This gallery contains 3 photos.
Skip Hughes is a poet. Yes, he’s done many other things, including teaching in college. But at the core, he is a poet. And today, he would like to encourage you to consider poetry for the pleasure it can give … Continue reading
This gallery contains 5 photos.
D.R. Ransdell is a writer and musician. She spent five years in Mexico teaching English and learning folk songs. Now, she plays with a mariachi group and writes a murder mystery series about mariachi bandleader Andy Veracruz. She also teaches writing at … Continue reading
This gallery contains 3 photos.
Today’s guest is award-winning author Lena Nelson Dooley. With more than 875,000 copies of her books sold, she has been on the ECPA and CBA Bestseller lists, Publisher’s Weekly Bestseller list, and several Amazon Bestseller lists. She’s won the Will … Continue reading
This gallery contains 3 photos.
Today, now that Christmas is in the rearview mirror, Elaine Faber reminds us that sometimes Christmas can be a very difficult time for some families. But there is hope that things will be getter. Elaine is member of Sisters in Crime, … Continue reading
Before we go to Tasmania, here’s today’s paraprosdokian: He who laughs last thinks slowest.
Quick, before I forget what I was going to say —
Before we stepped off the plane in Hobart, all we knew about Tasmania 
was that the Tasmanian Devil made its home there.
Tasmania is located about 150 miles across the Bass Strait from Melbourne, Australia. To its west is the Indian Ocean and to its east is the Pacific Ocean. It is about 225 miles from north to south and generally about 190 miles from east to west, and has a population of just over half a million.
The British settled it in 1803 and in the first 50 years, over 75,000 convicts were transported to Taz. One of the first places we visited was Port Arthur, just 35 miles from Hobart, and site of one of the most famous prisons in Australia.
We then headed into the interior, a thinly populated, but gorgeous area. (Another day, we’ll talk about Devils and mailboxes.) We made our way to Strahan on the west coast and made arrangements to take a float plane into the wilderness of the southwest part of Tasmania. Over one third of the entire island of Tasmania lies in reserves here, and there are no roads or settlements in this area.
Earlene and I and the pilot took off and circled
out over large fish farms in the Indian Ocean. Then we headed in-land. It is truly a pristine wilderness, with inspiring, untouched forests, and the white water Franklin River. After awhile, we were tracking another magnificent river, cutting between mist-covered mountains and dense rain-forest. We began to descend into the thousand-foot deep Gordon River Gorge and slowly settled down on the river.
As the pilot taxied over to the bank, a small dock came into view. He hopped out and tied the plane up and we deplaned. A short walk through the rain-forest took us to a magnificent waterfall. The only noise was the falling water. No boom-boxes, no cars, no people. Enchanting. Eventually, we walked back to the dock, got in the plane, and the pilot – standing on the dock, untied the plane. The swift current quickly began to sweep the plane away from the dock. What would we do if the pilot didn’t manage to get in before we drifted away from the dock? Earlene could fly the 
plane, but could she take off from a rushing river? But, he managed to catch a strut, swing on to the pontoon and climb into the cockpit. Obviously, he’d done this before. It was a magical trip.
Our entire Tasmania visit was captivating. If you get to Australia, allot ample time for Tasmania. We spent a week there, and would have enjoyed a month.
This gallery contains 2 photos.
Today, Carole Brown talks about the benefits of travel to a writer, giving examples of how it has helped her in many books. She and her husband live in SE Ohio, but they have traveled extensively throughout the U.S. and … Continue reading
But first, the paraprosdokian for this season –
Hospitality is the art of making guests feel like they’re at home when you wish they were.
Since we are nearing Christmas, I am reminded of —
It was decided, by whom I have no idea, that the kids would get a cat from Santa. I, who had never had a cat and did not like cats, who was, after all, a “dog” person – who had happily gotten the dog about whom Jamie said, “I think we’ll call him Charlie,” and as far as I knew Jamie had never known anybody named Charlie, and possibly never even heard the name before — was sent to pick up the cat.
The house, no address, turned out to be a clandestine hideout for a member of the FBI or CIA. I was fingerprinted, subjected to search, and interrogated for three hours in a 2×2 room under hot lights, with lie-detector attached, questions being asked over a speaker hidden in the wall above the one-way mirror. No Dr Peppers. Suddenly, the voice stopped, the lights went cold and I sat in darkness. My life, short as it had been at that time, passed before my eyes, though without the lights, I only got a few glimpses of the brighter spots.
Finally, the door opened. I didn’t know what to expect, and was ready for it. Instead, blank sheets attesting to what I had no clue, were thrust under my nose (or perhaps my hand, I am no longer sure) and I was ordered to sign each and initial the back of the first one next to the initials of my interrogator, though his were in invisible ink and I might have actually put mine initials on top of his.
And then, the cat was released into my custody.
Little did I know, it was actually a suicide feline, barely out of commando training, who had never been in a car before. With the cat safely inside the car, I had backed up no more than ten feet when Kamikaze Kat was racing around the car, flinging itself against the glass, tearing at the seats and slashing at the driver.
In one of the most incongruous scenes ever video taped by the Agency,
the cat-unfriendly driver can be seen trying every seducing, soothing, baby-talking line known to mankind in the futile effort to calm down the run-away cat. Finally, by the end of the first block of a 5,000 block trip, the killer kitten settled down, still scared, but feeling somewhat secure by anchoring its claws into the top of the driver’s head. And it remained there for the remainder of the trip
.
Christmas morning, the terrorist-cat had transmogrified into a small, tame kitten. The kids were thrilled.
