I am pretty sure a conversation like this happened, but I don't have exact proof.
My great grandfather was a man of his times, born right after the Civil War, lived an urban life in Council Bluffs, and around the turn of the century (1900) was participating in a physical education fad by buying and riding a bicycle among other things. His father, my great-great grandfather, said that he'd spent his life working and was ready to relax, and wasn't about to ride a bicycle.
But their differences became more pronounced when it came to camping. My great grandfather Will said that the new thing was automobiles, and he had a friend who actually had one, and who proposed coming out West, picking up Will, and driving all the way to Colorado and seeing the great Rocky Mountains. Where would they spend the night? Camping, he said. They'd bring a tent, and sleep out under the stars. Will was actually excited about it, though he wasn't sure it would actually come to pass. It was a long way out there, and they'd have to check that there were enough gas stations, for example. But the camping part sounded good to him. Imagine that, sleeping out under the stars on a clear night, getting away from the city and all.
Great-great grandfather, James Walker, scoffed. "The last time I camped," he said, "I didn't want to. We were pioneers down in southeastern Nebraska, Richardson County. The Civil War was coming though we didn't know it yet. We wanted to do whatever we could to help Lincoln, and what would help Lincoln was making Nebraska a state by having a Constitutional Convention, which they did, in Omaha, and they wanted people to represent Richardson County, so that was me."
"It was a long horse ride," he continued, "but my horse was up to it, and that wasn't a problem. There were even a few inns and such, but we didn't have money, or to put it better, what little money we had went for salt and such things that were necessary, and I wasn't about to splurge on an inn and the alcohol that generally was expected to come with it. I had dried nuts and fruit and things to eat, and blankets, and I slept out under the stars even though it was a bit cold. And I wasn't especially happy about it. I spent my life cutting down trees, building little cabins, plastering up between the boards to keep the bitter winter wind out, trying to get out of that weather, so the critters wouldn't get at my food supply. Why would I want to go out there, and leave my food supply on my horse or some such thing, hoping the critters wouldn't get at it? No, if I could, I'd get in a cabin in a minute, just to sleep better."
"That's why, when I hear your idea, I just wonder. Doesn't a gasoline engine make the whole thing more complicated? In my day it was just me and my horse. I had food for the horse and food for me, which wasn't great, wasn't like a home-cooked meal, but at least it was food. If I could boil water I could cook it and I could even make some chicory or something to drink and that was it."
"I must say though, we got up to Omaha and they closed that convention almost the minute it started. Statehood actually had a lot of enemies. First there were the southerners who settled in Nebraska, like some of our neighbors, who didn't feel like doing anything to help Lincoln. Second was the people in Omaha who were convinced that if Nebraska became a state they'd move the capital, which as we now know, they did. But finally was just a whole bunch of pioneers just like us, hard working but not prosperous because the land isn't so great out there, and they just thought statehood would cost them money they didn't have. All those votes they had, where statehood lost by a small margin, it was mostly because people were too cheap to want to pay any more taxes than they already did. So the whole trip was for nothing. Those guys won and we didn't make a constitution, and Nebraska didn't become a state until years later when it would finally become ready. And by then I was long gone.
But I'll never forget, me and my horse, camping on that prairie, not far from the Missouri of course, we weren't really in the middle of nowhere, but we had to just make camp, make a little fire, just brave the cold, and get up and go the next morning. Why would I want to do that for a whole week, especially out there in the mountains, which they say get pretty cold at night? I wouldn't. I've had enough of that. I want a fire that actually makes my whole room or whole cabin warm. So it'll stay warm until I wake up."
Monday, April 27, 2026
Friday, April 3, 2026
The Halberd
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In paperback $6.99 + shipping
The Halberd is the third in a series of retellings of Beauty and the Beast; along with Be Our Guest and White Elephant, it is part of Beasts of Ayutthaya: Three retellings of Beauty and the Beast. Phang is in love with an elephant, Naresuan, in 18th century Thailand. She is a mahout, an elephant trainer, while he is a white or albino elephant, the most royal of the royal. It is a turbulent time in Thailand, with King Taksin the Great reuniting the Siamese yet losing his mental stability. Enemies conspire to keep them apart. In modern Ayutthaya, a young boy finds a halberd, an ancient weapon used by people who fought on elephants. Relics of the ancient capital stir up everyone's imagination.
Sunday, March 15, 2026
Neon Pig
Neon Pig
I was coming through Northern California and decided to stop in on an old friend Charley who I’d known maybe fifty years ago. He told me how to get to his cabin and I set out in my rental car for a day out in the woods.
