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The Nettle Tree

10/31/2016

New release by some amazing authors. The Nettle Tree, a newly released book of short stories written by Do take time to check out this delightful collection.

Title: The Nettle Tree
Publisher: Chase Enterprises Publishing
Editors: Kenneth Weene and Clayton Bye
ISBN (print): 978-1-927915-10-3
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-927915-11-0
Format: Trade Paperback and eBook
Pages: 166
Genre: Speculative western
Price: $17.95 (print) $3.95 (eBook)

Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/Nettle-Tree-Kenneth-Weene/dp/1927915104/ref

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The Black Woman, a Thug, a Jew and the Chinese Karma People... An American Story of the 21st Century

10/24/2016

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On one of those rare sunny and hot summer days, I took the bus home from my office in San Francisco. Unfortunately, I found myself caught in the crowd at the height of the evening rush, smashed against others in a crowded bus. My face was drenched in sweat, as I grasped the greasy and dirty overhead strap to steady my journey. I made a note to self to be sure to wash hands and face as soon as I walked through the door when I got home.
The crowded bus left me with no choice but to stand over a gaggle of Chinese women who had taken over a fourth of one side and were all comfortably seated, relaxed, totally oblivious to the discomfort of the standing overcrowd. The nest of women chatted among themselves in what, to me, sounded like wanga, wanga, hong, tong, yeeow, in too loud for public transportation tones. I found their back and forth sing songing especially irritating as I stood sweltering in the heat of the day. I couldn't understand a word they were saying, I just wanted them to be quiet, we were all miserable enough.
I resented the fact that these factory workers got on the bus two stops before stopping for the masses in downtown. I resented this because, as I saw it, it always gave them the advantage of not only getting a seat, but also the privilege of sitting together as a group, wherever they chose.
I quietly expressed my indignation by giving each a careful and critical eye, noting their unique gestures and how differently these factory workers dressed from the smart set downtown. The ultimate, to me, was the fact that they appeared to be almost casually lounging as some sat askew their seats to more fully engage in multiple conversations across several rows. Their full attention was within their group, seemingly unaware of the misery of the herd surrounding them.
The bus was packed to near capacity when the driver made a stop near the edge of downtown. Instead of the usual, "...everyone move to the back….” a small group of black teenage boys rushed on and immediately started pushing and shoving their way down the aisle. One made it a point to stop next to me. I ignored him and avoided eye contact by looking down. That was when I noticed that one of the chatting group of Chinese women was sitting with her purse on the seat, partially open, her wallet clearly visible. She was distracted, completely unaware of her vulnerability.
My instinct was to look up at the boy who had insisted on standing next to me. To my astonishment, he was smiling at me, but his eyes weren't. He held the satisfied grin of a mission already accomplished, and he, like an experienced virtuoso, positioned himself to do so quickly. To anyone who cared to observe, it was clear that he had done this many times before. I think that he assumed that since we were both black, regardless of the stark contrast in age, he was free, without protest from me, to steal the Chinese woman's wallet with my full permission.
Without thinking, from somewhere within me, I returned his smile with the meanest, most scornful look I could conjure. My body followed with the protective stance which unmistakably translated to don't you dare! At that moment, I understood, for the first time, what it meant to stare daggers because I stared him down face to face until the next bus stop without blinking. When the bus stopped, the boy loudly exclaimed, "FUCK!" He and his buddies quickly got off of the bus, pushing and shoving in the manner in which they had arrived from the previous stop.
The group of Chinese women continued their daily ritual of loud chatter for the rest of their journey without interruption, never once indicating awareness of what had just occurred. They all got off in the Sunset District, and I quickly claimed a seat for the few remaining minutes to my destination, the end of the line on the Great Highway.

