Today’s video tip: Some of you have mentioned an interest in making YouTube videos. As a beginner myself, I thought maybe we could learn together.
Above is my latest video I’ve messed up…anyway the talent is good!
My equipment:
I should mention that I know NOTHING about video, but that doesn’t stop me! I have a camera a little bigger than the size of a deck of cards. I use a little plastic tabletop tripod that is only about 8 inches long and fits in my purse. When I get ready for the MovieMaker on my computer, all heck really breaks loose. We’ll get into that later. Maybe I can save you some stress!
I have no light meter or those fancy lights with the white umbrella attached. Maybe you don’t either.
Today’s tips:
If you’ve got pieces of film all over your computer for a video be sure to make copies and put all of them in a file. I’ve lost a whole day’s work this week because some of my video clips have sound and others don’t! Now, I have no copies to switch to. Augh!
I had to punch out of this yesterday before I was done. If you look at the video, you’ll see I have a big bloom from too much light coming in the window. If I’d downloaded a test clip of film, I would have seen my problem before I used up three hours of my and the musician’s time. Are we having fun yet? Well, actually yes. This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.
Thanks for stopping by,
Janelle
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See the book on Amazon (My WP is cranky this morning. It won’t post the link.)
A few Comanche words from the book.
Eka kuura– baby buffalo
Haa– yes
Kee– no
Maruawe- hello
Meztizo- part Indian, part Mexican
Mia!- go!
Natsa– interjection, meaning “no matter!”
Ohape- yellow watermelon
Peekwi– fish
Tehauno– Texan (not flattering)
Wakarèe- turtle
Wanapuhiwi- paper money
www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
August 14th was National Navajo Code Talkers’ Day but there were other Native American Indians, like the Comanches, who helped in the war effort by befuddling enemy attempts to intercept radio messages. And let’s not forget the First Nations of Canada. We salute you! And thank you from the bottoms of our hearts.
The Comanches, from my home state of Oklahoma, didn’t have a word for tanks in their radio messages, so they used the Comanche word for turtles: wakarèes. Now you know how I love my turtles…any wonder I think it was the perfect word?
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See the book on Amazon
Note. This is some of the background research for my Turtle Trilogy. I’ve had a lot of people interested in turtles!
I mentioned that I had some more information on pet water turtles from my old friend Rosa, a fellow turtle lover, but that it was misplaced. This morning, while I was looking for something entirely different, I came across it. Since a lot of you are turtle lovers, I thought you might be interested.
It all started because I was doing research for the turtles I was writing about in my books. I reached out to Rosa who (at the time, anyway) kept pet turtles. What I learned was far more than I could ever imagine. It’s quite a long email, so I’ll just highlight the main portions of her message:
Unhappy with the food safety of the commercial turtle foods that had been found (at that time) to contain chicken meat that contained salmonella, she began to investigate what kinds of food turtles might eat in the wild. Meanwhile, as a city dweller, she tried feeding her pets hamburger and worms. Along the way, she discovered that they did not like night crawlers (a kind of Northwest worm). She also used lettuce and tomatoes, and occasional cat food. Along the way to improving her turtles’ diets, she discovered from her pets’ veterinarian that cat food is very rich so she switched to dog food.
Turtles, she said can survive on eating very little, so she stopped feeding them daily; she stayed away from food that had preservatives.
She added that she got plant lights because turtles had to be kept above 70 degrees or they stopped digesting their food and could starve to death on a full stomach!
She has now branched out into different kinds of turtles. What I learned from Rosa is that pet turtles take more care than a person might think. Also, the pet turtles I had when I was a kid never had a chance.
As a five-year-old, I knew nothing about the care and feeding of pet turtles. The chapters in my fictional autobiography (A Three-Turtle Summer) are true. All three of my pet turtles died. The deaths of the first two were puzzling, but I dropped the third turtle in a snow bank and it was never found. I’m guessing that turtle did not have a 70 degree environment!
In closing, I must add that I do not believe in keeping pet turtles in captivity. They are marvelous creatures that deserve to be free.
Janelle
www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper My Amazon author page
My book site: Janelle Meraz Hooper
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Amazon and others. PB & Kindle. Suitable for New Adults and up.
My book site: Janelle Meraz Hooper
…Henry arrived at the ramshackle trailer park in the middle of the night, thinking no one would notice he was being dropped off by a limousine. They noticed. The other tenants, all connected by recycled CBs, were awakened by the sound of an expensive engine purring outside the manager’s door. They whispered into their microphones to each other: “Who was he?” “Why was he here?” “What did he want from Rodella?”
