The Day the Earth Swallowed Me

Just another ordinary day. No, scratch that. Unlike our horrible Winter, it was an unnaturally beautiful February day. No snow, no ice, no winds, no tornados...just the temperature hanging out in the terrific upper '60's. And it felt great.

So Spring Fever beckoned me to sit out on the deck and watch my dogs do their business (an old guy hobby I've developed; you've gotta take your fun where you can find it.).

Now, our senior (mostly blind) dog was lagging behind as usual. So, I ventured out into the yard to gather him up and carry him inside.

With dog in arms, my arthritis dwindling due to the warm temperature, everything was going extremely well!

Naturally that's when Mother Nature decided to play a nasty trick on me. Halfway through the yard, the deck and back door into the house well within sight, BLAMMO!

The hell?...

I'm not sure what happened to our dog, but my entire right leg had fallen through the earth. Incredulous, stunned, I was stuck in the earth, my leg dangling below me into a hellish crater.

My first thought was This can't be happening. My second thought: My God, what kind of huge-ass creature burrowed this cave beneath six inches of top soil and is it going to eat my leg off? Finally, my most realistic thought occurred: I've stumbled into The Mole People's den!

Panicked, I began to yell and holler for my wife who was working upstairs. And it was the first time I ever cursed our house for having great sound insulation.

Stuck in the earth, no one to hear my cries for help before the Mole People devoured me, I weighed my options. My phone wasn't with me, so that was out of the question (never again will I belittle kids for having their phone glued to their hands). And as in the James Franco film where he cut off his arm to survive, that option seemed unlikely as I had no cutting utensil and my teeth couldn't reach my thigh.

If only one of our neighbors would look out the window, they would see me with the earth enveloping the entirety of my right leg and my left leg buckled beneath me in an agonizing contortionist's squat. No time for embarrassment!

The dogs were no help. The two younger ones just stood on the deck, wagging their tails while watching me squirm in pain. (I think they thought I was "taking care of my business.") Finally, the older, near-blind dog walked up toward me and I tried to shoo him away. If he fell into the hole, I wasn't sure we could fish him out as the cave felt like it went all the way to China (like in those informationally accurate cartoons I learned geography from).

I was on my own. With a great Herculean surge of energy, I unfolded my bent leg. Using my arms, I pushed through the surrounding mud (created by a foot of recently melted snow) until I got a good grip on the ground and pulled my leg out of the hole. It was still intact! Clearly, the Mole People were still slumbering.

But I couldn't get up. My arthritis was on fire, aggravated by my plummet into the earth, my knees, back and toes screaming for relief. Plus I had nothing to leverage my way up to standing.

Survival instinct kicked in. Using mostly my arms I pulled myself-- half-slithering, half-crawling--through wet grass, mud and dog poop. Lots and lots and LOTS of dog poop. Finally, I reached the deck where I was able to hoist myself up on my battered legs.

That was when my wife finally came to the rescue. She came into the kitchen and stopped at the open back door when she saw me.

Painted all the pretty (and smelly) earth-tones of mud and doggy-poo, I must've been quite the sight.

"Oh my..." she said, her eyes widening. "What happened?"

I explained. Carefully, she went out to the new hole in the yard, put her phone inside and took pictures. A vast cave just like I had thought, but that wasn't the weirdest part.

"Whoa," she exclaimed. "There's a concrete wall down there!"

I hobbled my way toward the excavation point, careful to stand as far back as I could. I couldn't see the wall, but her picture showed me the proof.

That's when my thoughts swam from woe-is-me tragedy to big-bucks-bonanza for us!

Obviously, we'd discovered Al Capone's TRUE vault, full of stacks and stacks of cash and Jimmy Hoffa's body! Eat it, Geraldo!

Then my wife sorta brought me back down to earth. "I don't know who to call in this situation."

"The press! Our financial guy! Everyone who's ever hacked us off, so we can rub our new riches in their--"

"I'll call our insurance agent," she said, ever the voice of reason.

