First of all, let me say that I have nothing against flowers.  I like flowers.  Some of my best friends are flowers.  Well, maybe that’s pushing it too far, but I do enjoy having flowers growing around the yard, as long as I don’t have to plant and care for them.  Fortunately, my wife feels much the same and the only flowers she wants from me are roses on our anniversaries.  I started by giving her one on our first anniversary, then added one rose each year thereafter.  Now that we are heading toward our forty-second anniversary, it is becoming an expensive tradition.
  The local florist makes enough  
to pay the month’s rent when I call each December.


( This bouquet of roses was for an anniversary 
over ten years ago.The vase is fuller each year
and the pocketbook emptier.)

    Although I am a Boomer, I’m not a “flower child.”  That is not to say I do not know a calla lily from a chrysanthemum.  Where we live, the daffodils and rhododendrons herald spring with bright blooms that I love.  I just don’t want any part of bringing them to that glorious state.  Why is it that I enjoy seeing flowers, yet have a strong loathing of digging in the dirt?  Therein lies the tale.

    My mother loved flowers and my dad loved a neatly trimmed lawn.  So almost every Saturday as well as Sunday afternoon the family seemed to spend mowing, edging, weeding, trimming or fertilizing.  Not only that, many an Easter vacation and much of every summer was devoted to making our little plot of Southern California green and blooming.  Not my cup of dandelion tea.  Add to that moving into new, bare-lot tract houses when I was six and again when I was fourteen, my dislike grew stronger.  For those of you who have never had that experience, if you’re lucky, all you have to clear are weeds and do a little grading before you plant your lawn and flowers.  At worst, you start by raking out creek-bed rocks and small boulders before bringing in clean top soil.  The latter was the case for our second house.  Not fun.  To top it off, I earned money during high school by hauling off weeds and rocks for the developer from unsold houses in the tract for a summer, then provided lawn care and gardening for neighbors.  By the time I hit college, my dislike became loathing.

(Photo Below:  This is how a tract house yard began.)


  

   After I married and my wife and I moved into a house, I did keep the grass cut and trimmed.  My rough guide as to when it needed to be done was when small dogs and children got lost in our grass.  As soon as we could afford it, I hired a gardener.  I would rather work overtime on something I didn’t detest than cut another blade of grass.  Oddly enough, I started to suffer from severe hay fever when I mowed the lawn, so I now have a valid excuse.  Can hay fever be psychosomatic?  Then we moved to the Isle of Man in the British Isles, where gardening is second only to having a pint in the local pub.  Even before the pub to some, and that’s saying a lot.

    The Isle of Man is most famous for the TT (Tourist Trophy) Races, when the northern half of the Isle is periodically shut down for a two week-long biker blow-out and motorcycle races.  The ferries are packed with Yamahas, classic Triumphs and Moto Guzzis at the onset and after the races are over.  The Prom (Promenade) along the bay is lined for two weeks with motorcycles, parked handlebar to handlebar.  But this late May to early June big biker bash is but an interlude from the real British passion: their gardens.  The churches even compete in flower arraigning for the Manx Flower Festival in July.  Any time the sun is out in spring and summer (which was spotty, at best), most Brits are out plowing, planting, and pruning.  The humblest cottage greets each spring with a profusion of colors, with annuals, biennials and perennials carefully nurtured to great beauty.  While I can appreciate their glorious display, I am not willing to pay the price.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  I hired a gardener who did a fantastic job of keeping the garden looking spectacular.  He even planted herbs like cilantro, dill and basil, which helped our cooking.  But I never embraced that fine British tradition of putting on the old dungarees and puttering around in the garden.

    While I was on the Isle of Man, I was in the Manx Classic Car Club, The St. Andrew’s Society of Ramsey and the Isle of Man Natural History and Antiquarian Society, which were in line with my interests.  If any avid gardener reading this ever moves to the Isle of Man, please join the Manx Plant and Garden Conservation Society so that they don’t think all Americans have black fingers, which is the British term for the opposite of green thumbs.  

As a native Californian, R.L. Cherry spent most of his life in the Golden State. However, the five years he lived on the Isle of Man in the British Isles not only gave him many ideas for his writing, but also a less Americentric perspective. He now resides in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas, Gold Rush country.
(Rhody's in bloom)
He began writing fiction when he was in high school in the form of short stories. Most were of a futuristic/sci-fi theme. Although he never actively pursued having them published at the time, he has had several in ezines lately. Under his "Ron Cherry" byline, he has written a column on classic cars and hot rods for The Union newspaper in Grass Valley, CA, for over six years.


He has two books available, Christmas Cracker http://www.amazon.com/Christmas-Cracker-ebook/dp/B008LY2N8Y/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1369503152&sr=1-2), which has SoCal P.I. Morg Mahoney solving a case of kidnapping and murder in Northern England, and Foul Shot (http://www.amazon.com/Foul-Shot-ebook/dp/B00CZ1PEZI/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1369503054&sr=1-1&keywords=foul+shot), the story of Chicago Police detective Vince Bonelli and the woman who rips through his life with passion and issues that threaten to destroy him and all he holds dear.




