Indeed, these are difficult times. A time for soul-searching. A time to take notice of just how fragile we humans are, and, a time to look to God for solutions.
There is a plague ravaging the whole world, and what are we doing? We are running helter-skelter, trying one remedy after another by trial and error. Each day we are thrown deeper into a pile of confusion with all the false and misleading information we are being given. And still, there is no solution in sight.
We are a people who have built huge cities, shuttled to the Moon, and created structures mightier than our imaginations. We have accomplished so much greatness, that now we have begun to believe that we are gods – that we have all the answers and solutions to everything. The human looks around and sees the great things God has given him … the knowledge and skills to achieve,and now, he believes he can challenge God. Because of these reckless beliefs, man goes into laboratories to play God – looking for ways to surpass God’s greatness.
The result is what we are experiencing today. God created order; man creates dis-order. God sits and watches us, like He did with us during the time of the Tower of Babel, with man trying to prove that we are gods. With His little finger, He muddled the waters to show us that only He is God,and He is the only one in control. Now, we have gone ahead and messed up the order of things again, and He continues to watch us. What amusement it must be for Him to see us wreaking havoc in the world, and then trying to clean it up without much success.
I don’t believe that God will allow the whole human race to perish because of this. Those who believe in Him are praying, and those who do not, are still clueless. Eventually, God will relent, and again, with His little finger, redirect things in His own good time. He will inspire a human to come up with a solution to end the pandemic; a human who will probably take the credit for doing so. It will not matter at all. God knows His creatures more than we know ourselves. He will understand. Those who know the ways of God will thank Him for the end of the pandemic because they will be able to see the hand of God at work in it.
Will the end of this pandemic stop the non-believers from trying to one-up God? Never! That is not the nature of the evil one. He never stops trying to prove to his followers that he is more powerful than God – that whatever God can do, he can do better.
All I know and pray for is that whoever inflicted this pandemic on the world is going to be in great trouble at the end of it all. They will pay! This will come back to haunt them, person per person, death per death, economy per economy, for all they have done. So, help me God!
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WHEN THE WORLD WAS FORCED TO A STOP by P. T. L. Perrin
…it immediately created a toilet paper shortage. No restrictions had yet been put into place the day I went shopping at Walmart. As always, the items I needed were available. I loaded my cart and headed for the paper aisle. Wait! What the heck happened? A single pack of toilet paper sat on the otherwise empty shelves, left there, most likely, because of a tear in the packaging. I grabbed it. The paper wouldn’t spoil because the package was ripped.
Two women, one elderly and one a younger version of her, stopped in shock, just like I did. I couldn’t help myself. Tears filled the older woman’s eyes, and I had to do something. I handed her daughter the pack, fully expecting to find one somewhere else. Besides, we were okay for a while. How could Walmart, of all places, be out of TOILET PAPER? And why THAT item and no others?
In the coming weeks, when nary a roll was to be found anywhere, I fantasized about the hoarders having to eat it. Roasted TP. Grilled TP. TP Soup. TP pie. I hoped they choked; until I realized that some of them might be families with kids, and they’d be up the creek without a paddle if they hadn’t bought it all up that first week. I began to wish them well and decided to order some online. The next available delivery date was sometime in June, in two months, but it wasn’t guaranteed. A friend suggested I search Amazon for a bidet.
Having lived in Italy in the late ‘60s, early ‘70s, I was familiar with bidets, simple low basins separate from the toilet with shower nozzles that sprayed upward. Back then, they were a place to float toy boats, complete with a fountain in the middle. I did not know their true purpose until I was much older and no longer living there. We had plenty of toilet paper back then.
The bidets I found online ranged from a hand-held sprayer, which can double as a cloth diaper cleaner (for those with babies who still use cloth diapers), to a seat attachment that requires no aiming. It appears that the sprayer might take some practice in order to avoid a wet bathroom. But then, if you turn on the no-aiming-required spray without your rear end covering the inside opening of the toilet seat, you could give your ceiling a wash. At least you could with the Italian ones. Amazingly, the guaranteed delivery date was in three days. I clicked the button, quite satisfied with myself.
Neighbors drive to a local farm, where a box of fresh veggies is placed in their trunk, and they drop some off at our front porch. Other neighbors are busy sewing facemasks for a local nursing home. I gave them some colorful fabric and a treasure trove of elastic left over from my long-ago sewing days. Kids ride their bikes in the quiet streets, six feet apart from each other most of the time. Couples walk holding hands (come on…they live together!) and greet other walkers, keeping their distance and using their ‘outside’ voices. Everyone asks everyone else, “How are you doing? Need anything?”