The insurance agent told us to call the city. The city guy came out and said, "Not our problem. It's an old septic tank. Maybe an old cellar."

Boom. Fizzle, fizzle, fizzle... All of my dreams of fabulous monetary wealth went up as fast as my leg went down into the earth.

But...who do you call to restore the earth? I'm sorry, Mother Nature! Don't take it out on us! We recycle and do what we can to preserve our earth. Blame it on the Maga's! Make THEM fall through their yards! 

While I'm whining about lost opportunities, I may as well plug a book. Hey, it's Tex, the Witch Boy! My very first book and still one of my wife's favorites. It's got suspense, mystery, murder, witchcraft (natch), humor, pathos, romance, ghosts, supernatural shenanigans, a serial killer, and I do believe there's even a kitchen sink in there somewhere. But quit reading the hype, and go buy the dang thing already!

The Worst City Planner in the Country

After formulating a highly scientific study on every city in the country (or at least a couple near me that I drive through), there's a clear-cut winner in the worst city planner category.

Without further ado, I give you...Roeland Park! Ta-dahhhhh!

Now, don't get me wrong, Roeland Park has its charms. It's a quaint little suburb nestled right into the middle of the Kansas City metropolitan area, with a lovely variance in neighborhoods, houses and yards.

And truth be told, I hold a personal grudge. For you see, Roeland Park is just one block over from where we live and the pampered, sissy Roeland Parkers actually are able to rake their leaves to the curb and the city picks 'em up. Constantly, the Roeland Parkers drive by, taunting, smirking, and honking as we break our backs picking up leaves and stuffing 'em into eco-friendly and awkward to use paper bags.

Jerks.

But I digress.

The City Planner of Roeland Park is either a mad man or is laughing all the way to the bank.

Case in point: Roeland Park used to be a nice little place with small mom and pop stores lining a couple of streets that were easy to drive through to get from point A to point B. Not any longer. Mr. Big Britches City Planner Man decided to discard these streets and stores and plotz a huge, honking eyesore of a Walmart into the middle of town. Now to reach one of the nearest main streets, one has to drive through the Walmart parking lot, while avoiding kazillions of Walmart shoppers (20 points for families!). It simply can't be avoided.

 Also, Mr. I'm So Crazy, I'm Gonna Jack Up This City Planner Guy decided it'd be really purty to put an old-fashioned, partial brick street at the entrance-way to a strip mall. Sure, it's purty. For six months. But after every six months or so, the bricks have to be replaced because they can't stand up beneath the weight of the traffic!

That same entrance-way should be nick-named "Death Drive." There's no light or signage before you're thrust out onto a major thoroughfare. If you're unfamiliar with the quirks of Roeland Park, you're about to be T-boned!

Don't get me going on the art. Check out this statue...

The holy hell??? What is it, some kinda terrifying monster looking to steal kids away from their beds in the middle of the night?

Also, I think Freddy Krueger did the sculptures for the local skate park. They're all gone now, which makes me think the Angry Mom Society must've had their say. But there were sculptures of a dismembered foot on a skateboard along with various other body parts, a serial killer's dream park. I can no longer find any evidence of these monstrosities other than this creepy photo of a killer's mask on a skate board...

Then there's the lovely, billion dollar mural on 47th street. Personally, I like it. But it's dropped into the crazy, winding, deadly 47th street where people like to pretend they're in the Indy 500 and careen down it at breakneck speeds. Who has time to look at it? It's hard enough trying to stay alive (pedestrian or driver) along this snake-like road.

Then there was the time Mr. Hot-Shot, I'll Show You Who's Boss City Planner looked at everyone's homes and dropped mandatory notices that about 95% of the homes had to be painted or else you'd be subject to fines. Some kinda eye-in-the-sky beautification project or something. The problem is, these guys were all about quantity over quality and dinged brick houses and homes with siding!

These are just a few of my gripes with Roeland Park's city planner. (But, really, I think it boils down to my anger that we still have to bag leaves. If our city ever opts for the curbside pick-up, all will be forgiven, Roeland Park!)

