Marie at 1 Write Way

Theodore Albers, WW II Veteran #MondayBlogs #MemorialDay2023

May 29th, 2023

I wrote this post in 2019 and reposted it in 2022. I’m doing so again this year. Every Memorial Day (and most days in-between), I think of Ted Albers and how much I miss him. While Memorial Day is for remembering those veterans we’ve lost, do me a favor and also hold close the ones who are still here.

I wasn’t born yet when my family moved in next to you.

My older sister got your heart first. You still had dark hair. You often told me how pleased you were when my family moved in. You never had children of your own. You never married. My family came ready-made for you.

Did your heart sing when I was born? Perhaps more than my mother’s heart?

Anyone looking would see how you took possession of me like a blood relative, like a grandfather aching for a child to caress and teach and spoil.

Your hair is now gray at the sides. I don’t remember this photo (I was only a year old) but it doesn’t surprise me to see myself as full in the moment, on your lap, feeling loved.

You wouldn’t miss my birthdays. Somehow it seemed that you enjoyed them more than anyone else, maybe more than me. I felt like everything I did interested you, entertained you. Even simply opening a gift, my self-consciousness starting to show, the one-year-old’s glee giving way to the four-year-old’s apprehension.

You let me be wild and plastic where my own family wanted me quiet and still. I didn’t have to be still around you. I could, as I often did, suspend myself between your refrigerator and chair. I wore dresses but acted like a tomboy, flashing my cotton underwear. I was too young for anyone to think twice.

You let me play-act. I’m a famous movie actress enjoying a drink by your pool. I spent more time in your house, your backyard than in my own.

It seems sometimes I hung on to you for dear life.

And we might have both liked cats … at least I did.

You served your country. You were inducted into the Army on March 9, 1942, a few months before you would have been considered too old to serve. Earlier they had rejected you because of your varicose veins, but then they changed their minds, as the bodies came home or soldiers went missing.

You told me how the other men called you “Pop” because of your age, how you wrote letters for the ones who could not write, protected the vulnerable from the bullies in the camps. You cooked, something you enjoyed anyway, until August 1944, when you were attached to General Patch’s Seventh Army. You never told me how you saw your friend shot in the middle of the forehead while you were both fighting from a foxhole. You never told me how you went into shock, had to be hospitalized, and then was sent back to the Front.

You did tell me you were captured by the Germans.

From a local newspaper: George Albers has been notified by the War Department that his brother, Corp. Theodore Albers has been reported missing since December 23, 1944 in Belgium. The last his family heard from him was December 15, 1944.

You remained missing until Germany surrendered and you were found in a POW camp. You were quiet about your experience, only saying that often you subsisted on only black bread and water and that you had to be deloused before leaving Germany.

As you saw the end of your life growing near, you talked more.

They would only feed us every three or four days. And we had to work in a steel factory. One day I said, “I won’t work if I can’t eat.” Well, that was the wrong thing to say. They wore these long, thick leather gloves and the guard hit me across the face, knocked my glasses off. Then he kicked me where I shouldn’t be kicked and beat me so bad I was in the hospital for, oh … five or six months. I don’t remember where they took me. Just I was gone for five or six months.

You got smaller over the years, and I got taller. The last time I saw you, the last time we hugged, your head rested on my chest.

You died on April 5, 1994, but you still live in my heart.

RIP Theodore Albers, World War II veteran, former Prisoner of War. Thank you for your service, but more than that, thank you for being the best part of my life.

Lens-Artists Challenge #250 – Skyscapes or Cloudscapes

May 24th, 2023

This week’s challenge comes from Amy of The World is A Book. She asks us to share our “cloudscapes over land, sea, or cities, or just clouds.” I love clouds and am often looking up to see what they’re doing, and just as often I trip over my feet trying to take photos of them. I knew I had a lot of photos of clouds stashed on my computer so I was up for this challenge. I slogged through, selecting this one and that one when I came to my collection of sunset photos taken when we were in Savannah, Georgia. They still take my breath away, although my photos don’t do true justice to what we saw that evening. The photos were taken in January 2016 with an iPhone 5S. No filters. Seriously, the colors you’ll see here are the colors I saw with my naked eyes.