The air smells fresher, the office is gradually getting cleaned out, and my tennis-pro husband burns off energy doing yard work and cutting the hedge shorter and shorter. By the time this is over, it’ll be six inches tall. We’re finally using up the canned goods in the pantry, at least those whose expiration dates are newer than July 2015.
The worst part of this for most people is the loss of jobs and income, although we’re all hoping it’s temporary. We hope to scrounge enough to pay the mortgage for the next couple months, until the tennis courts open and people take lessons again. Younger people with families at home are worried, including our children with their families. Some can work from home, others cannot.
The systems that should facilitate what the government has done to ease the burden are broken and scrambling to find fixes. When this happens again, hopefully in the far distant future, they should be prepared, and the process should run smoother. The same goes for medical supplies and personal protection equipment. There were no stockpiles when this virus shut us down. After this, there will be.
We pray for the sick, that they will recover, and for those who’ve lost loved ones. We pray for those who are feeling the pain of lost income, especially those with young children. We pray for the teachers who have poured themselves into making lessons their students can do from home, and we pray for the parents of those students. We pray for the homeless and the prisoners who have little choice in anything. We pray for Bill’s mom in a nursing home, and for all those who live and work there. We pray for doctors, nurses, hospital staff, first responders…everyone helping others though this.
We were both sick in January, and so were some of our kids and grandkids. Could it have been this virus, this invisible scourge, that made us miserable for a while and then left us to recover? Perhaps. Perhaps many people have had it unknowingly and are now immune, with antibodies that can help someone who is seriously ill to recover. In time, we may all be tested, and then we’ll know for sure.
For now, we practice social distancing. We stay home and catch up on things we’d been meaning to do for the last twenty years, and thank the good Lord we have a home to shelter in. We follow the rules, not to protect ourselves, but to protect the people around us, known and not known, just in case. We are witnessing the spirit of the people who live here, who, when faced with calamity, reach out and help their neighbors. We have never been prouder to be Americans than we are right now.
The bidet arrived right on time. It looks nice in its box, which will remain closed until we run out of toilet paper, an unlikely issue with our kids and neighbors watching out for us. Neighbors, if you run out, we have some to share. I want to try that bidet.
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If anyone had told me at the start of the year what was going to happen in 2020, I would have thought they were crazy.
Over the past few weeks, I have learned to cope with this new reality. The initial feelings of anxiety and fear subsided, and my views changed as I became more sensitive to others and aware of how fragile our society is.
We are among the lucky ones. Although work from my day job has evaporated, my wife and I live in a comfortable house, our three cats keep us company, and we have enough money to last through this crisis. As a bonus, the weather has been warm and sunny for the daily exercise walks we are allowed to take.
When the lockdown was implemented, my thoughts turned to those less fortunate. Older people unable to leave home, those suffering from grief and depression, and residents of countries with even stricter lockdowns. I thought about how I might share my experiences on social media, to give motivation and bring a smile to the faces of those within my reach.
Living where we do in Eastbourne, on the south-east coast of England, we have many beautiful spots close to our home. There are several parks filled with trees, plants, grassland and lakes. Not far away is a farm track that winds through fields where horses, sheep and cattle graze. Birds sing as though nothing is wrong with the world. Then there is the seafront, along which runs a three-mile promenade, with views out across the English Channel.
Because of the lockdown and social distancing measures, there have been few people around on my daily walks. I gained a sense of tranquillity and tried to capture those precious moments on my smartphone, so I could share them with others.
With video clips, I recorded nature’s sights and sounds. These included gentle swaying trees with uplifting birdsong in the background, views across idyllic farmland to the hills of the South Downs, and waves crashing onto the shingle beach on a windy but sunny afternoon.
Amongst other subjects, my photos captured the beauty of spring flowers, rainbows drawn by children hung in windows, colourful beach huts, seafront carpet gardens, and the pier’s golden dome sparkling in the sunlight against a backdrop of clear blue skies.
I posted these to Facebook, both on my timeline and in two groups. In addition, I shared selected videos and photos on Instagram and Twitter. Three of those images are included here.
Cherry blossom
Social distancing seagulls
Children’s rainbow drawings
The responses to my posts have been encouraging and there has been positive feedback from around the world:
Ah, the sound of the sea. Just what I needed. Very clear skies. Robyn – New Zealand.
Oh, happy memories of a childhood near Brighton! The shingle beach and big waves. Thanks for sharing. Jackie – France.