It was a long way going around and back into the forest to the east of Big Sur, where we used to hang out together with a group of hippies in the woods out there. He had basically said he was never going back to the “civilized” world, San Jose, San Francisco, wherever, and he’d meant it. He lived in the forest on his own for a while, then got a small inheritance and bought this place, this small cabin, and had been here ever since.
It was tiny, but had a garden, and he had everything he needed. You’d only find it if you knew exactly where it was, and that’s how he liked it. He was living off the grid, lived off hunting, growing food and finding it, and getting what energy he needed from a little solar setup. He wanted for nothing, he said, and didn’t miss people at all. He was friendly with his neighbors, but most of them were miles away and he liked it that way. He offered to take me hunting and I agreed; he grabbed a bow and arrows and off we walked down a forest path.
We had to go a ways, he said, because he didn’t want anyone seeing, and because civilization was bad for the kind of meat he lived on. “Maybe we’ll find a neon pig,” he said. “Reminds me of our old days on Big Sur.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I remembered well the days at Big Sur, watching the sunset as the waves crashed up against us. We shared stories of those days and the way we’d talk about our experiences. He wanted someone to talk about it with as much as I did, he said, because he had some bizarre experiences that reminded him of those days.
The forest was deep and impenetrable, but it seemed that the sounds of the forest got a little louder, perhaps because way back in there they didn’t know to be quiet when we walked by, or because there was just absolutely no other sounds. To me it seemed that if it was California, it had to have lots of people around somewhere, but to him, he said this was as isolated as it got, but it wasn’t quite good enough and he wasn’t able to hunt the way he used to.
He got the chance to show me what he meant when a wild pig attacked us on the trail. It was the size of a very large dog but fierce and clearly not something to tangle with. I was unarmed, but he was prepared, and killed it with one shot of the arrow. I was shocked but admired his dexterity and skill; I said that I hadn’t learned anything as useful in fifty years out in the civilized world.
“Useful?” he said. “The problem is, these feral pigs have a wide range, and it’s very likely they’ve been in civilization.” With one strong gouge with a hunter’s knife, he cut the pig open. Lo and behold, it was a neon blue color, deep blue like a blueberry.
“A neon pig? How did that happen?” I asked. It seemed like a twisted variation of our psychedelic days, come back to haunt us. But it was real: neon blue, all through his insides.
“Rat poison, most likely,” he said. “They eat it, and then, if we eat them, it poisons us too. I was lucky I heard about it before I tried one.”
It shot the good part of an afternoon, but eventually he’d gouged out a pit where he could bury it reliably enough so that other animals couldn’t get to it. I mostly watched, having very little in the way of digging implements or skill at finding soft earth. Eventually we buried it and headed home. He had plenty for dinner, he said, and he didn’t need any neon pig to ruin my experience.
We ate a dinner of squirrel, venison, and homegrown vegetables; I was surprised a guy on his own could eat so well. “Usually I don’t,” he said, “but it’s good to see someone from those old days.” The neon pig experience kind of stuck in my craw, but he told me to forget it. “It’s a product of how far they range, and whether they get into civilization. I go way back there so that animals back there don’t range that far. But that pig does, and he’s a hungry fellow. He’ll eat just about anything you put in front of him, and that includes rat poison.”
The years of hunting had given him an anti-civilization bias, I told him. Good thing, he said, or we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it.
I was coming through Northern California and decided to stop in on an old friend Charley who I’d known maybe fifty years ago. He told me how to get to his cabin and I set out in my rental car for a day out in the woods.
It was a long way going around and back into the forest to the east of Big Sur, where we used to hang out together with a group of hippies in the woods out there. He had basically said he was never going back to the “civilized” world, San Jose, San Francisco, wherever, and he’d meant it. He lived in the forest on his own for a while, then got a small inheritance and bought this place, this small cabin, and had been here ever since.
It was tiny, but had a garden, and he had everything he needed. You’d only find it if you knew exactly where it was, and that’s how he liked it. He was living off the grid, lived off hunting, growing food and finding it, and getting what energy he needed from a little solar setup. He wanted for nothing, he said, and didn’t miss people at all. He was friendly with his neighbors, but most of them were miles away and he liked it that way. He offered to take me hunting and I agreed; he grabbed a bow and arrows and off we walked down a forest path.
