I haven’t taken much time to read for the enjoyment of reading in the past couple of months. I’ve been so focused on trying to find a job that my reading has been limited to job-hunt advice – everyone has an opinion, especially so-called job experts – and the Facebook status updates of my friends, which has helped me maintain a certain degree of sanity while hunting up a job.

But the other evening I picked from my bookshelves a volume of Louis L’Amour novels and other tales. I am enjoying the stories.

As I recall, I picked up the two-volume set at a biannual yard sale that took place just down the street from where I was living on Alamo Drive in Vacaville, Calif. An elderly couple and their son – and I have to assume a legion of their family and friends – cleaned out closets, garages and storage facilities to provide a yard sale known to all Vacans. (Vacan is what a Vacaville resident calls him- or herself.)

Anyway, one year I walked by the book table and spotted the two-volume set and did a double-take. One was brown leather with gold lettering and gold on the edges of the pages. The second volume was green leather with the golden lettering and page edges. I had never read Louis L’Amour, but I figured I couldn’t go wrong with a leather-bound set that put me back less than $8.

The brown volume contains “The Tall Stranger,” “Kilkenny,” “Hondo” and “Showdown at Yellow Butte,” and had an inscription written on the inside of the front cover: “Michel – Happy 19^th Birthday 9-27-88.” And it was signed, “Love, Diane & Dad.”

The second volume, the one that I am reading now, contains, “Crossfire Trail,” “Utah Blaine,” “Heller With a Gun,” “Last Stand at Papago Wells,” and “To Tame a Land.”

I had read Zane Grey and Larry McMurtry before, but not Louis L’Amour. Of course, I was familiar with some of his work that had been made into movies for TV or cinema, most notably “Hondo,” “How the West Was Won,” “Crossfire Trail,” the Sackett movies and “Conagher.”

I read the first volume years ago, but have been carrying around the other for some time waiting for a gap in other reading to crack it open. I’m glad I did, because I am enjoying the stories – right-vs.-evil-boy-gets-the-girl-in-the-end stories – and it is proving a nice diversion from the job hunt.

I don’t think the stories are for everyone. The stories are told in a pretty simple fashion, but that’s OK.

Besides, cowboy was one of the things I wanted to be when I grew up … when I was 6 or 7. Forest ranger and truck driver were two other jobs I thought when I was 6 or 7 I’d like to have when I got to be an adult.

Ah, well, a writer-editor-columnist-blogger will have to do for now.

Terminally Curious here.

Do you have that magical Christmas feeling? Do you remember it? You know what I’m talking about. The feeling that kept you bouncing in your seat the last weeks before school was out for the holiday break, set your nerves to twanging each time you remembered the big day was only X number of days away and only let you have brief snatches of sleep the night before?

If you’ve lost it, can you at least remember the feeling? Dredge up the emotion? Recollect having had it?

I don’t remember believing in Santa (thanks to a neighbor friend who spilled the beans early on) but each Christmas when I was a kid, I’d somehow convinced myself “he” would delve into my heart and ferret out the one thing in the universe would give me a huge Christmas thrill that would last all year-round.

Every now and then, she did.

Maybe that’s why I’m a writer. (Stay with me here.) This business is FULL OF SURPRISES! After reading and hearing innumerable success stories, and knowing the size of my imagination, I was surprised that it still took me twice as long as I estimated to sell my first book. (I sold lots of confessions along the way to keep my spirit up and a little $$ coming in.) 

When I finally sold, I was surprised again! Then there’s the pleasant surprise when I have a signing and people buy my books AND WANT ME TO PUT A PERSONAL MESSAGE INSIDE. (Whoa!)

Books have always been the one true magic for me. They feed my soul. Fill my well.

All I have to do is crack open a book and I’m spirited to a world far away. Another universe. An exciting career. A different personality. I’m a murderer. An investigator. A dancer. A seer. A wizard. I’m living in a time long ago and far away.

My reading is far from classical, but, oh! What I’ve learned. 

Remember that book about the cave people who didn’t have language but did have fire? (Was it Clan of the Cave Bear?) No dialogue made it a slow story to read, but I loved the experience of living with so little, yet being able to scratch out an existence.

I lived in the Old West in Louis Lamour’s books, a wild time when I often had only a horse as a companion.

I’ve traveled to Japan and experienced the heart-rending fear of being sold as a child and trained to be a geisha, and I survived a world war.

So, when I’m trying to resurrect the magic of Christmas, I find it by rereading wonderful Christmas stories and books, and usually give at least one book as a gift. Why should I be the only one who knows there truly is magic in the world?

Is there Christmas Magic in your world? How do you find it?  

Hondo
Louis L’Amour

Synopsis – 9/10
Plot – 10/10
Characters – 9/10
Overall Story – 9/10
Conclusion – 8/10

Overall Score – 45/50

Synopsis: He was etched by the desert’s howling winds, a big, broad-shouldered man who knew the ways of the Apache and the ways of staying alive. She was a woman alone raising a young son on a remote Arizona ranch. And between Hondo Lane and Angie Lowe was the warrior Vittoro, whose people were preparing to rise against the white men. Now the pioneer woman, the gunman, and the Apache warrior are caught in a drama of love, war, and honor.

Review: Louie does it again in my opinion! This is another one of his novels that was turned into a movie featuring my favorite actor of ALL TIME John Wayne. There really is a lot going on in this book…The Apaches are uprising….Angie Lowe and her little boy have been left to fend for themselves on their ranch (which is on a watering hole that the Apaches frequent), the army is trying to get the Apache situation under control while trying to save the lives of the families around the fort and Hondo Lane is in the middle running dispatch for the army while trying to keep not only himself alive but also Angie and her little boy.