Read more about R.L. Cherry and his writing at www.rlcherry.co

         Makeshift memorials are reminders that we must put an end to drunken driving once and for all. How tired are we, and weary of riding, driving or walking past flowers and wreaths, hung on poles and laid by roadsides. They might be considered pretty, if not serving as reminders of young lives lost to DUI (driving under the influence) accidents and vehicular homicides? These memorials stand as a warning to further deter these senseless deaths and injuries.

But the shrines don't seem to help. Drunken driving and drug related deaths continue to rise statistically in direct proportion to the grief of those who have lost loved ones. I, for one, am tired of this.

I had often thanked God that the Vietnam War spared my husband, my sons and brothers. Yet fifteen years later, a Vietnam veteran, messed up by drugs and alcohol, took my daughter’s life in an area I had hoped was a safe haven to raise children. Sadly, there are no safe places. My nightmare began on a lovely country road in rural Pennsylvania and 26 years later the scars are not, nor ever will be fully healed.

Noelle was one of the true innocent victims of drunken driving events. She did nothing wrong, loved life and lived it to the fullest. In a split second, her neck was snapped and spinal cord severed by the drunk driver, who swerved into her with his rear-view mirror, and flipped her twenty feet over the back of his truck. When I ran to her she was face down, bluish and not breathing. The paramedics managed to revive her—and that began a ten day vigil—a horror for Noelle, who had a perfect mind, eyes that could barely see and perfect hearing. But nothing else. She held on to whatever life she had, out of love for us, until I gave her permission to go Home, if she chose. Within two days, she was gone. It was the hardest think I ever had to do, but I felt that God wanted me to let her go.

            My family, including six children, now five, fell apart and suffered alone, each in our own way. I wrote as a catharsis to my intense grief. These stories culminated in the completion of a memoir of her life. Writing it brought my daughter back to life, full of laughter and comical antics, but when I finished it, I lost her all over again — because there seems to be no closure with the death of the child.

            However, something wonderful happened after the release of my book . . . “And the Whippoorwill Sang." At long last and well overdue, Staten Island, New York where I now live, organized a MADD (Mothers against Drunk Drivers) group. I knew then what needed to be done for my family and myself. We joined immediately.

            The goal of MADD is to make the general public aware of how to address the problem of keeping our families safe. MADD educators stress that our youth have choices to make in their young lives — choices only they can make.  They seek to remind youth that they will be held accountable for their own actions, as well as being affected by those of their friends.

            The MADD organization is also available to console those who've suffered losses, leading them through fellowship, to the other side of grief. I wish this had been available to my own family years ago. It is now, and I intend to take full advantage of everything this wonderful group of volunteers is willing to offer.  As I give thanks for the support MADD has to offer, I remember the works of the writer, John Donne, who certainly spoke the truth when he wrote, “No man is an island, entire of itself; each man is a piece of the continent  . . . Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind  . . . .”

Micki began writing after a personal tragedy, as a catharsis for my grief. This lead to a first time out publication in Victimology: An International Magazine and a 25 year career in Journalism. I've freelanced and been staff writer for one major newspaper and written for two more. I have published short fiction and non-fiction, as well as slice of life stories in colleges and other magazines and in e-zine editions. My first book was published in 2008; a funny family memoir of love, loss and survival, called, . . .AND THE WHIPPOORWILL SANG which won the Nesta CBC silver award for writing that makes a change in the world. Two of my short horror stories have been published in an anthology called "Speed of Dark." I am presently working on a collection of short fiction, slice of life stories and essays, in a book called, Heartbeat. . .slices of life.

http://www.amazon.com/And-Whippoorwill-Sang-Micki-Peluso/dp/1466497076/

Woman and Cat Corner Lizard
by Melanie McCann

A much subdued lizard was captured today after a days-long standoff.  

"He was cold and hungry," explained Melanie McCann in whose closet the lizard "Lee" had been hiding out.

According to a witness at the scene, Lizard entered the house 7 days ago.  Lady Jane Grey, McCann's feline roommate, chased Lee Lizard into the closet where he remained holed up and inaccessible for most of the week.  


McCann assumed that Lee had escaped the residence, but renewed interest by Jane Grey alerted her to Lizard's continued presence.   McCann and Jane Grey mounted a full-scale offensive, removing all contents from the closet and cornering Lee behind a roll of paper.  McCann took Lee into custody in a washcloth while Jane Grey provided backup.

"Yow!" commented Jane Grey.  


Lee Lizard is currently recuperating outdoors on a warm washcloth near a party cup with a bit of water.  McCann hopes that he will recover, but when questioned, Jane Grey licked her lips.

******

Author Melanie McCann is Delinda McCann's daughter and along with her sister Melissa is another award winning McCann author.  Melanie currently lives in downtown Pasadena and is a student at Fuller School of Theology.

Years ago during a lengthy psychoanalysis, I said that I wanted my obituary in the New York Times.

“Why,” Aaron, my analyst, asked, “are you going to read it?”

At that moment I realized it was really difficult to let loose with a good belly laugh when lying flat on my back. It took a little longer for the more important point to seep in: in the long run I’ll be dead and none of “it” will matter.

