Muse-ings

I've been a little busy and my muse had non-refundable cruise tickets to east Batalanavia. One week turned into two turned into four and I'm staring at a writer's scariest sight- the dreaded white space. I began to worry my muse's ship sank in the hurricane and Rog would be stuck as a new detective- (teaser for my new book). A muse (d) or not, I have to write and I should start now.

I started working for a new department- this one is more medically-oriented, due to the response time for the local volunteer ambulances. My first call was a bit interesting- I had an elderly patient with trouble breathing.

The standard protocol in this instance is O2, followed by vitals and further treatment, as necessary. I had the patient sucking gas in record time, just as my new supervisor whispered, "our medical director likes to get a baseline Pulse Ox. before we administer O2."

A Pulse Ox is a device that fits on the finger (mimicking ET) and determines the O2 percentage in the blood, with 100 being great and 0 being very untalkative. After thanking him for that informative tidbit and inquiring if there were any other jewels he was waiting to spring on me, I said, "so, I take it we have a Pulse Ox?"

The man has no sense of humor. So noted.

It's been that kind of month. With my muse on extended holiday, I muddled through.

I pulled a midnight shift during Hurricane Sandy. I spent hours removing trees from my most rural beat. Soaked, tired and ready for bed, I pulled into my drive- halfway- realizing the road in front of my house looked like the Home Depot electrical department sneezed. Cables littered the road.

I grabbed a roll of yellow caution tape- my neighbors love me- there's nothing like the neighbor with his own caution tape (before they found out I was a cop, apparently, all kinds of comments flew. Then someone found out about my sheepdog nature and my "peculiarities" made sense)- and blocked both ends of the road- I do have a neighbor or two I'd like to see dancing with a power line... but I digress.... I had Margie call the power company- for the first time.

Turns out a huge tree took out the mast from the electric meter to the roof and pulled the wires down. I assessed the damage and headed out to Homerland for parts. Sleep fell by the wayside. A couple of hours later, I was ready for a quick assist from the power company, a quick power-off while I removed the tree- I'm not a fan of "riding the lightning"- I figured it should take fifteen minutes- what was I thinking?

A PPL truck showed up promptly at 0230 hrs. the next morning and cut the power. There are dedicated linemen and trolls out there. I met both types and unfortunately, the dedicated guys were still en route when the troll slithered into my life and left me holding the cut end of my service line... and the cable line... and the telephone line.

Needless to say, the troll was in troll heaven, cutting power cable and telephone lines without concern for those who would come after him. Add one name to the karma list...

Margie made eighteen calls (cried twice, called one secretary a, ah, an, well, something having to do with human reproduction, pig mating and a banjo and begged once) for an electrician for the now- required signoff on the now-necessary permit, (I had the mast repaired and ready to replace when the troll showed but that's another chapter or four) three calls to three clueless PPL reps (our automated system shows you have power) and five days later, we had power restored.

We didn't suffer like so many people in surrounding states but I can truly say I understand what it's like to leave my home to protect the flock, worried about leaving my family behind in the dark. My thoughts go out to my brothers and sisters who also went through this and, in many cases, are still fighting this battle.

The days passed without so much as a postcard from my muse. The bitch (lovingly said).

A friend passed on a week or so back. Teddy was a simple man. Age and illness had taken most of his friends and relatives, so I found myself sitting with the widow, scratching out a eulogy. Karma touched my shoulder because, as I sat comforting the widow, taking some of her burden away, my muse showed up, sun tanned and revitalized, ready to get to work.

I suddenly found myself penning (in a sense-the hum of a computer is never far from my finger tips) a eulogy that even my mother liked- ("they're always so preachy and full of crap"). Mom knows how to be supportive. I spoke of a man who never saved the world or even a woodland creature but was always there for his friends. My muse came through.

I found a poem that was appropriate, entitled "Death is Nothing At All, by Scott-Holland that was read at King Edward VIII's funeral- this is part of the poem:

What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind
Because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner

Of course, as I practiced aloud, Margie, who was making spaghetti sauce with wine (one cup for the sauce, one bottle for the Chef), discovered the humor in yelling "Boo" at the end.

Fortunately, a very hung-over Margie was on her best behavior at the funeral and there were no further interruptions from the gallery.

Not being Catholic, I was just getting into the heart of the exercise routine (up, down, look at the scary singer for the signal to hum a few unintelligible words) when the priest motioned for me to sum up a guy's life in under a thousand words- anyone who knows me is well aware succinctness is not one of my strong points.

The few friends and family assembled understood. I felt from the audience, that rare connection, the sense that the eulogy captured the decedent's character. It was in that moment that I thanked karma and my muse.

And so I write again. The holidays are in full attack mode and the rush is on to buy, buy, buy! Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, I sit with my muse and we write. It's my holiday present to myself.

Just in time for the holidays! The perfect gift for that adrenaline junkie!

In Another Life is my first novel- it's available from Smashwords just about any ebook format! 

And now, in paperback- from Amazon.com!

Thirty and Two finds Morris in a race to save a girl injured in an automobile crash- and he once mentored her. 

My latest short story: Drop A Dime!


Rookie police officer Rog Mackay is getting tips from a very unusual confidential informant- one who seems to know more than he should! 

Robberies, attempted murders, suicides- who is this mysterious citizen who has the info and is ready to drop a dime at just the right time? 

Find out in this new short story, "Drop a Dime!"

Hey! You're makin' that up!

One of the frequent questions most authors get is, "How do you come up with your stories?" For me, writing is an outlet and my stories reflect my experiences. Pat answer, eh? Yeah but it's true.

When most people have a long day, they come home and tell their significant others about the asshat who berated them or the boss who took the credit for their work or the co-worker who... -you get the idea.

When a cop has a really bad day, it usually involves some type of death, destruction and mayhem- a macabre, horrifying extravaganza that seemingly doesn't faze the cop but the human psyche is not wired for the instant stress, sudden adrenaline dumps and the emotional roller coaster of police work.

In short, the job takes its toll. Somewhere, somehow, the stress manifests itself. How it manifests itself depends on the officer.

So, officers come home from the job, often physically and mentally exhausted from the daily grind. Some grab a few long necks, some grab a lot of long necks. Others take their days out on their spouses. As everyone knows, the alcoholism and divorce rate is statistically much higher for police officers.

