This is a true and funny story that happened a few years ago. It’s about angels and life and Bob.
I was thrilled that my book had won a national award but didn’t think it was worth a trip to Chicago just to get a photo made. Sister Laura, however, was hyped about it. She had worked hard with little credit—editing, designing the original awesome cover, marketing, and supporting me at every step of my novel about the wife of Lot (Angels at the Gate). She also wanted us to attend the BEA (Book Expo America), which was happening simultaneously.
A few days before our flight, Laura fell and hurt her ankle. BEA requires lots of walking, but she was determined to go, even if she had to get a wheelchair. Where most people would have rented one, my always-check-a-thrift-store-first sister borrowed an old wheelchair from a thrift store. It was heavy and squeaky, and not knowing its history, she had cleaned it with Lysol, which was a prudent sanitary move but, unfortunately, set off the explosive-substance detector at the Birmingham, Alabama airport.
So, wheelchair, Laura, and all of her stuff had to be hand searched. And they confiscated our wheelchair, in case it was really a bomb, I guess, promising it would be at the gate waiting for us when we arrived in Chicago.
Not.
No wheelchair at the gate when we landed in Chicago. Had it exploded somewhere? We finally track it down in baggage. After a start like that, we are surely over the hump. All we have to do now is get outside the terminal because Laura has arranged for her friend, Bob, to pick us up. I’d never met Bob, but he was Laura’s friend. What could go wrong?
Bob, it turns out, is 82 years old. His car is about the same age and smells strongly of gasoline. I have visions of someone in front of us throwing out a lit cigarette. Are we going to explode after all? Will the Lysol on the wheelchair add to the incendiary mix?
Bob hops out and loads us up, pulling stuff randomly out of the hatchback area to get our suitcases and the wheelchair in and then crams piles of boxes on top of them, keeping the hatch down with bungee cords. When we get in the car, I politely mention that the boxes totally block his vision on one side.
“I’m used to it,” he says, pulling out into the rain and the insanity of the Chicago airport traffic.
The “it” he is “used to,” I realize, is not being able to see . . . omg!
I text our hostess. *Landed. If we survive Bob, will be there soon.*
Miraculously, Bob gets us where we are going, an area several miles north of Chicago in Edgewater, where Laura has arranged rooms at a friend’s cousin’s condo. Why, my always-check-a-thrift-store-first sister had reasoned, stay at an expensive hotel? It is a lovely place, but this is the award night, and I am worried about us getting back into Chicago. That ride was not part of the Bob-bargain, so we are on our own. That’s a good thing, right?
At Laura’s insistence, we forgo a taxi because we are so far away, but Laura has called the Chicago Transit Authority, and they assured her that all the metro train stations are handicap accessible. Still, it is no longer raining, and we leave the condo early, me pushing the squeaky, cumbersome wheelchair that I learn randomly applies its right brake and jerks hard to the right. I should have had a clue that the plans made by a woman who borrowed a wheelchair from a junk shop, not to mention, Bob, might warrant follow-up. When we arrive at the nearest station, we find there is, indeed, a way to get a wheelchair into the station. But “handicap accessible” does not stretch to a way to ascend the many stairs to the subway platform.
Reversing course, we head to next station down the line, which does have an elevator and where we meet a nice young man with the Chicago Transit Authority who helps us up to the platform. I ask his name.
“Angel,” he says.
My first thought is how appropriate—the name of my book is Angels at the Gate! WAIT! The name of my book. . . omg, I have forgotten a copy of my book (necessary to hold when getting picture taken at awards.) The last thing the publicist said was, “Don’t forget a copy of the book for the photo.”
I leave Laura on the platform with Angel, hurrying back to the condo. By this time, my feet are aching in my boots (which I am wearing because my skirt rises too far in front for knee-high stockings, and I will die before wearing pantyhose.)
I grab a copy of my book and switch my boots for sandals. Still need the socks, because this is Chicago, not Birmingham. I look down to see two bright pink big toes peeking out through holes in the socks.
Whoops, sandals not going to work for photo opt. I grab boots for later donning. By the time I get back, we are running late. We set the brakes on the wheelchair but, besides randomly engaging, they are not that spiffy about staying engaged. At the first lurch, Laura rolls down the aisle. I am running after her trying to catch her before she crashes at the other end.
A second angel jumps from her seat and shows us how to lock in the wheelchair. Who knew? We are from Alabama.
The clock is ticking. The whole purpose of the event is to get that photo op. We are a long way from our stop, the closest one to the (Sears) Willis Tower with an elevator.
As we discuss strategy for when we exit, a third angel pops up from her seat—apparently getting a signal from above (or perhaps watching our entrance) that there are some Alabama girls in need of assistance—and plops into the seat next to me.
“You’re going to Willis Tower? I work near there.” She kindly explains which way to walk from our next stop. We are so late now that we must take a cab.
Holding our breath against the olfactory assault in the train elevator (known as a subway by locals, even when it is above the ground), we descend to the street. I step out into the roadway and hail a cab for the first time in my life. (Again, I live in Alabama; a household is incomplete without two cars and a pickup truck.) A cab stops and looks us over, shaking his head at the wheelchair and driving on. I hail another cab, who also shakes his head at the wheelchair. We push on to Willis Tower, rolling through the puddles and treachery of cracked sidewalks. We are now very late.
I push the rickety wheelchair as fast as I can until we hit a crack in the sidewalk that stops us dead, shoving the wheelchair handles into me and nearly dumping Laura, book, and boots onto the sidewalk into a puddle because, yes, of course, it is now raining again.