While I'm kavetching over plans, it seems some plans are just doomed from the start. Tex McKenna, suburban Kansas high school student, has the simplest of plans. He just wants to survive the trauma of high school, what with its bullies and sadistic gym teachers and other issues. Yet when he finds out he's a witch and there's a serial killer stalking the bullies of his high school, Tex has to make some readjustments to his plans (and that's putting it mildly!). See what all the fuss is about (at least in my head) and check out Tex the Witch Boy.

House Under Siege!

Loud explosions are bursting outside. Bombs land on the roof that shake the interior, hurting my teeth fillings. My house is falling apart, debris landing in the yard. Men are shouting outside, overhead, some of them yelling at me in a language I don't understand. And I sit inside my house with no electricity, cowering in fear.

Nope, I'm not in the war-torn Ukraine. Instead, war has been declared on my house, my land, in a puny little suburb of Kansas City in Nowhere, U.S.A!

Now that I've vented in my finest drama queen fashion, I suppose a few explanations are in order (although, I gotta say, it's much more fun being a drama queen).

Everything happens at once. It started with the tree in our backyard splitting off a huge branch and then crunching up our fence. I already told you about my woes with the filthy rich arborist robbing us blind, so I won't go into that again. But with all the torrential downfalls of rain we've been suffering (shut up, Global Warning deniers!), recently we discovered a leak in the house. Which lead to an inspection of our roof. Which lead to a jaw-dropping estimate to replace the roof, especially since "the last guys that put on your roof didn't do it right. They just done slapped the new roof on top of the old wooden roof. Which is illegal now."

Crikey! "Illegal?" Are the roofing police coming for us? How're we supposed to keep up with what's legal and illegal in roofs? Between shootings and Covid, these days it's hard enough trying to stay alive without worrying about roofs!

So, we decided to take the deep, ever-so-deep plunge into our credit card, and get a new roof. Because we didn't want to end up in roofing jail.

Now, of course, with a faulty roof (which insurance refused to pay for, par for the course), comes the inevitable wood rot caused by our friend, Nature. We also got an estimate for that. Once my wife managed to get me up off the floor, we decided to get that tended to as well. Ka-chinggggg!

In keeping with the unkind and nasty Fates' sense of mean-spirited humor, our refrigerator and dishwasher decided to die at the same time. Ha ha. It is to laugh! Joie de vivre!

Here's the kicker:  every stinking one of these guys decided to do it all at the same time. Either due to weather or again, the nefarious Fates giggling over their pawns in the game of Life, everything coalesced at once.

But wait! There's more! The day before Hell reigned down on our (used to be) quiet and (not quite so) humble abode, the doorbell rings.

I hold back our two dogs, "Rowdy" and "Rumpus," and finally get outside to talk to some Orange shirted city employee.

"Hey there, Mr. America," he says, "we're from the city works department and we're working on a beautification project. We're going to fix the curb at the end of your driveway starting tomorrow. Should take about a week."

"Yow!" I say. "Um, can you postpone your beautification a bit?" I listed everything happening. 

He tells me, "sure we'll start on another house down the street."

The next morning, I'm awakened by loud trucks, back-up whistles, horn honks, yelling men, screams, total chaos. Sure enough, the street crew's going to work. I toss on some jeans, run outside flailing my arms, one of the dogs hot on my heels.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold up, guys! You're not going to start on the driveway today, are you?"

Dumb question because one of the eight member team is holding a jackhammer up above the street. The rest of the guys are looking at me quizzically, either because they don't speak English or I appear insane in my "Who farted?" T-shirt. You'd kinda think that both of our cars being in the driveway may've been a tip-off clue that they shouldn't start yet, or at least ring the doorbell, but no, that's not how the street crew rolls.

One guy finally speaks up. "Right. You're having tree work done later today, so we're supposed to start on your driveway."

"No, no, no, nyet, nada, nunca, noooooooo! The guy yesterday said you'd start down the street."

"Right. We're just going to cut the street apart."

Clearly, what we had here was a failure to communicate. "But...but...we need to get our cars out of the driveway later."

