've passed the halfway point of putting together this collection of stories, some old, some new, some familiar to those who know me from other writing sites. I hope that these stories have been improved by all the time I've spent editing stuff that's already written. That has to be the worst part of writing a book, but a necessary part. 

Years of gathering information from family members, friends, even adversaries, indicates that everybody has a story to tell. The hard part is making the effort to write it down. And then, properly changing the names of the guilty (fictional characters) before publishing.

So I'm off to my battered keyboard which bears signs of my abuse. My ballpein-hammer style of typing is a gift learned during the old manual typewriter days of my youth.

This prototype cover, designed and created by Michael Friedman, is printed out and tacked to the wall in clear view of my laptop in hopes it will inspire or guilt me into working on my story. Over and out for this post and back to work. 

Happy writing to all aspiring and actual writers. All hands on deck, fellow authors!

Thursday's word count: 38,047 at 207 pages 8/25/2022

Saturday's word count: 42,056 at 225 pages 8/27/2022

Tuesday's word count: 48,020 at 240 pages 8/30/2022 

Friday's word count: 50,957 9/8/2022

An Ax To Grind by Frank Atanacio, A Book Review

In this fantasy fiction Novel by Frank Atanacio, Nick P.T. Barnum, a crime solving private detective works his magic to solve a case about murder, revenge and copy-cat killers.

This story features courtroom drama and reveals loopholes that criminals use to exploit the system with the aid of legal counsel.

No one likes it when a crook is set free because of a legal technicality, except for the criminal. 

"Even the best, most respected lawyers will defend someone as sick and twisted as Willie the Greek for the right price."

The author expertly sets a scene where drug dealers are waiting to secure their supply source when a dispute breaks out and a stray bullet hits an unintended victim. The aftermath of that unintentional murder is the basis for this murder mystery featuring the quirky and likable detective, Nick P.T. Barnum.

For those unfamiliar with the idiom, "An Ax to Grind," the UK definition suggests that it refers to a person that holds a grudge or a beef against someone with a private end to serve. The phrase likely comes from the act of sharpening an ax with the intention of using it to take revenge. Quora defines it as "To have a grievance with someone, especially where one feels the need to seek damaging retribution."

Revenge is the motive for a string of murders perpetrated by the primary suspect, Gary Manda, in the case after his young child is slain. Gary is the son of virtuous, well-respected, and God fearing matriarch, Mable Manda, who is torn between her desire for retribution of her grandchild's murder and her strong Biblical beliefs.

Private detective, Nick Barnum, walks a thin line between sympathy for his friend, Mable's loss, and the compelling desire to hunt down and find a serial murderer.

Atanacio is well equipped to serve up portions of suspense, humor, camaraderie, justice and reality in this fast-paced fiction story where many of the characters are familiar from his previous novels. Between Willie the Greek and his Bridgeport Police Department companions, the author spins a web of intrigue and mystery that puts P.T. Barnum to task in solving the case. The detective's sense of humor and self deprecatory nature is endearing often revealed in his "boy bashing" meals shared with other agents of the law.

The author mixes playful, flirtatious banter into the interactions between police officers, office staff, and restaurant servers inviting the reader into the scene with the natural flow of colorful characters.

Set in Bridgeport, Connecticut, the story takes the reader on an adventure that incorporates elements of the legal system, the criminal mind, a hint of romance for a not-so-perfect aging detective and realistic portrayals of characters in their station of life.

Barnum's office assistant is a sassy, young, adept and impressionable character whose full story is not revealed, leaving the reader to form certain conclusions as to her true nature and desires. She holds her own against the detective who can dish it out as well as take it on the chin. Their playful banter and casual working relationship is an enjoyable sideline to the story.

Frank's use of the common vernacular of the different characters is authentic and believable, leading the reader to assume the author knows these characters in person. He doesn't shy away from uncomfortable or politically incorrect slang that makes the dialogue flow smoothly as if spoken on the street.

He can effectively capture the stirrings of young love and the angst of a young man who has feelings for his first crush. The author's mastery of the characters brings them to life allowing the reader to empathize or despise as necessary based on their actions.

As the pivotal scene occurs in the playground, the narrative inches the story into the next dimension between life and death.

"He knew something was happening, but he could not tell what it was. The commotion was simply not registering in his head. . .Suddenly, he saw a bright light pass before him. It was almost blinding as he tried to adjust his eyes to it."

From that moment, everything in the story takes a new turn.

