"The Great American Bald Eagle"

Our writing assignment this week was in reaction to the introduction of Rachel Carson's Silent Spring. The environment has played a pivotal role in several of my writings, and Silent Spring was even mentioned in my most recent book Narragansett, so to revisit this great work was a thrill.

 

The great American Bald Eagle cocked her head and listened intently for the return cry of her mate. Still, there was no response. From her nest, one hundred feet off the ground, at the apex of three bisecting branches of the ancient Elm tree, she peered over the forest canopy. He was nowhere to be seen. She puffed herself up and let go a few more shrill cries, clicks, chirps, and several loud grunts. "Where are you?" She cried. "Return to me."

The quiet explosive growth of the spring forest absorbed her calls. The trees, shrubs and vines were thick with verdant foliage. The furrowed fields were ripe with young grain, soybeans and beats. The nearby orchards were bent with pollen-laden flowers and fat buds that promised to produce sweet summer fruit. The meadows and riverbanks were overflowing with wild blossoms. The warm sun and the onslaught of vegetation reassured her that it was spring, but she knew something was wrong.

The silence was too deafening, the lack of movement unsettling. The buzz, creep and crawl of billions of insects were absent. The songs of sparrows, doves, cardinals, wrens and robins were nonexistent. Her keen eyesight spotted no movement. Even the river ran uncharacteristically wide and slow. The water was a dark, muddy brown. The ground dwellers, the amphibians, reptiles, and rodents had vacated their hides and burrows. The larger inhabitants of the forest, the deer, fox, raccoon, possum and black bear still tromped carefully through the undergrowth, but many had moved north, away from the unsavory taste of the white powder.

The fine white dust that covered everything added to the stillness. It permeated everything. Instinctively, she knew that it was the root cause of the barren silence. The powder had first appeared during the last summer season, great clouds of it spewing forth from noisy things rumbling through the fields, forests trails and roads, and even from her domain, the sky. During the wet winter, the white dust disappeared into the ground, into the veins and arteries of the earth. Then, at the first sign of warm weather, the dust spreaders had returned with a vengeance. Nothing escaped.

She called for him again, then fluffed her down feathers and nestled more firmly on her precious eggs. He must have had to travel a great distance to find any trout or silverfish in the slow-moving river, or perhaps he went west towards the plowed fields, hoping to capture some field mice. She was hungry and restless. Her three hatchlings would be here soon, and she knew from experience that after their birth she would be too busy to leave the nest. She wanted to stretch her wings once more before the real work began.

It had been too long since he flew off to hunt, several sunrises. Through the dust and hush surrounding her, she realized that he would not be returning. It was up to her now. She decided she had to leave her eggs, just long enough to snag a morsel of a dead catfish she spotted floating between two branches along the bank. She stood up on her strong, feathered legs, and gently placed her taloned-feet on either side of the nest. She bent down and poked her yellow beak at her eggs, attempting to turn them as she had done at least twice daily for the last month.

When the shells cracked, brittle to the touch, she was at first confused. "Perhaps the chicks are emerging early," she thought. But then, when she saw the yellow white, red slush of undeveloped flesh and organs flow uncontained on to the floor of her nest, she knew that she had failed once again.

She took flight, northward, alone.

Sneak peek at "The Gunslinger's Fall" – Part Two of the Gunslinger's series

The Gunslinger's Fall

The two bullets traveling at approximately 900 feet per second happened to be on the exact same trajectory. Both men were exactly the same height and had aimed directly at the other's heart.

The Gunslinger's .45 caliber bullet was traveling slightly faster because of the longer barrel of the Colt, but the Marshal's .44 caliber bullet had left the chamber of the Smith & Wesson a nanosecond earlier. They smashed together, head-on, at exactly the midpoint between the two men.

The force of the two projectiles colliding released a tremendous amount of energy, causing the lead bullets to fuse together. Sparks and minuscule pieces of shrapnel flew through the air. The shockwave from the collision expanded outward. Silence took over as soon as the sound waves from the exploding guns departed down the deserted streets. The hot molten lead stayed suspended in the air for a second, and then dropped to the asphalt with a soft click. Both men stood frozen, unable to recognize or believe what had just happened.

