Boomer Ang: 2

I awoke at darkness time. Master Bob’s dark form laid there as it had since I fell asleep. My sadness deepened. I licked his face. It was cold and stiff. I felt hungry and thirsty. I walked around the darkened house, my night sight seeing everything in a grayish tone. I went by his bedroom across the hall from the bathroom and saw the curtain moving from a breeze. Well, that is interesting.

I went inside to investigate further. I guess because of warmer days he has opened the window to let in the fresh air. I must keep that in mind. I go into the kitchen at the back of the house. Master Bob sometimes forgets to put away his food from when he eats. I look up on the counter and sniff. Nothing. I look at the table where he sometimes leaves food, but again nothing. He would pick this day to be a clean freak! I have my kibbles and water inside the kennel. I remember he left the gate open. Maybe I can still eat by going out through his bedroom window. Then I’ll go back inside later to be with Master Bob and protect him from danger.

What am I thinking? It’s because I didn’t protect him earlier is why he is dead now! But would it have even mattered? “Woo,” I moan. I walked back to his bedroom and raise the curtain and see the window is opened alright, but not to where I could easily climb outside and back inside. I try using my muzzle and pry it up further. It is an effort but after a bit, it moves up just enough for me to get most of me outside. I see though that I wouldn’t be able to climb back inside because the window is too far down to the ground. I don’t think I could jump that high as big as I am.

I am undecided. What should I do? If I stay inside I will go hungry and starve before someone shows up. Master Bob doesn’t have many people who come over except those who wanted money or drugs. I need to eat. Master Bob won’t go nowhere. I will leave you my friend and find that man who killed you.

Just as I was about to jump out the window Master Bob’s phone made a ringing noise. I sniff it. It has a picture of his woman friend; her name is Ginny Fur. It’s a funny name for a funny girl. She has missing teeth that her ex-boyfriend hit out. She laughs about that now but I remember when I was a puppy and she wasn’t laughing when it happened. She cried and Master Bob held her in his arms and they kissed and then, well you can imagine what they did after that. I think her ex-boyfriend went to jail because they talked about him being arrested. Whatever that means.

I lick the thing to make it stop but I somehow pushed too hard and her voice came out from his phone.


“Woof, woof, woof!”

“Boomer! Did you answer the phone? Oh, you are such a smart dog. Go get Bob, Boomer. I need to talk to him.”


“Boomer? What is it? Is Bob okay?” She sounded worried. “Stay there Boomer. I’ll be right there, okay?”


The phone went quiet those human words appeared. I don’t know what it says. She told me to stay. I will stay then. I walk past him and wait by the door. I remember she always had a key to unlock it. I sit and wait. I whimper and cry because I already miss his tummy rubs and ear scratches and back massages and chasing the red rubber ball in the back yard. I felt the tears roll down my cheeks.

I heard the car come to the front of the street. It sounds familiar and my tail wags in anticipation. I hear the footsteps run up to the house and I smell her. It’s Ginny! She knocks on the door, and I bark telling her to come in. A minute later the door opens and she turned on the light and she cries out, “Bob!”

She cries and lowers herself to him, covering him and hugging him close. There is blood on her blouse now. She wears blue pants, or maybe it’s green, or perhaps purple, and her hair is chocolate lab color like mine. I knelt down beside her and lick her hands to tell her I’m sad too.

Humans are funny creatures. She suddenly realized I was out from the kennel. She stares at me for the longest time. “You need to go into the kennel. We are going to have a lot of strange people here and you’ll just be in the way. She smiled at me, showing her missing teeth. I looked up at her, wagging my tail back and forth like a boomerang.

She got up and went to the opened door. “Come Boomer! Let’s get into your kennel. Then I can call the police.” I follow her outside mostly because I’m hungry and thirsty, and the kennel is where all that stuff is. But first I beeline to my tree and release my bladder. It felt good.

“Boomer! Come, now!” She looks for me. I can see her by the kennel, but apparently she can’t see me. Humans are blind to the night! That is so interesting. She keeps calling for me, getting more and more agitated. I am done and I run to her and into the kennel, she’s closing the gate and securing the latch. I never paid much attention to that latch, how it works and if I can use my nose to push it open. I will have to keep that in mind.