We had to go a ways, he said, because he didn’t want anyone seeing, and because civilization was bad for the kind of meat he lived on. “Maybe we’ll find a neon pig,” he said. “Reminds me of our old days on Big Sur.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I remembered well the days at Big Sur, watching the sunset as the waves crashed up against us. We shared stories of those days and the way we’d talk about our experiences. He wanted someone to talk about it with as much as I did, he said, because he had some bizarre experiences that reminded him of those days.
The forest was deep and impenetrable, but it seemed that the sounds of the forest got a little louder, perhaps because way back in there they didn’t know to be quiet when we walked by, or because there was just absolutely no other sounds. To me it seemed that if it was California, it had to have lots of people around somewhere, but to him, he said this was as isolated as it got, but it wasn’t quite good enough and he wasn’t able to hunt the way he used to.
He got the chance to show me what he meant when a wild pig attacked us on the trail. It was the size of a very large dog but fierce and clearly not something to tangle with. I was unarmed, but he was prepared, and killed it with one shot of the arrow. I was shocked but admired his dexterity and skill; I said that I hadn’t learned anything as useful in fifty years out in the civilized world.
“Useful?” he said. “The problem is, these feral pigs have a wide range, and it’s very likely they’ve been in civilization.” With one strong gouge with a hunter’s knife, he cut the pig open. Lo and behold, it was a neon blue color, deep blue like a blueberry.
“A neon pig? How did that happen?” I asked. It seemed like a twisted variation of our psychedelic days, come back to haunt us. But it was real: neon blue, all through his insides.
“Rat poison, most likely,” he said. “They eat it, and then, if we eat them, it poisons us too. I was lucky I heard about it before I tried one.”
It shot the good part of an afternoon, but eventually he’d gouged out a pit where he could bury it reliably enough so that other animals couldn’t get to it. I mostly watched, having very little in the way of digging implements or skill at finding soft earth. Eventually we buried it and headed home. He had plenty for dinner, he said, and he didn’t need any neon pig to ruin my experience.
We ate a dinner of squirrel, venison, and homegrown vegetables; I was surprised a guy on his own could eat so well. “Usually I don’t,” he said, “but it’s good to see someone from those old days.” The neon pig experience kind of stuck in my craw, but he told me to forget it. “It’s a product of how far they range, and whether they get into civilization. I go way back there so that animals back there don’t range that far. But that pig does, and he’s a hungry fellow. He’ll eat just about anything you put in front of him, and that includes rat poison.”
The years of hunting had given him an anti-civilization bias, I told him. Good thing, he said, or we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it.
Sunday, January 25, 2026
Times of Hardship
By the time the Times of Hardship were over, everyone in Boston was united against the British. Dock workers, businessmen, shippers, the man in the street: they hated the British occupying soldiers. Boston became the Cradle of the Revolution. No town was more united in spirit than Boston.
I had three relatives, one an ancestor, who lived through them; they had grown up in the city. The Times of Hardship were actually a period of time in which England occupied Boston with troops who were rude, uncouth, and disrespectful. The troops would beat up or kill locals in gangs and get away with it. They were also allowed to compete for jobs on the docks that were already scarce. And they did this obviously because they weren't being paid enough. They showed great disrespect to the dock workers, beat them up regularly, and said whatever they wanted about who started it or whose fault it was.
The dockworkers were a rough and tumble bunch who had started out burning effigies of the Pope or of Guy Fawkes, but soon turned into anti-British mobs who would gather in gangs and attack British-oowned enterprises; such was the Tea Party, though it didn't come until later. Let's just say that the dockworker culture became visibly and violently anti-British and it was for very good reason. All through the colonies, people were generally ok with being British, ok with being a colony, until it became economically punishing to be aligned with them, so the business class, which was much more numerous and prosperous, was slowly joining the rebel cause as the various taxes took their toll. For his part, the King was arrogant and liked to use the taxes to punish the rebels. You attack our ships, we raise your tariffs that much more. You don't like this, screw you, give me your money. It seemed like robbery to people who were used to a well-ordered system of trade values.
John Leverett, an ancestor of mine, had an import business that he'd set up back in the days when British goods were really popular. It was in the old Town Dock in the heart of Boston's business district, and it sold things for women who made their own dresses: buttons, hems, lace, that kind of thing. He sold the newest of what came off the ships from England, and he'd done this for years, and made a lot of money. He lived right downtown behind the First Church, where Hudson had once lived, because as the oldest son of Knight the metalsmith he inherited it. He had his kids baptised in the church and was proud that his line could be traced up to John the Governor of the Colony in the 1670s. He was so entrenched in his business that he couldn't do much when the Times of Hardship snuck up on everyone and turned the city virulently anti-British.
