Tag Archive | milestones

A Milestone

I’ve been blogging since 2011. This is my 450th post. (I did take a whole year off to produce a novel, so I’m not a slacker.)  I haven’t repeated any “words of wisdom” during that time, so you might imagine writing something interesting can be a challenge.When I’m really dry, you might have figured out I talk about the weather. Sometimes I even enlist Ken to help with an idea. I hoped I could reel in more than 1500 folks during this four-year endeavor, but I refuse to pay to attract more readers. On average, I only get two or three folks who will take the time to write a comment on the post of the day. That’s a bit disappointing too because I spend at least a good hour putting “the thoughts of the day” down in writing. Oh well. People are busy. I understand. I’m not complaining, nor am I bragging.

This morning I wasted almost two hours playing my computer games that are all basically the same as Candy Crush. If I was efficient and savvy I would delete these time stealers from my Kindle and just use the tablet to read novels. But I guess I’m not as proficient as I like to believe. For some reason I can’t pull the plug on the games. It’s digital crack.

I started playing these games during commercials. I think I’m right when I say there are more commercials on television today than ever. When I fill the time designated to hawk products and services, I turn my attention to these challenging games. (Believe me, after you to get level 150 on all of them, it’s a challenge to win.) Of course, there’s always the option to spend money to by tools or extra moves, if you so want to invest. And I confess. I resort to such foolishness when I get really stuck on a level I’ve grown tired of.

Well, will you look at that! I actually came up with a topic for discussion this morning just by writing — I only  hope I haven’t wasted your time.

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APPLE PIE AND STRUDEL GIRLS – BOOK 5 (CONTINUED)

Chapter 18

 Paris, France – September—Emma’s whereabouts continued to be a secret. After exhausting her attempts to find her, Marta visited city hall to speak to Pierre, Emma’s former boss.  She entered the office where Emma used to work and spied another woman sitting at her desk. Seeing a replacement for her dear Emma brought tears to Marta’s eyes. She walked up to the woman and requested to speak with Pierre.

The stranger asked, “May I tell him who you are?”

“My name is Marta Schiller. I am a cousin of Emma who used to work here.”

“Wait here, please.” The woman got up and opened a door down the hallway. In a couple of minutes the stranger reappeared.  “You may go in. Third door on the left.”

Marta smiled. “Merci.” She walked down the hallway and knocked on the door. She heard a man say, “Come in.”

Pierre stood up behind his desk to greet his visitor. “How can I help you mademoiselle?”

Marta moved toward him and in a low voice said, “Pierre, I need to find Emma. Do you know where she is?”

Pierre’s forehead wrinkled and he scratched his head. “Why do you think I would posses such information?” He turned on the radio and classical music filled the office. Then he put his finger up to his lips.

Marta moved closer and whispered, “I thought perhaps you might know where she is serving her sentence in Germany.”

“Marta, when Emma went to prison the authorities did not tell me where they took her.”

Marta studied his eyes and realized he held something back. “I wish you possessed more information. I am going crazy.”

Pierre discovered the Gestapo had bugged his office so sharing information with Marta at the office was impossible. In a normal tone he said, “I am sorry to disappoint you.” He paused. “The Germans do not inform employers if their employees get in to trouble.” He led Marta to the door and whispered. “Meet me at Moulin Rouge tonight at eight o’clock. I will tell you what I know.”

Marta nodded. “Thank you for your time.” She turned on her heel and left.

After meeting Pierre, Marta went back to her apartment with a glimmer of hope. A letter from her mother lay on the floor. Her landlord always thrust her mail under the door. She ripped open the envelop anticipating good news. She said a short prayer hoping her mother found Emma. Or even better, she got Emma released.

August 15, 1942

 My Dear Marta,

 How wonderful to get your letter, dear. I miss you so much, especially now.

 Yesterday I received a telegram informing me your father died at Stalingrad.  and I can’t stop weeping. We spent over  twenty-five years together, and I can’t think of living without him. This terrible news is too hard to bear. I realize you questioned his political choices, but I hope you understand how much he loved you under his false bravado.

 About the other matter. I spoke with my friends and can only tell you your cousin is at Anrath. I will try to get more news, but all of us must be careful. I wish I could tell you more, but I cannot. With your father gone, I am only one more woman living alone in Berlin.