Part II
The week following the bus ride it was my turn to spend the weekend with my Jewish boyfriend, Maury, at his home in Berkeley; we had a routine. When we were at his house, we always knew that we would get up early in the morning and go to our favorite bagel factory and have lox and bagels with a rugelach to munch on throughout the day. Dinner would be a choice between two restaurants. On this particular day, we chose our most favorite, Chinese.
The restaurant was family owned, a neighborhood place, diminutive, with no more than six tables which filled the small room. Szechuan shrimp, charged with pungent spices, was always my favorite. As a matter of fact, as soon as I sat down it was the only thing on my mind as I ordered without looking at the familiar menu. Maury did the same. We were engrossed in conversation, not wishing to be disturbed, barely acknowledging the waiter’s presence.
Maury was a master conversationalist; I had found it to be one of his most attractive features. When we were engaged in conversation nothing else around me mattered. I listened to every word while basking in the thrill knowing that all of his words were for me and that I had his full attention. Listening to each other was easy that evening because we were the only ones in the restaurant except for the people who worked there. Our waiter was the only one to be seen when we arrived.
As soon as we had ordered, I sensed the arrival of others but paid no attention other than to acknowledge they seemed to be a couple, a man, and woman, who, without assistance from the waiter, hurried to be seated. They chose to sit at the table directly behind me. Back to Maury as if I had ever left.
Our intimacy was soon interrupted by a growing sense of being overcrowded as the waiter quickly reappeared without our food and sat at the table across from us, staring at us. My annoyance increased when the cook came out of the kitchen and quietly stood at a distance behind me. After that, I noted two women, one aged with a dowager’s hump and the other younger holding an infant, who came in and sat at the table next to the waiter and stared in our direction without saying anything, even to each other. Lastly, to my complete amazement, a boy, unmistakably the dishwasher, came out and leaned in the doorway of the kitchen, lazily wiping his dirty hands on an even more soiled apron while staring unblinkingly in our direction. It was hard to determine which was worse off, the cross contamination of his hands to the apron or the apron to his hands. The restaurant was suddenly almost filled with employees who were, to my mind, just sitting around staring, making their customers uncomfortable. Didn't they have something else to do?
The restaurant employees were destroying my perfect evening. They had never done this before. Regardless, I impulsively made a mental note never to return because they had become hoverers who didn't allow their customer's privacy to enjoy their meal. I attributed their new behavior to their ignorance of how we do things here in America, assuming they were all foreign born. Their actions must be related to a Chinese cultural thing I hadn't noticed before but was sure to be on the lookout henceforth. But I again changed my mind because I loved Chinese food too much to make the pledge NEVER to go to another Chinese restaurant, particularly this one where I enjoyed the food.
Just as I had settled in my mind my future as related to Chinese restaurants and food, I was startled by the sudden clamor of chairs being slammed aside behind me. The couple quickly brushed past me as they ran out, slamming the door, leaving behind the clacking sound of the bells tied to the door knob as they crashed against the door. As soon as they left, I looked quizzically at Maury; he looked at me, shrugging his shoulders.
I glanced around the room and noted that the cook was on his way back to the kitchen, and the two women with the baby and the dishwasher had disappeared as silently as when they had appeared. I'm thinking, why in the hell did you come out in the first place? I was getting pissed; the Maury spell for the evening kept getting interrupted.
In response to our growing irritation, confused and questioning looks, the waiter stood and approached our table. I was near my limit. I'm thinking, "My God, they're a weird bunch, will they ever assimilate?" "Only in Berkley, I'm glad I live in San Francisco!"
The waiter stood before our table and calmly cupped his hands at his waist. In an almost apologetic tone, he inform us that the couple who had just left was trying to steal my purse, which, as I looked down, lay on the floor near me, partially opened, with my wallet clearly visible.

Lois Watkins is the author of What It Was Like ...short stories of childhood memories of segregation in America. - A riveting set of stories about growing up with segregation.

www.amazon.com/stories-childhood-memories-segregation-America-ebook/dp/B01C68B8KE/ref

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Travel: High Desert by Delinda McCann

10/18/2016

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Janette's Desert at the historical marker.

I chose to set my novel Janette in Central Washington to celebrate the remarkable beauty of this portion of our amazingly diversified state. This region is vastly different from what we call the wet side of the state. Once over the summit of the passes, pine trees and open forest replace the tangled undergrowth, fir, and hemlock of the west. Within an hour of the summit the pine forests disappear to be replaced by sage and bunch grass. Or, so the story goes without the miracle of irrigation.

Add water to the desert and it turns green.

Farms in the high desert.

The Columbia divides the tumbled eastern ridge and foothills of the Cascades from the high desert. The river is the life-blood of this area as it provides the water for irrigation and is a source of hydro-electric power. Generating electricity is a major industry in this area of the state. High desert farms produce hay, corn, wheat, soy, some fruit and cattle depending on the availability of irrigation water.

Columbia river at Wenatchee with fruit warehouses.

Power station at Rocky Reach.

All the dams on the Columbia have visitor centers. Rocky Reach is interesting because the turbines are inside funnel shaped tubes that use flowing water pressure rather than falling water to turn the turbines.

Highway 2 from Wenatchee to Waterville.

Highway 2 between Wenatchee and Waterville is worth seeing. It climbs from the river with an altitude of seven hundred feet to the high plain at twenty-eight hundred feet. Fortunately the road is wide and has lots of turnouts for taking pictures of the tumbled hills and ravines that make the transition between river valley and high plain.

Central Washington is dotted with small towns devoted mostly to farming. In Waterville I found enough charming buildings and funky art to make the visit well worth the time we spent wandering the town. We found an espresso stand across from the Catholic church and got a mocha with whip as good as any in Seattle.

Streetside garden at espresso stand.

Waterville- Cathlic Church across from espresso stand.

Waterville Bank

Waterville Hotel

Douglas County Courthouse in Waterville.

Pocket museum with funky art installations.

In Janette I mention the Ohme gardens. This garden is an anomaly set among barren hills. Looking up from Wenatchee the garden of tall evergreen trees stands out in stark contrast to the naked mountains around it. The gardens are a must see for those who can climb steep hillsides and aren’t afraid of heights. The gardens do have a few paths for the mobility impaired and a beautiful lawn where one can sit and meditate without climbing along the hillside like a goat. The woods, pools and views over the Columbia River are worth the visit.

Looking toward the top of the garden from about half way down.

