December is about gifts. Christmas, Hanukah, Three Kings—however you celebrate this season, it’s often done with gifts. My original idea was to have authors write about their gifts, whether it’s a talent they were born with, a life change because they received a gift, a skill they were able to learn, gifts are meant to be given. Authors often write about their gifts.
Decades ago my sister-in-law gave me a horse. Talk about a life changing event!When hubby and I decided to move to a larger home, it had to include enough land to support a horse. Years later, when we moved to the Eastern Sierras, my new horse had enough energy that he wore me out. I had to decide whether to sell him or quit smoking. No brainer. I quit smoking (after 26years-man, I loved that horse!).
All of my books have some mention of a horse. I can’t help it. I love horses and passed that trait on to my protagonist. Gardeners talk about azaleas, chefs write mysteries about quiches, and so on. I mention horses.
But now, I have another gift to tell you about: several yearsago, my husband offered to treat my writing career as a job. I’d work on my stories and he’d take over running the house, laundry and cooking. What a deal! I didn’t pass it up. I wrote my three books over those years. Then, in July of 2017, he fell ill. Without getting into details, roles changed. I became the caregiver. He was sick enough that he couldn’t be left alone. The doctors sent him home from the hospital to either get better or…
Fast forward to today. He’s not fully recovered but he is significantly healthier. I know he feels better because he kicked me out of the kitchen. He’s been doing laundry for a month or so and I now can leave him without overly worrying.
So, his recovery is my gift. Maybe re-gift is more accurate as he’s given it before. But the bottom line is that I’ve been given a second chance. I have a fourth novel to finish and now he is helping me do it.
But there’s a catch. During all those months when I couldn’t work on my novel, I spent time on my blog. I posted police stories from several retired and active duty cops every Sunday. On Fridays, I posted guests expounded on pre-set themes. My post was always the first Friday of the month, theirs followed. Anyway, this has become so labor-intensive that I can’t get back to my novel. So, I’ve decided that this incarnation of “Writer’s Notes” must retire in its current format. I’ll still happily accept guest posts but won’t be assigning themes and won’t be tied to two posts a week. The cop stories will continue as it is my mission: to show the public but especially writers that these are living, breathing people behind the badges. With luck, maybe they will even inspire a story in you.
My gift to you is a place where you can read about the heroes who keep us safe. Your gift to me has been your readership. It is with sincere gratitude I thank all my guest authors from the past eighteen months. It’s been great fun meeting you, making new friends, but now it’s time to knuckle down and finish that novel. I’m fortunate to have a publisher who has committed to publish it—and re-issue all my previous novels.
Time for Thonie to get to work.
By Force or Fear, Intent to Hold, and With Malice Aforethought
Not in costume or with satchels to Trick or Treat at 10 o’clock in the morning, the first uniformed officer rang our doorbell. We saw him on the porch through the dining room window. A younger, leaner uniformed officer stood in an “at ease” but ready position down three steps six feet behind the first officer on the walkway with his right thumb tucked in his uniform pants pocket just below his holstered weapon.
My husband, Danny, opened the front door. With a smile and a strong but friendly voice, he said, “What brings this show of force to my door?”
“We’re looking for Shannon,” the first officer said with a soft smile, his right arm bent at the elbow and the heel of his right hand casually resting on the butt of his holstered gun.
In Danny’s usual way, he didn’t offer what he knew about Shannon, the former tenant who’d lived in this house we’d recently rented.
“What crime did she commit?” His habit of answering a question with a question wasn’t muted by police officers at his door.
“We got a call from her family in Oregon.”
“This is a lot of manpower for a welfare check. I was a police officer for thirty-eight years. Good deployment of personnel, though,” Danny said as he looked beyond the front yard to the third uniformed officer on the sidewalk. There were no police cars in sight.
“Oh, you’re from L.A.?” a fairly obvious question given that Danny was wearing his blue LA Dodger cap. “What department?”
“LAPD for twenty-seven years, then the L.A.D.A.’s office for another eleven. You probably know my son; he’s a Deputy D.A. here.” They exchanged names and laughs. The third officer from the front sidewalk moved up onto the front yard to hear the light-hearted conversation about attorneys and prosecutors. The officer with the sergeant stripes, the most experienced officer on the scene, appeared from a place of cover between our two parked cars in the driveway.
“You know why they bury attorneys eight feet down instead of six?” the first officer asked. “Because deep down they have a good heart.” They all laughed.
The young officer closest to the first officer casually rested his forearm on his holstered gun. Clearly, they weren’t going to need to deploy tactical force.
In my full-length robe and uncombed hair, I made myself more visible to the officer at the door, still behind Danny as he took up most of the space at the wide-open doorway. “We just moved in last week,” I said. Danny stepped aside slightly. “Shannon lived here before us. She told our landlady she was moving to Oregon where she’d bought property.”
“That fits what we know,” said the first officer. “We got a call from her family in Oregon that she never arrived.
“She also had a business here in town,” Danny said.
“We checked there too,” but offered no further information.
“I’d be happy to give you our landlady’s name and number,” I said. “She might have a phone number or email address, but I know she didn’t leave a forwarding address because we’re still getting her mail.”
“Thanks. That could be helpful,” the officer said.
While I stepped away to write down our landlady’s information, the two officers facing each other at the door continued their police banter. Danny, the confident, retired, equally strong dog had sniffed the butt of the confident, younger, seemingly capable first officer who’d gingerly sniffed Danny’s butt. The two watchdogs meant each other no harm and their tails wagged as they shook hands.