I don’t know about you, but I’m appreciating spring more this year. It’s so lovely to watch the birds, butterflies, bees and other creatures carrying on with their daily lives amid the blossoms and blooms. Jay – Turkey.
Ebony was watching the birds outside from her perch and listening to the birds on your video thinking she was in real time. Laurie – USA.
One can’t be stressed watching the cows graze and listening to the bird song. Carola – Canada.
Lovely sights and sounds! Thanks! Susan – Uruguay.
How lucky to be able to go out for a walk. Thanks for sharing the pics. Patricia – Spain.
If you are on Facebook and want to view the video clips and see more photos, please send me a friend request and visit my page by clicking here.
As I bring this piece to a close in late April, the weather here has changed, and there is some much-needed rain. Our first rose of spring has chosen this day to make an appearance. A sign of hope for the future?
Thank you for supporting today’s RWISA author along the RWISA “RISE-UP” Blog Tour! To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the main RWISA“RISE-UP” Blog Tour page on the RWISA site. For a chance to win a bundle of15 e-books along with a $5 Amazon gift card, please leave a comment on the main RWISA“RISE-UP”Blog Tour page! Once you’re there, it would be nice to also leave the author a personal note on their dedicated tour page, as well. Thank you, and good luck!
Born in Missouri in 1917, my mom, Marian Edith Clark, learned about hardships at a young age.
Her mother, my grandmother, Sarah Jane, was sickly. The household chores fell on my mom’s shoulders when she was still a child. She shared memories of having to stand on a box so she could reach the stove to cook their meals.
My mom blue eyes sparkled, and her smile could light up a midnight sky. She started school in Treece, Kansas. Her family were migrant workers. Anytime they found an abandoned house, even if it was spooky, they moved in. Eventually, they landed in Pitcher, Oklahoma, where her father found a job in the iron and ore mines. She was in the ninth grade when he had an accident in the mines, and she had to quit school to help make a living for the family.
Her father became a bootlegger in Oklahoma. He would often get caught and wind up in jail for six months at a time, leaving the family to fend for themselves.
They eventually moved to Arkansas, where they had kinfolk who were sharecroppers. They picked cotton, and in Mom’s words, “Nearly starved to death.”
When she was around fourteen, her dad took the family to the Texas cotton fields. The whole family could pick, and they would make twenty-five cents for every hundred pounds of cotton.
We found this story written in a journal after Mom passed away.
“My last school was in Walnut Ridge, Arkansas, population around 2,000. We lived two miles out in the country. I went to a two-room school. A man and his wife were both teachers. He taught in one room and her in the other. The man teacher went crazy and tried to kill his wife. When she got away, she came to our house. I’ll never forget how bloody her head was. When the police found him, he had crawled up under their house. So, they put him in a mental hospital.”
The Great Depression hit America in 1929, wiping out any semblance of a prospering economy. It was during that catastrophic era that my mom and dad met in Sayre, Oklahoma. At the time, she was babysitting for one of Dad’s sisters, and living in a government migrant camp with her family.
She was only seventeen, but they fell head-over-heels in love and decided to marry.
Mom had no shoes to wear for the ceremony, and a woman next to them in the camp loaned her a pair of shoes.
On April 14, 1934, they said their wedding vows in a preacher’s living room and began life together.
There were no pictures, no fanfare, no parties, and no honeymoon.
They spent their first night as newlyweds, sharing a bed with some of my dad’s younger brothers and sisters.
Their first home was an old farmhouse with nothing in it but a wood stove, a bed, and a table. Mom had no broom to sweep the floors, and when snakes crawled across, they left trails in the dirt.
Through the years, she shared many harrowing stories of how they survived as transients. They stayed within their family group and moved from the strawberry fields in Missouri, to potato fields in Kansas, to cotton fields in Texas. Often, they had no shelter from the elements, sleeping outdoors under a shade tree. Other times, they managed to have a tent or share a tent with other family members.
Mom and Dad’s life together, began under this umbrella of hopeless poverty.
Hunger was a constant companion. My mom had an older brother who often would go out at night and steal a chicken or watermelon.
Enmeshed in daily survival, they could see no future.
Sometime around late 1934, they moved to Fort Smith, Arkansas not knowing it was in the middle of an epidemic. They were lucky enough to find housing in a WPA camp. My dad got a job digging graves for fifty cents a week, plus a small amount of food. A man working with him warned him to stay clear of the hospital; that no one came out alive.
However, the hospital laundry was the only place Mom found work. Automation wasn’t yet widespread, and especially not in Arkansas, so all of the washing had to be done by hand on rub boards.