Willis (Sears) Tower is massive. We enter and proceed via elevator to a winding corridor down to the security station, surely close to our goal, only to find we are at the wrong door and have to be escorted through the labyrinth of the Tower to the service elevators in order to reach 99th floor and the Independent Publisher’s party and awards announcement. We are finally here! We register, pick up our ID’s and a program . . . from which we learn “Historical Fiction” is #15 on the list and they are now announcing #26.
We missed it. All the way from Alabama to Chicago . . . and WE MISSED IT!
I wheel Laura to the bathroom. I feel worse for her, since she really wanted this, and it is as much her award as mine because cover design and layout are also considered, along with the story and writing.
While waiting for her, I notice we are sort of “backstage” to the awards announcer, and a beautiful young woman is standing (on the stage) with her side to me, so close I could touch her with a step. She is obviously connected to the proceedings. Hearing one of my father’s oft-repeated life lesson in my head— Only the squeaky wheel gets the grease— I take that step and tap her shoulder between photo setups, whispering that we had difficulties and just arrived, and is there any way we could go out of order? She steps out of the big room and consults a list, asks my name.
“T.K. Thorne.”
She brightens. “Oh, you are T.K. Thorne? I loved your book!”
“You read it?”
“Yes, I really loved it; it was my favorite book out of all of them.”
There are 80 national categories. No idea how many submissions in each category or how many she actually read, but that’s a lot of books, even if she meant in my category. As far as I am concerned, I am happy.
Dianu. (Hebrew for “it is enough.”)
She graciously arranges for us to get called up, Laura hobbling at my side. They put a huge medal worthy of the Olympics around my neck and, to my delight, around Laura’s too. And I have the book in hand! Success! Photo snaps.
You wouldn’t have even seen the pink toes. We head to the bar.
View out the Willis Tower, drink in hand View out the Willis Tower, second drink in hand
Over the next several days we encounter angels and references to them in rather odd ways. In addition to the transit guy named Angel, another “angel” (whose friend is Angela) shows me how to use Uber (Yea! No more wheeling for blocks to the train station); the Egyptian uber driver mentions his son’s name is translated as “Angel in Heaven”; and a book publicist at the Book Expo America (BEA) advises me to “listen to my angel.” I keep looking for a flutter of wings out of the corner of my eye!
On our last day, Bob picks us up, and we load wheelchair and baggage. After bungee-cording his car hatch down (not because of our luggage, just normal procedure), we are off to the airport with an extra hour . . . just in case. It is bitter cold, but I roll down my window because I can’t afford losing any more brain cells from the fumes. There is so much stuff in this car, it is unidentifiable. I try not to think about what all could be in there and just hope there are no rodents that live near my feet. This time I am in the back seat, and I reach for the seat belt. I actually find one, but there’s no buckle, so I just loop it around one shoulder. There’s a chance if we hit something at just the right angle, it might help. Laura is in the front seat. “What’s that noise?” she asks, forehead wrinkled in concern. Is it the engine?
“I don’t know,” Bob says. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
Laura: “Sounds bad.”
Bob: “Unless the wheels fall off, I usually just turn up the radio.”
I couldn’t make this up.
Postscript: Despite appearances, Bob was one of the many Chicago angels, for sure. He has spent most of his life traveling around the world helping people in disasters, which is how he and Laura met. I really wish I could spend more time with him and hear his stories . . . just not in his car.
T.K. Thorne writes about what moves her, following a flight path of curiosity, reflection, and imagination. Check out her (fiction and nonfiction) books at TKThorne.com
April is National Poetry Month FYI by Juliana Aragón Fatula
/in Uncategorized/by Juliana Aragon FatulaMy first manuscript was published while I was graduating from CSU Pueblo in 2008. The publisher was Ghost Road Press in Denver, CO. My editor was the fabulous Sonya who was an angel sent from my ancestors to restore my confidence and shine a light on my poetic voice. I adore her and Caleb Seeling at Conundrum Press who along with Sonya sent me a new contract to republish my first book of poetry, Crazy Chicana in Catholic City under a new book cover and ISBN but with the same contents. I of course said, yes.
One day at dinner in Denver with my publisher, Caleb, he asked me if I had another manuscript and I whipped my second poetry collection, Red Canyon Falling on Churches, out of my briefcase sitting at my feet. He published my second book with an exquisite book cover with a photo by Tracy Harmon, the prize-winning investigative journalist and Nationally renowned photojournalist, and my bff of 35 years, since we were college mates. She also does my headshots, promotional videos, etc. She is a goddess and a good human being.
In the meantime, I’m publishing poems, essays, and non-fiction pieces in anthologies and small presses. I am a published writer with a following of fans who think I’m kinda fascinating. I write about my ancestors, my dysfunctional family, my political activism, and my spirituality, my voice is strong, honest, shocking, and hilarious. I’m not bragging, I’m explaining who I am and what I write about. I write the truth even though it hurts it also heals. I’m a healer of sorts. A Chingona Corn Mother, ordained by the Universal Church, a mentor, a mom, wife, pet parent, liberal, radical feminist, and spiritual leader of my community. My community consists of members of the LGBTQ+ and the marginalized people of color, especially the immigrants asking for our help, the writing community, the social activists and hippies, the lesbian lovers, and the Pittsburgh Heroes, the indigenous ancestors who survived and gave me their survival skills. These are my people. I’m a poet.
I’ve workshopped in San Antonio, TX with Sandra Cisneros’ Annual Macondo Writers’ Workshop, with Denise Chavez in Las Cruces, New Mexico, with Francisco Aragón in Salt Lake City, UT, for the Smithsonian Our America: the Latino Presence in American Art, and in sunny Dillon Beach, CA for the first annual Chingona Writers’ Workshop.