I started “snapping” photos at about 4:23 PM and finished close to 6:00 PM. The scenery will change because I took photos at different angles along the Savannah River. Enjoy.

I hope you enjoyed this series. If you want to join in, make a link to Amy’s original post (click here) and tag Lens-Artists so you can be found through the WP Reader.

Three For A Girl by Kevin Brennan #BookReview

May 22nd, 2023

Book cover in thirds. House at top third, crow in the middle, and Cadillac ambulance at bottom.

Three for a Girl by Kevin Brennan is one of those character-driven stories that gets into my head and stays and stays and stays. The story is told from the point-of-view of LeeAnn Heartney as she recalls the summer of 1973 when she was 17 and the Watergate hearings dominated the news. Not that she cared. LeeAnn’s only interest was to find a way, any way, to get as far from her dysfunctional family as possible. At the time of the telling, decades have gone by, but LeeAnn narrates with a cool assessment of that summer in particular and her family in general. I was intrigued by LeeAnn’s story because I was 16 in the summer of 1973. I too fantasized about when and how I would leave my small hometown. While I was more politically aware than LeeAnn cared to be, in terms of emotional maturity, I was more like her younger sister, Jeannie, who was only 14 at the time. Still, LeeAnn reminded me of a lot of girls I knew back then and a little of myself.

The novel is a coming-of-age story, not just for LeeAnn, but also for her parents and her little sister. Her mom was only in her teens when she became pregnant with LeeAnn, but she had the good fortune to marry a man who loved her. They were working poor, but happy until the death of their baby boy. Then it all fell apart. Deep in grief, LeeAnn’s parents draw away from each other and leave the girls–LeeAnn and Jeannie–to more or less fend for themselves. No doubt that is one reason why LeeAnn seems mature for her age. She’s calculating but in a sensible way, figuring out all the angles, all the things that could go wrong. When three men who run an ambulance service rent the upstairs rooms of her home, LeeAnn sees her ticket to a new life on their “rocket-ship red and white” converted Caddie. One way or another, one of those three men would escort her to California, away from her parents’ slow disintegration. The only catch is Jeannie, three years her junior and sugar to her spice.

LeeAnn tells her family’s story by plying their versions of events with her own, giving a first-person account of their experiences based on talks she had with them long after the summer of 1973. This is a fluid kind of storytelling. Rather than give each character a chapter of their own to tell their story in a clearly demarcated way, LeeAnn’s voice, and the voices of her parents, sister, and even one of the ambulance men, flow throughout the novel like rivulets coming together and then flowing apart.

For more on how LeeAnn pulls off this way of storytelling, read Brennan’s interview with her here. (I love it when authors interview their characters.) What I also liked about this approach is that it shows the sympathy that LeeAnn has for her family. She cares for them more than she cares to admit.

The darkest part of this novel, for me, was the grief that consumed Leeny and Gerald, LeeAnn’s parents. Their baby boy who only lived a few months literally haunts the whole family for ten long years. As too often happens, his death also separates Leeny and Gerald emotionally, their marriage teetering on the edge. While there was much in the novel that moved me, reading about Leeny and Gerald’s grief nearly brought me to tears at times because it was so well done, so spot-on, and so painfully accurate.

But you can’t have darkness without light. While I was on pins and needles through much of the novel, with one calamity after another and I’m not talking just about Watergate, I knew the novel had to end well enough because LeeAnn was telling the story. Finding out just how well it would end was why I was reading. That I didn’t know exactly how it all would turn out until the end is a testament to Brennan’s skill as a novelist.

I highly recommend Three for a Girl by Kevin Brennan.

You can get your copy through the following links:

Kindle: US UK Canada Australia

Paperback: US UK Canada Australia

Follow Kevin at his blog where you can find links to his other books: WHAT THE HELL. Kevin Brennan Writes About What It’s Like

Fractured Oak by Dannie Boyd #BookReview #MagicalRealism

April 30th, 2023

The premise of this novel–that a woman dies and becomes a sentient tree–is intriguing enough, but that the tree is also a witness to a murder and actually tries to help in the resulting investigation is truly original. Two stories are laid out and told with sympathy, utilizing two distinct POVs, one being that of a 19th-century young female medical student (Catherine), and the other a soon-to-retire hardboiled female investigator (Lani). The women could not be more different from each other, except they both want justice.