A large scowling woman marched up and down behind the workers with a blackjack in hand. If she thought they weren’t working hard enough or fast enough, she’d whack them across the shoulders.
During this time, my mom fell ill with Scarlet Fever and they quarantined her. They kept her in a room under lock and key. My worried dad climbed to her window with food. It became apparent that they had to get out of there, or Mom would die. One night when all was quiet, she tied bedsheets together and lowered herself from the two-story window to the ground, where Dad waited.
They caught a ride to Oklahoma on the back of a flatbed truck, and Mom eventually recovered. They never went back to Fort Smith, Arkansas.
As the years passed, much of my dad’s family migrated to California, the land of milk and honey. But Mom and Dad didn’t go with them due to my grandmother’s failing health, and a younger sister who was inseparable from my mom. They all stuck together. My grandmother passed away in 1942 in Roswell, New Mexico. Pictures show a large goiter on her throat. She died long before I was born.
Mom gave birth to my siblings with help from family and friends. I was the only one to arrive in a hospital setting.
By 1951, the year I was born, Mom and Dad had settled in Hobbs, New Mexico, and purchased a lot on Avenue A. They stretched their tent and immediately started building a house. They put down roots and said goodbye to the transient life they’d known.
Like everything else in their lives, they built our house themselves. A place not too far from Hobbs, The Caprock, had an abundance of large flat rocks. Every day Dad wasn’t working, he’d head up and bring back a load of rocks to cover the sides of the house. That house withstood many storms, and still stands today.
When I was around twelve, I distinctly remember watching Mom climb up and down a ladder with bundles of shingles to roof the house. And she did this alone.
I believe I can declare with all certainty that no two people worked harder than my mom and dad.
Mom was a fantastic cook, having learned from necessity at a young age. She had a sweet tooth and loved to bake. Her specialty was pies. She could make a peach cobbler that would melt in your mouth.
She never measured anything. She’d throw in a handful of this and a pinch of that, and it turned out perfectly every time.
Mom was not a worrier. Her philosophy was, “If I can’t fix it, there’s no need to waste time worrying about it.”
I’ve strived to adopt that same philosophy.
She lived by these seven wisdoms:
Count your blessings every day.
Don’t whine or throw a fit if things don’t go your way.
Take whatever trials God sees fit to give you and make the best of it. Never sit down and give up.
Believe in yourself and your dreams, and they’ll come true.
Love life and live for God.
Hard work never killed anyone. Try your best and don’t get discouraged if it doesn’t turn out the way you first thought.
Treat everyone with dignity and respect.
I didn’t always see eye-to-eye with my mom, as you know if you’ve read my books. But I never forgot her teachings, her strength, and her determination. And for the last thirty years of her life, we were close.
She was the best grandmother my two little girls ever could have hoped for. She adored them as much as they loved her.
I watch my daughters now and see them practice some of Mom’s ways with their own children, and it makes me happy.
So, here’s to my mom – the strongest woman I ever knew.
Thank you for supporting today’s RWISA author along the RWISA “RISE-UP” Blog Tour! To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the main RWISA“RISE-UP” Blog Tour page on the RWISA site. For a chance to win a bundle of15 e-books along with a $5 Amazon gift card, please leave a comment on the main RWISA“RISE-UP” Blog Tour page! Once you’re there, it would be nice to also leave the author a personal note on their dedicated tour page, as well. Thank you, and good luck!
Thank you for supporting today’s RWISA author along the RWISA “RISE-UP” Blog Tour! To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the main RWISA“RISE-UP” Blog Tour page on the RWISA site. For a chance to win a bundle of15 e-books along with a $5 Amazon gift card, please leave a comment on the main RWISA“RISE-UP”Blog Tour page! Once you’re there, it would be nice to also leave the author a personal note on their dedicated tour page, as well. Thank you, and good luck!
As COVID-19 spread across the land, Americans were directed to stay home. This news led to all sorts of questions. What will we do for entertainment? How will we teach the kids? Will we run out of food? As weeks passed, many Americans felt confined, even imprisoned. Not me. A freelancer for 38+ years, I was used to working at home.
My husband and I have been married for 62 years. “I love you more today than yesterday,” I often say. Staying home with him was a blessing. Pulitzer Prize winner Mary Oliver, in one of her poems, uses the phrase “with hands clasped.” I lived her words with hands clasped in memory, in caregiving, in creativeness, in gratefulness, and in hope.
In memory . . .