The next morning, without introductions, Henry was seen fly-fishing in the lake as if he’d been there all along. When he wasn’t fishing, he was inside his broken-down trailer with the curtains pulled running his corporate office on his laptop computer he kept hidden. He deleted his personal messages like the one from his ex-wife as soon as he read it. After he hit the delete button, he realized she hadn’t asked him where he was, or what he was doing. Not even a meaningless inquiry about his health. He never asked her about her health. The answer was always too boring. She was well. Spectacular. Well into her sixties, she was still statuesque and able to beat most comers in tennis at the country club. He’d heard through the grapevine the guy she was seeing in California was a real hunk, tanned, personable, and athletic. The complete opposite from him. Good for her. He was happy she had what she had with whomever she had it with. Angela had always liked good weather and good men; she was in the perfect spot to find both…
The Slum Resort was an honorable mention in the 2013 Great Northwest Book Festival. It’s a novella about senior poverty told with humor and heart. Kindle, $2.99 USD.
I wrote this book because I was so saddened by senior citizens who were caught up in the economic mess and were suffering even though they had worked hard all their lives. There are a lot of them! humor/suspense. Suitable for ages YA and up.
Janelle
www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper My Amazon author page
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Not published, written for this blog.
My upgraded popcorn bowl
A comment
Janelle Meraz Hooper
https://www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
Years ago, I looked at the interior of my home and decided it was cluttered. What to do? What to do? I’d clean it, and pretty soon, it was cluttered again. I didn’t like it one bit. Because (for too many reasons to list), I couldn’t eliminate the clutter, I decided to take a different approach: I set upon a mission to make the clutter I had more beautiful.
For instance: That metal popcorn bowl on my coffee table that used to drive me crazy was traded up for a beautiful china bowl in a cobalt blue pattern from a local store specializing in Asian housewares. I bought a wicker basket to hold my old newspapers. The firewood was in a cardboard box, so I got a copper bucket from my favorite department store to keep firewood in. Dirty napkins and dish towels now have their own stylish stainless steel trash basket in the corner of my kitchen. All of these items are stylish but inexpensive. And I didn’t upgrade my clutter all at once, so it was painless pocketbook and timewise. Got clutter? Can’t get rid of it? Make it beautiful!
Why am I mentioning this now? Because it’s an ongoing project! Just recently, I ordered a lidded square basket from eBay. It sits by my keyboard. Each day I clear off all the papers on my desk and store them in my new basket. Believe me, it looks a lot better! And it enables me to start each day with a clean desktop!
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Esther WilliamsA comment
Esther Williams passed away today. When I was a kid in the 50s, she was a favorite of mine. Here’s a snip of what I wrote about her in my YA book, As Brown As I Want; The Indianhead Diaries:
…At the beginning of the wildlife refuge, there’s a beautiful pond on the top of a red sandstone hill. It’s my favorite spot. The water is clear and deep and the whole edge is surrounded by huge red, sandstone boulders. It’s the kind of place Esther Williams would like to do the backstroke in with a gardenia behind her ear, except I don’t think she’d like the snakes…
Rest in peace, Esther. You were one of the few real, true Hollywood stars. Janelle
www.janellemerazhooper.com See my books and short stories!
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This excerpt is from my YA book As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries. It was a finalist in the 2004 Oklahoma Book Awards. Suitable for YA and up readers. PB & Kindle.
…We’re not allowed to play in the bomb shelter. Too bad, because it would make a dandy clubhouse. Mr. Thompson fixed it up real nice, with cots and Army blankets. He even put in a radio and a TV down there. It must be the fanciest bomb shelter in Oklahoma. It still has dirt walls and floors, though, so Lurlene’s mom didn’t bother to put up any pictures. I’m not sure if I’d want to be down there during an atomic bomb. Seems like all that noise might scare the scorpions and snakes and they might all head underground, right into that shelter. It’s something to think about, but Carlos and I are okay, anyway, because Mr. Thompson made it clear that when the bomb falls, or a big tornado comes through, only his family will be allowed in there. Everyone who has an underground shelter talks like that. They say it’s survival of the fittest, and some men even say they’ll shoot the first person that tries to get into their shelter when the bomb falls, especially if he’s colored. They don’t say so, but I’m sure they’d shoot us too. Just to be safe, Carlos told me not to ever go over there if I see a bomb coming, ’cause you never know. I asked Gramma where our bomb shelter was, and she said she hadn’t gotten around to digging it yet. I wish she’d get started while she’s got me and Carlos here to help her. She’s got a real big backyard. She could have the biggest bomb shelter in Lawton. We could keep Aunt Lilia’s watermelon pickles down there and also use it for tornadoes, of course. We get lots of tornados here, especially in the spring. My Gramma is pretty smart, I’m sure she can figure out a way to keep out the snakes and scorpions. I’m counting on Mom and Pete to keep out Dad and Frieda. Let ’em dig their own shelter…
Amazon, $2.99 USD, suitable for YA and up.
Awards:
1999 first place fiction, Surrey, Canada
2004 Oklahoma Book Award finalist
Janelle
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A comment
Janelle Meraz Hooper
See my books here!
