An Interview with Vernon Baker, Dreams and Beaujolais

       

     When I learned of Vernon Baker's plans to release his second book, The Arimathean, I began pestering him for an interview. I wanted a hint of what might be coming as it had been almost ten months since the release of Slow Boat to Purgatory, the first book in the series. He returned to Maine after spending the winter in Florida, and I finally pinned him down. He sent me an e-mail stating Saturday would be good for him if I was available.

I was.

Saturday was the sort of day you don't waste if you live on the Maine coast. Chilly, but starkly gorgeous. A perfect day to head up the coast of Penobscot Bay to Belfast.

I turned off Route One and followed a narrow road along the shore for a few miles. His directions led to a winding gravel road which made its way down toward the water. I rounded a bend and his home came into view. Though I'd never visited the house, something, a disconnected and fleeting memory, nagged. The place seemed familiar, though I had never been here before.

I parked, and walked toward the house. Just as I stepped onto the porch I looked out over the water, and it hit me. This was just like Randolph Donovan's home as Vernon had described in Slow Boat to Purgatory. The gravel drive. The house. The view down the Bay. Easy to see where he drew his inspiration.

A note was taped to the door. It read:

     

Come in.  

I needed something from the boat.  

Make yourself comfortable in the library. 
I will join you shortly. 

        I peeked through the wavy glass beside the door and knocked, anyway.  No answer. I opened the door and entered a foyer, dimly lit by streaks of sun from large windows and French doors on the opposite side of the house. It was quiet. Where were his wife and kids? To my right a doorway revealed the dining room. On my left a hall led deeper into the house. Hoping it led to the library, I headed down the shadowy corridor. A worn oriental runner in soft, rich colors muffled my footfalls. I poked my head in a few open doors, and tried one closed one. A set of stairs descended to darkness. I closed it quickly and passed by the other closed doors. Finally, on my right, I came upon a tall set of doors, the type that slide into the walls. They were cracked just enough for me to slide through.

I did, but stopped when I turned and faced the room. Shelves of books, there had to be thousands, covered the walls. The rows of books stretched upward from the floor to a ceiling at least twenty feet in height. Many of the books were old, the leather covers cracked and colored by age. Déjà Vu again caressed the furthest reaches of my mind, and my eyes moved to a certain section of the shelving. Placed beside it, as if on purpose, the rolling library ladder beckoned. Before I realized what I was doing I moved to the ladder and climbed. Both hands gripped the stringers as I scanned the book titles, searching, searching ... and then they fell on the one I sought. I'm not sure I breathed for several moments while I stood staring at the leather spine of Lolita, by Nabokov. 

Could it be? Was this actually the book that hid the secret space, hidden within the old walls of the library, Vernon had written about?

I closed my eyes. This was silly. I was here to interview my friend and fellow writer. Of course he drew his inspiration from his surroundings. I laughed at the ridiculous notion that came unbidden, the feeling I had fallen into some crack in reality and was floating through the pages of his book.

I climbed back down the ladder. 

Still, it was hard to turn my back without knowing what was hidden behind the Nabakov. The empty space I was sure was there seemed to call to me.

I turned myself from it, and noticed, for the first time, a large wooden desk positioned before a set of windows partially obscured by heavy curtains. Stacks of paper, multi-colored folders, what looked like the printed pages of a manuscript, neatly arranged across the desk top, sat alongside an antique letter opener and a small magnifying glass. An ornate ashtray inlaid with mother of pearl sat along the right edge of the desk, an unlit but half-finished cigar balanced along its edge. The image of Vernon with his cigar made me smile, and then I noticed the two large crystal wine glasses, both half-full of a dark, ruby-red liquid, and my smile grew. He wouldn’t be long.

I stepped toward the window to see if he was on his way up, and froze. 

Someone sat in the large wingback chair facing the desk.

The back of the chair faced me but I could clearly see the top of a man’s head, his hair a golden brown, and his left hand resting on the arm of the old wingback.

Welts and scars crisscrossed the hand, and a dark silver ring adorned the man’s wedding finger. It covered the entire length of his finger from the knuckle to the hand. Along the top of the ring was a white stone of some kind, and set into that stone was a luminescent cross, a red cross.

The hand rose from the arm of the chair and gestured. The man wanted me to sit behind Vernon’s desk.

Slowly, I moved toward the desk, never taking my eyes from the wingback. The man’s legs came into view. A pair of boots made of worn brown leather, which reached his knees, were evenly spaced on the floor. As I moved closer I saw a large floppy hat on his lap, and when I reached the edge of the desk I was able to see the side of his face.

He faced the window, not me, and sunlight fell on the strong lines of his jaw, his cheek, and forehead. Long flowing hair fell below his shoulders, and softened the planes of his profile.  

I reached for the edge of the desk and gripped the cool wood, reassuring myself that it, this room, and the man sitting in the chair, existed.