Still others take more reasonable approaches- weight lifting, running, biking- great, healthy releases that improve the mind and body while clearing the stress hormones from the body.

I have a beer and I get a hangover. I like Margie and she's been working out. I'm not arguing with her. Besides, just mention formatting a book and my beloved mate turns into a monster. I'd hate to see her really pissed. Strike that. I've seen her really pissed. I'm fairly resilient. The other survivors are still in therapy.

I do spin an occasional pedal and I run when chasing some clown but neither give me the release filling white space with words gives me. So, I  write.

I spend hours my cruiser, monitoring traffic, waiting for the next dispatch and thinking about plots. I start with an incident, my overactive imagination takes over and soon, I'm itching for the end of my shift and a blank screen.

An incident from the other night is a great example- There I sat, stopwatch in hand, secluded behind the stop sign on the hill, waiting for the preoccupied speeder. Of course no one can see the Vicky hidden behind that stop sign- damn my cloaking technology- so people fly by me. Go figure.

A box truck lumbered past me, under the speed limit but without tail lights. That's a problem because on the country roads of my jurisdiction, someone doing, say, the average speed for our area, approximately mach five, could come up on the truck and not seeing tail lights, blast into its rear bumper. I'm suspecting the truck driver would feel a bump and complain about the poor roads while the car would be an accordion and the driver... hey, that's why they make paper towels and sponges.

I activated my lights, gave chase and soon had the vehicle stopped in the only safe area in the vicinity- the intersection of a little-used street and the main road. Between the cruiser and the truck, we blocked the intersection. I made contact with the driver and obtained his information. He said the interior lights weren't working either and thought a fuse blew.

The driver was a male in his fifties, as was his passenger. The driver was from out of state. The truck was from a different state and registered to a different person. I was suspicious.

I ran the driver and found he was suspended. Just as I received this tidbit from Comm Center, a pickup truck pulled alongside my vehicle. I clicked off the dome light and my hand slipped to my weapon as I heard a voice say, "Could you move your car so we could get by?"

So, to recap, I've got something going on in the truck that could be just an unpaid citation and a blown fuse or something much worse. I don't know if the two males had weapons, just did a crime and I was in the way of their freedom or if the pickup truck occupant was a friend trying to protect his buddies or accomplices. Cops get killed in situations like this.

I yelled at the driver, "Back up now!"

From the truck I hear, "Back up?" and a woman's voice saying, "you want us to back up? Why the hell should we back up?"

I yelled back, "Then stay there and I'll cite you after I get done with this driver!" The truck suddenly disappeared. I took a deep breath and let go of my weapon.

I got out and talked to the driver. He had an unpaid ticket from his home state, eventually confirmed by Comm Center- hence the suspension. His buddy had a valid license. I sent them on their way with the buddy driving and the vehicle flashers on. They were only a few miles from home and towing the truck would have been a nightmare.

The driver also got a four part mandatory request for a donation to the state treasury in the form of a citation. Driving on a suspended license is not cheap.

It was just another incident, another day in my life. But as an author, the incident sent my imagination into overdrive. What if the driver was hauling drugs? What if the driver was high or drunk? What if the truck was leaking a reddish fluid from the cargo area? What if there was a smell of cat urine- a sign of a meth lab?

Then there's the pickup. What if they were there to protect their fellow terrorists and I just interrupted their plans to set off a truck bomb outside a nightclub later that night? What if the truck driver was the father of the... my mind raced through the scenarios.

Back at home, the story begged to be told. I'm not sure where it will show up, a book or short story, maybe but it illustrates the process:

"I remembered seeing several alerts in the past several months to be on the lookout for suspicious vehicles possibly hauling AN/FO explosives, a mixture of Ammonium Nitrate and diesel fuel. The alerts had the standard "stop and hold" tags and I didn't give it much thought. In my jurisdiction, we consider a DUI a big deal.

In fact, the truck without tail lights didn't immediately set off any alarms in my head as I pulled it over. I thought I'd warn the driver and he'd be on his way. After all, nothing exciting happened in our little town.

I approached the box truck and immediately smelled a strong odor of diesel fuel, mixed with ammonia, my suspicions aroused because the truck was from out of state and had an "unleaded only" sign over the fuel door. I asked the driver for his info like a regular traffic stop. This wasn't going to be a regular stop.

I told the driver, a tense, slightly built, blond male with a crew cut and a pock-marked complexion that I pulled him over for a bad taillight. I explained that if his license was ok, I'd give him a warning and send him on his way. The driver visibly relaxed as I told him to sit tight.

Back at my cruiser, I used my cell to alert Comm Center I had a suspicious vehicle and to send backup. I also told Comm I would call in the license and they should tell me to stand by because the computers were down for a few minutes, just in case the driver had a scanner.

On the radio, I requested the license check on the driver. Comm Center responded as requested. I began to approach the driver to explain the delay as a pickup pulled in alongside my cruiser and fired two shots where I would have been sitting. The driver of the pickup couldn't see the cruiser was empty because his truck, a big F250, sat above the car by at least two feet.

I was trapped between the driver and the pickup!

I pulled my weapon as the truck door opened and I saw the barrel of a shotgun arcing toward me. I dropped to the ground and fired twice as the shotgun exploded, pellets filling the air where I stood a  moment ago. The driver staggered back, hit the truck and slid to the ground.

I rolled under the truck and saw a pair of feet walking around my cruiser. I fired once, striking the calf visible from my vantage point and the gunman from the pickup fell moaning and holding his leg with both hands, a gun lying a foot away.

Seeing no other targets, I grabbed my radio and yelled, "Mike 4, shots fired! Officer needs assistance! Officer needs assistance!"

In seconds, sirens filled the air. The two units already headed to my location for the request for backup surrounded the scene, taking the injured pickup truck driver and his passenger, a woman with a loaded shotgun who was waiting for me to pop out from under the truck, into custody.

The truck driver was dead. The ton of AN/FO explosives in the back was still live. Homeland Security later told me the driver and his associates were planning to take out a Family Clinic in the next state. Apparently, this crew was part of an extremist group who saw the clients of the Family Clinics as "welfare cheats, lowlifes and abortionists" and thought they'd rid the world of some "freeloaders," as they called them,  with a little pyrotechnical assistance.