Blink. Blinkety-blink-blink. "Right," says Foreman Clueless. "We're just gonna cut the street."

Giving up, I go inside, keeping an eye out on what they're doing. Later when it came time for me to leave, the eight all-stars grumbled and groused because they had to move while I parked both cars in the street.

And these guys stretched out a simple one day job into nine days of miserable dislocation. Every morning, they'd work about 45 minutes before adjourning for Happy Hour. Clearly they were getting paid by the day, not by the hour.

Which made us very, very popular with the neighbors. Since we couldn't park in our driveway, that took up two street spots. Factor in a thousand large and larger street crew vehicles , a ginormous tree devouring monster truck, various delivery vehicles, multiple roofers' autos along with massive supplies being dumped into our poor abused yard, you couldn't even drive through the street, let alone park on it. As I said, our neighbors just love us!

That's just the chaos outside. Inside was just as bad. The electricity went down a couple of times. I'm kinda a modern guy. Without electricity, there's not a lotta fun to be had. I suppose I could've cut my toenails by candlelight, but that's about four minutes shot.

Also, I walk around the house in my underwear in the mornings, part of my routine. Kinda hard to do when there are people climbing all over your roof, up the side of the house, peering into windows, and knocking at the door.

Once, I was getting dressed upstairs after my shower and I see some guy knocking at the small window trying to get my attention. Quickly, I pull on pants and open the window. 

In a surreal exchange, he says, "Hi. We're here to do wood rot repair."

Huh. Honestly, I would've thought the front door may've been a better introductory point, but what do I know?

And I never thought that wood rot repair would be so noisy. Imagine a thousand dental drills amplified and held up to your ear.

Finally, the various crews wrapped up and a cease-fire was called. With the white flag of surrender waved, peace once again dropped over our abode like quiet, ever so blissfully quiet, falling snow.

Until the next calamity, natch. And don't let the old saying, "everything happens in threes" fool you. It's more like "everything happens in nines."

And, hey! While on the topic of having a very disruptive life, meet Richard "Tex" McKenna. Between bullies (peers and teachers both) and burgeoning love, he's having a hard time in high school, but when you consider he's just found out he's a witch, things really get screwy. Not to mention a mysterious serial killer who's offing various bullies. This and so much more can be found in Tex, the Witch Boy, my very first novel, recently resurrected from the dead by The Wild Rose Press. (My wife still thinks it's her favorite book of mine.)

Torture by Kenny G

We've all been there. Stuck on the phone, on hold, and the unfortunate Kenny G comes wailing away at you with his God-awful, sickly sweet, dulcet saxophone tones.

Folks, it's worse than waterboarding and should be outlawed.

Torture is the only way to describe it. The powers that be have such disdain for us that they can't allow you to be patched through to a real person without first punishing you with agonizing minutes of Kenny G. They hate us that much. There can be no other explanation.

Pity my poor, suffering brother-in-law. Recently, his identity was stolen and used for unemployment benefits. As if this wasn't enough abuse, the onus was on him to attempt to break through the government robots on hold who soundly thrashed him with a half hour of Kenny G's "Songbird" on an endless loop.

On Facebook, my bro-in-law posted this and said, "I hate criminals." I replied, "the real crime is Kenny G."

I don't know whose idea it was to "entertain" people on hold with Kenny G. Someone, somewhere, must think that it's comforting music, meant to mollify the masses into compliant passivity until they finally break. In fact, it's no coincidence that Kenny G is the most popular on hold music across the world.

It's a conspiracy of far-right reaching proportions.

Look, I don't have a problem with Kenny G... Except for maybe his music sucks. It's like ear candy for grown-ups who have to be told that Kenny G is good. And the fact that a grown man is going around calling himself "Kenny G." First, Kenny is a child's name, Kenneth. Second, I highly doubt your last name is truly "G." And then there's Kenny's hair. Just looking at it makes me want to run for the scissors. Okay, and I hate having to be force-fed his ear pablum in so-called "relaxing" environs. I've been known to bolt from a store if Kenny G is wailing away from the speakers at ear-breaking decibels.

