Dear Father...

 A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen.  ~Edward de Bono

I’m listening to Neil Diamond’s “Dear Father” from Jonathan Livingston Seagull right now. Seems appropriate.  

I guess you know today is Father’s Day, Daddy. And, oh God, I still have to remind myself that you aren’t here to celebrate it.

Before you tell me you’re in a better place, I do know that. I find comfort in that. Comfort in the fact you’re whole, healthy. In fact, I still keep seeing visions of you at 18 years old, in the army. Before I knew you.  And I tell myself it’s really you, not just a wishful thought. It’s you, telling me you’re fine. That you don’t need your oxygen machine anymore. You can go anywhere you want now without having to lug your little portable oxygen device. And you assure me that is something I should be happy about. And I am. Believe me, Daddy, I am. 

But. Of course there is a ‘but’ to this. I went to Walmart on the way home from work the other evening, Daddy. I needed to go the card aisle to get you a Father’s Day card; and, damn it, I got hit with it—you are gone.  You are gone. No more cakes. No parties. No cards. Never again.  

I mean, really. Do you realize how hard it was to find the perfect card for you every year? You hated those schmaltzy cookie cutter cards just as much as I did. And they were not you. So my yearly mission was to find the card—the card that reflected you. And let me tell you. It was hard. Because you weren’t one of those Hallmark Daddies. You were good ol’ Daddy, plain ol’ Daddy. 

Hallmark insisted on taking the pure ol’ goodness, the ‘Daddy-ness’ away from you and turning you into an ad for Disneyland. They just didn’t get the reality of you.

I suppose I never realized it at the time, but you were so big and important—so crucial in my life—it went far beyond what any Hallmark poem could ever convey. Somehow, their sentiments seemed silly in light of your practicality, your down-to-earth existence, the humanness of you. And your brand of ‘ordinary-ness’ and steadfastness was so easily taken for granted, because it was SO constant I became to expect it—never realizing it was as essential as air which I also take in stride.

The cards were right about one thing, though, Daddy. Every single one of those pesky cards said, I don’t tell you I love you as often as I should.  How did those card writers know that most of us kids do not do that? Well, I suppose they were all kids, too? Well, they were right. I did not tell you as often as I should. Hell, looking back, I don’t suppose I told you much at all. I figured you knew, anyway. And I’m sure you did. But I bet you would have loved to have heard it more often. 

Well, we won’t have to be bothered by those irritating American Greetings anymore, will we?  

Oh, Daddy, I wish it really did make me feel better to tell myself that. That I’m glad to be relieved of that chore every year—that quest for the Ark of the Covenant of Father’s Day cards, the Holy Grail of greetings. 

But it does not. I’d gladly spend all night in stupid Walmart to find you a stupid card if you were just still here. All night, I’d look for a card. I wouldn’t care how sugary it was, how silly. If you could just be here for me to give it to you.  

Well, I’ve whined enough. Father’s Day is nearly over now. Good. So maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and not miss you so much? Fat chance.

Daddy, I sure do miss you. I miss you so much. Didn’t get you a card. But—wherever you may be—Happy, happy Father’s Day. I love you.

You Already Knew...

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. ~Thornton Wilder




A woman I know--her name is Wendy—had been deaf since she was five years old. A while back, she underwent surgery to retrieve some of hear hearing. She still cannot hear as well as you and I. But, even with the limited world of sound which had been opened up to her, her life became an adventure in discovery. Things that you and I take for granted are awe-inspiring for Wendy.


When I saw Wendy on Wednesday evenings (she served at our church dinners), she would have something new to share about her learning experience. I was touched and immensely humbled by the beauty of ordinary life that, to her, was a new universe, bursting with audio color.


I wanted to share how Wendy’s experience touched me, and the only way I could think to do so was with this humble tribute to…Wendy. These discoveries were just a few of the discoveries that she mentioned.



You Already Knew


You already knew that
A soft drink can hisses when the tab is pulled,
A potato chip bag crinkles really loud when it’s opened,
Forks, spoons and knives clang when you open the silverware drawer,
Food makes a sizzling sound in a frying pan,
Your shoes make noise with every step you take,
Water makes a splashing sound when you pour it in a glass,
A toilet makes a swooshing sound when you flush it,
A door makes a thud when you close it.
I didn’t know that.


