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How a hard-shelled beetle brought about a lifetime of love.

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This is part one of two parts. Eventually, it will probably be the first chapter of a book I'm working on, but for now, I'm putting it under the novel category, so the two parts will stay together for easier access. I'll probably get around to writing the second part and posting it within a few days, but then again, you guys know how lazy I am, so don't hold your breath.

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A look back at life in the 1960s as a young man comes of age. The memoir includes reflections on himself, people he knew and the events of that time. I would be looking for input about the writing style, wording and organization of each chapter. Also, did the reader enjoy reading the chapter and want to read more?

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This is a continuation to my memior titled boy in the rain. I am going with this title from here on out as it fits. My story runs like a jack of all trades novel. Ive done it all and always seem to have a number of unusual experiences in the doing it all category. This first book of a two book memior is about jobs with the thread of addiction throughout. My battles with addictions began as a child and stick with me today in one form or another. Curiously though, I think I can safely say that in every job I have performed at the top of the industry I was in, for a time, then it always for one reason or another comes crashing to an end. If you bear with me you will find tears, horror, laughter, hopelessness, renewal, and loss. I am a Lost Soul writing my way Back Again. Happy Reading, Lost Soul

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This novel-length memoir details the growth and emotional shifts that occur when a thirtysomething woman decides to turn her husband's sexual fantasy into reality. While there will certainly be some vivid descriptions of sex as the story progresses, it is intended for a mainstream audience. The more detailed the critique, the better. I can take it!

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Those black-button eyes cried out to me! A story of rescuing a forgotten friend.

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This is a story about a small college baseball that wins a game but there is more to it than that!

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Up Home Again is the story of a woman who makes her peace with a haunting childhood in a beautiful place when she returns to Maine to resolve her current personal dilemmas. Finding herself back in the place, though not the time, of her lonely youth, she examines the changes in the area and in herself. Written with a mix of nostalgia and humor, this is a story for anyone who ever went away from anywhere and even thought of coming back.

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A real experene with an apartment, dumpster diver. one that made me think of how good I have it.

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This actually happened to me today. Thought I'd write it down before I lost it, so please excuse any structure problems.

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A Gypsy Among Gypsies is the story of my nomadic adolescence, living by my wits in the age of sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll. While American youth were growing their hair, experimenting with psychotropic drugs and protesting the Vietnam War, I was running for my life to Alaska, hoping to outdistance my troubled past and vanquish the demons in my head. I knew my past was dark, but I did not know it all. The storyline is a progressive quest for adventure, self-discovery, and enlightenment with more twists and turns than a Texas sidewinder: from a six-month cruise in the Caribbean to a county jail in California; from a cabin in the Sierra Nevada to a remote river camp in the Trinity Mountains; from the Aleutian Islands to Hawaii. Wrapped in a riddle with psychological and paranormal overtones, the story embodies the adolescent spirit of romance, rebellion and idealism, and celebrates the contention that given even less than half a chance, life not only endures...it prevails.

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Revised: The first four chapters have been revised taking reviews into consideration. Also, the original Chapter 3 is now Chapter 2, while 4 is 3, and 2 has the 4 slot - all of which will effect the attached reviews. Does the shuffling help or hinder? This novel is set within an orphanage in North Carolina during the mid fifties and sixties. Though it is basically true, the characters are composite and the time lines may be occasionally altered with some literary license thrown into the mix. I am looking for ANYTHING which might improve the readability, especially with regards to characters, dialogue, description, etc. Thanks!

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Remembering the filly who became America's sweetheart, even in death. These are the things she could have been thinking - we'll never know! Here's hoping that the racing world will see that changes are needed and that cruelty to animals is unacceptable!

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It's only five more days until Mother's Day, Darlins. The Magnolia just wants to remind you to call your Mama if you can't be with her. If you are lucky enough to be goin' to visit your Mama this coming Sunday, make sure you at least have a card for her. Don't you show up empty handed, now, that will hurt her feelins'.