 Love, Mutter

Marta fell into her favorite chair and wept. She wondered whether her father’s body would be returned to Germany or whether he lay rotting on a battlefield somewhere in Russia. What a dissapointing fate for such a proud, stoic soldier.

*****

Promptly at eight o’clock, Marta strutted into the Moulin Rouge in her best dress. She scanned the theatre and found Pierre sitting at a small table in a dark corner. He greeted her with a smile and a kiss on each cheek before he led her to his table.

“I am so glad you accepted my invitation,  mademoiselle.” Pierre smiled.

Marta played along as Pierre pulled out a chair for her to sit. She smiled up at him. “I would not miss an opportunity to see this show, Pierre. I do not get to come here often.” She flirted with him understanding German officers sat at a nearby table drinking heavily.

Pierre bent close to her. “I learned through our channels Emma is imprisoned at Anrath. Do you know about the city?”

“No.” Marta snuggled closer to Pierre still promoting their clandestine rendezvous.

He smiled at her, then whispered in her ear. “Anrath is a moderate sized city near Dusseldorf in the Northern Rhine area.”

“I understand.” She sipped her cognac. “Can the Resistance rescue her?”

“Perhaps.”

“That is encouraging.” Marta brightened.

“I cannot tell you more for your own safety.” Pierre hesitated then added, “I must not endanger my family.” He kissed her, ordered two more drinks, and they both settled into watch the show.

Chapter 19

Guadalcanal, Solomon Islands – September—Ordinarily, a soldier in Angelo’s dire condition would be airlifted to a base hospital after the doctors stabilized him in the field hospital, but the marines on Guadalcanal didn’t enjoy the luxury of a close enough base to evacuate severely wounded soldiers. The Japanese fleet overwhelmed the American navy, and to be able to fight another day, the battleships fled to regroup.

When the Japanese finally emerged from the jungle, they fought to the death. The Marines on the beach, fought hand-to-hand and casualties quickly mounted. Medical personnel did their best to provide adequate treatment for the wounded in a tent hospital, but without better facilities and the ability to airlift critical patients to a better facility, large numbers of men died. Worst of all, the situation wouldn’t get better until the navy came back and secured the island.

While the fighting went on the beach, Angelo lay in a coma spending his twenty-first birthday in a state of unconsciousness. His weak body battled fever and pain. Nurses tried to keep him comfortable with cold compresses and heavy doses of pain medication.

In the distance bomb blasts sounded like kettle drums. Cots rocked and IV bottles swayed on steel poles with every strike. Close by the rat-tit-tit-tat of automatic rifles caused medical personnel to wear steel helmets as they treated their patients. Screaming wounded men who lay waiting for help sent shivers through everyone in the hospital.

Two weeks after surgery Angelo opened his eyes. His return to consciousness elated the medical personnel because doctors originally gave him less than a fifty percent chance of survival. His recovery lifted the spirits of the nurses who attended so many young lives who died too soon. Angelo’s spark of life renewed their purpose to provide the best medical care with the meager tools and facilities they had.

After Angelo woke, his first thought was about the Rosalie and the children. His second thought centered on Bobby. He remembered he had been assigned to Red beach. He listened to conversations of medical personnel and learned Red Beach was the place the heaviest fighting took place.

In his waking moments, Angelo prayed Bobby would be one of the lucky ones. No sixteen year old should face battle. But Bobby wanted to fight bad enough to lie about his age. Angelo realized Bobby believed nobody cared if he lived or died, but Angelo did. If he should die on that beach, it would be unfair because the boy never got a chance to go on a date, or make love, or be loved.  Instead his father sent him off to military school with no tenderness where Bobby endured loneliness and harsh discipline. Angelo hoped God listened when he prayed, but then thought God must be very busy listening to requests like his coming from around the world.

Once the fierce fighting started, the battle went on around the clock for days. A constant stream of wounded men filled the hospital at all hours. Medical staff slept little.  Angelo lay sweating as the nurses scurried around him. They buzzed with caffeinated energy doing their best to make the wounded comfortable.  When darkness fell, they took on the appearance of the walking dead, instead of pretty twenty-one year old girls.