But the cat was about to get a comeuppance, or a comeapartness. At last, Kristi (after all, the youngest is always last) got her chance to hold the kitten. Being no more experienced than I was, she grabbed it, got the kitten’s neck in the crook of her arm and locked her hands to her chest. The kitten, hanging down, but firmly secured by its head, immediately yelled for help. Older and more experienced sister Kelly came to the aid of the kitten
-in-distress. She tried to take the kitten. Kristi was not about to have her turn commuted to such a short time. She held tightly. Kelly pulled mightily. The kitten got longer. Only when an adult (who knew a thing or two about kittens and just how long they could be stretched) came to negotiate, did the kitten get off the rack.
Giraffe, Stretch, Longfellow, and The Cat in the Rack were names proposed by the adults. I don’t recall what the kitten was actually named by the kids.
The kids loved the kitten and learned to take special care of it as it grew into a cat. This was definitely a Christmas to remember. And to the day he/she died, I’m sure the kitten remembered it also.
James R. Callan, 2016
The Silver Medallion, A Crystal Moore Suspense
This gallery contains 2 photos.
Lillian Duncan is a multi-published writer with several Amazon bestsellers, including The Christmas Stalking and Betrayed. Lillian writes the types of books she loves to read—fast-paced suspense with a touch or two of romance that demonstrates God’s love for all … Continue reading
This week’s paraprosdokian — Take my advice — I’m not using it
I have to admit it. I was a city boy. I was raised in Dallas, but have over the years worked my way down until I’m no longer living in a town of any size. Here’s one of the situations that moved me away from being a city boy.
Some years ago, my wife and I moved into the middle of a forest in east Texas. We are surrounded by trees – pines, oaks, and hickories mostly. Our driveway is about three-quarters of a mile long. Our nearest neighbor is about half a mile away as the crow flies and about three miles by road.
One night some years ago, we came home from work, settling in for the night, not expecting to leave before morning. But then, Earlene said, “It’s your birthday. Let go out for a fancy dinner.”
We traveled to Tyler, had a leisurely dinner and returned home about nine o’clock. But as we were driving in, a large tree had fallen across our driveway. It was too big for me to move by myself, but between the two of us, we were able to push it off enough to get the car by.
About five in the morning, Earlene woke me. She had severe pain in her abdomen. And it only got worse. So, I helped her into the car and raced to the 
emergency room of the nearby hospital. They quickly determined she had a ruptured appendix and wheeled her into the operating room.
The next afternoon, I was sitting in her room as she slept. Suddenly, my eyes popped open wide. If we had not gone out to dinner, I would have first discovered the tree blocking the road at five in the morning. The tree was too big for me to move by myself. What would I have done? While I had met a couple of neighbors, miles away, I did not have their phone numbers. I had a small hatchet and a machete. It might have taken me over an hour using only a hatchet to cut through the tree enough to move it .
I checked Earlene. She was sleeping soundly, heavily sedated. I told the nurses I was leaving.
I drove to the nearest farm store and bought my first chainsaw. I would not be trapped in our property without a viable means to get out.
Now, years later, we have several chainsaws. We always have at least two good, heavy duty,
working gasoline chainsaws. We have an electric chainsaw for light work close to the house or barn. We have a small chainsaw on a pole for trimming limbs on standing trees.
I have pushed my city boy persona out of the way, and the first shove came about five a.m. on a trip to the emergency room.
James R. Callan
Visit Callan’s author page by clicking here.
And leave us your thoughts on chainsaws. Thanks.
But first, the Paraprosdokian of the week —
If you can smile when things go wrong, you have someone in mind to blame.
Yesterday, I was about fifteen minutes from home when I turned on Sirius radio and was fortunate to hear the opening bars of Ravel’s Bolero. I immediately slowed down, not wanting to arrive before the dramatic finish of the piece.
Maurice Ravel wrote the piece at the request of the Russian actress and dancer Ida 
Rubinstein. It premiered at the Paris Opera in November 1928—as a musical selection, with no dance—and, to Ravel’s surprise, was an immediate success. It was reported that he said, “I had written a piece lasting seventeen minutes and consisting wholly of ‘orchestral tissue without music’ — of one very long, gradual crescendo. There are no contrasts, and practically no invention except the plan and the manner of execution.”
But in spite of the composer’s downplay of the piece, it became his most famous work. When Conductor Arturo Toscanini conducted the US premier in 1929, it received shouts and cheers from the audience and a standing ovation.
There are some who say it is too repetitious, monotonous, and uninspired. They are missing the true genius of the Bolero. Ravel created two memorable themes, and then used them to create interest and tension. Yes, the main theme is repeated eighteen times, but with many different instruments picking up this theme with diverse orchestration. At one point, the first theme is played in one key while the second theme is being played in a different key. The piece starts out softly pianissimo and rises in a continuous crescendo to fortissimo possible (very loud). Ravel embellished the themes, altered the presentation, added drama, so that the Bolero leads the listener – propels the listener – to the powerful and dramatic conclusion.
The result is a piece that is dramatic, sensual, powerful. Memorable. Exciting.
While it was originally written for a dancer, it is rarely preformed to 
accompany a dance. An exception to this is a group of young dancers in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, the Xiutla Folkloric Dance Group. For its one thousandth performance, famous Spanish dancer Luis Montero was asked to choreograph a dance to The Bolero. He produced a dance that captures of drama and excitement of Ravel’s piece. The group has now preformed this dance many times and it never fails to bring the audience to its feet, cheering, clapping, and asking when the group will perform the dance again so they may attend.
I arrived home before the end of the piece, so I just sat in the car to hear the striking finish. I was not disappointed. That’s part of the power of music. You can hear a piece many times, but the repetition doesn’t diminish the pleasure, the excitement.
Ravel understood that.
If you have listened to the Bolero, give us your thoughts on the music. Thanks.
James R. Callan, 2016