Historical romances are such a hoot! I love them! Even their vocabulary is different! It’s been way too long since a man’s been besotted with me. Actually, maybe never. Who can tell if besottment (is this a word?) is real? Have there been proven cases of fake besotting? I don’t know for sure but I’m convinced women were never besott in the Old West. Who could be besotted when she was wondering what that stuff on the bottom of his cowboy boots was that he was tracking all over her carpet? Did besottamahn ever happen in France? Beesasotta in Italy? Inquiring minds want to know!
Janelle
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Not published. I wrote this for this blog.
The Wedding Dress
A short story
See my books and short stories!
One of my readers has a wedding shop and I promised her a story about my mother, who was a seamstress…
My mother was an extraordinary seamstress and I based my novel, A Three-Turtle Summer on her and her sisters. Mom designed and sewed everything: cowboy shirts, golf pants, men’s sport coats, wedding dresses, clothes for disabled women, and more. Her sewing skills were ultimately what enabled her to escape a tormented, abused life with my father and start over.
When she retired, she was in her middle seventies. She came up from Oklahoma to Washington State to go with us to pick out my daughter’s wedding gown in a fancy shop in Seattle. It was a joyous occasion; my daughter was young and beautiful and the beaded silk gown she fell in love with circled her body in mounds of floating fabric like an angelic cloud. We were thrilled!
In the next dressing room, things were not so happy. The bride-to-be was no longer young and her body was no longer a size two, if it ever was. Even my mother, who was very hard of hearing, heard the distressed woman’s cries of disappointment. No salesperson came to help that poor woman in what should have been one of the happiest days of her life. She was old and overweight; they were busy catering to younger girls.
Mom tried to mind her own business, but she couldn’t. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she left us and peeked into the room next door to have a look for herself. All of the sudden, the crying and moans of despair stopped. My daughter and I went to see what was going on. Mom had marched into the room with a box of pins. With no introduction, she told the woman there was nothing wrong with her or the dress. It just needed to be properly fitted. Then she set to work pinning and fitting the dress to perfectly fit the woman’s body. As she pinned, she encouraged the woman and gave her hints about undergarments, jewelry, and hair style.
When she finished, the woman looked beautiful in her dress and was all smiles. Before she left, mom assured the future bride she was going to look beautiful on her wedding day, and the man she was marrying was going to love her in her beautiful gown. The women who had come with her were smiling with relief. How surprised they all were when they learned my mother didn’t work there!
Janelle-
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When Roosters Fly
Val Dumond
www.ValDumond.com
Amazon, paperback $14.95 & Kindle $3.99
Here’s a Valentine idea! Looking for a love story about people old enough to be you in a few years? Not as impossible as waiting for a rooster to learn to fly. Check out Val Dumond’s new novella, When Roosters Fly.
A grumpy old pilot, disappointed he didn’t make aviation news back in the 1930s, meets an energetic woman (almost his age) who builds authentic replicas of vintage planes. She stirs hope in the pilot that he can realize his dream — along with a few other emotions. You don’t want to miss the “love scene” in the clouds!
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My Uncle Emmett
I love you, Porgy, don’t ever leave me!
Janelle Meraz Hooper
www.JanelleMerazHooper.com
The only thing that prevented my mom and I from being homeless when I was in the third grade was the house my Uncle Emmett had purchased for my grandmother. I’m sure he never thought that his gift to his mother would result in her throwing open the doors to the whole family. But that’s just what she did. Anyone who needed a place to stay for a few days crashed at my grandmother’s. My mom and I stayed the longest. Nowadays, I read in the newspaper about families living in their cars. My mom didn’t have a car. I don’t know what would have become of us if my grandmother hadn’t let us move in.
I didn’t have much in those days. Mom had been forced to throw away my rock and seashell collections. I had some dolls in a cardboard box at the bottom of my closet. I was up to ninety-nine of them before we had to get rid of them. Most of them were very small, not much bigger than my little finger. But one day, they were gone. I can’t remember ever asking why.
That left me with my clothes that hung in a small closet, a toothbrush in the bathroom, and a stack of library books that I was allowed to keep on the floor in the living room. That was it. And I was glad for it; I can’t remember ever complaining.
Anyway, I didn’t need toys. I lived mostly in my head: I was going to go to Broadway and become a star. I had few talents to achieve my goal; I was a so-so actress and a worse than that dancer (much worse!). When I wasn’t planning my big career, I sat on the floor and read my library books.
My uncle Emmett, who was dean of men and a math teacher at the local college, lived with us. I never saw a lot of him; he was very busy! One day, after school, the door to his bedroom was closed but he wasn’t home. I didn’t think anything about it. I quietly went into the kitchen and grabbed a cold tortilla and settled down on the floor in the living room with my books.
That evening, my Uncle called me into his bedroom—I couldn’t remember ever being invited there before. The first thing I saw was a brand-new, shiny stereo cabinet against the wall. It was one of those that had stereo and radio in a wooden box almost the size of a coffin. That’s why my grandmother had closed his door, to protect the stereo! I stared at it with my mouth open, I’m sure. I had never been so close to something so beautiful!