A week after Angelo regained consciousness, a man in a body cast lay in the bed next to him. The poor guy had IVs in both arms and cuts and bruises on his face. His sun-bleached blond hair made Angelo want to vomit because he realized the limp body in the next bed belonged to Bobby.

When a nurse came to check on Angelo, he asked “Nurse, what happened to him?”

The distracted nurse said, “He’ll tell you later, soldier.”

Angelo persisted. “Please, tell me. He’s my little brother.”

She appeared incredulous as she compared Bobby’s fair complexion and white blond hair to Angelo’s deep eyes and dark brown curls. “Your brother, huh?”

Angelo gave her his winning grin. “Aren’t we all brothers and sisters, nurse?”

“Your “brother” got injured on the beach. A Jap bayoneted him through the kidney and a bomb blast broke his back. He’s in pretty rough shape.”

Angelo swallowed hard. “Oh, my God.”

The nurse turned away. “Indeed.”

*****

Bobby woke a few hours later screaming and thrashing with pain. A nurse rushed to his bedside with a syringe,  swabbed his arm with alcohol on a piece of gauze, and injected him with morphine.   “This will help.”

Bobby whispered, “Thank you, nurse” before his body went limp.

Bobby’s dreams brought memories of the pain which pierced his ears-like ice picks plunging into both ear canals. He experienced the shaking earth knocking him down. He breathed in hot white smoke and smelled the sickening odor of rotten eggs. When he took a breath, instantly he got a headache worse than a hangover from drinking cheap booze. When a shell landed too close, his bones felt like metal being struck with a sledgehammer. He crawled through sand where body parts of his buddies lay around him. The guys he went with on night patrols lay dead with blank stares into nothingness.

Nightmares like these plagued Bobby every time he drifted off to sleep. He lived again and again the horrific battle ending with a scene of his friend Tommy taking a shot to the face, His headed exploded. A headless Tommy fell forward into the sand.  Bobby froze. The sight paralyzed him. Before he realized a Jap with a bayonet loomed before him. He struggled with the boy about his own age before white lightning streaked up his backside and everything went black. Smudgy, dirty faces of two medics appeared above him. This was the part of the dream when he woke screaming.

*****

Bobby drifted in and out of consciousness as the days went by. Angelo did his best to make his stretches of consciousness longer.  “Hey soldier! What brought you in here?”

Bobby recognized Angelo’s voice and opened his eyes. “Now I’m sure I’m definitely not in heaven. Angelo’s here!” It took all of his energy to make a joke, and he fell asleep smiling.

Later in the afternoon, Bobby woke again. “How’d I get here?”

Angelo smiled when he heard Bobby’s voice.  ” You got here the usual way.” He answered. “By stretcher and ambulance.”

“I don’t remember anything about getting here.”

“That’s good.” Angelo said. “I don’t remember anything either. All I know is some damn Jap bomb bore my name.”

“A Jap bayonet got me.” Bobby said. “What do I look like, Ang?”

“Like hell.”

“That good, huh?” Bobby tried to laugh and put his hand on the cast. “What the hell did they do to me?” He knocked on the plaster body cast.

“I guess they thought plaster would put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”

“How long was I out?” Bobby asked.

“A couple of days. They tell me I took two weeks to wake up.”

“Sure, you always need to one-up me, don’t you?”

“What are big brothers for?” Angelo smiled. “Did you enjoy sweet dreams when you traveled to coma-land?”

“No. Just the same damn nightmare playing again and again like a bad movie. What about you?”

“Actually, my brother Tony visited me. We went home together to help Rosie plant a garden in our backyard. We grew whopper tomatoes and cucumbers. And I even got a peak at my new baby boy.”

“No kidding?”

“Honestly, Bobby, I went home. My beautiful Rosie brought me my son, and she told me she named him Angelo. The little tiger even looked like me with my dark eyes and curly hair. My sweet little girl, Gina, put her arms up wanting me to hold her. Do you suppose Rosie’s spirit visited me?”

“Sure Ang, and Santa Claus is a real guy living at the north pole.” Bobby chuckled and then cringed. “I need to stop doing that to myself.” He took a shallow breath. “No wonder you didn’t wake up for weeks, especially if you rendezvoused with your wife.” He smiled. “I wish I didn’t get wounded, but I’m glad we’re together again.”