So, yeah. Maybe I do have a problem with Kenny G. I hate him.

Usually, when I'm on hold, it's either Kenny G or a close second worst, Christoper Cross' "Sailing." That's it, nothing else. And again it's no accident that these two are what pummels your ears, two of the worst and inexplicably popular entertainers from the last century. Government and big business want you to suffer, they want to torture you. To what nefarious ends, who knows. Big government moves in strange and mysterious ways.

Let's abolish Kenny G. As much as I despise the term "cancel culture," Kenny G truly deserves to be "cancelled" before he turns our minds into mush. Stop the insanity.

Now that I've gotten that insanity off my chest, I gotta plug my book, Peculiar County. It's my favorite outta 24 titles. Read it and see if you can understand why. Go on, I dare ya. Let me just put on a little Kenny G to play in the background while you go find it...

 

A Mighty Peculiar Place to Visit...

Today, my favorite book of mine (outta 23 or whatever!) is republished by the fine folks at Grinning Skull Press, Peculiar County, with a tremendous cover by the talented Jeffrey Kosh.

Why is it my favorite book, I hear you thinking? Not sure, really. Maybe it's the small Kansas town setting in the early sixties full of beyond quirky and sinister characters such as the librarian witch sisters. Perhaps it's the odd things going on around town such as Mittens, the ghostly dog or the mysterious creature that takes to the skies at night. Could be it's the (I hope) stylish prose. Or maybe it's just down to the protagonist, Dibby Caldwell, a smart, 15-year-old tomboy discovering romance, ghosts, danger, and mystery which upends her world.

I've had more than a few people ask how in the world I was able to channel the mindset of a 15-year-old girl so well. One person even suggested I'd transitioned. I don't have an answer for that except to say that once I got to know Dibby, she pretty much wrote herself. All of the best characters react that way. Frankly, Peculiar County was the easiest book I've ever written, too, and maybe that's why it's my favorite. I was on auto-write. The lazy man's book, the way I like it.

I dunno... Maybe it's my favorite because the last publisher who had it, didn't understand it and mishandled the hell outta it.

Here, give me a minute... 

 Okay, this is the cover they wanted to saddle it with. Sweet Mother of Pearl! See that Justin Bieber kid acting all coy and cutesy and bee-bopsy in the cornfields? That's supposed to be a six-year-old ghost in the early sixties. Geeze. Anyway, the diva cover "artist" wouldn't do a redo (everyone at that particular publisher bows down to her for some unknown reason), so I at least told her to ditch Bieber. Thank God she did that. But, still, the cover was lacking...What're we left with? Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. Even worse, maybe "Little House on the Prairie." Gah.

Actually, the original inspiration for Peculiar County was the great To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (although not even near that classic's league, natch), one of my all time childhood faves. Except for, you know, the supernatural elements I added. And no social relevance. Okay, on second thought, it's nothing like Mockingbird, so ignore my pretensions. I just get excited about this book.

Some readers are also surprised that I've never lived in a small rural town. Just made it all up. And from paying attention when we'd drive through such places. It must be said, though, that a couple characters are based on real people my in-laws told me about. The one-armed, military attired phone operator was real! And the legend of the ghost dog was a story I picked up from an Oklahoma diner. The things you learn while driving through the Midwest...

All of these reasons and more are why this is my favorite book. In fact, it's nearest in end result of what I'd intended out of anything I've tackled. Which is why I've slowed way down on writing. I don't know that I'll ever match this book again.

But enough of my blabbing...check out what one reviewer said...

"What Mr. West has accomplished is a book that keeps on giving phrase after clause after sentence after paragraph you'll want to highlight and say 'this is so amazingly good.'" 

That makes it all worth it.

Life is different in Peculiar County.

So is death, as Dibby Caldwell, the fifteen-year-old daughter of Hangwell's mortician, is about to find out.

 

Witches lurk in the shadows.

A menacing creature haunts the skies.

And the dead refuse to stay dead.

Peculiar County. Available right about....NOW!