But first, food. The kibbles are especially tasty this evening. I overhear her talking to someone. It must be those police she was talking about earlier.

It wasn’t no sooner that she called then I hear sirens wailing in the distance, coming nearer and nearer. Then four cars appear with flashing lights over their hoods. I count four in all and they scramble from their cars and run onto my property.

“Woof, woof, woof,” I announced to get their attention. All four of them stop in their tracks. They are thinking. But then they rush inside the house. I hear Ginny Fur talking, crying, and carrying on to a point where I think she is losing her composure or something.

Then more cars come and they don’t have flashing lights on their car hoods. Finally, a black van pulls up and two big men come out. They open the back and a long bed with rollers appear and is placed on the cement sidewalk. It is then rolled up to the house.

I watch this all from my kennel I have since stopped barking long enough to get my drink of fresh water that Master Bob put out to me before. When was that? Afternoon? It was before dark I guarantee you that, by golly.

A man approaches my kennel. I bark and growl with menacing malice at him because he is invading my domain. He smells hesitant and uncertain. He looks about Master Bob’s age, maybe younger with smile full of straight teeth. He is also taller than my master. “How are you doing Boomer?”

He knows my name? Ginny Fur must have told him. I too am uncertain. I wag my tail with caution and I growl nervously telling him to go away.

“I’m Detective Mike. I’m going to take you to my house, okay?”

No, it’s not okay. “Woof, woof, woof!” I warned him to get away. My fur stands straight up and I bared my fangs menacingly. I wanted to find my dead master’s killer, not go someplace with him. His house? Unless this killer is there too, I’m not interested.

“Miss Davenport, will you get him out and then we can take him.”

“Certainly,” Ginny Fur said to him and then she smiled at me. “It’s okay, Boomer. He will take good care of you. You want to go walkies?”

Walkies? Now? Master Bob is dead, and this human wants to go walkies! What is wrong with these people? “Woof, woof, woof,” I answered negatively. She opened my kennel and I cowered back into my doghouse, my last safe place. I had my other red rubber ball a rubber bone and a rawhide bone I chew on when Master Bob was in the house and didn’t have time for me.

She came in and hooked the leash to my collar. “He will take good care of you, I promise,” Ginny Fur told me. “Come!”

She’s left me no choice and I felt my tail curl submissively between my legs. I looked at the other people. Many wore dark colored uniforms with hats with black brims and shiny metal disks on their chests. She led me out from my dog house, and I looked back at the toys I’ll surely miss and whimpered.

The smiling man who called himself Detective Mike takes the leash and bends down to my level he smells like coffee and a faint anti-perspirant odor from when he applied it over ten hours earlier. Now his regular body odor came out as a musky scent. He allowed me to sniff his hand and then he petted my muzzle and scratched behind my ears. I think I like you Detective Mike! My tail slowly came back out and began wagging as he continued rubbing my left ear and then my right.

“We’ll get along just fine,” he assures me. He took me to his car and opened the back door and I jump in. Master Bob didn’t own a car. We always walked to the park and into downtown. It’s not a big town. He told me one time we live in a place called Gooding, but I didn’t understand what that meant. I know what good means because Master Bob always told me I’m a good dog. Maybe we live in a good place then.

I jumped into the back seat and sat on my hunches as he closed the car door. It smelled like him. I realized I began liking Detective Mike more. He went back inside Master Bob’s house, and I watched everything that happened for the longest time.

Then those two big men who came in the van earlier came out pushing something long and thin, covered by a blanket onto the walkway and down to the van. I smelled what it was. It was Master Bob. I whimpered and howled mournfully. Those two men stopped and looked at me. They appeared sad that I was sad but pushed my master inside the van, closed the gate and drove away.

I laid down in the back seat and waited until Detective Mike came back. I closed my eyes and drift into a nap, dreaming of running with Master Bob. I sense someone nearby and I open my eyes and look up at the back window and see Detective Mike opening the door and gets inside.

