StanleyWheeler

We drove. More exact, I drove; my wife and Madame Google provided directions and unsolicited exclamations. It was a very lovely drive. At one point we missed a turn in some village...even though Madame Google wasn't immediately insisting that we make a U turn, it seemed rather unlikely that the way to Paris would  be via a narrow dirt road. We quickly got back on track. The countryside was beautiful. As we drew near Paris, the traffic increased, as did the number of lanes on our roadway. We knew some fancy driving lay ahead of us. Which reminds me of Kirk Douglas' line in Man from Snowy River , "...go at them from the jump. No fancy riding..." The closer we got to the airport, where I had arranged to return the rental car by 6:00 p.m., the fancier the driving got. Naturally, I was every bit as  awesome as Jim Craig in the plunge down the mountain  in my vehicular exploits...but there were a few complications.  The first order of business was to get to the hot...

I volunteered to receive an advance copy of  Cloaked by Rachel Kovaciny available for pre-order on Amazon , and to write a review of the book on this blog, and on Amazon. According to the author's recent blog post, the book is already on Amazon's top seller list.  The author makes no secret of the fact that this western story is based upon the old story of Little Red Riding Hood. As the characters are introduced in the book, the reader should immediately understand their roles from the traditional tale. The characters remain true to those roles. I liked the fact that the author didn't twist the characters into something either unrecognizable, or repugnant to the spirit of the familiar story. The story moved along rapidly in getting Mary Rose from back east to her grandmother's ranch out west. Once she arrived at the ranch, the pace slowed; the reader is treated to some character development, lots of horse riding lessons, Jane Austen references, and the beginnings o...

Bayeux is the place we wanted to be. Madame Google took us right to our hotel. This is actually the view from the rear, in the garden. It was a delightful little place. Our rooms were in a separate building on the left, the view of which is blocked by the trees. I thought parking might be an issue; it wasn't I found a place on the street about 30 yards (Yards are like meters but a few inches shorter--which is strange, because meters don't have any inches. Of course, I'm referring to meters as units of distance measurement, not as in parking meters, or gas meters, which also measure things, but not in meters...which is strange, since they're called meters.) up the street from the hotel. We walked back to the hotel to discover, as had been promised on the website, that there was parking within the gates. I moved the car. Our hostess was an interesting lady with shoulder length reddish hair, and large glasses. She spoke pretty rapidly, equally comfortable in French...

Here is an interview I provided about my first book, Justice in Season. Reading this interview makes me want to read the book. Of course, I already have...but there are lots of people who haven't read it...maybe you're one of them.  Click the link. Read the interview. Buy the book. Read the book. Here's the link to the book  and you can read it for free on kindle unlimited. Or, just look at this picture of some ponies from a long ago frosty November morning. You decide. 

I wore a memory today. A pair of them. I hadn't worn them in weeks. I didn't think of the memory when I slipped into them. It was later that I noticed the little yellow flecks against the black leather. There were a lot of flecks...especially in the creases and seams. To what shall I compare them? Stars in the night sky? No; the flecks were too plentiful. Gold dust? Perhaps; flecks of gold glistening in dark rock, more abundant in some spots than others. In a way, that's the best comparison. My shoes were bespeckled, stippled; in point of fact, they were bespattered. I should have cleaned and polished them right away...but I am loathe to do so. Perhaps it is too late. Will memory dim if I scrub away the specks? Will I enjoy the remembrance less if those abundant flakes are replaced with the sheen of well-buffed polish? Will I cease to remember the walk hand-in-hand with my wife in the torrential downpour which splashed the sands of France upon my loafers? While memory m...

The clash of the dark cars in France will have to wait. I have another, more recent travel story to tell. The day was hotter than a linebacker's armpit--but, fortunately, much drier. Wife and daughter were enjoying the air conditioning. The other gal, who was not quite twenty years old, suddenly got cranky; about 12 miles out of Mountain Home, she blew a hose. We coasted to the side of the road. The small by-pass hose at the front of the V8 spewed coolant from a small hole. I knew that my dad could fix that temporarily with electrical tape...but I would have to wait for it to cool, and I would have to be able to get it started again. Within minutes, the county sheriff himself pulled in behind us. He wanted to know if we could move any farther off the freeway. Nope. The engine wouldn't turn over (we were going to need a tow). He stayed behind us with his lights flashing until the tow truck arrived...and pulled over the guy who refused to change lanes for the tow truck. My ...