We’ll always have Paris!
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Yesterday, Paris, the Queen of Beauty and the cradle of culture, spread her arms wide and welcomed the world. Minutes flew by as she cleverly displayed, one treasure at a time, the many gifts only the magical atmosphere of France could have created. You want art, baby? She showed us her Louvre and the beauty she sheltered from the rest of the (dare I say tawdry?) world. She showed us her creative people like Louis Vuitton who make magic every day and share it with a world desperate for her beauty. Her city, thriving with energy, was alive with people and music.
She mixed it all in with her guest athletes, who came to her, hoping to take a little of her golden glitter back home with them. Gone were the dull, exhausting parades in years past that seemed to go on and on until our eyes blurred. In Paris, the athletes arrived via the River Seine in beautiful boats filled with joyful world citizens. Eager to show the world that they belonged on this beautiful stage that Paris made just for them, they filled the air with their music and laughter. The joyful crowd waved and cheered each boatload with equal enthusiasm.
Thank you, Paris, for this beautiful opening I will remember for the rest of my life. Thanks to you, “We’ll always have Paris,” as Bogart said in Casablanca.
And now, let the games begin. Good luck to all!
I apologize for not being able to credit the photographer for the photo. Maybe it was an internet feed. I did not see a name listed. If the photographer would like to claim this magnificent photograph, I’ll happily correct this error.
There are copies of this Olympic Opening in Paris, 2024. If you missed it, I urge you to watch it. It is truly a work of art. I have fans of film and video following this site, along with writers. I urge you to watch this jewel of creation that will certainly not be equaled in our lifetimes.
Check back, I’m out of time but have more to share with you!
Quote
“How do you want to feel at the end of today? What do you need to do now, so you can feel this way?” James Clear
Books
Movies
Find Me Falling– After a failed comeback album, rock star John Allman escapes to a dreamy Mediterranean island, only to discover that his new cliffside home has an unfortunate notoriety that attracts unwanted visitors and an old flame who IS welcome! Harry Connick Jr., Angie Scott, and other wonderful actors and actresses performing in a beautifully written script. The background music is a huge contributor to the success of the movie. I don’t have any information on Oscar qualification (is it too late?) but this film has Oscars written all over it!
This movie has its genre listed as Romance. Don’t you believe it! It is much more–including the treat of seeing so much of Cypris.
Seemy 
See my books on www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
Read my short stories and book excerpts Here:
http://janellemerazhooper.substack.com
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08-02-24: 22,123 followers
Geronimo and Friends driving a Locomobile at the 101 Ranch in Oklahoma–yes, that is Geronimo driving!
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A short excerpt from the book, Geronimo’s Laptop, Historical Fantasy, humor (Amazon. Paperback/Kindle/Audiobook)
Geronimo is visiting with one of his many visitors…A man raises his hand and asks, “Was that really you in the newspaper picture I saw of you driving a Locomobile on the prairie?”
“Yes, it was. It was a Locomobile Model C. They let me drive it because we were out there alone and there was nothing to hurt us—or the car. I don’t know who it belonged to, but we had a lot of fun. Sitting next to me in the front seat was Edward Le Clair, a Ponca Indian. Did you notice the beautiful, beaded vest he was wearing? I’d never seen anything like it….”
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What’s on my TV:
The Diplomat, Netflix. New episodes coming in August, I hear! I’ve watched this series at least three times. The writing is wonderful the casting is more than any series could ever hope for. Featuring Keri Russell, Rufus Sewell, and too many others for the space I have on this page.
Madame Secretary, Netflix, 2014-20189. Netflix. My second favorite “government” show. Wonderful writing. I highly recommend both of these shows to writers.
What’s on my music list: I love the music right now. It’s emotional, real, and passionate.
Rod Stewart, “It Had to Be You” and, actually, anything by Rod Stewart!
Michael Buble, “Love”
Lewis Capaldi, “Grace”
Henry Moodie, “Drunk Text”
Taylor Swift, ANYTHING she sings!
Miley Cyrus, “Flowers” Is it possible to wear out a piece of music you’re streaming? I’ll let you know!
What’s on my bookshelf:
Crosswind, Karen K. Brees-Love this novel about women spies during World War II! Yes, we had women spies!
Joseph’s Coat, Vastine Bondurant- When is a beautiful romance more than a romance? Vastine weaves a plot that just keeps giving. From romance to paranormal, it’s full of surprises!
The Conjurer, Nick Oliveri-Nick is a wonderful writer and I’m way behind my own writing schedules because of this book.
The Lost Apothecary, Sarah Penner- I just ordered this book on the recommendation from my daughter. The premise of the Apothecary in London in 1791 is…well, I don’t want to spoil it for you! Prepare to be startled!
Atomic Habits, James Clear- If anyone needs guidance on how to best organize their thoughts and time, it’s a writer! Especially if you’re freelance! My college-aged grandson (at the time) was reading this book and I ordered my own copy.
The Last Rose of Shanghai, Weina Dai Rand? (I’m having trouble with their tiny font.) This is the third novel about WWII I’ve purchased this year. This peek at life in Shanghai during the war mesmerized me!
Sherman Alexi, Love all his books. Also, check out his shorter pieces on Substack: (shermanalexi.substack.com)
West with the Night, Beryl Markham- What a story! A plot set in Africa makes it difficult for a reader to put down.
My Favorite Movies:
A Man Called Otto, Tom Hanks- I loved this realistic slice of normal people with normal lives getting by in a well-written plot with down-to-earth characters. Aren’t you tired of movies where everyone has a fancy car and is just hanging around until he can get a bigger one?
Boogie, Boots, & Cherry Pie art by Sherri Bails for my little romance set in Seattle. Doesn’t she do marvelous work?
Quote
Whatever you’re doing today, do it with the confidence of a four-year-old in a Batman tee-shirt. credit unknown, my Pinterest site
See you next month! Feel free to comment! Janelle
Come visit me on Instagram and Twitter (@janellemhooper) and Janellemerazhooper.Substack.com
www.JanelleHooper.com
08-02-24 22,113 followers
Photo by a staff member of the Tacoma Art Musem. He did such a good job!
Hello! I know I promised you a new, updated format for this site and it has been on my mind. Honestly, most of the delay is due to design issues. What I designed on my work board did not look good on the post. And then…my little laptop died with no warning. Today is my first full day back at my computer. AUGH!
Over Christmas, my daughter, Chanel, and I took an afternoon to see the gorgeous art exhibit at the Tacoma Art Museum. She’s holding me back because we were way too close, and we were both afraid that I might fall into that huge painting.
Geronimo’s Laptop:
Geronimo’s Laptop has been on the road the last few weeks. Most recently it has been at selected bookstores in UK and Ireland.
AudioBooks.com The audio version of Geronimo’s Laptop came out recently on AudioBooks.com
Podcasts: I’m hoping to post some of my podcast guest spots soon. They were a lot of fun!
What else is new? In my new sections planned for this site: Of course, every category won’t be addressed on each post. I know how valuable your time is! They include:
What I’m reading.
Interesting people I’m meeting out in social-media land.
My Photography
What’s good on TV
Music
My Short Stories
Reviews I’ve written for other authors’ books:
Top review from the United States
Janelle Meraz Hooper
5.0 out of 5 stars A beautiful book that is truly a work of art.
Reviewed in the United States on January 14, 2024,
Verified Purchase
Shadows of China, Warren Rapelye White
In a strange way, this beautiful book reminds me of my grandmother, who had a large part in raising me. She used to say, “Make the family proud.” With this book, Shadows of China, Warren Rapelye White has beautifully documented his family’s lifelong Missionary experience in China from 1893-1940.
I originally chose this book because it mentioned on the cover that it covered the Japanese invasion of 1937…not realizing until I held the book in my hands it is so much more than that. This book is a gift to those of us who treasure the art of journalism: beautifully written, thoroughly documented with letters, sketches, photography, and news clips from the period, this book is a treasure in its content. Add to this the loving care given its production and design makes this proud book a stand-alone example of a beautiful book that is truly a work of art from cover to cover.
Quote:
“Be so good they can’t ignore you.” Steve Martin
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I forgot to honor National Hispanic Heritage Month!
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Photo: Janelle Meraz Hooper and Elizabeth Lyon
But times have changed. Thanks to technology (grrr!) it isn’t good enough anymore to write the very best book I can and control everything from research to publishing.
That’s where my editor and her new book, Find Your Novel’s Best Title, comes in. I had a lot of fun designing my covers and choosing my own titles of my first books. The only problem was I stunk at it!
If you write, get to know a good editor, like Elizabeth before you even get to crafting a title. And read her new book; you won’t be sorry!
While you’re at it, if you self-publish, get a great book formatter like www.BookNook.Biz/ Let Hitch and her people design your book so that it shines like a book that has had a traditional publisher.
More about BookNook’s amazing formatting later on. But if you want to see BookNook’s work, check out my new novel, Geronimo’s Laptop, Historical Fantasy, Humor–available at Amazon in paperback and on Kindle. From start to finish, it is the best!
Why am I telling you this? Because I have over 21,000 subscribers out there…I know some of you have to be writers!
Check out my new novel, Geronimo’s Laptop, on Amazon and get a closeup view of the sample chapter to see an example of their formatting. From cover design to interior, BookNook rocks!
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Hang in there for me. I’m working on plans for this winter that I think you’ll like!
In the meantime, check out the links below. Don’t miss the Toby Gibben’s podcast. He’s the real star of the podcast he did with me. Thanks Toby. You rock!
Janelle
My newest podcast: The Toby Gibben Shout Out! Radio podcast from Great Britain:
https://youtu.be/IgCLDaG1Hyo?si=1Bxs5jvPYqGPlDXN
New Book Trailer for Geronimo’s Laptop!
Are we having fun yet or what?
Check out the photo in the background. I spent the morning touring a wonderful garden in Tucson when we were there to premiere Geronimo, Life on the Reservation. My new novel, Geronimo’s Laptop, is an extension of that show which was closed down because of Covid. Funny how things work out. He was hired immediately to perform in the Yellowstone tv series. The new season of Yellowstone is coming up. Search for it on your tv channels!
Geronimo’s Laptop is now on Kindle! Paperback! and Audible!
Order yours today!
http://amazon.com/author/janellehooper
Audible books can be ordered in the usual places: Barnes & Noble, Kobo, etc.
New Comment on Amazon!
5.0 out of 5 stars Such a creative novel and perfect for all generations
Reviewed in the United States on August 15, 2023
Verified Purchase
Janelle Meraz has captured the old Medicine Man Geronimo during his later years at Ft. Sill, adjacent to Lawton, OK, where she grew up and where every school kid knew who Geronimo was. Her masterful work of allowing 21st-century electronics to help the old Indian make a case for real freedom for his people to return to their homeland hopefully will allow today’s young readers to better know the Chiricahua warrior.
Thank you, Dan Collier
5.0 out of 5 stars Such a creative novel and perfect for all generations
Reviewed in the United States on August 15, 2023
Verified Purchase
Janelle Meraz has captured the old Medicine Man Geronimo during his later years at Ft. Sill, adjacent to Lawton, OK, where she grew up and where every school kid knew who Geronimo was. Her masterful work of allowing 21st century electronics to help the old Indian make a case for real freedom for his people to return to their homeland hopefully will allow today’s young readers to better know the Chiricahua warrior.
dan collier
5.0 out of 5 stars Such a creative novel and perfect for all generations
Reviewed in the United States on August 15, 2023
Verified Purchase
Janelle Meraz has captured the old Medicine Man Geronimo during his later years at Ft. Sill, adjacent to Lawton, OK, where she grew up and where every school kid knew who Geronimo was. Her masterful work of allowing 21st century electronics to help the old Indian make a case for real freedom for his people to return to their homeland hopefully will allow today’s young readers to better know the Chiricahua warrior.
An excerpt from Geronimo’s Laptop
One of my favorite characters in Geronimo’s Laptop is an old settler named Jo, who tells Geronimo she has sold her farm to the government and is heading West. The bonnet she is wearing in the book is just like the bonnet my grandmother made for me when she told her stories about life on a wagon train with her new husband. I still have it, it’s the same one in the photo! Writers tend to be very archival, you know…
“What do you do during the day, Mr. Geronimo?” asks a woman with weathered skin and her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her faded calico dress in a floral fabric and faded calico bonnet older than her dress makes her look like one of the original settlers. Geronimo has seen these cotton hats before. Designed with a wide brim, they tie under the chin with a fabric tie and unbutton at the back so a woman can lay it flat to dry after it is washed. She is quite a contrast from the women wearing fancy beribboned bonnets with flowers and dead birds decorating the top he usually sees. In her own way, she is a lot more interesting.
Why is she here? Geronimo wonders if he and his warriors ever hurt one of her family members. It is unlikely. Mainly Comanches and Kiowas roamed the area when Indians were free. Even so, he approaches her cautiously, but she remains quiet and polite.
“Do you live around here, ma’am?” Geronimo asks gently.
“Call me Jo. I did. But not anymore. The government just bought my farm kit and caboodle for a pretty penny. I’m catching the next train west to live with my daughter in California.”
“Are you sad to leave, Jo?”
“Hell, no! Two days ago, my well ran dry and my last cow died. This morning, just when I was wondering how I was going to bury poor old Bessie all by myself, there was a knock on the door and a man with a briefcase showed me a check with a lot of zeros on it. I tried to be honest and tell him the well had run dry. He said that was okay. Then, I told him my last cow had just died. He said he was sorry to hear it, but that was okay too. Then, I told him the house is falling apart. He said it didn’t matter because they were going to blow it to smithereens with their cannons anyway. Quicker than a turtle on roller skates, I shoved some clean clothes into my carpet bag, threw in a few photos, and hitched a ride back to town with him.” As Geronimo was walking away, she said, “I do feel real sorry for Bessie though. Poor cow deserved a decent burial. I asked the man if he could help me bury her real quick but he said he hadn’t brought a shovel. I told him I had one but I don’t think he heard me,” she says, feigning puzzlement.
The rest of Geronimo’s visitors grab whatever they can reach to hide their laughter. Men hide their faces behind their hats; women hold their purses in front of their grins. Jo’s sense of humor is so unexpected. Only a strong woman could live such a hard life and keep such a sense of humor. Although Geronimo had never met Jo when the Apaches were fighting the settlers, he remembers other women who must have been just like her. Strong. Resilient. Brave. Determined. Geronimo will never forget her. Or them.
A carriage pulls up. Jo’s ride to the train station has arrived.
Geronimo picks up the thread of his spiel before he met Jo, but his unexpected encounter with a former foe makes it difficult. “If I’m not having my picture taken somewhere or downtown sitting under the big bank clock selling my bows and arrows to tourists, I’m with my cattle. The army promised me no one will take our cattle unless we sell them. That’s a big deal because Naiche and I have helped Apaches to raise a huge herd and they’re worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yeah. I’m not kidding you.” When he hears laughter, he immediately knows his audience is not laughing about his cows. They are laughing about poor Bessie. Stifling a chuckle, Geronimo charges determinedly on, accepting he has lost control of this visit hijacked by a pioneer woman and her dead cow…
Top reviews from the United States on Amazon
Newest-
5.0 out of 5 stars HOOKED FROM PAGE ONE!
Reviewed in the United States on July 3, 2023
GERONIMO’S LAPTOP is a story of survival, strength, loss, heartbreak, and wonder. Humor is woven throughout the story, from its imaginative premise of a mystical laptop to the characters themselves. Janelle Meraz Hooper respects her subject and the circumstances and times that shaped his life. GERONIMO’S LAPTOP is a powerful and engaging history lesson. “In this way, Geronimo tells the story of his people: the pain mixed with humor. The humor mixed with pain. The sadness mixed with both.” (from page 32) VFG
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John W Brees
5.0 out of 5 stars In an Alternate Universe
Reviewed in the United States on June 1, 2023
This was a fascinating story. Part history lesson, part science fiction, part speculative fiction, and entirely spot on. History is written by the victors, and the conquered rarely get a chance to tell their side. In Geronimo’s Laptop, however, author Janelle Meraz Hooper has finally done just that. It’s Geronimo as you’ve never encountered him before – human, pragmatic, philosophical, and determined to set the record straight. There’s humor, but it’s muted with the burden of truth it carries.
Geronimo’s personal liberty might have been reduced to the confines of Fort Sill Indian Reservation in Oklahoma, but his reputation could not be contained. As the American public sought out this living relic of Native America so they could say they had actually seen the infamous Geronimo and actually spoken with him, Geronimo milked their curiosity for all it was worth. And the laptop. Oh, yes. This technological marvel with supernatural programming is the icing on the cake. Essentially, Geronimo is past, present, and future. It’s an intriguing concept.
The bottom line, however, is that the reader finally gets to read the other side of the story, and it’s tough going. It’s an eye-opener for those of us who accepted what we’d been taught as gospel. Is there justice, after all? Perhaps. The lesson here is to question. Always question what you’ve been told. And in the questioning, the truth may finally be told.
Geronimo’s Laptop is history the way it should be taught. It’s got the hook, for sure. It’s also got the facts. Highly recommended.
Read less
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Elizabeth Lyon
5.0 out of 5 stars Gotta love Geronimo’s WeSquawk network
Reviewed in the United States on May 29, 2023
This story made me laugh and cry. Worth reading many times and recommending to others. Geronimo’s Laptop is among the most unique historical humor fantasies on earth! Set in Fort Sill, where the Apaches became POWs, Geronimo receives visitors and answers their questions. He’s well aware of his celebrity and does everything to utilize it to set the record straight, petition for his people’s freedom, and make money to help his tribe. Janelle Meraz Hooper, author of many novels, historical and modern and humorous (and some serious), adds the fantasy element of Geronimo using a laptop, that he, well, “borrowed” from one of the officers who is away from the base. With his setup of WeSquawk network, he can reach out to other “Indians,” dead or alive. Hooper deftly keeps suspense in the air through the mysterious appearances of white feathers, delivered from an unknown man, often to Geronimo’s beloved wife, and trying to locate the missing lieutenant who most understood and helped Geronimo.
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DEL
5.0 out of 5 stars Entertaining, Enlightening and Educational!
Reviewed in the United States on May 30, 2023
Who would’ve thought Geronimo would ever use a laptop to communicate? Entertaining, educational, fantastical and fun. A very inventive way into the life of one of America’s most misunderstood historical figures. Geronimo lives… to send emails!
Buy now on Amazon.com https://www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
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In January, 2021, The Los Angeles Times chose Geronimo, Life on the Reservation as one of its Nineteen Culture Picks. My novel, Geronimo’s Laptop, is a companion piece to this play.
Buy now on Amazon. Paperback. Suitable for most.
photo by CloverPhoto
Rosa’s Rattlesnake Resort
Janelle Meraz Hooper
This is a true story. Not all of my “adventures” with my dad happened in Oklahoma. Some of them were in Texas and other places. This story was supposed to be in As Brown As I Want, The Indianhead Diaries, but I thought three murder attempts in the book were enough to make my point, so I cut it out. As Brown As I Want was a finalist in the 2004 Oklahoma Book Awards.
I was the perfect kid to grow up in Oklahoma. From childhood, I’d entertained myself by watching the bugs, spiders, and other interesting insects in my dad’s backyard. I was never bored.
Dad never noticed the critters in his grass and trees. All he cared about was his chickens, ducks, and rabbits. He kept the chickens in the hen house, everything else he kept in wire cages. Those were for us to eat, so I couldn’t play with them. I hated the chickens, especially the rooster. At seven years old, it was my job to collect the eggs every morning and the rooster would fly at my face with his claws aimed right for my face and screech like some Japanese warrior. The hens were on my bad side too, because, every night, they flew over the wire fence and slept on the branches of our peach trees. Well, I liked peaches, but even I wouldn’t eat a poopy peach.
His backyard sat over an underground water reservoir that we drew our garden water from. He told me that the fish down there didn’t have eyes. Didn’t need them, he said, because it was dark all the time underground. I wanted to fish in that well and try to catch one of them but Dad wouldn’t let me. I think he was a little bit afraid I might catch one and who knows? Maybe they had teeth! Or, maybe, he was afraid I’d fall in and pollute his garden water. I’ll never know.
Luckily, we had relatives in Benavides, Texas. I had a big surprise when we visited my stepmother’s mother there. Her backyard was all sand and cacti! How great was that? That’s where the fun was. The last time we visited there, Sarah’s mother was sick and confined to bed. Dad and Sarah were having a big argument about what to do with her, so they threw me out in the backyard to play. I didn’t mind a bit that it was really hot outside because it was hotter inside. My dad was yelling a lot and the little one-room house’s walls were shaking from his anger.
At first, I thought there was nothing to do out there because there wasn’t even a place to sit. No chairs or nothing and the sand was almost hot enough to burn my feet through my sandals. The whole backyard was fence-to-fence cacti. Big ones. To pass the time, I picked up some small rocks and tossed them into the cacti that were so crowded I couldn’t see in between the plants.
From the first rock I threw, I thought I was the luckiest girl I knew. Every time I threw a rock, I’d hear the rattle of rattlesnakes. It was like they had their own little resort in that backyard. I picked up handfuls of small rocks and moved all around the edge of the yard and every time I tossed one of them into the cactus, I heard rattles! I wanted to see one so bad and I figured that if I made them mad enough, eventually one of them would come out.
But no luck. After a while, I turned my attention to the house, which was propped up on cinder blocks. All kinds of garbage were stuffed under there that they didn’t want anymore. Things like rusty barbed wire, old buckets with holes in them, and old wooden fence posts that were too rotten to use.
And then I found a real treasure: there among all of that junk was a perfect skeleton of a frog. All bones, and no skin at all. He was sitting on the sand like nothing was wrong—he was just enjoying the landscape. I figured maybe one of those snakes bit him and he died on the spot. I was just getting ready to find something to put him in so I could take him home when the yelling and crying inside the house got worse. It sounded like Dad was on one side of the hospital bed and Sarah was on the other. In the middle was Sarah’s mother, Rosa.
Dad was yelling that no way he was going to take that old Mexican home to live with them. “She don’t even speak English,” he scoffed. Sarah was yelling that she was her mother and she wanted to take her home to live with them…forever!
I decided I’d better get away from there quick and come back to pick up the frog before we left. I wandered around and found a little grocery store down the street where the man who owned it didn’t speak English but I didn’t even have enough money to buy a pop to drink so it didn’t matter. I hadn’t eaten all day but it was too hot to eat anyway. What I really wanted was one of those tall, frosted glass candles with a picture of the Virgin Mary on the front. I thought it would look nice in the rattlesnake resort. One was lit up and it looked real pretty. The grocer had boxes of them. Maybe his customers lost their power a lot?
After a while, I decided I’d better get back before they missed me and I’d be in as much trouble as Sarah’s mom. I was just in time. They had just started to look for me. I guess the argument was settled. Sarah was crying and Dad was opening the car doors to let some cool air into the car. It was obvious Rosa was not going back to Oklahoma with us. He was still mad as heck even though he’d won the argument.
I knew better than to keep Dad waiting. I dove into the backseat so fast I forgot my frog skeleton. I didn’t remember it until we were out of town. I didn’t dare ask Dad to take me back so I could get it. I told myself that maybe it would still be there if we ever went back. ‘Course we never did. I guess Dad had worn out his welcome there for good.
After we got back to Lawton, I never heard another word about Sarah’s mother. Not a word. It was just like Benavides, Texas—and Rosa—never existed.
The end
Please share this post. My thanks, Janelle
Photo: At the beach, no makeup, no hair dryer, no sunscreen.
HEAVEN!
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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 that 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 girl had dressed herself in her best ceremonial kimono, hoping to have tea with her mother. Sadly, she realized she’d again 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.
The child was uneasy and 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.
Sanyo called out for Neko, but her calls were unanswered. Angry and jealous that Sanyo had so many beautiful things, he flew right for her beloved dolls. With 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 his 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 youngster, 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 with fear 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! 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 terror as she listened to the crows as they ripped through the shingles on the roof above her room. Rrrr-ip, rrr-rip, rrr-ip…not the end
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
Please share this story.
My thanks, Janelle
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My first Halloween costume, 1948
Boot Scootin’ Weekend
Janelle Meraz Hooper
This is a companion piece to my novel: A One-way Cruise to Africa, Terror on the Internet…
Weekends off for the three cowboys were rare. This time, as usual, they headed for a nearby Idaho town that had everything necessary for two days off from herding cattle: an affordable motel for resting with an attached restaurant, and a nearby tavern that has western music and boot scootin’ line dancing with plenty of cold beer.
The next morning, the three cowboys strolled into the restaurant and waved to Louise, their waitress. “Hey. Louise,” Tom said to the waitress that he’s known for years. “You goin’ boot-scootin’ tonight?”
Louise laughed, “No, I’m afraid all of my boot-scootin’ friends are on Boot Hill.”
The men, after a night of line dancing and flirting with the pretty girls at the Western Tavern down the street, order eggs and elk sausage the restaurant is known for. As they wash it down with their long-necked bottles of beer they shake their heads. Through the large plate glass window, they watch Drake’s beautiful sister out in the parking lot flirting with some cowboy she’s never seen before.
“What am I going to do with Tina?” Drake worries. “She’s just eighteen—too young to be acting like that. Dad would have a fit if he were here.”
“Maybe, we should leave her home next time,” Don says, “We like her, Drake, but weekends with her are turning into full-time babysitting jobs.”
“I’d like to, but she’d raise such a fuss that we’d end up having to tell dad about her flirting, then she’d never forgive me.”
Roger looked at her cooling breakfast, “Well, her eggs are getting cold. I’m going to eat them, and she can order more when she comes in.”
“Where are they going?” Drake says as he scoots back his chair and heads for the parking lot. He is alarmed, at how fast the stranger has talked his sister into following him toward his car. The other two men jump up and follow the distraught brother.
Charging across the parking lot, Drake shouts, “Tina! Your eggs are getting cold.” Reaching the young woman in time to grab her arm, he says, “What are you doing?”
“We’re just talking,” the young woman says as she turns to her brother. “Go back and eat your breakfast. Clint has new puppies in his car. I want to see them.”
“Oh, yeah? We’ll both look. What kind are they?” he asks the stranger who is starting to panic. By now, the other two men who had been eating breakfast with Drake walk up, dangling their beer bottles loosely from their hands. “What’s up?” Roger asks.
“Uh, I’m late, I have to go,” the man says as he turns to rush toward his car. He panics when he looks over his shoulder and sees three angry men following him.
“Oh, no! You can’t go until we see the puppies. What kind did you say they were?” Drake asks.
“Snickerdoodles,” Tina says. I’ll bet they’re cute.”
By now, the stranger in the parking lot is beginning to sweat. The men look through the car windows and see nothing but empty fast-food wrappers in the backseat. “So, where are they? In the trunk?”
“I completely forgot. I left them at home today,” he say as he races to the driver’s side of his car.
“Not so fast. I think you owe this little, underaged girl an explanation,” Tina’s brother says.
“I’m, sorry, I thought you were a lot older…” the man stammers.
Reality is finally dawning on the young woman, and she says nothing as the three men take turns tossing him against his car a few times before he tears himself away, dives for the front seat of his car, and races off.
Drake is much too shaken to scold his sister. All he can say is, “Tina, your breakfast is getting cold. We’ll talk about this later.”
Embarrassed and ashamed, Tina hugs each man but before she can thank them, the tears and sobs catch up with her. Inside the restaurant, a waitress brings Tina a cup of coffee and murmurs, “Let me know when you’re ready to eat,” then hastily retreats before the fireworks start.