You already knew that
A car makes a noise when you start the engine then
Purrs as it’s running,
An airplane hums as it passes in the sky above,
A lawnmower roars as it glides over the grass,
A hammer pounding echoes loudly as it strikes a nail,
A fan buzzes as its blades turn,
A light switch makes a clicking sound when you flip it,
Scissors make noise as they cut paper,
Windows make noise when you open or close them.
I didn’t know that.


You already knew that
No two people have the same voice,
Dogs do not sound the same as cats,
Babies don’t sound like grown ups when they talk,
Different species of birds sing different songs or that birds make sounds at all,
Wind makes a soft sound when it blows through trees,
Rain makes a gentle sound when it hits the ground,
Gravel makes a crunching noise under your shoes.
I didn’t.


But the moon, sun and stars don’t make any sound after all.
I didn’t know that. But now I do.

A Hard Man is Good to Find...

A hard man is good to find. ----Mae West


It had come to this.

The squeaky bogus leather cushions of the psychiatrist’s couch. Me, hugging myself—partly in defiance at finding myself here, and partly against the arctic blast from the air conditioner.

Antonio was stoic as always, arms stiff at his sides and no expression on his face. Nothing ever seemed to penetrate his solid emotional veneer; but, then, this was one of the things I loved so about him.


Dr. Craggly sank into the loud cushions of his own fake leather chair and twisted the dented blue cap of his Bic pen between his teeth, biting on it intermittently. He scanned Antonio and me over the rims of his narrow wire-rimmed glasses.


I recognized the doctor’s well-camouflaged mix of puzzlement and humor. Not the type of humor when one finds something delightful, but the brand induced by bizarre things—you know, a naked man stepping onto a subway or a woman parading through Macy’s wearing only a bra and panties.


Finally, yanking the pen from his mouth, Craggly glanced from the chart on his lap to me and Antonio and pointed the Bic in our general direction. His voice, obviously concealing an attempt not to laugh, was strained and quiet. “And who is your friend?” Tossing another quick look at the chart, he shook his head. “I don’t believe you’ve....introduced…him.”


“This is Antonio.”


Craggly cocked a brow and nodded, studying us. The wheels in his brain turned, I could hear them, as though he charted to build a bridge across the Grand Canyon with nothing but a hammer and a ball of twine. He cleared his throat. “It’s nice to…meet you…Antonio.”


Antonio didn’t return the greeting.


The doctor settled his thin frame deeper into the chair, poised the pen over the tablet resting on his crossed legs, and opened the Pandora’s Box so clearly looming in his mind. “And what has brought you and….” After coughing once more, he continued, “Antonio here to see me?”


Drawing a deep, resigned breath, I proceeded to explain.
* * *

First of all, Antonio is NOT to be confused with his cheap competitors who are mere imitations of who...rather what…he actually is. They are ridiculous blow-up dolls. Antonio is body guard doll, popularly known as Safe-T-Man. Big difference. Huge difference. So there.


But I can see you’re still snorting. So let me tell YOU what I told Dr. Craggly. Let me list for YOU the reasons my darling Antonio happens to be a much more suitable companion than a—close your ears, Tony dear—real man.

1) How many men would actually let you NAME them? You love Italians as I do? Fine. Safe-T-Man is now Antonio. Why, tomorrow, if I was in the mood for a Greek fellow, his name could quickly be changed to--let me think--Zorba. Next week he might be Sven.


2) How many men would let you write, uninterrupted, every evening, and still sit placidly while you did so? The freedom for your work and yet the welcome companionship. A seemingly impossible scenario made VERY possible with Antonio.


3) How many men can be deflated and discreetly transported about in the trunk of your car, or simply stored away in your closet in their own personal custom-crafted carrying case? To be at your side when you crave companionship, but easily stashed away when you don't?


4) How many men do YOU know that can double as a life raft? I, for one, am not a good swimmer; and I find this handy feature quite valuable for trips to the beach. Certainly beats the old boring floats, don’t you think? Ah, the exquisite luxury of being able to ride the waves on my faithful Antonio. Oh, and in case you’re concerned—Antonio is equipped with a repair kit. Punctures (no, I would NEVER intentionally puncture Antonio) are never a problem. A quick patch-up and he’s good as new. And that alone is another priceless feature! Real men squawk and whine when they stub their toes. Not Antonio. The boy can take a run-in with a cat or dog without making a noise while he’s being repaired. Oh, talk about your Alpha man!