“How are you doing Boomer? We’re going home now. I got a nice big place with lots of land for you to run, and you’ll have other dogs to play with too. Won’t that be nice?”

I wagged my tail in reply. I don’t understand what he says to me, but his voice sounds nice and reassuring. He says something about other dogs. I hope they understand I’m a big dog who gets his way all the time. He starts the car and I sit up watching the street I live on for so long—three years to be exact; twenty-one in dog years. I see the park we always go to and then the store and the main street and then we are out in the country. It smells of growing corn and potatoes and cow manure. After a time, the car slows and stops at a closed gate.

Detective Mike gets out and opens the gate and is greeted by at least four dogs who are as big as me. This is not going to be fun. I might have to fight for my dominance. One is a female. I don’t know what breed she is though because her ears are straight up, and her fur is thick. I don’t know how she manages in the hot times when I have to sleep inside my doghouse during the hottest part of the day.

She apparently smells me and jumps up to investigate. She snarls and snaps at me, warning me to watch myself if I intend to become a pack member here. She doesn’t smell like she ever had litters before. Did they make her barren? Master Bob had a smiling man with nice eyes take me one day and when I awoke, was missing those things between my legs. I hurt for the longest time, but I didn’t miss them and wasn’t the least bit interested in girl dogs after that.

The other three dogs now have jumped up and are seeing me. They too bark, snarl and growl at me, as a way of showing who is and isn’t in charge here. I bark, snarl and growl back with every intent to get out and show them who’s boss here.

Detective Mike though has other ideas because he calls the dogs away and he puts them in their kennel. He then comes back for me. I’m calm now as I realized he wanted to establish that he was the alpha male in this pack, not them, or me for that matter. “You will stay in the house tonight, and we’ll bring your doghouse and kennel tomorrow for you. I don’t want any dogfights between you and Brutus, or Daisy or Carman or Ralph. Boomer, I am the alpha here. I will punish you or the others if you don’t mind this one rule.”

He leads me into his big house, much bigger than Master Bob’s. I want to mark myself for everyone to know this is mine now, but Detective Mike has other plans as he makes me go outside in the back of the house.

While I was marking my scent in the back yard I overheard Detective Mike talk to the human female. She was a plump but short woman near Ginny Fur’s age, maybe older. She didn’t smile when she saw me and I moved cautiously by her. Detective Mike may be the alpha of the pack, but I sensed she was actually in charge of everything else.

“His master was murdered earlier. He needs a good home,” he tells her.

“I wish you had asked me first Mike.” She sounded upset. I felt a sadness deep inside. I felt that I don’t belong here either. Even from way out here, I could smell the man who killed my master. Does he live near here? I sniff the air. The breeze comes from the town Master Bob called Gooding. No, he lives down there. I will find you soon enough. That is certain.

Boomer Ang

Boomer, Boomer Ang, Boomer, Boomerang. I love that name I love that name because it is my name because I love to wag my furry tail back and forth like a boomerang! Or is that a yo-yo? It’s okay because I am a happy dog with not a care in the world.

My master, he’s also my best friend gives me treats and feeds me and gives me bowls of fresh water every day. He smiles at me and says nice things to me though I really don’t know what is said. I don’t quite understand human talk. They of course haven’t advanced to my level of intelligence yet. They don’t even know how to sniff the air, for crying out loud!

But I digress. I was talking about Bob my master, who is so loving and caring to me. He’s the one who named me Boomer Ang. It has such a lovely ring to it, don’t you think? I smell something, Excuse me a moment. “Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff…Woof, Woof! Woof, Woof, Woof!” I sounded my alarm of impending danger.

A man approaches and enters my territory where Master Bob has a lovely house that he lets me come in and visit once in a while. Did I mention I’m a mutt, a Heinz-57 variety of everything from a long and distinguished line of mutts starting with my great-great- grand father Custer? He was an Airedale who fell head over heels in love with a German shepherd named Molly. Eventually they had my granddaddy who impregnated a Collie named Lassie and then my dad came into the world and got Mom pregos. She was a Chocolate Lab named Daisy. Now you know my pedigree.

