Month: June 2017

Categories
Writer's Notes

This Job is Killing Me: Pamela Beason

BeasonSmall photo flippedBy Pamela Beason

Like most mature adults, I have experienced the gain of more circumference than height in recent years, and I didn’t have the height to begin with. I’m five feet tall if I stand up really straight. (Well, probably not even that now, but I’m too afraid to measure.)

I’ve always loved the natural world, and always want to experience it whenever I can. These days, however, I spend a lot of hours working on my mysteries, especially my Sam Westin series. My protagonist, Summer “Sam” Westin, is a wildlife biologist who barely manages to patch together a living writing for conservation groups and outdoor adventure e-zines. All the books involve conflicts on public lands: national forests, parks, and marine conservation areas. Because I have done a lot of hiking and kayaking and snowshoeing and scuba diving, the character “Sam” and author Pam started off in very similar stages of life, which makes all these stories easy and fun to write. Working on that series saves me from becoming a completely spherical shape.

 

Pam hiking with author-artist Rae Ellen Lee.jpg
Author Pamela Beason hiking with author-artist Rae Ellen Lee 

As the years roll on, author Pam is slowing down more than character Sam, but I still must have adventures to write about. I get all my best ideas out in the wild. I purposefully moved to a place where outdoor recreation and conservation of wild areas are valued: Bellingham, Washington. I belong to a hiking club and a kayaking club. There’s plenty of motivation to “get out there” when your name is on the calendar to lead an outing. Rolling over and going back to sleep is simply not an option when you know fifteen people will be pacing in the parking lot and asking where the heck you are if you don’t show up.

 

Pam admiring the sunset while kayak-campingI’m not one of those writers who can hammer out X number of words per day. Well, I could, but I know from experience the majority of those words will be crap if I simply sit and type instead of being “in the zone.” So whenever I get stuck or feel that my brain is going around in circles (which is, unfortunately, often), I have two remedies: if it’s after dark, I watch a movie that has the tone I’m trying to achieve in my writing; if it’s daylight, I hit the local walking trails by myself. I find that when I’m in motion and the only distractions are birds and trees and the occasional deer, the solutions to my writing dilemmas just come.

I have had many titles over the years: a geological research technician, a Spanish teacher, a mechanical/electrical/architectural drafter, a freelance technical writer/editor, a managing editor in a multimedia department, a private investigator, and now (finally) a successful mystery author. As well as the outdoor activities mentioned above, I’ve done judo and fencing, water aerobics, Zumba, and western line dancing.

Obviously, I prize a multitude of experiences over becoming an expert at anything. I adore animals both wild and tame, so I endlessly read studies on animal intelligence and abilities, which led (along with my PI experience) to my Neema (signing gorilla) mysteries. I am continually intrigued by the creatures we share this planet with. The animals who confound me are the humans who don’t even notice the eagle flying overhead or who aren’t amazed that chameleons and cuttlefish can change skin colors on a whim. Staying alert, appreciative, curious, and active is what keeps me healthy mentally and physically and provides endless fodder for all my mysteries.

—Backcountry_ebook-cover[5548]—————————-

Pamela Beason is the author of the Summer “Sam” Westin series, the Neema Mysteries, and the Run for Your Life young adult suspense series. She has also written romantic suspense and nonfiction books. Check out the full list at PamelaBeason.com.

Her latest book, Backcountry, is available from Amazon and other online bookstores, and can be ordered by your favorite bookseller, too.

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: An Adventure in the Rose Garden

polic-call-box-pedestal-lapd-gamewell-DCAL2786_dt1By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

There are some things we do that we can really take pride in. An exceptionally good arrest, for instance, is why we are who we are.

But honestly most of our daily contacts are non-criminal and non-confrontational. From directions to the bus stop to assisting the motorist who locked his keys in the car.

There are those special few though that make us smile when we remember. This is one such encounter.

 

University Division, where I am working night watch with my partner Frank Isbell, is known for three things—

1) home to the campus of the University of Southern California (USC).

2) the Memorial Coliseum, home to the 1932 Olympics, the Rams, Trojans, Bruins and many major sporting and other events. It will be temporary home to the Dodgers in a few years.

3) high crime.

As we clear the station, there is still some daylight left when we receive a call. “Unknown trouble” at the Coliseum rose garden. This type call can mean anything and usually does.

Los_Angeles_Memorial_Coliseum_(Entrance)The coliseum which is a stadium capable of holding in excess of 100,000 spectators along with parking covers many, many city blocks. The surrounding area is park-like in appearance comprised of grass lawns, numerous trees, benches etc. Also adjacent to the stadium is the Rose Garden, a several hundred-yard square area given over to hundreds and hundreds of roses of all species. There are winding paths and benches to just sit and enjoy. The garden is surrounded by a 31/2 to 4-foot-tall brick wall, covered in what else? Climbing roses. In the evening when there is even the slightest breeze, the fragrance of the roses can be detected blocks away. Entrance to the garden is by one gate on the south wall and one gate only. Affixed to the gate is a small sign, “This gate will be locked at five P.M.”