But wait, there was more! My uncle picked up a stack of albums and handed them to me. I was afraid to touch them but he assured me that I was welcome to come into his room when he was gone and listen to his records whenever I wanted. I looked through the stack of albums in a daze: Porgy & Bess, South Pacific, Annie Get Your Gun, Flower Drum Song, The King and I!
I took very good care of that stereo and the albums. I always sat on the floor—never on my uncle’s furniture—and never, ever took food into his room. Not even a peeled carrot. If anyone would have asked me where heaven was, I wouldn’t have hesitated before pointing toward my uncle’s room.
I’ll never forget what he did for me. “Got no mansion, got no yacht. Still I’m happy for what I’ve got. I got the sun in the morning and the moon at night…” (from Annie Get Your Gun)
Thanks, Uncle Emmett.
Janelle
There’s a Mouse in the House!
Amazon-Kindle, Worldreader
Janelle M. Hooper & Jacob N. Studebaker
There’s a Mouse in the House! on Amazon
OVER 15,000 VIEWS ON YOUTUBE!
Jamaica and Jupiter
Chapter 1. A pretty good life
A few lines…
This is a story about birds. Three birds to be exact: a little green parrot named Jamaica, a yellow cockatiel named KoKoMo, and a big black crow named Jupiter. Little Jamaica and KoKoMo lived in a nice warm home, with lights, a color TV, and lots of music. Their gourmet birdseed came from a nearby pet shop, and they regularly received treats from the kitchen. Jamaica and KoKoMo loved the treats! They especially liked the bites of Brussels sprouts, baked potato and bread. Sometimes, they even got a bite of pizza! In short, life was good. Even the house cat, Okra, was nice to them. Actually, Okra was nice to them partly because he was terrified of the sound that the bird’s wings made when they flew. Flap! Flap! Flap! He couldn’t figure out why it was necessary for them to do that. They didn’t see him flying all over the place, did they? No. He kept all four of his paws on the ground. Like a cat should. And a bird should. At least inside birds.
Available on Kindle. $1.99 USD. Suitable to be read to toddlers ages 2-6.
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The Slum Resort
Kindle only
Janelle Meraz Hooper
A few lines…
After Henry had deleted his ex-wife’s email, it occurred to him she hadn’t even asked him where he was. It was clear she had no interest in him, his whereabouts, or his activities. Not even a polite, meaningless inquiry about his health. He never asked her about her health. The answer was always too boring. She was well. Spectacular. Well into her sixties, she was still statuesque and able to beat most comers in tennis games at the country club. Good for her. He was happy she had what she wanted with whomever she had it with. He’d heard through the grapevine that the guy she was seeing in California was a real hunk, tanned, personable, strong, and athletic. The complete opposite from him. Angela had always liked good weather and good men; she was in the perfect spot to find both…
The Slum Resort is available on Kindle. $2.99 USD
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Hello! My new novella has just been released on Kindle. Give it a look; I think you’ll like it! Janelle
The Slum Resort, a novella
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Back cover…
Maggie, close to retirement, has lost her home and almost everything else because of an alcoholic husband and a reckless son. She lands in Mountain High Resort, the only place she can afford. She quickly dubs the collection of old campers and trailers that nestle next to a pristine lake The Slum Resort. She finds lots of company in others who have also worked hard all of their lives and have lost everything due to a fatal financial misstep at the last minute. Her list of friends is short: Stella, a former librarian; E-Z, who lost everything when he and his fellow employees tried to save their failing airline; Henry, a mysterious tenant who showed up in the middle of the night; and Breaking News, an Indian from a coastal reservation who works with urban Indians and makes jewelry on the side. Until the very end the isolated group thinks their main enemy is Rodella, the cigar-smoking resort manager, who sells stale-dated hamburger at the resort’s store. Little do they know that one of their own is plotting to destroy all of their lives. A novella with humor and heart.
A few lines… After Henry had deleted his ex-wife’s email, it occurred to him she hadn’t even asked him where he was. It was clear she had no interest in him, his whereabouts, or his activities. Not even a polite, meaningless inquiry about his health. He never asked her about her health. The answer was always too boring. She was well. Spectacular. Well into her sixties, she was still statuesque and able to beat most comers in tennis games at the country club. Good for her. He was happy she had what she wanted with whomever she had it with. He’d heard through the grapevine that the guy she was seeing in California was a real hunk, tanned, personable, strong, and athletic. The complete opposite from him. Angela had always liked good weather and good men; she was in the perfect spot to find both…on Kindle and i-Pad, $ 2.99 USD (soon on Nook and Kobo). Honorable mention, The Great Northwest Book Festival.
See my other books and short stories!
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Happy Halloween! This is my favorite Halloween story!
Sanyo and Hatchet
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Sanyo was warned not to make eye contact with the big black jungle crows that roamed the streets of downtown Tokyo… They were not ordinary crows, but huge birds with wingspans of over three feet who flew in large intimidating gangs, tipped over garbage cans, and viciously attacked people they didn’t like who made direct eye contact with them. Hostile and vindictive, the mean-tempered birds were said to never forget a face.