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A re-write based on the excellent feedback I received. I'm considering submitting this for publication, although I have no idea what magazines would take this type of work. So, any feedback you have would be great. I'm sure there are still some typos -- I never seem to be able to get them all, no matter how much I look. A couple of specific questions I have are: do "dad" and "mom" need to be capitalized? Can I quote song lyrics without infringing copyright? Thanks in advance for your help.

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Okay, I'm getting back on track. Much of what is to come is already written... I just seem to be having a hard time with the weeks between Amarillo and OK City, and the first half of the trip to OK City. I'm not sure why, except perhaps this time was just so ordinary. Thanks for continuing to stay with me while I struggle through this part!

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A story about a man's desperate search for his two sons.

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WE ALL WILL COME FULL CIRCLE SOMEDAY...MY TRIBUTE TO MELANIE CONTINUES. I wrote this in April,2005 as a post to my Blog. Melanie died a month and one day later... My friend Melanie was a Master Gardener; attaining that title took a lot of study, a lot of work. Most every time I walked up to Melanie's house, I would find her on her hands and knees weeding, moving a plant, or placing a new one in the ground. Her favorites were the peonies...big, lush, fragrant...in shades of palest pink and white. She had to stake them they were so big. A Spring ritual I always looked forward to was walking with Melanie along the creek that flows behind her house to look for the bright, multi-colored primroses she had planted there. There were several wild Large Flowered Trilliums that showed up every year along the bank, and up near the front garden there was a wild Turk's Cap Lily that bloomed every summer. Her small house reminded me of one of those English countryside homes draped in roses and surrounded by flowers. Melanie's gardens look natural, look as if they sprang up wild. They only look wild, though; every plant was deliberately placed!

