Teen Voices, Stephen King, and a Big-time Bonehead Moment

As Bonehead Moments go, it was a doozy.


I was ecstatic to learn that Stephen and Tabitha King awarded a grant to the “Teen Voices” program at UMF so they could buy dozens of my Young Adult novel, Grumble Bluff, for their curriculum. It was thrilling to think that maybe—just maybe—one of the world’s most famous authors read something I wrote–and that he liked it enough to donate money so that other Mainers could read it, too.

Mt. Blue Middle School students added Grumble to their program, and I was asked to go to UMF to speak to the group of teenagers and their mentors at a Teen Voices dinner. I enthusiastically agreed. The coordinator asked if I’d consider speaking to the full student body of Mt. Blue Middle School in an end-of-the-day assembly, first. I said I’d be happy to.

The time and date were set last fall. I noted the details on my calendar. It was on my mind. On my ‘list’ of things to do. I was good to go!

I went. Last Tuesday at 1:15 pm, just as I was passing Jack’s Trading Post, I was filled with confidence. Excitement. I was early for the 2:00 appointment. I’d have plenty of time to set up my simple Power Point Presentation. I’d meet with the school’s librarian and establish a rapport. All was well.

My cell phone rang. I answered it.

A voice said “Karen! Are you okay? Have you been in an accident?”

Oh…my…God. You have no idea how badly I wanted to say “Yes”!

My confidence disappeared in a puff of smoke. Jody wouldn’t have asked me that question unless she believed I was late! But… I WASN’T late!

Was I?

Oh, my God! OH MY GOD! There were a hundred students sitting in a gym waiting for me! I was sure—positive!--my appointment was for 2:00 pm! But she was telling me that the middle school principal was preparing to send students back to their rooms to prepare for their TWO O’CLOCK BUSSES unless I could get there, PRONTO!

I told her I’d be there in five minutes.

I wasn’t sure where Mt. Blue Middle School was. I’d asked Jody for directions, and she told me it was located on “Middle Street, very close to downtown”.

I turned off Main Street and onto South Street. There were UMF students all over the place. They lived in Farmington! Surely they’d know where Middle Street was!

Nope. Clueless. After the fourth “detain and question” session in the middle of a crosswalk, one young man finally said, “It’s up there.”

And it was. I turned by the Legion Hall. I was still relatively calm. Still marginally cool. Still somewhat collected. I turned into the school’s driveway and parked the truck. In a hurry, I grabbed a copy of Grumble but left everything else and fast-walked to the school’s front doors.

Locked. The doors were LOCKED! But… they were expecting me, right?

I hurried to the next set of doors. One opened into a glass-enclosed vestibule. I could see real live humans on the other side. They could see me. There was a buzzer, of sorts. I pushed it. The woman within magically unlocked the door and…voila! I was in.

Triumphant, I stood before them, Grumble Bluff held before me as proof that I was a respected author and not some threat to students’ safety.

“I made it!” I crowed.

They stared at me in silence.

“Um…aren’t there 100 kids waiting for me in the gym?”

I was at the wrong school! It was the right road, but the wrong school. How many schools does one town need? I wondered—while feeling a pang of jealousy. We lost our precious Central School in New Portland school a few years ago, and yet--Farmington had more schools than you could shake a stick at!

I was told the school I wanted was a mile further down the road. A tingle of panic niggled at me. I ran back to the truck…and discovered I was parked on a one-way driveway. Naturally.

I maneuvered over and around speed bumps, raised crosswalks and snow banks until I reached Middle Street again, and drove the extra mile to Mt. Blue Middle School. In my hurry to get there I overshot the first driveway, so I took the second entrance and parked at the rear of the building.

Grabbed keys. Copy of Grumble. And trotted in high heels and skirt from one locked door to another! What was up? Since when had schools become fortresses? They were expecting me! WAITING for me! Sitting on bleachers anticipating my arrival! Why was I locked out?

Oh, man. By now I was hot. Sweaty. Upset and embarrassed. I spied a single steel door marked “Administration” and yanked on it. To my relief, it opened and I stepped inside.

A man looked up as I came to a halt in the middle of the room, out of breath and slightly agitated.

“Hi! I gasped. “I need to get to the gym!”

He raised his arm and pointed to the window…

“Okay. You go outside and…”

“NO!” I hollered—not really meaning to shout but definitely intent on getting my point across. I held my book in front of me, as if one glimpse at it would explain everything.

Taken aback by my spontaneous shout, the gent led me into the hallway.

“Follow these stairs up and around and when you get to the top, you’re there.”

I could have kissed him, but I saved my breath for the climb. Four flights of stairs brought me—gasping—to another steel door.

Which was locked. What the heck was up with that? And who puts a gym upstairs, anyway?

At that very moment, I came close to crying. But I was LATE and didn’t have time for such foolishness. There were 100 kids sitting on bleachers, waiting for my words of wisdom and inspiration! I trudged back down two of those flights of stairs. I looked at the door I’d passed on my way up. What did I have to lose? Tentatively, I reached out a hand and pulled.

Holy cow. The door swung open…

And revealed a dozen children practicing dance steps in the middle of the gym. The bleachers were empty. I sighed and walked across the hardwood floor.

A teacher separated himself from the dancers.

“Are you the author?” he asked, as if uttering a dirty word.

“Yes.” I nodded, despondent.

The teacher shook his head.

“You’d better go to the office,” he said, pointing to a door on the other side of the gym. “It’s down the hall and to your right.”

Oh, sure! NOW I got good directions!

It’s been 30 years since I was sent to the principal’s office, but it’s a feeling I hadn’t forgotten. I’d screwed up. It was unintentional, but that didn’t change the fact that I’d blown it. And for my sins, I was sent to the office in humiliation.

On the bright side—the program at the University later that night was amazing. Great attendance, wonderful feedback and participation, and I left there feeling like I’d really helped a group of young adults find some inspiration and hope. Afterwards, I’d been surrounded by a mob of young women with questions—questions about bullying, and about death… and life. It was an awesome experience.

And I made sure I was 2 hours early. Just in case.

An Abundance of Aussies

By now, you all know about my awesome friends Down Under—friends made ‘by chance’ and under the most coincidental of circumstances.

First came Jack—big brother, lifter of spirits, co-writer and major pain in my behind—this man has been the topic of several of my columns, and has even contributed to “Observations” in the past. And when Jack wouldn’t take payment for his editing services on the sequels to Grumble Bluff, many of you helped me settle up with him. You came to a charity benefit night at Nostalgia Tavern and raised $1,700.00 to donate to Jack and Ali’s pet charities: Alzheimer’s Association and Hospice/Home Health Care. You even autographed his poster (which I’m sure hangs in a prominent place in his home!)

Several of you met my “mate” Larry when he came to Maine last summer. For a month I dragged him around with me; all the while listening to him gripe about what a “third world country” this was because he couldn’t get decent cell phone reception in our mountains. The poor man found ONE rock at my parents’ camp he could call out on--if he stood atop it (with left foot held out at a 29 degree angle)--and ONE turn-out between Greenville and Shirley where he could park in order to “phone home”. He pissed and moaned at me endlessly--and I split a gut, laughing at him.