The four dimensions of the perceived world had splintered. The natural order was disrupted, but the universe reacted quickly to repair the damage.

Suddenly, the men were knocked to the ground as the pressure from the once fractured dimensions contracted with extreme violence.

 

Detroit, Michigan
September 2013

"I woke up first. My ears hurt and my head ached as if I had just woken up from a two-day drunk. It was dark. The sun had passed to the other side of the earth. I pushed myself up off the ground and immediately noticed that the sand, dirt and mud of the street had been replaced by a hard black surface. I straightened myself as best as I could and looked around. The street I remembered was gone. I was standing in a narrow alleyway. The buildings on both sides did not have the peeling painted wood of Silver City—instead, I recognized brick and mortar. I stretched my crooked neck and looked up. The structures reached high into the sky. I felt like I was in a narrow desert canyon, but the walls that surrounded me were perfectly symmetrical and definitely man-made."

The boy's eyes opened wide with anticipation. He was at an age when stories still fascinated.

"My vision slowly adjusted to the darkness. The alleyway was populated with a variety of large boxes and barrels, all filled to the brim with broken bottles, paper, scraps of wood, rotting food and other discarded miscellany. The smell was unpleasant. One end of the alley was completely black except for a dim light hovering above a solid looking door. The other end of the alley was open. I could just make out lights, people and vehicles passing by on the main street."

The boy shook his head and encouraged him to go on. The Gunslinger didn't need to be prodded, he was from a time when storytelling was a preferred form of entertainment, and he was good at it.

"I know now that the lights were electric and the vehicles were automobiles. At the time however, I had no idea where I was or what I was looking at. I was terrified. Thirty feet towards the darker end of the alley, I could just make out the Marshal. He was face down, moaning slightly. It appeared that he was still alive."

"Did you finish him off?" The boy asked.

"I thought about it, very seriously. One Colt, warm from recent use, was still in my right hand. The other lay comfortably in my left holster. I walked, or rather limped, swayed and stumbled to where the Marshal was regaining consciousness. Halfway there, I noticed a lump of red-hot lead burning itself into the street. I knew immediately what had happened. Our bullets had met in midair. I looked up again, straightened my neck and back as much as possible and caught sight of the star lit night above the buildings. I asked God if this was another miracle."

"What do you mean another miracle?"

"I wasn't always this way," the Gunslinger pointed to his crooked legs and gestured with his bent back, "but that's another story."

He looked at the skinny, dirty, ragamuffin sitting next to him. The campfire they had built in the parking lot of the abandoned building was keeping the autumn chill at bay, but he could tell the boy was still cold from malnourishment and exposure to the elements. The injuries he had sustained earlier in the morning were healing. The boy pulled his jacket close, and peered into the Gunslinger's soul with his blue eyes. He reminded him of a tiny version Albert Doyle, the mountain man he had spent several years with in the Rockies. While the boy's pale skin, blonde hair and ability to listen, reminded him of Mary Ann, his one true love.

"What did he say?"

"He didn't say anything, he was mostly unconscious."

"No, I mean, God. What did God say?"

"He didn't say anything either, but I had never heard of two bullets meeting in such a manner, so I accepted it as a miracle and thanked him for my life. Then, I cursed him for returning the pain and crookedness to my legs and spine."

"What? Now I'm confused," the boy said, wincing slightly from the pain in his ribs.

"I can see by your scrunched up face that it's gonna take a long time to tell you my story. You ask too many questions. Do you want the long or short of it?"

"Both... but, first tell me what you mean by saying you weren't always this way, and what does God and miracles and curses have to do with it. Then, you can continue on with the Marshal."

"At least you don't mince words and you say what you want. I like that in a boy."

Andy glared at him from across the fire.

"My name's Andy. And if you were halfway polite yourself, you would have introduced yourself a long time ago."

"No need to get cross boy. David Jefferson Johnstone, call me David."