In the end, ten members of the group were arrested and very likely, twenty or so clients, several nurses and a couple of doctors went on with their lives.

I went home that night, grabbed a beer and made a new floor panel for my Maverick. Twice. The first one was destroyed by a sledge hammer, the sound of a shotgun blast echoing in my head at every blow."

There you have it, the bones of a chapter, based in reality, bathed in fiction, ready to fluff and insert into a book or expand into a story.

Now, it's time for a beer and a little work on the Maverick. Maybe a new floor pan.

       Want more? Get to know Rog and Morris- In Another Life!                      

If you haven't already done so, click on the title for a free copy of Thirty and Two,  and a sample of  In Another Life! 


And after you finish the sample, don't forget to buy a copy of In Another Life!


***Update! Margie's done cursing up a storm! She finished formatting "Drop a Dime!" Cover Goddess Deb delivered yet another stunning cover and my latest short story is up!


Rookie police officer Rog Mackay is getting tips from a very unusual confidential informant- one who seems to know more than he should! 

Robberies, attempted murders, suicides- who is this mysterious citizen who has the info and is ready to drop a dime at just the right time? 

Find out in this new short story, "Drop a Dime,"  just in time for Halloween!

That damn cop's just sitting there watching the construction! Useless waste of time!

The other day, I was the officer everyone sees as they drive through the construction area. I was directed to "make a presence." I asked the Chief, "should I get out and help direct traffic?"

"No," Chief said. "The construction crew has their own flaggers. I'm putting you there because if you're not there, some people ignore the flaggers and we've had several near misses."

I wasn't thrilled. I'm not one to spend the day parked in a cruiser, in all reality trying to look good for the public. And some of my detractors might offer that I am ill-equipped for any job that requires good looks. But when the Chief gets an idea, it's best to go with the flow- even if he tells you to do nothing . Hell, If I ever wanted to be a Chief, this assignment would prove I could do the job. Did I mention the Chief doesn't read blogs?

I pulled up to the construction site, hit the lights and got out of the car. As I closed the door, I saw a construction worker look at me, get that look of terror in his eyes, drop his tools and start running. They're still looking for him. Not even out of the car and I'd made an impression. Today might be fun after all.

I approached the foreman, figuring he'd be pissed at the intrusion. "Morning," I said. "I've been directed to sit over there with my lights on."

"Hey, that's great!" the foreman said.

I must have looked confused and I was. I expected to get the "lazy freakin' cop" look. But the foreman looked happy.

 "These freakin' people think my flaggers are targets. With you here, maybe they won't get run over. Yesterday some asshat nearly clipped Chunky."

The foreman nodded to "Chunky," obviously not named for his svelte figure. Chunky was at least three hundred pounds and he wasn't a tall man. Any car that hit Chucky would remember the collision.

"Well, if you have any problems, give me a yell. I'll be in the car."

The foreman thanked me, shook my hand and went to find out why the guy he called "Lucky Eddie" bolted when I arrived. He seemed to think Eddie was just being proactive, the result of many run-ins (no pun intended) with officers over over the years.

I got into my car, pulled out my latest batch of training materials and tried to get a little work done but the ten year old boy in me was fascinated with watching the crew rebuild the road. The Gradall, dump trucks, vibrating compactor- they even had a backhoe! I was in Matchbox heaven!

I took a glance around the site, just in time to see an older, obviously well cared-for Mercury Marquis, mangle several pylons and end up in a ditch. I headed over, knowing this story would be good.

I took one look at the driver and for a moment, I thought I finally had the privelege of meeting Yoda. Well, maybe not the actual Yoda but possibly a stunt double?

A little old man I'll call Mr. Mort, managed to extract himself from the car and headed for the flagger with a full head of steam. Apparently this Yoda was not one to spout Buddha-like philosophy while maintaining an even temperament.

"You bastard! You lazy bastards are tryna kill me!  I'm gonna put my foot up your...." Mr. Mort was yelling as loud as a pissed off old goat could yell. I got between Mr. Mort and the flagger.

The flagger was caught off guard by the sight of the little old man, hell-bent on using more than the force on him and he looked confused, unsure whether he should be laughing or running for his life, a pissed-off Jedi puppet nipping at his heels.

"Sir, sir, calm down! What's going on?" I asked, noting Mr. Mort had a hospital bracelet on his wrist.

"You saw him! That fat bastard put those cone things in my way so I'd have an accident! Arrest him!" Mr. Mort Screamed.

I nodded to the flagger to go back to the now-knotted traffic. I said, "Sir, come talk to me and we'll figure this out.

I obtained his license and called comm center, asking them to contact the local hospital listed on the bracelet  while running his information.

Turns out Mr. Mort was a guest of the local hospital. He managed to drive himself there a couple of days before and they had admitted him. A call to the hospital confirmed he was a guest suffering from the onset of  dementia, diabetes, heart disease, psoriasis, deafness, partial blindness, incontinence (oh, no, a transport via my cruiser there will not be), chronic halitosis, several unnamed and miscellaneous other maladies, the ever-present anger management issues and the occasional hallucination.

For his safety and that of the general public, the only wheels Mr. Mort should have been piloting was a hospital bed.

An ambulance was dispatched to pick up the recently found, formerly lost patient.

I called for a tow for the car, got Mr. Mort calmed down and kept him from his plans to assassinate the flagger. Mr. Mort still did have a valid license and I would have to deal with that administratively but for now, the hospital swore he'd be staying in a secure geriatric wing. I wanted to ask why he wasn't there in the first place but being the firm believer in discretion that I am (no comments from the peanut gallery), I let it go.

I also called the number for a granddaughter Mr. Mort gave me but it was disconnected. I hoped it was just a wrong number. My experience with the elderly these days is not riddled with supportive family members just waiting to help their family. Unless there's a mess of zeros at the end of a bank account in Grandpa's name- then, Grandpa's every movement, from the cha-cha to the latest find in his depends becomes an adorable and oft spoken-of event.

Traffic soon returned to the normal construction-related confusion.

I was sitting  there watching the progress of the project when the emergency siren went off for an auto accident, outside our jurisdiction. Traffic became a mess as vehicles climbed curbs to get out of the way of the volunteers and their blue lights. (I highly respect volunteers but sometimes their driving is on par with Mr. Mort. With the full agreement and support of the Fire Chief, who has suspended volunteers too for the same reasons, I might add, I've cited responders several times- after they responded to the incidents- for careless driving.)