For readers hooked on murder mysteries like Lee Child's Jack Reacher series, Live PD, Snapped, The Homicide Hunter, Dateline, First 48, I Almost Got Away With It, and other reality TV drama, this story was a compelling and enjoyable read written by one of the best.

People Watching in the Waiting Room

One thing that ties people together is time spent in a doctor's waiting room. The setting is familiar no matter what kind of doctor. There are the stiff, upright chairs, bright overhead lights, people behind glass panes, and often, an elevator that dings in the background.

Attendants in scrubs call out patient names while each new arrival is questioned about birthdate, insurance and changes since the last visit. They're told to take a seat and wait.

Last week's journey took me to the Eye Institute Surgical Center where folks of a certain age gathered, hopeful for improvement in their eyesight. Arrival time was nine am with instructions to be upstairs by that time after a night of fasting and no coffee or liquids of any kind. Most sat stiffly, bringing along a solid case of anxiety. To have someone cut on your eyes is scary. A couple of dozen other people and I waited to hear our names with little to do besides fidget and observe.

My driver and I chose seats in a tight corner across from a trio of women, two staring at their phones while a third sat, stony-faced, waiting her turn. Once she'd been called to the back, her companions left in search of food. They were replaced by a man who sought a chair to fit his linebacker girth. The tiny chairs were no match and as he lowered himself into it, the chair emitted a painful squeal.

It was a good time to study traffic patterns from the 4th story view of Central Expressway, busy any time, day or night. Cars sped by, coming and going to important places, their occupants unaware of our room full of tense, clean-scrubbed, lotion-less patients praying for a miracle.

Names were called to come to the room where forms were to be signed absolving the facility of responsibility for injury or death at their hand. A photo was taken to confirm our identity and add to our permanent record. Time ticked by at a snail's pace.

We maintained social distances, adorned with itchy face masks enhancing our discomfort. It was impossible not to stare as one frail woman dozed off in her wheelchair, bent forward, head down, those nearby praying she didn't nose-dive off onto the spotless tile floor. She woke with a start, and in near-blindness, demanded to know her whereabouts. Her son had "dropped me off here without a word." His booming voice, like a beacon in the cold silence echoed from the tiny registration room where her wheelchair wouldn't fit.

Finally, around 11:00 am, my name was called and I trudged back to the frigid pre-op room, changed into a gown and hair net, was hooked up to an IV and oxygen and drifted off into the land of the oblivious. Thirty minutes later I was in the post-op area drinking apple juice and waiting for my ride home; home sweet home. The cataract surgery was a success and now I await scheduling for the other eye.

People from the 1880s - CD and Eula

When I was barely a teen, I met a couple at church who were in their 80s. C.D. and Eula Walker. I was enamored by their old fashioned way of talking, their infallible courtesy, their acceptance of our family as their own.

They had an after-church gathering at their house one Sunday and I was fascinated by the way the food was presented in fancy dishes and served buffet style from a sideboard. I remember someone asking Mrs. Walker where her husband had gotten off to. 

"He's probably at the buffet building sideboards on his plate," she answered. I wasn't sure what that meant so my dad later explained it was like having a wagon with wood rails along the side so you could pile things higher. 

We sat in their parlor on red velveteen couches with carved legs and arms. Crystal chandeliers twinkled in the dim lighting of the room as we ate our food and communed with one another.

Their house was filled with family heirlooms that looked to be from the "roaring 20s" and treasures from their travels abroad. Things they had collected mid-life when they were around 40. Mr. Walker took us on a tour of his garage where, hanging on the wall was a helmet from World War I and other mementos of days gone by. They would have been born in the 1800s around the same time as my own grandparents who lived out of state and we saw rarely. The Walkers had no children so they adopted us as a surrogate family.

I had foolishly worn my watch out to play and the band broke off. C.D. repaired it so that I could wear it like a pin attaching it to a gold Fleur de Lis broach. He presented it to me as a gift one Sunday at church. Having lived through the Great Depression, they learned to repurpose and reuse everything. Nothing was wasted.

How I wish I had thought to ask them about their lives, their travels, their experiences before it was too late.

Part of the Gang

If I ever felt like I belonged it would have been during the days we camped at the F.O. Ranch. We could do whatever we wanted at the moment, whether it was to seek solitude, read, explore or sit by the campfire. If we wanted to have a wine cooler for breakfast, no one judged. No one was offended. There were no outcasts.