You followed Larry’s “cell-phone saga” to its conclusion. He bequeathed his “piece-of-shite” telephone to Josie-Earl when he left the States, so she could use up his remaining pre-paid minutes. And then--we held the “Battle of Antique vs. State-of-the-Art”. My WWI era Luger 9mm was victorious over the high-tech cell phone; and with 2 shiny bullet holes piercing its metal armor, I mailed the contraption back to Larry in Oz (after a rousing conversation with Australian Customs, who’ve come to know me well [reference “The Great Spud Smuggling Debacle of 2009”]!). Larry was vindicated, and to this day, he says the phone is a great conversation piece--not that he needs any prompting to tell a tall tale!

Yep. Jack and Ali, Larry, Ali g and KK, Dozy and CP, Pete and Naomi. I’ve been blessed with “An Abundance of Aussies” from Queensland, New South Wales, and Victoria.

Dozy lets me crab and whine about the cruelties of life and she repays me in kind! We can’t decide which one of us is better at “whinging” (an Aussie term, pronounced WIN-jing). This woman always makes me smile--and she’s responsible for supplying me with the only sexy earrings I own. She's also the only person on earth who has gifted me with elephant dung.  Does she know me well, or what?  (I would have paid good money to see her collect and dry it for shipping!)

Ali g is a shining light—always kind, generous, and a little (okay… a lot!) irreverent. He gives excellent advice, and I appreciate it all the more when I ignore it, and regret it, afterwards. He’s educated me about the wild, testosterone-charged world of Rugby, and he’s made me fall in love with Australian folk singers. He’s a favorite uncle, a wise friend, and a mischievous troublemaker. I can’t wait to look into his smiling eyes.

Peter W. is my absent-minded professor—brilliant, gentlemanly, and generous to a fault. And CP is so much smarter than I am that he makes me completely comfortable in my boneheadedness! I know I can’t compete with him, so there’s a certain relief and consolation in acknowledging that I don’t even have to try.

Yes, I’ve been blessed with an abundance of Aussies.

Coincidences. Flukes. Some of the links tying me to these friends are beyond belief… but I’ve already told you about the gossamer strands of fate that connected me to these wonderful people. And now…I’m going to mention another amazing stroke of luck.

I was wandering the aisles of Trantens’ Store…grubby in my sweat shirt and pants; having come from packing boxes and moving furniture at my office. I was feeling a tad ‘down-in-the-dumps’—and a little sore and tired. Pushing my cart, I passed behind a gentleman in the bakery aisle just as a loaf Pepperidge Farm whole-grain bread slipped from his hands. He quickly recovered it before it fell to the floor.

“Slippery stuff, huh?” I said. (You know me…silence is NOT an option.)

I’m not sure what the fellow said when he responded, but my ears have grown accustomed to the unique articulations of my pals Down Under. Those three or four words the stranger spoke infused me with a sense of well-being.

“Is that an Australian accent?”

It was. And that’s all it took to set me off. In typical style, I proceeded to (in all probability) tell the poor bloke the story of my hum-drum country life. At a minimum, I peppered him with questions, and told him about my Aussie pals. Soon, we were joined in the bread aisle (aka the “toiletries, peanut butter and Stove-top Stuffing aisle”) by his companions Heather, Barb and Norm.

It turns out--Allan grew up just around the corner from where Jack lives. Not kidding. Right down the road. (You know how big the continent of Australia is, right? It’s HUGE! What are the chances, I ask you!??) And there were other coincidences, too. I was grinning from ear to ear when I left the store, and I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Jack. And Larry. And…well, everyone! I’d entered the supermarket dirty, dusty and down-in-the-dumps, and I departed with a smile. What luck!

Today I received a surprise gift. I can’t adequately express how delighted I am. Two weeks ago I spoke with Tracy at the Irregular, who told me “an Australian” had dropped off an envelope for me. I knew it had to have come from Allan and Heather…for how many Aussies are there in Kingfield on any given day (besides our good friend Rosemary at Daisy-A-Day Flower Shop)? Before I could retrieve the envelope it had passed from family member to family member until finally—today—I was able to take possession.

What a delight! Standing in my parents’ kitchen I opened the envelope to find an original painting by Allan English! It is lovely…wondrous, colorful, peaceful; a true reflection of “home”. These Australian visitors had been drawn to our town from 10,000 miles away by the descriptions and photos of our autumn foliage; and while here, Allan perfectly captured the view seen through a window of the Kingfield house he rented.

These visitors are long gone. They left town to travel to Maine’s beautiful coast, and then they planned to visit Nova Scotia before heading back to the southern hemisphere. I only spoke with them for a few minutes—in the middle of a busy grocery store--but in that short amount of time, they enhanced my life. And now I have a permanent reminder of how small this old world is—and how lucky we are when we connect with people who, it seems, were in the right place at the right time—just when they were needed.
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Photos: Aussie flag: G. Dowling
Jack on Moreton
Jack on Moreton--after fund-raiser in BAR (i.e. pub, i.e. tavern....!!!)
Larry and Kaz
Luger and Larry's cell pone
Dozy and African elephant (in AFRICA!)
Ali g and KK in Papua, New Guinea
Pete W. and Larry in NSW
Allan English watercolor from window in Kingfield, Maine, USA, October 2011
Photos I've taken at The F.A.R.M. in the past, which I thought might give evidence of what a wonderful job Allan did capturing Maine's autumn...

"The Dreams Stuff is Made Of"...

Where else but on Grumbles and Grins can one find men and women of integrity? Oh, I know... there are a few blogs which might be as graced as GAG. But I lay claim to a monopoly of the coolest of all 'followers' and visitors.

In my last post, I apologized for starting a contest, and then--for completely forgetting about it. It is the mark of a terrible hostess, for sure. I pronounced my friend Crookedpaw the winner--the choice being easy, as the bloke was the only entrant. I promised to mail his prize; consisting of a quart of Maine maple syrup and an autographed copy of Grumble Bluff, post haste. (Punny, huh? "Post" haste. "Mail". Get it?)

Oh, brother. Never mind...

So, that was yesterday. TODAY, I arrived home to find this:

That's right. The quart of maple syrup which I've had for a month--a month during which no one felt the need to touch it--had been opened, and sampled. Used. Poured over French Toast and bacon.

It's not like there were no other options. There were two already-opened plastic containers of syrup in the fridge. One from sap boiled down in neighboring Embden, and one from the maple trees of Strong, a town approximately 40 minutes away. It was local syrup, yes. But it was syrup which was sold commercially. I'd wanted to gift my friend with the product of our own trees, right here in Lexington Township. I wanted to give him some 'marple sarple' made--not to sell--but to be enjoyed by our family and friends.

So, I was grouchy. Slightly grouchy, but in a loudish kind of way.

"Great!" I said to no-one in particular, and everyone within earshot. "Now I've gotta go hit up Cousin Jimmy for another quart!"