My performances have included libraries, universities, bookstores, coffee shops, and cultural art centers in Boulder, Colorado Springs, Denver, Pueblo, Salida, Salt Lake City, San Antonio, Alamosa, and for the Department of Defense in Los Azores, Sicily, Kuwait, Dubai, United Arab Emirates, and Diego Garcia Archipelagos Islands.
My dream of being an author in the library in my hometown came true. The Rawlings Library in Pueblo has my books on the shelf between Rudolfo Anaya and Sandra Cisneros! I almost lost my shit when I realized I am a poet.
One more braggadocio statement if you will indulge me, it is amazing and I’m proud that I’ve won awards for my poetry but also that I’ve met and befriended so many generous writers in my journeys. Some of these amazing writers are professors at universities and have asked permission to read my poems in their poetry classes with their students. And the Albuquerque Poet Laureate, Jessica Helen Lopez. asked if she could read my poem, the Hat, in a performance. I was honored of course.
My life has changed in the last three decades since I became sober and I have to give credit to my husband for sticking with me through all the craziness.
Finally, I’d like to share the story of meeting the international icon, Sandra Cisneros. She was at the Rawlings Library in Pueblo doing a speaking tour. I met her and she shook hands with me and everyone in the room. I never thought she’d come back to the cheap seats but she did with a big smile on her face. I was impressed and a huge fan. I handed her my first book of poetry, Crazy Chicana in Catholic City. She asked me to sign it. I did. I forgot to breathe and almost passed out.
The next day at her reading she mentioned my book to the audience and talked about me for five minutes! Everyone with me in the front row, my friends and professors from CSU Pueblo stared at me with their mouths open. They cheered for me when Sandra told the audience they should buy my book. She asked if I had any copies with me. I said I had a box in my trunk in the parking lot. My BFF, Leslie the librarian extraordinaire, jumped up and shouted, I’ll fetch them. And off she ran.
I sold books beside Sandra. I had a shorter line. Afterward, she told me I want to give you an author blurb to sell more books. She said, your writing makes me want to write poetry. She also asked me to apply to her Macondo Foundation writer’s workshop. She said it’s competitive so keep applying until you get in. I applied twice and the second year was accepted.
My life has never been the same since I met Sandra. She is my angel on earth who lifts me when doubting my skills. She has introduced me to editors who have helped me improve my writing.
Denise Chavez won my heart at the Rawlings Library. I met her and she drew me into her magical world of literature. I’ve become an improved writer and human being because of my friendship with these writers. Linda Rodriguez introduced herself to me at AWP one year in Denver and invited me to join the Stiletto Gang after a few years of being friends on Facebook and emailing. She saved me hundreds of times because she had faith in me, I began to believe I could be a writer and not just a poet but a mystery writer.
I’m still revising my completed manuscript, The Colorado Sisters, but because I don’t want to write a good book, I want to write a great book, I haven’t sent it out to be published yet. It needs a good tweaking or two and then when my editor tells me it’s ready I’ll submit but not till it’s ready.
It’s not easy writing a great murder mystery. I might end up publishing it as a short story or screenplay. But wouldn’t it be great to have my first novel be a prize winner? Oohwee! I’d have a hootenanny and celebrate because I’ll have finished my first mystery and it can sit on the shelf with Rudolfo Anaya, Linda Rodriguez, Maria Melendez Kelson, Lucha Corpi, Katherine, Manuel Ramos, Mario Acevedo, and Stephen King!
Book People
/in Author Life, Cozy Mysteries, Uncategorized/by Mary Lee Ashfordby Sparkle Abbey
We spent the weekend at a wonderful writers’ retreat aptly named “Only Books in the Building.” It was located at Honey Creek, a lovely southern Iowa resort. and though this was the first year for it, based on our experience, we know that it will continue to grow.
There’s just nothing better than spending time with other writers and with readers who love books.
There were panels of authors “Romancing the Book,” “Murder They Wrote,” and “Paths to Publishing” as well as breakout sessions to discuss craft and publishing. There were sessions on “Characters Who Keep Secrets,” “Storytelling in Non-Fiction” as well as on plot, revision, and finding your theme.
Murder They Wrote Panel
The sessions were fabulous and there was a wide range of genres represented but overall the theme was all about story and how that applies to romance, mystery, memoir, and more. But best of all there were tons of opportunities to talk books!
It was truly everything we hoped for in terms of getting away, hanging out with other writers, and recharging our creative batteries. We’ve attended conferences, book festivals, writing retreats, and other book events but this one really fit the bill for an informative yet relaxing weekend of talking books!
Do you have a favorite book event that you attend? Please share and tell us what you love about it!
Sparkle Abbey is actually two people, Mary Lee Ashford and Anita Carter, who write the national best-selling Pampered Pets cozy mystery series. They are friends as well as neighbors so they often get together and plot ways to commit murder. (But don’t tell the other neighbors.)
They love to hear from readers and can be found on Facebook and Pinterest, their favorite social media sites. Also, if you want to make sure you get updates, sign up for their newsletter via the SparkleAbbey.com website
Clicking Our Heels: Our Secret Passions
/in Clicking Our Heels, Secret Passions, Uncategorized/by DebraClicking Our Heels: Our Secret Passions
How many of us have ever had a secret passion? Did you act on it or do you keep it buried within yourself? We thought it would be fun this month to delve into the secret passions of the Stiletto Gang members and whether they ever acted on them.
Lois Winston – I have two. I wanted to be an astronaut, but NASA wasn’t interested in vertically challenged candidates prone to motion sickness. I also wanted to be on Broadway, but Broadway wasn’t interested in singers who can’t sing, actors who can’t act, and dancers who can’t dance. Go figure!