Main_entrance_to_Esposition_Park-_Figueroa_Street-_Los_Angeles_Coliseum

As we enter, the park has turned quiet and seemingly deserted. It will soon be time for the night people to appear.

Approaching the gate, we see the subject of our call: two majestic appearing “grande dames,” approximate age late 70’s. They were dressed in all their finery tall as wealthy women are required to be, sporting large brimmed sun hats, gloves and carrying hand fans (yes, fans).

Regal in both appearance and manner, they are both corseted and queen-sized in lavender and lace and they are also inside the locked gate.

One has been crying but now has it check, both are trying to maintain control and seem slightly distraught, but still formidable. They had lost track of time while enjoying the flowers and somehow attracted the attention of a passing motorist, hence the call.

We determine they are uninjured and we attempt to calm them and assure them we will get them out as quickly as possible. Now finding the man with the key seems a long shot. Calling the fire department would only embarrass the ladies and show them we couldn’t handle our own problems. No way.

Memorial Rose Garden LAOk, so how do we do this?

Now, Frank and I are both fairly good sized, very good shape, former Marines, able to leap tall buil…well, you get the idea. The fact remains that these are women of ample proportions, both of whom outweigh us. This has to be handled diplomatically.

The only object of any use in sight is a heavy-duty city trash can with lid chained to the wall adjacent to the gate. Looking around we realize just one long block away at the Figueroa Street entrance to the park there is a family style restaurant.

Maybe?

Exposition_Park_Rose_Garden_LA_bannerAfter hearing my tale of woe, the maître de sends me back with a step-stool, a sturdy wooden chair and an even sturdier busboy. By his looks, a student athlete. The maître de thought he might come in handy.

With three of us, it was a no brainer. Frank and busboy on the inside. Matron onto stool then to trash can then wall. Busboy hops fence with step-stool and down she comes. Number two was even easier. Some nervous laughter, some “Oh’s and ah’s” and here we are.

The women forced a “tip” on the reluctant busboy who told me it had been an adventure and a nice break from the kitchen. The matrons dutifully recorded our names and serial numbers in a tiny notebook with a tiny pencil. We escorted them to their vehicles and saw them off.

Frank and I waited, in vain, for many years to see if we had been named in their wills.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

WMA on Amazon

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Thonie’s new book is available on Amazon in eBook format. Don’t do digital reading? Don’t worry, With Malice Aforethought will be offered soon in print format, too!

 

 

Categories
Roll Call

Roll Call: The Female Chippie and the DUI

250px-LAPDacademyBy Mikey, Retired LAPD

The year is 1983 and I am working as a PT (Physical Training)/Self-Defense instructor at the LAPD academy, then located in Elysian Park. At that time, recruits had 16 weeks to prepare for their self-defense test which was administered in the 17th week. If the recruit did not pass the test, they were not allowed to go with the rest of their class on a month’s patrol assignment. Those who failed the first time were given additional remediation and three weeks later were tested again. During the 14th-16th week, the PT/ Self-Defense staff offered after hours review practice prior to the 17th week’s testing.

CHP_HOV_traffic_stopOn average my day as an instructor during this time ended at about 1900 (7 P.M).  During the summer, there would still be daylight for the drive home. My wife had business in down town LA so she offered to drop me off in the morning and pick me up that evening. When we finished training at about 1845, my wife was there so off we went. She was driving, east bound on the I-10, San Bernardino freeway in Rosemead approaching Rosemead Boulevard when I observed a CHP unit stopped behind a car and a CHP officer struggling with an individual. I yelled at my wife to pull over and just like a copper’s wife did a heck of a job of pulling to the shoulder.

We were in front of the CHP unit so I had to run back to where the two were standing.

So, the Chippie is a female. Couldn’t tell from the freeway because she had really short hair. The male arrestee—he’s hand-cuffed—was pretty drunk but not “falling down drunk.”

Women in CHPI ID’d myself and asked how I could be of help. She asked me if I speak Spanish and I tell her that I do. She told me the (DUI) guy does not want to get into her cruiser and asked that I find out why. No problem.

So, in Spanish he tells me, “Sir, I’ll go with her but I have to pee really bad and I don’t want to do it in her car.”

I told her and she said, “I’m taking him to Temple City substation (LA Sheriff’s) for booking. Tell him to hold it and I’ll get him there as fast as I can.” Remember sports fans, she still has to wait for the tow to arrive to hook up the arrestee’s ride.

I told him and he said, “Sir, I really gotta pee!”

So, who will win the standoff?

I told her to take the handcuffs off, “because I am here and we can handle him.”

She said, “No.”