We came from different walks of life, whether college student, teacher, scientist, maintenance worker or hair stylist, when we were together, we had harmony and acceptance. We knew how to appreciate freedom from structure. Each person was accepted as is, flaws and all.

Ron cooking breakfast over the campfire.

I often wonder what became of these friends from my young adulthood. Where are they now? What are they doing? Would they remember or even recognize me all these years later?

What has changed? What limits the openness I once shared with these folks who became friends because we lived near one another? Our apartments shared a communal porch where we would hang out between camping trips, planning and counting the days until our next gathering at the campsite.

The campsite, owned by the parents of one of the campers, had an ancient, one-room cabin with a small kitchen where we kept the food. No refrigerator, just a collection of ice chests to keep the perishables and the drinks. In the tiny bedroom was a toilet, partially exposed behind a half wall. Campers were welcome to use it during the day, provided they brought a bucket of water for flushing purposes. There was no running water, just a hand pump outside.

But we made it work.

 Cindy with Snowball and Precious at the Old Cabin

The campfire was kept burning all hours of the day, replenished through treks in the woods to gather deadwood as we explored our surroundings. During one of those treks, we discovered a sinkhole that must have been fifty-feet deep.

By now, a subdivision of tract homes has likely replaced our old stomping grounds.

Yet the lake must surely remain, in all its glory and seclusion, the water on which many of us learned to ski, took our baths, fished and sat together on the creaky and rickety dock. How can so many years have passed and I still fondly recall the sights and smells of those times?

Me and Marsha on the Dock

There were few distractions. There were no cell phones. No i Pods, no laptops or tablets. We had a collection of paperback books which we read by firelight or lantern if the night grew quiet. Otherwise, we circled the campfire and told stories or sang when anyone who could play brought their guitar. No one cared if we forgot the words or missed a note.

How I long for those days that always passed too quickly, before Sunday night came and we gathered the tents, loaded up the small boat with equipment before hooking it to the trailer and heading back to the real world where Monday awaited and our daily work stood ready to greet us the next day.

The Triple FO

Sunburn and bug bites aside, those were some of the best days of my life. And not just for me. Romances bloomed, couples grew together and apart. The saga of life played out with each adventure. Like the time I showed up unexpectedly to find someone else in my boyfriend's tent. That was a night to remember.

From  Memoirs and Other Tall Tales © Peggy Cole

Father's Day 2019

On Father's day I fondly recall the many things my dad taught his three children like how to catch fish, the value of hard work and the joy of learning to do things ourselves. He was big on discipline like postponing gratification and held up the importance of an enduring faith. As a Sunday School Teacher he brought the Bible to life with his well-prepared lessons.

It was during the early sixties he seated a person in the front rows at our church, someone who by policy was only allowed to sit at the back of the congregation. Dad disregarded tradition one Sunday morning when he served as an usher and for a time, we were not welcome at that church. He carried on anyway, teaching the Bible in our living room every Sunday morning until that preacher left for another church in the Deep South. Times were different back then.

The Only Church in Town

Dad was a great story teller and shared many of the stories about his own father who was born in 1880, who raised six children as a single parent while working on the railroad as a mail-carrier and who later worked as a sharecropper.

Stern and strict at times, Dad believed that "sparing the rod" spoiled the child. But he also could be funny and witty. He was a good singer and liked to play the guitar and sing, "You are My Sunshine" and "Red River Valley."

He had a great smile and an enduring love for animals. He taught us that all life was valuable. I'm grateful that he stuck around to raise us after a trial separation before I was born. My older sister and brother were small children when Mom moved back home to Grandmother's house in Texas. He followed his own father's advice and did the right thing staying around to see the children he brought into the world all graduate high school and leave home before he and Mom parted ways.

He's been gone from this world since 2005 but I will always remember him fondly and often replay in my head that last time he told me, "I love you, my darling."

Easy Crock Pot Pork Roast

Looking for an economical, easy, delicious way to feed the family? This meal cooks while you're doing other things and can be served many ways.

It's easy to prepare pulled pork roast for sandwiches or burritos. Slice off a 1 - 1 1/2 inch portion of the cooked roast and use two forks to shred the meat. Serve with shredded cheese, sour cream, diced tomatoes on a warmed tortilla or sandwich bun.


Choose a nice, lean sirloin tip pork roast like the ones from Costco priced about $16.00 for a 4-pack. Each roast makes a nice family meal for around $4.00. Use one fresh and freeze the other three for future meals. Add some rice, corn, potato or a salad and you've got a hearty meal.