“Woof, woof, woof,” I barked at the man from behind my dog kennel. If I could get out, I would bite his heels to let him know he’s trespassing on my territory. He makes me so angry! He’s purposefully ignoring me! I jump up on my hind legs and growl and snarl at this intruder.

He goes up to the door and rings the bell that makes that ding dong sound. Master Bob opens it and he talks to this intruder. I sensed he’s not a good person, but I’m locked up inside this kennel and can’t defend my master or my territory like I would prefer. Don’t let him in! Oh, Bob you let him in, how disappointing.

I stopped barking for a while and wait for that strange man to come back outside so I can tell him off really good. An itch, I got an itch. I squat on my butt and scratch behind my ear. I don’t know if it’s a flea or other parasite that is gnawing on that sensitive part of my anatomy but, oh yeah, that’s the spot. Master Bob is a master at hitting that spot. He is such a good man.

I hear the two talking inside. What does Master Bob do? I don’t know to be perfectly honest because he hardly goes anywhere, yet people like that man just now, pop by and then they leave a little bit later. Master Bob seems happier after they leave and then we go and play fetch the round red rubber ball. That and fetch the Frisbee at the nearby doggy park are my favorite games.

My ears perk up as I listen to the strange man speak in a loud and angry voice. “You got my money for my dope I fronted you?”

“Yeah, but I’m a bit short, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay, but I’ll take what you got!”

Why is that stranger so angry at Master Bob?

“I’ll have the rest tonight, I promise,” Master Bob tells stranger man.

“You better,” he tells Master Bob. I heard the front door open and close and the stranger leaves, stuffing those green things Bob calls bills into his pocket and gets in a truck, then leaves quickly down our street. Master Bob says the street name all the time when he is on the phone and then a short time later a strange man or woman appear in their small car and deliver something Bob calls pizza but I call delicious. He gives me the leftovers but I don’t care, he still loves me and cares for me.

Master Bob isn’t his usual happy self now, after the stranger man left. I can sense his mood a mile away. He is thinking and it shows in his face. It is bearded with a reddish color that goes down to his chest. He wears a cap outside, but inside the house he takes it off and reveals no hair on top of his head. He has kind and gentle blue eyes. He never yells at me but rubs my ears and belly with affection.

He comes out to greet me and though he smiles at me with his reassuring way, something is bothering him and I whine to him that I understand, though I honestly don’t totally understand. He lets me out and I run with abandon for my reprieve from that kennel. I immediately go to my tree, a Maple and hike up my leg, and release a copious amount of pee over its bark. Then I run to the center of the back yard where I squat and unload last night’s dinner of kibbles. It’s quite stinky.

Oh, he has the red rubber ball! I go after it after he tossed it into the air and lands near the end of the front yard. I give chase and dive onto it and bring it back to him, my slobber all over the ball. He seems to have relaxed and is more like his old self as we play this wonderful game together.

“I need to give you a bath and good brushing, Boomer,” he tells me as he throws the red rubber ball back to the same spot as before. I don’t particularly care for baths as a general rule, except in summer when it’s so hot I’m panting just to keep somewhat cool. Last year, or maybe it was longer before, because dog years and human years are so different; I was shaved nearly as bald as Master Bob. It was an exceptionally hot summer that year and I enjoyed not having all that fur on me for a change.

This is the time of year after the snow melts and the leaves on the maple have returned. It is the best time, though I get hay fever and sneeze constantly after sniffing the pretty flowers in the neighbor’s flower beds. If he intends to bathe me, then it will be inside the house because he doesn’t like getting me wet outside when it’s not very warm. Today, the clouds hide the sun and a breeze blows just enough to cause my fur to blow about. I’m not cold but I sense that Master Bob is because he is wearing his favorite black jacket.