Less than ten minutes later, I came upstairs and sat at my computer. I opened my email account. And, lo and behold, there was a note from my pal Crookedpaw, telling me that he couldn't accept the prize. That to do so wouldn't 'sit comfortably' with him. That I should SAVE THE SYRUP (now known as an impossibility) until he wins the next contest fairly and squarely.

Or something like that.

:o)

I lucked out. I've been let off the hook. I won't have to go down the road to Cousin Jimmy's, hat in hand, and ask for more syrup. I won't have to endure another quarantine of my packages as Aussie Customs tries to determine if the jar contains whiskey or some other type of contraband. Heh...

CP, you're a prince. You DID deserve the prize, but I'll graciously say 'thank you' and keep (what remains of) my syrup here in Maine.

For the time being, anyway.

Thanks, sport.

Frivolous Lawsuits-- A Contest.

Even though I take full responsibility for the subject matter and tone on Grumbles and Grins, there are times when others influence the content of my blog. My family, friends and neighbors all play a role in my life… and my life is what inspires the content of this online journal.

After a recent post (“Testosterone-Smelling Ears”) one of my Australian friends wrote to me with a suggestion. He proposed that I start a new contest. He thought it would be fun to have readers write in with their best and brightest ideas for bringing a frivolous lawsuit, based on something stupid that they had done. Let’s face it… we’ve all done stupid things. Some of us even make a bit of a career out of it!

His idea sounded good to me.

At his suggestion, however, I am expanding the contest. In my next “Observations from The F.A.R.M.” column in The Irregular, I am going to invite the newspaper readers to join in the fun. Hopefully, they won’t be too shy to play along. I’ll invite them to come to GAG and submit their entries here on the blog, so that you can all enjoy their ‘bonehead moments’, too.

Since there is a bit of ‘lag time’ between when I write my column and when it appears in the newspaper, I’ll keep the contest open for awhile. I’ve already submitted articles in advance, so I believe the contest won’t get mentioned until I write the column for the April 27th issue. Therefore, I’ll let the contest run until May 11th, my mother’s birthday.

Since this is maple syrup season, I’ll award the winner a quart of maple syrup made right here in Lexington which, at today’s prices, is worth almost $20.00. I’ll also throw in an autographed copy of Grumble Bluff. If you’ve already got one, maybe you can think of someone who’d like my novel as a gift.

In addition, I’ll take my top three favorites and publish them in the Irregular, in a subsequent column (with or without the winners' names-- your choice!) I think I’ll ask an author friend of mine to do the judging this time, so that—if we have a repeat winner—it won’t seem as if I’m playing favorites.

How does that sound? I hope it sounds like fun, and that you will enter. Just think of something dumb you’ve done (or something a member of your family has done) which would be a prime example of what might make a frivolous lawsuit, and tell me all about it!

Chances are, though… that lawsuit’s already been 'tried'.

Contest: 104 GAGs, $104.00 for Charity

Hello, my friends! Welcome to the 104th posting to Grumbles and Grins!

I’d intended to write something special for my 100th posting. That’s a grand number—one hundred—and so I thought it only apt that I celebrate, somehow.

But… life got in the way. And so did issues which have become an important part of my life, lately.

I thank you all for your forbearance. When I started Grumbles and Grins, I was not involved in the effort to stop the industrialization of Maine’s mountains. I was simply a wife, mother, business owner and writer. I am still all of those things, but I’ve taken on a new role… a new duty. And GAG has become a part-time medium in which to ‘spread the word’.

But!!! One’s life cannot consist of work and duty and responsibility, only. Can it? (Please say ‘no’…)

No! It can’t!

There is a proper balance to be found--and I work every day to find it.

So… to commemorate the 100th (oh, fine! The 104th!) posting to GAG, I am holding another contest.

No autographed copies of Grumble Bluff, and no Maine t-shirts to be had for prizes, this time. Nope. THIS time, we’re ‘giving back’. This time, the winner of my contest will be able to direct me to pay $100.00-- a dollar per posting-- to the charity of their choice. Or the person of their choice—someone who is deserving of a little assistance, but who is, perhaps, too proud to ask.

Okay! Okay!! A buck a posting doesn’t equal $100.00! You’re right…it equals $104.00.

So, now we know what the prize is. The next question? What is the contest?

Well… honestly? I had such fun with the answers you gave to my ‘Name That Caption’ contest, that I simply have to try it again. The problem is… I hate to have my photo taken, so the photo options are fairly limited. So, what I’ll do is go into my “pictures” file and see what I can come up with. I'm sure there are some terrible ones I can embarrass myself with, and I'll include them in this post. You can choose the photo and create a caption. And the one that tickles the funny bone of Mr. Grumbles the most… wins. Just don’t tell him I’m awarding $104.00 to the winner, okay? If he knows that, he’ll be able to justify not buying me anything for our anniversary. And if you’ve been a follower of GAG since its inception last August, you’ll understand why that’s a touchy subject, around here.  

Right. That’s as easy as they come. Pick a photo. Tell me which one it is (I’ll number them) and then write a caption. You can enter as many times as you’d like. Or as few. (Of course, the more times you enter, the better your chances to win…)

Be thinking about who (or what) you’d like to see receive $104.00, and enter today! The contest will only last until August 14th--one week from today--unless I get busy. If that happens, then it will end when Ali g calls a halt to it. (He expects to win, you know. And the benefactors, if he does? Some needy subjects named Claude, Tigger and Wookie. In keeping with the theme, between the three of them, I’ll bet they weigh 104 pounds.)

Good night, my friends. Take it easy on me, will you? (You're not going to take it EASY on me, are you??? I didn't think so! Now that's more like it!)

Love,
Kaz
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Photo #1


Photo #2


Photo #3


Photo #4

Competing Against Seth

After ten years of reading all about the exhilarating life of this country woman from the western mountains of Maine, I’m sure you have realized that I am an enthusiastic sportswoman. Be it my championship thumb-twiddling skills, my accuracy in the skillet throwing arena, or even my brief foray into the world of downhill skiing (January 12, 1971), athleticism has been a huge part of my life and my persona.

Ahem. Yes.

As I was saying, I’m a very competitive person. And this past Monday night, I faced my ultimate challenge. I competed against our very own Seth Wescott, 2006 Olympic Gold Medalist!

I admit, at the start I was an unwitting participant in the game. I had been asked to come and speak at the beautiful and newly opened Carrabassett Valley Public Library, and to autograph copies of my novel Grumble Bluff afterwards.

Since it was school vacation week, Sugarloaf Mountain was guaranteed to be packed with families on skiing holidays, and a large crowd was anticipated. I packed up my boxes of books, donned a snazzy sweater and spit shined my combat boots, prepared to wow the crowd. After all, I’ve been talking non-stop since I was knee-high to a t-bar. Surely there was no one more suited to entertaining Loafers than this local girl!
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One of my proudest accomplishments is that I’ve become very adept at shrugging off humiliation. I think my first experience with mortification was when a woman named Judy approached me in the crowded Kingfield Post Office one morning. A look of rapture on her face, she placed her hand on my tummy and said, ‘Oh, Karen! I didn’t know you were pregnant!’