Instructions:
Season the outside of the roast with garlic salt, paprika, black pepper or any dry rub or spices you like. Lightly brown the outside edges of the roast in a heated frying pan with some olive oil and minced garlic.

Brown the outside edges to seal in the flavor.

It only takes about a minute to brown the top and a minute on the bottom.

Use kitchen tongs to brown the sides and ends of the roast to seal in the flavors.

Use tongs to hold the roast and brown the edges.

Transfer the browned roast into the crock pot. Turn it on High. Add about 1/2 cup of water to the frying pan to make a seasoned liquid and pour it over the roast in the Crock Pot.

Cover and cook the roast on High for 5 to 6 hours. During the last hour reduce the heat to Low. Or cook the roast on Low for 7 to 8 hours while you're away.

Pulled pork burritos are a big hit with our family. Other times, this entree goes well with corn on the cob and a salad.

Pulled Pork Burrito with Corn on the Cob

Served on sandwich buns it makes a delicious barbecue pork sandwich. Or use cubed chunks of leftover pork roast to make pork fried rice. Easy, economical, and delicious, this meal will delight your family and fill your hearty appetite with very little effort.

The Carriage Driver 2 - Book Review

This imaginative collection of short stories offers the reader a hopeful glimpse into the transition after death. Mike Friedman, creator of the Emerald Wells Café series, The Quinn Moosebroker Mysteries and Braids - Angel’s Field is an award-winning fiction writer and artist.

The Carriage Driver² is the second release in a collection of stories about the afterlife. Rich in detail and empathy, the characters include a variety of people, some who’ve experienced a continuous struggle for survival and others who seem to have had it all.

Their next journey after they meet their inevitable fate begins with a ride in a beautiful horse-drawn carriage pulled by a white steed. Once their name appears in the book, the dearly departed are asked to decide on a destination where they wish to go. During the ride, questions are asked and answered, options are offered and life begins anew with an infinite number of possibilities based on their tastes, talents and deepest desires.

Knocking on Heaven's Door

The Weathervane is a favorite from this collection in which an elderly woman is living in a rest home when she begins her journey after a few brief moments to decide where she wants to begin spending eternity.

As she steps out of the carriage, she’s transformed into the younger self that has resided for years only within her memories. She finds herself wearing a favorite floral print summer dress, standing on a beach with swaying palms, warm tropical breezes and the familiar cries of drifting sea gulls. There she reunites with and is wrapped in the loving arms of her long since dearly departed husband where, once again, they share a world of their former happiness. It’s a story that gives the surviving family hope that their loved one spends future days in true care-free bliss.

The Gutter Boy's main character, Dylan finds that life isn’t always filled with abuse and disrespect after he meets two kind doctors, a husband and wife team. He discovers that his time to move into the next world has not yet arrived, experiencing only a change in his circumstance through which he’s destined to lead a richer way of life and repay his debt with future acts of kindness.

Many other stories are included in the collection with each story offering subtle clues about life lessons. Each character has a chance to interact with Captain Griffin Chaffey, a veteran of the War Between the States who, after losing his own life, remained in the battlefield to help others find their way onward. He accepts his assignments cheerfully accompanied by Nuelle, a white horse whose intuition and spirit shines throughout as she munches on shared apples and trots to their destinations. Sometimes, she enjoys a romp in the surf as part of her reward for a job well done. Other times, she must face the uncertainties of strange and frightening places where darkness and despair lurk.

The Man Unseen introduces a young man whose difficulties began early in life. The victim of school chums who taunted and took advantage of the special needs child, his troubles are multiplied when his mother passes away and he's cheated out of his rightful home. He lives out his remaining days on the street in constant peril, yet his wisdom shines when he shares his observations with Captain Chaney.

"There ought to be rules for men to live by," he remarks. It comes as no surprise that he chooses an afterlife of spreading generosity toward others who suffer as he once did.

In Sister Sarah's Miracle we meet Sister Sarah, an empathetic and generous worker of miracles whose hands-on ministry is directed toward the less fortunate. In the story, she visits a young girl, a cancer victim who resides in Mass General Hospital.

Sister Sarah gives of herself to the point of depleting her supply of healing power. When she meets Captain Griffin, her strength returns and she is able to continue her valuable work on this earth. Fortunately, The Carriage Driver and Nuelle know how to keep a secret.