No sooner had that thought occurred when the man turned to me. “Hello, Paige.”

Sweet Jesus. He did exist. 

His eyes bored into me, dark pools of mesmerizing intensity. It was as if I were falling into them. I resisted the urge to move closer, to peer deeper. They beckoned as if doorways to secrets and places I desperately wanted to pursue. It unnerved me.

Until he smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, finally. Have a seat behind the desk. We have much to talk about.”

I kept my eyes on him as I moved to the chair, a simple wooden swivel office chair, and sat. Using my notepad as an excuse, I placed it in front of me and pulled myself from his gaze. I pretended to study the list of questions for a moment, but my composure was blown. When I looked up, the man's bemused smile revealed he knew it, too. 

"Vernon has been called away for a bit. A mutual friend of ours had some stories that needed telling. I told Vernon I would stand in for him. Besides...he said you’ve been dying to meet me.”

I pinched myself in the upper leg. 

He laughed then, a melodic rumbling that started somewhere deep within him and echoed off the walls of books. It was the most beautiful laugh I’d ever heard. It pulled me from my wonderment and I smiled.

“That’s better. Now, you came to do an interview, to hear what Vernon has up his sleeve, to talk about The Arimathean. I believe I can help you with that.”

I took a deep breath, flipped over my page of notes to a fresh blank page and began.

“Who are you?”

Again, he laughed. “Really, Paige? I think you know the answer to that, but I’ll play along. My name is Arnaud Tousseau. At least that is the name I’ve used for the last seventy years. My real name, the name I was born with many years ago, is Gaspar de Rouse.”

At the sound of that name I accepted that I had, in fact, crossed over a plane of mortal existence and entered a world beyond my understanding. Either that, or I was fast asleep in my bed dreaming the most vivid and life like vision of my life.

“Or perhaps, a combination of both,” he said.

“You’re reading my mind.” How could this be a dream?

“Of course I’m reading your mind, and perhaps you are dreaming. Would that make this any less real? What do you actually know of dreams? Do you know what they are and can be, who uses them as portals into the minds of men?”

He stood. He was tall, the long jacket he wore almost touched the floor. He reached across the table and pushed one of the wine glasses toward me, lifted the other, and gently touched the glasses together. The haunting peal of tiny crystal bells floated away across the room.

“Here’s to dreams, and the beings who inhabit them.”

He took a drink, gave me a wink, and sat again.

“I have so many things I want to ask you. I don’t know where to start. I wasn’t prepared. For you.”

“Ask me about wine.”

“Wine?”

“Yes. You love wine. We have that in common although I think your love of Beaujolais could be better placed.”

I smiled. Vernon hates Beaujolais and had teased me about it on more than one occasion.

“But it isn’t really the Beaujolais you love, is it?” he mused, studying me.

No, it wasn’t. Savvy. Crafty, too. I’d have to work to get answers to my questions. “What’s your favorite wine?”

“Syrah. Old French Syrah, the kind they make in southern France. It is imbued with the centuries of men, winemakers and farmers, who have worked and trod that stony ground even longer than I have lived. There is one in particular I have an affinity for. It comes from a small vineyard hidden away from the eyes of most mortals.”

“What’s it called?”

“Domaine Templier.”

“Domaine Templar.”

“That’s right.”

“You were a Templar.”

“I am a Templar, Paige. I will be a Templar until the day I die. There are those who walk the earth today who claim that mantle. They have no idea what it means to take up the cross, to give your life to it.”

“You’re referring to Dominicus and the organization he belongs to, aren’t you?”

“Yes, The Order of The Broken Cross, as they call themselves. They profess to be the rightful heirs to the lineage of the Templars and while those who begat their coven were indeed Templars, they were traitors...as is Dominicus.”

“So you’re the last of the real Templars?”

“Perhaps.”

“What does that mean, perhaps?”

“It means that while you are asking the questions it is I who is giving the answers, some of which will not be forthcoming. Next question.”

Something in the cast of his eyes, the sudden lack of a smile, steered my questions in another direction.

“How old are you?”

“I’m seven-hundred and fifty-six years old.”

I stared at him for a moment trying to prod my mind into acceptance of what this all meant and what to say to him.

“What’s the greatest thing you’ve witnessed in all your years?”

He thought for a moment, spun the glass, lost, it seemed, in the swirling liquid. “Mankind. I’ve seen them achieve so many great things, create such amazing civilizations. I’ve watched in wonder as artists, scientists, inventors have transformed the lives of men. Even now I can scarcely believe how the world has changed.”

“You say Mankind, as if you are no longer a part of it.”

“I’m still a man, Paige. I never stopped being a man. I simply no longer live my life as a man. I live it as if I am some sort of extraterrestrial being walking unseen and unnoticed, for the most part, among beings who look like me.”

Something had crept into his voice, a shadow had fallen across his face. I realized it was loneliness.