5) Antonio does not snore. Well, unless you count the occasional leak of air. But, as mentioned above, even those rare occasions are a cinch with his repair kit.


6) Antonio watches chick flicks and soppy historical romances with me, and never, never, never says a word. Never interrupts the film, never makes smart comments while I’m trying to concentrate.


7) Antonio doesn’t cost much in the way of groceries. He does not even eat.


8) On that note, he IS the perfect dinner companion, though. He does not slurp, does not burp or belch and--since he does not eat--does not spill food or drinks on the carpet.


9) Jealousy is never an issue with Antonio. He never looks at other women. When in public, women may give Antonio curious glances, but he does not return the attention. A faithful sort, he is.


10) Antonio, thanks to his handy size and cushiony comfort, can not only be a companion in bed, but he can also BE the bed when needed. Especially when camping.


11) There are never any disagreements over what Antonio will wear. He wears whatever I want him to. In fact, Antonio and I never have any disagreements at all. He never argues with me.


12) Antonio listens to me, always giving me his undivided attention. Actually, he never says much at all. He is the strong, silent type. Another one of his Alpha male features.


13) Antonio has no problems aiming for the toilet. He never leaves the toilet seat up.


14) Some might complain that Antonio makes his companion do all the cooking. Oh, that doesn’t bother me. Sure, I love a man who cooks, but it’s a small sacrifice for such perfect company.


15) I think Antonio’s only disadvantage is that he is highly flammable. No, I don’t mean his temper. He never loses his temper. He IS, however, susceptible to go up in flames if too near a fireplace, heater or bar-b-que pit. One must be careful, but that’s okay.

I could go on and on about Antonio. His benefits are countless. Oh, sure, there are the obvious things that Antonio cannot do, and I forgive him for those, as he makes up for them in so many other ways.

But can’t you see? I’m not crazy at all! Antonio and his type really CAN be quite a sensible solution to companionship while addressing concerns such as space and convenience. And taking into account the fact that Antonio has a life-time warranty, he is actually quite a bargain.

And, of course, you can see why Antonio, aka Safe-T-Man, is not to be confused with his inferior competitors, the overrated blow-up doll.

I’ve not convinced Dr. Craggly that Antonio is not an outward sign that I’m a few wings short of an airplane. But I think Antonio is beginning to grow on him.

Happy Birthday, Valentino!

Ah. I knew some excuse would come along for me to write about one of my most beloved fantasy men. My favorite actor. One of the handsomest men in my world’s menagerie of gorgeous hunks.


Rudolph Valentino. The original gorgeous hunk. The original heart throb. The man who put the word Latin in Latin Lover. The sleek, brooding panther who invented “bedroom eyes”. The young film idol who rode onto the screen in 1921 and put the word “sheik” into the world’s vocabulary, making the word an icon that symbolized exotic passion and smoldering eyes. The first Great Lover of the Silver Screen.


Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello Piero Filiberto Guglielmi was born on this day, in 1895, in Castellaneta, Italy. Today is his 116th birthday. So—Happy Birthday, Valentino!


I’m not going to go into a lengthy biography. I only want to dedicate a birthday card to the man who came to the United States in 1913, as a kid of 18. The kid who, by the age of 26 became the biggest male sex symbol in history by shocking the world with his exotic, erotic tango scene in Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.


The story behind this legendary role was the stuff dreams were made of—a proverbial but true “rags to riches” story.


A powerful screen writer, June Mathis, by chance spotted him in a miniscule role in a film and knew she’d found “her” man for the role of Juan Gallardo in the much-anticipated production of The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—the role that every big-name movie star vied for, including Douglas Fairbanks. She used her weight to get the unknown, dark-skinned kid in the lead role for the film; her hunch paid off. Rudolph went to bed the night of the premier as a nobody immigrant kid from Italy—a bit part player, usually cast as a “heavy” because of his dark coloring—and woke up a sensation with the face that would launch women’s hearts to romantic depths until this very day.


The primo celebrità of all time was born.