 

 

Spartacus Got Me Beat Up

I have a vague recollection of my parents dragging me to see "Spartacus," when I was a wee lad. It must've been a revival or maybe we even watched it on TV. Whatever. But forcing a six-year-old boy to sit through a three hour and twenty minute epic about boring politicians hanging out and talking in togas strikes me as not the greatest idea.

(Side note: My dad had a strange history of the films he chose for family viewing. We saw "Patton (tortuously dull)," "Walking Tall (how was this a children's film?)," and best of all, "Billy Jack (my first spotting of female nekkidness--three, count 'em, three times!--Thanks, Dad!)." Once we got older, his choices grew worse, leaning toward redneck comedies with Clint Eastwood and an orangutan. I finally broke with the herd; while they watched Burt Reynolds and cars, I snuck into the theater next to it to catch flicks like "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and "Dog Day Afternoon.")

Anyway, as a six or seven year old, "Spartacus" bored me stupid. But one thing stayed with me. Well, two actually: the gladiator fights and how the Roman emperors would react to the outcome of a match, usually with a dramatically downward turned thumb to end the loser's life. Cool!

So, the next morning, there I was on the school bus, all sparkly and glowing with gladitorial thoughts as we bumped our slow and nauseating way to school. All was terrific in my little world until we came to the inevitable stop to pick up this older, bus bully. That's when I always clammed up, for I'd felt his wrath before, having been tripped by him, shoved, called names, the entire fun package.

Once this monster boarded, I tried to make myself invisible and retract into my turtleneck shirt. It seemed to work, as he found a new target in the kid in front of me. But after a while, I'd had enough of watching this torment. I found myself wondering not what would Spartacus do in such a moment, but rather what would a Roman emperor do. The answer was quite obvious.

Slowly, methodically, oh-so-dramatically, I raised my hand. Made a fist with my chubby lil' thumb up. A hush fell over the bus. A spotlight framed by the sun pouring in caught me. For one glorious moment, all eyes were upon me in my most Roman magnificence. Then I turned my thumb down.

I don't know what I was thinking. The gesture was meant for the bully, not his victim, so it didn't make a lot of sense. And how in the world could I possibly get out of this? By inspiring the rest of the beaten and downtrodden smaller kids to revolt on my behalf? 

Clearly the bully understood the gesture was meant for him (even though I'm absolutely certain he didn't understand the context; I've never met a smart bully. I'm pretty sure that's why they are bullies). Quickly, his rage turned toward me. He grabbed my turtleneck, raised me, shook me, cursed me, and ended things nicely with a few punches. Naturally, the bus driver ignored the obvious ruckus, only because he was the second biggest bully on the bus.

(Side note #2: A college friend of mine was indoctrinating his girlfriend into the "joys" of "Spartacus" at a revival, as she had never seen the film. When they drove up to the glorious old Glenwood Theater {the last of it's old-fashioned massive kind}, she read the marquee and got angry. Beneath "Spartacus" was the title for another film, "One Good Cop." She read it all as one title. "You didn't tell me this was a cop movie," she yelled. Even better, when they watched the credits and writer Dalton Trumbo's name came up, she screams, "That's my uncle!" "Spartacus" touches everyone in different ways.)

Recently, my wife and I watched Spartacus again and all of these painful memories came flooding back. Some kind of leader, that Spartacus. Not only did he get all of his followers crucified, but he made a grade school kid take one for the team, too.

I am NOT Spartacus!

While on the topic of bullies from my past, they run absolutely amok throughout the first book in my high school/supernatural/murder mystery/comedy/social issues trilogy, Tex, the Witch Boy. These characters, too, are based upon my bullies in high school hell. Give it a look-see if you dare.

 

My Special Own Bully

Back in the day, there was a kid who chose to bully me for being overweight from seventh grade up through twelfth grade. At that time, I lost about 100 pounds, so he stopped bullying me because clearly, it just wasn't fun any longer. Tough crowd.

Let's call him Jimmy Mohawk.