"Okay then David, get on with it."

The Gunslinger laughed at Andy's guile and enthusiasm.

"I was born pretty much the way I look now, except the scars on my face came about from an accident when I was about your age. When I was little older, around nineteen years old, the Lord answered my prayers and saved me from a life of suffering and sadness, giving me another chance. Then, sometime later, through a miracle, which I still don't completely understand, He straightened my legs and my back making me stand over six feet tall. I lived tall, straight, strong and good-looking for nearly ten years...until just a few weeks ago, when I suddenly showed up here."

The Gunslinger threw another piece of wood on the fire.

"That's why I thanked God on the one hand and cursed Him the next. Is that enough back swagger for you, Andy? Permission to continue on with my story?"

"I guess so, but it raises more questions than answers," Andy said, moving closer to the fire. "Promise me you'll tell me more, later."

"Okay, I warrant it."

The Gunslinger also shifted more closely to the fire, turning the right side of his face, the good side, towards the boy. He let his smooth Midwestern voice bringing them back to the alley.

"Be it as it may, when I finally stood over the Marshal I could tell that he was going to live. It would have been easy to put a bullet through the back of his head, but instead, out of respect for the miracle or curse, that I had just experienced, I decided to let him live. It's not every day bullets fired from thirty paces collide with each other, and I had no idea where I was, but I knew that everything had changed."

"I heard noises coming from the main street; they were unfamiliar but, familiar all the same. Whining noises, which sounded like steam locomotive whistles, and men shouting orders to one another, was all I needed to know that the law was catching up with me. I know now the noises came from police cars, and the shouts were from policemen—and women."

Andy leaned back against a stump with a slight moan. The Gunslinger offered him a swig of his warm beer. The boy accepted gladly, and downed a couple of aspirin from a dirty bottle taken from his backpack. The Gunslinger wondered what type of medicine the boy had taken and were he had gotten it, but decided that it wasn't worth asking.

"Law women, with guns, badges and handcuffs... Andy, let me tell you, when I realized such a thing existed in your world, I knew I was in trouble."

Andy laughed, and then quickly regretted it.

The Gunslinger liked the boy's laughter. It reminded him of his days in the Black Hills with Mary Ann, and the pure sound brought back a few fleeting memories of playing with his brothers and sisters on the farm in Iowa.

"I wasn't sure which way to go... At least I was hemmed-in by the buildings surrounding me, so my choices were limited. I checked the chambers of my guns and reloaded. I counted the bullets left in my belt. I had enough to make a stand of it on the main street."

The Gunslinger looked off into the darkness around them, "If I had been in Silver City, in 1879, that would have been my preferred course, but since I was in a time and place unfamiliar to me, I decided to run for the door at the end of the alley. I said farewell to the Marshal and placed his Stetson on my head. My sombrero had gotten lost somewhere in the shuffle. Apropos, I figured, it was the least the Marshal could do, considering I spared his life."

"It's a nice hat," Andy said.

"I thought so too. Gun-metal gray goes good with my dark eyes, don't you think?"

The Gunslinger smiled at the boy, tipping his hat and showing him his best evil grin.

Andy gave an exaggerated shiver in response, but without fear, stared back.

The Gunslinger chuckled warmly. The boy didn't shy away from making eye contact. He respected that, especially from one so young.

"I shuffled down the alleyway as best as I could, I was still getting used to traveling with my deformed back and legs. It was a nostalgic feeling that I would've rather forgotten. In any case, I reached the door and, of course, it was bolted. Also to my dismay, it was made of metal—steel, I presumed. I had never seen a steel door before. I banged on it. No one answered. Undeterred, I stood back a few feet and shot three bullets into the door handle. In a flurry of sparks, it fell to the ground with a loud clunk and the door slowly swung open. I smashed the light above my head, and dipped inside the building."

"You want any more of these hotdogs?" Andy asked.

"You mean the sausages? I don't eat dog, I told you that already."

"And, if you remember, I told you these are made of pork and we call them hot dogs. You want some more or not?"

