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.

"Thirty and Two" or, How not to develop a blog post...

I wrote a short story about Morris back in June while Margie was fussing with the final preparations for "In Another Life." Things got a little hectic around here- Margie went to Oregon to babysit two whiny boxers- (allegedly. Baccus, one of the boxers, complained, "She starved us! She never  pet us or took us for a walk."  Judging from their girth and drool, they received the best care). Somewhere along the line United Airlines lost her luggage and then found it. Oh, the joys of traveling.

Then we published the book, Margie spent time at Powell's Bookstore having copies made on their "Espresso Print on Demand" system- I posted about that back in June. We also arranged for hard copies through Amazon.com and we've been working on marketing the book.

Needless to say, the story found itself in limbo.

The other day, I had an idea about a free short story give away with a sample of "In Another Life" inside and I remembered I had the Morris piece. I dug the file out of DellHell and did a little editing. I mentioned to Margie that I had a short story ready to be published.

Margie, in the middle of the annual school clothes debacle with Miranda and Sunshine, tossed three potted plants at me- apparently, formatting for ebooks is time-consuming and similar to removing hemorrhoids with a shovel- eventually, we sat down and produced a workable file.

Thinking I was free and clear, I proceeded to the next logical step- a bottle opener in hand, the beer crisper was officially opened for business- And as quickly shut down. Margie bellowed, "Cover art?"

Crap. Thus, I found myself at the local donut shop, cover artist extraordinaire in tow. I knew what I wanted but Morris likes crullers so I dispensed with the white cream-filled and got a regular donut. Of course you can't just get an empty small coffee cup- they charge you full price as though you're getting a full cup -o- joe.

Donut, coffee for me and empty prop cup in hand, I marched over to the counter, spread out napkins, took a bite out of the donut- the things I do for my art- dumped a couple of drops of coffee on the napkin and ta-daa, instant cover art.

Ten minutes later, twenty adjustments and some harried threats from the artist, we had cover art.

Back at the ranch, I had my hand on the beer crisper. "Uhemmm!" Margie intoned. "Description?"

Crap. Tap tap tap. Damn Windows. Restart computer. E-mail description.

Back at beer crisper. Hover..... Reach into beer crisp...."Uhemmm. Title?"

Crap. Twenty minutes and twelve titles- Morris' Short Story wasn't even allowed to be considered- we had "Thirty and two."

I didn't even go near the beer crisper. I waited. "Ok. It published."

Yea! Beer crisper time! "Uhemmm.... Marketing?"

Crap. And that's how you got to read this blog post!

Get your copy of "Thirty and Two" absolutely free at: bit.ly/O5WTUt