When he played the role of Ahmed Ben Hassan in The Sheik, bringing to life the sweltering sexuality of Edith Hull’s novel of the same name, he only cemented his standing as the greatest screen lover of all time. A position which, in my mind, has never been usurped.


Rudolph Valentino. You might have never seen one of his films. But very few can hear the name and not immediately summon a vision of romance. Even if you can’t place his face, you know when you hear the name Valentino that it means romance, it means sensuality, seduction. You just know it. Your mind is immediately swept to black lace and tangos, blacker than black hair, hypnotic eyes, kisses on the palms of hands, romance under the desert stars, lips speaking silent words of passion, tuxedoes, swank grace, feline masculinity.


Behind the bigger than life veneer, though, stood a man who actually was very simple and very much in awe of his sex symbol status. A man who loved good books and owned an extensive library. A man who loved poetry (even had a book of beautiful poems published, titled Daydreams, which you can buy here), good music, art, and who knew several languages. An extremely educated man. He loved animals. He loved to work on cars. He fenced, rode horseback with the skill of a seasoned equestrian (did most of his own riding in his films, even the dangerous scenes). He loved to cook, especially for friends in his own home. He was a man whose real life was a far cry from the sizzling persona on the screen—a sweet, decent, loving man. A man who wanted desperately to shake his “sheik” image and find serious roles—he was, in fact, a very good actor.


He separated from his wife, Natacha Rambova, in 1925. Their parting at the train station was a highly publicized event—a photo journalist feeding frenzy. Photos still remain of their parting kiss as she stood on the train steps. They were to never meet again in life.


On August 15, 1926, during a stop in New York City for a promotional tour for his final film (tragically, no one could know it was indeed to be his last film), The Son of the Sheik, Valentino was stricken with an attack caused by a perforated ulcer. He was hospitalized in New York and lingered until August 23, then succumbed to complications of this condition.


His passing affected the public in a way unlike anything the world had ever seen. Public pandemonium ensued. At only 31 years old, The Great Lover was dead. Over 100,000 mourners packed the streets in New York where his body lay in state. His body was returned to California to be interred, where it still remains, in Hollywood Forever Cemetery.


I’m not sure why I’m doing this tribute to him. I have nothing to add that isn’t already common knowledge. I suppose I do so, wishing that those who only think they know who Rudolph Valentino is would stop for a moment to know him. Watch a silent film. You’d be surprised how beautiful his films are—how really interesting silent films are in general. A world of art that should be explored, where treasures of the senses wait, ready to delight.


So, happy birthday, Rudolph Valentino. You would have been 116 years old today. My, my. But, as tragic as your too-early death was, it served to forever stamp the picture of your youth, at the height of your beautiful life, forever in my mind.

Do Men Who Wear Glasses...?

When you look at Clark Kent when he's working at the Daily Planet, he's a reporter. He doesn't fly through the air in his glasses and his suit. ---Gene Simmons

What’s the old adage? Do girls make passes at—? No, that’s not it. It’s Do guys make passes at girls who wear glasses? Ah, that age-old question. 

I mean, when Dorothy Parker’s famous quote hit print in 1937, Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses, it cemented the concern in spectacle-wearing dames from that day forward. Doomed them to a life void of passes from gents. The poor Janes! Cursed for having four eyes!

Why didn’t Parker wonder if girls make passes at guys who wear glasses? Why did she single out girls to be the heiresses of that blight? I don’t suppose we’ll ever know.

But what about men who wear glasses? 

Speaking for myself, I’ll tell you in a heartbeat: I find spectacle-wearing men sexy as hell, very much so. What is the allure? 

I’ll tell you what attracts me to them, but first let tell you this…

Anyone who knows me knows I’m a big fan of silent films. And right up there with my beloved Rudolph Valentino is Harold Lloyd, the comedic genius of the silent era. His talent is unparalleled. He didn’t need sound to be funny. He didn’t need a voice to jangle my bells, to trip my little ol’ arousal switch. All he needed was that goofy grin, that nice athletic shape and…his glasses.

Yes! His glasses! The horn-rimmed spectacles that stand between me and that hidden tiger. The optical paraphernalia that promises mystery just the other side of those two circles of glass.  A terribly handsome, sexy man lurks behind those frames. 