As she is walking away. Drake calls her back to order three more beers and breakfast to go for Tina. Then he looks at his friends, and motions that they need to go back to their rooms. Terror surfaces on his expression now that the danger is over.
As soon as the beers and Tina’s breakfast arrive, the three cowboys quickly throw some bills on the table, grab the bottles, and head for their rooms, pushing Drake’s sister in front of them.
“I thought he was just a cowboy like you guys,” she says softly.
“Just because a man is wearing a big belt buckle, doesn’t mean he’s a cowboy, Tina,” Drake says, his voice shaking. “Didn’t you at least notice his boots? They were construction boots!”
Just then, a sheriff’s car pulls up to the restaurant door.
“I completely forgot!” the waitress apologizes as she runs over to the group, I called 911 when I saw that man put his arm on your sister. I guess it was just a mom’s reaction.”
“That was a good idea, thanks, Louise,” Drake says.
The sheriff comes in the door of the empty restaurant and heads straight for the sobbing young woman.
He introduces himself and asks what happened. All of the questions were routine with routine answers until the sheriff asks Tina if she’s ever seen the man before.
“A couple of times,” she admits. The three cowboys at the table choke on their beer.
“Where? When?” Drake demands to know.
“Well,” Tina says, the first time was at the Boot-Scootin’ Tavern when we were dancing last night. He was watching me. He asked me to go outside with him so he could get a smoke, but I was having too much fun dancing to leave. The second time was this morning.” Surprised, she says, “He was hanging around my door. I didn’t think anything about it, and I knew you guys were waiting for me, so I was in a hurry.”
“What happened then?” the sheriff asks.
“He followed me and then started telling me about his cute little snickerdoodle puppies that he had in his car…” she looked at her brother with shock, “Drake, I don’t know how he did it, but before I knew it, he had me outside and we were headed for his car. I don’t even know when he grabbed my arm. It all happened so fast, and I was just so interested in seeing the puppies.”
The sheriff’s CB pings, and he motions for everyone to be quiet.
Embarrassed, Tina whispers to her brother, “What’s the big deal? Men flirt with women all the time. No one ever calls 911!”
“Folks, I’m sorry but I have to ask you all to come down to the station and fill out a formal report. My deputy picked up that guy racing out of town. When he pulled him over, he brought up his license plate and discovered they were looking for him in two other states. The reports gave him a legal right to search the car. Inside the trunk, they found duct tape, rope, and handcuffs. He also found some rags that look like they might have blood on them.”
As she buries her face in her brother’s shoulder Tina looks at Drake and begs, “When this is over, can we go home? She looks at the other two men and pleads, “Do you mind?”
Roger looks at Tina and says, “Tina, we can be saddled up and ready to boot-scoot out of here before you can pack your make-up.” Tom nods his agreement, “The sooner this weekend is over, the better.”
Note: Sex trafficking is up all over the nation. From cities to reservations, young women are disappearing. Teach your young adults to be aware of who and what’s around them wherever they are.
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Due to an editing error on my Kindle re-submission, I have wiped out my reviews for this Kindle book. It’s a good read, I promise! If you read the book and like it, please write a few lines on my Amazon book page under comments. It just takes a few minutes and it will help me build my readership. Thanks so much!
Another snippet of one of the characters who is in my newest novel, A One-way Cruise to Africa, Terror on the Internet.
This is an unusual novel subject for me, but the incidences of human trafficking are escalating in this country. Kindle/sex-trafficking/ humor/ romance/ FBI/Seattle/Tombstone, Az
What is the same about this novel is my light hand at approaching this difficult subject. Much like my novel, The Slum Resort which is about impoverished senior citizens, my One-way Cruise to Africa, Terror on the Internet novel addresses the subject with humor and taste. NO explicit sex or drug scenes are in my “Cruise” novel! Buy on Amazon Kindle.
Meatloaf photo credit: Microsoft
Signing programs after our Geronimo, Life on the Reservation
at the Wyatt McCrea Ranch.
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https://www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
Thank you, Conley Snapper McAnally, for this review I received in an email:
REVIEW: Janelle Hooper opens up a dark door to a reality that we in a “safe America” dismiss. To say that her insight about human trafficking was “ripped from the headlines “would be an understatement. The protagonists come alive on the pages and her characterization of the villains makes one want to look over their shoulder when traveling alone. Another triumph for Ms. Hooper. Conley Snapper McAnally
“Trust your instincts, then follow them…”
Available on Amazon Kindle
A little bit about Jean, Miku’s “associate” in the United States who finds women for him…
https://youtu.be/3R6E0-ddqZQ
THANK YOU! SANTA MONICA PLAYHOUSE, YOUTUBE, AND RUDY RAMOS for making this video of the show I wrote for Rudy Ramos and Steve Railsback directed. It’s about Geronimo’s life as a POW, and is suitable for all (no sex or violence). Enjoy!
ALL THEY ASK IS THAT YOU DO NOT COPY THIS SHOW TO MAKE MONEY. THAT’S NOT TOO MUCH TO ASK, IS IT? ( Rudy says if you do, he will find you, ha!)
The show, which ran for 6 years, closed due to Covid and Rudy’s participation in the tv show Yellowstone.
I have a novel in progress about Geronimo’s life on the reservation (So far, it is untitled.) I’ll let you know when it’s done! Geronimo’s Laptop is out in paperback on Amazon now. Get your copy today!
Janelle signing programs for a member of the audience at a production of Geronimo, Life on the Reservation at the Joel McCrea Ranch. What a great audience!
Rudy at a performance of the Geronimo show.
1. A Sister in Trouble
Fort Sill, Oklahoma, July 1949
It was too hot to play cards, especially if someone was keeping score, and Vera was.
“Ay, carumba! You can’t stand to go two hours without beating someone at something can you?” Grace Tyler playfully pouted.
Vera ignored her little sister, and began shuffling cards as she gleefully announced, “Senoras, the game is canasta, and we’re going to play according to Hoyle.” She began to deal the cards like a Las Vegas gambler while Pauline laughed and pointed at her mother, a notorious and frequent card cheater.
Everyone was hot, but in her long-sleeved shirt and long skirt, Grace was sweltering. Sweat beaded up on her forehead and neck and she kept stretching her legs out because the backs of her knees stuck to her skirt.
“Gracie, for God’s sake, go put some shorts on,” Vera said.
Grace ignored her sister, pulled her shirt away from her perspiring chest, and asked, “Anyone want more iced tea before Vera whips the pants off of us?”
Momma and Pauline both nodded and Grace poured tea over fresh ice cubes while Vera got a tablet and pencil out of her purse.
The room was almost silent as each woman arranged her hand. Only Momma barely tapped her foot and softly sang a song from her childhood under her breath:
“The fair senorita with the rose in her hair …
worked in the cantina but she didn’t care …
played cards with the men and took all their loot … awh-ha!
went to the store and bought brand new boots … ”
“Awh-Haaa!” Grace’s five-year-old daughter Glory joined in.
Unconsciously, the other two women started to hum along while they looked at their hand. About the second “Awh-Haaa!” Vera abruptly stopped humming and looked at her sisters with a raised eyebrow. Something was fishy; Momma was much too happy. Barely containing their amusement, they watched as she cheerfully arranged her cards.
Finally, unable to suppress her laughter any longer, Vera jumped up, snatched the cards out of her mother’s hands, and fanned them face-up across the table.
“Ay, ay, ay!” She cried out, “Momma, tell me how can you have a meld and eleven cards in your hand when we’ve just gotten started?”
The fun escalated as Vera rushed around the table and ran her hands all around her mother and the chair she sat on to feel for extra cards.
“Stand up!” Grace and her sisters said as they pulled their mother to her feet. They shook her blue calico dress and screamed with laughter as extra cards fell from every fold.
“Glory,” Vera told her young niece, “crawl under the table and get those cards for your Auntie Vera, okay?” Grace moved her feet to the side so that Glory could scramble under the table. Her childish giggles danced around the women’s feet as she scrambled for the extra cards that dropped from her grandmother’s dress.
“Momma,” Vera laughed, “you’re a born cheater. How did you know we were going to play cards today?” she asked.
“I’m not the only one in this family who’s been caught with a few too many cards,” Momma said in her defense.
“Yes, but you’re the family matriarch. We expect better of you than we do our good-for-nothing brothers,” Pauline said.
“Huh! Matriarch, my foot. You girls never listen to a word I say,” Momma grumbled.
“Maybe that’s because we can’t trust you,” Vera said.
As another card dropped from Gregoria’s dress and slid across the floor, Vera added, “We’ll strip you down to your rosary before we ever play cards with you again, Momma.”
“Yeah,” Pauline, chimed in, “the next time you’ll play in nothing but your lace step-ins and a bra made from two tortillas.”
“Well, at least I’ll be the coolest one at the table,” Momma chirped.
Vera reached across the table to gather all the cards and reshuffle them. “We’re going to start all over, and we’ll watch you every minute.”
Grace felt a sharp pain in her stomach when she looked up and saw her husband’s scowling face through the screen door. Why was he home so early? She didn’t have to look at him again to know his normally handsome blond features smoldered with disgust…
See my books and stories here: https://www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
Please share this post! My thanks, Janelle
Visiting my mother in Lawton, Oklahoma
A long time ago! A Three-Turtle Summer,
fictional autobiography,
was written about our life with my father.
Pulled Pork and Box Cake
Janelle Meraz Hooper
For all the wives who hate football…
Shelly’s feet hit the floor at six every Sunday morning during football season. She had a lot to do because her husband’s friends always invaded their living room to watch the big game on their new, huge tv screen.
How she hated that tv. Even when a football game wasn’t on, all she saw when she looked at it was her canceled trip to Italy that she’d saved years for. Roy hadn’t even asked her before spending her vacation money. One day he just went to the big box store to pick up some batteries for the remote control and came home carrying a box big enough to hold an inflatable boat. How dumb was she? She should have known something was up when he went to the warehouse store to buy batteries instead of the drugstore on the corner.
Then, Seattle got hit with a rainstorm so severe that the game had to be canceled. Shelly fussed and fumed while she put the pork roast in the oven for the pulled pork, iced the beer, and mixed up a box cake. You see, even though the game had been canceled, the men were coming over to watch reruns of past games.
The night before a game, during dinner, he’d always ask her about the menu. His questions were always the same:
Do you think that the pork roast is big enough?
You only bought one cake mix? What if someone doesn’t like chocolate?
Did you get everyone’s favorite beer?
Did you get plenty of lemons and limes in case someone wants something harder?
What about tonic water?
The subject turned to the costumes and painted faces that showed up at every game on tv. Showing her disgust, she said, “if you ever want a divorce, don’t tell me, just paint your face in your team’s colors and wear a plastic watermelon hat on your head.” Roy was quiet but Shelly was so annoyed she didn’t notice.
The next day, after the football show was over and his friends were gone, Roy disappeared into his den. Shelly got a big plastic trash bag and began picking up the mess the men had left. A few minutes later, a loud yell came out of the den. Startled, she looked up just in time to see Roy come through the door in the full gameday getup of his favorite team: painted face, a game tee-shirt so short it showed his painted belly button and a watermelon hat.
The funny thing was, when he said he was leaving her, the only question that came to her mind to ask was: “Where did you get a plastic watermelon hat during the height of football season?” She’d read that all the teams had been sold out of souvenir hats for weeks.
For a divorce “present” Shelly gave Roy the big screen tv. She didn’t want it anyway.
A few days after that, she got a thank-you card from Roy. Inside was a check large enough to cover a trip to Italy and a note saying it was from the Pulled Pork and Box Cake Gang.
Maybe they weren’t such bad guys after all…
If you like this story, please share! My thanks, Janelle
The author before a performance of Geronimo, Life on the Reservation at the
Joel Mc Crea Ranch
Dear friends, if you’ve read any of my books or short stories on Amazon, please drop a few lines on the book’s Amazon page. It helps me and just takes a few minutes.
https://www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
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(link above)
My Mom’s Date With Rod Stewart
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Years ago, I was visiting my mother in Oklahoma. It was too hot to sleep and we were up late flipping through the TV channels looking for something to watch. One of the shows caught my mother’s eyes instantly.
“Who is that?” (My mom didn’t watch much TV.)
I said, “Just some guy called Rod Stewart. You won’t like him.”
“No, stop!” she said as she grabbed my wrist. Instantly, Mom was hooked. The kid with the bleached, spikey hair didn’t put her off a bit. Mom was almost totally deaf in both ears but she often didn’t bother to turn her hearing aids on. That night, she turned both of them on and put her hand on the top of the TV cabinet so she would feel the music vibrating.
Rod must have sung every song he’d ever recorded and I couldn’t believe Mom’s reaction. We stayed up and watched the entire show. My mom, a Rod Stewart fan! She must have been in her early seventies.
Do you think you know your parents? Think again. I learned something about my mom that night…late on a hot summer’s night, with the crickets singing outside the screen door–and Rod Stewart singing inside…
If you like this story, please share! My Thanks, Janelle
New!
&
A One-way cruise to Africa is a cautionary tale of sex trafficking on the internet, written with a light touch, suitable for New Adults (19-29 & up). It has no explicit sex. Suspense/Romance. Buy on Amazon Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
_________________________________________________________________
Jean, Maku’s delusionary procurer in Washington State, knew how to turn sex trafficking into a piece of cake:
When Jean looked out her window and saw a yard full of FBI men…she went into the kitchen and poured a hot cup of coffee and cut herself a big piece of chocolate cake. She had a freezer full of them; they were one of her props. Whenever she needed to look innocent, she slid one of the cakes onto a plate, warmed it in the microwave, and set it on the kitchen counter. It made the whole house smell like home. How could a woman who smelled like chocolate be dangerous? Jean smiled to herself. She was brilliant!
Thanks for stopping by! Buy A One-way Cruise to Africa on Amazon Kindle. It’s a good read, I promise
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I’m with Johnny Cash
Janelle Meraz Hooper
I’m not judging all of you who are wearing colorful masks to protect yourself from Covid-19. I get it. Americans are known for their sense of humor during a crisis. We have war humor, political humor, and religious humor. We have jokes about dead cats, dogs that bite, and even deadly snakes crawling around in planes.
So, go for it. Order that mask with Van Gogh’s missing ear on it. The one with the one-fingered Trump salute across the front. The one with your business card on it. And bring out the glitter and the ones with squiggly eyes. Have fun!
But, for this crisis, I just don’t feel it. I don’t think I’ve made one crack about Covid-19 since it emerged. Remember when Johnny Cash came on stage dressed in black when the Vietnam War was at its worse? He vowed to wear nothing but black until the war was over and our boys came home.
That’s the way I feel. My mask is black. Too many people have died. We’ve all lost family members. People are hungry. A lot of us are jobless. Schools are closed. And on and on.
I already have Manolito’s black hat that he wore on High Chaparral. Maybe I’ll wear that with my black mask. And cowboy boots…I need some black ones. I think Johnny would approve.
If you like this, please share!
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How I Find my Characters
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Some of you have asked where I find the unusual characters in my stories. They come from a lifelong habit of people watching! It started when I was a kid. On hot summer nights, when I was growing up in Oklahoma, we often piled into my Aunt Pat’s car, drove downtown, and parked right in the middle of the block.
With my Aunt in the driver’s seat and my mom riding shotgun, my cousin Bob and I would settle in for a night when the sidewalks were filled with Native Americans from several tribes, Mexicans, Lebanese, Germans, black people, and Asians. My aunt and mother knew a lot of people from each group and were on friendly terms with many of them. They often stopped by our car to visit and trade news about the latest powwow coming up, the German Octoberfest, which artists had signed up for the summer art show, and more. So, it shouldn’t be surprising that the seeds of observation were planted in my memory at an early age. Here’s a few ideas:
A Three-Turtle Summer, my first fictional autobiography in the Turtle Trilogy, I got lucky. I came from a large Hispanic family whose members I had adored all my life. They all signed releases thinking I’ve never get a novel started, much less finished!
In my Trilogy, I did change a few names. My Aunt Pat became Pauline. Not for any reason that I can think of. Maybe I was on a power trip! I renamed myself Glory because I didn’t think “Janelle” fit the character I was writing about.
As Brown as I Want, the middle book in my Turtle Trilogy has a lot going on including attempted murders, but once I realized I could write and control the story, I decided that I wanted my mom to (finally!) have a good man, so I added one more character. He ended up taking over the book! I found him at a powwow at the high school in Federal Way, Washington. He was sitting about six seats away and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He looked like an Apache even though the Native Americans in Washington State were from other tribes. He had a long braid at the back of his head and his neatly pressed navy-blue cotton shirt had an allover design of tiny white arrows. He became my Powwow Pete—if he only knew! I never spoke to him, of course.
Custer & His Naked Ladies, the third novel in my Turtle Trilogy, had a lot of my family members from the first two books, but I needed two new characters, Soap and his mother. I couldn’t see him, but my new Soap drew me from across a drugstore at the mall in Lawton with his rich voice. When I finally found him at the cash register, I could see he was tall for a Comanche. Maybe a Kiowa? No matter. His hair was in a long black braid down his back and his baseball cap was on backwards. He wore his blue and white striped painter’s overalls with a vibrant Hawaiian shirt underneath. To me he looked like a Norman Rockwell painting. On his feet, he wore white, sockless, running shoes. Woot! There he was! Glory’s romantic interest. I needed him because although the first two novels were based upon my life, Custer & His Naked Ladies was fiction. I had already been married for years by the time I wrote Custer & His Naked Ladies. His mom, Maxine, came from a Native American that fed me and my cousin, Bob, fry bread at a powwow once. What a nice woman.
I have a lot of other books and stories, but you get the idea. For more information, follow the link to my Amazon Author page: https://www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
Jan Pippins and Henry Darrow have been awarded the 2014 Gold Medal Winner of the Readers’ Favorites Book Award in the Non-Fiction, Biography category for their book, Lightning in the Bottle.
The book can be purchased at Amazon and Barnes & Noble bookstores in several formats.
Please share! Janelle Meraz Hooper
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Janelle Meraz Hooper
I’m sometimes asked by non-writers if I ever get story ideas from my dreams? The answer is, sadly, no.
Early one morning, I was describing my latest wacky dream to my husband as he was getting ready for work.
It went like this: I was in marketing and had a group of conference attendees at the bottom of the ocean sitting in a circle in school desks. The water was clear. Little multicolored fish were swimming by…the conference attendees were dressed in their nicest business clothes…when it came time to feed them, I filled the basket of my four-wheeled wheelchair scooter with boxed chicken dinners and drove around and around in a circle on the top of the water dropping boxes to them—but the boxes wouldn’t sink. They just floated on top of the water.
As my husband was leaving the bedroom, he looked over at me and said, “You know what your problem was don’t you? You were trying to serve chicken. You should have been serving fish!” With that he left. No goodbye kiss, no hug. He knew better than to get too close to me with a line like that!
the end
If you liked this story, please share!
A little story gift to help children get though our Coronavirus isolation.
One summer, Mr. Hop discovered a big pheasant in his garden. He decided to call him George, the Great Green Gooseberry Gobbler, because he saw him underneath one of his gooseberry bushes—quickly gobbling green gooseberries even though they weren’t ripe!
Sometimes, when Mr. Hop went to the garden, he would get real close to the gooseberry bush. George would sneak around to the back of the bush and peek at Mr. Hop through the bush’s branches.
Mr. Hop began following him around the gooseberry bush, all the time fussing with the hoe, pretending he didn’t see his new feathered friend who was—sneakily gobbling green gooseberries.
Mrs. Hop thought they looked like they were dancing when Mr. Hop would weed around the gooseberry bush, swing his hoe, and sing while George hid at the back of the gooseberry bush, flapping his wings, scratching in the dirt—hurriedly gobbling green gooseberries.
Mr. and Mrs. Hop were so busy watching George with his colorful feathers, they didn’t see the less brightly-colored mother bird hiding in the brush pile while George was—noisily gobbling green gooseberries.
The mother bird didn’t know the brush pile she’d laid her eggs in was going to go up in flames when Mr. Hoop finished cleaning the garden. She thought she’d found the perfect place to raise her babies. Meanwhile, George was—fearlessly gobbling green gooseberries.
At the end of the day, Mr. Hop’s garden work was done and he was almost ready to light the fire under the brush pile. Mr. Hop struck a match. He got closer and closer to the brush pile. Silly George didn’t see what was about to happen. He was—cluelessly gobbling green gooseberries.
But just then it started to sprinkle. The raindrops got bigger and bigger until they chased Mr. Hop inside. George never stopped—hungrily gobbling green gooseberries.
Inside the brush pile, the mother pheasant hardly even noticed it was raining. The brush was so thick it kept both mother and her eggs as warm and dry as if the sun were shining. She didn’t know how close she’d come to losing her home and her babies while George was—greedily gobbling green gooseberries.
Mr. Hop worked in the city all week. The next Saturday, he got up early and looked out the kitchen window. The skies were clear. It would be a good day to burn the brush pile, he thought.
But just as he was looking out the window, he saw something move. Then something else. At first, it looked as if the ground was moving. It was baby birds! Then he saw George, as always—still gobbling green gooseberries.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Mr. Hop to his wife. “I can’t burn that brush pile today, look at the baby chicks!” Mrs. Hop laughed.
Just then, they saw the mother pheasant dart out of the brush pile and chase all of her new babies back inside the brush where it was safe. George didn’t notice. He was—busily gobbling green gooseberries.
Next spring, Mr. Hop said, he’d make the pheasants a special brush pile at the back of the garden, not far from the gooseberry bush, in case the birds wanted to come back. This brush pile, he would never burn.
George, The Great Green Gooseberry Gobbler, could come back every year and keep on—endlessly gobbling green gooseberries!
The end
Note to readers: Unfortunately, there are about four children’s books with the same title. Please check the author’s name (Janelle M. Hooper & Jacob N. Studebaker when you order. My thanks!
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A few of my favorite movie quotes…I’ll add more as I find them!
“You are my only country now.” Russia House. Sean Connery, Michelle Pfeiffer.
“I never want to kiss you goodbye, Kathleen.” Rio Grande. John Wayne, Maureen O’Hara.
“She had a face like a Sunday picnic.” Phillip Marlowe, Private Eye. Describing a beautiful woman with a fresh face.
“We have no time to catalog our regrets.” The Titanic, 1953. A man to his wife on a sinking Titanic when she tries to apologize about a marital problem.
“My tomorrows are all yours…” Rip to Beth in Yellowstone
Fatigues and Fox-Fur Coats at Christmas
A Snowy Day at the Airport
Janelle Meraz Hooper
I love airports. Years ago, due to a family emergency, I was stuck at a Lawton, Oklahoma airport just before Christmas. Due to a sudden snowstorm, the weather was so bad that none of the commercial flights could get in or out. The airport was near Fort Sill, the Artillery Training Center of the World, and the floor of the terminal was jammed full of weary and worried soldiers hoping—desperately–to get home in time for the holidays.
Just when chances of a flight were at their bleakest, two Lear jets, smaller than commercial aircraft, landed on the airstrip. The door opened and two women in full-length white fox coats, and dripping with diamonds, gingerly tiptoed their way through the snow, hopelessly trying to save their high-heeled shoes. The soldiers watched the beautiful women deplane, then, lost in their own problems, turned their attention elsewhere.
There wasn’t enough seating for the stranded soldiers, so once inside, the women picked a new path through the floor crowded with reclining troops. As they walked, they pointed at each soldier, smiled, and asked, “Where are you going?” When the soldier answered, one of them said, “Go get in that first plane,” or, “Go get in that second plane.” I don’t know why they could fly when the bigger planes couldn’t, but they took two planeloads of grateful soldiers home for Christmas that day.
Like the rest of the civilians, I was stuck in the airport for another six hours or so before the weather cleared and my commercial flight could land. There was no snack bar there at that time, and I survived on a box of stale Crackerjacks and a half-eaten roll of Lifesavers that I had in my purse. But I had a big smile on my face the whole time. Not only would the soldiers get a free ride home, but they’d get there in a Lear Jet. Most of us would never have that experience!
Over the airport’s intercom, I could hear the sound of Christmas music softly playing…God rest ye merry gentlemen…let nothing you dismay…oh, tidings of comfort and joy…
A true story.
The End
Note: The Lawton Airport has now been renamed The Lawton-Ft. Sill Regional Airport.
If you liked this story, please share!
Merry Christmas, from my heart to yours, Janelle
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Geronimo’s Missing Million-Dollar War Bonnet
Janelle Meraz Hooper
When I was writing the Geronimo, Life on the Reservation show for Rudy, I had written in an explanation of why Geronimo had a feathered war bonnet hanging on the wooden fence that surrounded his garden. It was too long to fit into the show, so I thought I’d share it with you here.
As you know, Apaches didn’t wear war bonnets. And Geronimo wasn’t a chief, but the Comanche Chief, Quanah Parker, was organizing a photo- shoot of the chiefs on the reservation and he wanted Geronimo to wear a war bonnet like the other warriors in the photo.
Geronimo didn’t have one, so Quanah loaned him one of his. At the end of the summit in Collinsville, Indian Territory on Oct. 19, 1907, 78-year-old Geronimo “gave” the bonnet—decorated with a tail of 48 feet of eagle feathers—to two gentlemen friends. Notice I put “gave” in quotes. I have no proof, but I suspect the two gentlemen had something Geronimo wanted. Most likely, cattle.
I have no idea how Quanah reacted when he discovered his elegant war bonnet had been given way. However, in 1999—Ninety-two years after the photo was taken, the most recent owner of the bonnet was charged by the FBI for trying to sell the war bonnet over the Internet for over a million dollars. It is hoped the headdress will ultimately belong to the Smithsonian.
Credit: October 19, 1999- Joseph A. Slobodzian Knight Ridder Newspapers and others. Illustration, Sherri Bails.
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The Indianhead Diaries
Buy now!
Amazon. Paperback and Kindle.
On a Powwow day… a few lines from As Brown As I Want, The Indianhead Diaries…
While Carlos and I were loading our clothes in the car, he got close to my ear and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve packed us some extra food. You know, just in case…”
“Just in case, what, Carlos?”
“In case those fool Indians start dancing and ‘hy-ya, hy-ya, hy-ya’ right through dinner like they did last time.”
I laughed at that. Sometimes, meals at powwows are catch as catch can and Carlos and I have failed to catch a few.
One night, at the last powwow, we were so hungry we joined a group of Indians we didn’t even know. We were invited, but we decided to never tell our mothers because the last thing they’d said to us was, “Don’t wear out your welcome.”
To us, sitting down at a strange family’s picnic table with her children and eating the last piece of fry bread on the paper plate certainly seemed to fit into that category.
When we got back to our tepee that night, Mildred had three wrought iron pans of chicken frying, and we ate again, just so we wouldn’t hurt her feelings.
I found this in my Geronimo research file and thought it was funny because Geronimo hated pumpkins! It was almost all he got to eat at Ft. Picken’s Prison in Florida. A visiting reporter from The New York Times visited him there once and wrote about how Geronimo was always cooking pumpkins because he loved them so much! I have the clipping somewhere. Talk about clueless! Geronimo was not pleased!
Then, after the Alabama prison (when he left Ft. Pickens), he ended up at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma and had to eat pumpkins again! The soil was so poor and water was so scarce that pumpkins were about all he could grow.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN, EVERYONE!
HAPPY Halloween, everyone!