The game of fetch is over and he calls me inside the house. He keeps the blinds drawn down and it smells of many pleasant and unpleasant odors. I sniff and sniff and sniff the air: cooked food, stale smoke from his cigarettes and dope he likes; the floor’s rug: his scent, my scent, stranger’s scent. I follow the scent on the floor to the place he calls bathroom. It has another unpleasant smell, the same as when I squat and do my duty outside. Does he do that inside? How disgusting!

He slides a plastic curtain to a side and reveals a tub. There are two metal faucets that he turns and runs his hand over the pouring water, filling up the tub. I smell soapy odor coming from a bottle he is pouring into the tub. I laid on the tiled floor. It smells of bleach and pine cleaner.

“Okay, Boomer, it’s time!”

He seems so happy at my misery. I whined in protest as he grabs me and lifts me into the tub. It is wet and slippery beneath my feet. I slide and feel helpless as he pours water over my coat and begins scrubbing me all over, including behind my ears on my belly. He has me in a perplexing situation, while I enjoy the attention, I don’t like the water, the smelly soapy stuff he pours so liberally over me and then rinses it off with that picture of cool water. I shiver and whine in protest.

I’ve had enough of this and attempt to jump out, but he holds me fast and his strength is quite impressive considering how thin he looks. I sit and endure this torture a while longer. He then pulls me out of the tub. I hear the water draining while he throws a white cotton towel over me and vigorously dries me. My instinct tells me to shake the water off, but he doesn’t allow me this option. The more he dries me the more I protest to him to let me be a dog and shake off the water. I smell different now. I smell, what is it that I smell? It’s awful!

He finally lets me out from the bathroom and I run down the hallway and into the living room where I promptly roll on the rug that has mine and Master Bob’s scent all over it.

“Boomer! God, you drive me crazy sometimes,” Master Bob yells at me. I smile at him with mischief as I continue to roll on the rug. I tell him through my mind to be thankful I wasn’t outside or I would roll on that fresh pile of manure I just made, just so I could smell like a dog again. But humans, like I mentioned earlier are not as advanced as us dogs are in communicating.

I’m done and go over to the couch where he is sitting, placing plastic tube to his mouth and lighting a flame over a brass-like chamber. Smoke suddenly appears and he inhales it into himself. I don’t agree with this thing he does to himself just so he is happier. He coughs out the smoke it smells odd: pleasant yet unpleasant at the same time.

I placed my muzzle onto his lap and look up at him, begging him to stop doing that, but once again he doesn’t understand what I’m saying to him. He places the tube thing back on the end table where a lamp is, it’s light casting a glow on the otherwise dark room. He lights a cigarette. That too is offensive smelling but I love my Master Bob and only wish that one day he will stop killing himself this way.

He absently scratched my head and ears. I thump my tail on the floor telling him that it makes me feel good. I smelled someone outside and heard odd-sounding footsteps of a stranger approach. Master Bob looked distracted. I arose and went to the door. “Woof, woof, woof,” I announce to Master Bob. I turn my head to him and wag my tail warning  him of the danger on the other side of the door.

“It’s okay Boomer.” He tells me as he get up from the couch and answers the door just after the bell ding dongs from a box inside this house. “I got this.”

A strange man is standing at the door. Master Bob pushes me away. The stranger pull something out. I cower away from the long dark object and a flash of fire and loud boom come out from its end. Master Bob looks sad and frightened and surprised all at once. “Woof, woof, woof.” I bark at the stranger who closes the door abruptly just as I leap up at him. I heard him run down the cement walk to the sidewalk and down the street. I smell his scent fading quickly.

Master Bob closed his eyes as if he fell asleep. I smell his blood. I bark and howl and whine and whimper. I lost my friend. I sense he has left me and his spirit has gone to the other world. I howl mournful and sorrowful into the air.

Nonetheless I lick his still face. The blood that pours from a hole in his shirt. I don’t hear his breath. I don’t see his chest move. I don’t smell his life force. I am sad and lonely. I go to the door and scratch at it. It is closed and I don’t understand the mechanism of this door Master Bob calls a knob. Try as I might, I can’t turn it the way I see Master Bob does with his hand. I place my teeth firmly into the knob and twist with all my strength. It won’t budge. Is it locked? I don’t know.