If you don’t count Timothy from my second grade classroom—or a boss from days long past who used to ignite my then-twenty-year-old libido when he’d look at me over the rims of his reading glasses—then Harold Lloyd is the object of my first imaginary love affair with a spectacle-wearing fellow. I fell in love with the silent hunk with the manly charisma and boyish good looks the second I laid eyes on him. 

Oh, I know what you’re going to say. It’s the Clark Kent syndrome.  You’re going to tell me that I think there’s a Superman behind those specs. Nah. It’s not that. Or is it?  

You just might be right. 

I stumbled across an interesting piece about my silent film hero, and this information would not only interest Superman lovers, but Harold Lloyd fans as well. Seems that the character, Clark Kent, was based partly on Harold Lloyd. Who knew? And I found it even more interesting that Kent’s name was derived from combining the names of two actors, Clark Gable and Kent Taylor. Go figure. Did you know that? I didn’t!

So my darling Harold is a super man after all! Well, sort of.

But still. I couldn’t have known that in second grade, when I daydreamed about Timothy, when I had the most agonizing crush on him. Later, in high school, there was Michael. And Alex. Ricky. And then later, Billy.  Bill. Tom, my husband.

To me, there is something so very sensual about a man stopping to take off his glasses when it’s time to make love. There. Oh, geez, I said it. Yes. I admit it. What an exquisite, wonderfully sexy experience. You’re already excited, he’s done his preliminary work by teasing you, driving you crazy with anticipation. You’re ready for the hungry panther to make the kill—with YOU as the target.

But wait.

He pauses to pull off his glasses and, with that careful deliberation (partly not to break them, of course), folds them shut and sets them on the table. He’s ready for business. The aroused panther is ready to consume his prey, and he’s not letting that Pearl Vision Center prescription get in his way.

Come on, can you sit there and tell me that is not intensely sexy?  He’s undressing without undressing. Getting naked without even unfastening his belt. One silent gesture to signal the attack is coming. 

Oh, I never entertained sexual thoughts with Timothy in second grade. But maybe, just maybe, I sensed—even at that delicate age—the future allure those pieces of metal or plastic and glass would have on me. 

So, yes, in this girl’s book, guys with glasses do get passes. Always have. Always will. 

I can hardly cross paths with a man, any man—tall, short, dark hair, light hair, no hair—wearing glasses and NOT wonder who is behind them. Is he shy, retiring, like so many mistakenly assume just because he sports spectacles? IS he a Clark Kent, the classic powerhouse-in-frames? Or just a regular Joe with less-than-perfect vision? It’s that luscious mystery that optics-wearing men offer, a teasing door one must look beyond to find out.

To me, glasses lend a man this touch of something...what is it?...that softens without compromising masculinity. Something so touchable, so warm and comfortable which does not forfeit sex appeal, but heightens it.

So, to my darling Harold. To Timothy, Michael, Alex, Bill, Billy, and Tom—to spectacle-wearing men wherever you are, I salute you! May those who cross your path see your hidden Clark Kent!

Gladiator: An Author's Thoughts on Reviews...

The important thing to me is that I'm not driven by people's praise and I'm not slowed down by people's criticism. I'm just trying to work at the highest level I can. ----Russell Crowe


Damn, I love Russell Crowe. I mean, he is so…oh, wait a minute. Wrong subject. This blog isn’t about Russell Crowe; but it is awfully cool to me that, while browsing for inspiration for this blog, I happened upon his quote on the subject of criticism. Because one of my favorite—if not THE favorite—of his roles was Maximus in Gladiator. You’re scratching your head, I know you are, asking what does this have to do with anything?


Well, the gladiator experience is just what I’m blogging about today. My experience in the arena, the big literary coliseum—the review.


I’d received a google alert which advised me that my book was going to be reviewed the following week on a popular review site. So, like the gladiator of old, I was doomed to wait for the reviewer to post it as I watched many of my fellow authors go boldly into the arena before me—some to march away with high rankings, some not so high.


You want me to tell you what my rating was, don’t you? Well, I’m not. That’s not what this is about. The rating itself is not important, or rather I cannot allow it to be, whether it was good or bad.


What it IS about is the experience—the anticipation, the event, and the aftermath…the lesson.