Sanyo, six-years-old, didn’t believe the warnings. They were just birds. From her upstairs bedroom window on the top floor of a deluxe, high-rise condominium, she watched them as they cawed and chased passersby on the busy Tokyo street below. She didn’t think the birds were dangerous, just bad mannered.
One day, Neko, Sanyo’s nanny, put a tray of tea and cookies on Sanyo’s play table and softly closed the door behind her. The young child had dressed herself in her best ceremonial kimono, hoping to have tea with her mother. Sadly, she realized she again would have afternoon tea alone in her bedroom; her mother was still at the office. As she had so many times before, Sanyo lined up all of her beautiful dolls at her tea table and poured tea into tiny china cups. She would have tea with her friends. Her only friends. Neko wouldn’t let her play with the other children in the condominium. It was easier to just keep her in her room.
Uneasy, Sanyo looked up to see one of the crows on her windowsill. Surprised at how large the bird looked close-up, she forgot the warnings from her parents and made direct eye contact with him. The bird stared back. Sanyo thought he must want the cookie, so she opened the window just wide enough to stick it out. The crow rudely yanked the snack out of her hand and swallowed it whole, then forced his way into her room.
Angry and jealous that Sanyo had so many beautiful things, he flew right for her beloved dolls. With a methodical hatefulness, he marched over their laps and plucked the eyes from each one. Each time he moved to a new doll, he looked back at the stunned child who stood paralyzed with fear on the other side of the room. When there were no eyes left to pluck, the crow made a swing past Sanyo’s face and stabbed his hatchet beak toward her eyes. It was a warning: Sanyo had better not ever cross him. He departed through the still open window with a string of caws that ricocheted between the buildings and shot down the street. The other crows answered its call, and soon the sky was black with the crow and its friends. Sanyo ran to her dolls, but there was nothing to be done. The bird’s beak had crushed each eyeball into powder.
The next day, Hatchet, as Sanyo had begun to call him, was back on the windowsill. The small child, alone again, turned her back to him as she served tea to her dolls and nervously ate her cookie. The crow became more and more angry and threatening as he cawed. Sanyo was too terrified to look at the bird. As Hatchet repeatedly stabbed at the glass with his giant bill, she quietly served her sightless dolls another cup of tea.
To make sure the crow never got into the house again, Sanyo got up before the sun rose each day and rushed around the house to make sure all of the windows were shut tight and locked. She was on her own; both of her parents worked, and they were tired when they got home at night. She knew they’d have no patience to listen to her story about Hatchet. Her nanny, who was also the cook, kept to her kitchen most of the time. She had scant interest in Sanyo when she was happy. She’d have even less interest in Sanyo if she had a problem.
Then, one day, Sanyo had to go downstairs for her cookies and tea. Neko halfheartedly apologized for not bringing it up to her, and said she was busy making a special meal for her parents who had been working very hard. The table was so heavily laden with platters full of all kinds of noodles, rice dishes, sushi, intricately cut vegetables, and exotic fruits that Sanyo couldn’t see the countertop.
Too late, she noticed a high window above the cabinets whose curtains blew in the breeze. Neko had opened the window! Sanyo ran for the long crank that was used to shut it, but she was too late. Hatchet flew in with a loud caw and landed on the kitchen counter right on top of the platter of fancy sushi. Neko dropped her knife, screamed, and ran from the kitchen with her arms flailing. She never so much as looked back at Sanyo, who sat frozen in her chair.
As the crow stomped over the elaborate dishes with his grimy, gnarled feet, he never took his eyes off Sanyo’s cookie. Sanyo was so frightened she lost her grip on the treat and it rolled over to the edge of the big double sink and fell in. Caught up in the chase, the crow flew after it, his big black claws slid around on the shiny sink interior as he tried in vain to catch the rolling cookie. Hatchet didn’t stop his pursuit when the cookie spun and slid into the garbage disposal. He barely paused before he stretched out his long neck and went right into the disposal after it. Sanyo saw her chance. With lightning speed, she reached over and flipped on the switch to the appliance. Her eyes widened when she heard one surprised shriek as the blades ground the crow’s beak into a fine powder not unlike her dolls’ eyes. When the giant bird was finally able to withdraw his body and flap headless around the kitchen, he spewed blood, guts, and loose feathers all over Neko’s special dinner.
Sanyo was about to hop down from her chair and run to her room when something in the sink caught her eye. There among the blood and feathers was an egg that Hatchet had carried. She was a mother! Sanyo knew she couldn’t chance another Hatchet. She nudged the egg into the disposal with a wooden spoon and once again, flipped the switch on the wall. Now she would never have to fear another Hatchet. It was over.
Still stunned, she turned her back on the mess and calmly went upstairs; she left her cowardly nanny to clean up the bloody feathers and bones. Halfway up the stairs, the shock began to wear off, and a suddenly confident Sanyo went to her room to pack up her dolls in a cardboard box. Her parents would surely buy her new ones—and get her a new nanny.