I handed the officer my note and said, “I hope she’s okay.” I didn’t step too far into the doorway. No need for the whole neighborhood to know I was still in my robe at ten in the morning.
“Thanks for the information,” he said.
Everyone said, “Have a nice day.”
After he closed the door, Danny said, “They’re looking for Shannon for something else.”
“What makes you think so?” I often accuse him of being cynical. Sometimes a bad driver is just a bad driver and not trying to piss him off; but, sometimes his suspicious nature is warranted. His career experience and wisdom have served him well.
“First, there’s no way they send a sergeant, and three officers to do a welfare check and park half a block away. The sergeant between our cars, the third officer a distance from the house on the sidewalk, another uniform behind the guy at the door—that’s pretty tactical deployment for a missing person. It was more in line with looking for a violent offender.”
“I heard the guy on the sidewalk say it was a training day when you said this is a lot of manpower.”
“I was going to tell the training officer he was standing too close to the door,” Danny said with his typical wide grin.
“What do you think? She left town with too much debt?”
“By the way she left this house and yard in such a mess, it’s hard to believe she could run a business. Looked to me like she left pretty quickly. I’m guessing check fraud or grand theft. Maybe a warrant. Even the neighbors said her tweaker boyfriend had brought her down. I don’t know why the police are looking for her, but I have a feeling she doesn’t want to be found. No forwarding address. Didn’t arrive where she said she was going. Family in Oregon looking for her. If the boyfriend is looking for her, that’s where he’d look too. Who knows?”
“They sure didn’t offer any information,” I said.
“I don’t usually tell people I’m a retired cop, but I thought they’d offer a little quid pro quo.”
“They definitely stayed tight-lipped,” I said.
“Did you hear what they said when the neighbor across the street asked what was going on when they were leaving?”
“No, but I’ll bet he was a little disturbed by his new neighbors bringing the police to his neighborhood,” I said. “What’d the police say?”
“One of the officers answered, ‘Somebody stole a baby stroller.’”
“Do they teach that in the police academy, how to never give a straight answer and redirect the conversation?”
Danny chuckled and said, “You tell ‘em what they want to hear. Don’t leave ‘em scared. They don’t need to know the truth. They might try to help and get themselves hurt.”
“I’d like to have known the truth,” I said.
“Need-to-know basis, Sweetheart…”
—————————————————————————————————————–
Belinda Riehl
Associate Editor 2018 Redwood Writers anthology Redemption–Stories from the Edge; author of “Security at the Inn,” a fictional story told in 2020 after surviving the 2017 Sonoma County Wildfires included in Redemption; author of “Lighter Load,” a 100-word poem about the loss of her beloved dog in RW 2018 poetry anthology Phoenix–Out of Silence, and then…; author of “Wallet Karma,” a true story published in Sonoma Seniors Today, January 2018 issue, http://www.councilonaging.com/news-events/sonoma-seniors-today/; author of “Speak in Ink,” a poem published in online magazine Medium.com, https://medium.com/indian-thoughts/speak-in-ink-29152214a785#.e1e6i9q4j; winner of Redwood Writers 2015 Pullet Surprise for exceptional volunteer service to Sonoma County writers.
Please visit my blog: https://belindariehl.wordpress.com/ to read Occasional Musings by this writer.
So, it’s November and that brings to mind Thanksgiving and that brings to mind a shift in people to a more gracious attitude. Gratitude for the many blessings in their lives. My sister will do a “I’m thankful for….” Facebook for every day in November.
I don’t do that. Not that I’m not thankful, but to think of thirty things? Lol. Just kidding.
Okay, so I thought about this for a while to come up with my list of things for which I am thankful. (Uh, a while comprising an entire energy sapping five minutes. I think I need a nap.)
Let’s get the basics out of the way: Family, friends, employment, health, automobile, finances.
I would like to turn the thankful list to writing and fitness related things because, while I don’t want to do a BSP (blatant self-promotion), I would like to give a bit of it in relation to the craft of writing. I also want to include a bit of thanks to the martial arts world.
1.I’m thankful the Lord has given me the ability to write and to continue to learn the craft.
2.For writer friends who are honest with critique (and that means praise as well as where I need improvements).
3.Thanks to NeoLeaf Press for accepting my friendship, two of my books, and four short stories for an anthology.
4.I’m thankful to the Lord for giving me health, the ability, and the skills to train in martial arts and to be able to continue my growth.
5.I’m thankful to the American Taekwondo Association for providing me with opportunities and friendship.
6.Thanks to all my students present and past for their support.
7.Thanks to all my readers who purchased my books.
So, the lucky seven. I’m sure there are many more things, large and small, for which I’m thankful. I think the main thing is, I’m grateful to those people who attend the book shows and conferences where I’m allowed to set up a table to sell books and talk about my writing. Whether you buy, take a business card or postcard, or just peruse the offering, and to those who read my blogs and to those who take time to comment I appreciate your few minutes. To those people and those who continue to support, train, and assist with my martial arts training as I prepare for the next goal in July of 2019-testing for 6th Degree Black Belt,
Have you ever heard something that is so far-fetched, so unbelievable, that it makes you think, “Yeah sure, I’ll believe it when I see it.” Or when other common expressions of skepticism pop into your head like, “When Hell freezes over,” and, “No way … You are joking, right?”