“What is the worst thing you’ve seen in all these years?”

There was another long drawn out pause before he answered. “How little the souls of humans have changed. For all the advancements around us mankind remains what it has always been, fierce, warlike, and destructive of each other. I’m never surprised by the savagery of men. As a warrior myself I understand it. It is part of us just as it is part of those we call angels. They exist in a state of perpetual war...why not us?”

He drank from the glass again and looked me in the eye. “Try some of the wine, Paige, and then lighten up a bit. Ask me something fun.”

I sipped the wine. It really was wonderful. Fun. Hmm. “Vernon’s hinted in the book that you’ve had a, how should I say this? Someone special in your life--I mean, you’re seven hundred years old, but you're a man....” 

I made a mess of the question, which elicited another of his addicting chuckles. “I don’t want to spoil Vernon’s stories so I will only agree with your statement, I am a man.”

My cheeks burned. I tried to salvage it. “I mean, love, in general. Not just romantic love, but people you have loved, and...”

“Lost. Yes.”

“Tell me,” I leaned forward. “About love. And loss. Please.”

“It’s a burden. And it’s liberating.”

“Will you tell me about the burden you bear?”

“Mortal moments are fleeting. One lifetime is often not enough to move beyond our own imposed boundaries and know true love.” He smiled. “Being immortal frees me to love in ways... in a way that can't quite be understood these days. To love a man in friendship, deeply and unconditionally. And accept his. To love a woman until your souls shatter. I would not have known those loves in one lifetime. Loss teaches us to love. To not waste time. The curse of loss is the most inspiring teacher.” He smiled, sadly, and then continued on in a mischievous tone.  I do have a few, shall we say, guilty pleasures that ease my burdens. I have a weakness for beauty. I drive an Aston Martin. I collect art of the old Masters, and new ones. I love great wine.” He raised his glass, tipped it to me, and drank the rest in one swallow.

My eyes were drawn back to his hand as he held the glass to his lips. The ring flashed in a ray of sunlight and the red stone, fashioned into a cross, dazzled my eyes as a wave of warm invasive light enveloped my mind.

I began to panic for a moment as I realized that the room, the man seated before me, even the chair upon which I had been sitting only a moment ago were all gone and that I was floating somewhere disconnected from reality.

I felt the sudden urge to cry out when I once more heard his voice, Gaspar’s.

“It’s okay, Paige. Our time together is over, for now. We’ll meet again. It may be on the pages of Vernon’s books or it may be in some other way but we will meet again.”

As Gaspar’s voice faded away the panic and fear was replaced by a warm feeling of security and wonder. I felt an overwhelming urge to sleep...in peace.

A sound, far off intruded incessantly keeping me from the sleep I now craved. A damn phone. In a semi-comatose state I reached out and retrieved the phone that sat beside my bed only half conscious of where I was.

“Hello.”

“Paige?”

“Hello? Who is this.”

“It’s Vernon, Paige, are you asleep? You were supposed to be at my house at noon for our interview. What, did you drink too much crummy Beaujolais last night?”

I sat straight up and looked around the room. My room. I mumbled something into the phone, something that drew a laugh and a question from my friend. But it was what was lying on the night stand that held my attention.

A golden medallion, attached to a long gold chain of heavy links, was propped up, leaning on the bedside lamp. It was shaped like a star and in the center of the medallion was a red Templar cross ringed by words, SIGILLVM TEMPLI XPESTI. And beside the medallion was a sheet of paper. I reached out and lifted it. It was heavy, luxurious, like no other paper I’d ever felt. Written in a beautiful cursive script was a short sentence, “To, Paige. With love and affection. G. de Rouse.

“Paige? Paige? Are you there?”

The Arimathean, the follow up to Slow Boat To Purgatory is set for release in early summer 2012. Look for it on Amazon. You can keep track of Vernon and his writing at Vernon J Baker.

Interview with Vernon Baker, here. 

The Halfling

excerpt, The Keeper and the Rune Stone

Jack crossed the cellar and grabbed a Lacrosse stick. He came back, and gently prodded the prone form.

The man swiped a hand where Jack had poked him, but didn't wake. Jack prodded him again, a bit harder. This time he sputtered, and woke up. 
He didn't appear pleased. Eleanor moved Flora farther back.

“I say! No need to wake a fellow. Best be a fire, mate,” he said, and pulled himself to an upright position.  Shaggy, uneven bangs fell in his eyes. 
He fumbled around in the sofa until he found a cap, which he promptly stuffed on his head. “Not proper, catching a man undressed and all,” he muttered, keeping his hand on his hat defiantly.  He pulled a flask from the waistband of his grubby pants and took a long haul. A bit dribbled down his chin, which he wiped away with the back of his hand and scowled. “Who’re you?”

“We live here. I think the better question is, who are you?” Jack leaned on the lacrosse stick. 