“Just getting a look at your ugly mug made my day kid.” Angelo said, “I guess God just doesn’t want us yet.”

“He definitely doesn’t want me. He’ll probably never want me.” Bobby closed his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid. He’ll want you someday. But not now. You’re too young to die; you’re whole life is ahead of you.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“Like having a home, a girl, and a family.” Angelo’s thoughts went to Rosie.

“What girl would want me? I’m a wreck.” Bobby knocked on the cast which encased him.

“You’re young. You’ll heal. And I think my little sister would think you’re a catch.” Angelo said.

“So, you’ll introduce me when we get stateside?”

“Of course. I’ll introduce you to my entire family and all of my friends.”

“Thanks, Ang. You must really love me, bro.” Bobby teased.

“Probably–” Angelo chuckled.

Bobby changed the subject. “Do you think they’ll send us home?”

“I hope so.” The conversation tired Angelo. My two year hitch is only half over, so I don’t know what’ll happen.”  Angelo’s pain began to escalate. “The doctor told me yesterday as soon as our planes can land here, we’ll be airlifted to Sydney.”

“Do you think they’ll send us back to the field?’ Bobby’s voice quivered.

“Like I said, I don’t know what will happen.” Angelo hesitated and then asked, “We’re damaged goods. Are you disappointed?”

“Nah,” Bobby said. “I broke my back and lost a kidney on this damn rock, so I think my country is satisfied they got my pound of flesh.”

“Amen to that, little brother.” Angelo said.

“Ang?”

“Yeah, Bobby.”

“I like you calling me your brother.”  The boy drifted off to sleep.

*****

Bobby and Angelo turned out to be two of the first Marines on Guadalcanal to be airlifted to a hospital in Sydney, Australia in September 1942. After their rehabilitation, they would be sent to Pearl Harbor where this whole ugly war began.

 

A Happy Celebration

hugsToday I’m celebrating my 401st post on the Word Press site. When I told a friend that I had written so many posts, she replied, “You’re a wordy bitch, aren’t you?”

I answered, “You’re just realizing that now?’ Then we both laughed and went on to talk about the weather.

I must admit it has become harder to come up with something interesting nowadays than it was three years ago when I set out into the blogosphere. Then I was teaching at the local community college, designing and selling jewelry, and having fun painting–so one of those topics could inspire a conversation. Now, I primarily write and wonder what to write.

My inspiration doesn’t strike as often, but still makes an appearance from time to time. When it does, I try to pass it along to you. Like this morning when I watched my favorite CBS Sunday Morning program. This is the one 90 minutes of “news” I never miss. Today they presented a story about a man who suffers from ALS (Lou Gehring’s disease) and has dedicated the time he has left to bringing a smile to others and making them happy.

At first, he bought dozens of glazed donuts and went to chemo wards, children’s hospitals, parks, and other places where people might need a smile and he passed out his donuts. After he did that for a year, he put a challenge out to others to come up with creative ways to make strangers happy, send in a video of their project, and after a time he sponsored a premiere showing for those who rose to the challenge.

He made the celebration a night to remember with a red carpet going from the street to the theater where the show would be presented. He welcomed everyone in the audience and thanked them for their creativity. Then before the show started, he passed out — wait for it — donuts!

What a wonderful, feel good story, huh? I love to hear about people doing things just to make someone else’s life a bit better. I do try always to be thoughtful and giving, but sometimes I wish my creativity would lend itself to something as great as this. Just think how many smiles one man has given to the world. Incredible.

Here’s my advice. If you’ve read this complete post, go out there and do an act of kindness everyday. It can be as simple as smiling at someone and wishing them a good morning as you open the door for them. That’s not hard, right? And who knows, you might just turn around a crumby day to one that has a little joy in it because of a simple kindness.

We can all do that.

A Milestone — My 301st Post

Here we going a blogging among the world of words!

Here we going a blogging among the world of words!

Today I celebrating my 301st post. I’ve been blogging for almost a year, and I am so happy I’ve explored this world of writing. The best part for me is the people I’ve “met.” The novelist, writers,  photographers, and poets. I feel close enough to some of you to call you cyber-friends. I truly hope we can meet in the flesh someday.