Police officers are some of the biggest practical jokesters of any profession. Likely, their penchant for “punking,” or pulling pranks and being able to laugh, is a psychological means of coping with the negative things they encounter in their jobs on a daily basis. Whatever the case may be, following is a compilation of humorous accounts about air cops; police officers who fly helicopter patrol over their jurisdictions.
As a former helicopter pilot/instructor with the Los Angeles Police Department’s Air Support Division, I feel comfortable now in sharing some of these anecdotes. I’m guessing the statute of limitations for “Wasting Taxpayers Money” has passed. However, just in case I’m wrong, the names of participants will be either fictionalized or purposely omitted.
Also, rather than calling these stories “accounts,” possibly the term “legends” would be more applicable since some of them cannot be verified as actually happening. So, take a literary ride-along with some of the best police pilots in the world.
~~~
Tag … You’re It
Whenever there is a “slow night” for street patrol officers, the correlating effect for air support pilots and observers is usually the same. Also, because California law requires bars to close at 2:00 a.m., it can get very dreary for the few hours before the freeways become “alive” with morning commuters. During this dull time, it’s not whereas a helicopter can just stop flying and wait for something to happen like street cops can do in a black-and-white patrol vehicle.
Most police helicopter pilots fashion themselves as dashing fighter pilots (i.e., flamboyant jet-jockeys in flight suits that attract the opposite sex). Rather than just boring “lazy circles” in the sky with nothing exciting to respond to on the ground, a form of non-lethal aerial combat … “dog fighting” … became a favorite pastime of LA’s pilots assigned to morning watch.
The helicopter from the San Fernando Valley would sneak over the Hollywood hills and come up behind the other aircraft assigned to patrol the Greater LA Basin and metropolitan area. The Valley helicopter would get behind and above the LA ‘copter. Then a flip of the landing light switch by the pilot would illuminate the cockpit of the aircraft in front. The pilot behind would then key the radio and say, “Tag, you’re it”!
Quickly then, the pilot of the trailing Valley aircraft would turn-off the aircraft’s red-green navigation lights and the rotating beacon to become completely blacked-out. Diving and turning, zooming between and hiding behind high-rise skyscrapers in downtown LA, the Valley pilot attempted to avoid being seen by the crew of the LA ‘copter. If and when found, the LA aircraft would then try to maneuver behind the fleeing aircraft and get a “bead” on it. Once in “attack position,” a flip of the landing light switch, and “Tag, you’re it” once again came over the air-to-air radio frequency. Then the roles of both aircraft would reverse, and the chase was on again.
Sure, there was some minor FAA violations with the lights, but the “hard deck” never went below 500 feet AGL (Above Ground Level). No buildings, vehicles, or people were ever in danger. However, it didn’t take long for the Morning Watch sergeant back at the heliport in Glendale monitoring the coded radio comm to figure out that Air 70 and Air 80 were up to some shenanigans. Who knows, but maybe this was the impetus for the aerial sequence from the movie that came out a few years later, “Blue Thunder”, starring Roy Scheider.
What can I say … the original Maverick and Iceman of “Top Gun.”
~~ Post-Flight De-Briefing:
According to Wikipedia, “When pigs fly” is an adynaton, a way of saying that something will never happen. The phrase is often used for humorous effect, to scoff at over-ambition. There are numerous variations on the theme; when an individual with a reputation for failure finally succeeds, onlookers may sarcastically claim to see a flying pig. (‘Hey look! A flying pig!’) Other variations on the phrase include “And pigs will fly,” this one in retort to an outlandish statement.” These are just a few of the stories that have been circulated around LAPD’s Air Support Division for over a half-century. Through personal first-hand knowledge, some are partially true, some are fiction, most are hard to believe, but all are good for a laugh. These “pig tales” [sic] have become folklore taken from the actions or imaginations of those who carry a gun on their hip, and wear a badge and silver wings on their chest.
~~
Bio of Ron Corbin, PhD
Military
• U.S Army (1965-1969)
• CW2 Helicopter Pilot/Instructor Pilot
• 2 Tours in Vietnam as Combat Pilot Law Enforcement & Private Security
• Las Vegas Metropolitan PD – Academy Training Manager (ret’d)
• LAPD – Policeman & Air Support Command Pilot/CFI Command Pilot/CFI (ret’d)
• Body Guard for Prince of Qatar (1984 LA Summer Olympics)
• Director of Security; Manufacturing Company
Education
• AA (physical education)
• BA (child development)
• MS (elementary education)
• PhD (security administration)
~~~~~~~~ After military service, Ron joined LAPD in 1971 with the ambition of becoming one of their helicopter pilots. He achieved this goal in 1974, working his way up from Command Pilot status to an Instructor Pilot. In 1976, he was involved in a training crash that killed his student pilot and left Ron with 2nd and 3rd degree burns over 70% of his body. He was given a disability pension in 1977. During many months and years of hospitalization, post incident surgeries and physical rehabilitation, he finished his education earning a BA, MS, and PhD. He rebuilt his life around new careers, including being a school teacher and principal. However, law enforcement and security was still his primary love. Unable to do police work, he pursued various jobs in private security and training in personal safety, including being a body guard, director of security, consultant and trainer for security forces at DOE nuclear facilities. He moved to Las Vegas in 1993 and joined LVMPD. On behalf of the Department, he served as a CPTED (Crime Prevention Through Environmental Design) expert consultant to various public and private entities in Las Vegas. He retired in 2011 after several years as the Police Academy Training Manager. Ron has won sixteen awards for his writing skills fromthe Public Safety Writers Association. He has been married to his HS sweetheart for over 52 years, and has three children and seven grandchildren.