I looked down at Master Bob. I wish this was all a dream and that he’s just playing with me, pretending he’s dead. I lay my muzzle on his still belly, hoping, hoping he isn’t dead, though I know he is. Tears wetted his shirt. I closed my eyes and hoped this was all a bad dream.

About Life Generally

I’m working on this blog and looking at the email notices that pops up showing me what I’m missing if I just stop what I’m doing and read them.

Roxie just stopped by to say hi. She’s a Blue Healer, well trained and well behaved. Elsa is in her cage looking relaxed while the other three birds perched in their cages looking hungry and bored. Sounds of alarm clocks alerting the other children it’s time to get up is echoing down the hallway.

I’m at work now and a dear friend of mine’s picture of her is encased in a plexiglass cover and an article tells us that her spiritual journey began Monday. It was very sudden, and she was young relatively speaking. Her name was Red Autumn Eagle-Bear. She was a very vivacious woman with long raven colored hair, and she was going to be a grandma for the first time.

Life is generally fickle.  It is how you live your life that matters most.

Death is always sudden and final, though all believe that somehow our spirit will continue long after our earthly body has decomposed and gone.

I was four when I first saw death. A dog was run over by a car. The driver was remorseful, pouring out apologies to the father while the mother openly wept and the young boy who I guessed was at least five years older than me had a determined face and a shovel. He walked across the vacant field across the street from the house where they lived and began digging a grave for the black lab that laid dead on the street.

I have seen it many times after that: when my own dog Herman was poisoned, another neighbor’s young pup many years later was run over by a cement truck, seeing my mother after her fatal car accident and little Bobby the cockatiel that we lost last year.

I actually liked the way this person described how Red Autumn left us; a journey as if leaving for a trip far, far away. There was no mention of a destination. The concept of heaven or hell was not mentioned. She just began her spiritual journey where me and everyone else will eventually join her on our own spiritual journey.

Any New Ideas?

I received an email from a literary agent asking me how my book A Man’s Passion is going. I’m sure she’s talking about sales, which I haven’t heard about from my publisher. The last report was so abysmal I didn’t even receive a royalty check. I’m hoping it turns itself around soon. I have three different marketing companies doing their due diligence to make the book a success. I just haven’t seen it yet.

I reckon it’s a crap shoot, like anything else one invests their heart and soul into. I have worked hard to get this book into the hands of loyal readers than anything else I’ve done before. Maybe this literary agent is the godsend I’ve been looking for and everything will finally be fruitful for myself and future books yet to be published.

Splitting Hairs

Someday this will be a best seller. My wife arrived with the camper at the new property we just bought. For the last two months she had her own idea of what she wanted done on the place, starting with the cargo containers she wanted and where she wanted them for her own designs, which as I mentioned in an earlier blog was neither realistic nor legal since it would require a special permit to do what she wanted.

The first thing she noticed was me getting out of my car to push the gate open all the way. The gusty winds that day had blown it mostly closed. That was when her mother, Lillie, who come up here with her noticed that most of the barb wire fencing had fallen in front part of the property that she pointed out to me later.

I kept an open mind, but her mind was made up; Stephanie wanted nothing to do with this. She saw firsthand that she did not like where I placed the fifth wheel trailer, how it looked and the fact it was not even set up yet. The garage was locked where my son in law’s shop was, and she wanted to look inside.

I had warned her that I did not possess the keys to the shop, nor for that matter the other parts of the house. I did have the house key, but that was it. Unlike her I respected his privacy and considered it off limits.

She then saw the one container that had come. We had gone to the business I bought the two containers from, she was steaming mad I bought twenty feet used, when she wanted forty footers instead. She gone there to cancel the one order of the remaining container going there and procur a forty-foot used container. She cancelled that order too when she stated how rusted they were. Needless to say, she did not like that container either citing the same rust issue. I will not bore you my loyal readers with the rest of this sad tale. Suffice to say we were heading toward a breakdown of epic proportions.