Catherine was murdered and, through a trick of molecular biology, became a tree. As this tree, she witnesses a murder. While that murder is being investigated, her own murder, unsolved for generations, weighs on her mind as well as Lani’s mind. While the connection between the two women is a bit of a leap, it had a logic that I was happy to accept.

The novel is psychologically deeper than a cozy mystery, but the ending(s) were what one might expect with a cozy. While the reader knows who the contemporary murderer is, the mystery is in if and how Lani gets her man. I don’t mind knowing who the killer is as long as I’m kept in doubt as to whether he’ll be caught and brought to justice. In contrast, the reader is kept in suspense about Catherine’s generations-old unsolved murder until the very end.

All in all, Fractured Oak is a very satisfying read, and I applaud Dannie Boyd for making it seem so effortless to tell a story about two murders through the POVs of two very different but courageous women.

Dannie Boyd is (yet another) pseudonym for Carrie Rubin, the physician-turned-novelist who is already well-known and highly regarded for her medical thrillers. You can get a full account of Carrie’s books at this link.

Every Day is a New Day

April 23rd, 2023

I’ve been finding a lot of ways to avoid writing. Firstly, I challenged myself with a new-to-me method of knitting. Well, not entirely new to me as I had knitted “top-down” sweater patterns before, but those patterns always resulted in raglan sleeves … you know, the ones with a diagonal seam from armpit to collar. Not the best design for someone with a pear-shaped figure like myself. This new-to-me method, designed by Julie of Cocoknits, has a tailored yoke and pattern variations for different body types.

Are you all still with me?

I bought the Cocoknits sweater book and workbook and even a work stand (which I haven’t yet used but it came with a nice hemp bag that I could put all my tools in so that was handy). I do have some issues with the book as it was written in a narrative style, and I spent a lot of time flipping pages to figure out what to do when. I also had three false starts (meaning I started knitting and then had to rip out and start again because I misunderstand the instructions). Eventually, I also realized that it would be best to use the stash yarn that’s been wallowing in my cedar chest for the past 20 years. If the sweater is a failure, no great loss then.

And I persevered … much better than I do with my writing. For some reason, I rarely, if ever, give up on my knitting. Following is the result of my labor. Yes, this is a selfie. I do NOT enjoy taking selfies but my husband was busy and I just wanted to get it over with. The “pose” is simply to show a sleeve, not my hair, but … whatever.

Me wearing Prototype 1 of Cocoknits Emma Version B, posed to show sleeve

As if that were not enough to distract me from writing, I decided to weave potholders. Yes, you read that right. Potholders.

Many, many years ago, long before I moved to California, I learned to spin yarn and weave at a college I briefly attended. I fell in love with both activities and when it was time for me to pay tuition for the Spring semester, I decided instead to buy a 4-harness floor loom and move back home. The loom I bought is similar to the one below, but mine had four treadles instead of six.

Light-colored wood weaving loom with four harnesses and six treadles. — Four harness, six treadle floor loom from Harrisville Designs.

I wove a few things, dragged the loom across the country with me, wove a couple of more things, then sold my loom to a friend when I moved into a studio apartment that simply didn’t have enough room for it. Since then, I’ve wanted to resume weaving, but haven’t felt like I have the space for it or the dinero. And now I feel totally out of touch with weaving.

I subscribe to a magazine called Little Looms which promotes weaving on small, even tiny, looms. A recent issue had an article on weaving potholders. I know I wove potholders when I was a kid, but my memories are vague. That said, I was hooked (no pun intended) by the article. I promptly ordered a potholder kit from Friendly Looms (which just happens to be affiliated with Harrisville Designs, the company from which I bought my floor loom all those years ago). Of course, I also had to buy a pattern book. Of course.

Wendy wondering what all this has to do with her.

Here’s my first potholder.

After I shared these photos on Facebook, two of my relatives asked me to make a couple for them. Cool.

Weaving potholders is a meditative practice. It also doesn’t take long to make one. It’s almost instant gratification compared to knitting a sweater.

But, in truth, I have been writing. I joined a group in the SmokeLong Fitness Community and have written a bit. I want to share what I’ve written here. I just need to figure out how I want to do that.