Even though I missed posting this before Thanksgiving, I am thankful to Thonie for giving me this slot the day after. If you could see the disarray my house and life are in right now, you’d be amazed that I can still remain thankful, in spite of all the challenges.
As I write this, our neighbor, who is a contractor, is working on repairing a small porch outside our TV room door that has almost fallen down over last winter. It’s been up there since 1991, so I can’t complain. Living in the Colorado mountains at high altitude means we often have wet, heavy snows that take a toll on wooden structures from time to time. All the local carpenters are so busy at this time that none of them want to take on such a small job. Therefore, I am super thankful to have Rod fixing that while the weather is still warm, sunny and gorgeous and before the snow flies this year. He’s a great neighbor, as is his wife, Karen and we are blessed to have them so close.
On Monday, Tuesday and possibly Wednesday, we are having new carpet installed throughout the house. So, today we have moved all the small things, antiques and electronics that they will not move. In our chalet-style home, everything either has to be moved up a flight of stairs or down one. I am very relieved that task is now over. Our home looks as though we are either coming or going. I am thankful that at our age (my husband is 80 and I’m not far behind) we are still physically capable of doing such tasks.
I am thankful to have had Billie Johnson as my very first publisher and am sad to know she recently passed away. She taught me so very much about the book business and published my first two books. Both of them turned out beautifully and she was so easy to work with. All of the former Oak Tree Press authors pitched in to help one another when any one of us presented a problem via the list-serv. Nobody was ever jealous or competitive. We OTP authors all became friends, some very close friends, and most of us remain in touch today.
When Billie’s illness prevented her from publishing our books, in stepped Mike Orenduff of Aakenbaaken & Kent (A & K). I am so very thankful that he immediately agreed to publish the second editions of both my books, as well as my manuscript for my latest and, at that time, unpublished book, SNOW ANGEL. Many A & K authors today are from Oak Tree Press and are able to remain together.
Mike did an excellent job on my book SNOW ANGEL, designed the cover and published it quickly, all things considered in his busy life. It’s available as both a Kindle and paperback on Amazon and also as a paperback on Barnes & Noble. I learned that covers greatly influence book sales and love both of mine as created by Mike.
I have connected to author friends with various other houses who are well established and successful and will jump in to help in any way possible. That’s a special gift and I am thankful that I have met and grown to know and love each one of them.
Toss in my wonderful husband, Richard, my three children, five grandchildren and the latest and greatest gift of all, our very first great-granddaughter with her beautiful blue eyes, quick smile and happy personality and you have a huge basket of things for which I am extremely thankful and forever will be. Like Thonie, there have been some bad times through it all and I truly feel that Divine Intervention helped us get through those horrible weeks and months. But we made it and I am thankful for that huge blessing.
I hope we all have a wonderful holiday season and much success in 2019. Thanksgiving means we will put the Christmas tree up, so that’s what I will do next, hopefully on new carpet and with a strong and sturdy porch outside. Let it snow! God bless us every one.
~~
AUTHOR’S BIO FOR JACKIE TAYLOR ZORTMAN
Jackie Taylor Zortman is the author of non-fiction book We Are Different Now, first place award-winning fiction novel Footprints in the Frost (Detective Max Richards Book 1) and award-winning novel SNOW ANGEL (Detective Max Richards Book 2). She has written numerous short stories and articles for various publications for the last 26 years.
She is a Charter Member of the Public Safety Writers Association and the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers. A contributing author to the anthologies Felons, Flames & Ambulance Rides, American Blue, The Centennial Book of the National Society of Daughters of the Union and Recipes by the Book, Oak Tree Authors Cook. She also writes poetry, genealogy and history and has won 10 writing awards.
She lives in a bustling quaint tourist town high in the mountains of Colorado with her husband and Siamese cat. When the deep snows of winter blanket the terrain surrounding her home, it becomes the perfect spot in which to write.
SHORT BLURB-SNOW ANGEL by Jackie Taylor Zortman
In this second Detective Max Richards book, he and his sister inherit their mother’s estate and find an old forgotten and dusty wooden box on a shelf in her bedroom closet. It reveals a secret about her they never knew and connects them to an abandoned Victorian house in Colorado where Max and his wife already own a remote cabin. During the Christmas holidays, they fly to Snowflake to investigate the abandoned old house. Following their tire tracks in the snow, the local police chief introduces himself and quickly becomes part of their tight-knit circle of friends.
What was that hidden secret and how did it change the lives of her children and lead them in directions they never dreamed they would follow?
From Thonie, Hal, Ed, Mikey and all the contributors to this blog: Happy Thanksgiving!
The shopping season is upon us. Looking for something for that hard-to-buy-for chef on your gift list? For a unique idea, check out this fun post from Writer’s Notes guest Judy Alter.
By Judy Alter
How did I end up in a tiny kitchen?
When I was in my thirties, I lived what some might think the dream life—in a big but charming old house in a good neighborhood, with a surgeon-husband, four adorable children, and a station wagon in the drive. I cooked a lot, for large crowds, so we remodeled the kitchen. I had six gas burners in my stove, a huge island, a marble slab for rolling out dough. I think the only thing we lacked was a wine cellar.