Janelle Meraz Hooper
“Are you still there?” Aggie asked the old woman under her bed…
Sometimes we forget that everyone else is living their moment while we’re busy living ours…
“Are you still there?” Aggie asked as she picked up her slipper and beat the metal bed frame underneath the mattress. “Well, you’d better get out from under there and go home—wherever that is—I’ve got company coming and she’s going to need the bed.” Aggie leaned way over the edge of her mattress to peer at the woman who was stretched out underneath her bed. “And while you’re at it, take off those goofy red socks. It’s the middle of summer for Christ’s sake!”
There was no answer to Aggie’s scolding; there never was. The old lady went on talking anyway while she beat her pillow into a more comfortable shape. “I don’t know what’s become of the neighborhood. This was a good place when I moved in here thirteen years ago. Now they’ve got the likes of you running in and out of people’s houses. I keep the doors locked—how do you get in here anyway?”
Silence.
From my short story book, Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Psst! If you have a library card, ask your library to order it for you. Some libraries even have Kindle books now!
If you liked this excerpt, please share!
A Text version of this story was posted a long time ago. I’ve been fooling around with video just for fun. I have about 21 of them now. What a learning experience!
If you like this video, please share!
A Chat with a Bat
Janelle Meraz Hooper
So, yesterday, while I was recording a video, I heard something stuck in my fireplace chimney. This has happened before so I prepared to rescue what I was certain was a little fruit bat. Armed with a flashlight, mirror, and enticements of dried apricots and water, I tried to coax the little guy down the chimney so I could let him out through the back door. I spent a good deal of time trying to save this unseen creature, murmuring a stream of encouraging words and promises meant to assure him that he was in no danger from me (“…If you’re a turtle I’m going to keep you forever and ever!”).
The bat wasn’t at all swayed by my melodious, comforting tones. He chose to go out the same way he came in. About 30-minutes into the failed rescue I realized I’d forgotten to turn off my video editor. It had recorded every word I’d said. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to figure out how to delete my little impromptu Chat with a Bat. No one would ever know about the dingy writer who doesn’t know a bat from a turtle.
Note: Photo by jmh. No, I didn’t through the turtle into the fire, but I’m short on turtles and bats around here…plus, my brother-in-law gave the turtle to me!
If you like this blog, please subscribe! My thanks, Janelle
I write these little ditties whenever I get an idea so I won’t forget them. Maybe it’ll be a short story someday. For right now, it’s only on this blog.
Everyone called her Penny—except for her husband. After being married for over 2 years, he still called her Penelope. Lately, he’d added a sneer at the end. Especially when he called her on the phone.
Just then, the phone rang and she looked back at the table set with a white cloth and her favorite dishes from her grandmother and crossed her fingers before she answered it.
“You still home?” a gruff voice asked.
“Yes, I’m here all alone in my pumpkin shell. I’m making us a roast chicken dinner for tonight and I’ve got your favorite homemade rolls rising.”
“I won’t be home in time for dinner. Go ahead and eat without me.”
“But you haven’t been home for dinner all this week!”
“You need to get out more and meet some people, Penelope. I can’t be there all the time just to play house with you.”
Suddenly, Penny was angry. “Well, maybe I will. Maybe I’ll find a new friend with a big zipper on his pants who has all his parts working.”
The phone went dead. Penny was shaken. Maybe she went too far this time, she thought as she went to the kitchen to see if the rolls had risen enough to put in the oven.
About forty minutes later, the garage door opened and her husband came into the kitchen, dragged her to their bed and made love to her until she was breathless. “How did you get home so early?” She asked.
“I have to go back. I just came home to show you that all my parts still work…they just don’t work for you.”
On his way back through the kitchen to get to his car, he twisted a chicken leg off the chicken that was still in the roasting pan and pulled a fresh, warm roll out of the bread pan. It would be his last one.
If you liked this post, please subscribe to my WordPress blog! My thanks, Janelle
Photo by author with thanks to Joyce Stevens.
]]>My new hobby is making book trailers. Here’s one I made for a friend. PB & Kindle on Amazon. Makes a great gift! Are You Singing Your Song? was written by Val Dumond.
Here’s another one I made for When Roosters Fly, also written by Val Dumond. I love the music I found for this one. The book is a wonderful senior romance. Available in PB & Kindle. Check it out! Another great gift!
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(Muddy Puddle Press)
is now on Amazon
What happens when a large group of writers decide to have some fun? Maybe a book like this! When I was contacted to contribute stories for this edition, I jumped on the chance to have some fun. First, I wrote “Don’t Klingons Eat Tacos?” but that was only the beginning. On a more somber day, I sat down and wrote, “A Quilt for the Alligator Eggs”. On my own I’d have never written these stories so far out of my normal genre (Romance/Suspense), but the freedom to sit down and just play with words was too good to pass up. I’m sure the other writers felt the same way. So here it is, a collaboration of over 50 writers from all over the world. Proof that sometimes, writers never know what they’re thinking until they put their hands on a keyboard. Check it out!
Amazon-This is the third amazing anthology of stories, each written in a single sentence (from 200 to 2000 words) on all kinds of subjects from love and romance to memoirs, mystery, adventure and mis-adventure, personal experiences, to… life, some very serious, some ditzy and silly, but all written by 50 writers from around the world, including beginners and professionals, and all without ending the sentence until the story is told, and if you think this is an easy task, try it yourself, and be surprised at how much fun you can have. Reduce stress, improve your writing, and have a ton of fun.
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Archie and Arizona
Janelle Meraz Hooper
My husband had a tough Uncle Archie who lived his retirement years in Idaho, land of big fish, plentiful deer, trapping, and poker tables. A world-class boxer in the army, his career as an army cook had led him all over the world, including Burma to help build the Burma Road. Archie’s feet hit the floor every morning at 4:00 A.M. EVERY MORNING. Archie was on Army Time.
On cold, winter mornings, he’d throw an old fishing shirt over his hairy shoulders and put on the coffeepot. While the coffee perked, he’d stand in the middle of his cabin’s kitchen, rub his arms and chant, “Arrr-i-zona!” Over and over again. After a quick cup of coffee, he’d start frying thick slices of bacon and a whole skillet of eggs. There were only four of us but Archie didn’t cook small. Breakfast was at 4:30 AM and you had better be there. He insisted upon it.
In 1962, The first time I visited him and his wife, Frances, during a college break, I tried to pull the old crazy quilt over my head and ignore him. I can still remember him standing in the kitchen doorway, looking at my bundled body on the living room couch and schooling me on his house rules: “Breakfast is at 4:30, little lady. You’re already late!”
Why am I telling you this? Because on icy March mornings in Washington State, when I flip on the deck lights and see snow or frost, I understand how Archie felt. Enough already! As I throw a Keurig cup in the coffeemaker, I shiver, throw an old pink sweatshirt over my bare arms and chant, “Arizona! Ariiii-zona!” It’s on mornings like this that I miss the old man most of all.
Please share this post, My thanks, Janelle
Best hamburger in the West!
I’ve been in my Briar Patch (research pile) this week. I thought my readers would enjoy this story…
From the Oklahoma Historical Society
Early Days in Meers, OK history
1901…On the list of wild animals in Meers, OK (located in the Wichita Wildlife Refuge), was included an animal called a Biff Bulger that evolved when local boys told a naïve stranger that “he was a medium-sized animal with two short legs on the left side and two long legs on the right side… he always walked with his short legs on the higher side of the path. He has a flat tail with which he throws rocks—his only method of defense.” The stranger was fascinated. From then on, when the locals heard a farfetched story, it was called “just a Biff Bulger”.
Available on Amazon and others, PB & Kindle
one-man show I wrote for
Rudy Ramos
poster credit: Graphics:
Whitefire Theatre
(for Knight)
Janelle Meraz Hooper
I posted this years ago but the link never worked with Pinterest, so I’m reposting it…
When my daughter went to Kindergarten, she came home one day with a “C” in ball. A “C”! Would this mean she’d never get into Harvard? Things like this can have a disastrous impact on a child’s future!
I set up an emergency conference with her teacher It seemed that Chanel had done poorly at catching a ball. Not possible, I insisted. Chanel has no problem catching a ball at home. She has footballs, tennis balls, golf balls, volley balls, basketballs, and even those bouncy balls you get from a machine for a quarter…she can catch all of them!
The teacher went to her closet and pulled out a soft ball made from colorful fabric and filled, it seemed, with some kind of pellet. I had never seen one before. She called it a Nerf ball. What’s this? I asked. And did she really call that thing a ball? It was so lightweight it didn’t go very far when you threw it, it didn’t make any noise, and it would be impossible to break a lamp with one of those things. Not only that, but this was the Northwest, what good would that ball be in the rain?
Well, the teacher stood her ground and I went crawling home (via K-Mart) to buy a Nerf ball with the black cloud of failed motherhood hanging over my head.
Knight, learn how to throw and catch this ball…save yourself! Harvard, Yale, and Brown are waiting for you!
I wrote this little blurb to go with a Nerf ball I gave a toddler in our family, because that’s what I do. I tell stories about everything…even the little yellow spider I found in my bathroom sink one time in the middle of the night. I made a video about her. She’s a star now! (See Zoe and the Internet Date on YouTube–search Janelle Meraz Hooper for my channel.)
Yolitza Aparicio (I’ve also seen it spelled Yalitza)
Mexico charms the Oscars
Roma, starring Yolitza Aparicio and directed by Alfonso Cuarón
I’m normally into the Oscars for the dresses—my Hispanic mother was a seamstress and we watched the Oscars, noting every detail and sighing over the colorful designs…
And the dresses were beautiful, but I was surprised by what else I saw last night. The women wearing them were so different from the norm. Women of all colors and nationalities flooded the stage and filled the audience. Physically, these women looked suspiciously like real people—many of them lacked the thin, glamor-girl shape I was used to seeing on that magic night, and yet, they were so beautiful. Could it be the women were judged on their talent? And, need I say, one of the most beautiful was from Mexico and was a contender for Best Actress!
When I was a kid, we were lectured not to dream about success in Hollywood. We were not pretty enough. Not white enough. Not tall enough. Our knees were fat. And, get this: our gums showed when we smiled, making us unphotogenic. Last night boosted the morale and raised the hopes of thousands of little girls watching. Especially the short ones with fat knees and bad gums.
Roma, is directed by Alfonso Cuarón, who is also from Mexico, and is no stranger to the Oscars.
“It was A Three-Turtle Summer–hot–and Grace had to leave a man who was meaner than a rattlesnake and dumber than adobe.”
Amazon and others
Please share this post!
Illustration by Sherri Bails
Chapter 1. Cherry pie
The great guy Lily meets at her company’s St. Patrick’s Day party doesn’t own half of Microsoft, but he isn’t a leprechaun either, so he has that going for him…
Lily half-heartedly flipped through the clothes hanging in her closet. Blue, blue, blue—yellow. White. Pink. Pink. Pink. Black. Lots of black. There wasn’t a darn green top in the whole closet, and she knew it, but she kept looking anyway. Why was it every St. Patrick’s Day she had this lack of green thing going on in her wardrobe? Was there a law somewhere against department stores putting a green sequined top on sale? Of course, there were green tops on the full-price racks, but what woman would pay forty or fifty bucks for a green sequined top if she didn’t live in Dublin? Or unless she was trying to catch an Irish geek—who owned half of Microsoft—and was a real hunk. Lily had a nagging hunch if there were any rich, Irish hunks at Microsoft, they’d already been spoken for by women who had a lot more going for them than she did. That was okay. She could settle for just hunky. Hunky could be good.
Well, she’d just have to run through the mall on her way home from work and pick up a green scarf or a pair of green rhinestone earrings. She was in no mood to spend a bundle on something she wouldn’t wear again until next year. She’d rather spend her money on a new twelve-megapixel camera she had her eye on. Not only was it a better camera than the one she had now, but it had a viewfinder in addition to an LCD monitor and took longer videos. The viewfinder was necessary for her outside shots. The monitor didn’t work for her when the sun was shining. She didn’t know why; no one else she knew had any trouble. She’d found the perfect camera at a photography store near her work for three hundred dollars. It wasn’t something a professional would drool over, but it had every feature she was looking for plus it had the added bonus of being as small as the camera she had now, so it would still fit into her purse. Lily resisted the obvious option: buy a bigger purse.
Because she really wanted the camera, even a green sequin top on sale probably wouldn’t have tempted her. Besides, if this year was like the last, there wasn’t much incentive to spend a lot of money and effort for this event. She knew from the last St. Patrick’s Day company party the men there would be the same men she saw at work during the day, only drunk. And still married. It was a pretty sure bet she’d end up spending the night talking to the other single women on her floor, eating stale cookies with foul-tasting green sprinkles, and drinking green beer out of a paper cup. No wonder St. Patty’s Day was her least favorite holiday. Wardrobe stress, green beer, and no eligible men, even if they were leprechauns. What was there to love? The year before last, when she was still in college, the little tavern off campus at least served free hotdogs with their green beer. She hoped this wasn’t a sign she was moving down in the world instead of up.
Actually, Lily’s frustrated mood had nothing to do with sequined tops or green beer or even leprechauns. Her real problem was she was lonely. In her thirties, she was anxious to move on with her life. At every company function, she looked at the executives from out of town, hoping in vain to see someone who looked promising. Luckily, she liked her job and it took her mind off the other areas of her life that weren’t as fulfilling. Still, if she were ever going to have a family, she needed to get started. She’d already looked in the usual places like the local grocery stores, community events, churches, and social clubs without any luck. Since she didn’t hit the bars like some of the other single women, there wasn’t any place else to look except the Internet. She had no interest in picking out the father of her future children on a dating website. Lots of women had been successful and found wonderful men using an Internet dating service, but Lily made her living with computers, and she knew how easy it was to make a donkey look like a racehorse on a computer screen.
After work that night, Lily strolled past the photography shop to look at the camera she wanted. It was still in the window, and she knew there was no shortage of that particular model; she just liked to look at it. Then, she grabbed a slice of pizza at the Italian kiosk and headed for the jewelry section at her favorite department store. She was on her way to the sale table when she spotted a pair of green rhinestone earrings edged in clear crystals on a shiny glass counter. She yelped out loud when she turned them over and saw the price tag. “Forty-three dollars?” she said out loud. “For rhinestones?”
“Oh, they’re not rhinestones, they’re real Austrian crystals,” said a helpful clerk.
They’re glass, Lily thought. Crystals are just glass. And they’re not even set in vermeil, but some kind of mystery pot metal…maybe salvaged from some old World War II submarine.
The clerk, sensing one of her last chances to sell the earrings was slipping away, said, “Wouldn’t they be great to wear tomorrow night?”
What? Almost fifty dollars to go to the company lunchroom and watch everyone drink too much green beer and fall all over themselves? Not going to happen. Even so, she slipped the back of one of the earrings off and tried it on. Oh, she thought to herself when she looked into the mirror. They are gorgeous. The bottom half of the earring was set with a big, tear-shaped stone that caught the light with every movement and lit up her face with tiny flashes of green light whenever her head moved…
New cover!
Cover by CreateSpace
Buy now on Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/Boogie-Boots-Cherry-Pie-Third/dp/1500703915/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1550772443&sr=1-1&keywords=boogie+boots+%26+cherry+pie
I don’t think Guttenberg and I have an understanding yet…
but the link works…
Please share this blog, my thanks! Janelle
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PB & Kindle
Suitable for NA (ages 19-29) and up
(Aw, heck! All three of them are harmless!)
Samples of all of my romances
are scattered in this blog.
Go for it!
Thanks for stopping by. Happy Valentine’s Day! Janelle
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My gramma’s screen door
Janelle Meraz Hooper
I fondly remember the worn-out screen door at the house my mother shared with my grandmother in Oklahoma. Vulnerable to weather patterns that alternated between scorching Southwest sun and torrential rainstorms, the screen hung on its worn hinges, frame warped and hinges rusty. The old wood frame, warped and in need of repair, hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in—well, never! The only mechanism it had for opening and closing was an old spring so stretched out that it sagged and barely functioned. Sometimes, it needed to be nudged to close. The door never had a latch; it stood unlocked, welcoming all who approached.
That old door appealed to me because of what it stood for: family. Each time I visited, I heard the bottom of the door scrape on the wooden porch all day long as it opened and closed. Scrape, scrape…no one knocked. If we were at the back of the house in the sunroom, our friends and relatives called out a joyful hello as they came down the hall. During the day, any of number of relatives could come in to visit with us. The dress code was come-as-you-are with the women often wearing the latest casual fashions from the mall, and the men mostly in plaid shirts, jeans, and Western belt buckles.
They stopped by on their way to church.
They stopped by on their way to the store.
They stopped by because they were “in the area” to see if my grandmother needed anything.
Usually, the women brought something with them. In the summer, it could be strawberry ice cream or strawberry pop, both favorites of my grandmother. In the fall, they brought wild pecans or persimmons, harvested on the reservation.
During the week, the men stopped by on their lunch hour and brought their empty stomachs.
Most summer mornings, as a cool breeze danced through the rusty screen, my grandmother put on a big pot of coffee and an even bigger pot of pinto beans. If the screen door opened before the beans were ready, she’d whip up a quick batch of tortilla dough that she cut in strips, twisted, fried, and sprinkled with granulated sugar. Grandmother had made the coffee treats for years and she was so fast they seemed to appear magically on a big platter in the middle of the dining room table.
Once, Uncle Benny came in and found a living room filled with relatives. He quickly looked around and asked, “Where’s Inge?” Inge, the wife of one of my cousins, had terminal cancer. My cousin Hilbert had married her years before during a tour in Germany with the army. Hilbert replied he had left her at home so she could rest. “Go get her. She should be with us!” my uncle urged.
Off Hilbert went, clear across town to pick up his wife. Inge walked in and my uncle greeted her as if the party was in her honor. He made a space for her to sit next to him in the crowded room and wrapped his arm snugly around her. Without missing a beat, he reached into his bag of stories and had her laughing so hard she forgot all about her illness.
How I envied Uncle Benny’s and everyone else’s storytelling skills. Once, after one of our Hispanic-style powwows, my Aunt Norah pulled me aside and asked me why I had become a writer. She said we’d never had one in the family before. I told her that everyone in our family was a storyteller and the only difference between them and me was that I wrote my stories down. Laughing, she quipped, “We aren’t a family of storytellers. We’re a family of liars!”
The way I saw it, their tales qualified as an art form. Besides, in each story, at least a smidge of truth could be found—somewhere! And if not, what did it matter? My family loved and cared for each other, especially when things got tough. Who could want anything more?
Most of them are gone now. Whenever I think of them, I swear I can hear that screen door…scrape-scrape…lazily opening and closing all day…
Please share this story…my thanks, Janelle
My newest novel:
See a free preview on the book’s Amazon page.
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Free previews on the books’ Amazon pages!
Janelle
“Here’s looking at you, kid!”
Over New Year’s, I watched Casablanca with Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. Again. I have no idea how many times I’ve watched it and each time I am stirred by the French National Anthem when it is sung in the bar scene at Rick’s Café American. Such passion! And such a beautiful melody! But I’ve never had any idea what the words meant.
YouTube to the rescue! To this post, I’m adding the French/English lyrics to La Marseillaise. If you’ve never heard the English translation, I think you’ll be surprised. I know I was shocked. Absolutely shocked!
Happy New Year to all of my readers. Thanks for sticking with me! Janelle
See my books and stories on Amazon (most are in paperback and Kindle.)
Read free previews on the books’ Amazon pages.
My latest: On sale for $1.99 until April 1st!
“Trust your instincts, then follow them.”
How does a One-way Cruise to Africa
end up in Arizona?
A cautionary novel to warn women about the dangers of sex-trafficking in the United States. This book has NO explicit sex. It is meant only to raise awareness. Suspense/Romance/Humor. Amazon Kindle. Suitable for NA (New Adults 19-29 & up). Don’t miss the free preview on the book’s Amazon page!
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Photo by Janelle Meraz Hooper
The weather here in Washington State is awful. We even had a rare tornado not far from here this week.
I took this photo when I was in Hawaii years ago doing “research”* for my romance, Bears in the Hibiscus. *read: lying around on the beach.
Notice the canoe full of fisherman in the water–they caught a big octopus! Also love all the footprints in the sand. Be still my heart!
I made this little trailer with my own two hands when I had a sore throat (I’m no quitter!). It’s one of my best sellers even though I persisted in plastering this video all over the Internet, ha!
Available on Amazon and other Internet bookstores.
Romance/Humor.
Paperback, Kindle. New Adult (NA) & up.
Read a free preview on the book’s Amazon page.
Taazslath, one of Geronimo’s wivesA Little Turkey History
(From my Old West research)
‘Tis the season for turkeys…I’ve read that Apache women on the reservation could run so fast they could chase down a wild turkey. Then, they’d tuck the still gobbling bird under their arm and take it to the post to sell it to the soldiers. At first, the soldiers were reluctant to buy it because they thought it might be stolen. But no, the women really were that fast. They wouldn’t eat turkeys or fish themselves because of a taboo of eating anything that ate snakes or worms.
The Apache women were hard workers. After their arrival on the reservation, they quickly learned that soldiers would pay for firewood and grass that they gathered on the prairie. They spent the money they earned at the trading post. Geronimo said that every time they came back from the trading post, they were a little less Apache, but he understood their attraction to pretty things they’d never seen before.
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Read free previews on the books’ Amazon pages.
My newest novel! Amazon Kindle NA (New Adult)
Read a free preview on the book’s Amazon page.
Thanks for stopping by! Janelle
Merry Christmas! This, and all my children’s videos, are very popular and will keep a little one busy while you’re getting ready for your holiday this season!
Text: Janelle Meraz Hooper (From the Kindle book There’s a Mouse in the House!)
Co-author on the title story: Jacob Nicholas Studebaker.
Art: Sherri Bails
Music: JewelBeat.com
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Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all of you! The above video has ben posted before, but I have so many new readers that some of you may have missed it. Don’t miss the finale!
Art Santa: Linda Studebaker
Video: Late Bloomer Video, my little video “company”.
Voice-over: Janelle Meraz Hooper
Music: JewelBeat
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Time is getting short!
Galoshes and IKE
(A comment about growing up in Oklahoma)
Janelle Meraz Hooper
I woke up this morning thinking about the first election I can remember. I was about twelve and we had moved into a new development outside the gates of Fort Sill, Oklahoma, where there was an Indian reservation. The Kiowas weren’t happy because the developers had cut a road through the new houses that went straight through the middle of the clay deposit they used for their pots. I walked that road to school every morning and didn’t see any difference between that unpaved road than any other except that the clay was a deep red. Then the rains came and I saw that clay with a new perspective. Before I went out the door that morning, my mother made me put on my new red galoshes. She’d bought them several sizes too big so they’d last a long time. Everything I wore was too big, even the hand-me-downs from my cousins. The boots looked dumb and I knew the kids would laugh at me. I was glad I had that I LIKE IKE button someone had given me to balance things out. I was the only one in my class who had one and it made me the subject of envy among all my classmates. I wore it every day. On my way to school the new road looked fine but, when I stepped on it, I sank into thick red clay that was deeper than the tops of my galoshes. About halfway to school I noticed that one of my galoshes was missing and the sock on the bootless foot was as red as the road and was half off. I clomped into school with one cold, wet and muddy bootless foot that stayed that way all day. I was sure glad I hadn’t lost my new sock (not realizing that it would never be white again) and I still had my I LIKE IKE button, so I thought I was in good shape. And I was–until I got home and mom noticed I’d lost a brand new boot and one of my socks. Not even IKE could help me then.
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The author, Janelle Meraz Hooper, grew up in Oklahoma and is the author of The Turtle Trilogy (A Three-Turtle Summer, As Brown As I Want, and Custer & His Naked Ladies). See all of my books on Amazon. PB & Kindle.
Note: Geronimo, Life on the Reservation, is a one-man show I wrote for Rudy Ramos (Now on Kevin Costner’s Yellowstone (Paramount Channel).
My Newest novel
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Thanks for stopping by! Janelle
SOS for FREEDOM
Janelle Meraz Hooper
I have so many global subscribers who could be confused by this plea. But then, maybe not. No matter where you are, surely you’ve heard of our wacko president with hate spewing out of his orange head?
Here’s the deal: In the United States, we have a primary vote coming up on November 6th. We have a lot at stake and the greedy, immoral Republican party is pulling out all the stops to stifle the votes of the Democrats.
I am not an expert in politics. I am a novelist! But it doesn’t take an expert to identify Hate. Greed. And liars…leading thousands of gullible voters who don’t understand what Trump’s rhetoric really means. They believe the lie: That their wages will increase. That steel and coal will return to their glory days. That farmers will benefit from the tariffs. That giving all of the money we make to the rich will somehow make our lives better. That they can take away our health care but, somehow, they will not lose theirs. That a clean environment isn’t critical to the people of our nation. That we will build a wall and make Mexico pay for it. That Make America Great Again is only for the whites. That things will go back to the way they used to be.
Perhaps worse, they believe that the man in the White House will “Jerk a knot in the tail” of other world leaders and they’ll all bow down to us. That we are smarter than the rest of the world. Stronger. Entitled by the white of our skin and the heel of our boot.
The whole world will feel the pinch of this immoral president and the Republican party if we do not vote all of them out this November 6th. Please, if you have any influence with voting Americans where you are, explain this to them. God Bless America, the land of the free.
Graphic courtesy of Pinterest.
]]>Suspense/Romance, New Adult (19-29), Kindle
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Chapter 11- Here, or in Africa? (Excerpt)
Jean was filled with rage. “What were you doing over there?” she yelled at Njab. As she yelled she hit him over and over with her fists until Njab rolled into a protective ball in the corner of Jean’s bedroom.
“What were you after?”
Njab didn’t answer. He didn’t dare say; Jean would kill him for sure. Furiously, she beat on the man until she was exhausted. She was so angry she considered killing him, but she didn’t know how she could get rid of the body. And, then, she’d have to clean up a lot of blood. What if the girl came home early and brought her friends with her like she had before?? She took a breath and tried to calm down. Everything would be okay, she told herself over and over with every pounding heartbeat. Soon, Anney would be sleeping on her couch and Jean would have everything under control again.
When Jean told a battered Njab to get into the car, he whined he was hungry. He wanted a burger and some fries. She made him a peanut butter sandwich on stale bread with no jam to eat in the car on the way back to the yacht. What he held in his hand was far, far from what he was hoping for. Even if she hadn’t just given him the beating of his life, there was no way she was going to risk some burger joint’s security camera picking up the two going through a drive-through. What was the man thinking? She’d just beat the crap out of him and he had the nerve to ask for a burger and fries? He was lucky he still had a throat to swallow with. Jean could barely keep her hands off the knife drawer. She’d become very adept with a knife while she was in Africa. She had a gun—that would be less messy, but it was also noisier. This was a quiet neighborhood; someone might hear the gunfire. Njab ate the sandwich in tiny bites to keep his bruised stomach from throwing it back up. He had no doubt there would be no food on the yacht. Whatever they’d had was scarce and they wouldn’t have saved him any. They would have assumed that Jean had fed him.
***
Over at Jeremy and Paul’s, Anney was surprised at how hungry she was. She looked down at the plate Paul set before her that was loaded with grilled pork, pineapple, and zucchini with astonishment. “Paul! You cooked all this? It looks wonderful!”
“Thanks,” Paul said. “Jeremy got me a grill for Christmas and I started using it right away. I even grill when it’s raining,” he grinned.
“It smells so good it sometimes drives the neighbors crazy,” Jeremy said. “We’ve even had people go into the restaurant below us and ask what’s cooking. Now, he’s threatening to take the grill to Hawaii when we go so he can grill on the beach,” as he spoke, he shook his head no.