Nuelle and the captain operate their carriage out of Boston, but the reader is assured that across all cities, towns, boroughs and villages, others carry on the same legacy driving the recently deceased to their choice destination where they begin the next life. Or, if they choose to wait for a spouse, a child or a loved one, “there is a castle in the sky whose spires puncture Heaven to accommodate them.”

These heartwarming tales lend to second and third readings with revisits inspired by the depth of the subtleties of deeper meaning within. Great for late-night reading when the troubles of the world interrupt the peace and quiet of sleep, these stories restore a sense of calm in a world of turmoil.

As a bonus, the book contains a short stand-alone story titled, “Walking to Goleta,” a tale of companionship, compassion, generosity, ingenuity, and a heartwarming miracle in a Christmas setting.

The Carriage Driver is your liaison to the heaven of your own choosing.” Don’t be fooled by the free ride. Those who climb on board have paid in advance.”

Cruise Ship Fun

There were a number of reasons I refused to go on a cruise. That was, until last October when I found out about a themed cruise with one of my favorite TV show actors. Now that we're back from our first voyage to Cabo San Lucas, it's certain we'll be taking another one.

There was never a dull moment during our 6 day, 5 night trip. We walked the decks from one end of the ship to the other. Whenever we could, we took the stairs to burn off calories from the delicious meals in the Horizon Court, The Crown Grill - an upscale steakhouse and the Botticelli Dining Room. We visited the casino, Club Fusion for a frozen Margarita, dropped by the International Cafe to try some dreamy chocolate mousse, watched line dancing on the Lido Deck, and Zumba exercise classes at the pool. At the port, we boarded the tender ship to Cabo where we shopped for souvenirs in the quaint Mexican village.

The star of the Investigation Discovery TV Series, Homicide Hunter, Joe Kenda was featured at a number of events where he patiently greeted fans and signed autographs for his book, I Will Find You. For the Kenda Cruiser group, there were question and answer sessions with prizes, an off-shore lunch excursion in Cabo, and other activities aboard the ship.

Another Kenda Cruise is planned for next October from NY to Halifax Canada. Search #KendaCruise and Jim Seeley of VIP Tours Cruises and events on Facebook for details.

Beyond the celebrity events there were fun things to do like watch the theater production, Magic To Do, a delightful live musical. Grease and The Incredibles 2 movies were playing on the big screen under the stars. With all the food and exercise, we found ourselves too exhausted to stay up late enough to attend the disco party and costume party events.

To remain safe from illness, observe safe health standards such as disinfecting often touched objects like door handles, TV remotes, room telephones and bathroom shelves. Doing this provides an excellent chance of remaining healthy while cruising. Packets of disposable wipes and are highly recommended for frequent use as you travel about the ship. Or seek out the Purell dispensers when visiting at the buffet.

The food was amazing, the soft motion of the ship en route was calming, the entertainment and the joy of having cell phones off provided a much-needed break from workplace stress.

We truly came back refreshed and new again. We're already signed up for a future trip! Bon Voyage.

Remembering Paula - 2017

This story is dedicated to my friend of many years, Paula.

Paula and I managed to stay in touch over the years despite living in different states. The calls would get more frequent before our annual week spent together at the beach.

We'd played phone tag for days and I came home to a voice mail from her apologizing for not getting back to me.

When I called her back she told me the worst news possible.

She'd spent ten days in the hospital being poked and run through a battery of tests. They told her the results via an impersonal phone call from her doctor.

Her doctor told her she had Stage 4 pancreatic cancer.

1983 at the Gold Twin Towers in Dallas

Over the years, our lives seemed to run in parallel. Both of us moved from owning our own hair salons to earning our real estate licenses, to later, taking jobs in the corporate world.

We had each become instant stepmothers to five-year old boys through marriage. We shared the heartbreak of those failed relationships and our bankrupt businesses. We also shared the joy of coming back from darkness to better times.

In 1983, during the heyday of the TV show "Dallas" she came to Texas for a short visit. Naturally, we visited Southfork Ranch and the Gold Twin Towers where JR's fictional office was.

September of1988 we spent our first week together at her timeshare on the beach. We shopped at Publix for the week's groceries, cooked on the outdoor grills and enjoyed spectacular views of the sunset, before staying up all night laughing and watching old movies.

1996 North Reddington Shores, Florida

Every year, we'd spend 7 days walking the beach, baking in the sun and swimming in the pool. We'd pack up with sadness at the end of the week and drive back to her house spending our last night together watching reruns of Star Trek. We dreaded the early morning flight when she'd drop me off at Tampa Airport. When I called to tell her I was home safe, she'd say she'd cried all the way home. She felt things deeply and wasn't afraid to show her emotions.