Well, I wasn’t. But the ensuing silence certainly was! So much for the fallacy that a bit of belly bulge was a wondrous thing! Pfft! Yes, my education began at a young age, and I am now the most proficient shrugger-offer of embarrassing moments in two counties. And, as Martha Stewart would say, ‘It’s a good thing!’

At the appointed time, I spoke eloquently to my overflow crowd (of seven). Hehehe… oh, dear. And even those lovely hostesses and their children had to be anxious to get me the heck out of there. All they could talk about (in slightly hushed tones) was this little bit of business happening on the other side of the continent in British Columbia. You see, when we’d set the time and date for the program, not a single one of us was looking ahead to the future. Not one of us realized that my speaking engagement coincided with the Winter Olympics in Vancouver. More specifically, I was slated to be the star at the precise time that the trial runs for the snowboarding competition were happening out west. And I was speaking immediately prior to the actual race in which local resident, night club owner and Gold Medalist Seth Wescott was competing! What’s a girl to do?

What I should have done–what I really wanted to do–was travel the few hundred feet around the corner to The Rack, where the real excitement was! I wanted to grab a beer, muscle my way through the crowd of Seth’s friends and fans, and watch the exciting competition with baited breath. I wanted to feel the thrill of real, world-class competition (albeit vicariously) and experience the tension of wondering whether or not Seth would triumph.

But I am a skilled and proud competitor, myself. If these ladies and their children were valiant enough to sit with rapt expressions while I expounded on such hair-raising topics as goat-herding, writing prompts, and the pros and cons of polyester pants (and sadly, I’m not kidding), then they were going to be treated to a first-class presentation. Oh, I was in grand form! I waved my hands expressively. I paced to and fro in front of them, pivoting perfectly on the balls of my feet. I even–get ready for this–showed them a smooth dance step my fourth grade teacher, Bertha Gilmore, had shown me in 1972!

The crowd (of seven) was wowed!

Sigh. I couldn’t keep it up. I had to let them go. There was, after all, an Olympic champion–our own hometown boy– defending our country’s honor and our Mountain’s reputation as an Olympic-class skiing and snowboarding resort. As captivated as I’d kept this multitude of (seven) fans, I knew what was most critical. Seth needed our support. It wasn’t his fault that I’d been scheduled to speak at the same time that his event was being televised worldwide. It wasn’t his fault that these (seven) fans of Grumble Bluff and yours truly were devoted to the awesome craft of writing superior prose. I didn’t have the right to keep these good folks from adding their support to that of our community, our state and our country. Seth Wescott, that amazing young athlete, needed them. And so, I wrapped it up with almost an hour to spare, and gave Seth the ultimate gift. My fans… a handicap (of seven).

You’re welcome, Seth. But next time… it’s you and me, buddy. Face to face, at the Loaf. Sure, you are the best, most awesome snowboarder on the planet. But can you, with a few well-written words, make a grown man cry?

I thought not!

Congratulations, Seth Wescott, 2010 Olympic Gold Medalist. We are all so very, very proud of you!

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Photo of Grumble Bluff book signing taken by Dottie Carter. (It is at the New Portland Community Library, not the Carrabassett Valley Public Library... I forgot to take my camera...)

Valentine's Day Contest (aka Photo Caption Contest)

AND WE HAVE A WINNER!!!

Crookedpaw, a friend from down-country, has been crowned the winner of the NAME THAT PHOTO CAPTION contest. The winning entry? Heck... now I can't see the comments section to quote him exactly... hold on, my friends, while I figure out how to do this. (Rocket science is not my bag...and this simply HAS to be rocket science!)

I'm back! The winning caption is: 'That's the last time I play Twister with Edward Scissorhands!'

Yahoo!

Hey, guys and gals... I really appreciate all the fun and original entries you gave me. I love that you came over to GAG to play. I am grateful to the intrepid Ali g who had such a hard time choosing the winner, but who hung in there until he'd painstakingly separated the wheat from the chaff.

And Wade? You, my dear boy (and good friend) are the CHAFF!! Hehehe. Hopeless, that's what you are. (FYI, Grumble Bluffs are STILL on sale at Tranten's! You walk by them almost every day! Ahem... that's all I'm saying...)

Thanks again, my friends. :o)



Okay, okay... not every Pease is a terrible photographer. I purposely cropped this photo. In an effort to renew interest in my photo caption contest and give poor, bored Ali g something to do, I am adding another topless photo of Karen Bessey Pease. But how do you know it's me, you ask? Trust me... it I was going to choose a body to attach my head to, it wouldn't be this one. To begin with, it would be about 20 years younger! And I would simply whittle down from there...

So, take your pick and captionize a pic! Give either of these photos a caption, add it into the comments section down below, and then, STAY TUNED. The winner, chosen by the persnickety Ali g, will be announced on 2/14/2010. The champion photo labeler will win an autographed copy of Grumble Bluff! These fine tomes are valuable beyond measure, so be sure to enter now.



ORIGINAL TEXT:
This is actually a photo caption contest. Posted here and to the right (unless you're on the opposite side of the screen and facing in my direction) is another professional photo of me, author Karen Bessey Pease. This photo needs a caption. A good caption. A funny one. Look at the picture closely and see how creative you can be. I'm thinking of using this shot for my author bio on the back cover of Grumble Bluff,so put on your thinking caps and see what you can come up with!

(I had a teacher in third grade, Mrs. Beane, who always said the 'thinking cap' thing. It seemed appropriate to use here until I realized she used it on THIRD GRADERS!)

Oh, well. The contest runs until Valentine's Day, and the winner will be announced on Sunday, February 21, 2010. (Oops, meant 2/15/2010...sorry to those who read the original text.) Our very own Ali g will be judging the entries, but he has assured me that bribery WILL NOT WORK. There will be NO FAVORITISM! No NEPOTISM! No DESPOTISM! No PRIAPISM! None of that, nuh-uh! He has promised me he is above such things! (He has also stated FOR THE RECORD that he prefers Chardonnay, and that there is a 34 HP farm tractor with detachable bucket and PTO and a three point hitch on his wish list, but those facts hold NO RELEVANCE WHATSOEVER as it pertains to this contest.) What a guy!

Create the best title and win an autographed copy of Grumble Bluff. I'll even throw in a signed photo of myself to use at your discretion! (But how will you know it's me? And what would you discreetly use a photo for, anyway?)

Come play on GAG. You're guaranteed to grumble or grin!

Sequel to 'Christmas at the Hill Place' a.k.a. 'No Time to Write a Poem'

On yesterday's GAG posting, I shared a poem I wrote two Christmases ago for my mother to read at her yearly holiday party at the Hill Place in Elliotsville Township. In case I didn't mention it, it was a party I was not invited to...

Last year, Mum asked for an encore. She still did not invite me to the celebration. But I am a generous and loving daughter. I always try to comply with my mother's wishes, and so I wrote another poem for her to recite to her favorite people. Her guests. The ones she'd invited to the party.