The next day I took Stephanie and Lillie back to Gooding, Idaho, arriving close to midnight. I spend the next day walking on eggshells waiting for someone to tell me what an idiot I am for allowing this mess to occur. But nothing of a sort occurred. I read over my latest proof of my manuscript, just to get a feel of the pacing, ignoring the glaring punctuation and spelling errors for now.

I then watched my wife pack for the return trip back. She already informed her son he would have to stay behind with the birds but promised they were going to get their own place instead of the house I bought…

I feel like an invalid, as she tells him how his sister is being so cruel and unsporting, and I am allowing this to occur. It is not that I do not want to tell everyone that this is not the case, yet she has it in her mind that her words ring true. I allow her side of the story only because whatever I say will fall on mute ears because her brother only believes what Stephanie told him.

I learned long ago that there are two sides to a story, even more than two. I also know it is pointless to argue facts to someone unwilling to listen when her mind is already made up. Which was where I was at and left it at that.

I spent the evening talking to Lillie and allowing her to remembrance about the same stories she shared with me last year when I lived here. We talked though half of what I told her fell on ears that do not hear so well.

I left the next morning bidding everyone farewell and kissing Steph goodbye. I drove home to my new house conflicted over everything that happened over the past 48 hours. I listened to Lynyrd Skynyrd and tried to justify my feelings and knowing what the right thing to do was.

It was not until Tuesday morning that I got the answer.

A Night at the Concert

I am sipping on my coffee looking for something to write about when the thought struck me to write on last night’s concert at Northern Quest where I work. It was Lynyrd Skynyrd, a southern rock band from the early to mid-seventies until a plane crash in 1977 took out a majority of the original members.

I always admired the songs that played out on FM radio in the days of my youth such as “Tuesdays Gone,” “Whiskey Rock and Roller,” “Give me Back My Bullets,” and my favorite, “Free Bird.” So, for me it was a no brainer to volunteer so I could listen to their classic hits along with their newer songs from their latest album, Last of a Dying Breed.

My responsibility was to look after the port-a-potty area where over thirty were in placed, along with the six different hand washing stations that needed tidying up. So, as I went about dumping trash, sweeping up paper towels or their remnants as I got to reminisced to a less complicated time in my life where my only concerns were graduating from high school.

The performers who remained, along with the newer members, had grayer hair, longer beards, and weathered faces but they played as if they too were still that younger version of their selves. They belted out “Simple Man,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” and of course, “Free Bird,” with all the vigor and enthusiasm of over forty, fifty years ago.

I hope other older bands come to our outdoor concert venue next year so I can volunteer and work and listen to those older songs I grew up on.

My Writing This Week

My loyal readers, I have no real history breaking news or antidotes of world leaders to share this week, just my craft which, as many of you know is a passion I will most likely continue to my last breath.

My step daughter and her husband gave me a birthday dinner last night and one of the topics of course was my writing and what I was doing at the present time. The son in law, I’ll call him Nic, asked if I ever saw the Johnny Depp movie Rear Window. I told him I had and the book that I was working on was loosely based upon the plot of that very story in which a writer has witnessed a murder and decides to write a similar story.

After I explained to him and my step daughter how the plot twists and turns in which the poor writer is in serious jeopardy with the antagonist, he tells me that that sounds like a good story.

As I have mentioned on A number of my past blogs, my technique is to just freely write the story without the benefit of a structured outline showing character developme4nt and drafting it out to its minute detail before putting the story together. I’m a proud pantser and am not about to change. After all, my fiction writers group’s coordinator made it clear that the first draft for a pantser like me, is the outline. After that it is edited, revised, and sometimes completely rewritten before it becomes the final product.

It is how I started the first book I wrote, This Life: My Life After My Stroke,  as well as the Marteau series, my second published book, A Man’s Passion, and I Albert Peabody.  Plotting out a story outline to me is a tedious endeavor that reminds me of when I had to do term papers in college; boring and unimaginative.