"No thank you."

Andy gobbled up the last three Oscar Meyer Wieners burning on the makeshift grill.

"Inside the door, it was dark and cool. After my eyes adjusted, I made my way toward a light at the end of a long hallway. I cursed as I crawled along, bumping into all manner of things—tables, chairs, cabinets and boxes. I squashed a cat's tail and his scream sent my blood boiling. I wondered what kind of pinch I had gotten myself into."

"When I got to the end of the hallway, I found myself standing next to another door. This one was wooden and swung on hinges. Strangely, this made me smile. I had finally found something that felt familiar. The tiny window in the door above my head emitted some light. I wanted to look through it, but it was built to the height of a normal man. I was a good two feet too short, so I leaned closer and listened."

"I heard familiar sounds and breathed in recognizable smells. The sounds were of men gambling. I heard cards being dealt, coins and chips falling into the center of the table, filled glasses clinking and jokes being tossed amongst friends. The smell of cigars, whiskey, beer and prepared belly timber reached my nostrils. My stomach growled and my throat became parched. It seemed that they had not heard the gunshots, or if they had, it didn't disturb their game. I decided to join the party."

"Whoa, dude, you're kidding me?"

"Dude?"

"Forget about it. Just get on with your story...please."

"I stumbled through the swinging door and everything stopped. The five men at the table froze in their comfortable chairs."

The Gunslinger looked into the fire and replayed the moment in the yellow flames. Cigar ash had refused to answer the call of gravity. Smoke ceased to swirl upwards and instead hung suspended in midair. Coins and glasses silenced themselves. Time slowed.

"The men were speechless. They stared at me in disbelief. I don't know if they were shocked at being interrupted, or if they were just unsure of what type of creature stood before them."

He looked at Andy to be sure he had gotten the full affect of his words. The boy tilted his head, listening intently.

"For the most part, they looked overfed and slow. A long evening of whiskey and palaver had dulled their senses. I saw ire on their faces and fear in their eyes. The scrape I was in had just gotten considerably more thorny. In any event, I decided to be polite and extend my hand in friendship."

'Pardon the interruption,' I said, 'Allow me to introduce myself.'

"Before the words had left my tongue, the men started reaching for their pistols and shotguns. Further niceties were out of the question. The cards had been dealt. My mind cleared and without delay my instincts took over—I drew."

"Eight rounds and four seconds later, three of the men were dead with holes in their heads and torsos. I moved to my right as I holstered one gun and pulled the other. A shotgun blast shattered the wall where I had been standing. Two seconds later, the other two men were motionless, spilling blood onto the table."

"Wow," Andy said wide-eyed.

"I reloaded and waited."

"Are you that fast?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Can I see your guns?"

"Later. Do you want to hear the rest of the story? Or, is it time for bed?"

Andy sat up straight and nodded to go on.

"I took a swig of whiskey and gathered up some of the bills and coins. The money looked strange to me, not the currency I was used to carrying. The whiskey tasted good too, not the cheap stuff I usually welcomed down my throat. The beer was excellent, and the tiny beef sandwiches were just what I needed. I do like the food in your world."

"Much obliged, cowboy," Andy said. "You know those mobsters were the top bosses of the Jimmy Valentino gang. I read about that hit in the newspapers. The cops said it was part of a gang war."

The Gunslinger smiled at the boy. He was smart and quick, and he had a good sense of humor.

"I'll accept that."

"And then what happened?"

"Another man, an underpaid guard I presume, came crashing through a side door. I shot the gun out of his hand, and put a bullet through his left thigh. I wasn't ready to kill him. I needed to talk to somebody. I was lost, and I had a trunk full of questions. I dragged him through the door into another room."

"This room opened onto a main street. The front doors were locked and the curtains were drawn. No one else was around. I went back down the long hallway where I had entered. I looked out the door. The police were making their way carefully down the alley towards the Marshal. I bolted the door and moved a large desk and some tables in front it for good measure."

The Gunslinger took another swig from the beer he had purchased earlier in the day. It was lukewarm, but still tasted pretty fair.