The odd fellow looked around the cellar. “Here? Funny we ain’t never met afore. Well, you git yer own sofa. This here’s mine.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Not here, here.” He pointed up to the house above them. “Up there. This is our house.”

“Ahhh. Well, good ‘nuff. Plenty room fer us all.” The small man made to lie back down.

“Wait! You can’t stay here,” Rob said.

“Don’t see why not. I was here first, right?”

“But we live here,” Rob said.

“Greedy one, ain’t ya? W’all, I ain’t leaving,” the small man said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Jack tried a different tact. “How long have you been here?”

The scruffy little man frowned and thought for a moment. “Oh, must be nigh on 30 years, now. The little lady gave me the boot, good and proper, right? Been here ever since.”

 “But our parents aren’t aware,” Eleanor pointed out.

“Oh, that ain’t no problem. Humans can’t see us halflings unless they have the knowledge, right? Don’t you worry none. They won’t bother me a bit.”

Jack snorted. Eleanor and Rob exchanged glances. The problem wasn’t their parents bothering this being.

“What's your name? And what are you, anyway?” asked Jack.

“My name is Ralph, right? I’m a GOBLIN. Not to be confused with them uppity Hobs. I tend the gardens ‘round here.” His eyes narrowed. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m Rob, and these are my sisters Eleanor and Flora, and my brother Jack,” Rob said.

“You stay outa my gardens, and off’n my sofa, an' we’ll git on jes fine,” Ralph said. “Now, if you’ll ‘scuse me, I was havin' my nap.” He lay down, and rolled his back to them. The pointed toe of his worn shoe caught a hole in the cushion, and he thrashed for a moment before he freed it. A few pieces of batting wafted into the air. 

Art by Jean-Baptiste Monge 

(we're big fans)

The Keeper and the Rune Stone 

is #Free!  4.7 stars

Our story then takes a darker turn, as things tend to do on the coast of Maine ... 

Grab it today! 

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"something wicked is going to happen.." EAD

"Hell, yes" KZF

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"Basically, I loved this" MF

Tim Sample couldn't have made this up ..

*Note to Reader - click on ad to see small print properly

Maine Department of Transportation ad poking fun at Islesboro mistakenly published in BDN

BDN

By Eric Russell, BDN Staff

Posted March 28, 2012, at 1:40 p.m.
Last modified March 28, 2012, at 6:06 p.m.

AUGUSTA, Maine — A “spoof draft” of a public notice advertisement from the Maine Department of Transportation that was never supposed to be seen by the general public was mistakenly published Wednesday in the Bangor Daily News.

Contained in the text of the ad were comments that poked fun at island residents. The two-column, 5-inch ad was on Page A2 of Wednesday’s paper and advertised a public meeting in the town of Islesboro to discuss the DOT’s planned replacement of Mill Bridge.

“We really don’t care about the bridge. We are just curious about these island folk,” the ad read. “Anyone who happens by is invited to disrupt the meeting.

“Candid photos will be sneakily taken of awkward persons for our entertainment. Life jackets and coffee brandy will be provided upon advance request.”

DOT Commissioner David Bernhardt sent a letter of apology on Wednesday to the residents of Islesboro.
“This was an obvious spoof draft that was somehow emailed and published in the paper,” he wrote. “This behavior is unacceptable and in no way reflects the values of the department or the seriousness and care in which the department treats its public input processes.

“We have the utmost respect for the citizens of Islesboro, its elected officials and its management. On behalf of MaineDOT, I sincerely apologize for this mistake. Appropriate measures are being taken to ensure that this does not happen again.”

Asked whether the responsible employee was fired, DOT sSpokesman Ted Talbot said he could not discuss personnel matters.

The letter from Bernhardt was sent to Islesboro interim Town Manager Janet Anderson on Wednesday. Anderson said Wednesday that she had seen the ad but did not want to comment.

The BDN newsroom referred questions to the advertising department, which exclusively handles advertisements.

BDN interim advertising director Steve Martin apologized for the error and said he has reminded staff to always review ads carefully before being published.

“The ad actually was sent to us twice, with the original proofread by staff,” Martin said in a statement. “Due to technical issues, the first version could not be processed properly, so the advertiser was asked to resend the ad, which was then processed.

“The problem was that we treated the second submission as a duplicate of the already proofed ad, which it clearly wasn’t. This event reinforces the need to be ever vigilant in our efforts.”
Talbot confirmed that is what transpired.

RedTail and the Copy Key

Today is the first day of Spring, and my daughter Frances' 14th birthday.
She wrote this story a couple of years ago. It is one of my favorites.

  Happy Birthday, Beautiful Girl! 

RedTail and the Copy Key

This story is dedicated to Walter and Alice Bower

  Thank you, Aunt Alice and Uncle Walter, for my beautiful keys, and for feeding RedTail and his friends.

Love,  Frances    

     RedTail traced his paw over the object. It was quite small, and heavy, but it had a pretty shape.  