Over the years I’ve run into a lot of people for whom everything seems to matter. Some of them are people who think that conversation is a competitive sport; they go at you and at you until you back away and then they think they’ve made a point. There are “problem solvers,” people who are ready to rush in to every situation; after all aren’t they supermen (women)? Then we have the empaths, those loving people who can barely wait for you to finish saying something so they can wail, “I know just what you feel (mean).” Goodness, I didn’t know that getting birdshit on my recently washed car was that tragic.

I’m sure you’ve met some of these people, and I’m sure you can add a few to my list.

Anyway, what does matter? When you remember that your life will end, what is important? Now, don’t get me wrong; I am not advocating life as a beach bum; nor am I suggesting that alcoholism or drug addiction are okay. Yes, your kids matter, and you should raise them as well as you can. And that person you love deserves your efforts. Sure your work is worth doing right, and your other passions are worthy as well. But in the end, when you are facing death, what will matter then?

I’ve wrestled with that question for years. I think I have two answers:

The first has to do with my writing. I like stories that are organic, that come together to form a believable world. I want the story I write by living to make that same aesthetic sense.

The second has to do with a notion of going home, of having a sense that the journey is over.

This is not about Heaven, or according to some of my detractors my ending up in Hell. I have no thoughts about or desire for an afterlife. It’s been hard enough living this life; I don’t want another. But if there is reincarnation, I have my request in to come back as a giant anteater. (Don’t ask. It makes as much sense as having been a Native American or a lion, or a member of royalty in a previous existence—that is to say no sense at all.)

No, the peace of going home is for me being able to return to a state that I have never actually known.

Growing up in Maine I loved the pine groves with their soft duff underfoot and unique smell—part sweet, part earth, and part freshness. I wanted so to stretch out and stare up at the partially obscured sky with its soft clouds, to experience that vegetation-filtered light, the light the Japanese call komorebi. That was what I wanted, but I never achieved it. I was too driven; too sure that what I was “supposed to do” was crucial. As soon as I’d lie down, I’d feel responsibility itching at me. “Get up! Get back to work!”

Yes, that is important, knowing that I have achieved that going home, that ability to lie down on a summer’s day in Maine, to lie down, watch the drifting clouds, smell the joy of nature, and just be at peace; to know that I have journeyed to the home that never was, the home that was always at the center of my soul. 

Sometimes Ken Weene writes to exorcise demons. Sometimes he writes because the characters in his head demand to be heard. Sometimes he writes because he thinks what he have to say might amuse or even on occasion inform. Mostly, however, he writes because it is a cheaper addiction than drugs, an easier exercise than going to the gym, and a more sociable outlet than sitting at McDonald's drinking coffee with other old farts: in brief because it keeps him just a bit younger and more alive. 

Ken’s short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous publications including Sol, Spirits, Palo Verde Pages, Vox Poetica, Clutching at Straws, The Word Place, Legendary, Sex and Murder Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, The Santa Fe Literary Review, Daily Flashes of Erotica Quarterly, Bewildering Stories, A Word With You Press, Mirror Dance, The Aurorean, Stymie, Empirical and ConNotations. 

Three of Ken’s novels, Widow’s Walk, Memoirs From the Asylum, and Tales From the Dew Drop Inne, are published by All Things That Matter Press. 




In addition to writing, Ken co-hosts It Matters Radio, Thursday evenings on BlogTalkRadio. 




To learn more about Ken visit him at http://www.kennethweene.com  

It’s hard not to become a philosopher when living in a garden.  This morning a particular play of sunlight on a rhododendron caught my attention.  I looked closer and saw the flowers reflected in my pond. 

I remembered this place when we first looked at it.  The real estate agent brought us up a steep barely passable dirt road to the top of a hill.  When we stopped at the top we were confronted with thick forest and a tangle of down limbs and logs. It was a sick monoculture.   The trees were spindly and spaced too close together.  The trunks were bare while the branches lurked in little tufts a hundred feet in the air at the tops of the trees.  We went away.

The location of the property was handy for my husband’s work, but it was also in the arsenic shadow of the ASARCO copper smelter that polluted the air, land and water of this area for a hundred years.  We looked at more properties. They didn’t suit our needs.  We looked again at the ugly piece near the ferry and asked for an analysis of the well water.  The water was free of arsenic and of excellent quality.  I had some ideas for dealing with the arsenic in the soil.  We decided to buy the sick, ugly piece of land.

Thirteen years later I look out at my glorious flower farm and remember that drab piece of property with it’s sick trees.  I think life is what we make it.  Sometimes our circumstances are drab, sick and ugly.  However, we do have the ability to create beauty around us.  We need to know ourselves and know what we like and what our limits will allow us to do.  Working with a firm grasp of our reality we can create beauty whatever our circumstances even if that beauty is only in our minds.

Today, now, each of us can take the first step to creating beauty wherever we are.  Focus on what is beautiful, peaceful, loving and gentle.  As I avoided harsh chemicals in creating my oasis of beauty, we need to avoid harsh thoughts and remarks in our mind.  As we focus on peace, shutting out the lies and clamor of the world we will begin to create beauty around us.