"Heidi-Ken, is this the best beer in town? Do you want some more?"

"No thanks, I'm only twelve. I don't know that much about beer, but it's better than Budweiser, I know that for sure," Andy, said as grown-up as he could. "It's pronounced Heineken. It's a German beer."

"This sure ain't Germany. Or, maybe it is?"

"This is the USA, I can promise you that."

"Well, that's what the wounded fellow told me. And the year is 2013. And, I had just knocked off the biggest crime boss' poker game in the city of Detroit, Michigan. I thought I was in trouble with the Marshal coming after me, but I soon realized I was in much deeper horse manure than I could have ever imagined."

"You can say 'shit' and 'fuck' and other swear words, I'm no baby."

He looked the boy in the eyes and watched the reflection of the yellow flames from the fire on his face. The cuts and bruises on his smooth skin were slowly healing. The blood had stopped flowing from his nose and the color was coming back to his face.

"I reckon I could swear as much as I want, whenever I want. However, I choose not to, especially around youngsters and women. The world is ugly enough."

"Sorry David."

"No need to be sorry, you can say whatever you want. I'm not your daddy."

Andy smiled, but it was a sad, lonely smile. The Gunslinger knew the boy had a story to tell.

"Let me finish and tomorrow you can tell me more about yourself. How's that for a deal?"

Regrets

Regrets

Today a man responded to one of my blog posts saying that he had just received a diagnosis of ALS. He thanked me for the positive message that he found in my post. His sincere comments and the underlying fear I felt from his words, brought me back to the day that I learned that I had ALS.

I responded to him personally, I wanted to help him. I wanted to send pages of advice on how to deal with the challenges that were coming his way, but I realize that each person's journey is unique and specifically their own. Advice, especially advice unsolicited, is usually, and rightly so, ignored. Instead, I wished him well, but I could not help but offer one seed of advice – take time now, while you still can, to do the things that you enjoy.

I regret that no one gave me this little bit of advice, or if they did, I regret that I did not listen. Instead of continuing to work, going to doctors, reaching for cures, or spending time trying to understand my disease – instead of continuing with the mundane tasks presented by daily life, like washing dishes, doing laundry and paying bills, I wish I had dropped the comfortable routine and shook things up. I wish I had taken that trip to Tuscany with my wife. I wish I had taken my son hiking on the Kalalau trail on Kauai. I wish I had played more golf with my buddies, gone snorkeling on the North Shore, built a hundred gallon saltwater aquarium, taken more photographs, gone to more concerts, read more books, and ate more gourmet dinners. I wish I had spent more time in the garden, and taken longer showers.

I don't like the term "Bucket List," it seems too cliché and simple. A list of things that I want to do before I die, seemed ridiculous to me at the time – Defeatist, Hopeless, Selfish... It was the last thing I wanted to consider after hearing my Doctor say, "You have Lou Gehrig's disease, ALS," but now the idea is appealing.

I was alone in my hospital room and she explained everything to me with compassion and empathy. She left me with an article to read and assurances that she and her team would do everything they could to help. She was great, but I heard the finality in her voice. I was to be discharged in the morning. I was numb and in shock, but I felt calm and at ease at the same time. I was in denial, but I did not know it. I thought I was just being brave. "At least I had a disease with a famous name attached to it," I thought.

I read the article. I didn't quite get it, the words on the page didn't seem real to me. Stupidly, I called my wife and told her my diagnosis, talking nonchalantly like I had the flu. She was at work. I should have left it alone and allowed her to finish her day. Her reaction was the first indication that things were serious and would never be the same. That was my first regret, I should've told her in person. The physical touch, the shared tears would have been better for both of us.