     Nice key, he thought. 

     He wrapped the key in his fuzzy tail so the other squirrels couldn’t see he had it, and ran to the bushes for cover. But RedTail didn’t stop when he reached the bushes, he ran right through the forest to the other side, coming out onto a beach. RedTail ran to a rock wall and disappeared into a hole. 

Feeling more secure in his own home, RedTail removed the key from his tail and took it to the kitchen where he made himself some acorn tea and ate a slice of pumpkin bread.

    I got the key, I am the best squirrel in the whole forest! he snickered, I am the one who stole the copy key! RedTail was so pleased with himself. 

    He took a moment to study it. The top looked like a flower, but on a key ring with the top hole punched out, it looked like a heart. The key wasn’t very long and on the end was just a small piece of steel with a empty square space on the bottom. A beautiful key.

    On the other side of Islesboro was a bird feeder, a squirrel-proof one.  In that feeder was every seed known to squirrel. The lady who fed the birds had a key that she wore on a chain around her neck to open and restock the feeder, but she also kept a copy key in the barn where she kept the bags of seeds she filled her feeders with.

     All the squirrels on Islesboro had been trying to get the copy key, and with winter coming on, the search had become even more frantic. 

     But RedTail had been watching the barn cat, Jinx, for days, and when he wasn’t by his food dish, RedTail would sneak in and put herbs in it. Then, when the cat came to eat, he ate the herbs and threw up. RedTail had been doing this for days and eventually the owner had to take Jinx to the vet, so RedTail snuck in and took the took the key.

     RedTail went into his study and came back out with a map of the island. He traced his paw over the map trying to find the quickest way to the feeder, but he needed good cover, because if the other squirrels knew he had the key, they would try to steal it from him!

     Someone was knocking on the rock door. 

     “I’m coming!” RedTail called. 

     He scurried over to the door to see his friend Amber.

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course!” RedTail led her into the living room, disappeared into the kitchen, and came back a minute later with some fresh acorns.

     “What happened to you?” RedTail got a good look at Amber, and could see that she had bruises, cuts, scraps, and claw marks.

     “Birds, that’s what!” she growled stuffing her cheeks with acorns, “I was trying to get the key, and I came so close, but these birds swooped down and attacked me!”

     “Are you okay?”

     “I will be once I tell you what I came for, I have a battle plan to get the spare key!”

  “Er… I don’t think that it will be necessary.”

  “Why?” she said, sounding hurt.

  “I have the key.”

  Amber couldn’t take her eyes away from the key.

  “But how?” she asked reaching her paw out to touch it. “How did you manage to get it?”

  “That doesn’t matter, what matters is how to get to the feeder unnoticed.”
     Amber thought for a moment, then said, "I have a plan, but you’re not going to like it.”

  And it was true, he didn’t like it.  Not one bit.

  “On and off as quickly as possible!” RedTail demanded. The crisp night air of fall was making the two squirrels shiver as the drew near the beach.

  “Trust me, I won’t make this last any longer than it has to!” she said through chattering teeth. 

RedTail and Amber went to the waters edge and jumped in. The icy water felt like nettles, and was so cold it felt like it was pulling them down.

  “W-w-which way?” RedTail asked, his teeth chattering.

  “The b-b-boat Better in Butter, straight a-a-ahead,” she said pointing to a lobster boat in front of them, “I’ve b-b-been watching this b-b-boat, it leaves at night a-and fishes o-o-on the side of the island w-w-where the feeder is.”

  “People don’t fish for lobsters at night,” RedTail pointed out.

  “No, he takes his kids mackerel fishing.” Amber explained.  

     RedTail nodded, no rival squirrel will find us getting there on that, he thought, too tired and cold to speak, then swam over to the stern. They heaved themselves into the boat, climbing up the motor, then hid. The captain got on a few minutes later. RedTail tightened his grip on the key, checking to make sure it was still there, he couldn’t tell with his numb paws. It seemed like a good plan, until the boat actually started.

       RedTail had never gone so fast! His cheeks were flying behind him like he saw dogs do when they stuck their heads out car doors. The boat was racing across the water, and he could see that Amber was starting to regret her idea. While the captain wasn’t paying attention, RedTail and Amber stole a glance over the edge. The salty sea spay was getting in their faces and clinging to their whiskers, while the waves kept coming over the edge trying to push them down. It even looked like Amber was getting a little green.   Serves her right! RedTail scowled. She made us get on this thing. 

     RedTail and Amber slid back down into their hiding spots, waiting for their ride to end.
     It seemed like forever before the boat began to slow down, and as soon as Amber thought that land was close enough, she grabbed RedTail’s paw and dragged him overboard. 

     “At least I’m finding swimming easier,” Amber mumbled.

     “That’s because you’re covered in fish scales!”

     “GROSS!” Amber wailed, then they laughed. 

     The two squirrels thrashed their way back to shore then began to dry off.