So it was that a mob burned and destroyed his entire store one night. Some people have said that it was British soldiers who did it in revenge for anti-British mobs, but the more I study the event, the more I believe it was just anti-British mobs destroying everything that had any connection to Britain and looting everything they could. I'll admit I don't know who did it, but it doesn't matter; his store, his livelihood, his identity were all gone in a single night. He became an Overseer of the Poor.
Overseers of the Poor were like social workers tasked to make sure that widows and single mothers, and their children, didn't starve in hard times. Most of them had come from the business community and, like John, had enough money themselves. The community would give them a territory and then give them surplus food or money to spend to feed the people who were starving in it.
The problem was that the Times of Hardship included an economic blockade that was so bad that that money and those supplies had dwindled to nothing. It became practice for Boston children to be sent out to the countryside to be adopted by farm families who at least had food to eat, as even the adults in Boston proper were starving and whoever could do it was sneaking out to the countryside to get food and smuggle it back. Of course soldiers would stop them and harass them on the roads in and out of Boston: show me your papers, give me that food or I'll beat you up, this kind of thing. It was ugly. Everyone hated the Times of Hardship.
John's oldest son John was growing up and due to go to Harvard in 1773. By that time the whole city was aligned very strongly against the British. There were a few Loyalists, but it was getting so if you were a Loyalist you'd better just shut up or go back to Britain quick while you had time.
John had a brother Thomas, who was a printer, and whose son Thomas was also due to go to Harvard in 1773. John Jr. and Thomas Jr. had in essence grown up together, baptised in the same church, cousins the same age, both oldest boy in the family. Thomas the printer had made a fortune too, printing grammar books for people in the countryside and printing just about everything that needed printing. Printing was a lucrative business at that time though it involved importing paper and put one in the crosshairs of a freedom of speech fight that was getting pretty nasty. Thomas had done well financially and had an estate in Medford or somewhere north of Boston.
When it came time for the boys to go to Harvard, they did. They were the same age, were cousins, and were inseperable in their Harvard years. But in their senior year, Harvard moved itself off to Concord so that the rebel troops could house themselves in the Harvard buildings. By that time it was war time and people contributed whatever they could to the cause.
There was another Leverett who appeared to live in the shadows; this one was my ancestor. I'm still not sure exactly where he came from or what his timeline was. At the time John Jr. and thomas Jr. were at Harvard and in Concord, he had moved out of town and established himself in Needham on a small piece of land. He had possibly grown up in Thomas' estate in Medford, being a relative but not a son of Thomas the printer, and was a little older than John Jr. and Thomas Jr. The first of his children were born in Boston but then they began being born and recorded in Needham.
The Times of Hardship had a very strong effect on Boston and on the political climate. The Boston Massacre happened on docks that were once part of the Leverett estate, though that whole downtown estate had to be sold when John Leverett the President of Harvard died, having been starved into debt by Puritans who wanted him to give up making Harvard a secular school back in the early 1700s. The original estate, which went from what is today the Sears Building down Congress Street to the harbor (what was known as Leverett Lane, then Quaker Lane), was also the home of the Tea Party and is today where the Tea Party museum stands. It was called Gray's dock back then, and the Grays married into the Leverett family (Thomas the printer's wife) and were very prominent and important people at the time. There were a lot of land transfers between the sale of the estate and the Revolution, so I can't prove any of this, but it's well known that both the Massacre and the Tea Party happened roughly at Gray's dock so I'll stand by my claims for the moment.
Thomas the printer died during the revolution; John the Overseer of the Poor got sick and his son John Jr. moved with him and his wife to Connecticut. Both John Jr. and Thomas Jr. graduated from Harvard, in Concord; Thomas became a surgeon, but was drafted and captured on a boat, and spent years imprisoned by the British in Brooklyn Harbor, on a boat that they made a movie out of, because conditions were so horrible that people died left and right. To the colonists the conditions on that prison boat somewhat represented the contempt that Britain had for the rebels from the start, that raised everyone's ire and made them that much more patriotic to split off from a country that there was otherwise no reason to be so angry about. Why, you might ask, would the colonies need to fight and kill to be free of their British heritage? Well, put yourself in the Times of Hardship and you'll see why.