We shared numerous meals at the Village Inn Pancake House, Houlihan's, Friday's, Puerta Vallarta and Café Pepe where we ordered paella with sangria and homemade bread. We shopped the thrift stores for stuff to sell in my antique store and we drove around the neighborhood where parrots from Busch Gardens roosted in trees near her house. My old house was only a few blocks from hers and we'd do a drive-by.
During the 90s we'd meet in Orlando at my dad's house to share a family meal. Dad served as the father figure she'd always wanted having been raised by a single mom. We called each other sisters. 

1995 at my Dad's house

When Dad passed away, she made the two-hour drive from Tampa to Le High Acres to be at his funeral and take me home with her. She was a source of comfort and friendship during my grief.

In 2009, she was proud that she finally got into her first pair of size 10 shorts. Not the kind with elastic waist, either. These were the button and zip shorts she'd always dreamed she would wear. She'd finally conquered her life-long battle with weight control.

2008 North Reddington Shores

She'd already been through agonizing pain and a long battle to find a doctor to do hip replacement surgery. She was still in her fifties. Her osteoarthritis had destroyed her hip joint making it nearly impossible to walk. Our shopping trips to favorite places like Donation Station, Goodwill and other thrift stores met less enthusiasm from my friend whose every step radiated pain.

1993 Kongfrontation

In 2015, she underwent spinal surgery, fusing five vertebra and several vertebra in her neck. The symptoms of numbness in her hands, the unexpected falls and other more disturbing side effects lessened. She looked great. I was proud of her resilience and resolve.

Our last beach trip in September 2016, grocery shopping was different than the years prior. Instead of several desserts for the week, we got half a Key Lime Pie. The variety of breads we usually picked out were missing, too. The potato chips, ice cream, cookies, apple strudel and chocolate candy had shrunk to just a couple choices.

I was proud of her restraint and mine as well. I usually went home a few pounds heavier after our vacation. I had no idea that something was going wrong with her digestive tract. Something very wrong.

My friend was in Stage 4 of cancer, too weak to take the chemotherapy which might prolong her life a few months, maybe a couple of years. But she was resilient, still hoping to beat this disease that made her look as she described, "like a skeleton."

I wanted to fly down there immediately but she wanted me to wait until she started chemotherapy. At that point she had stopped eating because of the gastric reactions she'd have after any kind of food.

I'll never forget her words. "Don't think the irony of this disease is lost on me. All my life I've struggled to lose weight and now I'm dying of starvation."

Even to the end, she remained grateful for the small comforts and blessings of life: friends who loved her dearly; two precious dogs whose awareness of her situation was clear in their actions; a mother who never expected to outlive her daughter after her own critical illness the prior year. Paula had spent months helping her mother recover a near fatal infection in 2015.

I treasure my photos from forty years spent with my friend. Her house was always welcoming, warm and casually inviting. I have fond memories of her cockatiel, T.C. Wilson, who talked to the dogs that came and went over the 20 years he lived. We shared mutual losses of beloved canines, felines, birds, relatives and friends over the years.

1995 with Nevy and Chloe

I recall our many talks over cups of coffee in her living room watching out the front window as her neighborhood changed with time. She was a friend who could put you instantly at ease whether watching TV or just hanging out. We could be comfortable reading books, silent for hours. There was no pressure to follow a schedule or do things. We were there for each other.

She was a friend who remembered to call on birthdays, holidays and in-between, always sharing the latest news and listening and sharing the ups and downs of our jobs.

She had an amazing recall of my family, the names of aunts and cousins, stories told over the years. When our roles expanded to caring for our aging mothers and their live-in partners, we often shared the joys and difficulties of being caregivers and about the day we might lose our mothers. We never imagined that one of us would go first.

2016 at the beach

She passed away on July 21st, 2017, just two short months after her diagnosis.

I still reach for the phone to call her, even after these years. I still think of us sharing a cup of coffee in her living room with the dogs, cats and T.C. Wilson.

She loved the Lord and had a strong faith. I hope she's had a chance to meet Him and reunite with her pets that have crossed over: Chivas, Aramis, Nevada, Spunky, Chloe, Zoey, Hansel, Gretel, Dakota and TC Wilson.

Paula is gone but not forgotten. She lives on in my dreams and memories.