     “Hey, it cut twenty minutes off our travel,” Amber said, trying to convince RedTail her idea wasn’t all bad.

     “And we got here unseen,” RedTail agreed, “but once this is over and we have our winter stash, lets just walk home.” 

     Amber nodded and the squirrels climbed their way up to the feeder.

     “Do you have the key?” Amber whispered. 

     RedTail twitched his whiskers, amused she thought he would get on that boat and actually forget the key. 

Ignoring her, he made his way up the feeder pole and silently slid the key in the lock. 

clink. 

     The top of the feeder flew open as soon as he twisted the key in the lock.

     “Here it comes,” he whispered down to Amber, then dumped the seed to the ground, emptying the whole feeder. 

     Working quickly, the squirrels buried all the seed.  They buried them under bushes, trees, rocks, and even buried them out in the open. They buried the seeds every where the could think of, until the big pile in the middle had become nothing more then single scattered seeds laying around. The squirrels had completed their winters stash.

  “I think we’re done here,” Amber smiled. 

  RedTail smiled too. He could always come back when it was restocked, and he wouldn’t have to ride the boat, because now that he had his winter stash, keeping the key a secret wasn’t as important. He shook some more water from his fur, and looked back once more at the empty feeder. Winding his tail around the key the two squirrels turned around and began their journey home. On paw.

Let the wild rumpus start!

Where the Wild Things Are

as read by  Christopher Walken

excerpt from Book III of The Black Ledge Series

“Please don’t tell me it’s a lamp,” Eleanor said. 
The Keeper smiled. “No. It’s the Scimitar of Salaman.” 
Rob and Jack both sat up straighter at the word scimitar. “What’s that?”
Floyd shuddered. “It’s dreadful. You’re gonna wish it was a lamp.”

The Keeper and the Scimitar of Salaman

Bent Arrow

     He stroked the arrow's shaft as he contemplated the scene below. No one noticed him on the window ledge. There wasn't anyone. This place was ghost town, and the granite was getting cold. Damn cold.

     For the whole thing to come off properly two unsuspectings had to pass each other at just the right moment, but Stan hadn't mentioned this wasteland was uninhabited when he'd asked Al to cover his shift. Al's regular beat by the Starbucks in Sarasota was crawling with people --it never occurred to him he'd be stuck here, freezing.  Did this place even even have high-speed? Al was sure it did not.  

     One disappointment after another. All morning. The last promising target had been the fat woman entering the bank. Al'd taken aim, ready to end it, and ... nothing. Not another soul in sight.

     He unwrapped another chocolate. Discarded red foil littered the pediment and Al was nauseous, but the wrappers covered the pigeon droppings.

     Finally he spied two people. The woman leaving the boutique paused at the crosswalk to sip her latte and check her cell just as a man parked in front of the health food store. He climbed from car and walked to the sidewalk, but paused to smooth the peeling Free Tibet bumper sticker on the rusted Datsun.  Al smiled, a bit nastily, as he nocked the arrow.  

I was the luckiest of children. My grandfather was a farmer.

  

       

     I found the card above in a box of my Grandmother's mementos. Thrilled when I discovered this treasure, I knew I would share it.  It's old and it's beautiful, and it's interesting.  I started putting my thoughts down this week, but realized that writing about this treasure, and the man it belonged to, was no easy task.  This yellowed card, given almost 90 years ago to a boy, has impacted many.      

     I'd known my grandfather, Howard Waterman, belonged to 4-H in his youth.  I remembered the silver cups inscribed with his name on living room shelves, and the photo of him at The World's Fair.  He'd done some cool things with chickens. What he did was actually fascinating, but growing up, my curiosity did not extend beyond cool things with chickens. I already knew how cool he was.  Cool across the cosmos.  He was that big in my world.  I'd followed him, imitating his limp-stretch stride since I could walk, and every wintergreen Lifesaver scented moment in his company was magical.  

    When I grew older, I belonged to 4-H as well, mostly because of him (my parents are being unjustly overlooked here, but of course it was because of him).  Now my daughters are active in 4-H.  My grandfather would have enjoyed them so.  He would have especially enjoyed attending their shows, as he did mine.  He never missed one. He knew everyone ringside, and they, him.  I remember waiting for him, a bit impatiently, to make his way to me, even at Eastern States Expo.  Surely he didn't know everyone there, too ... but of course he did.

     Reflecting, now, I know being active in 4-H gave him skills and experiences he utilized his entire life, personally and professionally.  Public speaking, presentation, 4-H project records, and competitions at county, state, and national levels provided personal growth opportunities which taught him skills. Farming taught him critical thinking, compassion, and common sense.  Forging friendships enriched his person.  The stories are many, and marvelous.  They all come back to who he was, and how he was impacted by the card, above.     