When she opened the door to her room she was met with seven pairs of black eyes that stared at her from her windowsill. Eyes filled with pure hate. A cold chill ran down her back as she realized they knew.
Knew about Hatchet.
Knew about the disposal.
Knew about the egg.
By their stares she could tell that they wouldn’t rest until they got even. Sadly, Sanyo realized it was not over after all. That night, she lay sleepless in her bed and shivered with fear as she listened to the crows as they ripped through the shingles on the roof above her room.
Rrrr-ip, rrr-ip, rrr-ip…
not the end
Janelle Meraz Hooper writes in several genres (She is also the playwright of Geronimo, Life on the Reservation).
See her work here:
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Wanda and Iggy on Halloween
A short story suitable for the little ones
Wanda and Iggy
It was just a few days before Halloween and, at the last minute, Wanda’s cat had to go on maternity leave. With the economy the way it was, Wanda counted herself lucky to hire a last minute replacement at the bargain salary of a few hibiscus flowers and all the bugs he could catch. You see, he wasn’t a cat—he was an iguana. Although the price was right, using a lizard in place of a cat did create some problems. For instance, not only was he big and green, but his balance was lousy. He kept falling off whenever she made a sharp turn. At least he looked cool, and she figured that all the other witches would envy her. Off they went. Iggy, the iguana, was delighted at the way the bugs that Wonda flew through stuck to his tongue. Wanda was tickled at the shadow their silhouette cast against the big, orange moon. They were having such a good time they flew a couple of circles around Mt. Rainier holding hands. Well, actually, Wonda was just trying to keep Iggy from falling out on the sharp turns…
Somehow, their photo made the front page of the paper the next day. The headline above it read, “Iguana Hold Your Hand.”
Unfortunately, Iggy got broom sick, and they had to go home early. Proving, once again, that it’s not easy being green—even if you’re an iguana.
Happy Halloween! Janelle
© Art- 2012 Sherri Bails
Here’s an excerpt from my children’s Kindle book of short stories. It’s a fun read!
Jamaica and Jupiter
Janelle M. Hooper & Jacob N. Studebaker
Amazon Kindle- There’s a Mouse in the House!
See my other books and stories!
Chapter 1. A pretty good life
This is a story about birds. Three birds to be exact: a little green parrot named Jamaica, a yellow cockatiel named KoKoMo, and a big black crow named Jupiter. Little Jamaica and KoKoMo lived in a nice warm home, with lights, a color TV, and lots of music. Their gourmet birdseed came from a nearby pet shop, and they regularly received treats from the kitchen. Jamaica and KoKoMo loved the treats! They especially liked the bites of brussels sprouts, baked potato and bread. Sometimes, they even got a bite of pizza! In short, life was good. Even the house cat, Okra, was nice to them. Actually, Okra was nice to them partly because he was terrified of the sound that the bird’s wings made when they flew. Flap! Flap! Flap! He couldn’t figure out why it was necessary for them to do that. They didn’t see him flying all over the place, did they? No. He kept all four of his paws on the ground. Like a cat should. And a bird should. At least inside birds. Okra was surprised to learn that the new bird could talk. Many a good nap had been spoiled by Jamaica calling, “Okra, Okra, I love you, Okra!” The first time he heard Jamaica say that, he almost wet Sally’s carpet. Never before had the cockatiel said anything to Okra, although he had heard her whistle that “shave and a haircut, two bits” tune she’d learned from Sally’s husband…
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www.JanelleMerazHooper.com
Amazon- Kindle. Worldreader favorite.
There’s a Mouse in the House!
Janelle M. Hooper, Jacob N. Studebaker
Illustrations by Sherri Bails
Pull a toddler onto your lap—or tuck it into bed—and share a tale about a house that has a mouse problem (There’s a Mouse in the House!), a gooseberry-gobbling pheasant (George, the Great Green Gooseberry Gobbler), and a cat named Ribbons who gets into trouble with a Christmas tree (Ribbons at Christmas). I’ve broken up the story about Jamaica and Jupiter (Jamaica and Jupiter) into shorter chapter stories so that the friendship between the “outside” bird and the “inside” bird can develop over time. The love of words is one of the greatest gifts we can give our children.
“Once you learn to read, you will be forever free.” Frederick Douglas
See my other books and short stories!
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Photo of me as a child with my new blond hair
The 1st book in my Turtle Trilogy
Amazon-Paperback and Kindle
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My A Three-Turtle Summer novel (really a fictional autobiography) got its title because it was so hot that summer my pet turtles kept dying. Well, the first two died, anyway. The third one hung in there until winter when I dropped it in the snow. This part of the story is real and I can still remember the imprint the little creature made in the moonlit snow. I didn’t dare tell my father that I’d dropped it because I had been told not to take it out of the house—my dad had a terrible temper and I feared him. The above photo was taken that summer. Notice the blond hair. There’s a story behind that too. Aunt Vera (the same one with the kitchen in an earlier blog) colored it in a failed attempt to save my mother from another beating from my father, who was unhappy because I was looking more like her everyday. A Three-Turtle Summer (part one of my Turtle Trilogy) is a grown-up book and it has its tough spots but it also has a lot of humor.