Mary Lee Ashford (1/2 Sparkle Abbey) – My passion has always been writing so that’s not much of a secret. I will say, however, as a recent retiree that I’ve discovered an interest in history and genealogy that I just never had the time to pursue when I was working full time. It has led to some fun discoveries!
Barbara J. Eikmeier – I’d love to draw. I took informal lessons at one time and think I can draw if only I’d apply myself.
Dru Ann Love – No.
Debra H. Goldstein – For years, I wanted to be a comedian (and I can still be pretty funny once I have a microphone in my hands), a politician, or a writer. One out of the three isn’t bad.
Donnell Ann Bell – Probably my deep-seated wish for all people to find justice, forgive one another, and not turn to violence when they can’t have it. That’s why I write to release my passion to right this crazy world.
Anita Carter (1/2 of Sparkle Abbey) – It’s not a secret, but I’m passionate about the beach! Living in Iowa, beach life couldn’t be more dormant!
Gay Yellen – Even before I could read, I was making up my own poems. I wrote for a living (for magazines and businesses) beginning in my late twenties. Books were my passion from childhood, so as a published author, I suppose you could say I’m living the dream.
Saralyn Richard – I yearned to be a writer for many decades before I arrived at the place and time where I could fulfill the dream.
Lynn McPherson/Sydney Leigh – Improv. Just started taking classes and I love it!
T.K. Thorne – I always wanted to be an artist and paint. During Covid, I started playing with it and to my surprise, I wasn’t as awful as I thought I would be. It has given me many hours of joy.
Bethany Maines – Nope. I pretty much try to do all my passions. You only get one shot at this life—do it while you can.
Debra Sennefelder – I don’t think so.
BOOK COVERS-Eeeek
/in Book design, Ideas, Mystery, Susan P. Baker, The Stiletto Gang, Uncategorized/by Susan P. BakerBOOK COVERS–WHAT A NIGHTMARE!
When I first started out, back in the dark ages (1980s) before the Internet—heck—before home computers, I was as naïve as a newborn baby. I joined Mystery Writers of America, the chapter that met in Houston, and met some lovely, well-published authors.
I didn’t know squat (except what I’d read in magazines and books I’d purchased). I needed all the encouragement I could get, and I did get it. After a while, I was writing and submitting and, of course, receiving rejections, learning craft (we’re always learning craft, right?) and discovering what’s-what in the traditional book publishing business. There was no real self-publishing then (though there were, as now, vanity publishers), or as we call it now, Independent Publishing.
One of the things I found out from some of these published authors was that the author had no say so over her cover no matter how many books she’d written and published. You took what you got. Oh, the stories I heard. One particularly lovely author of over 140 books, Joan Lowery Nixon (1927-2003), https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Lowery_Nixon, who became a pretty good friend, regaled me with stories of her experiences regarding the covers of her books. The story I remember most is when she set a book in pancake-flat Houston, but the cover had mountains in the background. She said she’d had many “discussions” with the publisher before the book came out, to no avail.
My first published book, My First Murder, which St. Martin’s Press, Inc. published, had a colorful cover, which other than there being what one could assume was a dead woman on the cover, had no relation to the story. By that I mean the cover was in the style of Mexican art. (I like Mexican art, don’t get me wrong.) The book was set in Houston and Ft. Worth.
My First Murder, St. Martin’s Press, Inc.
The third cover of My First Murder. I didn’t keep copies of the second.
Some years later, my small press publisher contacted me one day and asked me what I wanted on the cover of the book they were putting out. You know, I had never given it any thought, my experience having been that I had no choice. One of my friends said if I was going to come up with a design for a cover, I should be paid. What did I know? I gave the publisher ideas, but by the time I sent in photographs and more information about what I thought, they had taken my original idea and run with it. The cover wasn’t that good. Years later, I’ve been re-publishing some books myself (of course I have my rights back) and am on my fourth cover for my first one.
The fourth cover of My First Murder and I hope the final.
Anyway, now, years and a number of covers later, as an “Independent” author I have sole control. There are days I wish someone else had the responsibility, so I’d be off the hook. It’s not easy coming up with ideas. I’m a writer, not an artist. I’m about to put out the 6th in my Mavis Davis series and have been racking my brain. The title is The Underground Murders. If any of you have an idea for a cover, without knowing the plot, PLEASE contact me asap.
You may contact the author at Susan@susanpbaker.com.
Susan is the author of fourteen (14) books, mostly mystery/suspense, but not all.
Spring Cleaning for Bookworms: Tips for Organizing Your Bookshelves
/in Uncategorized/by Debra SennefelderAs the flowers bloom and the days grow longer, it’s the perfect time for a little spring cleaning. Inside and outside the house, my list is long for sprucing things up for this new season. From windows to linens to garden beds to around the old barn, there are dozens of tasks to check off my ever-growing list. While many of these tasks are truly chores that will take a significant amount of time, there is one area I’m looking forward to working on. For bookworms, spring cleaning isn’t just about decluttering the house, it’s also about tidying up our beloved bookshelves. And during that decluttering, we sometimes find forgotten books that beg to be read. Oh, what a wonderful feeling that is.
Depending on the size of your collection, this task can be either a breeze or overwhelming. Either way, it’s always a great feeling to have our books tidied up and in order. Whether you have a small bookcase or a wall unit, I hope these five tips may help you tackle the project efficiently and quickly. Because you have some reading to do.
Assessing Your Collection:
Determine your organization goals: Do you want to alphabetize your books, arrange them by genre, or prioritize your TBR pile?