So how did I go from that to a four-by-six kitchen with only a hot plate, a toaster oven, and a huge refrigerator? It’s a long story that involves divorce, those four wonderful children, and a writing career. Along the way I wrote two cookbooks—Cooking My Way through Life with Kids and Books and Texas is Chili Country—and contributed to two others—Love, Bake, Write and We’d Rather be Cooking.
Dangerous driver
Encroaching age and hip surgery that left me unable to walk unassisted dictated that I move into a tiny cottage (my remodeled garage/guest quarters) while my daughter, her husband, and son moved into my house, just yards away. Zoning laws forbid the installation of a stove or a dishwasher, and limited counter space made a microwave and other fancy electric cooking appliances, like an InstaPot, impractical. So I learned to cook all over again.
My debut with the hot plate was comical. My daughter and I decided to sauté a lamb chop. We put it in the special pan that came with the hot plate, pressed the desired temperature and waited. Nothing. She poked it, held her hand over to feel the heat. Nothing. Then we finally saw the start button. I have since learned that I can use any flat-bottom pan with the hot plate. Welcome back to my iron skillet.
In slightly over two years I adjusted to my new kitchen. One friend who came frequently for lunch professed to be amazed at the meals I turned out—he particularly liked the chicken pot pie. I entertain often—no more big dinner parties, but lots of happy hour get-togethers, some lunches and light suppers.
And now I’ve written a cookbook about it: Gourmet on a Hot Plate: Tiny Kitchen Tips and Recipes. No suggestions for that Thanksgiving feast, but lots of recipes for casual suppers and cooking hints from my mom. Do you always put a pinch of sugar in tomato-based sauces? It rounds it off.
Enjoy that turkey. I’ve got great ideas for the leftovers!
In addition to her cookbooks, Judy Alter is the award-winning author of adult and young-adult fiction and nonfiction, primarily historical works about women of the American West and contemporary mysteries set in Texas.
By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD
She was probably mid to late 40’s, tall and almost gaunt as very wealthy women are required to be. Her features said she had once been quite beautiful and was still extremely attractive.
The mouth, though, was hard and judgmental. Perfectly coiffed and dressed for a night out she stood to one side in the kitchen of her Bel Aire home as I spoke to her husband. It was almost 1:00 am and I was bone-tired from the double shift.
Eight hours earlier, I had stood in his den while he recounted his concerns regarding his missing daughter, Chloe.
We were there at the direction of the Chief of Police who had taken a call from Mr. Big that afternoon. I was preparing to leave work for home when the captain called me and one of my teams into his office.
Asking us if we knew who Mr. Big was? Obviously yes, a very recognizable name and face and a very powerful man. It seems his daughter, Chloe had not been home to her beach-front apartment for almost a week. She shared it with two roommates while they attended the local junior college.
As this was the early 70’s, the Golden Age of Terrorism and people tended to see bomb throwers under every bush.
Inasmuch as I was assigned to the Organized Crime Intelligence Division, terrorists, anarchists and the like were not our priority. Why do I mention this? Because Mr. Big went right to the top when he wanted police intervention. Maybe to stir the pot, he told the chief he thought his daughter might have fallen under the influence of a “revolutionary” and run off with him.
Okay, so why were we here? Well whenever the brass needed something done outside normal channels or “off the books,” we got the job. As a matter of fact, some people didn’t even know we existed.
I also failed to mention Chloe was 18 years old, legally an adult and emancipated from her parents. The hook then was the fact she had “possibly” been abducted by this ne’er do well and needed our assistance.
Yeah, right.
Our instructions were to find her, take no action except if required, urge her to call home and then brief her father, the captain, and chief.
This blog however is not about how we found her but find her we did—living in a garage in San Pedro with a 30 something-year-old ex-con member of the Weathermen, a militant offshoot of the then defunct Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), both radical groups.
Maybe dad knew his daughter better than I had assumed.
This is however about Mrs. Big’s reaction to the news we delivered that early morning in their kitchen over coffee. We were all standing, and I had just finished briefing her husband. Before he could reply, she stated, and I paraphrase, “This is not my world.” A short pause and again, “This is not my world.” Her eyes were focused for middle distance and she looked toward the back door.
“This sort of thing has no place in my world. I cannot and will not acknowledge the existence of such people. Those actions and behavior are a complete contradiction to my lifestyle and have no place in it. I refuse to believe in such people and circumstances. I will hear no more. You have no further business here.”
We said good night and took our leave.
I made no reply that night and even now so long removed, I am not sure I have the words or expertise to counter her complete and absolute denial of reality.
First up, I must come clean and admit that I am a Brit, an expat blending in with my American surroundings—I hope.
Second up, as unlikely as it may seem, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday even better than my birthday, although to date that isn’t a national holiday.
Third up, initially I wanted to share a list of things for which I am thankful, partly because I love lists and also because then we might find common ground. However, rarely does a list make riveting reading, although my list of thirteen side dishes, served annually, makes my mouth water with anticipation.
Instead, I have chosen to share a mere three thoughts, nuggets from the jumble of rubbish in my head, which may strike a harmoniously thankful chord … or not.
1. Any time a little gloom threatens to mar my existence, I can glance through the window at the dazzling Californian sunshine, cloudless skies, and my gloriously sustaining, higgledy-piggledy garden.