She then looked down at his groin area, then at me then back down. With her right hand, she pulled the man’s zipper down, took a long look, at me, then at him, then back down and said, “I’m not pulling it out!”

What was she thinking!!??

shutterstock_136738280.jpg“Remove the handcuffs, partner,” I told her. “I’m here and I think we can take this guy if he acts up.”

She finally relented and removed the handcuffs.

He whipped it out and the whole time he peed he was shaking his and saying, “Gracias, señor. Oh, gracias señor,”

English translation, “thank your sir.”

Dude peed for a long time. He stopped just as the tow truck arrived.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

WMA on Amazon

Thonie’s new book, With Malice Aforethought is available on Amazon, eBook only for now. Watch here for print copy release. Don’t forget to leave a review when your finished!

 

 

Categories
Writer's Notes

This Job is Killing Me: Pete Klismet

The truth about gastric surgery to lose weight

By Pete Klismet

 

“Ok, I’m too fat. Oh, I know… I’ll just go get a gastric bypass!”

Pete KlismetOver the years I’ve heard quite a few people say that, as if it’s simply a matter of going into the doctor’s office because you’ve put on 20 or 30 pounds and saying, “Whattup doc. I’m too porky. Get the knife out.” The doc does get out the knife, and once he stops stabbing you, the fact you’re too fat to suit yourself doesn’t matter anymore. Trust me, the doc has heard it plenty of times and finally had it ‘up to here.’ Regrettably, you’re the camel that broke the straw’s back. You still fit nicely in the casket. And the doc pleads guilty, receiving two years’ probation and 40 hours of community service for malicious mischief (or whatever vandalism is called in your state).

Gastric sleeve and bypass

 

Minus the dramatics of your doctor carving you up until you look like about 63 cuts of ribeye steak and rump roasts, let’s be serious (fat chance) for a moment and talk about the reality of gastric surgery. Why do I know something about this? I did it not once, but twice! Flat learning curve for me, but different procedures. And so, here’s the story of how that went:

I had a pretty sedentary job after retiring from the FBI in 1999. I was the Department Chair of the Criminal Justice program at a community college in Colorado Springs, and an Associate Professor. So, in addition to my administrative duties (we had about 500 students in my program), I taught five or six three-credit-hour (about 270 classroom hours per semester) classes. The skill involved with handling administrative duties usually involves the buttocks. Occasionally getting them chomped on by the Dean, but more frequently sitting upon such fleshy items which the Kardashian family has made famous. And getting fat(ter). Ostensibly, teaching would involve being on your feet. An aerobic activity? Well…maybe not. Thus – more fat. In fact, enough that one may simply opt to sit at a desk in front of the class, use a Power Point and teach up a storm. Indiana Jones did it. I think. Minus the Power Point of course.

For the record, my body was not designed to try out for the role of Peter Pan. (The crocodile would have skipped right over Cap’t Hook and taken about two months to eat me.) My dad was a bricklayer and a solid six-foot, two hundred pounds. My uncle Phil was about six five, three bills. I turned out to be about six-one, and my most ideal weight was about two twenty. In college, I played middle-linebacker at 235. All of that was muscle from mixing mortar and carrying brick during the summer (I’m still waiting to be drafted by an NFL team. Sigh.). While on the police department I doubt I ever got above two-ten or twenty. Same with the FBI, until the last couple of years. Up to two-forty, then fifty or sixty before I retired. Part of the reason for the upward trend was, due to a very bad back (poor selection of parents), I had to give up playing racquetball, which will indeed, keep one in shape.

I had never really been a workout Nazi, aside from racquetball 3-4 times per week. And, Don’t. Even. Think. it ‘doesn’t count’ as a workout. Try it. It counts once you get into the high A level. And so my weight continued to climb since I wasn’t working out in any way. Other than playing golf. Not aerobic. Doesn’t count. I avoided scales like rattlesnakes. Finally, my lovely bride, the estimable Miss Nancy, talked me into getting on a scale after I swore her to silence or be turned into ribeye steaks. The result – 322. OMG. I weighed more than half of the tackles in the NFL. We both agreed ‘something’ needed to change.

One night I was watching something on TV when on came an ad by a doctor in Pueblo (40 miles away). The doc extolled the virtues of a ‘lap band,’ for weight loss, and he just happened to be a surgeon who could install one. Sounded interesting, so we went to a meeting where the doc did yet more extolling. We met with him privately a week or two later.

“Pete, you need to lose twenty pounds before I can consider the surgery.”

Meanwhile, I’m all about, “Damn doc. If I could lose twenty &$)%#* pounds I wouldn’t need this %^*#^% surgery.

“Gotta do it Pete. I can’t have too much fatty tissue around your liver when I operate.”

“Liver? What the ^*&@ are we doing way down there?”

I lost the twenty pounds.

We got the surgery done.

I don’t recommend it.

Nor does any legitimate gastric surgeon right now. Pay no attention to what the internet says.