You’ve traveled with me through the highs of getting new novels published and the lows of my husband’s MS journey. You’ve tolerated my rants, and even thought I had a couple pearls of wisdom from time to time. You’ve cried with me with the passing of my father and mother this year. I’ve been happy to share my thoughts about myself and amazingly, you’ve been interested. I’ve been lucky enough to received awards from other bloggers and was honored to be “Freshly Pressed” once. So, this blogging journey has been most satisfying.

Since my childhood, our world has changed so much. When I was born, plastic wasn’t on the consumer market yet. Yeah, you youngsters out there in Internet-land, the years I’ve walked the earth say I’m old, but my heart remains young. When I was a kid, it was time to go home when the lightning bugs came out. When the fire siren blew at noon, it was time to go home for lunch. When mom wanted one of us, she yelled our names out the front door. We played outdoors all day, otherwise Mom threaten us with some household chore. We only played indoors when it rained. We had games where we moved little pieces around a cardboard platform and learned to play poker before we were twelve.We used unprotected,  two-wheel transportation well into our teens, riding miles during a day. Families only had one car, and Dad always needed it to go to work.  So  much of this world doesn’t exist any more.

Games no longer involve competitors who sit next to each other. Now games are played on Ipads, Smartphones or Laptops. Your competitors might be across the room or across the world. Heck, some competitors be smarty-pants computers! You’d never know the difference. Now Mom’s text their kids to come home instead of yelling their brains out. You wear helmets when you ride your bike–if you ride a bike.

A lot has changed. Some for the good — like the Internet where the world can be connected. Where like-minded bloggers can gather. Where research is at the touch of a keyboard. Where we can entertain ourselves alone.

Our connection technology also has a dark side, though. Our electronic devices  isolate  us so much, conversation is becoming a lost art. Meeting in parks for a pick-up game of baseball is unheard of any more, and playing outside without protective equipment is prohibited. We explore nature by reading about it instead of walking through the woods. We travel vicariously through websites instead of getting on a bus, plane, or train to actually experience the place. So many of us live our lives in our heads.

I never want to go backward because I am a progressive thinker; however, I do think we need to pick and choose when we use technology. I do miss the social interactions of the pass where neighbors knew each other and looked after one another. Where spontaneous cups of coffee were shared at the kitchen table instead of a coffee houses. Where raking leaves into a huge pile in the fall would become a playground for all the kids in the neighborhood. But there I go again, being nostalgic.

My mood must be due to looking at so many old photos lately or maybe it’s because I’ve begun researching my next novel. I just finished STEPHANIA IN AMERICA, and the manuscript is with my editor and proofreader, so it’s time to get to work on something new. As a historical romance novelist, I’m always looking back to the time when my parents were young adults. Perhaps after this book, I’ll take a look at my own childhood years in the 50’s and 60’s, after all, that time period is far enough to be history too, isn’t it?

A Milestone

I’ve passed a milestone two days ago. I have posted 100 entries to my blog. Woo-Hoo!

When I started this endeavor, I didn’t think I could possibly write something interesting everyday. But somehow, by the grace of divine intervention, I have found something to say for over 100 days. It’s a miracle.

Aside from my short stories I’ve shared with you, by now you realize my blog is a stream of conscious exercise. I never know what I’m going to write until I face that empty “Add a New Post” box on the WordPress site. Sometimes I come  up with gems, sometimes turnips, but nonetheless, I come up with something. It has proven to me that writer’s block is real, but it has also proven to me that once my fingers touch the keys and just start hammering out a thought–any thought–that crosses my mind, I can start writing. And once I get going–look out! I am determined to produce some piece of writing that others want to read. I have the power! (My arm just became sore from patting myself on the back.)

What I’m trying to say is this blog is probably not going to win any awards. But I will try to help others to conquer writing challenges. I will try to show you how I’ve overcome some of the challenges we all face. I will also talk about my teaching experiences, my  joys and failings.

But honestly, my blog is purely a selfish tool. I use it to keep writer’s block at bay and it serves as a forum to share my life–such as it is–with people who want to know me. And as long as I’m confessing, deep down I’m hoping you’ll want to go beyond my blog and read my books and short stories.

So to all of you who have decided to follow me, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I will try not to turn you off as I go on about nothing important.