     Over the course of his life several newspaper articles were written about him, his professional accomplishments, and distinguished career in Law Enforcement. My grandfather was not formally educated beyond high school. He became the Chief of Police in a small New England town. What that meant, in the middle of the twentieth century in a rural American town, was that anytime anyone needed help, they called him.  The police car was the town's ambulance, housed fire equipment, animal control and emergency veterinary supplies, and evidence, as needed. He even prosecuted his own cases at the county level. He was an independent thinker, and his opinions were valued and sought for town, county, and state committees, from public health to land use practices.  He was active in service organizations.  I cannot begin to remember how many times, when I was with him, someone began a sentence with, "Did you know your Grandfather ...".  And while well-respected, he was also very well-liked, and when he prepared to retire the town held a special town meeting, and voted, with the largest attendance ever, to honor him with Life Tenure as Police Chief.

     The newspaper articles cited his professional accomplishments, but failed to convey the man his friends, family, and colleagues knew.  My grandfather's physical presence was impressive. He was a tall, strong, handsome man with a quick,charming smile. He exuded a trustworthiness and decency to which people, and animals responded.  His insight, often crinkling the corners of his green eyes, assessed without judgment. He inspired those around him to meet expectations by his confidence in their ability to do so.  While respecting the law, he also recognized when the law failed to address/resolve a situation adequately, and used his common sense.  He owned these decisions comfortably. His easy manner remained unflappable, even in confrontational, or dangerous situations.  He approached a difficult personality with the same gentle, firm manner he approached an unruly Angus bull.  Both behaved.

     He was a farmer.  He enjoyed his career, but his career supported the life he chose to live.   His day ended with him returning home, to his farm, and his family. He had large vegetable gardens, and cut his own hay. He raised replacement dairy heifers, beef cattle, chickens, and pigs, and two strong boys.  And he raised them well, his younger son David received a Presidential Appointment to West Point.

     Farming shaped who he was.  I knew that, but it wasn't until I found the card above in my grandmother's mementos that I stopped to consider how farming, and his involvement in 4-H, defined who he really was. Many youth found worth and satisfaction haying with him, or at least were too tired that night to cause mischief.  Someone once commented that many of the town's most upstanding citizens had had their ear tweaked by him in their wilder days.  What many call Human Relations was his intrinsic respect for the least among us.  His concern about a failing calf and a struggling family were the same. He dropped off fresh vegetables as if the family were doing him a favor by taking them. To him, they were.  A woman at his funeral wanted me to know about the birth of her firstborn. Her husband was away when she went into labor early, alone. He delivered the baby, took her and the baby to the hospital, and stayed with her until her husband arrived.  She gripped my arm while she told me, that she knew, when he came through the door, everything would be okay, and it was.

       He could have done anything in life, professionally.  Farming, and 4-H, prepared him for that.  He could have pursued a career in science, business, or even philosophy. He chose to enjoy them all, farming.

       Howard Waterman's life will never be the subject of a documentary, but his life was a life well-lived, in a simpler time.  He loved his family, and his community.  Like the radio that magically came on with the lights in his barn, every place he was a nicer place because he was there.  The boy who grew to be that man was active in 4-H.  He honored the pledge he made in his youth.  He never stopped using his head, his heart, his health, and his hands.  It impacted his club, his community, and his country.  In his unique and very special way. 

    

Pux This

     I'm not a morning person.
     Imagine being jarred from a deep sleep, no snooze button to ease one's journey-suffering- through the layers of consciousness. Ripped by the scruff from your warm bed with no warning, and held aloft in front of thousands of eager faces. In the cold.
    Imagine it. For a moment. 
    It's not okay.
    So there I was, with a stiff in a silly hat studying the ground for evidence of sun. Now maybe something has changed since I went to sleep, but last I checked the sun was in the sky. In a place called Gobbler's Knob.
    Gobbler's Knob. 
    Really?
    Shouldn't we have Gobbler out here, then? Looking for his knob's shad--maybe not. Never mind.
    But I digress. The real question is, how did I got dragged into this? It was originally called Candlemas Day. Happy Candlemas Day. Sounds Lovely. Who made the leap to Ground Hog day? Go on, follow that bouncing ball.
    Six more weeks. Happy? May I go back to bed now?

Kids and Cows

Generations of Kids and Cows

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Mystique of the Templar

            What is the fascination with an order of knights long dead?  I first saw the co-option of the name Knights Templar last August with the horrendous shooting in Norway.  It piqued my curiosity, but the crime was so horrific I never delved deeper. 
            I saw it again this week, directly referencing the Mexican drug cartel.  It got me thinking again so I asked my friend, Vernon.
            Vernon, you see, is quite suited to answer questions about the Templars.  His book, Slow Boat to Purgatory, is a page-turner featuring a Templar Knight.
            Vern is a wicked story teller, so why would I look this stuff up when I can just ask him to tell me (us) the history of the Templars? On Friday the 13th, no less.  A wonderful day for mystique, and Templar superstition.