And if you’ve read this far … here’s your gratuitous cat photo.

My little boy Raji loves snuggling up to my big boy Junior.

My, How Times Flies #Anniversary #Blogging

April 10th, 2023

According to WordPress, I registered on WordPress.com 15 years ago. I wasn’t planning to post anything today, but when this image popped up in my notifications, I took it as a sign that I should write … something.

Alas, words do not pour out of me, at least not onto paper or my computer screen. They whirl around in my head like a cat chasing its tail. As soon as I sit down to write, they vanish, not even giving me a chance to corral some or even a few.

When I do manage to write, it’s with a clean slate and is almost always prompted by something I read.

I am by nature a mimic. I can’t seem to help myself. For example, many years ago when I was a quickly-going-insane-doctoral student, I had a professor whose speech was quite distinctive. She had a smoky drawl that, without intending to, I started to mimic for the pleasure of my husband and other students. One evening I was talking on the phone with another student, relating to her something that this professor had said to me. Before I could finish, the student exclaimed, “My god, Marie, you sound just like her!”

Oops. Unaware of what I was doing, I had slipped into the professor’s speech. From that night forward, I put all my efforts into suppressing my mimicry. This particular professor did not have a sense of humor and at the time, she also held the purse strings of my research assistantship.

My mimicry is not limited to speech. When I’m reading and I’m taken with a particular format or wordplay, I naturally try to imitate it. Not intentionally. I don’t say to myself, “Hey, I really like how that writer develops a sense of urgency with a series of run-on sentences so I’ll do the exact same thing.” No, I think I’m just inspired, but, still, I have to be careful to not mimic the writer. I want my writing to be original … at least as much as it can be given that my slate is never completely blank.

And look at that … I just wrote almost 350 words.

A Love Story That Began Almost 60 Years Ago

April 2nd, 2023

Today, April 2, is the anniversary of my sister Shirley’s wedding. Several days after she died last July, my brother-in-law shared the story of how they came to be together.

Imagine the year 1962, in a rural town in north-central New York. Three houses keep company with each other, hugged by cornfields and the main road.

Imagine the middle house, a two-story with peeling pink paint and a septic tank buried in the backyard next to the well. Inside the house are four siblings: the youngest (me) at about 5, the boy at 9, the middle sister at 16, and the oldest sister at 19.

Imagine a tall, dark, lanky lad of 19: Alfred, the son of a dairy farmer. He’s come to the pink house to see the oldest sister Char, his date for the evening.

Char is beautiful in a dark, smoldering way. Her face is round and her eyes are dark slits. She’s somehow restless and indolent at the same time. Alfred comes to the door and is greeted by Shirl, the middle sister. It’s the first time he has seen her. Shirl is cute in a perky kind of way. Her face is thin, her eyes bright and shiny.

“She opened the door and smiled. She was so bubbly.” Alfred went out with Char that evening, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Shirl and how she had smiled at him.

“Then later I called the house and she answered. She said, Oh, you want to talk to Char. I said, no, I want to talk to you.”

And so the love story begins when Shirley was just 16.

I asked my brother-in-law whether my oldest sister was miffed that he chose Shirley over her.

“Oh, no. She had lots of boyfriends.”

I’m sure she did. Char was beautiful and liked to walk the edge of the wild side. Shirley was pretty and liked to follow convention. Alfred was most likely her first and only boyfriend.

I think this is Shirley showing off her engagement ring. The best part of the photo is how happy both of my sisters look.

Alfred and Shirley married when she was 19 and he was 21. Char was her maid of honor. Alfred’s older brother was his best man. Shirley quickly settled into the life of a dairy farmer’s wife, welcoming two sons within the first couple of years of the marriage and then another son several years later.

With the nursing diploma she earned between high school graduation and her wedding day, Shirley took a job working nights in the maternity ward of a local hospital. She loved babies. She loved to write. Many of those nights, while the babies slept, she wrote letters.

I still have a lot of those letters. Well, actually, now I have scanned copies of them. I sent the originals to Alfred, to read and to keep as long as he wants them.

A few weeks before Shirley died, she pulled out her high school yearbook. She made Alfred read what he had written on the back page: “I’m so glad you’re my girl.” He tells me that he didn’t remember writing that until she showed it to him.