No Time To Write A Poem

Last year my mother asked me—
“Could you, a poem compose?
‘Cause all my Christmas party guests
Just love your lilting prose!”

And so, with trusty keyboard
I wrote a little ditty…
Something ‘bout a puzzling gift…
I thought it was quite witty!

I kinda made a little fun
Of all you aunts and uncles.
I picked on your infirmities—
Your deafness and carbuncles.

Your body parts that were worn out,
The ones that’d been replaced,
The fingers that were sawn off,
Your sense of sight and taste.

But last year was quite different.
I had some time to kill.
I had an hour or two to spare
To ‘wow’ you with my skill.

Back in Two-thousand-seven,
I was a common lass.
And comfortable I was--back then--
To tease you with my sass.

But now those days are over.
I’ve an image I must keep.
No more can I be frivolous—
My thoughts must now be deep.

For I’m a published author!
It’s true, I swear it is!
I am, like my pal Stephen King,
A big shot writing whiz!

I must now have decorum,
I must display finesse!
Like my friend J.K. Rowling
I must wear stylish dress.

I must e-nun-ci-ate my words.
With fans where e’er I go,
No cleavage can I now expose
With blouses cut real low.

No more can I write poems
Of sneeze, or burp or fart.
I must compose pure sonnets
That speak about the heart.

My penmanship must be precise,
For all those autographs.
And I must put a tinkling,
Not a belly, in my laugh.

Like my chum Johhny Grisham,
My words will sound so clever.
No more can I act like a hick.
(‘Twill be a huge endeavor!)

My mentor, ole Tom Clancy,
Said, “Karen, don’t be humble!
You’re sure to hit best sellers’ lists
With your new book called Grumble.”



“Your star, it is now on the rise…
And yes, the road is rough.
But you will touch the hearts of kids
With novel, Grumble Bluff.”

And so, as you can clearly see,
My time is not my own.
I have too many pressing tasks!
I’ve gotten too well-known.

I cannot write a poem for you,
For that, I’m much too grand!
I’ve got to concentrate on the
Endorsements I will land.

The signings and the lectures,
The engagements where I’ll speak,
It’s going to be quite difficult
To stay this sweet and meek.

And so I ask your pardon…
For not giving verse or rhyme.
My agent said, “No freebies!
They must pay you for your time!”

But while I have no poem for
Your merry Christmas bash.
I’ll hap-pi-ly sell you a book.
(I take both check and cash!)

Happy Holidays, Everyone!

The Camera Adds Ten Pounds!

December is typically not a good month in which to diet. The Christmas holiday season is jam-packed with social events…the ‘company’ party, the neighborhood party, the family parties, and the OTHER company party. Too, there are the shopping trips. It is practically unheard of to spend a day in town, bustling from shop to shop, without stopping for a bite to eat in a restaurant or a café or a fast food joint. Such extravagances almost always result in an over-indulgence or two. It’s impossible not to splurge on a piece of strawberry cheesecake or a dish of chocolate mousse. After all…it’s Christmas! It’s a tradition!

But you see, I have a problem. I am going to be a guest on a local television show on December 27th. Just two days after Christmas. I’m excited… psyched, even! What a great opportunity to tout my novel, Grumble Bluff! To spread the word about my newspaper column, ‘Observations from The F.A.R.M.’! And what fun!



But holy smokes! Everyone knows…the camera ADDS TEN POUNDS!

There are some people, admittedly, who can afford to look a bit heavier, a tad more fleshed out. Sure there are. Of course!

But I’M NOT ONE OF THEM!

Oh, brother…

I have NEVER been skinny. Even when I wasn’t curvaceous, I wasn’t skinny! I’ve already HAD the ten pounds added. The twenty! The…um…twenty-one!

Good heavens…

I suppose it’s a good thing that there are men hereabouts who like their women with a bit of meat on their bones. I know I would have been up the proverbial creek without a paddle if every man in western Maine was only content with slender ladies who sported collarbones and had space enough between their thighs to throw a Frisbee through.

Yup. As Martha Stewart would say, ‘It’s a good thing.’

Of course, it’s important to remember that we well-rounded girls have many other attributes that make us attractive. I read a survey once that stated that Maine had one of the highest percentages of overweight women in the country. That may very well be true. After all, we have a very long, cold winter here! It’s hard to concentrate on how your bikini will look when you’re hanging wet laundry on the clothesline in -20 degree weather, or trying to peel an icicle off your tongue without drawing blood. We stay inside except to shovel snow or lug wood, and sort of semi-hibernate.

Nope, for seven months out of the year, we’re basically inactive. These months include Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, Easter, Ground Hog’s Day, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, President’s Day, April Fool’s Day, Ash Wednesday…even FAT TUESDAY, for crying out loud! And several full moons, too!

We’re doomed!

And we have only May through September to take that winter weight back off.

Do the math. If we gain five pounds a month for seven months, work hard and manage to lose five pounds each month during the summer, we are still ten pounds overweight when winter rolls around again. In four years, we’ve gained forty pounds! In eight years...EIGHTY! That’s what an average ten-year-old child weighs. That’s sixteen bags of sugar. Three hundred and twenty sticks of butter!

Man, am I depressed!!

So, it’s possible that Maine men do prefer large women. It’s also conceivable that they have no other choice…their options are that limited. Therefore, it’s vital we ladies constantly remind them that what we lack in slenderness, we make up for in hair.



See…most men in Maine don’t have a lot of body hair. Oh... you’ll occasionally see a fellow with a tuft of hair peeking out over the top of his tee shirt, but chances are good, that same man will be as bald as an egg. It’s like the body compensates for what the head has lost...

And while men have a problem with thinning hair as they get older, it’s just the opposite for us gals. As we age, we fur out. A little moustache on the upper lip, some downy fuzz on the cheeks...the occasional black wiry hair sprouting from a mole.

It’s all part of our charm, I’ve been told.

My point is, so what if some survey conducted at a college on the coast of southern California says that Maine women are overweight? We have many other attributes that make us sexy!

Hmm. For some strange reason, I’m STILL depressed.

The bottom line is this. I’m going to be on TV. In front of a host of viewers who will be both strangers AND folks who know me… and I’ll be looking like I’ve gained ten pounds. In order to appear as I do right now, I need to lose ten pounds in the next three weeks. During the season with the biggest, most food-filled holiday of them all.

Can I do it? In an intelligent and healthy manner? Well, I’m going to try. I’ll give it my best shot.

And I think I’ll start by having a shave…

Laughing Alone

I’m always talking about how beneficial laughter is…how it releases mood enhancing chemicals into our bodies, changes our perspectives and generally turns the seemingly unbearable into not such a big deal, after all. Laughter is amazing, and I’ve spent a good portion of my adult life trying to share those marvelous benefits with others.

I’m not only a teacher of the magical properties of glee, though—I’m a student. I discovered first-hand what a difference shared giggles could make to my existence. Laughter and the ability to look for--and find--the humor in most situations, has saved my life. And--if I’m to be honest—it has saved my sanity, too.

