We’re just climbing out of a deep freeze that saw temperatures plummet to below -30 Celsius, that’s around -22 Fahrenheit for my southern friends. I can hear your teeth chattering from here.
So of course, I went skiing with my Dad. Just a pair of Canucks wrapped like Egyptian mummies, snow pants crinkling like cellophane giftwrap, careening downhill, as a toothy wind whistled across our goggles and helmets. A tad bit loopy? Perhaps. But a bonding and pleasant memory forged, another chapter written in our life stories . . . that’s a certainty.
In my opinion, that’s precisely what this wonderful compilation of poetry and short stories is about. A blend more satisfying than a cup of freshly brewed specialty coffee on a sunny back yard deck in late June. Perhaps I’m being watched by a marmalade cat who disapproves of my intrusion into her afternoon routine of prowling the garden.
The world spins billions of individual tales every day; most go unnoticed. That caterpillar munching on that leaf may struggle with a desire to remain wingless, despite the insistence of the butterflies that his inclination is unnatural.
Guilty secrets, locked for decades, in the conscience of an elderly woman are laid bare for a beloved few, while a village holds its collective breath as it awaits some devastating news.
We never know when a smile or small act of kindness may save a life.
Reading this book is like sitting on the front porch with a trusted friend as he shares some cherished lore. Every now and again, he pauses to give you an earnest glance before speaking in a gentle voice. “And this is the way of things, not all bad, and not all good.”
I recommend this book to those who appreciate fine wordsmithing about discovering gems hidden in the guise of the mundane.
Have I enticed you to learn more and grab your copy? Yes? Then please read on to meet Sally and click on the links.
Sally Cronin is the author of sixteen books including her memoir Size Matters: Especially when you weigh 330lb first published in 2001. This has been followed by another fifteen books both fiction and non-fiction including multi-genre collections of short stories and poetry.
As an author she understands how important it is to have support in marketing books and offers a number of FREE promotional opportunities on her blog and across her social media. The Smorgasbord Bookshelf
Her podcast shares book reviews, poetry and short stories Sally Cronin Soundcloud
After leading a nomadic existence exploring the world, she now lives with her husband on the coast of Southern Ireland enjoying the seasonal fluctuations in the temperature of the rain.
We live in the country, on a back road that the township forgot but is Grand Central to an abundance of wildlife. We’re talking everything from cocky chipmunks that used to torment our yellow lab, to black bears, wolves, and even a moose that wandered from up North. Yup, there’s still plenty of ‘North’ in the tundra above our toques.
If I compiled a file of soundbites, I’d bet most of you would be surprised at which woodland creature is letting you know they’re around.
The title of most terrifying belongs, hands down, to our warm and fuzzy friend, the Fisher. A couple of notes into that murderous cry is enough to flash freeze the blood of even the most stout-hearted.
Now, while the Fisher is downright spooky, what I heard during a twilight walk with Tanya, can be classified as Area 51. Truth is, it wasn’t the first time I’d heard it.
A week prior, I was awakened at that three am timeline, when the weird stuff is supposed to happen, by a hybrid howl. Each call began as a coyote howl but rose in pitch, transforming into what I can only describe as an elk call. You know that shrill sound they make, just before they stomp you? Kinda’ like that scene from Polar Express, where the Caribou cause the train to make an unscheduled stop. Yes, I know the two are different and live in different regions, but that’s what pops into the pumpkin.
The poor thing seemed to be a crossroads, unsure of what category of species it fit into. “Hooves or paws? Do I like the taste of rabbits or wheatgrass? Hmmm . . . dunno, but I can make this sound. Watch me go!”
I did a bit of research and discovered there was more Wile E., than Rudolph, in the DNA batter. Bang the pan lids together! Mind blown! I’ve lived rural for most of my existence, and I’ve never heard anything make that sound.
Oh, back to our walk. So here we are, sundown, reflector vest on and flashlight at the ready to protect us from those really dangerous animals; the ones with four rubber feet and that feast on long extinct flora and fauna alike, when my friend, I’ve named him Celk, starts saying, “Hello!”
Celk was off in the brush to our left, and he was calling out to his crew that were having a party in the brush to our right. What happened next was that the dudes he thought were his crew went silent. Rude! Maybe this is nature’s version of ghosting? I mean, the poor bugger went on for another five minutes and no one answered.