I saw that only one engine and a single ambulance headed past me toward the wreck.

These days, volunteers are hard to come by. Jobs, the state-mandated firefighter/EMT training, child care, apathy- these factors all conspire to reduce the volunteer pool. As I sat there, a second tone went out to neighboring stations for more manpower and a crew to man a landing zone for a medivac chopper. But within seconds of  the first paramedic unit calling on-scene, the second tone and chopper were cancelled. The wreck was a one-car fatality. Another life lost to a traffic accident. Time was no longer a factor in extracting the driver from the car.

The coroner was contacted and one fire unit remained on-scene until the State Police found their way to the site- budget cuts are really hampering the State Police. It can take an hour or more to get a unit on-scene, depending on the circumstances.

In this case, the decedent wouldn't be complaining but in a domestic, an injured person could conceivably die with a rescue squad staged a block away, waiting for a police response to give scene-safe confirmation. Protocol and standard safety practices forbid EMS from entering a domestic without police clearance. There's a saying in Emergency Services- don't become a victim. No clearance, no access. No police, no clearance.

I watched as the volunteers, heads a little lower at the loss of a patient, straggled back to the station.

Rush hour, or what passed for rush hour in our little corner of the world hit. I got out of the cruiser and stood on the sidewalk by the flagger. Several times, the flagger motioned to cars to stop and they kept coming. I stepped off the sidewalk and the cars suddenly stopped. The flagger blamed the Sun. "I think they're having trouble seeing me," he said.

"No, that's not it," I said. "The car behind him stopped. The driver saw you. The driver just chose to ignore you. You're interfering with their lives. Sheep only care about their agenda when they drive."

"Good point," the flagger said. "I just don't have the authority to make them stop. You do."

"Yeah, it's amazing how an invitation to discuss their driving with a magistrate works better than a stop sign. The fines don't hurt the cause either."

As quickly as "rush hour" began, it was over and the number of cars dwindled. As I opened the cruiser to get back in, my phone buzzed. It was the Chief, asking,  "do you see the smoke?"

I scanned the horizon and saw a plume of smoke. "Yeah, it's coming from the south."

Chief said, "I was headed home and when I came around the corner, all I can see is smoke. Did county get anything?"

"No, it's been quiet."

Just then, the siren went off. The radio squawked, 'Structure fire, county road."

I relayed the info to the Chief. "I better come in and grab a cruiser."

I offered to head up to the fire scene. "They're just about done here," I added.

"No, I'll go up. Your shift is almost over and I'm guessing it was a long day," the Chief said.

I couldn't argue the point. When the Chief gives an out, I take it.

Again, a procession of blue lights, followed by a stream of firetrucks filled the road. More volunteers came this time. A structure fire draws volunteers like a magnet. I'd probably be banned from the local MagicDonut if I asked but I'm betting my friends who volunteer on the big red trucks probably have a cooler with hot dogs and buns behind the seat, just waiting for a working structure fire.

I sat listening to the incident commander organizing the operation over the air. A pumper here, a ladder there and the ambulances staged over here. Fire scenes are like symphonies, everyone has a part and a strong incident commander can paint a mental picture in your head of where everyone should be.

The fire chatter fell as the fire was contained. The Gradall and the dump trucks were headed back to the yard.

I headed back to the station.

This was just another day in the life of a cop. This one was quiet and most importantly, I got to go home to my family, safe and in one piece. That, my friends, is a highly successful day, in my book.

         Liked the post? Here's more of my ramblings! Give 'em a read!                      

If you haven't already done so, click on the title for a free copy of Thirty and Two,  and a sample of  In Another Life! 


And after you finish the sample, don't forget to buy a copy of In Another Life!

Margie's busy formatting again! A new short story is nearly ready! -Rog is getting tips from a very unusual confidential informant! Who is it? "Drop a Dime" is due out soon!

Sheepdog's Meadow: A short story for kids of all ages, about sheep, wolves and sheepdogs!

This week, I thought I'd post a children's story I wrote a few months ago. It's a quick read if you're by yourself and even more fun if you read it to someone!

After you've read the story, please check out the link on the left, titled, "On Sheep, Wolves and Sheepdogs- Lt. Col. Dave Grossman- for the origins of the Sheep, Wolves and Sheepdogs story. On Sheep, Wolves and Sheepdogs  is included in Grossman's book, "On Combat" and is also an excellent read. I highly recommend it!

At the end of the story, there are questions designed to involve young readers in the story and stimulate conversations about sheepdogs.

 Enjoy the story!

Sheepdog's Meadow  

By W.D. James

The sun blanketed the meadow with sunlight. The grass was greening up nicely after a long winter. I lay panting on the grass, watching the sheep graze. Sheep spend their days quietly enjoying the meadow, without a worry in the world, save for the occasional bug in the blades because that’s what sheep do.

My name is Sierra and I’m a sheepdog. I watch over the sheep, confront the wolf when necessary and protect the herd at all times. It’s who I am.

The wolves, they prey on unsuspecting sheep. Wolves are predators. They live to hunt sheep and avoid sheepdogs like me.

Suddenly, a lot of noise came from one group of sheep in the corner of the pasture. I ran that way, barking to my fellow sheepdogs, alerting them to a problem. I got there just in time to see a wolf trying to drag a ewe away from the flock. The wolf saw my brothers and I chasing him. He dropped the yearling and hightailed it into the woods.

I sniffed at the ewe, who appeared scared and was bleeting up a storm. Otherwise she seemed ok.

“They’re getting brazen,” my partner Charlie said, his muzzle pointing toward the direction where the wolf ran, as Tango arrived and started sniffing the air.

“Yeah, it’s been a long winter and they’re hungry.” I said. “We’ll have to be vigilant about watching the far corners of the meadow.”

“Always, brother!” Charlie said, as Mike arrived, wandered over and sniffed at the spot where the ewe was standing when she was attacked.

Mike was an older sheepdog. He never ran at the sound of alarm but when there was trouble, he would get there in the nick of time and usually had something to do with ending the trouble.