But what happens when something is wrong, and there is no one to laugh with? What happens when you have a problem that you can’t talk about, that you can’t share? What do you do when you really, truly need to laugh…need to cry and scream first, but need then to close it out with a bit of hilarity? A little sarcasm, or self-deprecation, or a touch of irony?

How do you laugh when you feel alone?

Shared laughter is the best, without a doubt. But I believe that an emotionally competent person needs to be able to self-heal, too. Face it. We can’t always be lifted up by others. In a perfect world, that would be possible. But this old world is far from perfect. And we need to take care of ourselves because, ultimately, I am the only person I can depend on, and you are the only person you can depend on. Ultimately, it is up to us to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and start all over again.

I have been in a foul mood for three days. Mad, yes. Sad… a bit. Down in the dumps? Try a New York City garbage barge! Grumpy, depressed, bummed out. That was me. Mrs. Grins was nothing but a great big grumble!


I blame a man, of course. Heh. See? I feel better, already!!!

Aw, a man wasn’t the original problem…but a man could have made it better. A man could have been attentive, supportive…he could have given me a few moments of his time and consideration, and the whole three day grizzle-fest could have been avoided. Or at least…alleviated.

But, no. He was too self-involved and self-important to put forth the effort to make someone else feel good.

They really can be dillweeds, you know?

But I am Karen Bessey Pease! Author of excellent young adult fiction and a superbly written newspaper column! I make people laugh every day…and if I can do that, then I could surely find a way to lift myself out of the doldrums! Right???

Absolutely!!!

So, how did I do it, you ask? Well, I started by looking at photographs last night. Pictures of peaceful scenes from here at home on The F.A.R.M., and others I’ve taken around the neighborhood and the state of Maine, at large. I pulled out photos of friends…cherished people that I have shared laughter with, in the past. Some of the pictures were uplifting simply because of the smiles on the faces of the people caught by the lens. Some brought a grin for the memories they induced. One caused a chuckle, because the photo inspired a scene in one of the sequels I’ve written for Grumble Bluff.


Have you ever seen the facial expression of someone who is considering the option of sea-sickness? Oh, I felt empathy, all right. But standing a safe distance away, I could also feel a whole boatload of mirth!


Those photos were enough, last night. They eased a burden that had been pressing on my diaphragm, keeping me from drawing a free and easy breath.

But I wasn’t in the clear, yet. I was still a little grumpy this morning…still a mite dejected. I was simply not back to my carefree, fun-loving self. And that’s never good. One of the worst things about a foul mood is its contagious properties. If I bark, if I am snippety, if I lose my cool and say something unkind, then my whole household suffers. My mood is transferred post-haste from me to my husband and children. And that’s never good. If I’m feeling pithy or pithed off, I want to keep it all to myself, and not suffer the guilt of infecting the rest of the Grumbles with my murk.

I’m selfish, that way.

So! It was time for Round Two of my self-induced therapy! I graduated from photographs to the written word!

It’s most likely a bit conceited of me to say that I think I’m funny. But…I do. And this afternoon, when I made myself stop working on my assigned tasks for an hour, I opened my ‘documents’ file on the computer. There, at my fingertips, were several hundred columns, letters and poems that I’ve written over the years. Many of them are unrecognizable by the titles I gave them, so when I opened them, they were a surprise. But unwittingly, I opened some doozies!

I write about real life. Real life that is sometimes embellished or exaggerated…for I am a simple woman and my life is not very exciting. But that ability to find the humor in the mundane, the idiotic and the pathetic is what this writer—this woman—is all about. If I have any kind of legacy to leave, I hope that is it.

I trolled through the files, reading about a husband who picked up a dog turd that he thought was a rock. I read about a son speaking into a wall-mounted box of utility knife blades, thinking it was an intercom. I perused a story of a daughter who would only eat honey when she discovered it was bee SPIT instead of bee POOP. I was reminded of a dog who could pick up stones in his viscous drool. A mother who has never farted. And aunt who unknowingly hit a chicken with her car and drove fifteen miles with it squawking and flapping in the grill of her car. (She thought she was incredibly popular, so many people waved to her that day!)


And I read about a burly woman who got stuck in her seat at Fenway Park and single-handedly screwed up a 'wave'.

And lastly, I read the FOASS letter.

That is one document that I did NOT write. I was the recipient, instead. The FOASS letter is the most insulting and loving letter I have ever received. It was written by a friend…a friend who called me every name in the book, and then some. A friend who knew me well enough to know that I would take it in the spirit it was intended. A pal who knew that I would be uplifted by foul words and rudeness, because I would recognize that only a true friend, only a best friend, could tell it to me like it was and be secure in the fact that I would understand the sentiment within.

Relationships evolve. They change. We all know that. When we are young and naïve, we think that the first blush of infatuation will always exist. We believe that an intimate friend will always be nearby--giving us an ear, a shoulder, a hand. But as we mature, we realize that each relationship has a honeymoon phase. Sometimes the relationship grows and strengthens and the bond is made fast. Sometimes events and other people get in the way, and the connection stretches and thins. Occasionally, it even breaks. That is one of the vagaries of life. Nothing ever stays the same.

But I have the stories of life on The F.A.R.M. I have the photos, the poems, and the old columns. And I have the FOASS letter. Right at my fingertips, so I can pull up a little self-imposed therapy… a little laughter, a bit of self-deprecation, and a smidgen of irony.

Life can be tough. But laughter can always, always make it a bearable journey. And quite often, it can make it a hell of a ride!

Meadow Muffins and Bonehead Moments

It has once again been proven.... we country folk are easily entertained! What better way to spend an autumn Saturday then to attend a meadow muffin contest!

Someone from 'away' might ask what a meadow muffin contest is. Is it a cooking contest, similar to a chili cook-off? Is it held outdoors, in someone’s meadow?

Well, yes, it is an outdoor event. But no-one is baking pies in order to win a blue ribbon. Think cow pies instead.

That’s right! We Mainers know how to make the most of a good BM! As a fun way to raise money for charity, we like to pit our knowledge of the bovine gastroenterological system against that of our friends and neighbors! A section of field--or meadow, if you will--is divided into grids and fenced off. (Imagine a bingo card with MEADOW MUFFIN across the top and numbers 1-12 down the side, creating 144 square blocks of earth.) People 'buy' a square of ground inside the paddock, say D-3 for example, and then settle in for the show. The object of the game, of course, is to have the cow deposit a kucky cookie in the square that you paid for, thereby winning you a prize.

It’s not unheard of to arrive with your family in tow and a picnic lunch in a basket. Lawn chairs are set up, and the anticipation grows. The air is festive, and the excitement is contagious. Once Bessey, the heifer (the queen of all the cows) is released into the paddock, the suspense is a palpable thing. Will Bessey graze for a while, increasing the tension of the crowd? Will she give the spectators any warning before she makes a pattie placement? Will she perhaps stop and pose for a second so that everyone can witness the grand finale? What happens if she’s ambling along, calmly regurgitating and chewing the contents of one of her four stomachs while flopping the flap, and it lands in more than one square? (Cows can do that, you know. Their manure manipulation maneuvres are magnificent.) The potential variables of the extravaganza are endless, and add to the fun and excitement of the day.