Take stock of your books: Sort through your collection and decide which books to keep, donate, or pass on to friends.
Decluttering and Dusting:
Remove books from shelves: Clear off your bookshelves and give them a good dusting.
Purge unnecessary items: Weed out any books you don’t want or need and do the same with any decorative items you have on your shelves.
Organizing Your Shelves:
Choose an organization method: Decide how you want to arrange your books – by author, genre, color, or another method.
Invest in organizing tools: Consider using bookends, bins, or baskets to keep your shelves neat and tidy.
Utilize space efficiently: Make the most of your shelf space by stacking books horizontally, using vertical dividers, or adding additional shelving units if needed.
Adding Personal Touches:
Incorporate decorative elements: Spruce up your shelves with plants, candles, or artwork to add personality to your space.
Display treasured items: Showcase special editions, family heirlooms, or other sentimental objects alongside your books.
Maintaining Your Organized Shelves:
Establish a cleaning routine: Set aside time periodically to dust your bookshelves and reorganize as needed.
Stay organized: Make a habit of returning books to their designated spots after reading to prevent clutter from accumulating.
There you have it, five quick and simple tips for a little spring cleaning. Are you ready to tackle this project? Any other tips you’d like to share with us about spring cleaning our bookshelves or any other projects around the house? Let us know in the comments.
Happy Spring!
Debra Sennefelder is the author of the Food Blogger Mystery series and the Resale Boutique Mystery series. She lives and writes in Connecticut. When she’s not writing, she enjoys baking, exercising and taking long walks with her Shih-Tzu, Connie. You can keep in touch with Debra through her website, on Facebook and Instagram.
Brooke Terpening joins The Stiletto Gang
/in Author Life/by Donnell Ann Bell~~~
March 22, 2024, 2:32 pm. People gathered in the corner of the Boulder King Soopers parking lot and bowed their heads in a minute of silence. Behind them, ten trees stood witness to the tragedy of ten senseless deaths. Moving among the employees, friends, and family were three therapy dog teams. Some people wiped away tears as they hugged a dog; others smiled and thanked the handlers for being there for them. In turn, the dogs accepted each person, understanding their needs.
I was honored to be one of those teams. My labradoodle Teagan and I have been with Boulder Strong Comfort Dogs since the shooting massacre at our local grocery store three years ago. The Comfort Dogs are experienced teams, certified with a national organization. Additionally, they must have served at least one year visiting in hospitals and medical facilities.
Teagan at Boulder Police Department
Our dogs go wherever needed to relieve stress and anxiety. First responders, police, and district attorneys look forward to our visits. Seniors at assisted living facilities often are unable to have a pet and suffer from loneliness. I find noncommunicative people will open up to a furry face. A late-stage Alzheimer’s patient reminisced about her own animals. An autistic boy’s parents were amazed when he spoke for the first time in months to my dog.
At Colorado University, our “canine counselors” lift the spirits of homesick students preparing for exams. They snuggle, clown, and pose for selfies. Some students even plan their schedules around the visits and are regulars. One graduate level computer science student attended over ten therapy dog events in one and half years. Another remarked, “This is the best part of exams!”
Each dog develops a fan club. Many have become quite famous on campus. They are a bit like a cross between a super-hero and a rock star—they wear a cape, a.k.a. a vest, and carry their own “business” cards. At hospitals, nurses collect the cards and keep special treats for the visits.
Because the dog wears a vest, many people assume they are service animals. While working with Teagan, I’m often stopped by a stranger, who asks, “May I pet your dog?”
And the answer is an unequivocal yes. Unlike a service dog, which is trained to perform a task for only their owner, a therapy dog’s job is to put smiles on faces and provide comfort for everyone. These dogs and their handlers undergo a rigorous testing process to earn certification with established organizations. To serve in a hospital, veterinarians perform behavioral and psychological evaluations to ensure the dog can handle startling noises, unusual movements, and sudden emotional outbursts.
Often, the next question is, “What makes a good therapy dog?”
Any breed can excel at this work, but all share certain characteristics. Basic obedience skills are a must. Obedience can be taught, but you can’t teach a loving nature and calmness in crowds. They must tolerate dozens of strangers petting them during a visit. As a handler, I need to be alert to signs of stress in my dog and know when to take a break.
Some visits are harder than others. Several years ago, I was visiting a hospital with my first therapy dog, Mango. I knocked on a partially closed door and saw a young woman in bed eating a meal. A tray, dishes, coloring books, pencils, and notebooks lay scattered across her bed. A visitor sat quietly in a corner. I expected them to decline the visit, but to my surprise, the patient dropped her fork and exclaimed, “I need to see the dog.”
Mango at Tree at Life Boulder Resource Center
She smiled, excitedly cleared off her bed, and asked if Mango could join her. I placed him beside her, and she wrapped her arms around him. Mango snuggled closer and put his head across her lap. She stroked him and didn’t speak for several minutes. Then, she whispered to him how much she missed her dog but pets weren’t allowed in hospice care.
She wished she could have one, because, unlike others in long-term hospice, she was still in a wheelchair and could take it outside. She rocked Mango gently in the dimly lit room while her visitor watched with a small smile. The visitor, the young woman explained, was her roommate, also in hospice.
Her eyes glistened (as did mine) when she repeatedly said this visit was just what she needed. She buried her face in Mango’s fur and hugged him hard while a nurse administered pain medication through her port. While the medicine lulled her, I quietly moved Mango out the door.
Yes, scientific studies show petting a dog or cat will increase endorphins, reduce stress, and lower blood pressure. But more than that, a therapy dog will look directly into your soul with loving eyes. Maybe, just maybe, the best medicine is medicine for the soul. And sometimes that medicine is nothing more than wrapping your arms around a dog.