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THE CURSE OF FRUGALITY A MEMOIR Deep into an afternoon in August 1954, all the other tourists had disappeared. “It’s August 24th!” I yelled to both my friends still engrossed in viewing ancient ruins, and standing thirty yards distant on a cobblestone sidewalk. I shouted again, “Guess what today’s date is? Oh, don’t bother. Listen, on this exact date nearly 2,000 years ago, this whole city, was buried in volcanic ash.” As our visit to Pompeii drew to a close, we all turned west, and shaded our eyes as the sun began its relentless descent. Our fabulous forty-day European sightseeing excursion consisted of a honeymoon couple and myself as chaperon. In another two weeks, the happy couple and I would part company. Pompeii was our last major stop before heading north in our small rented four-horse-power Renault sedan. Our tour plan included a hundred-mile drive north of Rome to Grosseto, where we expected to stay over night, relax, have brunch and take a few peeks at the city’s Gothic Cathedral and Museum of Etruscan antiquities. From there, we’ll make a quick stop at Pisa to survey the surrounding landscape from the tower’s top and after an early supper, head for the Alps and cross back into France. Curious about how I ended up escorting a newly married couple around parts of Europe? The idea for this grand tour evolved two-years earlier, well before love intruded into a twenty-four month struggle of scrimping and saving every dollar that Jack and I needed to complete this travel adventure. We completed all the minute details and had booked third class passage on the ocean liner, Liberte, pride of the French Line. I was tossed for a loop when lover-boy, Jack, fell head over heels for Jacqueline, a visiting French girl from Lille, who had spent time with relatives in Brooklyn. The lovers decided to fly to Europe and get married in France just about the time I would be stepping off the Liberte at Le Harve. A rented Renault awaited me at the dock. I drove east one hundred miles and arrived in Lille a day after the wedding. The following morning our light-hearted trio, carrying a minimum of baggage, climbed into the Renault and headed east to Brussels and Amsterdam before crossing back into France. We spent two weeks in Paris and then on to Orleans, Tours, Poitiers, Angouleme, Perigueux, Toulouse, Carcassone and Beziers. This long excursion required three stops to fill the gas tank. At each service station, I kept shaking my head, “I can’t understand it. At home, it’s only thirty cents a gallon and here we’re paying ninety.” After three weeks on the road, we drove into Marseilles at twilight, expecting to get a much-needed night’s sleep. Then began a futile four-hour search for two hotel rooms. In desperation, Jacqueline asked a policeman to suggest a place where we might stay overnight. He gave us a surprising and unique suggestion, “This summer, people are sleeping in their cars everywhere around here. There’s only one place where you might find some empty rooms is down in the harbor area. Just go to a few brothels and they might have some empty space.” That’s how the three of us ended up, undisturbed, in a whorehouse for the entire night. The next morning, after starting east toward Italy, we stayed three nights in Juan-les-Pins, a small beach resort on the Riviera. Just before crossing the border into Italy, I stopped to fill the gas tank at ninety cent per gallon. Now turning back to Italian adventure, we lingered a little too long in Pisa and were surprised when the sun slipped below the distant hills. With myself at the wheel, we traveled north after sunset. During the ten days we spent in Italy, our little group was overjoyed that the Renault required only one refueling. Why? … It was simple economics. The least expensive gas in sunny Italy was sold at Supercortemaggiore stations for $2.35 a gallon. Since our funds were running low, we were determined to make it back into France, even with the fuel gauge swinging back and forth at the quarter-full mark. By 10PM, our Renault had passed through Turin. I stopped every few kilometers and stepped out to closely examine the darkened directional signs leading us eighty kilometers west to the nearest Alpine crossing. The Renault struggled up the gradually rising road leading to the nearest Alpine Pass. By that time, the temperature crept persistently lower. Close to midnight, our lightly clothed group, shivering from head to toe, reached the custom’s post at the Col du Mont-Conis Pass, which sat high atop of a 10,000-foot high peak. The two Customs Officers, wearing heavy overcoats emerged from the brick built post and were in no mood to linger outside in order to scrutinize our luggage. They were looking forward to returning to the warmth of their heated building and some hot coffee brewing there. After a few questions, a cursory passport check, and no baggage inspection, we were passed through and the officers retreated inside. Our lightly clad trio began a treacherous descent down the mountaintop toward France with only a low, thin, metal railing on the right side to protect any car from flying off the narrow road into eternity. In inky blackness, I slowed the Renault to fifteen miles per hour while nursing the fuel gauge and braking continuously around hairpin curves. Though the air was cold, my forehead was bathed in perspiration, but not from the fear of the treacherous slopes. Quick glances at the fuel gauge revealed a needle bouncing wildly right and left past empty. Within ten minutes the engine, coughed its last and died. The noisy engine quieted into eerie silence. A split second later, we were left with only the alarming sound of whistling discordant Alpine winds, filtering through the tightly shut windows. In the rear seat, Jack and Jacqueline sat wide-eyed, clutching each other and praying. The rolling car gathered speed as it careened around the hairpin curves in total darkness. I burned those brakes for almost a full hour. As the Renault descended, I gripped the wheel with such intensity that all of my ten fingers were totally racked with cramps. My right foot sat on the brake for the entire downward spiral as I slowed the car to five miles per hour, while fighting to steer around those sharp curves. In the back of my mind, was the ever present thought of brake failure or the loss of the headlights. At long last, as the narrow road finally flattened out, I was able to guide the Renault into a tiny French village. On the right, I spotted a quaint inn, one of the few buildings located in Lanslebourg. I stepped on the brakes once again and the auto gently rolled to halt to the front of the inn leaving us exhausted and breathless at our good fortune. When we finally came to our senses and looked ahead to the front of the building, the car rocked with laughter. No more than ten feet ahead, outlined by the headlights, a lone gas pump locked up for the night offered a welcome beacon … and a subtle reminder of the ‘Curse of Frugality’.

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History is something I tend to repeat but I will repeat it no longer.

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