Paul playfully took Jeremy’s plate away from him but gave it back when Jeremy winked at him.
He listened with great interest to all the details of Anney’s problem. Once in a while, he’d look at Bentley and raise an eyebrow. Quietly, Bentley would nod in agreement. In agreement of what, she wasn’t sure. What’s more, she was too tired to care. It had been a long day and she couldn’t see the end of it. It could be hours before her head hit the pillow and, then, she’d be in someone else’s house. Not that she wasn’t grateful for Jean’s hospitality but, just like Dorothy, Anne felt there was no place like home.
Bentley’s cell phone rang a few times during the meal. Once, it was Jean asking if it was alright for her to let some guy from Anney’s store into her apartment to look for fingerprints. It was obvious that she didn’t believe they were accountants and that she was just playing along. “I could tell she wasn’t happy about it,” Bentley told his friends, “and she didn’t seem at all like the nice matronly lady you guys raved about,” he commented. Something isn’t right. What was she afraid of? He wondered to himself. Did she think that a government man would steal something? Or maybe that the guy would notice some kind of safety infraction? Seattle was hard on safety violations in rentals. That could be it. Some of the older Seattle homes were close together and a fire in one could easily spread to more before it was contained. Jack called Bentley right after that, so there was no time to speculate more about Jean’s reluctance about Anney’s visitors. After he got Anney settled at Jean’s, he’d call Jack back and talk to him about it. Most likely, he’d be in his office; he worked late. There was no one to go home to. Well, Jack did have a big cat he doted on…often, he and the cat visited Bentley’s office in the evenings to have a few beers and shoot some hoops.
At the end of the evening, the fingerprint expert called Bentley to let him know he was leaving the apartment and that he’d lock up. “What took you so long?” Bentley asked.
“Bentley, there were fingerprints everywhere. Especially around her lingerie drawer. It was kind of creepy. I couldn’t figure out what he was looking for but maybe he’s just some kind of sicko. All I know for sure is he didn’t bother to wear gloves!”
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Note: This is a scary topic but it is written to inform and entertain ages 19-29 yrs.
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Thanks for stopping by! Janelle
Photo was taken just before a performance of my Geronimo, Life on the Reservation show at Joel McCrea’s Ranch in Thousand Oaks, California. What nice people!
Rudy Ramos as Geronimo
Rudy is now filming Season 2 of Yellowstone with Kevin Costner
and a whole cast of wonderful actors. Written by Taylor Sheridan.
VOTE, WOMEN, VOTE!
EVERYONE is talking about our presidential election in 2020. But if we don’t all turn out and vote THIS NOVEMBER, we will have lost the battle. The Republican party is sharpening its knives to cut our medical, social security, and more. THEN they’ll give the money to the rich in tax cuts and other benefits.
MEANWHILE, the poor get poorer.
Are you in agriculture? Think that big tax cut for farmers is going to help you? Think again. That money will go to the big corporations who are growing food. Not the small farmer.
The same goes for other independent businesses. The rich will get the tax breaks. Our taxes will go up. Even now, when everyone is rejoicing over the increase in pay, inflation is eating up that extra money. Most of you will never see that money in your pocket.
Sure, DUMP TRUMP! But first, get rid of the greedy Republicans who are enabling him. Aren’t you tired of working so hard for so little?
Janelle
P.S. During the Vietnam War, Nixon gave a speech that said, “…the Silent Majority” was with him. I wrote the White House and commented, “The Silent majority isn’t silent because we agree with you. We’re silent because we’re busy praying.”
My husband, who was in Vietnam at the time, was worried. “You didn’t sign it, did you?” he asked. “Of course, I did,” I replied. “This is still a free country, isn’t it?”
So please, forgive me for injecting politics into a literary blog, but free speech is important to a writer. It’s more important to a democracy. Think of it as my test to see if we still have a democracy: THIS IS STILL A FREE COUNTRY, ISN’T IT?
Don’t forget that thing I wrote about voting…don’t wait until 2020. Vote this November. It’s important, or I wouldn’t ask you….(; God bless America.
Janelle (Please share this post!)
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Do you like Geronimo and Old West stories? I’ve been writing about Geronimo for years (I’m from Oklahoma!). Before I wrote Geronimo, Life on the Reservation, I wrote a Kindle short titled Escape to Laredo. In it, there’s a mention of Geronimo avoiding trains. I think you’ll like it:
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Escape to Laredo
Riding the train to America
Escape to Laredo, a literary Western short story. To escape a greedy, dangerous brother-in-law, Gregoria Marteen and her children are fleeing to America on a train after the death of her husband…
Thrown off the train in the middle of a desert because she didn’t have her tickets, Gregoria and her children have been rescued by a cowboy on his way to town for supplies…
Under a full moon, the combination of the cool air and the drops of water in her mouth from Wade’s canteen brought Gregoria around. The unorthodox picnic of biscuits and peaches was gobbled up by the children as if it were a Sunday meal at their father’s restaurante. When the food was gone, Wade loaded the woman onto his saddle, handed her the baby, and stacked the little girl with a head full of dark curls behind their mother. For safety and warmth, he tied her to her mother with a shawl he’d found among the discarded clothing. The little darling whispered in his ear, “I have some gold coins in my pocket. Want one?”
Wade smiled. Poor kid. If she had toy coins they must be all she had. As far as Wade could tell, the toddler didn’t even have a doll. What little girl didn’t have a doll? “No, honey, you keep it. Maybe you can buy yourself some ice cream when we get to town.” Her little face brightened at the thought.
A pastry chef, Gregoria’s first job in Texas is at Bettye Buford’s Bed & Table. It does not go well. Suitable for all ages. Kindle short. $1.99.
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Thanks for stopping by! Janelle
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This is the second book inn my Turtle Trilogy, but it stands alone.
As Brown As I Want book trailer
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Back cover:
The summer of 1952, Lawton, Oklahoma… Eight-year-old Glory has a father who has taken out a $50,000 accidental-death insurance policy on her–now he’s spending the summer trying to collect.
In his first attempt, he throws Glory into a snake-infested lake, but a giant snapping turtle that Glory has been feeding scares the snakes away.
Glory writes in her diary: “Well, Powwow Pete drove us home to talk to Mom but we didn’t get very far. Mom thinks I just have a wild imagination. At least Powwow Pete believes me. I think it was the turtle that killed it for Mom.
“How could there be a turtle that big?” she scoffed. They talked some more and Powwow Pete got kind of mad and got up to leave.
This was one of those times when a kid thinks they’re talking about a turtle but the grown-ups are really talking about something else entirely. In this case, I think Pete was accusing Mom of still loving my dad, but he never said that, he just kept talking about the turtle. Mom was doing the same thing: talking about the turtle but meaning she didn’t want to get messed up with some guy who was a pathology liar (Glory can’t spell).
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This book is #2 in my Turtle Trilogy. They’re all a good read, I promise!
Kevin Costner as John Dutton
This summer, Kevin Costner stars in a new series, Yellowstone on the Paramount Channel (formerly Spike).
Kevin Costner’s character, John Dutton, controls a large cattle ranch with a lot of problems: an encroaching town, discord with the nearby Indian reservation, and four adult children.
The show follows the Dutton family, led by Kevin’s character, John Dutton. He controls the largest contiguous cattle ranch in the United States. To save his ranch, he deals with unsolved murders, open emotional wounds, and more. Even worse, the ranch is in a constant state of turmoil with greedy developers, an encroaching town, disputes with Native Americans over ownership of cattle, and America’s first national park. John is also dealing with his four adult children: Lee, Beth, Jamie, and Cory.
Filmed in Montana and Utah, the scenery is beyond gorgeous.
Beautifully written and directed by Taylor Sheridan (Sicario, Hell and High Water). Executive producer, John Linson.
Rudy Ramos plays Felix Long. My readers will remember him as Wind in the TV series High Chaparral, Geronimo, Life on the Reservation (a one-man touring show about Geronimo after he surrendered and was sent to the reservation), and appearances on many other television shows. 
Rudy as Wind
Rudy as Geronimo
I know Rudy has many fans on my Pinterest, Facebook, and WordPress sites. You’ll want to know that starting on August 1st, you can see Rudy in episodes 6, 7, 8, & 9 (the season finale). Let’s all watch!
Other cast members include:
Luke Grimes, Kelly Reilly, Wes Bentley, Cole Hauser, Kelsey Asbille, Brecken Merrill, Gil Birmingham, Ian Bohen, Jefferson White, Danny Huston, Denim Richards, Windy Moniz, Dave Annable…and many, many more.
I hope to be adding more photos of the rest of the cast as they become available. I have no affiliation with Yellowstone, so I don’t have the resources available to me that a pro has! I did, however, write the Geronimo, Life on the Reservation show for Rudy. Is it any wonder that I am such a Taylor Sheridan fan? (:
My new novel. Suspense/Romance
Kindle. Order on Amazon:
“Trust your instincts, them follow them.”
Other beach-worthy reads
Available on Amazon and other Internet bookstores
Thanks for stopping by! Janelle
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Ariaa Jaeger
This is not America, sung by Ariaa Jaeger
God bless America!
Vote, America, VOTE!
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My mother was a funny person, even as a child. I found this page from my mother’s journal in my computer this morning. She wrote it in 1983 after I had asked her about her childhood (writer’s tend to be very archival.). I think it is a real window into the life of a migrant in Oklahoma. It was 1934 when she was five-years-old. When my mother was about seven-years-old, she sewed her first garment. She told me it was a bra with a big green bead in the center; she thought it was so glamorous! Her siblings teased her so much about it that she poked it into a hole in her bedroom wall to get rid of it forever. Mom became an amazing seamstress who could sew a garment for a customer just by looking at a photo–without a pattern. In her later years, she worked at The Bon Marche (now Macy’s) as an alteration lady and a designer of wedding veils. Later, she owned R-Zak’s, an officers’ uniform store in Lawton, Oklahoma. I hope you enjoy it:
I was five-years-old and I had found my first pet. A cute little dog. It disappeared before I had even named him. I was too young to know if my mother had given him away, she kept telling me that he would come back. I cried for days.
We were at a farm where Dad had been hired for the cotton season, as was the custom, the owner had given Dad two big tents. One for sleeping—one to use as a kitchen.
I was happy, but very quiet, and very serious. I was too small to pick cotton, so my first job was to take drinking water to them. The way to the cotton field was all warm brown sand, and I use to dance all the way.
After the water drinking, I just stayed and walked beside my Dad, we talked, and he taught me one Spanish song, when he sang this song, he would look very sad.
Lunchtime, we all walked home. The flaps of the tent would be rolled up, and we could see mother cooking. She would be making her favorite bread made like biscuits and pulled long as she put them in the pan.
Beans, rice, and a big bowl of hot peppers, plus coffee which I wasn’t allowed to drink, but I drained all the cups after they left the table. Our table was a long board table with a bench on each side. Mother always had tablecloths made out of white sugar sacks with flowers embroidered all over.
When the cotton season was over, we moved to Cyril, OK. I was almost seven, and time to start school.
Then the fun started, since I was always hungry, I developed a scheme how to get candy, apples and Indian bread from the Indian kids. It was so easy since I was the teacher’s pet, and she thought I could do no wrong. I would trade my tablets, pencils, crayons for any thing that looked good—then all I had to do was shed a few tears and I got all my things back. And the kids would get the ruler for taking “things from Little Grace.” One day I made a big haul—one apple, 1 orange, one Milky Way bar all for my Red Chief Indian tablet. During recess,I inhaled all this stuff. When we went back it was time for penmanship. I started my act, I was so upset I couldn’t even say the boy’s name. I just pointed to him. He got a spanking—I got my tablet—what an actress!
My school days were cut short when my dad decided to try his hand at farming, he leased a farm three-miles from Cyril. After a year he gave up, he didn’t know how to run a two-horse plow, he didn’t know how to milk a cow.
So back to Cyril, he rented part of a house from an Indian lady she had three-sons-one daughter the two older boys beat the drum and sang all night long.
About that time some of the men with families started moving to Lawton, we had had enough of drumming, so we moved also. We landed in tent town, east of Lawton, my dad and brother set up a tent, but didn’t secure it right so that night a strong wind came up, and we woke up with a tent on top of us.
My father started looking for a house. He found one on Bell Street, three rooms, with an out-house. We lived there about three years, then we moved to a big house with a bathroom.
On my eighteenth birthday my dad bought me a bed room suite. I was real popular, I danced I played softball with a team—I was real interested in art, but we couldn’t afford lessons. I earned money working for my Sunday school teacher.
Times were hard, the county was helping us with staples. Every month the man would bring a box with Flour—cornmeal, syrup, sugar, coffee cheese and cans of chopped meat.
I made all my clothes, without a pattern, we did have a paddle Singer sewing machine. I had a lot of friends, but boys didn’t like me—they all called me sis, maybe if they had seen my legs they would have liked me, but dad didn’t allow us to wear shorts or short sleeves.
Our home life was good—no fights, no quarrels. I only saw my dad angry once when mother used his hammer from his tool box and didn’t put it back. He was going to leave us. Then he went in the kitchen and made coffee. One thing was for sure, she put everything back when she used his tools.
This is one of my last photos of my mother. Her story was the basis for my first novel, A Three-Turtle Summer.
There’s more, but I’ll stop for now in case you’re busy!
Thanks for stopping by!
Janelle
See my books and stories on Amazon and other Internet bookstores:
My newest novel. Amazon Kindle.
How does a One-way Cruise to Africa end up in Tombstone?
“¿Dònde Estàn Tus Cuentos?”
(Where Are Your Stories?)
by Janelle Meraz Hooper
I heard stories on my grandmother’s knee
Stories of coming to a new country,
Stories of courage, living, and strife.
I listened to stories at my mother’s feet
Stories of leaving home
Stories of lust and men and being a wife.
I listened to stories by my father’s bed
Stories of growing up in Texas
Stories of homesteads, ranches, and war.
I listened to stories in my neighbor’s swing
Stories of childhood and getting by
Stories of success and failure, and more.
I listened to stories from an old man
Stories of the West, and Indians
Stories of cowboys, and skies of blue.
I listened to them all and remember all
Stories that fill my head and
Now I share them with you.
“Dònde estàn tus cuentos?”
Share them with me and I will listen
Until the stars come out—
From my short story book
Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Suitable for all
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© 2018 photo by Hooper
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Excerpt: For the love of cake
You know how I love cake. Always have. I just found a few words about cake in my first romance, Bears in the Hibiscus. In this book, it was a huge wedding cake that had been ordered to be the centerpiece in a double wedding…
For weeks after he and Mary were married, Mark offered the leftover wedding cake that was taking up a whole shelf in his mother’s freezer to Jackson and Cameron for their marriage. It became such a joke that Mary was afraid Jackson would actually try to use it. She, Elizabeth, and Cameron devised plan after plan of how to get rid of the leftover cake that wasn’t aging well because it had a custard filling. Most of the schemes involved dynamite of some kind. In the end, Jackson and Cameron, the two lovebirds, opted to get married in Hawaii, so Elizabeth and Mary shoveled the unwanted cake into a wheel barrel, rolled it to the dock, and fed it to the seagulls, bite by bite…
This is a fun book; perfect if you need a break from politics!
Please share this post! Many thanks! Janelle
]]>HI! I’m putting chapter samples of my Turtle Trilogy at the back of my new book, A One-way Cruise to Africa, and thought my blog readers might enjoy them too. Some of you may have already read the book but I have a lot of new subscribers who may have missed it.
A Three-Turtle Summer
The first book in the Turtle Trilogy
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Chapter 1.
A Sister in Trouble
(Grace and Glory are struggling to gain their freedom from Glory’s father)
Fort Sill, Oklahoma, July, 1949…It was too hot to play cards, especially if someone were keeping score, and Vera was. “Ay, carumba! You can’t stand to go two hours without beating someone at something can you?” Grace Tyler playfully pouted. Vera ignored her little sister, and began shuffling cards as she gleefully announced, “Senoras, the game is canasta, and we’re going to play according to Hoyle.” She began to deal the cards like a Las Vegas gambler while Pauline laughed and pointed at her mother, a notorious and frequent card-cheater. Everyone was hot, but in her long-sleeved shirt and long skirt, Grace was sweltering. Sweat beaded up on her forehead and neck and she kept stretching her legs out because the backs of her knees stuck to her skirt. “Gracie, for God’s sake, go put some shorts on,” Vera said. Grace ignored her sister, pulled her shirt away from her perspiring chest and asked, “Anyone want more iced tea before Vera whips the pants off of us?” Momma and Pauline both nodded and Grace poured tea over fresh ice cubes while Vera got a tablet and pencil out of her purse.
The room was almost silent as each woman arranged her hand. Only Momma barely tapped her foot and softly sang a song from her childhood under her breath:
“The fair senorita with the rose in her hair…
worked in the cantina but she didn’t care…
played cards with the men and took all their loot…awh-ha!
went to the store and bought brand new boots…”
“Awh-Haaa!” Grace’s five-year-old daughter Glory joined in. Unconsciously, the other two women started to hum along while they looked at their hand. About the second “Awh-Haaa!” Vera abruptly stopped humming and looked at her sisters with a raised eyebrow. Something was fishy; Momma was much too happy. Barely containing their amusement, they watched as she cheerfully arranged her cards. Finally, unable to suppress her laughter any longer, Vera jumped up, snatched the cards out of her mother’s hands, and fanned them face-up across the table. “Ay, ay, ay!” She cried out, “Momma, tell me how can you have a meld and eleven cards in your hand when we’ve just gotten started?” The fun escalated as Vera rushed around the table and ran her hands all around her mother and the chair she sat on to feel for extra cards. “Stand up!” Grace and her sisters said as they pulled their mother to her feet. They shook her blue calico dress and screamed with laughter as extra cards fell from every fold. “Glory,” Vera told her young niece, “crawl under the table and get those cards for your Auntie Vera, okay?” Grace moved her feet to the side so that her daughter could scramble under the table. Her childish giggles danced around the women’s feet as she scrambled for the extra cards that dropped from her grandmother’s dress. “Momma,” Vera laughed, “you’re a born cheater. How did you know we were going to play cards today?” she asked.
“I’m not the only one in this family who’s been caught with a few too many cards,” Momma said in her defense.
“Yes, but you’re the family matriarch. We expect better of you than we do our good-for-nothing brothers,” Pauline said.
“Huh! Matriarch, my foot. You girls never listen to a word I say,” Momma grumbled.
“Maybe that’s because we can’t trust you,” Vera said. As another card dropped from Gregoria’s dress and slid across the floor, Vera added, “We’ll strip you down to your rosary before we ever play cards with you again, Momma.”
“Yeah,” Pauline, Vera’s sister, chimed in, “the next time you’ll play in nothing but your lace step-ins and a bra made from two tortillas.”
“Well, at least I’ll be the coolest one at the table,” Momma chirped.
Vera reached across the table to gather all the cards and reshuffle them. “We’re going to start all over, and we’ll watch you every minute.”
Grace felt a sharp pain in her stomach when she looked up and saw her husband’s scowling face through the screen door. Why was he home so early? She didn’t have to look at him again to know his normally handsome blond features smoldered with disgust. Dwayne hated for Grace to have her family over. There would be trouble once her family left, since the room was heavy with the smell of pinto beans and tortillas. When they visited it was bad enough. It irked Dwayne even more when her dark-skinned family stayed for meals. “Gawd almighty!” Grace had mimicked earlier in Dwayne’s high twangy voice to her sisters, “A Texan breakin’ bread with tacos! What will folks be thinkin’?” The minute Grace’s family saw Dwayne, their laughter died, and they quickly packed up their cards, crochet cotton, and magazines that had filled a hot afternoon with laughter and joy. One by one, they lined up to leave through the back door.
Grace said a quick goodbye to her mother and sisters and moved away from the narrow doorway as the women filed past Dwayne. She held her breath as Pauline and Vera passed the loathsome soldier. She never knew what her sisters might say. All she could count on was that her mother would deliberately say something sweet to him. Always gracious, she wasn’t one to pick a fight. “Poor thing, you look absolutely beat,” Gregoria Ramirez said to Dwayne as she winked at Grace. “We’re going to get out of here so you can take a nap before dinner.” Her mother’s words were mollifying, but Gregoria didn’t walk around Dwayne to rush out the door. Instead, she stood her ground and looked him straight in the eyes until she intimidated him into stepping out of her way. When Grace’s mother stepped onto the porch she leisurely adjusted the plastic tortoise shell combs that held her long, dark hair in a bun. Then she fished her clip earrings that matched her outfit out of her dress pocket and put them back on her ears. Grace gasped when she saw her mother nonchalantly slip another extra card that was also in her pocket into her purse before she stepped onto the sidewalk.
Pauline was next in line. “Dwayne, this heat’s too much for you, it’s over a hundred today, you’d better take it easy,” she cautioned. The sound of her high heels click-click-clicked on the shiny kitchen floor and made Dwayne cringe. From the beginning of her marriage to Dwayne, Grace had been caught in the ferocious sandstorm that swirled around him and her sisters whenever they were together. Raised on a cattle ranch where his father’s booze bottles almost outnumbered the cattle, Dwayne didn’t know what to think of Pauline’s high-heeled shoes and frilly clothes. He just knew he didn’t like them. For her part, Pauline never considered making any changes to accommodate the manipulative soldier her sister had married.
Dwayne clinched his jaw and refused to let himself look down at Pauline’s high heels as she passed him, but she knew that he knew that she wore them. Always playful, she did a quick step on her way to the door. The ruffles on her colorful full skirt moved to the music her heels made as she walked. Before she passed Dwayne, she adjusted her peasant style blouse with the elastic around the top to make sure her bosom wasn’t exposed. It was a subtle movement; only Grace noticed it. Pauline lingered in the doorway as she said goodbye to Grace, then glided out the door and tossed her long, wavy black hair. The movement jangled her large, golden earrings as she crossed the threshold. “Adios, Muchacho!” she called to Dwayne, as she gave him a backward wave. Grace’s eyes flew to Dwayne to see if he noticed that her middle finger stayed up longer than the others. He didn’t. He was already looking at Vera.
“You look like hell,” Vera said as she passed a sweaty and wrinkled Dwayne, “and you could use a shower. Phew!” she added as she marched out the door. Grace saw her mother give Vera a sharp look when she got to the porch, but her oldest daughter just shrugged her chubby shoulders, as if to say it was the best she could do. This cowboy had used up all his good graces with her.
Grace wasn’t surprised Dwayne had remained quiet while her family left. She imagined that he had plenty to say; he just didn’t dare say it. Not with these women, who weren’t as meek as she was. She couldn’t tell which woman he feared the most: the mother, quiet but cunning; Vera, outspoken, tough, and fearless; or Pauline, who could cut a man to ribbons with her tongue and flirt with him at the same time. As Vera reached the sidewalk at the bottom of the porch stairs, Pauline broke into a sprint ahead of her across the yard to Vera’s car and jumped into the back seat, still giggling. Pauline had given her first gringo salute when she held up her finger to Dwayne, and she was tickled with herself. Even her mother’s look of disapproval couldn’t dampen her glee. When Gregoria opened the car door on the passenger side to get into the front, Pauline buried her face between her legs in her ruffled skirt, to muffle her laughter. Vera opened the door on the driver’s side and stopped outside the car to light a Kool and let some of the hot air out of the car before she got in. She waved a final goodbye to Grace just before she slid behind the wheel and started the old blue Cadillac. Grace’s heart ached when she saw Vera’s car move out of the parking lot. To avoid raising dust in the neighborhood, Vera drove so slowly that Grace thought about grabbing Glory and making a run for the car. But if she left now, it could make Dwayne mad enough to divorce her and file custody papers for their daughter before she was ready. She could leave her marriage anytime. The trick would be leaving with Glory. She was convinced that the courts often awarded custody of mixed blood children to white fathers because their perception was that the children would be more educated and better off economically in a white environment. It was much like the theory that Indian children would be better off if they were forcefully separated from their Indian culture and raised away from home in white schools.
***
Vera headed the old Cadillac for the highway and blew her cigarette smoke out the window as Gregoria halfheartedly said, “Vera, you must show respect to the men in the family, the way we did to Poppa.”
“When he acts like Poppa did, I’ll show respect,” Vera answered. “Did you see how mad he was? He just can’t stand to see us have a good time. I’d like to see our baby sister dump that pain-in-the-ass sourpuss. He’ll never treat her right.”
“Look where they’re living, on the far edge of the post, in old converted Army barracks. It’s worse than Dogpatch out there,” Pauline joined in.
“Yeah, it breaks my heart to see Grace married to that awful slouch. Momma, how did Poppa ever allow that?” Vera asked her mother.
“Ayyy, Vera, by the time Gracie met Dwayne, Poppa was already sick. He couldn’t stop Dwayne, and you girls were off with your new husbands,” Momma groaned. “Dwayne made your Poppa so miserable. Juan worked so hard to fit in here, and Dwayne did everything he could to make him feel like he didn’t belong. He always refused to believe your father had a college degree in engineering from the University of Mexico. He treated him like he was nothing but a cotton picker. Your poppa only picked cotton when it was the Depression, and he needed to put food on the table.” Momma dabbed at her eyes. The women nodded their heads in agreement, as if they’d never heard the stories before.
“Yeah, I remember that gun he used to carry for rattlesnakes in the fields,” Pauline jumped in. “Poppa was a perfect shot. BAM! Those snakes were dead as sticks.”
“Pauline, you don’t really believe that?” Vera laughed as she looked at her sister in the rearview mirror. “Poppa couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with that old gun. It was loaded with snake shot. He couldn’t miss because the pellets sprayed everywhere. That’s why he always told us to stand way back.”
“Really?” Pauline asked. “I thought it was so we wouldn’t get snake blood all over us.”
Just before they dropped Pauline off at her tiny garage apartment, Vera asked, “Sis, do you and Boyd want to come over and listen to my new records tonight? I’ve got all the new ones, even Nat King Cole.”
“Naw, Boyd is off somewhere, he may not even get home for dinner,” her eyes avoided Vera’s staring suspiciously at her in the rear view mirror.
“Come without him. Benny is going to show us how to samba. You can come as you are, no one else will be there. I want to learn a new dance before Rudolf takes me to the officers’ club Saturday night.”
Pauline was obviously uneasy, but with Momma in the car, Vera couldn’t dig any deeper. Besides, if her sister were having trouble with Boyd, she’d handle it. Pauline was tough. Grace was the sister Vera was worried about. Her little sister was in over her head and too stubborn to admit it. Momma’s favorite, Grace had been kept so close to home that she’d never had any experience with men when she was growing up. At the time, Dwayne must have looked good to her naïve sister. Anyone else with more savvy would have thrown him head first into a creek and never looked back.
“Maybe. Will Grace come?” Pauline pouted, as she sank further into the back seat, her mind still on Grace’s cranky husband. “I asked her and she said she’d ask Dwayne,” Vera answered. “But you know Dwayne doesn’t like us or our music, and he has never been a dancer. He doesn’t even two-step to that country music he loves to torture us with.”