I set world and Olympic records for projectile barfing.

Never could get the damned thing adjusted correctly.

Kept barfing. I’d estimate 2,000 times in about six years.

There was no ‘fun’ involved in this.

I finally went to a ‘real’ doc to get the band around my (someplace important above my stomach) adjusted so I could stop losing everything I ate.

And re-gain what little weight I’d lost.

Here’s what the device looks like. It restricts the amount of food intake to the tummy.

gastric bypass pic

Seems to make sense. (Clue: Unless your doc advertises after 10:30 P.M. on TV, works in Pueblo, and is presently working as a feathered animal on Aflac commercials. If you get my drift here.)

 

About two years later I heard that a hospital in Colorado Springs did gastric surgery. So, I called and talked for about two hours (not making this up) to a very nice, helpful and ‘scare the hell outta me’- type of nurse in the Gastric office. Most of the two hours was spent by her telling me all the stuff I had to do before I had gastric surgery done. After this conversation, and while driving around in the mountains, Miss Nancy reached me on my cell phone. A rarity.

“So, how’d it go?”

“Don’t bug me. I’m looking for a cliff to drive off.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Only to excess.”

“Get home.”

“Yes ma’am.”

We discussed the Draconian process I’d have to go through before I could have the surgery. There were hoops. In fact, about two years of hoops. My to-be surgeon was not one to take any ^*#&%) or excuses from his prospective patients. “You’ve got to exercise. End of statement.”

Turns back.

Leaves room.

After several months of learning and doing more, including a mandatory support group, we decided to do a gastric sleeve, which means you effectively will lose about ¾ of your stomach. And will end up with a ‘pouch’ about the size of a banana – permanently. Can’t return to a full stomach by Super Gluing it back together. Adios stomach. “I can do this,” I told Miss Nancy.

On August 27, 2015, I had satisfied the doc sufficiently that he did the surgery. Via laparoscope, by the way. That means I wound up with five holes down there rather than one or two. No prob. Can’t see ‘em now. And then began the food process. The first couple of weeks, as I recall, was mostly devoted to liquids. You go through three ‘stages’ of nourishment, the objective being to ease into solid foods within a few months. That means powdered shakes and pureed food until starting to eat regular foods about three months after surgery. And not very much of it. If you eat more than the pouch wants you to, the pouch tells you about it. It hurts. That was what I was sure was going to be my saving grace.

Forever.

I was wrong.

This is difficult to admit, but at my highest weight, I was 366 pounds. Unimaginable but true. About a year and a half after the surgery, I’d whittled myself down to 262. It wasn’t easy. And became harder. I was working out at the hospital gym 3-4 times per week. An hour (walking) on the treadmill and then two or three circuits through the machines. I really enjoyed it.

Until I started getting dizzy after workouts. Checked BP at home and it was always low. Way too low. Typically, 76-50. Somewhere in that range. Not good.

Was about to see the doc when, oh boy, out went my back and neck. Big time.

Not good.

By the time I saw my cardiology doc, my BP had returned to normal. He told me to not be such an overachiever and lighten up on the workouts. No problem doc. With my back and my neck, I can’t do anything now.

At this juncture, after losing about 100 pounds, I’ve ‘found’ about 25-30. The new stomach has probably stretched, as the doc said it could. But not too much. When we go out to eat, I can only have half of a plate, or less. My back is better, but since we’ve moved 120 miles north, I don’t have access to the hospital gym. I need to find one and get back on the treadmill and lighter weights. With less consumption, I should get rid of this 30 pounds, and eventually hope to work my way down to 235. That’s what the doc recommended. Being 71, I think he’s right. Time to say, “One step at a time,” and get going. Having too much weight on when one reaches 70 doesn’t bode well for one’s health. In fact, it reputedly never is good for our well-being.

Best of luck to everyone and PLEASE be safe out there.

Pete Klismet FBI (Retired)

Award-winning author of: FBI Diary: Profiles of Evil, FBI Diary: Home Grown Terror, FBI Animal House

 

 

Categories
Writer's Notes

This Job is Killing Me: Nancy Sartor

Pumping Iron as a Golden Ager

NancySartorTheRightPictureBy Nancy Sartor

I’m a golden ager by several years. My day job kept me on my feet, moving, walking downtown sidewalks, etc. When retirement allowed me to devote all my time to writing, I soon realized that writers sit. We sit to write. We sit to read. Nobody stands at a book signing, and taking a walk during a signing cuts into sales. Although writer’s conferences are usually held in huge hotels, the distance from the classrooms to the nearest bar or elevator isn’t enough to count as a workout.

Writers who wish to stay fit and keep their health must plan for exercise.

I live near Nashville so winters aren’t as cold as Chicago’s or (shiver) Wisconsin’s, but they’re not warm enough for outside exercise. Spring and fall are glorious here, and usually the perfect temperature for everything except swimming. Summer is hellishly hot and humid as a greenhouse.