The event itself? Oh, pretty much what you’d expect.


I learned important things in the arena. You don’t argue or defend yourself. Sure, you want to. I chomped at the bits to protest, but I didn’t SAY my story was a mystery, and hey, you spelled the bad guy’s name wrong, or hold on there, the EDITIOR told me to use that word!

Why, though, would I argue? With real fighters in the arena, you do NOT talk your way out of it with them. You just face them. A true sport will be gracious and will not lash out at a review, no matter how bad.


Just like in the coliseum of old, there are the anxious spectators, which in cyber terms are those posting comments. Some can be very considerate and kind to the gladiator, but some shout with chants of thanks, now I know I won’t buy that book! Thanks for the warning! I’ll pass on this book! Taking this book off my TBB list!


Ouch.


But, if it really were a coliseum, would it do any good to turn to the jeering masses and blubber, Stop laughing at me! Of course not. It would only goad them on and make you appear silly. So, with true gladiator courage and composure, you simply smile and understand that spectators are simply part of the game.

 While standing alone, staring down the lions, every word of advice I’d ever been told by fellow writers rushed to my brain. It’s only opinion. You can’t please everyone. You can’t take it personally. And I found that, after this expedition into review-land, all this advice is true—all of it. And it is good counsel.


One of the most VALUABLE pierces of advice I received was one I feel compelled by duty as an author to pass on. And it is this: Weigh the negative points in the feedback and, if there is substance to it, think hard about it. There is the chance that the reviewer is spot-on, that they really have spotted weak links in your writing. Don’t brush it off. Be open minded. If you CAN learn from it, then LEARN from it.

 If you cannot be humble enough to admit you might have flaws in your writing, and if you refuse to learn when it is legitimately pointed out, then you’d best just drop your pen right now and stop writing. Because you’ll never grow unless you allow your craft to be nurtured by solid advice and feedback.


Sure, some feedback is strictly a reviewer’s personal opinion. They are humans with different tastes just like anyone else. The next reviewer may adore the very thing that the other found annoying.


Just as fellow writers tell you that a bad review does not necessarily mean your book was bad, the same applies to a good review. It is, bottom line, one person’s evaluation. Period.


Here’s s surprise for you. I’m realistic and humble—or maybe it’s just a horrific lack of self-confidence—that, when a review of my work is TOO good, I tend to scratch my head and take a second look at my book cover on the site. Wait a minute here. Are you talking about MY book? Are we talking about the same book here? My book’s not THAT good! As much as I adore and genuinely radiate at the wonderful praise, I am my own biggest critic. And I will know, it my gut, that my book just simply had flaws that the reader missed.


But there’s sweetness in the missing of the flaws by a reader who just enjoys your work and is not looking beyond the pleasure of your story. When a reader just lets it BE a story and isn’t critiquing it, isn’t digging for mistakes OR good points. When they grasp the things that were most important to you when you wrote the book—the emotions, the characters. When they forgive your errors and love what you wrote just the same. We may not learn from this kind of acceptance, but we can beam if maybe—just maybe—the heart of the story was NOT missed and was embraced. I can’t let myself be sidetracked by that beauty, though, to the point that I feel I need not try to correct something simply because it’s invisible to some.


And my own advice? Do not hinge whether your writing has been ‘worth it’ based on a review—any review. I’ve heard more than one comment since I began writing from authors who, when reviewed with praise, felt their writing endeavors had been validated because they were sanctioned by a review site.


I personally can only use a review as a possible tool for learning, and I refuse to allow it to be a measure of my writing worth, to employ it as a gauge of my success.


I cannot and will not crowd my writing ambition into such a narrow little space of worth. I will not gear my writing toward hopeful positive reviews. If I did so, I’m afraid I’d lose my natural flow, my voice, and I’d be writing for the wrong reasons.

I hope to NEVER walk away from a good review with any arrogance; but, even more importantly, I intend to never exit a bad review with any chinks to my armor of self-esteem.


To fellow authors: If you get a bad review, learn from it and move on. But DO NOT jump off the writing cliff because you think you are a failure with one bad review, with ten bad reviews. You have two choices: you can walk away from the edge and devote yourself to strengthening your talent, or you can just…jump and crash. Depends, I suppose, on how badly you want to write and why you’re even writing in the first place.