“That smells like Victor,” Mike said. “I’ll alert the others and we’ll keep an eye out for him. Victor is vicious, boys. He’s an old wolf. Be very careful with him.”

Mike wandered away and the rest of us went back to our places amongst the herd.

I had just found the perfect spot in the grass when I heard another disturbance. Barking a warning to my partner, I ran down to where two rams were fighting over a ewe. I barked loudly and got between the two males while Charlie nipped at their butts.

We got the rams moved to opposite sides of the meadow and headed back to our spots, Charlie barking at the rams the whole time.

The meadow was quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Charlie, Mike and I were roughhousing in the lower meadow around dusk when I saw a wolf sneaking down from the bluff. I broke away and crept closer. The wolf lunged at a ewe munching on grass by herself. I made my move.

The wolf came up with a mouthful of wool and jumped back at the sight of me running at him in full attack mode. My partners, alerted by the ewe’s bleeting, were right behind me.

The wolf took off with me in pursuit, our claws throwing up clumps of grass as we tore across the meadow. The old wolf was fast.

But not as fast as this sheepdog!

I edged closer and finally was able to reach out with my hand and shove the bad guy forward. The bad guy lost his footing and fell face-down onto the sidewalk. I grabbed his arms, shoving them behind the bad guy's back, up to his neck.

I reached for my cuffs and had him secured before the others arrived.Within seconds I was surrounded by my brothers. They had my back. They were there in case the bad guy put up a fight. That wouldn't be a problem today. The bad guy knew he was going to jail.

I rolled the bad guy onto his butt and the Sgt. said, “Mr. Victor, it’s been a long time.”

Victor said, “Mike you old sheepdog. You know how it is, can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

Charlie took Victor to my car. I called Comm Center, “Sierra one, Comm, one in custody. I need the wagon for transport. One male in custody, at the intersection, Meadow Avenue and Fence Street.”

I picked up the purse Victor dropped and carried it over to Mrs. Peterson. “Are you going to be ok?” I asked.

“Oh, Officer, thank you! I’m bruised but otherwise I’m OK,” Mrs. Peterson said. “You were right there. It’s good to know our officers are watching out for us.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I responded.

The wagon took Victor away to jail and I went back to patrol.

It was a full moon that lit up the meadow as I found my spot in the grass. Joining in with Mike and Charlie, we let out a howwwwllll.

It’s good to be a sheepdog in our meadow.

Questions for discussion:

What kind of dog is Sierra?  What do sheepdogs do?  What happens to Sierra as he captures the wolf?     What happens to the wolf as Sierra catches him?   Is Sierra a sheepdog or a police officer or both?  Would you like to be a sheepdog?

 ©2012 WDJames All rights reserved. 

         If you liked Sheepdog's Meadow, please check out these stories!                       

If you haven't already done so, click on the title for a free copy of Thirty and Two,  and a sample of  In Another Life! 


And after you finish the sample, don't forget to buy a copy of In Another Life!

Coming soon! A new Short Story!

Rog is getting tips from a very unusual confidential informant! Find out more! Coming soon!

Damnit, let's go for a walk.

Anthracite Coal- Harder than bananas.
Very hard to mash. Does not suck.

This week, I thought I'd tell you about the walk Damnit and I took recently. The old homestead is located in coal country. 30,000 lbs of Bananas- Harry Chapin's famous song about a truck that went out of control on one of the hills leading into the city and its cargo of bananas, mashed at the end, not withstanding, the area is best-known for its coal reserves.

Every walk starts somewhere.

Yes, the black rock that drove the steel industry, helped fuel our battles and kept generations warm, left a trail of reminders on my hometown as other fuels took its place. Although there's been a resurgence in Anthracite, the hard coal found almost exclusively here, we'll probably never see the production levels that marked the late 19th and early 20th century, again.

In the end, the mighty Susquehanna river, invited into the mines by the unscrupulous operators of the River Slope Mine on January 22, 1959, just outside Pittston, PA, ended almost all Anthracite mining in the area. The Knox Mine Disaster, the name given to the incident, claimed the lives of 12 miners when stop lines were ignored and the six feet of rock between the miners and the flooding river gave way.

Critter hunting Damnit-style.

Which brings me (follow Tangent Man on his journey through the woods) to our walk and a view of nature reclaiming man's intervention.

The motor platform, today.

I picked the kind of sunny, warm end-of-summer day that you remember all winter long for our wander through the woods that pass for our neighborhood.

Damnit was happy as hell to chase a white tail deer and taunt the squirrels while I remembered my Grandfather telling me about the mines. At one time, a motor about a thousand yards from where our house now sits, pulled mine cars filled with coal and shale to the top of a dirt tipple, where the cars were dumped into trucks and shipped to the breaker for processing. The breakers would separate the coal from the shale, with the coal being graded by size and sold.

Standard culm bank- shale and other coal waste by-products.
Photo via http://www.wpcamr.org/

Shale and any other impurities were unceremoniously dumped into piles that often grew to a hundred feet or more in height. These are the "backyard slag piles" Chapin mentions in the song. I guess "backyard slag piles" somehow sounds more romantic than "backyard shale and debris piles." Chapin seemed to know that.

The tipple/loading area today.

Somewhere in one of the many boxes that hold my life story, I have a picture of my Dad sitting on a mine car in the yard of this operation. Today, the mine entrance has been bulldozed shut, the tipple has collapsed into a dirt pile and the forest is reclaiming its own.

In the debris that was a mine, I found a fossilized fern, its print within a piece of shale. Damnit decided if she couldn't eat it, she wasn't interested and turned to search for critters to chase.

Critters are what is interesting to Damnit, although if she ever caught one, she'd be as confused as the cornered critter and lost as to what she should do.

I'd probably end up with an amused critter in front of me and eighty pounds of terrorized, whining moose dog hiding behind me, trying her best to be invisible, After all, squirrels really are a pound or so of pure, peanut-eating viciousness, just waiting to eat a full-grown lab in one bite.

Along the way, as Damnit found new and unique places to mark our trail, I saw the overburden piled in places, just topsoil removed to facilitate mining but never put back. The years are slowly rounding the jagged edges of the piles, making it harder to identify the mounds for what they are.

Tangled tow cables.