I needed a convenient exercise program that I could perform in relative comfort.

Pumping Iron1.JPGWeightlifting fit perfectly. Our house is large enough for an indoor gym. I found a used weight bench, bar and weights, bought weightlifting gloves to protect my arthritic hands, and a book so I would know what I was doing.

 

NancyHalloween
Halloween-Before

I won’t lie to you—the first two weeks were hell. I chose a workout that touched every part of my body. By the end of the week, I was limping from room to room protesting the need to move at all. But somewhere beneath all that pain, a part of me was incredibly proud. I’d worked out with weights despite my age, despite the arthritis, despite the lethargy that wanted me to keep sitting. (After all, it would coo in my ear. You’re doing so well today. Write another hour. Then you can work out) I quickly learned to shut down that siren song.

 

The next week wasn’t so bad. By the end of the month, I looked forward to my workouts, enjoyed seeing how many lifts I could do. I crawled out of the room spent, my muscles exhausted and crying for rest. But within a few minutes, I felt twenty years younger and had enough energy to dance the night away.

I looked forward to leaving the house, to testing out my new muscles, to seeing how far I could walk, how high I could climb before I had to stop. I wasn’t fifty again, but I wasn’t eighty, either. I’d found a way to balance the years, to give myself a life not hampered by physical weakness.

 

Me with BONES Pic from Sharon Christmas 2014
Now

My workout is lighter now—not in deference to my age, but because I was building large muscles in places I didn’t want large muscles. I bench press a total of 70 reps each set, do 50 sideways skull crushers and 20 bicep curls. I am now up to 40 crunches with ten more on either side for the obliques, and a thirty-minute walk on the treadmill.

 

The bonus? While I’m working out, I often get my very best writing ideas.

 

____________________

Nancy Sartor is a Nashville born writer, a charter member and current president of Word Spinners Ink, a member of RWA, MWA and SiNC and current recording secretary of SEMWA. She is an enthusiastic graduate of Donald Maass’s Breakout Novel Intensive Workshop, Don Maass’s workshop on micro tension and the Writer’s Police Academy.

She lives in Rural Hill, Tennessee, just east of Nashville with her husband, classical composer and conductor David Sartor, and two Maine Coon cats. Ginger, the older cat, is part of the cast of BONES ALONG THE HILL. Autumn Fire, the younger cat, is so far unsigned for a role, but she did gain a reference in CHRISTMAS ACROSS TIME.

 

Blessed CurseTo date, Nancy has three novels in print: BONES ALONG THE HILL, a dark suspense set in Nashville; CHRISTMAS ACROSS TIME, a paranormal based the real ghost known as the Opryland Black Lady, and BLESSED CURSE, a paranormal set in historic Rugby, Tennessee. She is currently working on a sequel to BONES ALONG THE HILL.

Buy Links:

http://amzn.to/2qA53Nr

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/blessed-curse-nancy-sartor/1126332001?ean=9781546478553

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/blessed-curse-1

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/blessed-curse/id1233031586?mt=11

 

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: The King and I

By Ed Meckle, retired LAPD

polic-call-box-pedestal-lapd-gamewell-DCAL2786_dt1

…….Or how I met the king of Cambodia, almost

It is about 1960 and I am a policeman working Metro, the division that seems to do a little of everything (stakeouts / plain clothes patrol / crowd control, etc.). This day with 6-7 others, I have been assigned uniformed security for the King of Cambodia.

He is in L.A. for 3-4 days for “trade meetings.” He and his entourage have taken over the top two floors of a hotel near the airport (LAX).

Now this is my first experience with royalty and I am discovering they are much like rock stars of a later era. When I say entourage, I mean entourage. There are chancellors and councilors and ministers, all of whom require an assistant. Each assistant is required to have at least two or more assistants. And everyone is important.

There are also ten or twelve very hot-looking ladies who seem to move as a herd or flock. I can only assume they are secretaries or researchers or whatever.

Last, is their own security detail, who seem equally divided between very short muscle-bound natives in ill-fitting suits who scowl a lot and some truly tough looking European types who I am guessing are mercenaries.

They also have what I can assume is State Department security when they leave the hotel. When they move, we stay put. Fine with me. We are “in house” only.

We have been briefed by our own supervisor and a government functionary. We have a suite to ourselves, and are told we can order our meals from room service (be still my heart). But, don’t get greedy and no booze.

Norodom_Sihanouk_official_1955_portraitOne of the guys on the detail is a friend and former Marine Bob Steele. He had served at the US embassy in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, many years prior and had actually met the king on several occasions. The king is Norodom Sihanouk, or as Bob referred to him, “Snookie,” a beloved and revered figure in his country.

It was what would be called a “cushy” detail: boring but good chow. We did two, 2 hour shifts at a desk outside his suite with absolutely nothing to do. The balance of off time, we watched TV, ate, or napped.