Man, did Jimmy freak me out. Scary with crazy eyes and a pinched, fox-like face, the guy had several screws loose. I'd always suspected it, but one night he proved my theory particularly well. I was with a friend, walking the mean streets of Mission, Kansas (so, soooo mean) one night, when we ran into my nemesis. Screaming at the top of his lungs with his cohorts, he found a metal pipe and began bashing it into a light-post, threatening to kill me. We just kinda walked away hoping he wouldn't follow through with his death threat.

Turned out the buddy I was with was Jimmy's hesitant locker partner. Jimmy Mohawk played his particularly insane brand of cray on him when he assassinated my pal's lunch sandwich and spread it all over the locker. Fun in junior high!

Oh, I could take Jimmy's constant name-calling and threats. I could even handle his sticking his leg out in classroom aisles, trying to trip me. And since he never succeeded in tripping me (I always high-stepped over the jack-ass' leg), that just pissed him off more. He came after me with a vengeance.

So, desperate, for the first time ever, I went to my big brother for help. He said, "Just go up to him and tell him you're not gonna take it any more."

I thought about it. The next day, in the gym locker room, I took in a deep breath, and did just that. I couldn't believe Jimmy's response. He acted like I was nuts, said he never bullied me, didn't know what I was talking about. But he was clearly shaken.

I went home, had a great weekend. King of the world! Until Monday. When Jimmy came back harder than ever. Absolutely psycho nuts, because no one had ever talked to him like that.

Sigh. It was a long, hard five years of terror. And it was the last time I ever went to my older brother for advice.

Now, through the miracle of technology and writing, let's jump ahead to 2019!

Here's the best part of my tale of teenage woe. Several months ago, a fellow high school graduate (a year below me), asked me to become a part of her Facebook page based on crude humor. Who else was a member of the group?

Why, insane, bullying, prince of prickery, lil' Jimmy Mohawk! I called him out on the site, because, you know, it's the internet and that's how you're expected to behave.

I wrote, "Jimmy Mohawk! My own personal bully of five years! Hah!"

Quickly, he befriended me and claimed he'd never bullied me, never did any of the things I detailed, and here's the funniest part--get this...you ready for it?--he said he ALWAYS stood up for the underdog!

Wait...what?

Delusion can be a powerful tool utilized by "tools" to rewrite themselves as the hero of their own tale.

I tried to get him to come onto my blog so I could interview him. Wouldn't that have been something, a first, I think. Of course, he had no interest in doing so. I'm pretty sure he didn't even know what a blog was.

He did, however, keep asking me to call him and talk things out. No interest on my part. Once crazy, always crazy. Alas, our rekindled "friendship" was meant to be a short-lived one.

Speaking of crazy-ass bullies, Jimmy Mohawk is featured in my young adult Tex, the Witch Boy series (under the name "Johnny Malinowski"). Based in part on my experiences of being bullied, the books should be read by any teen (or parent) who's ever been tormented in school. Hey, I have no shame!

Time-Tripping with YA Author, Tammy Lowe

This week, I'm turning my blog over to long-time friend and terrific YA writer, Tamara Lowe. She'll take you through time based on her travels through Rome which informs her fascinating new book, The Sleeping Giant. 

So instead of stinking up the joint (as I usually do) with tales of woe about my posterior, I now hand you over to a class act, Tammy...

As a young girl, I dreamed of being a time-traveller. I wanted to wear long dresses and bonnets and have daring adventures like the heroines in my favorite books. 

When I grew up, it became clear that my passport is the closest thing to a time-machine I’ll probably ever own. The historians and Egyptologists I meet are the far-way friends in distant lands, leading me through their ancient worlds.

Marissa was a gorgeous Roman archeologist, with long brown hair and a thick Italian accent. She looked like the real-life female lead in any Dan Brown novel. You know…the incredibly intelligent woman who ends up tangled in Robert Langdon’s latest feat. We’d just left the Coliseum’s “backstage” area beneath the floor of the arena—where gladiators awaited battles, often to the death. 