About the Author: Brooke Terpening, a technology geek, semi-retired attorney, and crime fiction buff, lives and writes in the Rocky Mountain Front Range. She’s had a life-long affair with mysteries and computers. After earning a Master’s Degree in Information and Computer Science, she worked as a software engineer and director for various startups in North Carolina, the Bay Area, and Colorado. Development of several software patents led her to law school with the aim of becoming a patent attorney herself. Along the way, she took a life-changing detour into criminal defense. When she left Florida and legal work behind, she studied the craft of writing in Denver’s Lighthouse Book Project. Since then her writing has won multiple contests and awards for her unpublished crime novel and short stories.
Chicago Angels—by T.K. Thorne
/in T.K. Thorne, Thorne, Uncategorized/by TK ThorneThis is a true and funny story that happened a few years ago. It’s about angels and life and Bob.
I was thrilled that my book had won a national award but didn’t think it was worth a trip to Chicago just to get a photo made. Sister Laura, however, was hyped about it. She had worked hard with little credit—editing, designing the original awesome cover, marketing, and supporting me at every step of my novel about the wife of Lot (Angels at the Gate). She also wanted us to attend the BEA (Book Expo America), which was happening simultaneously.
A few days before our flight, Laura fell and hurt her ankle. BEA requires lots of walking, but she was determined to go, even if she had to get a wheelchair. Where most people would have rented one, my always-check-a-thrift-store-first sister borrowed an old wheelchair from a thrift store. It was heavy and squeaky, and not knowing its history, she had cleaned it with Lysol, which was a prudent sanitary move but, unfortunately, set off the explosive-substance detector at the Birmingham, Alabama airport.
So, wheelchair, Laura, and all of her stuff had to be hand searched. And they confiscated our wheelchair, in case it was really a bomb, I guess, promising it would be at the gate waiting for us when we arrived in Chicago.
Not.
No wheelchair at the gate when we landed in Chicago. Had it exploded somewhere? We finally track it down in baggage. After a start like that, we are surely over the hump. All we have to do now is get outside the terminal because Laura has arranged for her friend, Bob, to pick us up. I’d never met Bob, but he was Laura’s friend. What could go wrong?
Bob, it turns out, is 82 years old. His car is about the same age and smells strongly of gasoline. I have visions of someone in front of us throwing out a lit cigarette. Are we going to explode after all? Will the Lysol on the wheelchair add to the incendiary mix?
Bob hops out and loads us up, pulling stuff randomly out of the hatchback area to get our suitcases and the wheelchair in and then crams piles of boxes on top of them, keeping the hatch down with bungee cords. When we get in the car, I politely mention that the boxes totally block his vision on one side.
“I’m used to it,” he says, pulling out into the rain and the insanity of the Chicago airport traffic.
The “it” he is “used to,” I realize, is not being able to see . . . omg!
I text our hostess. *Landed. If we survive Bob, will be there soon.*
Miraculously, Bob gets us where we are going, an area several miles north of Chicago in Edgewater, where Laura has arranged rooms at a friend’s cousin’s condo. Why, my always-check-a-thrift-store-first sister had reasoned, stay at an expensive hotel? It is a lovely place, but this is the award night, and I am worried about us getting back into Chicago. That ride was not part of the Bob-bargain, so we are on our own. That’s a good thing, right?
At Laura’s insistence, we forgo a taxi because we are so far away, but Laura has called the Chicago Transit Authority, and they assured her that all the metro train stations are handicap accessible. Still, it is no longer raining, and we leave the condo early, me pushing the squeaky, cumbersome wheelchair that I learn randomly applies its right brake and jerks hard to the right. I should have had a clue that the plans made by a woman who borrowed a wheelchair from a junk shop, not to mention, Bob, might warrant follow-up. When we arrive at the nearest station, we find there is, indeed, a way to get a wheelchair into the station. But “handicap accessible” does not stretch to a way to ascend the many stairs to the subway platform.
Reversing course, we head to next station down the line, which does have an elevator and where we meet a nice young man with the Chicago Transit Authority who helps us up to the platform. I ask his name.
“Angel,” he says.
My first thought is how appropriate—the name of my book is Angels at the Gate! WAIT! The name of my book. . . omg, I have forgotten a copy of my book (necessary to hold when getting picture taken at awards.) The last thing the publicist said was, “Don’t forget a copy of the book for the photo.”
I leave Laura on the platform with Angel, hurrying back to the condo. By this time, my feet are aching in my boots (which I am wearing because my skirt rises too far in front for knee-high stockings, and I will die before wearing pantyhose.)
I grab a copy of my book and switch my boots for sandals. Still need the socks, because this is Chicago, not Birmingham. I look down to see two bright pink big toes peeking out through holes in the socks.
Whoops, sandals not going to work for photo opt. I grab boots for later donning. By the time I get back, we are running late. We set the brakes on the wheelchair but, besides randomly engaging, they are not that spiffy about staying engaged. At the first lurch, Laura rolls down the aisle. I am running after her trying to catch her before she crashes at the other end.
A second angel jumps from her seat and shows us how to lock in the wheelchair. Who knew? We are from Alabama.
The clock is ticking. The whole purpose of the event is to get that photo op. We are a long way from our stop, the closest one to the (Sears) Willis Tower with an elevator.
As we discuss strategy for when we exit, a third angel pops up from her seat—apparently getting a signal from above (or perhaps watching our entrance) that there are some Alabama girls in need of assistance—and plops into the seat next to me.