One interesting side note: a passing patrol sergeant saw our black and white in the parking lot and assumed one of his units was up to some hanky-panky. He obtained the key from the desk and since the group was out, there was no one at our desk to stop him. He made a grand entrance and demanded, “Who are you?”

I was seated on the couch in my underwear, (naturally, eating) and watching TV. I replied “Metro special detail. Who are you?”

LAPD_Classic_Cruiser_1958_Chevrolet_West_Valley_StationNow, I am sure he was mentally picturing my trial board and sentence to a Turkish prison as a result of his great work. “Uh, I was just driving by and thought I’d check to see if you needed anything.”

“Thanks, Sarge. We’re good.”

Despite the lack of English speakers when they left, there was a lot of bowing and smiling and each of us was presented with a gift: A fancy comb and equally fancy letter opener made of ivory inlaid with filigreed silver. I still have both.

I later found out “Snookie” had been deposed in 1955.

Oh, by the way. I never did see the king.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

WMA on AmazonThonie Hevron’s newest book, With Malice Aforethought, has just been released! It’s available in eBook format only for $4.99 on Amazon. Check back on Just the Facts, Ma’am for the release date of the print copy!

 

Categories
Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Movie Premieres

graumannsBy Hal Collier, Retired LAPD

I mentioned that I worked more movie premieres than Siskel and Ebert. All of them off duty—we needed the extra money to feed our growing kids and make sure they dressed in the latest clothes approved by their peers. It made for a long day but I liked meeting the tourists who were enjoying Hollywood for the first time. I loved asking where they were from and what their plans were for the rest of their trip. I laughed when one couple said they were going to Knott’s Berry Farm in the morning and Disneyland in the afternoon. I don’t know if they took my advice when I told them that each of those parks took an entire day.

I was working a premiere at Grauman’s Chinese Theater. My favorite assignment was working the crowd behind the barricades. I wasn’t much of a movie star fan; I found most of them phony and pretty much into themselves. I sometimes would watch them turn the charm on and off when the cameras came on. I once saw a big star compliment another star on her gown, then turn away and stick her finger into her mouth as if to gag!

red carpet 2So I’m working this movie premiere and counting the hours until I can get off my feet. A young couple with 2 preteen-age kids approach me. With a Midwest accent ask, “Officer, do you know a good cheap place to get some hamburgers. We went to Hamburger Hamlet across the street but found it was over our budget.”

“Of course.” I asked where they were from and we exchanged stories of what to see and what was a waste of money. I was kind of a Hollywood Ambassador, right behind Johnny Grant!

in & outI then advised them the best hamburger in California was a mere 2 ½ blocks away. I directed them to walk down Orange Drive to the corner of Sunset and Orange. Yea, that’s right—In & Out Hamburgers. I suggested a Double/Double with grilled onions. They thanked me and walked away. I expected to never see them again.

 An hour and a half later I hear a voice coming from the crowd, “Oh, Officer. Oh, officer!” 

I turn around and there’s that Midwest couple. They waved me over and of course I’m very community minded. I know they have no power to vote on my next pay raise, so I walk up to them.

The mother was the spokesperson for the family and she wanted to thank me for the great advice. She said that In & Out was the best hamburger they ever had. She wanted to film me recommending In & Out to her friends back home. I declined stating that I felt like a dope pusher, knowing full well that they can’t get another In & Out Double/Double Hamburger where they lived.

To this day I hear from former LAPD cops who have moved out of state and when in Southern California the first place they eat at is In & Out.  (See picture,) eat your heart out! I imagine somewhere in the Midwest, there’s a couple telling their grandkids about the best hamburger they ever ate, way out in California.   

Hal

 

Categories
Writer's Notes

This Job is Killing Me: Judy Alter

Exercising From a Wheelchair

By Judy Alter, Author of Murder at the Peacock Mansion

Things I have never willingly done: kayaking, distance swimming, tennis, golf, basketball, softball, volleyball, mountain climbing, diving, marathons and a whole long list of vigorous exercises. Things I did in my younger years: swimming (neither very well nor very far), biking, walking, yoga, jogging. You get the picture: if I weren’t conscious of health needs and pitfalls, I’d be a total couch potato, albeit at my desk and computer rather than the couch and television,

You’d think fate has played right into my hands by sending me through extensive hip surgery that after almost five months has left me unable to walk unassisted. I’m Speedy Gonzales on my walker, and I can go from the patio to the garden gate (twenty feet maybe) and back holding onto someone’s arm. But I’m not what you’d call mobile.

So, do I sit like a vegetable all day? Not at all. Four months of physical therapy taught me exercises that, to most people, may seem to be barely moving. For me, they are the source of strength and improvement, and I do them every day—well, almost. At my desk, I do leg exercises 20 times each–raise my lower legs, lift my knees, slide my foot far forward and back, lift toes and then heels, and do something that amounts to holding my feet together, then spreading them, heels still together.