2. Whenever I am overwhelmed by the complications and circumstances in the world of disabilities and autism, I can escape into a fictional world of my own creation where my characters submit to my dictatorship.
3. I am grateful, many times a day, because the cost of Tetley tea bags is affordable and allows me to feed [or drink] my addiction without too much of a guilty conscience.
Here is a fun link in case you’re worried your list-making obsession is getting out of hand. https://www.buzzfeed.com/emofly/signs-youre-a-list-maker
Wishing that your Thanksgiving is at least half as great as mine or at most, your best yet.
~~
Author Bio
Madeline McEwen is an ex-pat from the UK, bi-focaled and technically challenged. She and her Significant Other manage their four offspring, one major and three minors, two autistic, two neurotypical, plus a time-share with Alzheimer’s. In her free time, she walks two dogs and chases two cats with her nose in a book and her fingers on the keyboard.
Link to Kirkus Review:-
Though I’ve always written from the time I was a kid, I didn’t really get started on the submitting, getting rejected and re-submitting merry-go-round until later in life, I’ve had much to be thankful for—and I’m going to start with that first book that I sent out to a publisher.
1. The used portable typewriter my mother gave me. (This was in the days long before computers, copying machines, Internet and emails. I retyped that first 500 page book many times.)
2. My first computer and the dear man who sold it to me and taught me how to use it. (This was in the days of the real floppy discs.) I bought several computers from him and he continued to teach me the intricacies. And I am so thankful for all the time computers have saved me since.
3. The first critique group that listened to my historical family saga and pointed out that I knew nothing about point-of-view. I had no idea what they were talking about.
4. The Internet and email. I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.
5. My mentor, Willma Gore, who was in my 2nd critique group for many years and taught me so much about writing.
6. All the publishers (good and not so good) who took a chance with me. I learned from all of them.
7. The critique group I’ve been in for years and all the members along the way who have taught me so much and helped me make my writing better.
8. My son-in-law, the police officer who got me interested in police work and took me on my first ride-along. And all the law enforcement offices and mystery authors who’ve become my friends since that time—especially those who belong to PSWA.
9. All my writing friends who have given me so much encouragement along the way, including fellow members of Sisters in Crime and MWA.
10. Mike Orenduff of Aakenbaken and Kent who is republishing all of my Rocky Bluff P.D. mysteries, including this new one, Tangled Webs.
11. And to those mystery writers who had a great influence on me long ago like Agatha Christie and Ed McBain.
A special thank you to Thonie for hosting me today.
Marilyn, who writes the RBPD series as F. M. Meredith
Blurb: Too many people are telling lies: The husband of the murder victim and his secretary, the victim’s boss and co-workers in the day care center, her stalker, and Detective Milligan’s daughter.
Bio: F. M. Meredith who is also known as Marilyn once lived in a beach town much like Rocky Bluff. She has many friends and relatives in law enforcement. She’s a member of MWA, 3 chapters of Sisters in Crime and serves on the PSWA Board.
Though I’ve addressed this before, in case you ever wondered why I write police procedurals this answer is on John Wills blog: https://jwillsbooks.com/blog-posts
So, there I was a police sergeant at the LAPD Wilshire Division on the roof looking north toward Hollywood and crying my eyes out! I was mad, sad, and upset. The real kicker was that I had absolutely no control of the situation. I was in full uniform, the supervisor of 40 some field officers possessing the powers granted to a sworn sergeant of police of the LAPD and yet there I was on the roof of the station, crying!
It was 1992 and four F-16’s were swooping down over a Gulf I parade which was in progress down Hollywood Boulevard. Oh, and get this, they were allowing Westmoreland and Viet Nam vets to march in the parade, at the rear, but nonetheless in their parade.
God, I was beside myself. Do I have to explain to you that feeling? The feeling started when the Flying Tiger 707 bringing me back to the world had to make an emergency landing at Seattle-Tacoma Airport because of a blown main gear tire whose pieces were picked up on the runway back at Yakota AFB, Japan. Well, we landed, and no one got killed so off we went to a “no steak” dinner (supposedly you got a steak dinner at Mc Cord AFB or Fort Lewis, I can’t remember who told us that one) homecoming.
Because of the diversion to Seattle-Tacoma we would be starting our 30-day leave 2 hours earlier. Before we could initiate the task of getting a military stand-by flight home, we found ourselves in a “debriefing” room with an Army guy telling us to keep a “low profile.” Well I understood that! Getting shot at a few times at the beach gate on Phan Rang’s north east perimeter made a believer of filling those sand bags to the max and then “low profiling” behind the bulging blessed things!
But I digress here. He went on to tell us how unpopular we were in this part of the world (home?) and how we should not display any ribbons or acknowledge the fact that we had been in the NAM. That was my welcome home from war, hooray for our side!
I got a ride on a United 727 to Los Angeles and found myself at a window seat separated from a middle-aged female passenger by the empty middle seat. After about 20 minutes in the air, I ordered a scotch and soda. I turned 21 in the NAM but got asked for ID anyway. Not having eaten for a while the go juice hit me like it was meant to. The lady was talking to the stewardess, but my mind was on seeing my family at Los Angeles International Airport (LAX), so I paid no attention. The stewardess got my attention when she plunked another plastic cup of go juice on my tray. Before I could say anything, she nodded toward my air companion and left. The woman asked if I was coming back from the war but before I could answer her, I saw the sand bags going up in the middle seat. Heck, she looked innocent enough and there was something in her eyes that said, “Please answer the question,” so I told her, “Yes.” She lifted her glass of red something and asked that I join her in toasting those who were not coming back.