John Jr. was busy taking care of his father and mother in Connecticut, but joined the Army at one point; his service was short and late in the war. Thomas Jr. died early from his experience in Brooklyn Harbor. William, the guy in Needham, was recruited to be an officer, and fought in the Battle of MOnmouth (I believe) and the Battle of Rhode Island, but officers weren't being paid very well, and this created an issue for his family back home in Needham. It was rough times and everyone was in pretty bad health but somehow one of his sons survived, and through him apparently my line sprung up. Somehow the memory of the Times of Hardship is still in our bones. The right to free speech, the right to protest, the right to associate with whomever you want, the right to not be kidnapped and beat up randomly, the right to have whatever religion you want, or no religion at all, the right to carry arms and fight back against armed thugs, the right to keep and eat the food you grow, these are rights that we had written into the Constitution the minute we got the chance to write it. And when we did, John Hancock, first of the big ship-owners and businessmen, was the first to sign it, or maybe just signed it the biggest. Everyone was against the armed thugs by that time, there wasn't anyone who actually still wanted to see them around, taking everyone's food and beating them up at will. That had gone on for years, too many years. To be free of that was a joyous occasion, worthy of a shout out.
I had three relatives, one an ancestor, who lived through them; they had grown up in the city. The Times of Hardship were actually a period of time in which England occupied Boston with troops who were rude, uncouth, and disrespectful. The troops would beat up or kill locals in gangs and get away with it. They were also allowed to compete for jobs on the docks that were already scarce. And they did this obviously because they weren't being paid enough. They showed great disrespect to the dock workers, beat them up regularly, and said whatever they wanted about who started it or whose fault it was.
The dockworkers were a rough and tumble bunch who had started out burning effigies of the Pope or of Guy Fawkes, but soon turned into anti-British mobs who would gather in gangs and attack British-oowned enterprises; such was the Tea Party, though it didn't come until later. Let's just say that the dockworker culture became visibly and violently anti-British and it was for very good reason. All through the colonies, people were generally ok with being British, ok with being a colony, until it became economically punishing to be aligned with them, so the business class, which was much more numerous and prosperous, was slowly joining the rebel cause as the various taxes took their toll. For his part, the King was arrogant and liked to use the taxes to punish the rebels. You attack our ships, we raise your tariffs that much more. You don't like this, screw you, give me your money. It seemed like robbery to people who were used to a well-ordered system of trade values.
John Leverett, an ancestor of mine, had an import business that he'd set up back in the days when British goods were really popular. It was in the old Town Dock in the heart of Boston's business district, and it sold things for women who made their own dresses: buttons, hems, lace, that kind of thing. He sold the newest of what came off the ships from England, and he'd done this for years, and made a lot of money. He lived right downtown behind the First Church, where Hudson had once lived, because as the oldest son of Knight the metalsmith he inherited it. He had his kids baptised in the church and was proud that his line could be traced up to John the Governor of the Colony in the 1670s. He was so entrenched in his business that he couldn't do much when the Times of Hardship snuck up on everyone and turned the city virulently anti-British.
So it was that a mob burned and destroyed his entire store one night. Some people have said that it was British soldiers who did it in revenge for anti-British mobs, but the more I study the event, the more I believe it was just anti-British mobs destroying everything that had any connection to Britain and looting everything they could. I'll admit I don't know who did it, but it doesn't matter; his store, his livelihood, his identity were all gone in a single night. He became an Overseer of the Poor.
Overseers of the Poor were like social workers tasked to make sure that widows and single mothers, and their children, didn't starve in hard times. Most of them had come from the business community and, like John, had enough money themselves. The community would give them a territory and then give them surplus food or money to spend to feed the people who were starving in it.
The problem was that the Times of Hardship included an economic blockade that was so bad that that money and those supplies had dwindled to nothing. It became practice for Boston children to be sent out to the countryside to be adopted by farm families who at least had food to eat, as even the adults in Boston proper were starving and whoever could do it was sneaking out to the countryside to get food and smuggle it back. Of course soldiers would stop them and harass them on the roads in and out of Boston: show me your papers, give me that food or I'll beat you up, this kind of thing. It was ugly. Everyone hated the Times of Hardship.
John's oldest son John was growing up and due to go to Harvard in 1773. By that time the whole city was aligned very strongly against the British. There were a few Loyalists, but it was getting so if you were a Loyalist you'd better just shut up or go back to Britain quick while you had time.
John had a brother Thomas, who was a printer, and whose son Thomas was also due to go to Harvard in 1773. John Jr. and Thomas Jr. had in essence grown up together, baptised in the same church, cousins the same age, both oldest boy in the family. Thomas the printer had made a fortune too, printing grammar books for people in the countryside and printing just about everything that needed printing. Printing was a lucrative business at that time though it involved importing paper and put one in the crosshairs of a freedom of speech fight that was getting pretty nasty. Thomas had done well financially and had an estate in Medford or somewhere north of Boston.