Alongside what remains of the road, I saw the rusting remains of tow cables used to pull the mine cars and I remembered the wooden cars with the iron wheels that used to line the road. They've all either rotted away or are in local museums.

A small mine cave-in, about five feet wide

Soon, I found myself standing at the edge of a cave in that spans, perhaps the length of a footall field. The coal companies were supposed to leave pillars of coal to support the roofs of mines. Supposed to got left behind as the companies looked for fast profits, leaving large areas unsupported and making cave ins a common reality. of the woods. The old hometown is known for caves that happened where people live. Caves that appear suddenly, swallowing houses, cars and people. But never politicians. Consider it professional courtesy, from one hole to another. But as is often the case, I digress.

I remembered a company was filling an old shaft in town a few years back. They had to use a machine to break a concrete cap to access the shaft. The cap and part of the shaft collapsed, taking a man to his death. Years after the last shaft closed, the mines still claim victims.

Once a busy road, now a path.

The roads that led away from the shafts and to the breakers are overgrown and disappearing over time. Trees now fill the spaces where trucks once roamed. A few cement pads, cracked and covered with years of fallen leaves, hold the places once occupied by buildings now long gone.

Damnit chased a rabbit down a path that led to where my grandfather said the mules were held in a concrete pen before being taken into the mines. The concrete is dust now, along with the mules and sadly, most of the miners too. Their time is past, their work done, only bits and pieces remain to remind us of the moments that defined them..

It's been about fifty years since this area was actively mined. In another fifty years, only the smallest traces will be legible to those who know where to look. By then, the area will probably have succumbed to tract housing. Time marches on.

Damnit's paw print.
All we left behind after our walk.

An author in search of some fluff for his blog, walked across a field that once was a bustling mining operation, with his dog at his heels. The dog stepped in the mud and made a footprint. In a couple of million years, under the right conditions, that paw print in the mud will most likely be the only sign anyone spent time in this moment.

I wonder if that print will be seen someday by a sentient being?  In that moment, I wonder, what will that being think of the print? Will it know the print represents the simple pleasure of going for a walk with a pet, a friend, just to see what's going on in the neighborhood?

Damnit was muddy and tired and the mosquitoes had found us. We headed for home, scratching and pulling pickers out of places pickers had no reason being. A lot changed since we took the same walk a few months ago. The temperature is on the way down and winter can't be far away. Every year the roads get harder to find and the forest gets thicker.

In my life, I chose the path less traveled and every year the path is less obvious. I suspect one day, my walk will end before it begins. I can only hope each year for one more fall to reveal the paths summer worked so hard to hide.

Damnit only hopes the deer and rabbits she chases keep running faster than her. She, being a dog and truly smarter than her humans, knows catching your quarry ruins the fun and a walk is never really simply a way to kill time. Time doesn't die. Time continues on.

Damnit left her mark, a simple paw print that marks her passage, her moment in time. Will you leave your own paw print, making your passage or will the mud capture only the leaves you disturb as you drift through the moments of your life?

Let your eyes walk all over my latest creations!

If you haven't already done so, click on the title for a free copy of Thirty and Two,  and a sample of  In Another Life! 


And after you finish the sample, don't forget to buy a copy of In Another Life!

A friend of mine who is currently serving in Afghanistan told me he really enjoyed "In Another Life" and will be downloading "Thirty and Two as soon as he gets to an area that has internet service. We're thinking of you, too Danny! You make us proud! We hope to see you shortly! From one sheepdog to another, you make me proud!

*Unless otherwise noted, photos by Debbi Moran, my cover genius and photographer.

Stop! You can't read this! We're burning it back behind the library!

Next week, September 30-October 6th, is Banned Books Week!

I'm an author. I've done a lot of editing for newspapers, books, copy- I've covered the bases. I've managed a university radio station. I've written political copy. A politician attempted to sue me over truthful written commentary, content that was protected by the First Amendment. I understand censorship.

I've dealt with the issues raised by the Parents Music Resource Center (PMRC) when my DJs wanted to play the "heavy metal" music in the late '80s that would pass for pop now. The PMRC was founded in part because Tipper Gore, wife of Al Gore, Senator and later, Vice President, heard the Prince Song, "Darling Nicki," while with her daughter and was highly offended. Tipper and other patrons of banality formed the group and the battle was on.

Tipper Gore's PMRC Legacy

While those of us in radio at the time understood Wasp's "Animal-Fuck like a beast" (number 9 on the PMRC "Filthy Fifteen) probably shouldn't receive airplay at noon on a Sunday, we laughed at the idea of Cyndi Lauper's "She Bop" (#15 on the list) being banned.

But alas, fear over the FCC swooping in and grabbing our license found me meeting with jocks and discussing playlists. Over and over, I heard "censorship." That was just the beginning.

But I digress.

I've read just about every book on the countless "Banned Book" lists. Just about because every day, someone finds a new book to cluck about. From rape to incest, civil disobedience to drug use, parental abuse and child abuse, to mental illness, race and sex, books are targeted for their content. Lost in all this controversy is the fact that we need to discuss these subjects, both to prevent crimes like rape, incest and child abuse from happening and to make sure those affected by the bad that happens in our communities feel comfortable with coming forward to report the crimes and get the help they desperately need.


Books make us think. I'm becoming a strong believer in the theory that censors don't really care about the subject matter- they just don't want others to think for themselves. Some parents, self-appointed moral guardians and self-appointed religious experts think that if you allow a fourteen year-old to read a book mentioning masturbation, menstration, sex and relationships, it might give them the wrong ideas.

Shocking news- most fourteen year-olds rank schoolwork at about 56 on their personal interest list, with the first four subjects I mentioned taking, well, the first three spots (sex and relationships generally tie for first).

I was 14 when I read
Forever. I remember
wondering why people
wanted to ban it?

So, when you find your kid reading Judy Blume's "Forever," they're not picking up new ideas. But if you discuss "Forever" with your kid, you have a unique chance to get your child to think about their views on relationships, early sex, birth control and the opposite sex. You got it. Time to think, time to help your child define who they are- time for independent thought and we can't have that.

Teenagers face challenges in their lives- drug and alcohol abuse, the breakdown of the family, questions about sex and their sexuality, figuring out who they are and their place in the world. Books help them to understand they are not alone in their quest for their identity.