Looking east the Columbia is below the gardens.

Reflecting pool

The gardens have several large pools that reflect the sky. The story of how water was carried uphill by hand when the gardens were first built makes me ache just thinking of how much work went into a water garden in the desert.

A small waterfall and creek feed the reflecting pool. Drought tolerant plants provide color.

The hillside paths are steep and uneven. Subtle colors are great.

The ground is covered with a colorful array of hearty plants.

Lots of detail and variety in this garden.

Link to Janette: https://www.amazon.com/Janette-Feminine-Courage-Delinda-McCann-ebook/dp/B01417YZCG

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Excerpt: Summer Chaos by Delinda McCann

10/10/2016

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John Wesley

Setting: Rev. Maude Henderson’s front lawn after a wedding reception.

Characters:
Two police officers assisting in homicide
Ralph – Maude’s fiancé
Andrew – local youth – likes to be in on any action in towns
Cary – Andrew’s friend
Trevor – Maude’s collage age son
April – Ralph’s collage age daughter
Juan Ramirez – security agent for a wedding guest
Agent Peter – supervisor of security staff
Agent M’Tew –
Mandy – Maude’s cousin who lives with her.

Andrew and Cary were the first to carry chairs to the front lawn where they fussed over the table and chairs and generally loitered. We were set up to be hospitable by the time Ralph and the officer returned.
The investigator made noises about wanting to talk to anybody who might have information, so we made a fairly large group including Jake’s security, a couple from my church, Andrew and Cary, Trevor, April, Ralph, and me. The first question threw me off base. “Why, do you insist on us sitting here rather than inside or where we can see the lake?”
I sputtered.
April laughed then explained. “We just had a wedding reception with close to two hundred people here.”
Trevor added, “Safety issue. She might have an insurance problem if you tripped over an electrical chord. We had everything secure, but it’s all torn up while we clean up.”
I reminded the officers, “You wanted to talk to us about the incident last night.”
“Yes, the neighbors insist that the young woman must be one of your guests. If you had as many as she said,” he nodded toward April, “it’s likely you wouldn’t know if someone came up missing. Can you take a look at these pictures and see if you can remember who she is?” He set two pictures of the victim on the table.
“Oh, I know her.” Cary said, eliciting raised eyebrows from the officers. “That’s Traci Larson. Her sister is in band with me. They live up at the golf course. I don’t know the house number, but it is a tan and brown house, on Maple Street, third from the intersection with Fir.” Cary flipped his hair off of his forehead. “Do you want me to come with you and show you where she lived?”
The officer scowled at Cary. “Are you sure?”
I watched Cary closely for signs of shock and said, “Thank you for your help.” I turned to the deputies. “Of course, he is sure.” I accompanied this with a scowl to let the deputies know that I didn’t appreciate anyone treating a youth with disrespect. Having witnessed Cary’s thirst for adventure for several months, I suspected he didn’t care how they treated him as long as he was this close to the center of the investigation.
“Do any of you know what she was doing on the lake?” The officer returned to his questions.
“Running, sir.”
We all turned to look at one of President Jake’s bodyguards.
He continued, “When I saw her, she came down that hill,” he pointed to the hill coming down from the country club, “and attempted to turn toward the pastor’s house. I told her the path was out and she could go as far as the county park in the other direction. She thanked me, waved and started running in the other direction.”
“Was she running away from someone?”
Ramirez lowered his eyes and scratched his nose before answering. “No. She appeared to be running for exercise. When I saw her, she had her hair pulled back with a blue thing at the back of her head, here.” Ramirez pointed to the nape of his neck. “She also wore a blue band that circled her head like this.” He circled his head with his fingers in what looked to us to indicate a sweatband.
“Do you remember what time you saw her?”
Ramirez pulled a smart phone out of his pocket and tapped on the screen a few times. “Eight-seventeen, sir.”
The deputy doing the questioning ran his hands over his head. “Are you sure about the two blue bands?”
Agent Peter said, “He is trained to be sure. If he said two blue bands they are exactly as he described.” He turned to another agent, “M’Tew, did you see the girl in the park.”
“No sir. She did not come into the park.”
Agent Peter turned back to the deputies. “I will question the rest of my officers. If any of them know anything, we will notify you immediately.”
The sheriff nodded toward Ramirez. “I may want to question this guy here again. Since he was the last to see the girl alive, we may have more questions for him.”
Ramirez spoke up, “Give me your email, and I will send you my log. I noted every occurrence on my shift including the croaking frog and the mosquito bite. Perhaps, I noted a sound that will mean something to you. Of course, I have reviewed my whole log, and I don’t see anything that could be meaningful, but it is perhaps of the use for a background timeline.”
The sheriff pushed his business card across the table toward Ramirez.
April said. “You better leave enough of those for all of us. The boys might hear something at school, or Mrs. Henderson’s cat may bring home one of those headbands.”
Mandy had joined us, salad in hand, and added, “John Wesley is more likely to bring home the killer’s head.”
One of the officers turned to Mandy with his mouth hanging open while his eyes opened big and round.
I explained, “I named my cat John Wesley.”

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