When World War II started, I was four years old. COVID-19 made me anxious and scared. These feelings caused war memories to become vivid again: food rationing, gas rationing, digging potatoes in our Victory Garden, Mom working in a wartime factory, and air raid blackouts. Odd that a pandemic would cause memories to resurface, yet a world war and world virus are similar. Many experts compared fighting the virus to a war, one we would win.
In caregiving . . .
I have cared for three generations of family members. This is my 23rd year in the caregiving trenches. In 2013 my husband’s aorta dissected and he had three emergency operations. When he woke up, he was paraplegic, unable to use his lower body or legs. The night I drove him to the hospital, I became his caregiver, and believe caregiving is love in action. Retired doctors and nurses rallied to fight COVID-19. I added virus protection to my caregiving To Do list.
In creativeness . . .
I have always been a creative person. While I sheltered at home, I revised two workbooks I wrote for grieving kids, edited a children’s picture book, explored doodle art, baked up a storm, and emailed publishers. So far, I have written thousands of articles and 38 books. Two publishers accepted the children’s books. Because of the pandemic, however, production of the grief books is on hold. The children’s picture book is still in production.
In gratefulness . . .
Americans are interdependent and need each other. COVID-19 showed that truckers, store clerks, housekeepers, home sewers, lab techs and countless others are heroes too. Staying home made me realize, yet again, that little things, such as the first robin of spring, are big things. As usual, I was grateful for my wacky sense of humor. (Yes, I laugh at my own jokes.)
Since I could not be physically close to others, I reached out in different ways. I sent surprise gifts to some, was a guest on blog talk radio, signed up for another show, posted book videos on social media, increased email to family members, gave books to friends and strangers. Though I am a kind person, I tried to be kinder, a lesson many learned from the virus. I also vowed to slow down a bit.
In hope . . .
I have survived cancer surgery and open-heart surgery. Each morning, when I awaken, I ask myself, “How can I make the most of the miracle of my life?” At age 84 I am still discovering pieces of my unknown self. Thanks to experience, I know how to adapt to the changes of life. I also know some changes are easy, and others test the soul.
Poet John O’Donohue, in his book To Bless the Space Between Us, refers to changes as thresholds. Thresholds can make emotions like confusion, fear, excitement, sadness, and hope come alive. It is wise to recognize and acknowledge thresholds, O’Donohue continues, and I have tried to do this.
The pandemic pushed America to a threshold, one that will define our nation. Let us cross this threshold together with kindness, dignity, and mutual respect. Let us cross with hands clasped in love.
Thank you for supporting today’s RWISA author along the RWISA “RISE-UP” Blog Tour! To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the main RWISA“RISE-UP” Blog Tour page on the RWISA site. For a chance to win a bundle of15 e-books along with a $5 Amazon gift card, please leave a comment on the main RWISA“RISE-UP”Blog Tour page! Thank you and good luck!
GIVEAWAYS: During this tour, the author is giving away (1) $10 Amazon Gift Card, (2) $5 Amazon Gift Cards, (2) e-book copies of EMPTY SEATS & (1) copy of the author’s acclaimed “SINGING ALONG WITH THE RADIO” CD which features many prominent folk music singers (a $15 value)! For your chance to win, all you have to do is leave a comment below as well as leaving a comment on the author’s 4WillsPub tour page. GOOD LUCK!
I haven’t
explained my other passion, nor how it led me to be the public address
announcer at Fenway Park for one day.
I’ve been a
singer/songwriter most of my life and the folk music DJ at the Albany, New
York-based National Public Radio affiliate since 1982. Prior to that, I was a
folk DJ at a small station in Worcester, Massachusetts. My father introduced me
to folk and country music practically right after I was born, and I’ve loved
and sung it ever since. I made a CD called “Singing Along with the Radio,” on
which I sang with some of the musicians I’ve always wanted to play and sing
with over the years.
In 2011, I had
the privilege of meeting and spending a couple of innings with Red Sox Public
Address Announcer Carl Beane. He was a kind man, welcoming me into the booth
with him to see what happens during a game as he told everyone in the stands
what was happening. His booming voice filled the stadium with information such
as who would sing the National Anthem, the line-up for both teams, the umpires’
names, and players as they came to bat. As someone who’d been in radio for more
than 30 years, I found the whole set-up to be interesting and took notes in my
head of what went on.
Carl let me try
on his World Series rings from 2004 and 2007. He was a small man, and those
rings both fit me perfectly.
“Carl,” I said,
“you’d better take these back right after I take a picture of them.”
“You can wear
them for a while,” he replied.
“No, you’d better
take them back. They fit me all too well, and I might forget I’m wearing them!”