 

After a short walk along the cobblestone streets, Marissa stopped outside of a rather boring-looking building. I had no idea its faded yellow walls hid what could almost be considered a time machine.

What’s the rush? I wondered as she raced through a 12^th century basilica and down a flight of stairs.

It was then I realized we were traveling back in time. 

Hidden beneath the medieval basilica was another church—this one built in the 4^th century. Painted frescoes decorated the dark, underground space. I noticed the craftsmanship of the brick walls were more primitive, even to my untrained eye, than those of the church built above it.

“Follow me,” Marissa insisted, leading the way even further back in time.

After descending another flight of stairs, we stopped in the 2^nd century AD.  Here, we stumbled upon a pagan temple dedicated to the god Mithra— its stone altar positioned in the middle of the room. My eyes widened, noticing that instead of being even more primitive, the ancient brick walls were skillfully built. I couldn’t help but wonder how much knowledge was truly lost during the Dark Ages.

In the distance, I heard water flowing. Curious, I asked where it was coming from.

   

With a grin, Marissa led me still further back in time...now to the 1^st century, where the main sewer of Ancient Rome still flows. 

In 64 AD, legend says that Emperor Nero played a fiddle while Rome burnt to the ground. Many of the destroyed buildings were filled in and used as foundations for the new construction. The one Marissa and I stood in is believed to have once been the Imperial Mint before it was destroyed by the Great Fire. A mansion and apartments were then built in that spot and later several churches, each one layered atop the last— like lasagna.

As I stared down at the dirt floor, I couldn’t help but imagine the sort of people who’d walked that very spot two thousand years ago; perhaps a young runaway slave being pursued by a ruthless slave trader or a wise old philosopher on his way to advise some long-forgotten senator.

Figure 1: Ancient Roman sewer grate at city sidewalk. 1st century AD.

If you travel south of Rome, toward the Bay of Naples, you’ll find an infamous town frozen in time: Pompeii.

In 79 AD, Mt. Vesuvius erupted with the force of over a thousand nuclear bombs. However, many people didn’t even try to flee the volcanic eruption because they didn’t understand what was happening. They thought the gods were angry. Within twenty-four hours, not a trace of Pompeii remained. The city—and its inhabitants—were buried beneath layers of volcanic ash and pumice.

Over the centuries it simply became a forgotten legend. 

But…in the 1700’s, men working on a new palace for the King of Naples rediscovered Pompeii hidden twenty feet below them.

The amazing part is that as the volcanic ash hardened over time, the bodies trapped within decomposed, leaving behind what was basically…a mold. When these molds were filled with plaster, the results were life-like statues of the people who died that day; their agonizing final moments preserved forever.

 Figure 2: Plaster casts of victims killed in Pompeii. 79 AD.

Despite being a Victorian and Regency loving-little-soul, it was intimidating Ancient Rome that somehow stole my heart. I knew I had to set my latest novel in this time period. I longed to play off the terrifying volcanic eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in the final scenes.

But…was I crazy enough to attempt to write a book set in Ancient Rome? The research alone would take forever.

Apparently, yes.

I am crazy enough.

After three more years of research, a second trip to both Rome and Pompeii, I’d completely fallen head-over-heels in love with that ancient world.

I hope you will too.

YA Historical Time Travel Adventure

Lured into time-traveling to Ancient Rome, weeks before a volcanic eruption will bury the city of Pompeii, a shy teenager finds herself falling for the adventurous runaway slave she is supposed to rescue.

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*Print Copy Coming Soon*

About the Author:
An adventurer at heart, Tammy Lowe has explored ruins in Rome, Pompeii, and Istanbul (Constantinople) with historians and archaeologists.

She’s slept in the tower of a 15th century castle in Scotland, climbed down the cramped tunnels of Egyptian pyramids, scaled the Sydney Harbour Bridge, sailed on a tiny raft down the Yulong River in rural China, dined at a Bedouin camp in the Arabian Desert, and escaped from head-hunters in the South Pacific.

I suppose one could say her own childhood wish of time traveling adventures came true…in a roundabout way. 
www.tammylowe.com