***
Her mother and sisters gone, Grace braced herself for the latest tirade from Dwayne as she started dinner. She didn’t have to wait long. Dwayne stood behind Grace and ranted at her as she breaded perch with a combination of flour and cornmeal. When she moved back and forth from the countertop by the sink to the stove, he followed her so she wouldn’t miss a word. “The fish you caught look good, Dwayne,” Grace chatted as she tried to soften his anger. It was an honest compliment. Dwayne had a lot of faults, but he was one heck of a fisherman. The day before, he’d gone fishing on the way home from work and caught a whole stringer full of perch before it started to get dark. They didn’t eat them that night because Grace already had dinner on the table when he got home. Dwayne was only briefly pleased at the compliment. Soon he was back to running down Grace’s family as she peeled potatoes to fry in one of her big wrought iron skillets. “Why the hell can’t you keep your family out of here?” Dwayne yelled as he jerked his fatigue hat off his head and threw it across the room. “What if I’d brought one of the officers from the battalion home? Do you think one of them would want to see a bunch of women sittin’ around playin’ cards and gibberin’ in Spanish the minute he walked through the door?”
“I’m sorry, Dwayne, I never thought you’d be home so early.” Grace’s lower lip quivered, and her words tumbled out on top of each other like potatoes that rolled out of an overturned sack. “But we weren’t speaking Spanish, Dwayne, we weren’t!” Grace hustled around the kitchen to get Dwayne a goblet of iced tea. She desperately wanted to go to Vera’s. Not only would it be fun but it would also keep Dwayne away from her for the evening. She knew she didn’t dare ask to go until he was in a better mood. Grace held her breath as he looked around the kitchen and gave the air an arrogant sniff before he sipped his tea.
“It’s a good thing you pepper-bellies just eat beans. Otherwise, I’d be in the poor house,” he sneered as he lit a Camel. It wasn’t just the food. Dwayne even resented her mother and sisters when they brought the food with them. He never hid the fact that he felt her family wasn’t worth his time. Only Rudolf, Vera’s husband, an Army colonel, ever got more than a few grunts from him.
“I’m sorry, Dwayne. It’s just that they were here all day, and we got so hungry, and Glory had to eat something. I just warmed up some leftover beans and Momma made a few tortillas. It was nothing fancy.”
“It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Grace.” Dwayne lit another cigarette from what was left of the last one. “And we’re not rich. We’ve got to spend our time and money on the people who can do us some good.” Dwayne finished his iced tea and left the glass on the table, where a puddle of condensation formed at its base and crept like a bleeding wound across the old table with the red, marbleized plastic top. The pattern of the moisture disturbed Grace and she hurried to wipe it up.
“Okay. Vera invited us over tonight. Everybody will be there. Benny’s going to be there to show Vera how to samba, and I haven’t seen him for a while. But, if you don’t want to go, I’ll call and say we’re staying home.”
“We were invited to Vera’s? Is Rudolf going to be there?” When Grace nodded yes, she noticed his interest perked up. “Call them,” he urged, “tell them we’ll be over as soon as we eat. In this man’s Army, it could come in real handy to be on good terms with a colonel.” On his way down the hall to change out of his uniform, he said loudly over his shoulder so Grace could hear, “And I’ve got a business idea to talk over with your mother.”
Grace, who was at the stove serving the fish and fried potatoes on plates, rolled her eyes. Just what made him think her mother would be interested in one of his screwy business plans? “Call her,” Dwayne shouted again from the bathroom. Grace went to the bathroom and stood outside the door. “There’s no need to call her. She said to come if we could,” Grace explained. “I think she’s just serving drinks and that cocktail cereal-mix she makes up in the oven. It’ll be an early night since everyone has to work tomorrow.” As soon as they ate, Grace ran to get herself and Glory ready to go before something happened to change Dwayne’s mind.
***
Even though she hurried, when the Tylers pulled into Vera’s driveway, everyone else was already there. Her brother Benny was in the large living room of the old house with Vera, demonstrating his latest dance step. Vera, who’d always been a quick study, followed right along. “Gracie,” Benny called to Grace, “come dance with me. Vera’s already got it.”
“Is this the samba?” Grace asked, bubbling over with excitement. On his way to Grace, Benny grabbed Glory and twirled her around the living room before she ran to play with her cousin Carlos, Pauline’s son. Carlos was underneath Vera’s large dining room table busily building a skyscraper out of dominos and cards.
“Glory, you’ll be a great little dancer someday,” Benny called after Glory, “just stick with your Uncle Ben.” Glory turned and giggled as she joined Carlos. Grace wasn’t surprised to see that Rudolf and Vera’s two boys hadn’t stuck around. Her nephews were already in high school and seldom hung around for their mother’s impromptu dance parties. They often teased their mother and Grace by going out the door while they sang, “It must be jelly ’cause jam don’t shake like that,” lyrics they’d heard on one of their mother’s records. The whole family—even Dwayne—laughed as Benny playfully grabbed Grace and dipped her all the way to the floor before they even started to dance. Used to her brother’s antics, she followed the movement gracefully and came up following Benny step for step, with her eyes on her brother’s feet. Rudolf sat in a corner of the living room in a big easy chair, reading the paper. When the dancers stopped to change records, his twinkling eyes peeked over the paper and he called out encouragement to Vera. Rudolf was never an enthusiastic dancer, but he liked a wife who looked good on the dance floor. Vera told Grace she could always count on Rudolf to dance the night away—as long as they played nothing but waltzes. A popular dancer, Vera was never short of partners at the Officers’ Club so she was content to let Rudolf sit and visit with their friends when they went out for the night. With barely a nod to the other members of the family, Dwayne headed for Rudolf. He was too dense to notice that the colonel pulled his paper up over his face when he saw Dwayne coming his way.
Before Dwayne could sit down in an easy chair next to the colonel, he had to move a pile of fabric and carpet swatches that Vera was using in her latest redecorating project. “Jesussss-Christ,” Dwayne said as he looked for a place to lay the handful of samples. “You oughta kick Vera’s butt for spendin’ so much of your money.”
Rudolf put down his paper and gave him a stony stare. Dwayne could barely hear him with the music blaring, so Rudolf was sure no one else heard him say, “What my wife and I do with our money is our business, Dwayne.” He didn’t say anymore before he picked up his paper and began to read again. That put Dwayne’s tail between his legs and he didn’t know what to do next. How could Rudolf not be mad as hell about the money Vera spent? He wasn’t prepared for such a rebuff. He should have shut up, but Dwayne blundered on, like a cannon rolling downhill and picking up speed as its metal wheels banged over the rocks. “Well, if it were me, I wouldn’t have no use for a woman who spent my money and did nothing but play bridge all day.” Rudolf made no reply as he gave Dwayne another icy stare and went to make himself a fresh drink. He didn’t bother to offer his brother-in-law one. Dwayne didn’t even notice the slight; he was so dumbfounded that his last statement hadn’t turned Rudolf around and made him see things his way. It was all so clear to him. Couldn’t Rudolf see Vera would drain his bank account dry? Rudolf never came back, and instead disappeared without a word into his bedroom.
Left alone with his gangly legs jutting out from the low couch, Dwayne finally made an awkward move to the other side of the room to talk to Pauline. He looked down at the high heels she wore. Well, if Rudolf wouldn’t listen to him, at least he could straighten Pauline out. “Pauline,” Dwayne said as he pointed to her feet, “the only other women I’ve seen wear shoes like that were whores. You’d better stop buying those things. People will start to talk.”
“Oh, tell me, Dwayne, have you seen a lot of whores? Where?” she asked as she rolled her eyes at her mother. Dwayne was the only man who made her husband Boyd—although he was absent—look good to her. In Spanish, she said something to her mother about Vera and snakes. He was pretty sure Pauline was telling her mother that Vera had said he was a rattlesnake. Dwayne didn’t understand the rest, but he’d heard the Spanish word for snake—serpiente—often on post. Momma nodded, and pretended to talk about Glory in Spanish, but Dwayne wasn’t fooled. He knew they were putting him down again. Dwayne was beside himself, but he didn’t want to go home until he’d accomplished his main mission: to get money from Grace’s mother for his ranch. Grace was still dancing with Benny. Vera and Pauline had joined them, so Dwayne rushed to the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. It should be easy to get the old lady to do things his way. She didn’t even know how to read English. For sure, she’d do what he told her. “Momma, I’ve been thinkin’,” Dwayne said to his mother-in-law as he handed her a cup of coffee. “Why on earth are you still living in that big ole house by yourself? You should sell that thing and move into an apartment.”
“Why, what would I do with myself in an apartment? I’d have no garden. Besides, I’m happy where I am; all of my memories of Juan are there in that house. It’s the only home we ever had that was ours.”
“Momma, you’d better think about it, you’re getting old, and one of these days you’re gonna fall in that house and there won’t be any one there to help you. Besides, you could get a ton of money for that old place. Property values are going through the roof around here.”
“Dwayne,” said Momma, puzzled by Dwayne’s forcefulness, “I don’t need money. I live simply and I have everything I want.”
“Well,” Dwayne pushed on, “you should be thinkin’ of Glory. She’s gonna have to go to college someday, ya’ know, and if you took the money from the house and invested it in my cattle ranch, you’d have a nice little nest egg for her when she needs it.” Dwayne thought it was a pretty convincing argument; everyone knew that she adored Glory.
“Oh, so you want me to sell my house and give you the money?” Dwayne saw the beginning of a smile at the corners of Gregoria’s lips. “My coffee needs more sugar. Would you get me some?” She handed her cup to Dwayne who was glad to have an excuse to escape to the kitchen. He needed to think. What should he say next? When Dwayne could think of nothing else to say, he couldn’t control the anger he felt. He had to get out of that house before he started to beat the shit out of everyone there. In fact, if the two men hadn’t been there, things could have gotten real ugly. What makes these women so damned uppity? he wondered. When he was growing up on the ranch, his mother never dressed up and wore high heels and spent all kinds of money to decorate her house like these women did. His dad would have beat the livin’ tar out of her and told her to go feed the cows. He always told Dwayne that women who didn’t do what their husbands told them were whores and should be treated like whores. Clean and simple. No ifs, ands, or buts. With no warning, Dwayne came back to the living room and shouted, “Grace! Time to go home. Get Glory and let’s get started. Gotta work tomorrow.” He walked over to the phonograph and dragged the needle off the spinning record, putting a long scratch in it.
Startled, Grace gathered up Glory and raced out the door, while Dwayne pushed them from behind. As they got to their car, they heard the music start up again, louder than before; he was sure it was Pauline who turned the music up as a final salute to him.
***
In the car, Grace listened to Dwayne’s opinions of her family all the way home. He’d worked himself into a real good lather as he went on and on about what whores her sisters were. Grace was afraid to take her eyes off the tall, blond soldier. At any moment, she thought, he might hit her.
Dwayne held off his anger until they were in their quarters. Then his anger flew out of control. While he yelled, he pulled Grace into the hallway, where she was trapped in a space just wide enough for one person to pass. First, an arm flew out from his body and he backhanded Grace across the face and sent her into a spin to the opposite wall. When she bounced off the sheetrock, he was there to catch her. He twisted her arm behind her back and jerked it up each time he spoke. “Damn little whore. You’re just like your sisters, you’re all nothing but whores.” He pulled up on her arm again so hard that Grace cried out, but he didn’t loosen his grip. “And look at your skin. It’s as black as a colored’s. What do you do, bake in the sun while I’m at work?” He pulled up on Grace’s arm a third time. “I don’t know why I even bother with you. You’re more useless than a tit on a bullet.”
Grace crumbled in the hallway. “Stop. Please stop. You’re hurting me.”
“Damn little pepper-belly,” he raged, “I’ll show you how a real man treats whores.”
“I’m not a whore, Dwayne, and you know it,” Grace cried as she shielded her face.
“Don’t you talk back to me, don’t you dare talk back to me. I hear what the men in town say about you and your sisters.” Grace had heard it all before. Felt it all before. Belittling her made Dwayne feel important. Made him feel more like a man. Made him feel like sex. When he pulled her into the bedroom, Grace’s battered mind scurried away like a prairie mouse under sagebrush. Only the faint smell of Dwayne’s Camel cigarettes and unwashed underarm odor managed to creep underneath the mental barriers she put up to survive. Grace didn’t bother to ask anymore what the men had said; she’d heard it all before. In past fights, she had asked which men said bad things about her and her sisters, but Dwayne would never give her a name. She finally figured out that there were no “other men,” just the mean and crazy ramblings of a Texan who looked for any excuse to use his fists and feel superior. Now, she didn’t even listen to the words; she only tried to protect herself as much as she could. As he pulled Grace back to the bedroom, she saw Glory run for her closet, carrying a plate of leftover perch from the table. Grace had been so anxious to go to her sister’s that she’d forgotten to put it in the refrigerator. “Glory,” she screamed, but Dwayne pulled her back when she tried to run to their daughter.
“Dwayne, let me go. Glory has the fish. Dwayne, please, she’ll choke on the bones.” Dwayne didn’t even look Glory’s way as he threw Grace on the bed and started to unbuckle his pants. It broke Grace’s heart to know that their daughter had begun to hide in her closet as soon as she started to walk; she began to take food into the closet with her as soon as she could reach the plates on the table. Tonight, Glory ate leftover bony perch while she hid on top of a pile of her father’s duffel bags in her dark closet. But other nights, Grace had found her in the middle of the night curled around a plate of fried chicken, or cold biscuits—whatever she could grab before she ran for her bunker. When Dwayne’s anger and lust finally exhausted him, he began to cool off. Just before he went to sleep, he told Grace, “I love you Grace; I’ll try to never hit you again.” He said the same thing every time. Every time, it was a lie. And, every time, she talked herself into believing him. Why did she think he’d ever change? In the middle of the night, Grace dragged her aching body into her daughter’s room, moved the sleeping Glory from the closet, and put her in her army-issue metal bed. She shivered even though the heat was over a hundred degrees as she crawled back into bed next to Dwayne. She could have slept with Glory on her bed, but it was too small for an adult to be comfortable, and Grace was already hurting. There was no place else to go except the couch in the living room, and the one time she’d slept there, Dwayne got angry all over again. It just wasn’t worth it.
Once, the morning after a bad night, Glory asked Grace if her daddy would come after her next, and cried, “What’ll I do, Mommy? What’ll I do?” Grace looked at her panicked little face and promised her that she’d protect her if her father ever did come after her, but deep inside, she didn’t know how. She couldn’t even protect herself.
***
The next morning, Dwayne was gone before Grace put on the coffee. She sat down in the morning sun that seeped through the worn window shades and began to sew. As her machine clicked over pins and fabric at a comforting, soothing pace, she began to pull herself together. Not much longer, she told herself. Not much longer. At times, she winced as her sore ribs accidentally rubbed against the edge of the table.
Grace didn’t hear well, so she was startled when an excited voice right next to her shouted, “Mom, what are you makin’ today?” With great effort, Grace turned and lifted her daughter onto her lap. Her ribs were throbbing, so she gave her a careful but affectionate hug. While they cuddled, she pulled out the clips that held Glory’s blond hair in dog-ears. Grace ran her fingers through hair that was sticky with a combination of tears and fried fish from the night before. “We have to wash your hair today. Might as well wait until you come in for your nap, okay?” She quickly pulled Glory’s hair back into a low ponytail. Without a shampoo, there wasn’t much else she could do with it.
“Okay,” Glory readily agreed because she was anxious to go outside and play. Grace marveled at this creation with light skin, green eyes, and darkening blond hair that she’d given birth to. Her skin and hair were dark. How could a child of hers look so little like her, even with Dwayne as the father? Other children from similar marriages were a lot darker, although Dwayne was exceptionally light—he almost looked like an albino. The only other explanation was the Spanish blood on her mother’s side of the family. She knew that many of them had light hair. Strangers assumed Glory was Dwayne’s from another marriage, and Grace always smiled and said she didn’t blame them. But, deep inside, she resented it. Glory was hers, even if everything about her, from her blond hair to her long legs, looked like Dwayne.
“Hon, are you hungry?” Grace gingerly rocked Glory on her lap to avoid bumping her sore ribs into Glory. “No, what are you makin’?” Glory asked as she looked at Grace’s machine on the kitchen table. “Well, I thought my girl could use some cooler play clothes. It’s starting to get hot.”
“For me? Can I see? Oh, boy, can I have pockets?”
“You want pockets?” Grace laughed at Glory’s excitement.
“Yes. Pockets and lace.”
“Where shall I put the lace?”
“On the seat, like Linda Joy has. Her mom got her these panties with ruffles all over the seat so when she bends over all you see is ruffles, ruffles, ruffles. I love ruffles.” Glory bounced off Grace’s lap and danced around the kitchen floor, as she bent over and patted her bottom with both hands.
“What else do you want?”
“Could I have a turtle?”
“A tortuga? Where did you get that idea?”
“Linda Joy has a turtle. She calls it Fluffy. She’s teaching it to talk.”
“I’ll have to think about that. Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“No. Sew, Mommy.”
Grace smiled to herself as she put the tiny pieces of material together. Glory was so small she could make her a whole outfit from the odds and ends leftover from the sewing she did for her relatives and friends. That was how, even on a very limited budget, Grace had filled Glory’s closet with lacy dresses, colorful play clothes, and even a rabbit fur coat. The coat, made from a couple of old rabbit stoles that Vera bought at a church bazaar, looked “Damn dandy,” Vera had said.
“When will it be finished?” Glory wanted to know as she pulled herself up over the edge of the table to get a better look at her new outfit.
“Before you know it, if you eat some breakfast and go outside and play.”
“Okay.” She stood on tiptoes to see what was on the counter, “Can I have that tortilla?”
“Yes. Why don’t you put some oleo on it?”
“If I eat it all, then can I go outside?”
“Yes,” said Grace. She watched Glory sit down on the cool floor with the flour tortilla and a small glass of red Kool-Aid; their food budget didn’t allow for extras like juice. Although, somehow, when Dwayne went to the commissary, he always found enough change for his favorites: coffee, tea, and cocoa for chocolate cakes and homemade fudge. Mostly Dwayne spent every penny he could scrounge to build up his mother’s shabby cattle ranch in Texas, even if it meant they had to cut down on food items that Glory needed, like milk and eggs. When Glory started to eat her tortilla, Grace went back to sewing. As she eased the material under the presser foot she felt a wave of anger wash over her. What kind of a breakfast was that for a little girl? Shoot! She and all her brothers and sisters ate better than that during the depression, Poppa saw to it. “If Poppa could feed all of us, why can’t this good-for-nothing son-of-a-gun feed one little girl?” Grace muttered. “And how can he think he’s such a big shot when he has money to buy food for a bunch of dumb cows, but none for his only child, who doesn’t even have milk or orange juice?” She mumbled over her sewing machine. The machine answered with click-click. Click-click. Since Grace didn’t drive, she’d have to ask her sisters to get some of the sewing money she hid from Dwayne at her mother’s and pick up a few groceries for her. Dwayne only gave her extra money for food when he felt like it—usually when he had friends come over that he wanted to impress. Sometimes, in frustration, Grace would complain that Dwayne spent too much on his ranch, but she was always fearful that she would go too far and make him angry. Besides, she told herself, any day now he’d be sent on another overseas assignment. Whole units of soldiers shipped out every day from Fort Sill on post-war assignments to occupy Japan. Most would be gone two to three years. Her plan was to wait until he left, then divorce him. Once he was out of town, it would be easier to keep custody of Glory, so why risk getting beaten again? Any day. Any day now, Grace told herself as she rested her forehead on the cool metal of her old Singer sewing machine and tried to steady her breath. Daily, Grace held onto the dream of her and Glory in a little house, living happily alone, just the two of them. She would start a sewing business; Glory would play in the backyard by the flower garden. Her heart skipped a beat whenever she dared to think she might even have a car. It wouldn’t have to be new, just something to take her to the grocery store. On the way, she pictured, she’d stop by her mother’s for coffee. Someday, she promised herself. Someday. All she had to do was be smart enough to keep Glory and get out of her marriage alive.
While she held on from day to day, Dwayne strutted his six-foot, two-inch frame around the small army quarters and acted as if he held all the cards. His favorite threat was to tell her, “I’ll take Glory away from you if you ever try to leave me. All the judges are white,” he liked to say, “and they’ll do whatever I tell them to do.” From the stories about the judges that she heard in town, Grace didn’t doubt it for a minute.
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As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries
The Adventures of Little Paintbrush and Snake Money
Janelle Meraz Hooper
1. Japanese Flu (Glory’s grade school years)
Lawton, Oklahoma, Summer of 1952—note: My name is Glory. This is my new journal. I sure hope Frieda doesn’t find it.
Dad’s supposed to be married to my mom, but he came back from an army tour of Japan dragging an awful WAC lady with him. WACs are like soldiers, only they’re women. Now my stomachaches are back, like they were before he left. My Aunt Pauline calls it the Japanese Flu, but no one else in my second grade at school has it.
My mom’s had it a couple of times, but she always seems to feel better after going to see Mr. Sparks—he’s not a doctor, he’s her attorney. I heard Aunt Pauline tell Gramma, “No man has ever given me ‘the flu’…if there’s any grief to be given out, I’ll do the giving.”
I know that’s not really true. I know for a fact that when Boyd—that was her husband—left her, she cried for days. But she’s not the type to let the world know that she’s unhappy. She’s tough as one of my gramma’s soup bones. Someday, I want to be just like her.
I don’t remember much about what went on before Dad left for Japan. My cousin Carlos says that the night before he shipped out, he made me drop my pet turtle in the snow. ’Course it froze to death. Carlos told me the next thing my dad did was beat my mom so bad that his mom—my aunt—had to take her to the hospital. I don’t know why he hit her. I think I was asleep. I get a sick feeling in my belly whenever I think about it.
Mom has never explained it to me. I wish she would because I’m afraid he’s going to beat me the way he used to beat her. I’ve never done anything to make him hit me, but then, neither did mom. So every day, I keep waiting for it to happen. It makes me real nervous. Carlos says that’s called “waiting for the other shoe to drop.” That doesn’t make sense to me. Shoes are already on the floor. Why don’t people wait for the other hat to drop?
When dad first went to Japan, I cried because he was gone. I don’t know why I missed him so much. He was a real stinker. Mom says her attorney told her it’s normal for a girl to miss her dad, even if he is a real pill. The way he talks about it, I didn’t have anyone to compare Dad with, so I couldn’t know how bad he was. That made Mom feel some better. I think that even she missed him for awhile, even though he was awful mean to her. I guess that was because he started talking real nice to her in letters—that is, until he met up with Frieda. She’s the WAC.
After Dad left, I woke up in my new bed at Aunt Vera’s house. He was gone almost three years and I’d almost forgotten about him. Then, like tornado season, he was back again. I cried when he came back because I’d really gotten used to how much fun it was without him around.
Mom was the same way. She was real happy when he was gone, but when he came back and started bothering us again, everything changed. Mom got nervous and started to shake like she did before he left because dad was always banging on our door for something. First he wanted his luggage, next he wanted their joint savings book. Next, he wanted to leave Frieda and come back home. Mom couldn’t believe it! I guess she slammed the door in his face that day. I was in school, but I heard gramma talking to Aunt Lilia about it on the phone. Aunt Lilia is my gramma’s sister-in-law and they’re real close. They tell each other everything. Sometimes they talk so much they fall asleep holding the phone.
Now dad’s settled in with Frieda and he wants me to be settled in with her too. He can’t understand why I don’t move all my stuff over there and pretend Frieda is my real mother. No wonder my stomach hurts.
I told Dad that the reason I couldn’t move over there was because Carlos—that’s my cousin—and I had gone into business together, so I needed to stick close to home. I didn’t want to come right out and say that I didn’t want to move because Dad has never been very nice to me and I don’t like his new WAC girlfriend at all.
It looks like I’m going to have the Japanese flu all summer, since Carlos and I are finished with school for the year and Dad says he wants me to spend all summer over at his house with him and Frieda. They live across the tracks on Summit Avenue. Carlos thinks they’re trying to trick me into getting used to living with them a little at a time. He says that’s how grown-ups get kids to do things they don’t want to.
A little at a time.
Then, before a kid knows it, he’s stuck somewhere he never wanted to be with people he never wanted to be with. See? Tricked! Well, it won’t work with me. I’m no dumb chicken. He’s picked the wrong cowgirl to mess with, yes siree.
Carlos is eleven and just got out of the third grade and I’m nine and going into the third grade next fall. We’re both a little behind because he needed glasses and fell behind in math, and Mom and my doctor said I should start school late because Dad had made me a nervous wreck before he left. He says I have repressed feelings. Mom says that means that I’ve pushed all my feelings way down deep inside. I don’t think that’s true. I think I just feel numb all over. Why can’t they just fix that? Anyway, they both thought I needed to rest up for awhile before I took on a new challenge. I heard Mom tell Aunt Pauline that the doctor said I was a mess, but I look fine to me.
While Dad was gone to Japan, I begged Mom not to hold me back in school because I knew that the other kids would think I was a moron, but she did anyway. She told me they’d change their minds if I made good grades. Well, I got As and Bs, but they still think I’m dumber than rainwater.
And maybe I am, because when it was really cold last winter, I let Mom and Aunt Pauline talk me into wearing a pair of Aunt Vera’s long red wool socks to school, even though I’m so skinny that they were down around my ankles all day and I kept tripping over them. If that’s not ignorant, I don’t know what is. No wonder nobody at school will hardly talk to me. Now I’ll be living those red socks down the rest of my life.
At my teacher’s conference, the teacher told my mom I didn’t fit in with the other kids because I’m backward, so I’m trying to make real sure that my desk isn’t crooked, although I’m sure it was never backward. I would have noticed. I tried to tell Mom that because she was real mad, but she wouldn’t listen. “The teacher is always right.” Mom said that when I first started school. Only now, whenever she says it, she gets real mad. So, I guess it’s true. I’m dumb, backward, and my socks are too big. I see this as all Dad’s fault, except for the socks, of course. He makes me such a nervous wreck I can’t think straight, so who knows what shape I’ll be in for the third grade next fall, after I spend time with him and Frieda this summer?
***
Here on Parkview, our moms are sisters, and the four of us—me, Mom, Aunt Pauline and Carlos—are living in their older sister’s house while she’s in Japan with her husband. That’s my Aunt Vera. There’s one more sister, my Aunt Norah, and they’re all tighter than a new pair of shoes. If you pick a fight with one of them, lookout! because all of them will be on your back before you know it.
My dad just got back from Japan and Carlos’s dad is still there until his tour of duty is up, sometime near the end of summer. That’s about when Aunt Vera and Uncle Rudolf are coming back—if they come back at all. Mom says the army could send them direct to another post, if they took a notion to.
Seems like most of the men in this family are in the military and are always being sent somewhere. I’ve got a cousin who got sent to Germany. He got a new wife while he was there. Three years later, they brought him back and sent him to Alaska but all he got there was a new dog. A husky. So far, everyone else in the family has just been sent to Japan. Dad says we’re occupying it. I guess they’ve got a lot of empty space over there to fill up.
***
Seems like Mom and Dad are going to go ahead and get the divorce. That’s fine with me. I just hope they don’t make me go live with Dad and that crazy WAC lady—that stands for Women’s Army Corps. The Army is full of them, I guess. Dad found this one in Japan. She acts like she’s The Queen of Sheba, but she’s really only a Mexican from Texas, “She’s no better than your mom,” Gramma says.
This wacky WAC is really weird. She’s always taking me to Kress Store and having me pick out things “a little girl she knows” would like. Then, when we get back to Summit Avenue, she says, “Surprise! All of this is really for you!” Why doesn’t she say it’s for me while we’re at the store? I could save her some money.
Then, after I get all this stuff that I never wanted in the first place, I’m supposed to be real grateful and give her lots of hugs and kisses, or else. I tell you, it’s really weird. But I said that already, didn’t I?