I like to think that when I’m writing it’s an enjoyable effort, not something akin to work. Even when I’m working, I make it seem enjoyable and not a drudgery or chore. So, without further ado I present my latest effort called Mobley’s  Dick. It is full of action, suspense, romance, and drama, with antidotes of humor to keep it lively. Richard Mobley is an unpublished writer who thinks he will make the best seller’s list if he can just get out that one book that will open day make him a household name.

He then witnesses a car accident on a street he lives on and the scene escalates into a murder when the driver of one car shoots the other driver. It is later reveal the victim was a news reporter for one of the local television stations. Dick thinks he has seen his opportunity and decides to write this book. What he is unaware of is that no one wants that story written including a certain city government official who wants the mayor to win reelection at any cost, including murder.

That is the elevator pitch I’m revealing to you, my loyal readers. Hopefully later down the line, it will become a best seller as well.

A Time For A Change

As if pried from a cockney accented newsboy in the heart of London, “Hear ye Hear ye, the Queen is dead, long live the King.”

After seventy years Britain’s Queen Elizabeth the second, passed at her summer estate in Balmoral in the Scottish highlands.

It’s hard for me to grasp how Britons feel right now at the loss of someone like her. I definitely felt more sadness at the sudden passing of John Lennon and Princess Diana, than I have of her. Many admire her for her strength and perseverance, though she was not the truly authoritative monarch many of history’s past rulers were. Their power had waned significantly in the past two centuries and her role was more as a figurehead than as an absolute ruler.

Now Charles the third will inherit the throne, though as I mentioned before it isn’t as it was before. His only concern now is keeping the family peace. That is something I truly don’t envy after my own family issues this past month or so. 

More and more it appears as though the role of the British monarchy has diminished so much as to make it obsolete, though I am certain many Britons would disagree. After all I’m just a Yank who was brought up in a representative democracy and we pledge allegiance to our flag and defend our constitution. They pledge sovereign allegiance to the crown. I have to ask though, how much longer before that too changes?

I’m Done

The house I told you of last month is in my name. It has been a very long 30 days. The frustrating part was that my wife had made certain demands and her daughter who is also going to reside there with her husband and three children have consistently told her they are un-realistic, viable or in some cases, even legal.

To put it in a nutshell, my wife has been making this harder than it needs to be, and it has been a very long and trying month with bickering and the cost of trying to make this deal work. It still might not because of how my wife is acting right now. Hopefully she’ll settle down and see the potential of this deal and just go with it.

I am hopeful that we can all get along on this and be happy with what we have invested. Obviously that can only happen as we can all pitch in and provide a good, positive attitude for all of us. Three of the four of us are willing. Stephanie is the wild card.

Nature All Around Us

As many of you my loyal readers know, I am a lover of nature; the world is a breathing entity of organisms, plants, and animals. My eyes are wide open to all things beautiful and I enjoy admiring any creature that comes into my space.

The other day I was driving home from an errand and saw to my surprise a doe and an antlered stag. I didn’t count the points but I felt certain it was at least a ten-point buck. The doe stood to one side while the buck laid on the grass of someone’s front lawn in front of their house. It is scenes like this, rare but yet not so rare. The other day a buck walked leisurely in front of the house I’m living at presently. It was early morning and I’m certain I was the only one up that early.

Another time at work, I walked by the smokers’ shack between the hotel and the casino and spied a Praying Mantis perched on the wall, camouflaged the same general hue as the wall; a beige-like color that most everyone missed until I pointed it out. Unfortunately, the next morning I came to work and discovered the creature had been crushed by someone’s shoe. Apparently another person didn’t see the mantas in the same way as I do; just another pest to destroy.

Yesterday afternoon there was a brush fire in a wooded area in a place near where I live called Palisades Park. I felt sad because those animals were running away from the fire because it’s their natural instinct for survival. Obviously the trees that were burned or scorched will slowly succumb to disease and die because their natural antibodies were compromised just as ours are if a similar fate should ever happen. Eventually the animals will return as well as the insects, and new plants will emerge from the ashes.

It is after all a part and parcel of our own life cycle of our biosphere. We all see this wonderful thing called life, the nature of it and the beauty of it and then one day we won’t because our own body will die and decay and become a part of this thing called nature.