“Oh, okay.”
As he took them
back, I asked him if he liked one better than the other.
“I think the one
from 2004 is the most special. It’s because that’s the year when the Sox ‘broke
the curse,’ and they hadn’t won a World Series in 86 years. But I love the 2007
one, too. Any World Series win is special.”
Carl also told me
that day that being the Red Sox’s public address announcer was “the best job in
the world.”
Fast forward to
May 2012.
Carl was killed
in a car accident. The Red Sox and their fans were stunned. Who would be their
PA announcer?
What to do? What
to do?
The Red Sox
decided to have what they dubbed the “guest in the chair” approach, in which
they would invite local media personalities to do the PA announcing, with a
different one for each game. For example, they had someone from the Bruins’
announcing team do a game, someone from the local public radio station, etc.
I wanted to do
this. Badly.
I called the Red
Sox and told them that I’d been in radio for many decades and would like to be
considered. Should I send a tape?
“Yeah, yeah,
okay,” the response came. Sign up in the
fall when you can try out and we’re trying to replace Cal on a permanent basis.
“You don’t
understand,” I protested. “I’m a professional broadcaster. My station goes to
seven states terrestrially, including three in New England. I want to do this.”
They took my name
and phone number. I thought it was the end of my chance to be the PA
announcer—even for a day.
About a week
later, I was at a doctor’s appointment when my phone rang. I looked down and
told the doctor, “Err—I have to take this call.”
Caller ID
indicated that it was the Boston Red Sox calling. I couldn’t let that one go to
voice mail.
“Hi, Wanda, yeah,
this is the Red Sox. Say, we Googled you and found out that you really are a
professional broadcaster. We’d like to have you come down and do a game. How
about this date?”
They offered me a
Tuesday night—the week before my daughter’s wedding!
“I can’t do that
date,” I replied, and told them why.
“Okay, you give
US a date, and we’ll take it from there.”
I already had
tickets for the August 5, 2012 game. Since I worked for New York State in a
managerial position, I wouldn’t have been able to take free tickets for my
family, anyway. “How about August 5?”
“You got it.
We’ll confirm in a couple of weeks. Thanks.”
I put down my
phone and explained it to my physician. She was ecstatic, because she knows how
much broadcasting and baseball mean to me.
We got through
the wedding, and, as August 5 approached, I began to wonder if I’d done
something stupid, thinking I could handle a major-league game. The last game
I’d announced was for Schenectady (New York) Babe Ruth when my son was 13 (he
was then married with a child). Could I actually do this? Had I bitten off more
than I could chew?
I pulled into the
players’ parking lot (that’s right, THE PLAYERS’ PARKING LOT) with my little
Subaru, which was dwarfed even more by huge SUVs and shiny sports cars. The
valet took my keys, and off I went, up to the third floor, where I’d be for the
next several hours.
The whole operation
was incredible. They had a script prepared, which I had plenty of time to
study. I checked out the rosters for both teams (although I knew the Red Sox
roster by heart). The Minnesota Twins were their opponent that day, and the
only player whose name I couldn’t pronounce was a new reliever from Japan who’d
just joined the team the day before. I said a little prayer, pleading that he
wouldn’t be brought into the game.
I met with the
team—the producer, Jack, the music man (TJ the DJ), and everyone else in the
booth, did sound check and looked out over the field. Fenway never looked so
good. I felt as if I were in baseball heaven. Then I looked out at the
scoreboard: My name was emblazoned all over it: Today’s Guest-in-the-Chair:
Wanda Fischer, WAMC, Albany, New York. Wow. Just wow. That’s all I could say.
Many years
before, when I was about 16 or 17, my mother had seen me, under an umbrella, on
TV, in the bleachers, as we fans waited to hear whether a rain delay would turn
into a rain washout. I wished my mother
could have seen me that day, with my name on that huge electronic sign—the one
that didn’t even exist on umbrella day so long ago.
Jack, the
producer, guided me along, pointing on the script to my lines, as the game
progressed. I told him it was unlike working on public radio, where I have to
do everything myself to get my show together and get it on the air. “No, we try
to make it as easy as possible,” he said.
Thanks to a
terrific team, I only made one mistake during nine innings. The Red Sox, who
were terrible that year, actually won that game.
When it was over,
my grandson, who was then three years old, came up to me and said, “Grandma!
Grandma! Where were you? I could hear
you, but I couldn’t see you!”