But our children aren't the only ones allegedly being "protected" by the censors. In February of 1989, the late Ayatollah Rudollah Khomeini, then-spiritual leader of Iran proclaimed a Fatwa, requiring author Salman Rusdie to be executed because his book, Satanic Verses, was "blasphemous" against Islam.

Imagine a story allegedly
so offensive it's author is
under a death sentence for
writing the book.

I remember my dad, a bookmaker (actual books, hard and soft cover, not a bookie- hell, we would have done much better financially if he were one) worked at one of the companies contracted to print "Satanic Verses." Dad got a copy as a keepsake before it was released and a warning from his boss to hide it. He told me about the security caused by the book and the threats made against anyone involved in publishing the book. Satanic Verses was eventually banned in  twelve countries that I'm aware of.

Hitoshi Igarashi, the Japanese translator of Verses, was stabbed to death, while Italian translator Ettore Capriolo and Norwegian Publisher William Nygaard have both been attacked and seriously injured. Rusdie remains a target of the Fatwa death sentence to this day.

"Holden Caulfield is 
only a frozen moment
in time" - JD Salinger

...the lost thoughts.

 Banned books run the gamut, from "The Grapes of Wrath, in 1939, for its use of "vulgar words" to the  haunting "Catcher in the Rye," first attacked in 1960. The reason given in  a 1988 attempt to remove the book from a school library was that the book was "blasphemous and undermines morality." 

And the demands for censorship continue. "The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test" and "Prep" were both in the cross hairs of would-be book banners in the East Penn School District, just outside Allentown, PA, within the last couple of weeks.

Rather than allowing people to read books and form their own opinions, the book banners demand we deny our intelligence and demand our children do the same. Rather than getting together with their kids and discussing the drug use in "Kool Aid" or the sexual issues of "Prep," the banners would rather we sweep these issues under the rug. An unmentionable issue apparently doesn't exist.

I could be wrong. Maybe it's laziness or a fear that talking with our children will encourage them to use drugs and be promiscuous, because certainly, the failure to address these issues in the past has led to a better society that these evil books threaten.

Not Banned...Yet!

I find myself wondering about my own book, "In Another Life." In the book, I write about a character, "Chuck," who is gay. When I wrote the book, I didn't consider having a gay character to be unusual. Margie mentioned "Chuck" the other day, telling me that a gay character could get me banned from some christian bookstores and maybe a couple of school libraries. While I reminded her that the language alone might bring down the "wrath of God' types, I had to admit she was right.

Then she mentioned the chapter involving child abuse, something that never happens in the real world. "The graphic content would have the censors ripping pages out," Margie commented.

I never even considered the abuse of children as something to be censored. Hell, I'd stand on a steet corner banging a drum about it if I could prevent some of the stuff I've seen and heard about. I said as much out loud, in my own low-key way (one soap box for rent, heavily used).

"Yeah, Dad," Miranda jumped in.  I'm only in high school, where everyone is a virgin and no one uses drugs. How could we be permitted to find out child abuse happens? I'm appalled at your lack of helicopter parenting. I may have to call YES on you."

Our daughter the sarcastic smartass activist. Did I mention vegetarian? Margie and I are so proud!

When it comes to controlling the minds of others, there's no threat to the book banners' control like a gay character and a few fucks. After all, blatant free thought can only lead to all of us all becoming homosexuals who curse all day (Margie, in her infinite wisdom, said, "what the fuck's wrong with that?")

The problem apparently is, that could lead to a country of people actually capable of  the greatest freedom of all, thinking for ourselves.

Take a moment this week, read a banned book and celebrate freedom by discussing that book with your family and friends.

* Banner reprinted by permission of the American Library Association

Not Banned....Yet!

If you haven't already done so, click on the title for a free copy of Thirty and Two,  and a sample of  In Another Life! 


And after you finish the sample, don't forget to buy a copy of In Another Life!

I received my first five star review on Amazon.com for "In Another Life" this week. In the midst of life, few things make an author pause like a good review. Suddenly, the world is fresh, new and alive! For that, I simply say to my reader, "thanks!"

Just a moment of your time.

The other night, I worked a little later than normal and as I sat in my cruiser, watching the few cars out that late at night pass my spot, I thought to myself (ok, for those of us who work long hours alone, you know I said this out loud) "this is when the good stuff happens, when you least expect it" and when you "just happen to be there."

Sure enough, minutes later, I was dispatched to a medical call, a woman in labor. On arrival, the paramedic and I found the woman, at full term, with contractions a couple of minutes apart. As the paramedic started a line and got a monitor attached, I took the pertinent history and information from the woman and her mother.

We worked quickly and when the ambulance arrived (it was a volunteer rig, the paramedic comes from the local hospital and meets the bus at the scene- assembling the ambulance crew takes a few minutes), we packaged the woman. Neither of us wanted to deliver a baby that night!

It reminded me of the many times I watched traffic from the same spot and tagged drunk drivers, suspended drivers and other traffic stops that led to possession arrests and cites for suspended licenses, all because they ran the red light and someone was there.

Because I was there.

My jurisdiction is small but there are several places that need watching. I can't be in all the locations at the same time, so I rotate where and when I am in a location, trying to spread my "presence" throughout the community. So the odds that I am working a specific night, at a specific time and location are low.

As I edited the piece, I thought about the short story I released (ok, if you follow the blog, you know the I is a bit relative) a couple of weeks ago. In the story, Morris, Rog's longtime friend and sometimes partner, is off-duty and enjoying a coffee and donut at the local MagicDonut, when he hears a traffic accident. Instinct kicks in and he finds himself trying to save the life of a girl.

In my fictional world, Morris just happens to be there. In my real world, a lot of what I do is because I happen to be there. In that moment. When you're in that moment, you react, you do or it passes you by. But I find myself "In that moment," very frequently.

I realize I picked the busiest intersection in my jurisdiction for my example and I realize there's always going to be someone trying to get away with something (yeah, I've been a cop for a while) but if an officer wasn't there, I wonder what would happen to the drunk or the driver with no brake lights or any of the stops I've made. I'm not patting myself on the back, I'm thinking about how each moment affects the next.

If the cop doesn't arrest the DUI driver, does the driver go on to kill someone? That one moment in time, the arrest of the driver changes everything or does it? If Morris isn't eating a donut at that place and time, does someone else step up to help the girl? Does the moment change?