I wish I had known their love story, that I could have been more part of it. I was only five or six when they started to date, completely oblivious to anyone’s needs but my own. I don’t remember Alfred taking my sister out. I don’t remember him being in the picture at all until the day of their wedding, that day when I wanted to scream “Don’t go! Don’t leave me!” as she recited her vows.

And then she was gone, but only to another house, just a few miles away. A two-family house they shared with Alfred’s older brother until he divorced, got cancer and died. Some years later, the farm was sold. Alfred couldn’t run it without his older brother, but it’s still in the family and Alfred spends a lot of time there, helping the current owner with upkeep.

Alfred and Shirley kept a few acres of the farm for themselves and built a new one-story house. Ever the handyman and carpenter, Al quietly and steadily worked on their home, adding a front porch where they could sit and watch the occasional car pass by and a screened-in back porch where they could eat when the weather was mild.

Alfred worries that he didn’t hug Shirley enough, or tell her he loved her enough. While she was in the hospital those last few weeks, he visited as often as allowed. He talked to her and hugged her. Sometimes she responded and returned his hug. Sometimes she didn’t. He could never really tell if she understood anything he said.

I try to tell him that none of it would have been enough, no number of hugs or I-love-yous would ease the pain of losing her. That he has to have faith that she knew, she always knew, how deeply he loved her. He has to have faith that her love for him was just as deep as his love for her. They had 59 years together on this earth and were rarely apart from each other. They built so many happy memories together that he can’t remember them all.

Sometimes the deepest love is unspoken. The deepest love resides in the heart. It will never leave and it will never end.

Love you, Shirley, and miss you, oh, so much.

In the Company of Wolves #BookReview #PoetryCommunity

March 23rd, 2023

What is a wolf if not
the hungry wildness in the heart?

–“Human Origin”

I read fairy tales when I was a child and was often hoodwinked by them. I tended to take things literally so, for example, when reading about Rapunzel, I considered whether I go could grow my hair as long. Or, after reading Hansel and Gretel, I became suspicious of my neighbor who liked children and liked to bake. Little Red Riding Hood made me afraid of the woods and the wild creatures that might hunt me there.

For that reason, Little Red Riding Hood always bugged me. So I was eager to devour (pun intended) Luanne Castle’s latest chapbook, Our Wolves.

We meet all sorts of wolves in this slim volume. There’s the father whose eyes turn yellow when he loses his temper. There’s the young man who taunts the young girl taking diabetic jelly to her diabetic grandmother. There’s the wolf as victim, as the misunderstood protector of the girl from the huntsman.

I took the precautions of locking granny
in her closet and when the girl got there, put
her in with the old lady, then waited
for the hunter to show up with his knife
and leering face. But it didn’t go well for me.

–“You All Been Waiting for a Wolf Confession”

In “What Happens in the Dark When It’s Cold Outside,” even the grandmother doesn’t entirely blame the wolf. Castle twists the tale of the grandmother who is faulted for

being old and needy.
I am old and need to be heard.

She also twists the tale of the huntsman or woodcutter, noting the history of variation and revision, a man less of a protector and more of a slacker:

When the wolf came back to the forest,
he wanted to work off some calories
and offered to chop some trees while
I took a nap in the echoing silence.

–“I’m a Woodcutter, Dammit”

I enjoyed Castle’s versions of the fairy tale, giving each character voice and showing how any one of them could be a wolf. Her interpretations encourage me to rethink the story and its multitude of meanings.

The poems where she describes living with wolves in real life chill me more than any fairy tale. In “How to Digest the Wolf,” we learn about a girl who would

Study his face for bared teeth or curled lips.

Take the belt without crying.

[…]

Find a wolf hunter to be your boyfriend.

Having been a follower of Luanne’s blog (Luanne Castle: Poetry and Other Words (and cats!)) for several years and an avid reader of her poetry and other writing, I’m aware that some of these poems might be autobiographical. (Perhaps we can call them “autopoetry”?)

Ultimately, though, the girl–the poet–wins.

You’re in charge.
Tip your hand, open the mouth,
and howl at the moon, all aquiver.

–“How to Make a Hand Shadow Wolf”

I hope you enjoyed this review. I highly recommend Our Wolves. You can purchase a copy at Amazon.com.