Awards:
For: As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries (The second book in my Turtle Trilogy)
1999 1st place fiction, Surrey (Canada)
2004 Oklahoma Book Award finalist.
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Sometimes, Naked Ladies are really just old women in Capri pants…
Custer & His Naked Ladies
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Chapter 1. Dumped
The 3rd book in my Turtle Trilogy (Glory is a grown-up)
Glory was on her way to join her husband on a NOAA research vessel when she tried to call him to say she was running late. That was when she discovered he wasn’t on the ship; without telling her, he’d pulled out of the offshore project days before. With that failed phone call, all her recent, uncomfortable inklings fell into place. Her marriage was over. He just hadn’t gotten around to telling her yet.
That was how she ended up at Sea-Tac Airport, halfway between Seattle and Tacoma, with her hair in braids, wearing a pink Where’s the Powwow? sweatshirt. She carried only her wallet, a camera, and a faded blue gym bag. The bag was filled with the same kinds of clothes she was wearing, a few books, and a photo of her husband. The photo—frame and all—she chucked into a trash barrel outside the airport. She would have liked to toss it out of the airplane, but she was pretty sure it would make the stewards cranky if she opened the emergency exit at 35,000 feet.
Her original destination, the research vessel, was scheduled to drop anchor over the undersea volcanoes off the coast of Washington State. The scientists on the ship were to study the marine life that thrived in the hot water that spewed out of the craters.
After the research trip, she and her husband, Rick, were to take a much-needed vacation to Mexico and reconnect. They hadn’t had any identifiable problems, but her husband had been moody and refused to talk about it. Glory had hoped he would open up after a few days rest on a hot sandy beach with a Margarita in his hand. Rick hadn’t been in favor of the vacation, but Glory had insisted. Finally, he had thrown up his hands and given up.
Before the research trip, he had convinced her to put all their things in storage because they didn’t know if they’d be back in Seattle when the project was over. There was no use, he’d said, in paying rent while they were gone.
It made sense.
Sort of.
But why hadn’t she been suspicious when he’d insisted on putting all his things into separate marked boxes? How dumb was she? The dirty rat! And what would she have done on the research ship without him for three weeks? Her specialty was in freshwater turtles; there would be no real work for her there. No paycheck. He was the specialist in coastal underwater volcanoes. He belonged there. She would have been nothing more than a guest with no way off the boat. Her cheeks burned at the embarrassment she felt. What was he thinking?
Her new destination was her mother’s in Oklahoma. Getting a last-minute ticket was expensive, and Glory was thankful for her credit cards. No one ever went to Oklahoma unless they had to, and airline tickets to the Sooner State were never a bargain. Glory handed the woman at the check-in counter her credit card and mumbled a quote from a rich friend, “All it takes is money.” The woman briefly looked up, then, expressionless, continued adding up the full-fare charges on her keyboard.
On her way to the airplane boarding area, over and over, Glory thought, this isn’t the way normal, educated people get divorced.
I’ve been dumped!
With no explanation.
No discussion.
No apology!
How could this happen to me? What did I ever do to deserve this? Another phone call to him went unanswered. Finally, too frazzled and confused to try to unravel the puzzle of her husband’s behavior, and too much in shock to react in her normal, feisty way, Glory tried to force Rick out of her mind. One step at a time, she told herself. After all, she was already a rotten flyer. There was no use in taking the chance of bringing on an anxiety attack. First, she told herself, get through the plane ride to Texas without throwing up on your seatmate.
She knew she had to call her mother before she boarded her plane. Then, when she got to the Dallas-Ft. Worth Airport, she’d call Rick again. She pulled out her cell phone and pressed the speed dial number for her mother’s. It was the hardest phone call of her life—and it was short.
“Mom? I’m at the Sea-Tac Airport. I’m coming home. No, I’m alone. Rick isn’t coming.”
“Glory! What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. Rick left me.”
“I thought you two were going on a research trip?”
“I thought we were too. I guess he changed his mind.”
Glory’s sobs alarmed her mother. Over and over, she repeated, “Glory, just come
home. We’ll work out whatever it is when you get here.”
“I’ll be there around three. I’ll call you when I get to Ft. Worth.”
Afterward, she sat huddled in the waiting area for her flight with her gym bag on top of her feet to hide her shaking legs. The rest of her she pulled as far into her sweatshirt as she could, like a turtle protecting itself from a predator. Only it was too late—the predator had already struck and was smirking at her somewhere in Seattle. She pictured him sitting on a stack of cardboard boxes filled with all his earthly belongings, guzzling champagne through a snorkel. She hadn’t considered yet that, if he were devious enough to pull the research ship stunt, he probably already had his new apartment set up. She definitely hadn’t considered exactly whom he might be setting up the apartment with. That wasn’t the kind of thought you allowed yourself when you got nauseous just looking at a picture of an airplane.
She shuddered when she entered the plane’s doorway and looked down the long, claustrophobic insides of the Boeing seven thirty-seven. As she moved down the aisle between the seats, she felt the passengers behind her suddenly zig-jag from left to right. An obnoxious eight-year-old, who wore a Bellevue Elementary tee-shirt and Walkman earphones underneath her Mariner’s baseball cap, tried her best to shove her way to the front of the line through the already weary boarders.
It was the same twerp who had annoyed passengers all over C Concourse before
their delayed airplane had arrived. There was little doubt that, as soon as this little Pea Princess wannabe entered the area, airport personnel all over Sea-Tac had regretted the Please arrive two hours early for your flight signs that hung from the walls and counters of the terminal.
I’ve been dumped! The billboard that ran across the inside of her mind kept flashing. In no mood to be jostled by the upper crust, especially by a brat with a mouthful of gum blowing big blue bubbles, Glory swung her tote to the left, and successfully blocked the stampede of the Creature From the Bellevue Swamp.
“Let me by! I’m supposed to be in front,” whined the little brat, as she held her Mariner hat on her head with one hand and tried to quarterback her way past Glory.
“You are?” Glory asked incredulously, “Let me see your ticket.”
“I don’t have it,” the brat whined some more as she looked down to the front of the plane where her mother was, “but I know I’m supposed to be in 42A.”
“Sorry. No ticket, no seat. You’d better step aside and wait for your mom.”
What followed next was an earsplitting, “Mom! I need my ticket!”
Glory looked toward the back of the plane and saw her mother, a thin and fortyish-woman with a beach-in-the-box tan. She wore white cotton shorts, a tight red tank top, and white leather Keds. Her expensive sunglasses rested comfortably above her bottle-blond hairdo, and her sweater was casually tossed around her shoulders and looped in front by its sleeves. Gold chains glittered around her taunt neck.
Bellevue Mom was flirting with a young guy in shorts and a muscle shirt stamped with the word STUD on its front. Regretfully, she tore her eyes away from the hunk and looked exasperatingly in the direction of her daughter’s voice. The passengers behind Glory bunched up and filled in every inch of space as if it were a planned maneuver. There was no way they were going to let the spoiled trout swim upstream to her mother at the expense of their kneecaps. Obviously, almost everyone who was boarding the plane had already experienced the company of Ms. High Maintenance and her Bellevue Brat.
Clueless at how annoyed her fellow passengers were with her, Pea Princess jumped up and down to try to see her mother as the crowd completely blocked her view.
Hopelessness began to shorten her bounces and she finally moved to the side of the aisle and pouted as the other passengers filed past her. Smirks were abundant. One passenger gave Glory a thumbs-up. Said another, “I owe you a drink.”
“Thanks, but just promise me you’ll make a donation in my name to Planned Parenthood,” said Glory, as she tossed her gym bag under the seat in front of her. She mumbled under her breath, “My work here is done,” as she listened to the whiney voice getting drawn further and further toward the back of the plane. As she got settled, she checked out the businessman sitting next to her in the window seat; she thought she’d get acquainted.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” she said to the man.
The man looked at the woman in her early thirties wearing jeans, Reebocks, and a ragged sweatshirt and sneered, “And what might that be?”
“The bad news is I’m a terrible flyer. The good news is I’ve taken two Dramamine. If you’ll be patient with me until we take off, the drugs will kick in and you won’t hear another peep out of me until we land at DFW.”
The man pulled his financial magazine over his face and tried to move as far away as possible in the cramped conditions. Glory tried to bite her tongue, but couldn’t resist:
“I’ll try to miss you when I throw up.” What a jerk.
Glory heard a heavy, sarcastic sigh on the other side of the man’s magazine and she whispered, “Don’t mess with me, Cowboy, I’ll throw your little pinhead out that window you’re sitting next to.” She knew he heard her; his knuckles turned white. What a lucky break. A human seatmate might have loosened her tongue, and she didn’t need to pour out all her troubles to a complete stranger. Glory tucked her pillow behind her head, covered herself with her blanket, and tried to go to sleep as the Boeing airliner rocked and rolled at a snail’s pace on its way to the runway to get into position to take off. With her eyes tightly closed, Glory prayed for the motion sickness medicine to kick in. As the plane lifted off, she briefly wondered if she was going to Oklahoma to start a new life or merely going for a visit. The answer to her question was still in Seattle; Rick was controlling her life and she didn’t like it one bit.
At the back of the plane, she could hear the Pea Princess whining; twice the flight staff told the Bellevue twerp to take her seat and belt up. Ms. High Maintenance seemed oblivious to the problems her daughter was causing. When Glory looked back, the mom’s eyes were searching the seats. No doubt, she was trying to locate the muscle shirt and the young hunk in it. Glory couldn’t locate him either. Was he hunkered down, hiding from the woman who was old enough to be his mother? He must be, Glory thought when a second scan of the plane’s interior failed to locate him.
After take-off, the drink cart passed Glory and hit her twice, once in the elbow, and once in the leg. Glory smiled sweetly when the steward apologized, but she swiped an extra can of pop off the back of the server to get even. It was easy. The steward was distracted by the Pea Princess who tried to worm her way past the cart so that she could go to the bathroom in the first-class section. “Use the bathrooms at the back of the plane, honey,” the steward suggested through gritted teeth.
“There’s already somebody in them,” the Pea Princess whined.
“They’ll be out soon,” the woman said encouragingly, “the bathrooms are full at the front too.”
Pea wasn’t convinced, but she turned around and headed toward the back. She was complaining to her mother about the mean airplane lady when a door to one of the bathrooms opened. She raced to get in front of the other passengers waiting in line, and shot past them below their kneecaps. Before they knew it, she was on the other side of a slammed bathroom door. Glory could tell by the sound her feet made as they pounded the aisle carpet that she had taken off her shoes. When she looked back, she noticed that the Pea had taken off her socks as well. And they used to call me a wild Indian, she thought.
Sadly, Glory looked at the phone on the back of the seat in front of her but resisted an urge to try to call Rick. Even if she did get him to answer, what could she say at five thousand feet in the air surrounded by strangers? Especially the man next to her. Wouldn’t he just love to hear her beg Rick to come back to her? Besides, the motion sickness medicine was kicking in. Glory was asleep before the Pea got out of the potty.
Before she went to sleep, she tried to prepare herself for what she’d find when the Saab commuter plane she’d transfer to for the final leg of her trip landed at the Lawton Airport. Her beloved family was getting smaller and smaller, much too fast.
It had started shrinking before she had ever left Oklahoma to go to college. First, they’d lost her Uncle Rudolf, her Aunt Vera’s beloved husband. He had been a real friend to a five-year-old Glory and her mother, Grace, when the two were trying to get away from Glory’s father. Rudolf’s sudden death from a heart attack had hit all of them hard. Gregoria, Glory’s grandmother, was the next to go. Her grandmother’s sister-in-law Lilia, who was also Gregoria’s best friend, followed soon after.
Someday, Glory knew, she’d have nothing but cousins. Unfortunately, Carlos, the cousin she’d grown up with, was living in New Jersey with his wife and family. She’d call him. Maybe he and Angelica could grab the kids and come down after it cooled off in August.
Glory could feel a sense of urgency in her seatmate and was about to open her eyes and move her knees over so he could go to the bathroom when she heard him mutter, “Damn Indian. Wouldn’t you know she’d sit next to me?”
After Glory heard that, she locked her knees and the man tumbled almost headfirst into the aisle. After a few more derogatory mumbles, he stumbled toward the bathroom. Glory went back to her thoughts about her family.
Tears ran down her face when she remembered the biggest loss in her life, Powwow Pete. Even before he’d married Glory’s mom, Grace, he’d watched over Glory and tried to protect her from her father, Dwayne. He’d had his hands full because her father’s stupidity and greed threatened Glory’s survival. Between her father and his second wife, Frieda, she was lucky to have survived her childhood. Before she was a teenager, each of them had tried to hasten her death so that they could collect on the accidental-death insurance policy her father had taken out on her.
Pete, who became Glory’s stepfather, had been her first choice on her new father list after her father had left Glory and her mother to marry Frieda, her stepmother. When her mother had married Pete and made her dream of having a real father come true, she never imagined that she would someday lose him. She was in college in Washington State when the news came that he had been killed in a pickup accident. She grieved over not being there to help him when he needed her; she kept telling herself that if she’d not left Oklahoma to go to college, maybe it never would have happened. Pete and Glory were inseparable when she was growing up, and Glory often rode in Pete’s pickup as he drove around the reservation conducting the tribe’s business. No one was sure how he had ended up all alone with his pickup in a ditch on the far end of the reservation. What was he doing way out there? The family thought someone must have been chasing him, but the heavy spring rains had washed away any clues.
But who would want to kill Pete? There had been a fight over who was going to manage the tribe, but Pete was fed up with tribal politics and had announced that he was going to step down way before anyone could get mad enough to murder him. Besides, tribal chairmen were recalled all the time by the Comanches without bloodshed. No one could picture a member of the tribe killing Pete, especially not over an election, but not knowing for sure had made the family distrustful of the very people Pete loved so much. Other suspects were few. If her father hadn’t been blown up in a boating accident when Glory was eight, she would have suspected him of killing Pete. Another possible suspect, her stepmother, had been run out of town soon after her father was killed, so Glory knew it wasn’t her.
Soon, the Dramamine did its job, and Glory drifted off to sleep. However, she couldn’t ignore a finger that kept poking into her upper arm. When she opened her eyes, she found herself nose to nose with the Pea Princess.
“Can I have your blanket and pillow?” the question sounded more like a demand than a request.
“Get your own,” Glory mumbled.
“They’re all gone and I’m sleepy.”
Out of the corner of her eye Glory saw the businessman’s blanket and pillow on his seat where he’d left them when he went to the bathroom.
“Here. Take these,” Glory said as she shoved the pillow and blanket into the child’s arms. The kid took off like she had a pocketful of stolen candy. Glory was almost asleep again when she heard her returning seatmate swearing under his breath. Before he even sat down, he impatiently jabbed at the service button over and over until the steward appeared.
“I need another blanket and pillow. Someone’s taken mine.”
Glory braced herself for the steward’s reply. Underneath her blanket, she dug her nails into the palm of her hand so that she wouldn’t laugh when it came:
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re all out of blankets and pillows.”
***
Upon their arrival at the Dallas-Ft. Worth International Airport, the terminal was a crowded mix of travelers and vendors. Glory checked out the bumper of the passenger carrier that beeped as it raced past her to see if the driver had impaled any slow-moving bodies on its front grill. Surprisingly, it was bare.
The slow Texas drawl of a young woman floated atop the hurried heads and hovered over the airport noise that bounced off all its hard surfaces. Glory’s eyes followed the sound to a shoeshine booth, where a young blond woman in her twenties sat on a high leather chair and chatted easily with the black man who was busily shining her camel-colored cowboy boots with red roses tooled on their sides. Although Glory was un-noticed, she smiled in the woman’s direction, but frowned when she looked down at her own feet. She was a mess, inside and out. Her clothes in her gym bag, including a frumpy skirt, were not any better. She didn’t have to wonder what her mother and the rest of the women would think when they met her at the plane. She knew they would think the worst, but they would welcome her with open arms. Wasn’t that why people ran home when their heart was carelessly fed to a shark and their future kicked into an ocean called never? Was that the way it was going to be? Never having another home? Never having a soulmate? Never having children?
In front of Glory, a frazzled black woman walked off a covered walkway and merged with the foot traffic a few feet ahead. Suddenly, overwhelmed by the huge interior of the airport and the crowds, the woman dropped her carry-on bags on the floor in the middle of the terminal and started screaming, “Oh, Lord, help me!”
Before Glory could reach her, several businessmen stopped dead in their tracks and raced to her side. “What’s the matter?” they all asked.
“I have to get to D terminal in ten minutes to go see my sick son and I don’t know which way to go,” she sobbed.
“D terminal?” a man asked, “I’m going close to there now, come with me. I’ll get you there on time. We’ll take the tram.”
The terminal filled in like a sinkhole filling up with sand as the two moved toward the tram stairs. The hopeless sobs of the desperate woman were replaced by the sounds of women’s heels rushing to their assigned gates, the plastic wheels on the bottoms of their suitcases made a dump-dump, dump-dump sound as they sank in and out of the mortar between each ten-inch floor tile. Their sounds didn’t do anything to lighten Glory’s mood. “Dump-dump. Dump-dump!” she answered back under her breath.
Numb all over, she felt out of place as she passed groups of old ladies going in the other direction. Carrying huge metallic tote bags, they chatted gaily as they ambled happily past Glory, no doubt headed for a place in the sun that was just as hot as where they were—only with palm trees and expensive drinks served in pineapples topped with paper umbrellas. She saw so many shiny gold purses, belts, and shoes on the women that she decided Texans must be growing metallic cows.
Even though she was hungry, none of the food booths had what she craved. The yogurt had brightly colored confetti toppings that looked like plastic, the hamburgers were laced with jalapeño, and the Greek gyros looked downright nasty. Whatever happened to plain old hamburgers and fries? She passed all of the snack bars on her way to the tram and sipped her pilfered soft drink from the plane.
Before she got on the tram that would carry her to the lower level, she tried to call Rick again. No answer. She left a message. Reluctantly, she shoved her phone into her jean’s pocket. She completely forgot to call her mother as she’d promised.
Usually, Glory was fascinated by the mix of people on the lower level of the Texas airport. There, passengers gathered to catch commuter flights that flew to little dots on the map with names left over from the Old West. Places like Tishamingo, Cheyenne, Amarillo, Durango, and of course, her hometown, Lawton. More than a few real cowboys and cowgirls hung out on this level, waiting anxiously to leave what the rest of the world called civilization, and fly back to the sanity of their ranches.
Along with the cowboys and girls in Western shirts, the familiar groups of army inductees were there. Total strangers when they got to the airport, they were already bonded into tight groups and had formed friendships that would last throughout their training.
There was also the usual mix of housewives laden down with shopping bags who’d flown to Dallas for the day. Glory guessed they’d spent the day getting their gynecological exams from a doctor recommended by a friend over a bingo game at a church social. Then, they’d treated themselves to a shopping trip to Neiman-Marcus before catching a flight home. Businessmen on their way back to the small towns they came from filled in the other chairs. Big fish in little, stagnated ponds at home, Glory guessed that they’d swallowed a lot of water in Dallas. Of course, to each other, they bragged, “Business is great. I’m having a super year!”
Scattered all over the waiting room, like roses on a back fence, were young girls wearing their brother’s or boyfriend’s ivy league sweatshirts.
“Why don’t you go off to a big college and get your own sweatshirt?” Glory asked a young girl sitting across from her.
“Oh, no. I promised to wait for my boyfriend.”
“To do what?”
That was when the conversation ended. Apparently, the girl didn’t want to tell Glory that she assumed he’d rush home and marry her as soon as he graduated.
Glory ignored her silence. “You’d better wake up, Girlie. Do you think you’re going to look good to him after he spends the next four years with college girls? The next time he comes home, you’d better go back with him and crack some books. I can tell just by looking at you that you’re spending way too much time polishing your nails and dying your roots. Your brain is going to turn to bubble gum.”
The youngster went away crying. “What did I say?” Glory insincerely asked the old lady sitting next to her, although she knew exactly what she’d said and she didn’t give a damn. Women in this part of the country were treated like little Scarletts until they’d grown up. Then the tables turned, and they were supposed to be perfect wives and mothers. Never complaining, always happy with whatever crumb their husbands threw at them. About the time their nests were empty, the men were tired of their children’s mothers, and they were discarded and replaced with someone younger, greedier, and more cunning. Of course, that wasn’t the way the men saw it. In big cities, these new women were called trophy wives. In Oklahoma, they were just called sluts. Quicker than a bug hits the windshield, they squandered the money the first wife had strived to save, and the more they spent, the prouder their new husband was. As Oklahoma was not a community property state, the financial settlements in divorces were sometimes less than equitable. Wives who had devoted their lives cooking and cleaning for their husbands and children suddenly found themselves doing the same thing, at minimum wage, for strangers. She knew her own divorce settlement wouldn’t be much better. Even though Washington was a community property state, she and Rick had very little money to fight over, and no property or children. When they were together, it never seemed important; but now, Glory was giving her finances thought for the first time. She knew she’d have little left after she’d paid the few bills she had. As all of her research was on a contract basis, she didn’t have a 401-K account. She didn’t even have a car to sell.
The old lady looked up from her crochet long enough to throw Glory a disapproving look, then returned to her needlework.
“Well, bite me. Times have changed, Maudie,” Glory informed the woman. Just because the last generation of women had blindly followed each other in a long Conga Line to poverty was no reason for the newer generation of women to automatically fall in at the end of the line.
Of course, she had to admit to herself, she thought she’d done everything right, and here she was—with a degree in an overcrowded field and little else. She didn’t even have a sweatshirt with the name of an Ivy League school printed on it. A passing suitcase on wheels sang again: dump-dump, dump-dump.
2013- For: Custer & His Naked Ladies– chosen to be given away as a gift to donors to the Kickstarter for Geronimo, Life on the Reservation.
Please note:
My book website is down right now, but you can find my books on Amazon and other Internet bookstores. My thanks! Janelle
If you’ve shared this post with a friend, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Janelle
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https://youtu.be/pUW5SBCbbbQ
I’m off to plant some herbs before it starts to rain again. I’ll catch up with all of you later. Meanwhile, here’s a short video I made starring my herb pot a few years ago…
I’m getting ready to announce my new novel, and I’ve had to disconnect my www.JanelleMerazHooper.com website. Meanwhile, this is one of my early videos, made with my own two hands (: Janelle
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Santa Monica PlayhouseApril 6 & 7
Hello! Santa Monica!
Geronimo, Life on the Reservation
is coming your way. Don’t miss it!
TICKETS for Rudy’s Geronimo, Life 0n the Reservation shows: online:
Box Office: 310-394-9779 ext. 1
2 shows: APRIL 6 & 7. 8:00 P. M. $20.00
Discount tickets 4 students, teachers, seniors, military, & groups of 8 or more: $15.00 Santa Monica area friends, please share!
Geronimo: “All of this could have been avoided if
the white man had just stayed home…”
Humor/Historical Entertainment
Great Reviews!
See my books and short stories
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WORLD WIDE MARCH!
March 24, 2018
Student speaker:
If you can speak, SPEAK! If you can march, MARCH! If you can vote, VOTE!
A reporter noted voter registration tables being set up at a student rally in support of gun control…
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The photo is the only one I’ve ever seen of Geronimo wearing glasses. If you look closely, you’ll see the lenses were very thick. This is curious because, in his journal Burbank Among the Indians, E.A. Burbank wrote that, on the Fort Sill Indian reservation, Geronimo tried to set him up with a shooting contest using a little target the size of a quarter. He proposed that every time he would hit the target, Burbank would give Geronimo $10.00. Suspicious, Burbank suggested they just shoot for fun. Geronimo never missed a shot and Burbank never hit the target once. At the time, Geronimo was 70-years-old. (out of print, Caxton Printers. LTD. 1946) photo courtesy of Pinterest.
Rudy’s schedule for Geronimo, Life on the Reservation:
April 6 & 7- Santa Monica, CA Playhouse
April 19- Roxy Theatre, Muskogee, OK. The next night, at the same theatre, Rudy will be inducted into the Oklahoma Film Hall of Fame.
In August, for 2 shows, Rudy will be at the Western Legends Roundup in Kanab, UT. Dates to be announced.
I’m an indie-writer and I write on a lot of subjects. My latest is a suspense/romance titled A One-way Cruise to Africa. See my other books and stories here: Novels, short stories, and a play now touring staring Rudy Ramos!
Geronimo, Life on the Reservation
written by Janelle Meraz Hooper
Rudy Ramos as Geronimo
Note: Rudy is not touring right now because he has landed the part of Felix long In Kevin Costner’s series, Yellowstone. They are now filming Season 2 (Paramount Channel). He is accepting “Geronimo” dates when his film schedule allows.
My newest novel
“Trust your instincts. Then follow them.”
Kindle. Amazon. New Adult (19-29 & up). Suspense/romance.
Buy now on Amazon
Thanks for stopping by. Please share!
See my real books and stories, PLUS my one-man show on Geronimo:
Geronimo, Life on the Reservation
(What happened to Geronimo after he surrendered?)
I found this picture of Taazslath, one of Geronimo’s wives with her child, Chiricahua, taken at Fort Bowie in 1886, courtesy of Pinterest’s archives. Thanks, Pinterest. I’ve seen this skirt material on other Native American women. In his show, Rudy mentions the Apache women shopping in the trading post. Could it be that the material was really curtain material and no one told them? Or, maybe they knew and the bolder print suited them better. Myself, I like it!
In Rudy’s one-man show, Geronimo, Life on the Reservation, he mentions how exposure to the trading posts has changed the Apache women:
“…When the Indian scouts have their payday their women dress up and head to the trading post to shop. It’s a big deal. They go crazy in there. Things that are normal to the soldiers and settlers are luxuries to us.
Our women have always worked hard but they are working even harder now that they get to spend their pay at the trading post. They have gotten used to having the same things the white women have. I don’t know if they could ever do without them now. It makes me sad because every time our women go to the trading post they come back a little less Apache and more like a white woman. I can’t blame them. I see the light in their eyes when they get something new – something they have never even seen before…”
Geronimo, Life on the Reservation
Starring Rudy Ramos
Directed by Steve Railsback
Written by Janelle Meraz Hooper
Rudy’s schedule:
April 6 & 7- Santa Monica, CA Playhouse
April 19- Roxy Theatre, Muskogee, OK. The next night, at the same theatre, Rudy will be inducted into the Oklahoma Film Hall of Fame.
In August, for 2 shows, Rudy will be at the Western Legends Roundup in Kanab, UT. Dates to be announced.
See the other books and stories I’ve written
My newest novel
“Trust your instincts, then follow them.”
Maku, a rebel leader somewhere in the middle of the dark jungles of Nigeria, has just placed an order for a young woman who lives in the United States. It was easy. He did it with his iPad. He orders and pays for all of the women he buys and re-sells that way–over the Internet–without ever having to leave his Hummer. New Adult (New Adult is the age-group after Young Adult, ages 18-29 and up). Suspense/romance. Kindle.
Thanks for stopping by! Please share this post.