If the girl lives, her whole life, her every interaction affects the world and every moment thereafter. If she dies, the world changes, to the same scale but in a different way.

How about in your life? What was that moment you stepped in and changed the next moment and every moment after it?

You can read the story, "Thirty and Two," free. The link's below, along with one to "In Another Life." It's a chance to meet Morris, spend a few moments in his life and see how those few moments led to other moments and a lifetime.

The Latin phrase, carpe diem, has been translated as "Seize the day." I prefer "Carpe momentum temporis,"- "Seize the moment in time." (I hope I have that right. Miranda just started Latin and was of no help! "Dad, really?" she said, her voice placing me firmly in my place).

Change the world, one moment at a time. You're in a moment right now. How will what you do in this moment change the next moment and every one after that?

It's your life and your moments. Carpe momentum temporis. Make a difference.

* Banner reprinted by permission of the American Library Association

Book 'em, Morris!

If you haven't already done so, click on the title for a free copy of Thirty and Two,  and a sample of  In Another Life! 


And after you finish the sample, don't forget to buy a copy of In Another Life!

Thanks to one of my reviewers, known only as "Ketchup," who said, "I like the short chapters!" I was thrilled by the positive response until he said, "It's great bathroom reading. Just the right length." Hey, I'll take any positives I can get!

Stumped by a stump, walled and mulched, bushes and a puppy.

A few weeks ago, I posted about my 2012 yard project from hell, AKA, the stump that stumped me. As you may recall (the "I took time out of my hectic schedule" post), I just wanted to remove a stump from the yard. What I got was a saw blade-eating nightmare.

Saw-eating shale encased in stump.

This beast just did not want to give up the ghost. I began to think the Druids were right, Gods in trees, impervious to mere mortals and all that. Did I say "impervious?" Hell, the Russians had less trouble knocking down the flack towers in the Berlin zoo after WWII.

I finally chipped away at the heathen God-protected, rock-filled (yes, rock- as this photos shows) pillar to within a foot of the final elevation. Having burned through a couple of chain saw blades, five more blades for my Sawzall, two axes (handles snapped) a shovel and my pride, I conceded, since the ultimate solution, a '76 Ford Maverick and a chain was simply not going to happen. At least not until Miranda learns to drive. By then I'll likely be institutionalized- a common occurrence amongst fathers of teen-aged girls.

I would adapt and overcome, or move. Both seemed like viable solutions. Margie is still pissed about the not moving part- Saturday Market in Eugene beckons- one simply does not visit Oregon. One becomes one with Oregon and eventually finds one's way back. End of discussion, per Margie.

The Druid-stump remains lie beyond.

But alas, I faced my demon. I built a rock wall to cover my weakness.

Anyone who builds a rock wall and has seen the landscaping show where the host has an obscene grasp of the obvious, knows rocks are heavy. I lugged the hundred-odd chunks from the official "I broke another freakin' blade on the grass cutter on this one" pile behind the house to the armored stump location.

Satisfied with my creation, I needed to fill the area between the wall and the bank. Since I always wanted to dig out under the porch, Margie, with a devilish gleam in her eye, suggested that would clear two projects at once. Margie was still mad about not moving. I should have seen that in her piercing stares and mad giggling..

Go faster, Daddy!

So I commenced digging. In 95 degree weather. During the 2nd hottest summer on record. Did I mention the temperature and humidity competed to reach triple digits? To her defense, Margie brought me iced teas and a smile, or was it a smirk? I had five gallon buckets. Two of 'em and that went nowhere fast. Time to fix the ancient wheelbarrow with the flat tire.

Off to Homer's Home for a wheel. Back home to get the old wheel to match against the ten or so "Universal" wheels for the perfect fit. Back to Homer's. Out to the car with a wheel and ten bushes (Homer has sales, Margie loves sales, WD has debit card. Homer makes sales). Back at the ranch, the wheel fit and progress was made.

Eventually, I moved enough dirt to fill the newly walled area and as a bonus, I had a place to keep my riding mower accessories. I'd also sweat enough that a simple, "Miranda and Sunshine, give Daddy a hug!" sent both girls shrieking in the other direction.

Now I only had to plant the bushes, bulbs and add a little mulch. That would be easy. Except I sold my truck last fall  after the annual inspection revealed the frame from the rear wheels back had more holes than the average political party. Getting mulch would be the problem.

Now, let me say, people have done many things in Ford Mavericks. This being a family-type blog, I'll just say transporting mulch isn't one of the many fun things I've done in the back of one. I'll also add I'll be vacuuming mulch out of the trunk for weeks. Plastic bags rip. That's not on the sales receipt but it's one guarantee everyone stands behind.

Poor Grossy gets car sick!

And let me further mention I prefer horse manure for mulch but I draw the line on crap in the Maverick, Grossy's first car trip excluded, of course.

Finally, I stood beaming, the flowers planted, the mulch in place, the wall, ah, walling. That, of course, is when Margie came out and said, "looks good. Grossy ate Barbie. Sunshine's planning a castration."

The finished wall.

Here's a picture of the finished bed, armored stump successfully hidden. I'm not in the picture. I was at the "Holy crap these fools will pay this much for a cheap, plastic doll" store, buying a new Barbie when it was taken. Luckily Sunshine didn't hear me say, "this costs more than a real Barbie and for this price she would have brought a friend!"

"It was the chipmonk, I swear!"

All this brings me to my arrival home from the Holy Crap emporium and finding Grossy gleefully tunneling to China- in the middle of my new bed. On August 9th I posted about labs making it to their second birthday by luck. I'm thinking without luck, I may not make it to his first birthday.

Grossy was rather contrite. "It was the chipmonk! I was chasing him down this hole and ...."

If I could only teach him to dig out stumps. Maybe if I carve one to look like a Barbie?

Next year, I'm planning a much easier project- something simple. Maybe just a ten lane expressway?

And now, a commercial from our sponsor!

If you haven't already click on the title for your free copy of Thirty and Two,  along with a sample of  In Another Life! 


And after you finish the sample, don't forget to buy a copy of In Another Life!

Hey, when the Zombie Apocalypse comes, you'll want something to read between waves of brain eaters! Life isn't all Zombie killing and roses- sometimes you gotta relax.