Alas, all good things must come to an end. Bessey, in fine form and with little more fanfare than a quick crook of her tasseled tail, makes her meadow muffin at last. The crowd crows with delight, the cow is praised for her fine form, and the winner is cheered.

Even though the contest is over, the day is not quite done. The fence comes down, and beautiful Bessey is led back to her stall in the barn. The cow pie is offered to the winner of the contest. When the champion declines the gift with all good grace, someone else takes care of the muffin removal. The spectators pack away their left-overs, load up their trucks with camp chairs, blankets and kids, and head through the field towards home. The sun dips low on the horizon and a whippoorwill calls across the now-quiet meadow.

Are we cheap dates, or what??

Yes, I appreciate that we can have a blast doing something as mundane as watching a cow chew her cud and waiting with anticipation for her to drop a doodle on a patch of grass. I love the fact that a community can join together to raise money for a worthy cause, and do it in a way that is inexpensive, hilarious and fun. I think it’s fantastic that you can make some money betting on the bodily functions of a half-ton cow!

And I gotta say it--I love any cow named Bessey.

*********************
This Bessey will be doing her bit for charity on Friday, November 27, 2009 at 7:00 p.m. (No!! Not THAT!!! Sheesh! I'm nowhere NEAR that regular...) To benefit Alzheimers (Maine Chapter) and Franklin Home Health Care, I will be performing 'Bonehead Moments' and 'I Love Ya Man...But Get a Grip!' at Nostalgia Tavern in Kingfield. Tickets are $15.00 per person, or $25.00 for a pair. Only 100 are available, and they are going fast, so please contact me if you would like to attend this evening of comedy. Tickets are also available at Nostalgia Tavern and Tranten's Store in Kingfield. During intermission, a character name in a Grumble Bluff sequel will be auctioned off. Here is your opportunity to have your name immortalized in a novel that takes place right here in the western mountains of Maine! Raffle tickets are also on sale for a quilt made by my 93 year old grandmother, and the winner will be drawn that night, as well. These are available at the Kingfield Woodsman Restaurant (where the quilt is displayed), at Tranten's Too, and at Narrow Gauge Realty.

Please join me for an evening of fun and help support these worthy organizations. I'll do the grumbling, and you can do the grinning! Call me at (207) 628-2070 or email me at roomtomove@tds.net for tickets!

Bonehead moments... Whose bright idea was this, anyway? Come discover the answer at Nostalgia Tavern! (He is SOOOOO going to pay for this!)
*********************************
For those of you who are discering readers and followers of GAG, I'd like to take this opportunity to assure you that I DO know the bovine in these photos is NOT a COW. HIS name is Blue, and he is one of the steers at home here on The F.A.R.M. I DO know the difference, boys and girls! Cows don't have HORNS, after all! Sheesh...

The Awesome Power of Friendship

I was hanging out my upstairs bedroom window this morning listening to the beat of the cool rain on the tin roof of the porch when I heard a vehicle coming up the road. Rounding the corner down below was an UPS truck. Since I rarely get packages, I expected that its destination was one of the three houses beyond me, so I felt the thrill of Christmas morning when the driver pulled up to my home.

The package was the ‘proof’ copy of the paperback version of Grumble Bluff. As I am anxious for this less-expensive book to become available to the public, I immediately sat down to proofread it. There are editors who’ve already checked the copy several times, both before and after GB hit the printing press, but the final word falls to me. That is, perhaps, not the wisest course, since I have the 208 page story memorized. It’s harder for me to spot mistakes than it would be for a reader who's never laid eyes on my tale. But there you have it…the buck stops here.

Three hours later, I had once again read in its entirety this tale of friendship–this story of real life in the western mountains of Maine. I had completed this same task just weeks before when changes had been made to the back cover, and new reviews were added to the inside. Even so--even though this is my own novel, my own made up story--even so...I was touched by the tale. I giggled as I read it, and I cried.

I know, I know…I’m a bit peculiar.

The themes in Grumble Bluff caused me to reflect on my own authentic, flesh and blood friends. I have been very lucky to have many friends in my lifetime. And I have been blessed to have several whom I consider to be exceptional, trustworthy and faithful people…best friends. The two-word phrase doesn’t do these wonderful men and women justice. They have been life-savers. They have brought me immense pleasure, and shared sanity-sustaining laughter with me. They’ve wiped my tears, and allowed me the honor of drying theirs. They’ve lent me their strength, both physical and emotional, and when the time came and the tables were turned, they’ve placed their burdens upon my shoulders.

Best friends. Two short words to describe one of the most powerful forces in the world.

In this author’s humble opinion, of course.

Grumble Bluff is dedicated to my friend Patty. Many people who’ve read GB have asked if it is a true story. It is not. Katherine Anne Kirby and Greta Rommel are make-believe girls…figments of my imagination. However, their fictional relationship was inspired by my childhood friendship with this wonderful woman, which began in 1972 when we were in fourth grade. Even at nine years old, Patty knew how to be a true friend. That giving, dependable and loyal quality is something that she's never outgrown, a constant that’s never changed. How fortunate I’ve been!

Terri is another friend who has been beside me for years and years. And years, but I won’t say how many, because she’s still telling people she’s thirty-seven. (Her son will be twenty-nine next month, but, of course, you didn’t hear it from me!) Terri helped me through one of the most difficult periods of my life. And then, a few short years later, I returned the compliment. Things like that bond a person for life…and I’m privileged to be tied to such a woman.

Kay and Linda are two women who have encouraged and supported me through the years; women who have always acted like I was a much greater and more capable woman than I really am. Their overwhelming faith in and admiration of me has almost, at times, made me believe that I really am something special. Truth be known, they are the ones who are extraordinary. Wow. To know such great women is a rare honor.

Other women have also made positive, lasting impressions on my life. Pam. Jeanette. Dottie. Real women with diverse backgrounds, faiths, and political ideologies. Each with something valuable to contribute. Each woman kind and loving and opinionated and strong. Perfect.

And then, there are the guys. Every woman should have at least one best friend who is a man. The perspective they bring to a relationship is priceless. Their outlook on life is, at times, completely contrary to that of a female. But–believe it or not–I’ve actually discovered that their counsel can be wise, their viewpoint can be discerning, and their ‘my way or the highway’ outlook can be liberating.

Plus, they are a barrel of laughs!

Bentley, Richard, Clair and Dave. All men who have taught me, helped me...made me feel feminine, but tough. Wow, fellas! Mmm, mmm, mmm!

Jack is someone special. A man of my age. A foreigner, but with many similar life experiences. He’s also a writer, like I am. Jack is man of gentleness, but with a fiery temper. (A gal only needs to experience it once…maybe twice…before she’s figured out what buttons can be pushed, and what ones deliver a two-hundred-and-twenty volt shock. Heh. When I get the feeling back in my left arm, I just might toggle him again…a girl only lives once, right?) My friend Jack is one of those rare guys with true integrity. He is a man who could be my brother, and I love him as if he was.