Over the next year, as my progression proceeded rapidly, other regrets began to reveal themselves. When I yelled at my son, and used the "I'm dying" card, forcing him to go to a football game with me, I felt immediate sadness and repentance. I felt bad when I turned down an invitation to a friend's barbecue party, because I was "too tired," when in actuality I just didn't feel like socializing. After a visit to the doctor, and I fell up the stairs into the arms of my wife and son, I regretted the fact that we had not moved earlier. When my foot slipped off the brake and I slammed into a truck at a stop light, I felt weak and vulnerable. I should have given up driving sooner. I appreciated the MDA helping me to buy a scooter when my legs could no longer carry me, but I felt wasteful and angry when three months later I could no longer balance on the small seat. I gave the scooter to a local man just diagnosed with ALS. When I got stuck on the toilet, and worked myself into a full-fledged panic attack, I lamented the fact that we had not yet hired a caregiver.

Over the last seven years, the mistakes and regrets have faded from my memory. I have forgiven myself for getting lost in the day-to-day act of living, the denial, the anger and selfishness. Now, my "Bucket List" is much shorter and more mundane. I no longer wish for the grand trips or gourmet dinners. I'd like to take a long hot bath. I want to watch the sunset over the ocean with my wife by my side. I want to go to a movie with some friends. I'd like to watch football on Sunday afternoon with my son. I'd like to take a ride to the North Shore or Pali Point. Eating and swallowing without fear of aspirating would be good – Soup and a sandwich will be just fine. I'd like to live a few years longer. A chocolate shake would be nice to.

My advice is still the same, "take time now, while you still can, to do the things that you enjoy."

South Dakota birthday morning

The assignment was to write a scene from two different points of view. I chose a little boy waking up on the morning of his sixth birthday – First-Person, then Third Person. Which one do you like best?

 

The walls of snow on either side of me, and above my head, glowed bluish-white from the bright sunlight trying to break through the tunnel my father had constructed. I was thrilled to be out of the trailer and on my way to the Rec center for my sixth birthday. The big day had finally come. With each step, I got closer to the party and presents. I had been looking forward to this day for weeks.

We emerged from the tunnel onto the snow-covered Main Street of the trailer park. The brilliant white scene scorched my eyes, but reflected my feelings of elation. I giggled and laughed when my father tossed a snowball at my mother and she yelled at him, proclaiming that the cake was in jeopardy of being dumped onto the icy sidewalk.

I was a long way from the total despair I had felt the night before. I had never heard the wind blow so strongly, nor felt the chill as close. When my father put me to bed, he had assured me that the storm would pass and that everything would be fine tomorrow.

"You'll be six years old tomorrow, growing up fast," he had said. "Now be a good little man and go to sleep."

I loved the closeness of him, being called a "little man." I felt grown-up already. I believed him, without question. My birthday party would go on as planned. As anticipation left and childhood exhaustion took over, I slept soundly.

 

Third Person POV:

 

The Dakota blizzard of 1964 was one of the worst in recent memory. The fierce North winds had brought freezing temperatures and snowdrifts tall enough to cover entire buildings. Residents were trapped inside their homes without electricity or running water. Mr. Johnson was one of the first in the small trailer park just outside of Rapid City, South Dakota, to dig out. He had woken up before dawn and burrowed a tunnel through the snow and ice. It emptied twenty yards from his front door onto the main street.

Billy, his six-year-old son, was thrilled to be out of the trailer and on his way to his birthday party at the Rec center. Each step through the tunnel brought him closer to his friends, the party and the presents he had been anticipating for several weeks. As the small family emerged from the tunnel, the bright sunlight scorched their eyes. They blinked and squinted, taking in as much of the white scene as possible.

Billy was overjoyed. He giggled and laughed when his father tossed a snowball at his mother and she yelled at him, proclaiming that the cake was in jeopardy of falling onto the icy sidewalk. The joy he felt was a long way from the total despair he had felt the night before. His father's reassuring words had waylaid his fears, and still resonated within, "you're growing up fast, now go to sleep little man."

Mrs. Johnson felt relieved that the storm was over, but worried if she had enough gas and supplies to keep the family fed for the next few days. From the look of the snow, it would be at least three days before the roads would be cleared.

Mr. Johnson was tired from digging the tunnel, but it was worth it to see the smile on his son's face and laughter in the air. He told himself to enjoy the moment and worry about the inevitable damage to his lumberyard later.