My mind raced back to the night at LAX when I left for the NAM. An Army guy walked off the plane as we were boarding the TWA fight to Seattle and told an older man and a teenage girl, “I’m not going.” I still don’t know why, but the image played in my head for a couple of seconds.
I did not know what to say to my flight companion, so I just took a long drink from the cup. She said, “thank you” and until we said, “good bye” at LAX, we did not speak again.
A substantial number of my family met me as I walked off the plane and they had a big sign that read, “WELCOME HOME SERGEANT DIAZ.” Holy smokes, didn’t they know that we were deep in Indian country and they were blowing my cover? Throw them some sand bags!
Little did they know that 22 years later THAT sign, my family, the Air Force, the Marine Corps Reserve and two police departments would positively acknowledge my service in the NAM. But for now, I was being assigned to the 63rd Military Airlift Wing, SPS, at Norton AFB, in San Bernardino, California. I was home, but not the same home I had left. The feeling started to run deep the more I ventured around in “the world.”
I went to an apartment complex in the city of Upland, about 22 miles west of Norton, to apply for an apartment. I found myself sitting next to a guy with short hair too. He looked military, so I figured I was going to have competition for the one available apartment. He asked if I was military and I said, “Air Force.” He asked if I had returned from the war and not seeing any sand bags, I told him that I had.
I asked him, and he said, “Navy, back from North Korea.” I was talking to a U.S.S. Pueblo guy, didn’t know which one and didn’t know if he was telling me the truth. I never found out, but I just put the application back on the manager’s desk and humbly left.
The next apartment manager was not a nice person. He didn’t like the military in any form and said so. Vietnam veterans were out of control, drug-addicted, spring loaded and on short fuses. He said other things, but this is what I related to my father, a WW II veteran who served in the Pacific.
The, “WELCOME HOME FROM THE GREATEST WAR” veteran who was proud to have served, and still removed the manufacture tags from anything “made in Japan.” He said what I began to truly believe: “Just because you served in Viet Nam doesn’t mean life or anyone owes you a living.”
I can talk about his parenting ways, but I am after all, preaching to the choir, the children of depression era kids, you know. So, I shut up like all the other guys at Norton and did not talk about the NAM to anyone but them. In November 1971, three months after my discharge, I joined the Ontario Police Department. I got “extra points” for being a veteran and Hispanic and got hired with six other guys, beating out 350+ applicants. Ain’t bragging, it’s just part of my story.
In 1973, I was eyeballing the LAPD. I took the tests, got the same “extra points” and joined the “Marine Corps” of Law Enforcement. About 90% of my class were NAM vets and we quietly talked about the war. No one cried telling stories of the bad stuff, we were young. The same stories today are probably slightly distorted because of the distance from the events and we do cry, just take a look at Randy Cunningham, the first Navy Ace of the war. When he was young and telling his stories, he used his hands like aviators do and he displayed a lot of the John Wayne “do or die” syndrome. Today, the same stories bring tears to the man’s eyes.
In 1975, I was assigned to Central Division (downtown) and was walking a foot beat with a classmate of mine. Steve was an ex-Army LRRP (Long Range Recon Patrol) and was as tough as they come. We got to interact with the first Vietnamese refugees who had been displaced from the south and sent here. It was very interesting.
One incident that stands out in my mind was a Vietnamese gentleman who approached us and said that he had been duped by a store advertising an item, but had been given another item of lesser value, boxed in the container that showed the advertised item. All was going well until the “victim” told us that he was not to be treated this way because he was a “high classed” Vietnamese. Steve picked the guy up by his shirt and the guy grabbed Steve’s wrist to hang on for the ride up to eye level. I won’t repeat what Steve told him, but what would you have said? Did I mention that Steve was tough? That was the last time that I can remember the NAM being “up front” in my mind. Like most of us NAM vets, I put it in a closet somewhere; remember what my dad had said?
Fast forward to1991. So, now Gulf I commanders are talking, “no Vietnam this” and “no Vietnam that,” remember? They actually wanted to win this one. Well, they did. They were allowed to and there was no Johnson or McNamara to hand them a bite of the shit sandwich. Then they came home (welcomed) in uniform, with ribbons, folks waving at them (with all their fingers), no sand bags and now they get a parade—with “us” allowed to march in the back. Remember the start of my story?
Heck if I was going to march behind as an “after thought.” If we, Nam vets, have a legacy, we showed them how NOT to fight a war and how NOT to treat returning service veterans. The antiwar protestors learned something too. Forward to the Gulf II, 2002. I am now assigned to Hollywood Division where we get our share of protests, marches and the like. So, I am working a major protest as the Adjutant to the Divisional Commanding Officer and we can pretty much go where we want. We were at the corner of Hollywood and Highland where I see a female with gray hair, maybe my age holding up a protest sign and taking pictures. She was dressed, almost like she must have looked in the sixties as a protester. Now, I am a 55-year-old “Sergeant Pig.” She doesn’t say that, she “looks that.” I figure what the heck and say the following, “You know, this is quite unique to me.”
She asked, “What is?”