At a grab bar in the bathroom, I extend my left leg (the leg of the surgery) as far laterally as I can comfortably 50 times, extend it backward to press on the wall for five seconds 20 times, 20 squats and 20 shifts of total body weight from one foot to the other. And I do walk with someone every day—not far, but I walk.

It seems that in addition to letting my hip disintegrate over the years, I also have torn both rotator cuffs and have limited shoulder motion. So, at my desk I swing a 2-lb. weight (okay, it’s a #2 can of diced tomatoes, 28 oz.) like a pendulum 20 times, then holding that can raise my arm as high straight out as I can (no fair launching it with my body). Standing at the sink I practice putting glasses on the shelves—note the glasses are plastic to cut down on breakage. With my right arm, I can put a glass on the second shelf; with my left, I can reach halfway to the second. When I started, I could barely reach the first shelf with either arm. I also do arm exercises with a door pulley, both straight up and straight out, 20 times each. I told the therapist her brain is stuck on 20.

Confession: I have probably gotten too comfortable on my Rollator—the walker with four wheels and a seat. It says not to sit in it while moving, but I do it all the time. It’s how I get around my cottage, because it enables me to carry things, cook (my avocation and something I am again doing with increasing satisfaction), brush my teeth and put on makeup without worrying about my balance. Life would be a lot tougher if I had to stand and hold on to the walker with one hand while doing whatever, so that’s my compromise or concession. Yes, I wonder if I would be walking sooner without it. But I am seeking balance in my life.

The last time I saw the surgeon, I told him I am writing again, cooking again, and wearing make-up. What more could he want? Of course, he and I both want me to walk again, but I have faith it will come. That’s why I do my exercises.

 

Judy AlterAbout Judy Alter

An award-winning novelist, Judy Alter is the author of six books in the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries series: Skeleton in a Dead Space, No Neighborhood for Old Women, Trouble in a Big Box, Danger Comes Home, Deception in Strange Places, and Desperate for Death. She also writes the Blue Plate Café Mysteries—Murder at the Blue Plate Café, Murder at the Tremont House and the current Murder at Peacock Mansion. With the 2014 The Perfect Coed, she introduced the Oak Grove Mysteries. The second in that series, Pigface and the Perfect Dog, will be released in August 2017.
For many years, her fiction focused on the experiences of women in the nineteenth-century American West. Her work has been recognized with awards from the Western Writers of America, the Texas Institute of Letters, and the National Cowboy Museum and Hall of Fame. She has been honored with the Owen Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement by WWA and inducted into the Texas Literary Hall of Fame and the WWA Hall of Fame.
Judy is retired as director of TCU Press, the mother of four grown children and the grandmother of seven. She and her dog, Sophie, live in Fort Worth, Texas.

Categories
Writer's Notes

This Job is Killing Me: Judy Alter

Peacock Mansion coverExercising From a Wheelchair

By Judy Alter, Author of Murder at Peacock Mansion

Things I have never willingly done: kayaking, distance swimming, tennis, golf, basketball, softball, volleyball, mountain climbing, diving, marathons and a whole long list of vigorous exercises. Things I did in my younger years: swimming (neither very well nor very far), biking, walking, yoga, jogging. You get the picture: if I weren’t conscious of health needs and pitfalls, I’d be a total couch potato, albeit at my desk and computer rather than the couch and television,

You’d think fate has played right into my hands by sending me through extensive hip surgery that after almost five months has left me unable to walk unassisted. I’m speedy Gonzales on my walker, and I can go from the patio to the garden gate (twenty feet maybe) and back holding onto someone’s arm. But I’m not what you’d call mobile.

So, do I sit like a vegetable all day? Not at all. Four months of physical therapy taught me exercises that, to most people, may seem to be barely moving. For me, they are the source of strength and improvement, and I do them every day—well, almost. At my desk, I do leg exercises 20 times each–raise my lower legs, lift my knees, slide my foot far forward and back, lift toes and then heels, and do something that amounts to holding my feet together, then spreading them, heels still together.

At a grab bar in the bathroom, I extend my left leg (the leg of the surgery) as far laterally as I can comfortably 50 times, extend it backward to press on the wall for five seconds 20 times, 20 squats and 20 shifts of total body weight from one foot to the other. And I do walk with someone every day—not far, but I walk.

It seems that in addition to letting my hip disintegrate over the years, I also have torn both rotator cuffs and have limited shoulder motion. So, at my desk I swing a 2-lb. weight (okay, it’s a #2 can of diced tomatoes, 28 oz.) like a pendulum 20 times, then holding that can raise my arm as high straight out as I can (no fair launching it with my body). Standing at the sink I practice putting glasses on the shelves—note the glasses are plastic to cut down on breakage. With my right arm, I can put a glass on the second shelf; with my left, I can reach halfway to the second. When I started, I could barely reach the first shelf with either arm. I also do arm exercises with a door pulley, both straight up and straight out, 20 times each. I told the therapist her brain is stuck on 20.