Book Blurb
What Little Leaguer doesn’t
dream of walking from the dugout onto a Major League baseball field, facing his
long-time idol and striking his out? Empty
Seats follows three different minor-league baseball pitchers as they follow
their dreams to climb the ladder from minor- to major-league ball, while facing
challenges along the way—not always on the baseball diamond. This coming-of-age
novel takes on success and failure in unexpected ways. One reviewer calls this
book “a tragic version of ‘The Sandlot.’”
(Winner of the 2019 New Apple
Award and 2019 Independent Publishing Award)
Author Bio
Following a successful
40-year career in public relations/marketing/media relations, Wanda Adams
Fischer parlayed her love for baseball into her first novel, Empty Seats. She began writing poetry
and short stories when she was in the second grade in her hometown of Weymouth,
Massachusetts and has continued to write for more than six decades. In addition
to her “day” job, she has been a folk music DJ on public radio for more than 40
years, including more than 37 at WAMC-FM, the Albany, New York-based National
Public Radio affiliate. In 2019, Folk Alliance International inducted her into
their Folk D-J Hall of Fame. A singer/songwriter in her own right, she’s
produced one CD, “Singing Along with the Radio.” She’s also a competitive
tennis player and has captained several United States Tennis Association senior
teams that have secured berths at sectional and national events. She earned a
bachelor’s degree in English from Northeastern University in Boston. She lives
in Schenectady, NY, with her husband of 47 years, Bill, a retired family
physician, whom she met at a coffeehouse in Boston in 1966; they have two grown
children and six grandchildren.
Thank you for supporting this author and her tour. To follow along with the rest of the tour, please drop in on the author’s 4WillsPub tour page. If you’d like to schedule your own 4WillsPub blog tour to promote your book(s), you may do so by clicking HERE.
I’m a sucker for a good thesaurus. I
realize that may make me sound like one of the most boring people on the
planet, but just hear me out.
About twenty years ago or so, I was living
life as a recent college graduate and newlywed professional in the camping
industry, a job I truly enjoyed but rarely miss. We didn’t have any children
yet and when my husband’s burgeoning career came to an anticipated crossroad, I
found myself with a good opportunity to pursue a different professional path.
That’s when I went back to grad
school at the University of Missouri to earn my master’s degree in literature
and creative writing. Before I could do that, however, I had to take the
Graduate Record Exam (GRE).
The first step was, of course, to
buy one of those big test prep books—you know the ones that are as thick as an
old-fashioned New York City phone book stacked on top of the “S” volume of the Encyclopedia
Britannica that still collects dust on the shelf in your parents’ basement?
Yeah, that’s the one.
It’s been quite a few years and I’m
unfamiliar with the test format now, but one of my biggest concerns then was
the analogies portion in which I would be asked:
If shoe is to apricot,
then rodeo is to______.
a. Golden Retriever
b. Grecian vase
c. central heating
d. toothbrush
Except replace all the words in the
question and answers with ones you’ve never heard of before.
The Great Big Book of Test Prep
recommended studying with a thesaurus. So, I bought myself another book that
weighed roughly the same as your run-of-the-mill anvil and got to work. I
looked up the words from practice tests and any grandiloquent words I came
across in my pleasure reading. Soon I had whole families and clusters of new,
slightly pretentious, words to which I could attach at least vague meaning.
And I had become a huge fan of Mr.
Roget.
Since then, my collection has
expanded to include multiple generations of recently updated thesauri, a handy
pocket version, and an early edition from 1866, about fourteen years after the
original 14,000-word masterpiece compiled by Peter Mark Roget.
Of course there are several online
versions available as well, but I rarely write without a print copy of a
thesaurus nearby. Because I write a great deal of historical fiction, the
oldest one in my collection especially comes in handy.
My most recent historical novel, Smoke
Rose to Heaven, benefited greatly from Mr. Roget’s assistance. His
marvelous book and its descendants helped me to put the final polish on the 19th
century world my characters inhabit. It served to pepper their language with
quaint, but still accessible, words as they galloped across their lush
historical landscape occasionally stumbling over an abandoned child, a lost
manuscript, or an assassin.
And that’s why I’m a sucker for a
good thesaurus. Also, the answer is C, which I’m sure you already knew.
Book Blurb:
New York, 1872.
Diviner Ada Moses is a finder of hidden things and a keeper
of secrets. In her possession is a lost manuscript with the power to destroy
the faith of tens of thousands of believers.
When a man seeking the truth knocks at her door with a
conspiracy theory on his lips and assassins at his heels, she must make a
choice.
Spurred by news of a ritualistic murder and the arrival of a
package containing the victim’s bloody shirt, Ada must either attempt to vanish
with the truth or return the burden she has long borne to the prophet
responsible for one of the most successful deceptions in US history.