“You’re going to Willis Tower? I work near there.” She kindly explains which way to walk from our next stop. We are so late now that we must take a cab.
Holding our breath against the olfactory assault in the train elevator (known as a subway by locals, even when it is above the ground), we descend to the street. I step out into the roadway and hail a cab for the first time in my life. (Again, I live in Alabama; a household is incomplete without two cars and a pickup truck.) A cab stops and looks us over, shaking his head at the wheelchair and driving on. I hail another cab, who also shakes his head at the wheelchair. We push on to Willis Tower, rolling through the puddles and treachery of cracked sidewalks. We are now very late.
I push the rickety wheelchair as fast as I can until we hit a crack in the sidewalk that stops us dead, shoving the wheelchair handles into me and nearly dumping Laura, book, and boots onto the sidewalk into a puddle because, yes, of course, it is now raining again.
Willis (Sears) Tower is massive. We enter and proceed via elevator to a winding corridor down to the security station, surely close to our goal, only to find we are at the wrong door and have to be escorted through the labyrinth of the Tower to the service elevators in order to reach 99th floor and the Independent Publisher’s party and awards announcement. We are finally here! We register, pick up our ID’s and a program . . . from which we learn “Historical Fiction” is #15 on the list and they are now announcing #26.
We missed it. All the way from Alabama to Chicago . . . and WE MISSED IT!
I wheel Laura to the bathroom. I feel worse for her, since she really wanted this, and it is as much her award as mine because cover design and layout are also considered, along with the story and writing.
While waiting for her, I notice we are sort of “backstage” to the awards announcer, and a beautiful young woman is standing (on the stage) with her side to me, so close I could touch her with a step. She is obviously connected to the proceedings. Hearing one of my father’s oft-repeated life lesson in my head— Only the squeaky wheel gets the grease— I take that step and tap her shoulder between photo setups, whispering that we had difficulties and just arrived, and is there any way we could go out of order? She steps out of the big room and consults a list, asks my name.
“T.K. Thorne.”
She brightens. “Oh, you are T.K. Thorne? I loved your book!”
“You read it?”
“Yes, I really loved it; it was my favorite book out of all of them.”
There are 80 national categories. No idea how many submissions in each category or how many she actually read, but that’s a lot of books, even if she meant in my category. As far as I am concerned, I am happy.
Dianu. (Hebrew for “it is enough.”)
She graciously arranges for us to get called up, Laura hobbling at my side. They put a huge medal worthy of the Olympics around my neck and, to my delight, around Laura’s too. And I have the book in hand! Success! Photo snaps.
You wouldn’t have even seen the pink toes. We head to the bar.
View out the Willis Tower, drink in hand View out the Willis Tower, second drink in hand
Over the next several days we encounter angels and references to them in rather odd ways. In addition to the transit guy named Angel, another “angel” (whose friend is Angela) shows me how to use Uber (Yea! No more wheeling for blocks to the train station); the Egyptian uber driver mentions his son’s name is translated as “Angel in Heaven”; and a book publicist at the Book Expo America (BEA) advises me to “listen to my angel.” I keep looking for a flutter of wings out of the corner of my eye!
On our last day, Bob picks us up, and we load wheelchair and baggage. After bungee-cording his car hatch down (not because of our luggage, just normal procedure), we are off to the airport with an extra hour . . . just in case. It is bitter cold, but I roll down my window because I can’t afford losing any more brain cells from the fumes. There is so much stuff in this car, it is unidentifiable. I try not to think about what all could be in there and just hope there are no rodents that live near my feet. This time I am in the back seat, and I reach for the seat belt. I actually find one, but there’s no buckle, so I just loop it around one shoulder. There’s a chance if we hit something at just the right angle, it might help. Laura is in the front seat. “What’s that noise?” she asks, forehead wrinkled in concern. Is it the engine?
“I don’t know,” Bob says. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
Laura: “Sounds bad.”
Bob: “Unless the wheels fall off, I usually just turn up the radio.”
I couldn’t make this up.
Postscript: Despite appearances, Bob was one of the many Chicago angels, for sure. He has spent most of his life traveling around the world helping people in disasters, which is how he and Laura met. I really wish I could spend more time with him and hear his stories . . . just not in his car.
T.K. Thorne writes about what moves her, following a flight path of curiosity, reflection, and imagination. Check out her (fiction and nonfiction) books at TKThorne.com
Lucky Number Thirteen?
/in Author Life, Cozy Mysteries, Mystery/by Lois Winstonphoto from Pixabay
By Lois Winston
Triskaidekaphobia is defined as the fear or avoidance of the number thirteen. There are some people so paranoid about the number that they won’t live on the thirteenth floor of a building. Many hotels completely skip the thirteenth floor, going from the twelfth to the fourteenth because people will often refuse to stay in a room on the thirteenth floor.
I was born on the thirteenth. Maybe that’s why I’m not a superstitious person. I’d hate to go through life thinking my entire existence has been cursed ever since I couldn’t hold out another twenty minutes before making my way down the birth canal.
Truthfully, I’ve never given much thought to the so-called unlucky number. I also don’t avoid black cats, knock on wood, or toss spilled salt over my shoulder. However, I’ve been thinking a good deal about whether I should worry because my upcoming new release is the thirteenth book in my Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Series. Sorry, Knot Sorry is currently on preorder and will release June 4th. Suddenly, I’m keeping my fingers crossed (LOL!) that none of my readers suffer from Triskaidekaphobia.
The origin of the unlucky thirteen is often traced to both Christianity and Norse mythology. At the Last Supper on Good Friday, Judas Iscariot, the apostle who betrayed Jesus, was the thirteenth guest to arrive. Likewise, the god Loki was the thirteenth guest at the feast of Valhalla. After arriving, he tricked another guest into killing the god Baldur.