Many thanks, Janelle
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Bronze Star Award
This somehow got dropped off my blog and I just noticed it was missing. I’m reposting. It’s either late for last Memorial Day or early for next year, depending upon how you look at it…
Last Sunday, Memorial Day, my husband invited me to go with him on a 4-mile hike on the Foothills Trail (Okay, I used my wheel-scooter). During the walk, we passed a group of happy young adults –about 8 of them–coming from the other way. The young woman at the end of the group was waving a huge vintage Marine Corps flag back and forth. It was heavy; no wonder she was at the end! My husband joked with her, “What’s the matter? Couldn’t get into Ranger School?” We all laughed and went on our way. Then, the young woman turned around and shouted back at him, “Thank you for your service!” I almost cried because when my husband got back from Vietnam no one ever said that to him. He was scorned and even spit upon. “Thank you for your service!” the voice from Sunday lingers in my head. Oh, honey, I wish you knew what that thank you meant to him. He often repeats that phrase to other veterans. When he says it, it sounds like a prayer.
If you are old enough to remember the Vietnam war, think back. Remember how badly a lot of people treated our soldiers when they returned home? I could never understand that. Sure, hatred and disgust for our government who got us into the war, but why the hostility towards the poor soldier who was drafted and forced to go over there? It has always puzzled me.
Lately, with the news about how the Russian government manipulated us during our last election through our social media, I wonder: were the attitudes toward the American soldier coming home from Vietnam manipulated in similar ways? If so, how sad. And how disgraceful! To think how Americans have let themselves be led to such ugliness in a war or election by a foreign country is unforgivable. How could we be so gullible? It must never happen again. Our country may not survive it.
Note: I cropped the graphic because the person in the photo wanted to protect his privacy.
Please share.
Purchase my books (PB & Kindle) on Amazon
Buy now on Amazon
My newest novel
A One-way Cruise to Africa, Terror on the Internet:
First lines: Maku, a rebel leader somewhere in the middle of the dark jungles of Nigeria, has just placed an order for a young woman who lives in the United States. It was easy. He did it all with his i-Pad. He orders and pays for all the women that he buys and re-sells that way—over the Internet—without ever having to leave his Hummer.
The purpose of this NA book is to entertain and warn young people about the dangers of human trafficking. Mixing drama with romance, it does not bury the reader in statistics. Romance/suspense. New Adult (NA) & up. Kindle.
If you have questions, please leave a message: Janellemhooper@comcast.net
Thanks for stopping by! Janelle
For me, every Friday is Popcorn for Breakfast Friday (No lie!). I started the gag on Facebook and it’s been a lot of fun. This is one of the shots I posted on Facebook. Janelle
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Courtesy of The Buck Stops Here– Thanks so much! Please share!
Rudy’s first reading of Geronimo, Life on the Reservation, courtesy of the 2013 High Chaparral Reunion, Tucson, AZ
Booking video. Bring Geronimo, Life on the Reservation to a theatre near you! Video courtesy of Late Bloomer Videos
https://youtu.be/cnY2zVmKpZM
I’m the playwright and author of books in several genres. Available on PB &/or Kindle on Amazon. (The one-man show, of course, can only be seen in theatres.)
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“Pig, Pig!”
(romance writer invents a new genre: Pig Romances!)
Blog only (Not in one of my books.)
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Note: I use my blog for fun. Please see my books
and short stories at the link below:
https://www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
‘Tis the season for silly. I found this in my files; it was written after a writer-friend sent me a photo of a pig jumping out of a truck of pigs headed for market in the middle of a busy intersection. The top of the truck was very high off the ground and the pig sailed right over the railing and landed safely on the ground. I wanted to post the photo, but I don’t have permission to use it; I’m sure it’s copyrighted!
“Pig, Pig!” Pigtunia shouted as she stood on the corner of a busy street in downtown Santa Monica. In between shouts for help, she squealed. Squealed until she literally stopped traffic at the busy intersection. Passersby, drivers, kids on bicycles, motorcycles driven by hairy black-jacketed men wearing black goggles—all looked around to see if they could figure out what the pig’s problem was.
Nothing looked amiss. Well, granted, there was a very upset pig on the corner of Cork and Vine, but no one could figure out why. The noise persisted until a businessman carrying a briefcase cautiously approached the angry pig and asked, “What’s the problem, Miss Piggie?”
“What kind of a town is this?” answered Pigtunia. “I’ve been calling for the cops for over twenty-minutes and there’s not a pig in sight!”
“Oh, you want the police? We don’t use the pig-word here unless we’re talking to an actual pig, like you. Here, you have to dial 911 if you need help.”
“Dial? Dial how?”
“Why, on your cell phone.”
“Do you see any pockets here?” Pigtunia asked as she looked down at her legs.
Just then, a news crew and cameraman from a nearby television station ran up and started filming. Sticking her microphone in the pig’s face, the newsperson began to interview the distressed pig. With no prodding, Pigtunia launched into her rant:
I signed up for a road cruise that was supposed to take me along the coast for a 6-day vacation. I was promised fresh mud every day, good food, and luxurious sleeping quarters. What I got was the back end of a crowded truck, “mud” that was far from fresh, sloppy slop, and it was so crowded I had to sleep standing up!” hardly pausing for a breath, she continued, “And as for the ocean views, the darn truck headed east on the freeway toward someplace called Kansas. To make matters worse, some bimbo riding with the driver was carrying a purse made from a sow’s ear and she had some kind of a Spam cookbook in it that looked suspicious to me. That’s when I jumped out.”
“You jumped out of a moving truck over twelve feet off the ground?”
“I did. Who needs it? I’m going to insist on a refund.”
The interview of the distraught pig was picked up on YouTube and got millions of views. In a Kansas meat-packing plant, the owner watched the video and called his attorney. “This is bad publicity. If this keeps up, no one will ever eat pork again. Call the legal department! Send that pig a contract and get her over here. Fly her out here first-class and bring her to me.”
And that was how Pigtunia flew cross-country in a first-class seat with a window view and swilled champagne all the way to Kansas.
But wait. It gets better. When she arrived, the owner of the packing plant took a close look at her and knew she was a very special pig. All of her parts were prime pig. In fact, she was much too good to butcher. The meatpacker made her an offer she couldn’t refuse and Pigtunia found herself in a luxury pin with cable TV and 24/7 gourmet food service.
But wait. It gets even better. Pigtunia was visited once a year by the most handsome pig in the yard. He romanced her for days while she squealed with delight. Each year, when the time was right, Pigtunia gave birth to at least ten piglets, making her much more valuable than she would have ever been in the bacon department…
And, thus, a new romance genre for books was born: Mail Order Jumping Pig Brides.
The end
P.S.: At least every 13th word of this story is true, I swear! Originally, this was an actual email that I sent to my cousin Elaine. I send out a lot of messages like this to friends and family. They’re very forgiving. Sometimes they share them with their friends. What fun!
(Illustration–such as it is–by author. My cousin sent me an actual photo of the pig jumping out of a truck that inspired this bit of nonsense, but it didn’t have the name of the photographer.) JMH
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Merry Christmas! I’ve been in my Briar Patch this morning reading about other Christmases in times past. I found an interview of a man who was a miner in the 1849 Gold Rush with two partners. Due to a flood on a creek, they’d lost almost all of their provisions. They were despondent, hungry, and lonely. Their skillet was empty and they thought they were at least 100 miles from another living soul. When one of them remembered it was Christmas morning, they felt even worse. One of the miners, to cheer up his partners, played Santa Claus. With much flourish, he pulled out two small gold nuggets from inside his belt and gave one to each man. In the middle of the goldfields, this was a lot like giving someone a rock. When they were at their lowest, there came the musical chant of voices singing Adeste Fideles. They followed the sound and found four well-provisioned young men from Boston who shared food and song with them. On the menu: flapjacks fried in bacon grease, bootleg coffee, a Johnny Cake baked on a shovel, and a flask of spirits. I wish I could tell you more, but space is limited and I need to go look for a shovel…and a Johnny Cake recipe (source: Christmas in the Gold Fields, 1849- California Historical Society).
Happy Holidays to all, Janelle (Please share, my thanks!)
My newest novel
Maku, a rebel leader somewhere in the middle of the dark jungles of Nigeria, has just placed an order for a young woman called Anney Oaks who lives in the United States. It was easy. He did it with his i-Pad. He orders and pays for all the women that he buys and re-sells that way—over the Internet—without ever having to leave his Hummer.
On the other side of the world, Anney has left her small coastal hometown and has landed an accounting job in a big department store in Seattle. Shy, she’s having trouble making friends and is depending upon a laptop to help fill the lonely hours. When she tells Jeremy, a man at work that her new website already has fifty-six views, he tells her, “Anney, you need to find some real friends!”
That night in Africa, Maku visits her website…he’s real, but he’s not a friend. His “friends” are all over the globe; one of them is right outside Anney’s bedroom window. Suspense, romance. amazon Kindle. New Adult (ages 19-29 & up.)
Thanks for stopping by! Janelle
Thanks for stopping by! Janelle
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Something for the wee ones. Merry Christmas!
Illustration by Sherri Bails
From the book There’s a Mouse in the House! An excerpt from a short story about a housecat named Ribbons who gets into trouble with the Christmas tree in the living room. When the adults yell at him, he runs to the basement to hide. Only Hannah can coax him back upstairs to join in the Christmas festivities. Ribbons at Christmas is just one of the stories in There’s a Mouse in the House!
Amazon Kindle.
I write in several genres, see my books, stories, and plays here:
See my literary and romance books!
The Carpetbagger by Larry Anderson
Below is a reprint of a comment that was originally printed in the Tacoma News Tribune. I’m reprinting it because I saw the Carpetbagger again yesterday, and every time I see it, I feel the same excitement that I felt the first time I saw it standing so proudly in front of the restored train station. I hope you like it too.
The Soul of Tacoma is in the Carpetbagger
by Janelle Meraz Hooper
For me, the soul of Tacoma is in the Carpetbagger. A sculpture donated to Tacoma by sculptor Larry Anderson, the Carpetbagger stands in front of the Union Station.
When it was first installed, Pacific Avenue was a rough area. I heard people commenting about how long can it last there? At the time, I was a member of the Pierce County Arts Commission and for days after it was installed, I drove by at odd hours just to make sure it was still there and unharmed.
While I’ve been on my affectionate “drive-bys”, I’ve seen it dusted with snow, and dampened by drizzle. I’ve seen people stop in their travels down the pavement to walk slowly all the way around the artwork to enjoy every curve and pattern of the bronze work. Many times, I’ve seen people of all sizes and shapes posing with it for a camera.
As far as I know, it has never suffered any damage by vandals, a testament to how beloved it is by people in all walks of life. That’s not to say it hasn’t been “modified”. From time to time, I’ve noticed his lapel adorned by daffodils or tulips. One time, I even saw a Burger King bag tucked underneath his arm. Once, in a pouring rain, I saw him draped in a plastic disposable raincoat.
It just proves to me that the people of Tacoma have taken the Carpetbagger into their hearts—and that Mr. Anderson may have sculpted the dapper man with the carpet bag under his arm, but the people of Tacoma have breathed life into it.
the end.
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Rudy Ramos, star of Geronimo, Life on the Reservation, a live traveling show. See him this spring on Kevin Costner’s TV series, Yellowstone, now in production.
Happy Thanksgiving Eve. From my research file: I’ve read that Apache women could run so fast they could chase down a wild turkey. Then, they’d tuck the still gobbling bird under their arm and walk to the post to sell it to the soldiers. The first time it happened, the soldiers thought it might be stolen. But no, the women really were that fast.
The Apache women were hard workers. After their arrival on the reservation, they quickly learned the soldiers would pay for turkeys, firewood, and grass for their horses that the women gathered on the prairie.
They spent the money they made in the trading post. Things that were common to white women were luxuries to them. Geronimo commented that, each time they went to the trading post, they came back a little less Apache and a little more like white women. It made him sad, but he understood.
This year, I might try turkey hunting, Apache style. I can see a crow out in my pasture–maybe I’ll practice with him…
I caught him! (:
Oh! he got away! ):
This is the kind of thing writers do when
they’re waiting for a download…(:
Janelle Meraz Hooper is the playwright for Geronimo, Life on the Reservation. She’s a multi-genre indie-writer. See her books and stories here:
We have got to do better
Janelle Meraz Hooper
I’ve been watching the news on television. For this post, it doesn’t matter which one. What I am going to say has been said many times before and will be said many times in the future. The problem is, we have failed to extract the core truth in the message and act on it:
WE HAVE GOT TO DO BETTER. Let me say it again: We. Have. Got. To. Do. Better. Our planet is in crisis, our people are in crisis, and we have too many problems to list.
LET ME JUST SAY THIS: If we can’t get along among ourselves and begin to solve the problems we have at the moment, how are we going to solve an even bigger crisis?
What if we have another pandemic?
What about the next earthquake, nuclear failure, environmental disaster? What then?
Some of us even feel sure that we will deplete this planet’s resources until we will be forced to evacuate to another planet. If so, do ya think we and our children will be on the list to be rescued? Probably not!
Perhaps there’s even a more serious scenario: What if there really are little green men out there in space and they are zeroing in on Planet Earth? Could happen. What will we do then when we can’t even agree on our minor problems? China has announced that its space monitors have picked up alien sounds (transmissions?). How can we respond if we’re not even able to get along with each other?
Let’s start on the little stuff (food, water, disease, and ideological). Then, maybe, when things really go haywire, we’ll have a fighting chance.
Janelle Meraz Hooper is an indie novelist/playwright whose play, Geronimo, Life on the Reservation was chosen by the Los Angeles Times in 2021 as one of its 19 Culture Picks. Her new novel, a historical fantasy, is titled Geronimo’s Laptop (still in production). See my books and short stories here:
http://www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
Please share.
Thanks for stopping by! Janelle
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NEW!
Wanda the Witch has Burglars
Janelle Meraz Hooper
There were burglars in Wanda’s neighborhood. It was bound to happen. They were everywhere lately. As thick as pumpkins in a field.
What Wanda couldn’t figure out was why they hadn’t hit her house yet. She had some good stuff—everyone, by now, must know. Her kettle for mixing up her secret potions was top of the line. Her pumpkins were from the snootiest grocery in Tacoma. And her brooms! High-tech all the way with GPS built right into the handle. How could they not want to get their hands on one of those?!
Lately, every night, just to be safe, she locked herself into her bedroom with all of her good stuff: the kettle, her brooms, her secret recipes for toads and snails, and…of course, her cat, Rochester, and her iguana, Iggy.
One night, when she and her pets were sound asleep, the worse happened. The neighborhood hooligans broke into her home through the sliding glass door on her deck. Well, it had glass when it was new; it had been broken out for years when Wanda flew her broom through it when it wasn’t open. Since then, Wanda had thought about fixing it, but the front doorbell was also broken so she thought she’d just leave everything the way it was. This way, her friends could land their brooms on the deck and come right into the kitchen. That’s where she usually was anyway.
With a sigh of relief the next morning, Wanda counted her blessings. Everything she treasured was still in her bedroom where it had been before she went to sleep. Just to ease her mind, she even counted the toads and snails but they were all there too.
She wasn’t too upset to find the boys had cleaned out everything in her living room. She’d been meaning to give the room a good dusting anyway. Luckily, now that the wide screen TV, new computer, and stainless steel popcorn machine were gone, it’d be easy to get into all of the corners with a dust rag. She’d do it someday. There was no hurry because there was never anything good on the television anyway.
It wouldn’t be hard to figure which of the boys were running around after dark causing trouble. All she had to do was fly around at night until she smelled popcorn and saw the glow in a window coming from a big screen television. A really big, big screen television. Wanda had conjured it up with a special potion and there wasn’t another one like it anywhere.
Luckily, Wanda had a plan to get even. She had a toad soup in her old kettle that she’d started weeks ago and forgot to put away so it was likely pretty thick by now and would be easy to spread. On Halloween night, she’d spread a nice, thick layer on their car’s windshields and fill the insides with bats.
They were smart boys. She was pretty sure her television and all the other stuff they’d taken would be brought back as soon as they saw—and smelled—their cars.
And, as soon as she got her stuff back, Wanda would wave her wand and all would be back to normal. The bats would be gone, the stink would be off their windshields, and all would be forgiven. What a fun Halloween this was going to be!
the end
Happy Halloween!
My first Halloween costume!
Read free previews of all of my books and stories
on their Amazon pages.
(Note: Geronimo is a live show so
there is not a preview available.)
My newest novel. Read a free preview
on its Amazon page.
“This one!”
(blog only)
Janelle Meraz Hooper
When I was a kid in Oklahoma, sometimes summer days were so hot our moms kept us in. When the temperature headed towards 108 degrees before lunch, we’d head over to Hazel’s house and play the catalog game. Her mother kept all of the old Sear’s catalogs just for such days.
We would lie on the cool floor of her family den, reveling in the cool tiles caressing our bare legs. Halfway through the catalog we’d always wiggle over to a fresh, cooler spot. Hazel would pick the latest Sear’s Catalog out of the rack and we would begin. The game went like this: on each page we could pick one item. We’d point to it and say, “This one.” Sometimes we both wanted the same piece of clothing or toy and it was a race to see which one of us could touch it first and win it.
Of course it was just for fun. Neither of us was getting anything we wished for! We played our game page by page until we got to the end of the catalog. At the end of the game, we celebrated our wins with a Popsicle. I hadn’t thought of this since I was eight-years-old.
Why am I telling you this? A few Sundays ago, I was alone, flipping through the Macy’s Sunday flyer with absolutely nothing on my mind. I turned the page and saw the guy at the top of this blog. Totally without thinking, I touched him and called, “This one!” I was amused. And stunned. Where did that come from?
Slowly the memory of the Sear’s Catalog game came to me. Finally, I began to laugh. The game was still the same. I could call “This one!” all I wanted, and all I’d end up with was a grape Popsicle!
See my books and short stories!
Photo courtesy of Macy’s
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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.
This small collection of short stories and poetry is from my personal collection of stories I told to my daughter and grandson. Most of the stories are based upon real-life events in our family. My grandson co-authored the opening poem.
My approach to telling stories to children is the same as my approach to talking to them: I never used baby talk or purposely avoided complicated words if they enhanced the story. If there was a question about a word we looked it up and talked about it.
All of my writing, whether it’s women’s fiction, short stories, historical, or a story for children, has humor. Also, as in all of my writing, I bring an awareness of the environment into the story content.
I hope you agree with me:
“Once you learn to read, you will be forever free.”
Frederick Douglas
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I’ve just spent an inspiring week in Historic Philadelphia. It brought to mind this quote from one of our presidents, Ronald Reagan.
“Freedom is never more than one generation away from extinction. We didn’t pass it to our children in the bloodstream. It must be fought for, protected, and handed on for them to do the same.” Ronald Reagan
Janelle Meraz Hooper
See my books
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Red Meat on a Friday Night
(blog only)
Janelle Meraz Hooper
See my books and short stories
Friday nights could be rough in the restaurant business. Working couples were overstressed, overtired, and emotionally numb from not having the energy to communicate during the week.
Oh, joy. Before Rod ever seated the couple at their table, he knew he was in for a rough night. The woman was already sniping at the man—Rod guessed it was the woman’s husband because no date would put up with her vitriol. Between the few feet from the front door to their table, she jumped on the man for not making reservations for where she really wanted to eat and told him his tie looked like hell. Without taking a breath, she then accused him of smoking behind her back. The man didn’t deny it and he didn’t look remorseful, either. Ding! Round one.
This kind rancor wasn’t unusual between couples on a Friday night, a certain amount was even expected, but this couple was the worst in a long time. Rod seated the two, handed them menus, quickly told them about the specials, and ran for the protection of the kitchen. He told them he was going after water but he lied. He was afraid if he gave them anything they could throw at each other, he’d have a big mess to clean up. Instead, he brought them the wine they’d requested. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t throw their wine. They obviously needed it.
He kept an eye on them, avoiding their table until their glasses were almost empty before he cheerfully approached and offered to take their order. Waiters knew that unhappy customers were not only bad for business, they would hurt their tip. If their bickering continued, they might even argue more than they ate, which would tie up the table longer than usual and delay him getting happier customers who would be better tippers.
By the time they’d each emptied two glasses of the house chardonnay, the two had quieted down and were eagerly watching the food come out of the kitchen, each hoping it was their order. When their plates were ready to be delivered, Rod raced to the couple’s table, threw the red meat in front of the two, and stepped back. Red meat and baked potato for the man. Red meat and salad—no dressing—for the woman.
Rod thought it was a good sign when the band came back and the dance floor started filling up. Maybe the music and the dancing would distract them. He was wrong. The man’s wife zeroed in on a couple who was happily dancing around the floor.
“Why can’t you dance like that?” she griped.
He calmly glanced at the passing couple. “Why can’t you look like that?” “Ding! Round two,” Rod whispered to a passing fellow waiter.
Halfheartedly, Rod offered a dessert menu. All he got from the two was sneers. Desperately trying to save his tip, Rod brought two complementary chocolate truffles wrapped in gold foil wrappers to the table. With a smirk, the woman unwrapped both candies and stuffed both into her mouth at once. So much for the diet.
The waiter almost had to duck to avoid the man’s credit card as it flew across the table in his direction. Before it landed on the tablecloth, the woman looked at her man with a challenging expression. “I think I would like to see a dessert menu,” she smiled, never taking her eyes off her husband. The man got up from the table, threw his napkin on his plate, and said he was going outside to have a smoke, ignoring the smoke that was already coming out of his wife’s ears. Ding! Round three.
Rod knew there would be no tip tonight from the two. By this point, he was praying that their credit card went through. A credit failure was all this couple needed to complete their disastrous dinner. If only the card went through, maybe he could at least avoid Round four. Even so, it was getting late; most likely, he’d not get a chance to fill his table with another couple. The cashier sent Rod a barely concealed thumbs up. The man came back inside long enough to sign the slip and left again, leaving his wife to fumble with her coat alone.
Back in the kitchen, the other waiters laughed and each contributed to their fellow waiter’s tip jar. It had happened to all of them. The good news was the next Friday night was a week away.
The end
If you like this story, please share! My thanks! Janelle
Check out my books and short stories on Amazon! I write in a variety of genres! Paperback and Kindle. See my books on my book site!
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Rudy will be back for a repeat performance
on Sat. August 25th at 4:00 PM in 2018!
Geronimo, Life on the Reservation, starring Rudy Ramos, had two amazing performances at the Crescent Moon Theatre in Kanab, Utah. What a jewel of a theatre–it would have been worth the trip to see the theatre alone! A special thanks to Jeffrey Turner, manager, who made us feel so welcome and for finding my glasses that I lost during the performance!
Going to the Kanab Western Legends Roundup and Film Festival turned out to be one of the best trips of my life. Who knew? Actually, my main intention of the trip was to see Rudy perform his Geronimo, Life on the Reservation two more times, but I truly fell in love with Kanab and the other participants in the event. Right next door to us were the Wyatt McCrea’s, Joel McCrea’s grandson, On the other side was Rudy Ramos and his wife. Don Collier, Neil Summers, and Jeff McCarroll were on the end of our row. I could go on and on. The morning we left I woke up about 3:30 AM thinking I have to stay at least two more days. I NEED two more days! I feel a book here.
It’s the same feeling I got in Tombstone (It’s in my latest book—A One- Way Cruise to Africa–still without a cover! Hopefully it’ll be out by Christmas on Kindle.) As I’ve said before, as an indie-writer, it’s just me behind the curtain here–these things take time!
Western Legends Roundup, Kanab, UT 2017
great shows at the
Crescent Moon Theater!
2017, 2018
Western Legends Roundup and Film Festival
Tickets for Rudy’s Geronimo show
in Kanab, Utah
Rudy Ramos
The air sizzles after a Geronimo, Life on the Reservation show. Rudy will perform his show again at the Kanab Western Legends Roundup and Film Festival on August 25 & 26th, 3:30 PM. TICKETS: westernlegendsroundup.com/Geronimo. The Roundup runs from August 21-26 in Kanab, Ut. Go Kanab!
I wrote this show specifically for Rudy. He has gotten rave reviews and Standing Room Only crowds wherever he goes. Go see it when he comes to your area! Janelle
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IQ points to burn?A comment
(blog only)
Janelle Meraz Hooper
See my books and short stories here!
Every night, I circle my little IQ points inside the wagon train that is my brain and sit up most of the night guarding them…
Pot is legal in Tacoma now. I’m agin it. For starters, I’m against anything that makes people dumber than they already are. But mostly, I’m against it for myself…I already misplace my cell phone several times a week…and have trouble discerning the tablespoon from the soup spoon in my new stainless flatware…they look the same to me! Every night, I circle my little IQ points inside the wagon train that is my brain and sit up most of the night guarding them. The rest of you, who have IQ points to burn, have at it. You obviously think you’re smart enough to handle a few gaps in your brain. And maybe you are…but I’m not taking any chances!
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photo credit: sportpoint
The Dance of Divorce
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Aubrey dumped her parcels in an empty chair at the table and looked at the old friend she’d run into at the mall. “I can’t believe it! You divorced Stephen? When did this happen?”
“Over two years ago. I think you were in Kansas taking care of your mother.”
“What happened?”
“He stopped dancing.” When she saw her friend waiting for the rest of the story she added, “Well, at least he stopped dancing with me. I have no idea what he may have done on someone else’s dance floor.”
“So he was fooling around?”
“I don’t know. I was speaking literally. He stopped dancing. That was the first clue. Then he stopped doing other things. One at a time like when your favorite CD gets a scratch. First it’s just one song. Then another .Then another. Until, finally, the whole CD is ruined.”
“Where is he now?”
“On the other side of town in a fancy townhouse.”
“Who’s he with?”
“I must never speak her name. You know her.”
“Augh! No way! That oinker?!”
“My mother thanks you, my lawyer thanks you, but most of all, I thank you. I found her panties in his car once…eee-uuu.” With that, she spread her arms as wide as she could without hitting the man at the next table”.
“That big?”
“Oh, yeah. And they were old and dingy…and cheap.”
The barista brought the coffees they’d ordered when they came though the door .
Shasta loaded up her latte with sugar. When she noticed her friend gasping she said,
“Leave me alone. Sugar is just about all I have left nowadays.”
“I’m not surprised. In college you were so shy you went to the library every time we had movie night.”
“Can we change the subject? How’s your job?”
“When the housing market collapsed, I moved over to the commercial side of the business. It’s been even worse, but at least, I’m having more fun. Contractors give great parties. You’ll have to go with me sometime.”
“Sure. Just let me know. I don’t get out much—too many deadlines now that I’ve kicked my writing into high gear.”
Shasta lingered over her coffee when Aubrey gathered up her shopping bags and went home. She was in no rush to get back to her computer. The latest blog she was going to post needed to cool off a few hours. For her, posting in haste was never a good idea. Too often, her fingers were quicker—and sharper—than her brain.
Visit my site to see my books and plays!
*Janelle Meraz Hooper is an indie writer living in the middle of berry country
(raspberries, blueberries, strawberries, oh my!)
40 miles south of Seattle.
But wait! There’s more! If you enjoyed this kernel, check out
Chili Chili
The Art in His bed The Art in His Bed
(Click on the blue text)
]]>Tickets for Geronimo, Life on the Reservation
Rudy Ramos will be performing Geronimo, Life on the Reservation in Kanab, Utah, August 25-26th, 2017 at the Western Legends Roundup. Don’t miss it! The roundup runs from August 21-26th.
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This is the YouTube link where Rudy Ramos first introduced his concept for his live show on Geronimo’s life after the great Apache warrior became a POW on the Ft. Sill Reservation. The actual show premiered during the 2014 High Chaparral Reunion in Phoenix, AZ. Since then, the traveling show has been given rave reviews.
Next performances will be August 25-26 at the Kanab, Utah at the Western Legends Roundup.
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The booking video below was made with my own two little hands. What fun! Many thanks to the talented people who graciously allowed me to incorporate their work. Anyone can tell you, this story of Geronimo is a true labor of love!