Protecting someone else’s secret may save Ada’s life, but is
that worth forcing her own demons into the light?
Author Bio:
SARAH ANGLETON is the author of the historical novels
Gentleman of Misfortune and Smoke Rose to Heaven as well as the
humor collection Launching Sheep & Other Stories from the Intersection
of History and Nonsense. She lives with her husband, two sons, and one
loyal dog near St. Louis, where she loves rooting for the Cardinals but doesn’t
care for the pizza.
Sarah is giving away 5 e-book copies of SMOKE ROSE TO HEAVEN and all you have to do for a chance to win a copy is to leave a comment below. To follow along with the rest of her tour, please drop in on her 4WillsPub tour page. If you’d like to take your book or books on a virtual blog tour, please visit us at 4WillsPublishing.wordpress.com and click on the VIRTUAL BLOG TOUR tab. Thank you for supporting this author’s tour and also the blogger of this post!
Carl Prescott and the Vengeful Gods will be published on February 11, 2020. To celebrate the launch of book three, the first two books will be on sale starting tomorrow, February 3rd. If you’re interested in a compelling fantasy with a strong sense of magic and wonder, this is your chance to try out something new and different. As a story written for the young adult fantasy genre, these tales are suitable for all but the youngest readers.
The stories are about four teens who have hidden talents that have begun to blossom. Those abilities put them in serious danger from others with similar yet opposite motivation. The pace of action and adventure accelerates from the beginning through the final chapters, with the outcome always in doubt.
As in #INDIE author, I hope you will check them out. Free previews are available on Amazon.com for all of my books. If you choose to read one or more of them, first thank you, and I would really appreciate your honest review. Of course, you can always reach out to me personally with any questions or comments. As well, you can follow me on my website and on Twitter to discover what else I am up to. With a price below $1.00, books one and two are really good deals. Happy reading!
Book three in the Carl Prescott series arrives in just two weeks! At the end of book 2, Carl Prescott and the Demon Queen, our hero learned that even though it is not possible, the priest and priestess who had joined Sylvia in the group hug, did form a new universe. As book 3 begins, Carl learns that several of his friends and professors have been sucked through a wormhole and are now in the other universe. Carl Prescott volunteers to venture there as well in order to save them. Sylvia chooses to join him on his new quest. Here is the description from the back cover:
When Carl Prescott stopped Sylvia, the Demon Queen,
from destroying our universe, he sincerely believed his life could get back to normal
again. Yet the duties of the Invisible Hand never end. Somehow, the priest and
priestess who helped Sylvia did form another universe, and many of Carl’s
friends were sucked through a wormhole and are now stranded there.
In order to rescue their friends, Carl and Sylvia
must venture through the wormhole to enter the false universe. Their journey is
fraught with danger as the God King and God Queen are not alone. Even though
Carl carried Sylvia, Gabriel, and Constance out of the gravity wave, somehow they
are in the false universe too. Another riddle that must be resolved before they
can escape back to the real world.
The action and danger become more intense as Carl
endures one outrageous challenge after another. To make matters worse, the
existence of the false universe contradicts physics, and has already begun to come
apart. Hopefully, Carl and his friends will not fizzle out of existence along with
it.
This is how I would explain the plot:
Vengeful Gods takes a first peek into the
possibility of another universe. Many friends of our hero have passed through a
wormhole and become prisoners of the gods who created the false universe. Since
they were not truly God, their creation has an expiration date that approaches
quickly. The task becomes more complicated as Carl learns the truth of the
false universe. In order to fulfill his obligation to Emmanuel, he must find a
way to bring everything that slipped through the wormhole back home. Otherwise,
anything remaining will cease to exist, including him and his friends. To make
things worse, the gods of the false universe do not foresee their coming
extinction, and will do anything to stop and destroy their only chance for
survival.
Carl will face his worst fears, but Aida, Grace,
Barbie, Burt, and Sylvia will be there to help and provide some much needed
perspective. Even though Carl Prescott has crossed the Rope Bridge and accepted
the truth of physical reality, now he has to learn what that truth means for
him and existence itself.
As with all the books in the series, Vengeful Gods is action packed and full of surprises, many of which are unpleasant. Old and new friends, including the Rope Bridge, will be there to help. But even when his journey ends, it begins again.
This series is all about discovering the true nature of our existence and connection with the Most High. At this point, I believe book 4 will be the last in the series. Keep an eye out for Carl Prescott and the Riddle of Satan’s Cube.
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