However, in some cultures, the number thirteen is considered lucky. Prior to World War I, thirteen was considered a lucky number in France. The numeral was a good luck symbol often found on postcards and charms. Thirteen is also considered lucky in Italy where it’s thought to bring prosperity and good fortune, especially when it comes to gambling. The same is true in Spain. In Egypt, it’s associated with prosperity and blessings.
Although many countries have a negative reaction to the number thirteen, quite a few have mixed feelings about it, and many simply view the number as ordinary and free of any superstition.
What about you? Are you superstitious? Post a comment for a chance to win a promo code for a free audiobook download of any one of the first nine Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries.
Sorry, Knot Sorry (preorder now, on sale 6/4)
An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery, Book 13
Magazine crafts editor Anastasia Pollack may finally be able to pay off the remaining debt she found herself saddled with when her duplicitous first husband dropped dead in a Las Vegas casino. But as Anastasia has discovered, nothing in her life is ever straightforward. Strings are attached. Thanks to the success of an unauthorized true crime podcast, a television production company wants to option her life—warts and all—as a reluctant amateur sleuth.
Is such exposure worth a clean financial slate? Anastasia isn’t sure, but at the same time, rumors are flying about layoffs at the office. Whether she wants national exposure or not, Anastasia may be forced to sign on the dotted line to keep from standing in the unemployment line. But the dead bodies keep coming, and they’re not in the script.
Craft tips included.
~*~
USA Today and Amazon bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is a former literary agent and an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry. Learn more about Lois and her books at her website www.loiswinston.com where you can also sign up for her newsletter and follow her on various social media sites.
PERIL IN PINK, OUT NOW!
/in Cozy Mysteries, New Release/by Sydney Leigh/ Lynn McPhersonBy Sydney Leigh,
Hi everyone! After what felt like a very long wait, my new book baby is finally here. PERIL IN PINK is the first in The Hudson Valley B&B Mystery Series, published by Crooked Lane Books. It’s a modern cozy and I can’t wait to tell you a little more about it…
Schitt’s Creek meets Only Murders in the Building in this sparkling debut mystery.
It’s the grand opening of The Pearl B&B in Hudson Valley, and owner Jess Byrne has prepared the ultimate, Insta-worthy welcome, complete with her ex-boyfriend—reality singing sensation Lars Armstrong—performing live. As guests check in and mimosas are poured, Lars arrives with his stepdad-turned-manager Bob in tow. But things go south when Bob is found dead, and Lars is the prime suspect.
After a desperate plea from Lars, and knowing the reputation of her B&B is at stake, Jess agrees to help clear Lars’ name, but the more she digs, the less sure she is that he’s innocent. Especially when he’s found at the scene of another murder.
With the guests under lockdown, the B&B in the press for all the wrong reasons, and a killer on the loose, Jess is in over her head. With the help of her best friend and business partner Kat, Jess is determined to uncover the truth before Lars is put behind bars and The Pearl is permanently cancelled.
Have you ever stayed in a Bed and Breakfast?
Sydney Leigh spent several years running a seasonal business, working in the summer so she could spend cold months in cool places. Now she writes mysteries and thinks about murder. She is a member of Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, and served on the board of Crime Writers of Canada from 2018-2021. Peril in Pink, the first book in the Hudson Valley B&B Mystery Series comes out in March 2024 with Crooked Lane Books. You can find Sydney at www.sydneyleighbooks.com
New Short Story Anthologies
/in Anthologies, Paula Gail Benson, Short Stories/by Paula Bensonby Paula Gail Benson
Three great new anthologies are on the horizon. Please add the following to your “to be read” lists:
Dark of the Day: Eclipse Stories, will be released on April 1 (in time for the April 8 total solar eclipse). The anthology is edited by Kaye George and published by Down and Out Books. Stories are by Eric Beckstrom, Paula Gail Benson, Michael Bracken, John Rogers Clark, IV, Bridges DelPonte, Cari Dublei, John M. Floyd, Kaye George, Debra H. Goldstein, Toni Goodyear, James A. Hearn, Laura Oles, Katherine Tomlinson, Joseph S. Walker, M.K. Waller, Carol L. Wright. (I’m very proud to be included with these terrific authors!)
Donna Andrews, Marcia Talley, and Barb Goffman edited Three Strikes—You’re Dead!, an anthology of sports mysteries coming out April 23 from Wildside Press. Every author in it is a member of the Chesapeake Chapter of Sisters in Crime. The authors are: William Ade, Kathryn Prater Bomey, Maddi Davidson (the pen name of authors Diane Davidson and Mary Ann Davidson), Lynne Ewing, Barb Goffman, Sherry Harris, Smita Harish Jain, Adam Meyer, Alan Orloff, Rosalie Spielman, Shannon Taft, F. J. Talley, Robin Templeton, and Joseph S. Walker.
Malice Domestic announces its 18th Malice Domestic anthology titled Mystery Most Devious, edited by John Betancourt, Michael Bracken, and Carla Coupe Malice Domestic and published by Wildside Press. The anthology will include stories by Mary Adler, Sue Anger, Ashley-Ruth M. Bernier, Susan Love Brown, Joslyn Chase, Leone Ciporin, P.A. De Voe, Christine Eskilson, Roberta Gibson, Hope Hodgkins, Smita Harish Jain, Jackie McMahon, Linda Norlander, Josh Pachter, Jill K. Quinn, Jennifer Slee, and Sarah Stephens. It’s due to be released with a book signing at Malice Domestic in April.
Happy reading!