August 25 & 26th, 2017, Rudy will be performing his show in Kenab, Utah, during The Western Legends Roundup https://www.westernlegendsroundup.com/ the Roundup runs from August21-26th, 2017. Don’t miss it!
Tickets for Geronimo:
New business idea! Donuts by Drone
(blog only)
Janelle Meraz Hooper
See my books and short stories
I have a new business idea. My first idea was to sell chocolate Easter bunnies with extra ears. That would have worked but it was too seasonal. I totally underestimated how early I needed to start to get all those ears cut off and packaged. Then, I was going to make sweatshirts for writers that were already messed up with ink marks. It turned out that all writers already have a stack of them that they made on their own. My new idea is drones that will deliver doughnuts early in the morning. Don’t tell anyone. I’m afraid Amazon.com will steal my idea…and they already have the drones. All I have so far is one of those balsa planes that has a wind-up rubber band to make the propeller work. I’m trying to figure out a way to make the rubber band also work to carry the doughnut sack. So far, it’s a work in progress. Sign up for delivery now!
I write some serious stuff too: Books, short stories, plays.
Check them out!
www.JanelleMerazHooper.com
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http://www.JanelleMerazHooper.com
When I wrote Geronimo, Life on the Reservation, a one-man show for Rudy Ramos, not all of my research made it into the show. There just wasn’t space! This is one of the stories I had to leave out…
This photo was taken at a photo-op at the 101 Ranch in Oklahoma in 1905 (Geronimo died in 1909) while Geronimo was a POW at the reservation in Fort Sill, Oklahoma. Geronimo is wearing the top hat. The man next to Geronimo is Edward Le Clair, who was a Ponca. At the end of the day he gave his ornately beaded vest to Geronimo because the old warrior had admired it so much. The same day he drove the car (a 1904 Model C Locomobile), photographers also wanted Geronimo to show them how he killed buffalo. He admitted that he’d never killed a buffalo. Someone finally killed the bison and Geronimo posed next to it to have his picture taken. It was a win-win. The photographers got their photo and Geronimo got his picture taken, which he loved. Note: When Geronimo died, he was buried in the vest.
Geronimo, Life on the Reservation
I write in several genres. check out my books and stories!
http://www.JanelleMerazHooper.com
My newest novel
“Trust your instincts. Then follow them.”
Amazon Kindle. SuspenseRomance
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“What tribe are you?”
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Mother’s Day is coming up. I’ve been thinking about my mom…we were very close. The kind of close that develops between two people who have survived living with a man who was meaner than a rattlesnake and dumber than adobe (from A Three-Turtle Summer). Living in Oklahoma, my mother and I had a lot of Native American friends who invited us to their powwows. All the time, kids would ask me, “What tribe are you from?” I didn’t know what to say. We were Hispanic! One day I asked my mom about it. She never blinked an eye and said, “We’re from the Aztec tribe.” At 7-years-old it was a good enough explanation for me and I skated by on that answer all summer.
Find my books on Amazon and other Internet bookstores
Paperback and Kindle
(“They’re a good read, I promise!”)
If you like this piece, please share! My thanks, Janelle
CONTACT INFO: Click on About Janelle under the masthead.
Janelle Meraz Hooper
(Try my books, they’re a good read, I promise!)
A new French toast recipe
Early this morning, I was sleepy, under-caffeinated, vision-impaired, and behind schedule. This happens to independent, free-lance writers a lot. Nonetheless, like the woman on the tee-shirt, I persisted. I slapped the button on the coffeemaker, threw a piece of French toast in the skillet and turned the burner up until the flames almost licked the outside of the skillet. I was in a hurry. Question: has anyone else noticed how, at 5:00 AM in the morning, the bottle of maple syrup and the bottle of balsamic vinegar are surprisingly similar? I didn’t have time to start over. But I have to say the combination of sweet, balsamic vinegar is not totally unpleasant…especially if you wash it down with enough coffee.
Follow me on Facebook and Pinterest (search: Janelle Meraz Hooper)
Check out my books! They’re a good read, I promise!
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The Sugar Police
I’m happy to report that the Sugar Police at my health co-op on South Hill are diligently on the job today. At the snack bar, they refused to sell me a soda with sugar—all offerings were sugar-free but full of artificial sugar additives (I happen to believe artificial sugars aren’t good for me). Upon closer inspection, I noticed 11 (!) pieces of ooey-gooey pastry, 5 or 6 varieties of muffins, and 6 different types of packaged cookies. The man in front of me purchased an iced-mocha. I think I heard him request 2 sugars. They gave it to him. Really? Here’s what’s really funny: at 120 pounds, if it were going to kill me to have 3 or 4 sugared sodas a year wouldn’t it have done it by now? I’m over 73! Please don’t print my name or address as I’m sitting on an Easter basket that has the Mother-of-all chocolate bunnies in it and I don’t want the SP to confiscate it!
If you like this, please share!
Janelle Meraz Hooper
(Try my books, they’re a good read, I promise!)
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Bonnie King took this photo of me a long time ago…
Note: this is still under construction, but someone asked me for it. Mostly what’s missing is formatting…
Tips For
New Writers
(A Little Tweaking Can Be A Good Thing!)
by
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Introduction
I’m often asked by beginning writers how to get started. I always give the same answer: start a journal! It’s a good beginning for lots of reasons, but what I like best about journaling is it will preserve the memories of your childhood. You may think you’ll never forget the funny school stories, but sadly, you will if you don’t write them down. Keep the journal forever—whenever you need a good laugh, it’ll be there…
Bad Habits
Do you write in English, or do you write in email? Many of us pick up a habit of using abbreviations, codes, and other assorted shortcuts in our emails that can carry over into our regular writing. Watch it! Some people (for instance, teachers and bosses) are not amused!
Editing
I like to edit on paper, as my eyesight is poor. That can mean a lot of printouts over the course of a book. Lately, I’ve been printing in draft. There’s not that much difference in appearance, and think of the ink I’m saving! Oh! Don’t forget to change the settings back to normal before you do the final print-out!
What is today may not be tomorrow. My trusty spelling skills are beginning to fail me sometimes. I don’t know if it’s old age or poor eyesight, maybe both! It doesn’t hurt to run your work through spell check. It’s free, and you may have spelled a word wrong for years and have never caught it. Also, sometimes, they have an idea on grammar you haven’t thought of.
Exercise!
Writing is exhausting work. Having enough stamina to go that one extra rewrite can make the difference between success and failure. Do what you can (ask your doctor). Don’t overdo!
Formatting
The standard page setup for story submissions to magazines is 12 pt. Times Roman, double-spaced, with one-inch margins. Unless you are asked to do otherwise, use these guidelines. Resist using a cool font. Your submission will end up in the round file (garbage!).
Check each story for “which” and “that.” A lot of sentences that use “which” should be changed to “that.”
Listen
Are you listening? Really listening? This week, I heard the term “predatory lender” for the first time. I used to have a list of new words and phrases, but I’ve misplaced it. Start your own list! Lately, I’ve heard: Frankenfoods (genetically altered foods), blooks (published blogs), Floodweiser (canned water Anheuser-Busch donated to Katrina victims), Spokesweasel (a public relations representative), more to come…
Listen to the sounds around you. Listen to the sounds a prom dress makes when it dances across the floor.
Talk less, and listen more. Listen not only to what people say, but how they say it.
Motivation
“Motivation is what gets you started. Habit is what keeps you going.” Jim Ryun
“It’s the greatest of all mistakes to do nothing because you can only do a little. Do what you can.” Sydney Smith. Writing can be a great tool to get something done!
Organization
For weeks, I’ve been thinking about trays that I could use to carry my projects from the office to the living room. Everything I found was too heavy or too expensive (I wanted several). Finally, my husband came up with the idea of using something I already had a lot of: lids on boxes of paper. They are perfect: lightweight, free, available. All right, they are not as stylish as I’d like, but I’m willing to sacrifice style for the other features. Now, when there is a baseball game on, I can load up my box and take it to the living room. During a baseball game, I can do a lot of sorting, accounting, etc. After the game, it’s easy to schlep it back to my office.
Are you driving yourself nuts going between your document and your notes? Try putting your notes at the bottom of your document. Just remember to delete them before you turn the paper in! If you’re working with a paper and pencil, try writing your notes on colored paper–they’ll be easier to find!
Binders are beautiful things. I keep all of my stories in a separate binder. I divide it into sections for thoughts, research on the story, outline, synopsis, story, and marketing, including queries and rejections. Nothing ever gets lost, or mis-filed. If I ever lose my file in a computer failure, I have a hard copy.
The easiest way to keep paper handy for notes when you’re out and about is to keep 3×5 index cards in your purse, pocket, or glove box.
Is your work area cluttered? Clutter confuses the brain. Recently, I took everything off my bulletin board, put it all in plastic pockets, and stored them in a three-ring binder. Then I hung up a beautiful painting in the empty space. Instantly, I felt better. Mostly, the board was littered with take-out menus and magazine articles—stuff that isn’t really important to see every day. I keep my serious stuff on my weekly calendar.
I have a new trick: It’s what I call my string of pearls—and they hang across the top of my computer monitor now. It’s really small pieces of cardstock. At the end of the day, I move them around and put the projects I’m not going to work on the next day at the bottom. I have so many ideas that I tend to lose focus. I figure this will help. Update: the clutter got to me and I couldn’t stand it anymore. Now, the same information is printed right on my desktop background photo. Easy to read, easy to change.
I’m finishing up my latest book and I need lots of room to lay out my chapters. My solution is to use my ironing board as a spare table. It’s handy. It’s free. Its height can be adjusted. And, tee-hee! At least it’s being used for something!
One of the first things I do every morning when I turn on my computer is open a page in Word to use as a scratch pad—I also use it to check my spelling.
Read
Read. Everything. Well, almost everything. Let’s stay in the high end of the IQ and morality pool. Remember the old computer saying: garbage in, garbage out!
Start building a reference library of books. Include books on subjects you’re interested in, and of course, dictionaries and a thesaurus. I haven’t been happy with the dictionaries online, but if you are, use them. These books don’t have to be new. Check out the used bookstores.
I predict the next hot thing in entertainment will be something old: radio! Try NPR (National Public Radio). If you don’t have time to read the new books, at least listen to their reviews!
Research
Doing research? Try using Post-it tabs for bookmarks. They won’t fall out if you drop the book. If you don’t have any narrow ones, cut some from regular-sized Post-its. I put several in the front of each book as soon as I start it.
Everything is research. If you’re stuck somewhere you don’t want to be (a traffic jam, Aunt Zoe’s third wedding, your mother’s company picnic, etc.), make use of your situation. Look around. Observe the people. Listen to how they talk.
Are you buried in boxes of newspaper clippings that are part of your research? For gosh
pages. Please remember to give me credit!sakes, open a file and scan in the clippings as you collect them. Doing it after you have a boxful is frustrating and very time consuming. Do it piece by piece, and you’ll be glad you did when you sit down to write. You may want to keep it on a disk, if you have a low memory problem (on your computer, not your brain!). And always, make a hard copy, for obvious reasons.
Revisions
Revise! Sometimes, after a story sits for awhile, you’ll see ways to improve it by changing a word here and there. A little tweaking can be a good thing.
Stress
Backup your files! And while you’re at it, make a hard copy too. Do it soon! The next virus is just around the corner!
Style
Check each page of your story. Do too many every paragraphs start with the same word? If so, you might want to change some of them. The most common culprits are The, She, He, etc.
Let’s remember the 3 Cs of writing: clarity, conciseness, and content!
Time
Having trouble finding time to read? I set my alarm clock a little early each morning so I can get in some extra reading. Try it! I do this because, when I read at night, I go to sleep until I read “The End.” In your household, it might work better for you if you go to bed early to read.
That reminds me, you do have a weekly calendar don’t you? You can make one on your computer if you don’t. When I was in school, I missed some important dates because I never wrote them down in the same place. I don’t think anyone is that disorganized anymore, but I thought it was worth a mention…
If you’re working on a schedule, remember that time spent on a project isn’t as important as product. For instance, I divide up my yearly calendar by days I’m going to work (usually about 330 days). Then, I factor in the estimated length of the novel usually about 90,000 words—I write short). If the number of words I need to write to make my schedule is 273 words a day, then I write until I hit that number. Just sitting and staring at a blank screen doesn’t count. When my daughter graduated from college, I worked way ahead because I knew the house would be full of relatives, and little work would get done. Weeks before she graduated, I had those words banked so I could enjoy the festivities without guilt. In your case, what if you left a project until the last minute and then got the flu? How miserable would that be?
Writer’s Block
I keep a notebook full of newspaper clippings that interest me. You might keep one of articles that appeal to you. They may trigger a story idea!
I use my camera to take pictures of things I want to remember. It’s like taking notes, only with photos. With a picture, I can draw on an experience I had years earlier, and write about it. If it’s a person you’re interested in, be sure to ask permission before you take his picture, people can get cranky! If they say no, smile and walk away, quickly! I did meet a photographer once who softened up his request to take someone’s picture by offering them a Polaroid if they’d pose for him. Nowadays, maybe you could email a photo, or post it on your website. I find that people are most resistant if you point the camera at their children. I can understand that!
Writer’s Tools
The best tool a writer can have is self-discipline. ‘Nuff said.
Quotes from Elizabeth Lyon* :
“It’s never too late to be what you might have been.” George Elliot
“We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is the same.” Oliver Wendell Holmes
“The more you do, the more you can do.” Thomas Jefferson
“The harder you are on yourself, the easier life is on you.” Steve Chandler, author of Reinventing Yourself
*Elizabeth has some wonderful books on writing—check your library. Also, check out her website: www.ElizabethLyon.com
Other Stuff
Date and keep all of your stories, even if they’re so bad you want to hide them under your bed. This way, you can look back and see how much you’ve improved!
A Little Story…
Are you thinking that English isn’t important because you’re going to be a math major?
I know a college graduate who got his first job as an accountant. His first assignment? Write a manual on what his department did and how they accomplished their goals!
The moral of the story is you can spend the time and master English skills now, or suffer someday when your boss asks you to do something you never thought you’d have to do. Life is that way. Prepare now.
And you English majors…I hear you snickering over there. The same thing applies to you and your math. Master it now, or pay–dearly–later!
Hope this stuff helps! JMH
note: Teachers, feel free to make copies of these
Thanks, Janelle
www.JanelleMerazHooper.com
(Try my books and short stories, they’re a good read, I promise!)
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Short story sale on my Kindle shorts: Harpy & Julianne’s Tomato war, Escape to Laredo, Old Joe’s Pink Cadillac, Rocky Beaches, and There’s a Mouse in the House! are now just $1.99 USD for a short time only.
Author website for Janelle Meraz Hooper
Harpy & Julianne’s Tomato War
Last summer, Harpy & Julianne were fussing over cats and roses in my short story collection, Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories (at regular price). This year, the two senior gardeners are having a tomato war. Kindle only. Suitable for all.
Escape to Laredo
To save her family, Gregoria Marteen and her children are fleeing Mexico on a train after the death of her husband. A pastry chef, Gregoria’s first job in Texas is at Bettye Buford’s Bed & Table. It does not go well. Kindle only. Suitable for all.
Old Joe’s Pink Cadillac
Old Joe didn’t have much, never did. But, at least, he had Elizabeth, for a while…before his daughter, Cascade, got out of a women’s correctional facility and took her for a ride while Joe was at work. Kindle only. Suitable for all.
There’s a Mouse in the House!
A book of short stories and poetry to be read to children 2-6. Children and parents alike will love the story content and characters like Okra (the cat), Jamaica (the green parrot), Mr. Hop (the nature-loving farmer), and more. A Worldreader favorite.
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At regular price:
Read the first Harpy & Julianne Story here.
Read the first Harpy & Julianne story, Harpy & Julianne’s War of the Roses, here. Paperback & Kindle. Suitable for all.
Please subscribe to this blog–there’s lots of good stuff here,
I promise!
Janelle
I was washing my ladle and noticed it is starting to show its age after 54 years. I’m reposting this old comment for sentimental reasons.
The Ladle
Janelle Meraz Hooper
I don’t know why I was washing dishes by hand last night—I have a dishwasher. Maybe it was because our Mariners were behind the Yankees 2-4. Or maybe it was the latest war in the Middle East. Or maybe, it was the sight of our president (Baby Bush) stupidly talking in front of an open microphone and chewing with his mouth open at that big mucky-muck meeting of leaders in Russia (that man is such a hick!). I dunno what it was.
Anyway, there was a soup ladle in my sink, and it brought back a flood of memories (that happens to me a lot—maybe I should seek help). I can remember exactly when I got it. It was given to me at a bridal shower my friends gave me in our college dormitory at Eastern Washington State College (now a university) in 1963. I don’t remember the name of the girl it was from, but I can see her as clear as yesterday. She was so fragile, maybe a size one, with reddish long hair. That year, she’d been working on a student talent show with us, and she’d objected to a poem by Ogden Nash because it had a swear word in it (A strange bird is the pelican—his beak can hold more than his belly-can—in his beak he can hold enough food for a week—but I don’t know how the hell-he-can). She was such a sweetheart.
That ladle has been with me from that first pot of soup until now. It has served delicious soups with beef and pea pods. Spicy, aromatic, Cajun soups with chicken and ham. Sometimes, it has ladled soups that were more frugal. It has even spooned more than its share of beans. It has seen lonely times when my husband was in Viet Nam and happier times when his whole family gathered around our table for gazpacho. It has ladled tomato soup decorated with popcorn into my daughter’s bowl. Soup made with vegetables from our organic garden. Even soup made with leftover salmon (okay, that one was a mistake!). That ladle. That precious ladle.
It is still in good shape, made soundly from stainless steel by a company named Ecko, I think. After all these years, it is in no danger of replacement. How could I replace it? How could I purchase one of those new plastic ladles with lots of color but no memories?
I don’t know what happened to my friend who gave it to me. I hope she is well and happy—and I hope she has a ladle just like the one she gave me, oh so many years ago…
Janelle Meraz Hooper
(Try my books, they’re a good read, I promise!)
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The Muslims and our Constitutional crisis
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Janelle Meraz Hooper
I make very few comments about political events on my blog. Not because I don’t care but because there are so many good writers all over the country who are much better than I am about analyzing what’s going on and what it all means to our country and the world. With this comment, I’m going to break that pattern.
I don’t know how we’re going to fight our way out of the problems our new President has created for our country in just a few days. The man still thinks he’s running a television game show and is shooting from the hip, making arbitrary Hire! Fire! decisions with no knowledge of law, history or the facts. Long after I’ve forgotten the complicated details of our president’s betrayal of our Constitution, I’ll carry with me little mental clips of what I saw and heard:
On TV news, during this time of our Constitutional crisis, I saw the ACLU lawyers who flooded our nation’s airports that were so crowded they had to sit or lie on the floor in their suits. They held handmade signs that said (I’m paraphrasing): Are you Muslim? Have you been denied access to our country? Talk to us. We can help you. We are lawyers. Many other lawyers, all over the country, signed up to be called, at a moment’s notice, if they were needed. Even more got out and marched. This is my America!
I heard the chants in front of our local detention center that rang out loud enough for the people inside to hear: SAY IT LOUD, SAY IT CLEAR, REFUGEES ARE WELCOME HERE! DO NOT BE AFRAID! This is my America!
The Chinese say it is the year of the Rooster, but in my mind, it will forever be the Year of the Marches. We’ve had marches for women’s rights, marches against the Muslims being detained, marches by scientists defending our EPA regulations…and there will be more. This is my America!
When I read that Trump was quietly signing legislation at 1:00 AM while we slept, I got a vision of what he reminded me of: the Wizard of Oz fumbling and mumbling behind the curtains. Recklessly pulling levers and pretending he knew what he was doing. Like Oz, he is just as clueless.
But, most of all, I will always carry in my heart the quote from Madeline Albright, President Clinton’s Secretary of State, who came to this land as a Czech refugee as a child. She said, “If Trump has a Muslim registry, I will sign-up.” I hope we all sign up. During World War II, the Nazis occupying Denmark ruled that all Jews would wear a Star of David on their clothing, so the Nazis would know who they were. The next day, in protest, the streets were filled with Danes wearing the Star of David on their clothing. They showed us how to play this deadly game…and win.
God Bless America!
Check out my books and short stories–they’re a good read, I promise!
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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.
See it on Amazon:
The Slum Resort, Amazon
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Suspense. Novella. Kindle. Suitable for New Adults and up.
…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 with 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 in Seattle 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…book trailer below…
The Slum Resort book trailer, YouTube
Comments on Amazon:
4 stars Touching and Entertaining
Elizabeth Lyon
As I began Slum Resort, I expected the zany humor I’ve come to expect and enjoy in some of Janelle Meraz Hooper’s other novellas. In this gem, she tempered humor with pathos, as Maggie, Stella, E-Z, Breaking News and other trailer occupiers help each other, make do, and try to figure out how to cope with people who seek to exploit them. Hooper has a light touch for these heavy topics, which is why this story works so well. What is Henry, the neighbor unlike them, really doing? The reader knows but Maggie and Stella have to figure it out. Even though the premise of the story is as familiar in life as in fiction, i.e., the disconnect with the humanity of the poor set against the ambitions of the greedy, I wanted to cozy up to this story and find out what happened next–because I liked the characters so much.
Elizabeth Lyon
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5 Stars Unique and Inspirational
Raul Ramos y Sanchez, author of The Skinny Years and the Class H Trilogy
In sparkling prose, author Janelle Meraz Hooper relates the tale of a plucky group of seniors who endure poverty with humor and aplomb. Far from the golden years we all wish for, these seniors are down on their luck — mostly because of their willingness to help others. How they resolve a crisis which threatens to leave them homeless left me inspired at our capacity for caring and love.
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4 Stars- Life on the Edge Comes Alive
Ruth M. Anderson
Janelle Hooper’s well-developed characters are always memorable and this book is no exception. If you have ever lived under near-destitute means, you will be quickly drawn into this story of folks living on the edge in more ways than one. Her descriptions of the trailer camp and surrounding area put you there, as you try to imagine how the occupants will overcome their circumstances. This is a book for older adults who recall their own trying times and for younger readers who may feel chagrin at the way they’ve treated their parents. It’s a modern story reliant on the issues of the day such as over development of pristine Northwest land, homelessness, and seeming hopelessness. Check it out. You won’t be disappointed.
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5-Stars Great Read!
Karen
The title of the book was intriguing so I downloaded a sample. So glad I did! Great story – LOVED the ending!
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5-Stars A Tale of Corporate Greed
Aline Lesage, author of Gaby’s Penance
In this departure from her typical humorous and satirical style, seasoned author Meraz Hooper addresses the thorny issue of near-homelessness. With wit and compassion, this short story presents a cross-section of some of society’s powerless and marginalized, namely those who struggle to survive in their decrepit trailers.
Not surprisingly, each resident has a sad story: save one, all have been abused by or fallen prey to their children, spouse, employer, or the system. All are smart and genuinely good people who must fight daily for their dignity and their limited possessions.
The plot is centered on a not-so-unlikely case of corporate greed where a single outsider’s machiavelic plan will annihilate the entire park’s residents fragile stability. As the threat looms, the author takes the reader inside the park’s miserable atmosphere, also inside some of the residents’ discriminating mind.
This is no tear-jerking story meant to instill pity for those who have been forced into borderline homelessness. Yet its lighter tone does convey the implicit warning that such devastation can indeed happen to anyone. While attempting to dismiss the trailer trash stereotype of SS and system abusers, if anything in this tale of corporate greed, Meraz Hooper suggests that anyone hit by such tragedy deserves at least some measure of compassion.
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5-Stars- Just a Really Good Read
Ms. Hooper gives us a look at a side of life that, fortunately, most of us will never experience. She does so with her usual humor and great outlook on life.
I’m never disappointed when I read one of her books.
Bravo, Janelle
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Thanks for stopping by! Please share this post.
Many thanks, Janelle
Kanab, Utah, 1017
Western Legends Roundup
(I was there with my Geronimo show.)
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Happy Holidays to all my WordPress readers, Janelle Meraz Hooper
Paperback & Kindle, Amazon & others
Click on links for more info!
Bears in Hibiscus
Custer & His Naked Ladies
Boogie, Boots & Cherry Pie
I have more! See my Author pages on Amazon:
Janelle Meraz Hooper, Author’s page
http://janellemerazhooper.com/
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Suitable for New Adult and up. Please share!
Amazon and others. Paperback and Kindle. Published by CreateSpace.
Visit my website! Janelle Meraz Hooper
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Chapter 3. Okra (the cat)
An excerpt from There’s a Mouse in the House!
Janelle M. Hooper, Jacob N. Studebaker, illustrations by Sherri Bails
There’s a Mouse in the House! Amazon Kindle
Jamaica, a little green parrot, plans lunch with Jupiter, the big black crow in the front yard…
Okra got his name when he was a kitten and Sally dropped a piece of deep-fried okra on the floor. He’d snatched it and took off running before Sally could pick it up. He thought it was a piece of fish. When he’d bitten through the crust there was no fish inside. Just something slimy and green. What a nasty surprise!
Jamaica could have told him if he’d been there but he was in Sally’s office at the time. Jamaica didn’t know what Okra would do without him. Sometimes, getting that cat through the day was a fulltime job. And sleep! Okra would sleep all day if he didn’t have Jamaica to call to him. Sometimes, he slept so soundly that Jamaica would have to fly over and bite his tail to wake him up. Once, he bit his ear, but he found out that waking up a big cat was a lot more fun if he wasn’t so close to the cat’s biting end. Jamaica knew that Okra hadn’t meant to frighten him but a cat was not a bird. He’d learned that much since he came to live with Sally.
Mostly, Okra ignored Jamaica’s attempts to make friends with Jupiter. As long as they stayed out of his bowl whatever they did was all right with him. This lunch thing that Jamaica kept talking about was going to be a big disaster. Broccoli and seeds? For lunch? What was that crazy green bird thinking?
Amazon:
Kindle
There’s a Mouse in the House!
Your toddler will love it!
Janelle Meraz Hooper Is an indie writer who writes in several genres (She wrote the traveling play, Geronimo. Life on the Reservation!). Stop by her book site to see all of her books. Paperback, Kindle.
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One summer, Mr. Hop discovered a big pheasant in his garden. He decided to call him George, the Great Green Gooseberry Gobbler, because he saw him underneath one of his gooseberry bushes—quickly gobbling green gooseberries even though they were still green!
Sometimes, when Mr. Hop went to the garden, he would get real close to the gooseberry bush. George would sneak around to the back of the bush and peek at Mr. Hop through the bush’s branches. Mr. Hop began following him around the gooseberry bush, all the time fussing with the hoe, pretending he didn’t see his new feathered friend who was—sneakily gobbling green gooseberries.
Mrs. Hop thought they looked like they were dancing when Mr. Hop would hop around the gooseberry bush, swing his rake, and sing while George hid at the back of the gooseberry bush, flapping his wings, scratching in the dirt—hurriedly gobbling green gooseberries.
Mr. and Mrs. Hop were so busy watching George with his colorful feathers, they didn’t see the less brightly-colored mother bird hiding in the brush pile while George was—noisily gobbling green gooseberries…
There’s a Mouse in the House! is a favorite short story book of children all over the world through the Worldreader program. Written by Janelle M. Hooper and co-authored by Jacob N. Studebaker, the book is beautifully illustrated by Sherri Bails.
Kindle only.
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