To Submit or Not Submit, That is the Question #WhyWrite #WhyBotherWithSubmissions

February 6th, 2023

January turned out to be a real bust when it came to writing. I had started the Smokelong Fitness Group in earnest but quickly lost my will to write. I submitted two pieces to my group for feedback, but I’m not sure if either is worth working on further. I even went through a period where I questioned the purpose of writing (my writing, that is).

I see lots of writers sharing their publications on Twitter and other social media, and I’m happy for them. But what does it mean? What does a long list of publications in journals–mostly online venues–mean for a writer? Sure, it’s a validating experience. It’s reassuring and rewarding to know that other people like one’s writing and want to publish it.

But is that the ultimate goal? Or is there even a goal? Do writers submit for the sake of submitting, to grow their portfolio so they can say, “Look at all the places I’ve been published.”? I don’t begrudge anyone who wants to be published. I still want to be published. But, I’m feeling a little wary about jumping on the submission bandwagon.

I have a blog (this thing here), and I occasionally write on Medium, but from what I’ve observed, it’s not enough to publish one’s writing on one’s own blog or another platform. If I have a story or a poem or an essay that I’ve worked hard on and want to share, I must first submit it to a journal, then suffer countless rejections just so, eventually, I can celebrate the one or two or five publications I finally get.

I know I’ll submit my writing like most writers do. But getting published is not why I write. At least, it’s not why I started writing.

Meanwhile …

I’ve been knitting. I just finished a wool scarf that will soon be on its way to someone in a much colder clime. The pattern was quite a challenge, but it turned out to be relatively simple once I got into a routine AND made sure I would not be distracted while knitting. The worst part was having to count the stitches after every row to be sure that I hadn’t dropped or added a stitch. Egad. But it was so worth it.

Fox Paws Scarf designed by Xandy Peters

Close-up of pattern

The colors in the photos are off a bit. They are: navy, plum, lavender, charcoal gray, and light gray. Even though I initially struggled with the pattern, I’m game to make another Fox Paws scarf.

And that is the difference between knitting and writing. I really don’t need outside validation of my knitting because the act itself is so enjoyable for me. Knitting makes me feel grounded. It also seems more readily appreciated than writing, I suppose because it’s visual and has texture. With my writing, I’m always looking for outside validation, someone to tell me that they really enjoyed my [fill in the blank]. Rarely do I read my own writing and feel as satisfied as I do with my knitting. At least, these days.

Meanwhile …

Recently we went to the Wolf Creek Trout Lily Preserve near Whigham, Georgia, about 35 miles from our home. I learned about the Preserve through another nature center. This Saturday (February 4), they opened for the season. As it was a cool, sunny day, I suggested to my husband that we take a drive up and look about.

Here are a few of the photos I took while there. We couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day.

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According to the Preserve:

[Trout lilies] are usually found in the Appalachian mountains. The theory is that they migrated from the mountains probably tens of thousands of years ago. When the last ice age receded they were left in some spots in southwest Georgia and north Florida, east of the Chattahoochee, Flint, and Apalachicola Rivers. Apparently the Wolf Creek spot is just right for them – a north facing slope of just the right angle, a hardwood forest with dappled sunlight in the winter, soils of just the right type and depth before underlying clay. Whatever the reasons, they prospered at the site, and Grady County is blessed with a beautiful marvel for all lovers of nature! It is definitely a photographer’s paradise!

I recommend visiting the website of Wolf Creek Trout Lily Preserve (click here for the link). They have lots of wonderful photos and information on their wildflowers.

So, what are your thoughts about writing and submitting? Do you feel you need to submit your writing to journals? Do you feel less of a writer if your list of publications is a lot shorter than other writers? Am I fussing about nothing?

Guest Post – The Last Drive by John W. Howell #newbook

January 13th, 2023

I am so pleased to be with you today, Marie. I want to thank you for helping spread the word about The Last Drive. This book is about eternity and those finding their chosen way to spend the afterlife. It is not intended to be religious but does take on a spiritual tone as the conflict between souls who qualify for a great afterlife and Lucifer takes place. As you can imagine, Lucifer is not too happy that he lost his position as one of the archangels. Like most grumpy folks, Lucifer doesn’t want anyone to be happy when he isn’t happy. He has a habit of taking out his unhappiness by trying to get the pure and innocent to make big mistakes and thus fall under his control.