We reached our turnaround point and started for home. Celk must have crossed the road to see what’s up with his boys, because now he was over there calling around. For some reason, I’m picturing them crouching beneath some juniper bush, holding their breaths, and willing themselves not to fart. They were having no part of Celk, who’s invitation must surely have gotten lost in the mail. Or maybe someone blew up his mailbox with an ACME bomb.
My heart went out to poor Celk, who was still giving a shout out to his “pals” ten minutes later. I even voiced my opinion for any and all pointy ears in the vicinity that he’d most certainly find a pack that appreciated him for the unique fellow he is.
The next night, I listened for Celk, but there was nary a yip nor howl, from anyone. I think there’s a slight possibility I may have offended the ghosting Canis latrans and they’d shoved off. I don’t care if I hurt their feelings, they had it coming.
Not sure what happened to Celk, but I like to imagine he’s found his peeps and is joined paw in paw around an old oak somewhere, belting out his special tune.
Yes, we all know what today is, but in this post, I want to highlight another big event. I have the privilege of spreading the word about a new novel! Saddled Hearts, has just been released by good friend, and fellow author, Jan Sikes.
It has a paranormal twist, perfect for a late night read, once the miniature goblins and ghouls have finished their visitations. All you have to do is click on the link below to purchase.
Oh, and by the way, don’t forget to enter for the chance to win a $25 Amazon Gift Card!
A Word From Jan Sikes
Thank you, Mark, for offering to host me on this blog tour to promote my new book, Saddled Hearts! I am deeply grateful!
Every story has side characters, and in Saddled Hearts, one of the most loved is Hank Griffin, the Double L Ranch foreman.
There is an air of mystery surrounding Hank, and Colt finds himself wondering if Hank is even his real name. I enjoyed creating Hank and could visualize him as a grizzled cowboy, maybe in his early fifties. He is loyal and trustworthy, but he has secrets, something he’s running from.
I’ll share a couple of short excerpts:
The men made small talk as they covered the miles. Colt knew very little about Hank. He’d showed up a few months back with calloused hands and chaps thrown across his shoulder, asking for work. Said he had experience with ranching. He hadn’t lied about that. And he’d stuck around. Colt made him foreman after a few weeks and trusted him to keep things running smoothly.
His many years on the rodeo circuit taught Colt not to ask too many questions. As long as Hank did the work, he didn’t pry.
A man’s business was his own.
***
Hank fell in beside him while Mattie and Sheila ran ahead.
“There’s a man in town I need to pay a visit, and I hate to ask, but would you mind riding along with me? I’d feel better if I have a witness in case he tries anything.”
“That Tompkins fellow?”
“Yeah. That’s the one.” Colt related the diner incident.
Hank let out a whistle. “Sounds like some dirty shit going on, for sure. I’ll ride along, but I can’t afford to get in any trouble.”
Colt studied his foreman’s set jaw in the dim light emanating from the barn. Hank had secrets. No doubt about it. “There won’t be any trouble. You have my word. I just want to get to the bottom of this and move on.”
***
Hank pulled to a stop in front of the ranch house and got out, tossing Colt the keys. “Again, I’m sorry, boss. If you want me gone, just tell me.”
Colt stared at the cowboy before answering slowly. “No, Hank. I don’t want you gone. I need you here. Don’t worry. I won’t say anything.”
Hank scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt. “Thanks.”
“Goodnight.”
The cowboy trudged toward the bunkhouse, his shoulders sagging. Hank had troubles, and Colt hated that he’d brought it all to the forefront.
It’s been a warm Fall so far here, and most folks are taking advantage of
the weather while it lasts. The white stuff will be flying before we know it.
We just celebrated Thanksgiving, here in Canada, and for us that meant three
family gatherings. Phew! There was plenty of driving, but it was great to sit
and chew the fat; or I guess turkey and ham would be closer to the truth.
I hope you’re all having a great weekend. I hope you enjoy this round of snapshots
and slapstick witticisms.
Your Kung Fu is strong, Mantis.”
Nothing wrong about a bit of shameless promo, now and then. 🙂 If you haven’t read it yet, please feel free to click on the link below. It will bring you to my website, where you can read a few sample chapters and find purchase links. Available in ebook and paperback. 50% of proceeds are donated to help victims of human trafficking. Mark Bierman.com
Mark Bierman 