Gotham writing assignment: The Teddy Bear

This week's assignment was to describe an object and through the description the narrator or protagonist of the story's emotions and character is revealed. Can you guess who the narrator is and what his emotions are?

 

The Teddy Bear

I found him hiding in the back of her closet amongst the pile of Payless shoes and Ross handbags. I brought him into the light. His amber eyes stared at me accusingly, as if he was angry at being disturbed—it was her closet after all. I stroked the once brown, but now yellowed, fur on his head and belly. Bunches of it broke off into my fingers. He was not soft or cuddly, instead the straw of his insides poked through his skin into my hands. He sat down in the chair across from me, while I interrogated him further.

His missing left ear told me that she had been a rambunctious child, or perhaps it had been lost during a scuffle with her older sister. The repaired scars on his arm, leg and torso revealed just how much he was treasured. The burns on the bottom of his feet smelled raw and smoky, as if she had never allowed him to stop running. He was in no condition to play now, the threads holding his limbs in place had no pulse or strength. The childhood joy was gone from his soul. His aura told me that the slightest bounce, pull, toss, or hug would send his body parts asunder. He wanted to be alone.

(A grieving husband)

Update on my writing progress...

Some quick updates on my writing progress:

–       I have terminated my contract with PublishAmerica. They are a vanity publisher that help me to put out my first book Dolphins Dance. I was quite naïve at the time and did Not realize that self-publishing was quite easy and a preferred way to go. PublishAmerica always charged way too much for my books, $25 for a print version, and $10 or more for e-book. I argued with them for a long time about this, and finally they offered me the chance to buy back the rights of my book – which I did this weekend! Hallelujah. Look for the Second Edition of Dolphins Dance to come out sometime early next year.

–       I have it enrolled all of my books on Amazon in the new "Matchbook" program they have started to offer this week. What this means is that if you buy a print of one of my books, you get a chance to buy the Kindle version at 50% discount.

–       I have also lowered all of the prices of my print and Kindle version books. I'm more interested in having people read my stories, than I am in making royalties.

–       Part Two of the Gunslinger Series, The Gunslinger's Fall, is almost finished and should be published by the end of November. I've gotten some good feedback on Part One.

–       The Gotham Writers Workshop online course that I have been taking is proving to be useful and fun. Giving me lots of good ideas and advice on how to improve my writing. I hope you will notice the difference.

*Please help me and write a review if you have read any of my books! Thanks everyone for your support.

Essay accepted by MDA/ALS blog

The MDA/ALS branch has been very wonderful in posting some of my essays on their "Join the Conversation" blog. I appreciate that they liked when I write, and share with a wider audience. Please check out my last essay on their website below:
http://alsn.mda.org/blogs/control-issues

The lost pleasures of food: "A Chocolate Milkshake, Please!"

The lost pleasures of food: "A Chocolate Milkshake, Please!"

Eating for him had always been a great pleasure, the bigger and juicier the burger, the better. He had always asked for extra gravy on his plate lunch, and two scoops of macaroni salad. Any kind of chicken, pork or beef, with pasta, potatoes or bread were much preferred to salads and greens. Fruits were best served cold and sweet. It's not that vegetables and fish were banned altogether, but he preferred to go right for the heavier calories. He was not diabetic or morbidly obese, but he was heavyset and knew that a change of diet would be good for him. He would have none of it, he didn't drink, smoke, do drugs, carouse or gamble—eating was his one vice, and he loved it.

He remembered that eating had always been an important part of his life. His mother and father made it a point to bring the family together for dinners most weeknights, and definitely on Sundays. When the family could not dine together, TV dinners had been the norm. During the two years that he courted his wife, eating out was one of their favorite pastimes. Over dinner, they had learned everything about each other and had fallen in love. Whenever possible, he had continued the tradition of dining together with his small family. He cooked chicken, spaghetti, Hamburger Helper and other simple fare when his wife was too busy at work. Buying a Happy Meal at McDonald's for his son, or spending an hour over French Fries and a Coke, while his little boy played on the swings and jungle gym at the local park, was considered time well spent. Oreos and chocolate chip cookies were acceptable and common afterschool snacks. Ice cream before bedtime was a ritual he had passed on from his father to his son.