Here is the blurb, and then we can get to a short excerpt from the book.

The Blurb

In the sequel to Eternal Road – The final stop, Sam and James are reunited to look for two souls, Ryan and Eddie. Ryan was killed in Afghanistan, trying to avoid a schoolyard with his crippled plane. Eddie Rickenbacker, Ryan’s hero, is to guide Ryan to his Eternal Home, and now both are missing.

The higher-ups believe that there has been some interference in Ryan and Eddie’s journey by Lucifer, so Sam and James have the task of finding Ryan and Eddie to get them back on the road despite the evil interference. Unfortunately, the machinations designed to prevent Ryan and Eddie from completing their journey take the pair to horrifying testing grounds. The places visited represent the best work of the Devil. They are the trenches of World War I in France, gladiators at the Roman Coliseum, the sinking Titanic in 1912, Hiroshima 45 minutes before the bomb, and the Auschwitz concentration camp in 1943.

This book is for you if you like plenty of action, strong characters, time travel, and a touch of spiritual and historical fiction. So, join Sam and James as they try to find the missing souls while staying one step ahead of the Prince of Darkness, who is determined to destroy all that is good.

An Excerpt

Sam frowns. “What do you mean ‘sign?’”

“A figure of speech. You know like when you join a club or team.”

“Yeah, I never did that. I died at age seven, remember.”

James lowers his voice. “Of course. Can we use the Oldsmobile?”

“I don’t see why not. Seems like the perfect vehicle.”

“Follow me.” A little ahead of Sam, James leads them out of the trees, and Sam spots a barn in the meadow.

“Is the Olds in there?” She quickens her pace and catches up with James.

“Yup. It’s been there since we used her last. For whatever reason—I know this, but for the life of me, I don’t know why—I haven’t thought of the Olds since then. Hey, how long ago was our search for my Eternal Home?”

Sam pulls at her ear. “I don’t know. See, keeping track of time’s unnecessary here.”

“Well, it’s not important.” At the doorway, James smiles and grabs one of the handles on the enormous sliding entryway. He gives it a pull, and the door moves effortlessly. “Wow, it’s dark in there. Let me open the other door so we can see what condition the Olds is in.”

Sam laughs. “I expect it’s perfect. This is your Eternal Place, after all. Things go the way you want them to go here.”

“I forgot. You’re the expert on all things Eternal.” James throws the door open and turns to look inside. As Sam said, the Oldsmobile appears as though it just drove off the assembly line. “Look at that.”

Sam follows James into the barn and runs her hand along the gleaming fender. “I would say she’s ready to go. I hope you didn’t lose the keys.”

“The keys are in her. Go around and get in.” James opens the door and climbs in behind the steering wheel. He gazes at the instrument panel and waits for Sam to close the passenger door. “So, where we off to?” James rubs his hands together.

A Link to the Trailer

You Tube – https://youtu.be/HEUninXiibI

Buy Links

The Last Drive is available in paper and Kindle editions on Amazon. Here are the universal links. The Kindle edition is on sale for 99¢ through mid-February.

Kindle – https://mybook.to/FYmkKr

Paper – https://mybook.to/BCsWV

Author Bio

John is an award-winning author who after an extensive business career began writing full-time in 2012. His specialty is thriller fiction novels, but John also writes poetry and short stories. He has written six other books that are on Amazon in paperback and Kindle editions.

John lives in Lakeway, Texas with his wife and their spoiled rescue pets.

Author links

Blog Fiction Favorites – http://johnwhowell.com

Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/john.howell.98229241

Twitter – https://www.twitter.com/HowellWave

Goodreads – https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7751796.John_W_Howell

Amazon Author’s page – https://www.amazon.com/author/johnwhowell

BookBub – https://www.bookbub.com/profile/john-w-howell

Eternal Road Buy links

Kindle Universal link – mybook.to/EternalRoad

Paper universal link – mybook.to/Eternalroadpaper

John, it was my great pleasure to have you as a guest on my blog and to spread the word about your new novel! I wish you the best in success!