To reviewers: As authors, we and our publishers entrust our products to a reviewer to observe and offer feedback. And we have the right to demand—not ASK, but demand—that they treat us respectfully in their report. They do not have to like our writing, they do not have to like us. They do not even have to say nice things about our writing. But, as a representative of the site who enlists their services, they owe it to us, to their websites, to readers and potential readers, to respect us and to show dignity in their presentation.


If a reviewer fails to do this? Then they must understand that their opinion will not be taken seriously…not by this writer, anyway.


As a kid, I used to have a recurring dream in which I was (who knows WHY) pitted against a lion, much like the gladiators of old, no weapons, no nothing. Well, in every dream the lion overtook me. And, surreally, I laid there beneath him and he began to…well, to do what lions do. LOL. And, as one can ONLY do in a dream while a lion feasts on them, I thought to myself, This doesn’t hurt as bad as I though it would. And neither has the review experience.


So I stand before you, fellow writers, to say Zampas Maximus has survived.

Goodbear...

She glances at the photo, and the pilot light of memory flickers in her eyes. ~Frank Deford


This morning, while rummaging through my desk at the office, I stumbled on the printed program from my father’s funeral. He died in 2009 and, for some reason, I’d kept the little memento in my desk drawer. I’d forgotten it was there; so, to come unexpectedly face to face with Daddy—at the office, of all places—something inside me just tuned up, and I cried.


Somehow, in my romance writer’s mind, thoughts of Daddy dredged up a memory of something he and I shared, something that I realized ended—the sharing of it, anyway—when he died.


What was that something? A fantasy that my father unwittingly ignited inside me long ago. Goodbear.


Since he is a real person, I won’t divulge Goodbear’s first name. I wrote about him long ago in another blog, using a fictitious first name, but today he blossomed in my mind and my heart once again with the sight of Daddy’s funeral program, and I want to think about him for a while.


Goodbear was an army buddy of my father’s during World War II. I first saw him years ago while browsing through my parents’ scrapbook. Although the album was filled with many, many black and white photographs taken during Daddy’s army days, Goodbear’s picture stood out among the others. And, here I was—this young girl who lived in dreams with her books and writing and drawing—having a crush on an illusion in a sepia snap shot from long ago.


Back then, I suppose I liked him because he was different. He wasn’t a blond, home-town boy like the other photos. There was just something--something special--about him.


Today, as a woman, I know what it is about Goodbear that appealed and continues to appeal to me. Sure, as an adult, I appreciate his lithe body as he stands perpetually frozen in time with his leg causally bent and his hand resting on his hip. I shiver a little at his nice form, his dark complexion. I think, just as I did when I first noticed him, that he is so very handsome, so very sexy. Seems my appreciation for the dark men started long, long ago.


But every time I look at the photograph, my attention is drawn to his face—his sort of sad, knowing, serene eyes and the gentle smile. So relaxed, yet so unique from the other boisterous young men in the other photos. As though Goodbear had a secret, as though he KNEW someone would look at his photo one day and wish they knew him. As though he knew I would see him and wonder about him.


Daddy didn’t know much about Goodbear, only that he was American Indian from Oklahoma. The seemingly quiet fellow would playfully torture the Japanese cooks by grabbing them and thumping them on their heads. And that’s about all my father recalled of Goodbear. It had been, after all, over sixty years.


But every time I saw my father, we still talked about his army days, and he still recounted the same details about my secret crush, Goodbear. Daddy seemed to enjoy the telling of it all, and I treasured the hearing of it.


Well, Daddy is gone now. And, only this morning, did the truth settle sadly into my heart that, with my father went Goodbear as well. I realized that, with his passing, Daddy and Goodbear are both mere memories. I see now that the mysterious young dark-headed man was not only a fantasy of mine, but a link between me and my father’s past. Goodbear served as a piece of memory that my Dad loved to relive, of a time when he was young; and it offered me a brilliant photograph of the man my father was BEFORE he became Daddy.


So, Goodbear, I owe you, man. I knew, and I think—somehow, mystically—you knew, too, that you’d serve a purpose in my life, somehow, somewhere, down the road. Everybody does, I think—serve a purpose in other lives, that is. Wherever you are now, Goodbear, thank you.