"Another bite?" His caregiver asked.

He moved his head slightly to the left and right, meaning "No."

The lukewarm mashed potatoes gave him no pleasure. "Water," he struggled to say.

He was perturbed that after every bite, he had to remind his caregiver to give him water. She knew that he had difficulty swallowing, and that he often choked on his food. He was annoyed that she seemed distracted, looking out the window rather than paying attention to him. He was depressed that he couldn't shovel the potatoes into his mouth as fast as he wanted. He had lost all patience with the tiny spoonfuls that she was intent on giving him. He wanted to take huge gulping mouthfuls like those that he used too. He wanted to taste the salted butter throughout his entire mouth. He was upset that the potatoes on the right side of the plate were clearly still warm, yet she continued to spoon him the cooler potatoes on the left. He wanted to guide the spoon by himself, choosing whatever items looked most appetizing at the moment.

He is angry that his choice of foods has been whittled down to things that are tasteless, soft, and easy to chew and swallow. He has to concentrate fully when eating. The flow of saliva, the precise placement of his food, the motion of his tongue and teeth, all have to be perfectly synchronized with his ventilator in order to prevent gagging. He cannot spend a lot of time chewing and swallowing, his energy is limited. His mouth does not open as wide as it used too – the mask covering the his nose prevents this. Long gone are the days of enjoyable conversations at dinnertime, a picnic at the park, gobbling a quick burger in the car, or even watching television during a meal. There's no more experimenting with exotic flavors and textures. Sadly, eating has become nothing more than a means to receive nourishment—the pursuit of pleasure through food has disappeared from his life.

He hates to watch restaurant and food commercials. The mixture of nostalgia and craving they bring is unbearable. He remembers dipping Ruffles potato chips during a football game, greedily licking barbecue sauce off his fingers after a rack of Baby Backs, and going back for second and third helpings at the all-you-can-eat salad bar. Imagining the unlimited breadsticks and pasta bowls advertised at the local Olive Garden makes his stomach growl with anticipation; a dream that he knows cannot be realized. The advertisements are persuasive, too clever, too inviting—they work too well. He'd rather not watch.

He now knows why babies often get frustrated in their high chairs. It's no fun at all being fed squishy slurry foods that have little spice or texture. It's difficult not being in control of the nourishment going into your mouth. He understands why they bang the table and scream when the food comes to slow or too fast. He empathizes with their cries when the baby food misses their mouths and dribbles down the sides of their necks. He understands their need to lash out when the water is too cold, the soup is too hot or the juice is room temperature. He realizes the pain that babies feel when they are hungry or too full. He knows what it's like to be unsatisfied and uncomfortable; he has had an air bubble in his tummy and not been able to stand up and move around to induce a gas relieving burp or fart.

"Thank you," he said as graciously as possible, indicating that he was done.

"You sure," she said. "How about some chocolate milk later?"

He shook his head "yes," as vigorously as possible.

Later that day, his eyes sparkled with joy when his wife unexpectedly brought him a chocolate shake from McDonalds. He is happy to be alive. He is lucky to have people who love him.

 

You see, I have ALS and even though I am perturbed, annoyed, angry, upset, and depressed –I am grateful. I am GRATEFUL that I can still be fed through the mouth, and that I don't yet have a stomach tube. I am grateful that my caregivers have found some soft foods that have taste. I GIVE THANKS for the variety of tastes that still comes my way. I appreciate the effort that my caregivers make, trying to keep me from losing too much weight and still keep a healthy balance to my meals. I am THANKFUL for the occasional joy I feel when something especially tasty slides effortlessly down my throat. I am a HAPPY when I complete a meal without aspirating. I SMILE from the cool or warm feeling emanating from my belly. There is still pleasure to be found in food.