Reviews for A Three-Turtle Summer
A Three-Turtle Summer book trailer
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Cannas and curtains, my Aunt Vera’s kitchen
Not published. Blog only.
Janelle Meraz Hooper
A memory of my Aunt Vera’s kitchen from my A Three-Turtle Summer research file:
One of my most vivid childhood memories is of the kitchen in my Aunt Vera’s home in Oklahoma. It was tiny and had just enough room for a white kitchen table and chairs that sat in front of the windows that overlooked the fish pond. In the mornings, the adults would gather at the table while my aunt made fresh coffee and corn bread muffins with sugar and raisins. It was such a happy place. Laughter flooded out the windows and swirled around the huge willow tree that shaded the fish pond. White curtains blew in the early morning summer breeze and danced with the cannas planted underneath the window. Back and forth, back and forth they gently swayed. I always loved the tall plants with their big leaves—elephant ears we called them—so I was delighted to see them again at Campbell’s Resort in eastern Washington on the way to the swimming pool this summer. Several times I’ve tried to grow them here at home on the west coast of Washington but it’s too moist in my flowerbeds and they have never been very happy. But every year, I try. Next year, I’m planting them in pots and keeping them on my deck! My childhood memories—good and bad—have found their way into my Turtle Trilogy (A Three-Turtle Summer, As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries, and Custer and His Naked Ladies) and many of my short stories. You can read more about them here on this blog (JanelleMerazHooperauthor.com).
If you liked this post, please share! My thanks, Janelle
This photo was sent to me by my son-in-law, Chris
When I began my first novel, A Three-Turtle Summer, I had no conscious idea of the symbolism I was creating by using a turtle. I was unaware of the Native American belief that the turtle was the symbol of wisdom, perseverance, and the power of female energies. Unconsciously, the first novel was the beginning of a turtle theme which has run through all three of the books that I call my Turtle Trilogy*. My affection for these creatures has added joy to my life. * A Three-Turtle Summer, As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries, and Custer and His Naked Ladies.
In my latest novel, a romance titled Boogie, Boots & Cherry Pie, I’ve also got a turtle. This one skateboards!
My readers have sent me turtles of all sizes and colors. I cannot have a live turtle for health reasons but I wouldn’t have one anyway because I believe wild animals should be free.
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Bonnie King took this photo of me recently.
My new romance!
Boogie, Boots, & Cherry Pie
suitable for New Adult and up
(This is a very light, humorous romance)
I hadn’t intended to mention snakes again–let’s face it, it isn’t a pleasant subject for most of us–but it has happened again! A man in New Jersey had two snakes in his backyard recently. One boa was about 15-feet long and the other, a few days later, was 10-feet long! I’m starting to feel guilty about writing a humorous book about a big snake running loose in an apartment building. In the real world, it’s only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. Luckily, it was a man in the backyard in New Jersey and not children! I saw a show on TV about snakes that was really alarming. It said that when a big snake eats a person, it eats everything. Even their clothes and shoes. Leaving not a trace. How awful!
In three of my novels I mention the snakes in Oklahoma. It really is true that snakes would climb the trees around the lakes and sometimes drop off the limbs and land near our boats. Egad! It was enough to make a girl want tuna fish! Unfortunately, my dad had a if-you-don’t-fish-you-don’t-eat policy. So I fished.
You can read more about my humorous romance, Boogie, Boots, and Cherry Pie (Boogie is the snake’s name) on my website: www.JanelleMerazHooper.com/
Have a wonderful weekend! Janelle
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How exciting! My little children’s book is going to Uganda! It’ll most likely be there before it gets on Kindle (It’s in a publisher’s queue at the moment). Look for it on Kindle and iPad…or take a fast trip to Uganda! .99-cents USD. (text by Janelle M. Hooper and Jacob N. Studebaker–illustrations by Sherri Bails)
]]>Although I based my Boogie “character” on a real-life event, I have been surprised at the number of recent snake problems in this country. Too many people have released pet snakes into the wild for many reasons. Sometimes, they couldn’t keep them where they lived. Or they grew too big. Or they became dangerous. Or maybe they got bored with them. Releasing them was easier than killing them.
I have heard people talk as though it’sFlorida’s problem. Large snakes have thrived there–and multiplied. But I’m not so sure we’re immune from the problem. It’s been said that some of the rattlesnakes that travel to the west side of our mountains in bales of hay are thriving–and inbreeding with our harmless snakes. I’ve heard of other creatures that are adapting to climates that were previously thought unsuitable. For instance, sharks are moving further north each year in search of food.