And Grahame. What did I ever do before Grahame found me and wiggled his way into my heart? He’s older (but not by much!! It’s hardly worth mentioning, in fact!), and he’s wiser. He’s silly, but sane. Grahame flatters me when I need bolstering, but he’s no push-over. If he doesn’t agree with me, I know it. Without a doubt, I know it! But even when we differ, we recognize in each other a desire for peace. A tolerance for diverse people. And we agree that it is okay to disagree. In truth, he has brought this peace-maker a deep and abiding peace of her own.

Grumble Bluff is a celebration of friendship. The story epitomizes the awesome power that is at hand when two open hearts come together without malice or ulterior motive. Katherine Anne and Greta are girls who each needed a friend, but who each gave more of themselves than what they required. And that’s what real friendship is. Giving, and not taking.

A true friend knows they’ll get it back in spades. And then some.

*********************************
The photo above is of my friend Patty, me, and my husband, Mr. Grumble. We have no idea who took the picture, but we're pretty sure the photographer was drunk, thereby causing rosy cheeks and idiotic expressions to appear when the film was developed.

Grins for Silent Predator

Until my YA novel, Grumble Bluff, was published nine months ago, I never really imagined all that was entailed in being a published author. As an unknown, there is a lot of hard work involved in trying to direct readers to my novel. There are speaking engagements and book signings. Correspondence with fans. Networking with people in positions of power…purchasing power; because that is, in essence, what it all comes down to. An author needs to sell herself in order to be able to sell her novel.

It’s a lot of work, but it is FUN work, for an author enjoys nothing more than being able to write, and to talk with others about writing. It is a passion, and one that is not easily sated.

Thus far, the best part of this whole experience has been meeting other authors. Writers who, like me, have an enthusiasm for creating a tale that will engage, enthrall and even educate a reader. Each one of us is the sum total of our experiences and passions. We are as different as night and day. Tundra and tropic. East and west.

We are all just as human as can be.

I’d never before given consideration to the author of a novel while I was engrossed in the pages of his or her creation. Not only did the author seem to be out of reach, but almost irrelevant, too. After all, the author’s work was done by the time I held that bound treasure in my hands. It was his or her characters which were important, as well as the tale’s plot and setting. The author was just some shadowy figure whom I could envision pounding away at a keyboard under the light of a shaded lamp. A mystical conjurer of words, phrases and yes… a bit of magic, too.

But I’ve had the pleasure of meeting many other writers in the last few months. Added to that pleasure has been the opportunity to read their published works, as well as some of their unpublished ones, too. To know both the authors and their handiwork is a rare privilege, and it has allowed me to appreciate and respect the products of their talent and imagination more than ever. I’ve been a voracious reader all my life. And now, I’m finding that I have an even sharper desire to read a good book when I know the man or woman who is the mastermind behind the story.

And that brings me to the topic of this blog posting. I have just finished reading Silent Predator, a novel by Tony Park. Tony is a native of Australia who spends half of every year in southern Africa. He and his wife Nicola are living their dream, residing side-by-side with the natives of the ‘Dark Continent’…the four legged inhabitants, as well as the two. Tony has considerable writing experience--having been a newspaper reporter, a government press secretary, and a freelance writer. This man is not only experienced in assembling and arranging words to create a saga that is comprehensible and engaging, but he is obviously able to identify with the most basic of human sentiments. Sorrow and grief, lust and longing, expectation and despair…Tony infuses his characters with very real and believable emotions, and their actions and reactions are authentic and credible.

In my book, it takes genuine talent to pull that off.

Silent Predator takes the reader from the urban wilds of modern London to the primitive wilderness of Africa’s Kruger National Park, and back again. The author has driven these streets and hiked these trails, and his familiarity with these venues is apparent. Every page of Silent Predator percolates with realistic intrigue, plausible dialogue and credible conflicts and resolutions. It was a delight to read, and a bugger to put down when those responsibilities of home, farm, business and my own writing dared to intrude.

I am not a professional book reviewer, and Tony has a capable team assembled behind him to accurately synopsize his stories and promote his most exceptional tales. And so, I’ll let them take over from here. I encourage you to visit Tony’s website for summaries of his novels, including his newly released Ivory and his first non-fiction book written with Kevin Richardson, Part of the Pride. On his site you will also find information about how to acquire your own autographed copy. I purchased Silent Predator this way, and if I can do it, anyone can! (His link is over there somewhere to the right, as well as on my ‘links’ page on www.karenbesseypease.com.) In addition, Tony’s blog is a hoot, with his Legion of Fans adding their own creative remarks, critiques and comical commentary. His frequent entries from the road are full of inspiring and graphic details about his life amongst the people and wildlife of Africa--a place that most of us only dream of experiencing first-hand. I was a fan of the Ballantyne Series by Wilbur Smith back in the 1980’s, and I lived my African experience vicariously through his books. Now, in a new millennium and thanks to Tony Park, I’ve returned to that continent. And I most certainly am not disappointed in the trip.


I'm kifing an idea from Mr. Park, here, and having a contest to create a caption for the picture in the top right-hand corner of my blog. Just create a caption for the photo and add it as a comment on this posting. The contest runs until October 31st (Hallowe'en) and the winner will be chosen by a very good friend of mine. This friend does NOT know a certain fellow by the name of 'Ali g', so if that lucky gentleman wins again, we'll know he won fair and square! The prize? A custom poem written by Karen Bessey Pease. It can be for you, for a friend or loved one, for a special occasion or just for fun. It can be a Christmas gift, an 'I love you' or an apology. The winner chooses the theme or occasion, and we'll work together to create a poem made especially to suit you. Sound like fun? I hope so. Please tell all your friends to take a stab at it-- the more, the merrier!

And The Winner Is...

Bronson! An entry from Mr. Grahame Kent Dowling of Mudgee, NSW, Australia! We'll have an Aussie Newfie! (Will that mean he's a mutt? A mixed breed? Oh, they are the best kind!)

Thank you to everyone who entered the contest. My favorite name, I have to admit, was 'Bumble', submitted by a young Mr. Reid from Kingfield, Maine. I'd actually already thought of that name, so it was a nice surprise and coincidence when he submitted it. I think I'll send the fellow an autogrpahed copy of Grumble Bluff, just because! (Because they're mine, and I want to!)

To be fair to all the contestants, I wrote each name on a small piece of paper, turned them upside down and scattered them across my desk. I shut my eyes, licked my finger...and chose the name on the scrap that stuck to it. (Sorry, too much information? These details are vital in assuring you that the winner was chosen fairly. I don't part with spit for just any old reason!)

So! Grahame gets a Grumble, and his choice of Bronson will forever live on in a Grumble Bluff sequel. Thanks to all!

And remember...the paperback version will be out soon, and will sell for just $10.95! Tell all your friends.

The picture above is of my Newfoundland, Tender Titans' Giant Jordan, my oldest son Guy, and me, taken in 1992. What a dog. What a boy. What a good dog for a very good boy!