Confession: I have probably gotten too comfortable on my Rollator—the walker with four wheels and a seat. It says not to sit in it while moving, but I do it all the time. It’s how I get around my cottage, because it enables me to carry things, cook (my avocation and something I am again doing with increasing satisfaction), brush my teeth and put on makeup without worrying about my balance. Life would be a lot tougher if I had to stand and hold on to the walker with one hand while doing whatever, so that’s my compromise or concession. Yes, I wonder if I would be walking sooner without it. But I am seeking balance in my life.

The last time I saw the surgeon, I told him I am writing again, cooking again, and wearing make-up. What more could he want? Of course, he and I both want me to walk again, but I have faith it will come. That’s why I do my exercises.

___________________

Judy AlterAbout Judy Alter

An award-winning novelist, Judy Alter is the author of six books in the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries series: Skeleton in a Dead Space, No Neighborhood for Old Women, Trouble in a Big Box, Danger Comes Home, Deception in Strange Places, and Desperate for Death. She also writes the Blue Plate Café Mysteries—Murder at the Blue Plate Café, Murder at the Tremont House and the current Murder at Peacock Mansion. With the 2014 The Perfect Coed, she introduced the Oak Grove Mysteries. The second in that series, Pigface and the Perfect Dog, will be released in August 2017.

For many years, her fiction focused on the experiences of women in the nineteenth-century American West. Her work has been recognized with awards from the Western Writers of America, the Texas Institute of Letters, and the National Cowboy Museum and Hall of Fame. She has been honored with the Owen Wister Award for Lifetime Achievement by WWA and inducted into the Texas Literary Hall of Fame and the WWA Hall of Fame.

Judy is retired as director of TCU Press, the mother of four grown children and the grandmother of seven. She and her dog, Sophie, live in Fort Worth, Texas.

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: Daydreaming in Copland

By Ed Meckle, Retired  LAPD

What follows is a collection of random thoughts, of people, places and things. No rhyme or reason, just remembering…

River Dwellers

I am a policeman working Metro with my regular partner, Frank Isbell. This night, we are working the streets, plain clothes patrol. We have seen a bulletin for a suspect wanted for multiple murder up north in what was then called a “hobo jungle.” He had killed a group of his fellow vagabonds and was believed headed to L.A., where he had, in the past, frequented the encampments under the bridges crossing the L.A. River.

We enlisted another Metro team, Paul Franey and Dave McGill, and we “worked” as many bridges as we could. We started in Glendale (north of L.A.). Working our way down river on opposite sides of the river after agreeing to stay abreast of each other for cover.

 

 

 

For those of you not familiar with the area, a major flood in 1938 brought the Army Corp of Engineers who cemented in the entire basin and turned the riverbed into a large bathtub-like structure with gently sloping sides and a flat drag-strip type center line.

 

The river—if you could call it that—was confined to a 6-foot-wide channel that for most of the year was only a few inches deep. Entry to the river was through one of several obscure tunnels.

 

Driving from bridge to bridge was on a smooth cement “roadway.” We would park under the bridge and climb up the slope to the underside. Once at the top and now truly under the bridge was a “shelf,” 10-12 feet wide allowing for ample living room. There was also enough head room for a 6-foot person to stand upright without stooping.

What surprised me was their separate world as it existed. I knew that people lived under some of the bridges but had no idea how many. There were only a few locations where we found only few cardboard boxes and blanket scraps. Almost every bridge, and (we checked probably 15-18) contained everything from small communes to complete villages. The items that found their way to the camps were impressive: rugs, bedsteads, mattresses, tables, chairs, couches, overstuffed arm chairs, camp stoves, lamps and lanterns, BBQ’s, dresser drawers, ice chests and at two locations, generators.

We showed the mug shot and talked to a lot of people and although I would love to tell you we captured him, no such luck. As I remember, he was caught up in Kern County.

What impressed me the most about the whole episode was the ingenuity of the people and their ability to survive. We estimated the population at several hundred living right under our noses without us having a clue.

Something else to consider: this was about 1960. Now fifty-seven years later the problem has multiplied and is in our faces.

A Little Street Music

Around the same time period Frank and I are on the streets, still working plain clothes patrol. As we drive up, we see the aforementioned Franey and McGill standing on a street corner talking to a group of four young men. Actually nobody is talking, the group of four is—singing!!

I am now at a stage in my life where nothing surprises me but I have to know what’s going on.

We ask Franey and McGill, “What’s up?”

Says they, “We spotted them cruising a side street, said they were a singing group looking for the address to their gig. We said, ‘prove it.’ So, now they are auditioning. Pretty darn good, aren’t they?”

Don’t anybody ever try to tell me that the job can’t be fun and as Hal Collier says, “They pay us, too.”