So, I told her where I was when this sort of thing was going on in the sixties. (By the way, I missed the sixties, graduated high school in 1966 and joined the USAF in 1967, do the math.) She said, and I quote her because the words went right through me, vest and all, “We did that wrong back then. We attacked you guys, not the war like we should have.”
Now, let me get this straight—a generation of military men and women were sacrificed by the government and the folks back home took it out on them. Remember people yelling, “baby killers,” and the jerk apartment manager?
But today, they are attacking the war/government and leaving the troops alone. I told you about our legacy and the protestors learning something. But who paid the price? Need I say? We are an exclusive club of brothers and sisters in arms. Let’s not forget those beautiful selfless nurses. I recently heard on a talk show where serving in the military was the subject. Some guy called in and started lamenting the fact that going to Canada got him out of the military but “someone had to take my place,” during the NAM war and that someone might have gotten killed. WELL HELLO!!
I’ll finish with this; I have been in uniform since I was 19. I have carried a weapon every day of my adult working life—I will be 57 this year. I am in the twilight of my Law Enforcement career with retirement just three years away. When several incidents on the LAPD caused us to go through periods of really bad press, guys would ask me, “You don’t have to be here. Are you going to retire?”
My response was, “When I left Viet Nam, we were winning, and we lost that one. I ain’t leaving here until we are winning again.” My late aunt, God rest her soul, once asked me, “You are always looking for trouble or something wrong, that is your job, but what will you do when it is over, if you survive?” I/we are survivors. We are brothers, sons, fathers and in my opinion, are the second greatest generation who took up arms, WWII veterans being the greatest.
We will never have full closure; we will never get our homecoming parade and not everyone will agree why we went there in the first place. We meet on the street and nodded, “welcome home” to each other. We see a NAM decal on the back of a guy’s car and if he looks old enough, we give each other the thumbs up.
Some of us have gone back to the NAM for various reasons. Over 58,000 never made it home physically, some of us never made it home mentally. How will our NAM experiences come back to us in our minds and hearts now that we about to retire and will have the time to really think this through? When I hear a NAM veteran say he’s been back 30-something years, what is he really saying? What did he leave there? What is missing? Most veterans of other wars don’t make statements like that, why?
Phan Rang Air Base, Viet Nam-unknown year
I can still smell the country, the war. I can dream it in color and “don’t tell me no.”
When “Big red” (the sun) hits me just right, I am at the beach gate or main gate with the Korean MPs. I can go back there anytime I want to. I can’t remember where the car keys are or why I left the Watch Commander’s office and went to the front desk, but I remember the NAM and the 20-year-old kid who went there. Do I feel sorry for him, admire him, mourn him or try and comfort him? I’ll know soon enough because that Army briefer and his words, “DON’T MEAN A THING” now. And I don’t give a damn about those SAND BAGS.
When we who served in the NAM are gone, what will generations of military and civilians say about us?
Not in costume or with satchels to Trick or Treat at 10 o’clock in the morning, the first uniformed officer rang our doorbell. We saw him on the porch through the dining room window. A younger, leaner uniformed officer stood in an “at ease” but ready position down three steps six feet behind the first officer on the walkway with his right thumb tucked in his uniform pants pocket just below his holstered weapon.
“LAPD for twenty-seven years, then the L.A.D.A.’s office for another eleven. You probably know my son; he’s a Deputy D.A. here.” They exchanged names and laughs. The third officer from the front sidewalk moved up onto the front yard to hear the light-hearted conversation about attorneys and prosecutors. The officer with the sergeant stripes, the most experienced officer on the scene, appeared from a place of cover between our two parked cars in the driveway.
By Stephen Brayton
Links:
Jackie Taylor Zortman
AUTHOR’S BIO FOR JACKIE TAYLOR ZORTMAN
Gourmet on a Hot Plate is available in print or ebook form from Amazon 
By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD
Author Bio
By Marilyn Meredith
Bio: F. M. Meredith who is also known as Marilyn once lived in a beach town much like Rocky Bluff. She has many friends and relatives in law enforcement. She’s a member of MWA, 3 chapters of Sisters in Crime and serves on the PSWA Board.
So, there I was a police sergeant at the LAPD Wilshire Division on the roof looking north toward Hollywood and crying my eyes out! I was mad, sad, and upset. The real kicker was that I had absolutely no control of the situation. I was in full uniform, the supervisor of 40 some field officers possessing the powers granted to a sworn sergeant of police of the LAPD and yet there I was on the roof of the station, crying!
Because of the diversion to Seattle-Tacoma we would be starting our 30-day leave 2 hours earlier. Before we could initiate the task of getting a military stand-by flight home, we found ourselves in a “debriefing” room with an Army guy telling us to keep a “low profile.” Well I understood that! Getting shot at a few times at the beach gate on Phan Rang’s north east perimeter made a believer of filling those sand bags to the max and then “low profiling” behind the bulging blessed things!
A substantial number of my family met me as I walked off the plane and they had a big sign that read, “WELCOME HOME SERGEANT DIAZ.” Holy smokes, didn’t they know that we were deep in Indian country and they were blowing my cover? Throw them some sand bags!
Need I say? We are an exclusive club of brothers and sisters in arms. Let’s not forget those beautiful selfless nurses. I recently heard on a talk show where serving in the military was the subject. Some guy called in and started lamenting the fact that going to Canada got him out of the military but “someone had to take my place,” during the NAM war and that someone might have gotten killed. WELL HELLO!!