Why are we so sure that these tropical snakes, released into a colder climate, will perish? Why are we not at least checking our ponds to look for signs of these creatures on our west coast? A few years back, our state did a survey of a local pond inWashingtonState and found many species of turtles that had been released by their previous owners. Some of the turtles had inbred, creating whole new species. Although the state was looking for turtles, they also found varities of alligators! What if people are also releasing their unwanted pet snakes into our many ponds? What if they’re adapting to our colder climate? A lot of these snakes can become quite large. And dangerous.
I would like to see it become illegal to sell or have dangerous snakes in this country. Let’s not wait until we have a problem like Florida’s.
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Boogie is a book snake!
See the book on Amazon!
A light, humorous romance, suitable for New Adult and up.
There are two kinds of snakes. Snakes in books and snakes in real life.
For instance, the python in the news this week that attacked a one-year-old boy while he slept in Illinois was a real snake. Nothing funny about that.
The Internet is full of real-life snakes showing up in people’s homes. Need I say they were not invited? Just to be clear let me say not all of these snakes are invading homes in jungle climates. A lot of these visitors are escaped pets showing up in apartments right here in The United States.
In Boogie, Boots, & Cherry Pie, I based my snake, Boogie, on a real snake I read about in the newspaper many years ago. This huge snake was actually traveling from apartment to apartment via the toilets! A real-life snake! But when I based my snake, Boogie, on him, he became a book snake.
What’s the difference? I guess a book snake—especially one who is dropped into the middle of a romance—isn’t as scary as a real-life snake. Writing a romance against a backdrop of exotic pets like snakes, iguanas, parrots, and turtles may not have been the smartest thing I’ve ever done market-wise. But I’m happy with the result and I think you will be too if you read it. Will I ever write another romance with a big snake? No! There will be no Boogie 2! But it was fun while it lasted!
I have other books on my site if you decide snakes–real or book–are not for you…(:
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“Anybody want to play?”
a short story from Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Every spring the hamburger joints are filled with ball players all dressed up in their new baseball outfits, their pristine new balls, mitts, and hats scattered on the tables among the milk shakes and fries. It always makes me wonder: they have the equipment, but do they have a passion for the game? Is that all baseball is about—pricey equipment?
Times are getting tough, and excess has been on the minds of many Americans lately. I think that the sport of baseball is a good example. Fancy stadiums. Fancy uniforms. And those players’ contracts…well, let’s not even go there.
Maybe the fancy trappings aren’t necessary. Once, I saw a perfect pick-up baseball game that was low in budget but high in passion. It was back in the sixties, and my husband and I were taking a break from college to visit his favorite aunt and uncle in a little town in Idaho called Clark Fork (population: 125). Uncle Archie was a real mountain man who spent his days hunting, fishing, and trapping. His nights were spent drinking, gambling, and barroom brawling. Aunt Frances raised purebred Manx cats that she shipped all over the world. Her cupboard was full of home-canned delicacies—for the cats. Shelf after shelf was filled with canned kamloop, venison, and elk. Enough for a year. For sixteen cats.
That Saturday afternoon, we were kicking back with Aunt Frances while she watched wrestling when her small porch was filled with the sound of scuffling feet. The screen door creaked. A little hand knocked. When my husband opened the door, a chorus of excited voices of assorted ages all gushed out at the same time. “We’re getting up a game, does anyone here want to play?” Of course we did.
When they left, I said, “We forgot to ask them where we’re playing.”
My husband answered, “There’s only one ballfield in town, honey.”
Going through Uncle Archie’s closets we were able to come up with a mitt and a bat that may have been used most recently for clubbing kamloop before it was dragged onto a boat. Off we went to the ballfield that turned out to be a neglected lot with a rusty chicken wire backstop behind home plate and a cedar railing about eighteen inches high on the street side. The other sides were rimmed in tall, fragrant pines.
My husband pointed to the railing and told me I could sit in the bleachers. Everyone showed up about the same time. This was a logging town, and both teams were wearing plaid flannel shirts and logging boots with their heavy work jeans. Every age group was represented. We only had one ball that I think someone had taken away from their dog, and it was so dirty it kept getting lost in the grass and mud.
The air hung heavy with mist but it didn’t dampen our enthusiasm. We were overcome with joy at the sight of the ball crossing the cedar shingle we were using for home plate. Everyone got a turn at bat, with the older players taking time to encourage the younger ones.
We stayed there playing until we couldn’t see the ball anymore and it was pure joy. I don’t remember who won. What I do remember is the passion we had for the game. Not the fancy uniforms, not the expensive mitts. There were none. It was the game we were there for, and only the game.
So, it’s spring again, and here comes another carload of kids dressed in their shiny new gear. Structured, organized games that are listed on a computerized schedule kept on their mothers’ refrigerator doors. It’s okay. But I keep longing to open my front door and hear a raggy group of loggers asking, “We’re getting up a game—does anybody here want to play?” Of course we do!
*Note: The illustration is not in the book.
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