Thanks, Paige, for inviting me to talk with you about the Templars. Let me preface this by saying I am by no means a Templar historian or expert. I’ve done a lot of research on the order but I would not begin to hold myself up as some sort of authority. That said, I think there are some interesting, fun, and ultimately intriguing things to discuss.                                                                                        
                                                                                                                                                         Who were the Knights Templar?
              The Templars were a military order officially recognized by the Catholic Church. They were formed in the early 1100’s and existed  for almost two hundred years before being officially disbanded in 1312. It’s important to note that at their peak there were perhaps 20,000 Templars, of which only a small percentage were actual soldiers. In reality it was their financial acumen and their vast wealth that I believe to be their most important and far–reaching legacy. They literally changed, and in many ways formed, the basis of modern banking. Their architectural achievements were extraordinary; many of their buildings, temples, and castles still stand today.                                                                                                                                             

                                                                                                                                                  Who were the first Templars? 
             They were a group of nine European Knights, all but one of which has been identified by name (I've got my literary hooks in that unnamed knight). They were all related in some way and for reasons unknown found their way to the holy land after the first crusade. During this time pilgrims were being slaughtered by Muslim bandits and they offered themselves up as protectors of the pilgrims and of the holy land.
              The King of Jerusalem took them up on their offer and gave them lodgings on the spot where Muslims had built the Al Aqsa mosque, the original site of Solomon's temple. Eventually they were officially endorsed by the church.

What was it like to be a Knight Templar?

Well again, that varied depending on whether a Knight was a soldier or part of the larger group that was really a sort of multi-national corporation. If we focus on the fighting men I think it is safe to say it was a militaristic organization with very intense and rigorous standards requiring a monastic mindset and adherence to Templar rules. No women, a vow of poverty, etc. They truly were the elite military force of their day and this required constant training, strict discipline, and uncommon bravery. These were amazing fighters, and when one stops to contemplate the brutal reality of medieval warfare they must have possessed phenomenal strength and endurance. I think that’s a big reason why some modern characters, including some serious bad guys, have tried to co-opt the Templar mystique.

Why were they so secretive?   
            That is obviously one of the reasons they have continued to fascinate so many people since the time they were disbanded and ceased to officially exist. There is no shortage of theories as to why they maintained such a secretive profile. Starting with their very beginnings, were they really interested in the stated goal of protecting pilgrims on their way to the holy land and protecting the holy land itself, or was there another motive? Why did they take up residence on the original site of Solomon’s Temple? Were they in possession of Christian Relics or esoteric knowledge? It’s irresistible fodder for speculation and imaginative minds. Like mine.

What has been the most interesting thing you’ve discovered about The Templars as a result of your research for your books?

            I think I’m most impressed with their ability to quickly rise to such prominence and power. They were a force financially, equal and in many ways superior to the Kings of their time. I also have been impressed with the strength of commitment to their order. They truly would and did sacrifice themselves for their ideals, be it The Holy Land, God, the Order itself. In the end many of them were massacred for refusing to denounce the Order. Again, this seems to have a certain attraction to the various groups, good and bad, who adopt the Templar moniker.

What authors do you enjoy who have used the Templars in their work?

Obviously Dan Brown comes to mind. There’s Steve Berry, Raymond Khoury and my friend, David Beem. There are several books I’ve come across recently dealing with Templars I want to read. It’s funny in that the Templars have been fodder for literary plots from their very beginning, for instance the various Grail legends that have existed for centuries featuring Templars, or Templar-like themes.

In your book, Slow Boat to Purgatory, Gaspar de Rouse, your main character, is a Templar Knight. Why did you make him a Templar?

 I wanted Gaspar to be a man of extraordinary commitment and heroism. I wanted him to have a certain inner-strength in order to stand up to the trials and tribulations I was going to throw at him. The Templar ethos fit that mold for me. I also wanted him to have to confront his failings when it came to some of the things he had done as a Templar. He didn’t always choose wisely, during his time as a Templar, and that comes back to haunt him. I also wanted to write about something I enjoy.

In Slow Boat you have a couple of other main characters, one of them a priest, and (without a spoiler) he has connections to the Templars and a modern day soldier, a Navy Seal. Why did you choose a priest and a navy seal?
          Well as far as Dominicus, the priest, I saw him having similar conflicts to those Gaspar has. He’s a priest, but he does things that a priest doesn’t usually have to do, or should do. Yet he is every bit committed to his cause as Gaspar is to his. As far as Alex Donovan, the Navy Seal, I wanted him to be a warrior of extraordinary abilities and strength, like Gaspar. He’s American, so the toughest American soldiers I could come up with were the seals. If he had been British he would have been a member of the S.A.S.

       
Thanks so much for sharing all of this fascinating information. It is easy to see why you were drawn to conjure such a thrilling tale. And, you did it justice.  Thanks, V.  

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