When it came time for the boys to go to Harvard, they did. They were the same age, were cousins, and were inseperable in their Harvard years. But in their senior year, Harvard moved itself off to Concord so that the rebel troops could house themselves in the Harvard buildings. By that time it was war time and people contributed whatever they could to the cause.
There was another Leverett who appeared to live in the shadows; this one was my ancestor. I'm still not sure exactly where he came from or what his timeline was. At the time John Jr. and thomas Jr. were at Harvard and in Concord, he had moved out of town and established himself in Needham on a small piece of land. He had possibly grown up in Thomas' estate in Medford, being a relative but not a son of Thomas the printer, and was a little older than John Jr. and Thomas Jr. The first of his children were born in Boston but then they began being born and recorded in Needham.
The Times of Hardship had a very strong effect on Boston and on the political climate. The Boston Massacre happened on docks that were once part of the Leverett estate, though that whole downtown estate had to be sold when John Leverett the President of Harvard died, having been starved into debt by Puritans who wanted him to give up making Harvard a secular school back in the early 1700s. The original estate, which went from what is today the Sears Building down Congress Street to the harbor (what was known as Leverett Lane, then Quaker Lane), was also the home of the Tea Party and is today where the Tea Party museum stands. It was called Gray's dock back then, and the Grays married into the Leverett family (Thomas the printer's wife) and were very prominent and important people at the time. There were a lot of land transfers between the sale of the estate and the Revolution, so I can't prove any of this, but it's well known that both the Massacre and the Tea Party happened roughly at Gray's dock so I'll stand by my claims for the moment.
Thomas the printer died during the revolution; John the Overseer of the Poor got sick and his son John Jr. moved with him and his wife to Connecticut. Both John Jr. and Thomas Jr. graduated from Harvard, in Concord; Thomas became a surgeon, but was drafted and captured on a boat, and spent years imprisoned by the British in Brooklyn Harbor, on a boat that they made a movie out of, because conditions were so horrible that people died left and right. To the colonists the conditions on that prison boat somewhat represented the contempt that Britain had for the rebels from the start, that raised everyone's ire and made them that much more patriotic to split off from a country that there was otherwise no reason to be so angry about. Why, you might ask, would the colonies need to fight and kill to be free of their British heritage? Well, put yourself in the Times of Hardship and you'll see why.
John Jr. was busy taking care of his father and mother in Connecticut, but joined the Army at one point; his service was short and late in the war. Thomas Jr. died early from his experience in Brooklyn Harbor. William, the guy in Needham, was recruited to be an officer, and fought in the Battle of MOnmouth (I believe) and the Battle of Rhode Island, but officers weren't being paid very well, and this created an issue for his family back home in Needham. It was rough times and everyone was in pretty bad health but somehow one of his sons survived, and through him apparently my line sprung up. Somehow the memory of the Times of Hardship is still in our bones. The right to free speech, the right to protest, the right to associate with whomever you want, the right to not be kidnapped and beat up randomly, the right to have whatever religion you want, or no religion at all, the right to carry arms and fight back against armed thugs, the right to keep and eat the food you grow, these are rights that we had written into the Constitution the minute we got the chance to write it. And when we did, John Hancock, first of the big ship-owners and businessmen, was the first to sign it, or maybe just signed it the biggest. Everyone was against the armed thugs by that time, there wasn't anyone who actually still wanted to see them around, taking everyone's food and beating them up at will. That had gone on for years, too many years. To be free of that was a joyous occasion, worthy of a shout out.
Monday, November 3, 2025
Saturday, September 27, 2025
White Elephant
Friday, September 12, 2025
Be Our Guest
Same book, new cover
Be Our Guest: A retelling of Beauty and the Beast
I can now say that it's part of a set of three, all retellings of Beauty and the Beast; second one's done and coming soon.
Paperback $7.39, kindle $2.99, free on ku
https://www.amazon.com/Be-Our-Guest-retelling-Beauty/dp/B0FM82CSKX
Be Our Guest: A retelling of Beauty and the Beast
I can now say that it's part of a set of three, all retellings of Beauty and the Beast; second one's done and coming soon.
Paperback $7.39, kindle $2.99, free on ku
https://www.amazon.com/Be-Our-Guest-retelling-Beauty/dp/B0FM82CSKX
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