Lots of drama….Lots of gun play….Lots of all the things that make a Louis L’Amour western a Louis L’Amour novel.

On just about any Louis L’Amour book you will find a caption that entitles L’Amour as “America’s Storyteller.”  Recently I picked up the first four novels of the Sackett stories and was reminded of the affect these books had on me 20 years ago when I first read them, and why L’Amour was such a great storyteller.

I read my first Louis L’Amour book at the age of 12 and by the time I was 16 I had read every one of his 100 plus books save the four Hopalong Cassidy novels, his poetry, and autobiography.  Before this I was not much of a reader, but ever since that four year period I have not ceased to expand my literary explorations — and library.  I believe that through his stories L’Amour taught me the love of literature and instilled within me a passion for learning.

Inside my paperback copy of Walking Drum is a biographical note that states,

On the afternoon of his death, June 10, 1988, Louis L’Amour was proofreading the complete manuscript of Education of a Wandering Man, an autobiographical book about his lifelong love of reading and learning.

Currently my 7th grade class is reading The Odyssey.  Following a number of their critical comments (perhaps complaints) concerning the value and importance of the story I shared these highlights from the first 4 Sackett novels that display L’Amour’s “love of reading and learning.”

(Note: These 4 novels are set in the 17th century prior to and during the first formalized colonization of America.  Barnabas Sackett was the first to come across the Atlantic from England to settle along the base of the Appalachian Mountains in the region of North Carolina.)

Sackett’s Land

“I think . . . I feel some lonely battle was fought here, and fought well, and men died for what they believed, perhaps surrounded in this place.  Someday men may come with more knowledge than we and they will put the parts together.  And out of it will come a story of heroes.”

“You believe in heroes?” Corvino looked at him thoughtfully.

“I cannot believe in anything else.  A man needs heroes.  He needs to believe in strength, nobility and courage.  Otherwise we become sheep to be herded to the slaughterhouse of death.  I believe this.  I am a soldier.  I try to fight for the right cause.  Sometimes it is hard to know.

“But I do not sit back and sneer in cowardice at those with the courage to fight.  The blood  of good men makes the earth rich, as it is here.  When I die sword in hand, I hope someone lives to sing of it.  I live my life so that when death comes I may die well.  I ask no more.”

To the Far Blue Mountains

 “My father finished his life,” I continued, “and made a better foothold for me.  And I in my time shall do the same for my sons.  Yet it is honor I wish for them, honor and pride of person, not wealth.  Nor do I wish for titles, or a place near a Queen or a King, for pride of title or family is an empty thing, like dry leaves that blow in the cold winds of autumn.”

…What books then?  They must be few, for the luggage of books is no easy thing when they must be carried in canoes, packs, and upon one’s back. 

Each book must be one worth rereading many times, each a book that has much to say, that can lend meaning to a life, help in decisions, comfort one during moments of loneliness.  One needed a chance to listen to the words of other men who had lived their lives, to share with them trials and troubles by day and by night in home or in the markets of cities. …

…”Do you turst this man?”

“Aye,” I said, after a moment of thought, “although he has the name of one gifted at conniving.  Yet we have things in common, I think.”

“What manner of things?”

“Ideas, Tom.  We have shared large ideas together, Peter and I.  There is no greater time than for young men to sit together and shape large ideas into rounded, beautiful things.  I do not know if our thoughts were great thoughts, but we believed them so.  We talked of Plato, of Cathay and Marco Polo, of Roman gods and Greek heroes, of Ulysses and Jason.”

The Warrior’s Path

“To make a country we need all kinds.  He is a thoughtful man, and such are needed.  He reads, he thinks.  Too many of us are so busied with living that we do not.”

I gestured about us.  “A man must think, but he has not enough to nudge his thinking.  From morn ’till night we are busy with finding game, hunting food, cutting fuel, shaping wood for houses.  Ours is too busy a world, and there is no time for considering.”

“I know . . . even father.  There are days when he has not the time to touch a book.  There is no market where one can go and buy what is needed.  It must be hunted, gathered, or made with the hands.”

“And at night,” I added, “a man is too tired.  I fall asleep over my books, but we must read, not only for what we read but for what it makes us think.  Shaping a country is not all done with the hands but with the mind as well.”

Jubal Sackett

“He look much at small packet.”  He shaped a rectangle with his fingers.  “Many leaves sewn at the back.  The leaves have small signs on them.  He looks at them and sometimes he smiles or speaks from them.  I ask what it is and he say this is book and it speaks to him.

“I listen, no hear it speak.”

“The signs in this book spoke to him,” I said.  “When you look at a trail in the morning, it speaks to you of who passed in the night.  It was so with him.”

“Ah?  It could be so.”  He looked at me.  “You have book?”

“At my home there were many books,” I said, “and I miss them very much.”  I tapped my head.  “Many books up here.  Like you remember old trails, I remember books.  Often I think of what the books have said to me.”

“What do books say?”

“Many things, in many ways.  You sit by the knees of your old men and hear their tales of warpath and hunt.  In our books we have made signs that tell such stories, not only of our grandfathers but of their grandfathers.

“We put upon leaves the stories of our great men, and of wars, but the best books are those that repeat the wisdom of our grandfathers.” . . .

. . . “Sakim, my old teacher, told me that some wise men in India and China believed the stars were suns like ours and that somewhere out there were other worlds.  Who knows if this is true or not?  But do you think men will be content to wonder?  Someday they will find a way to the stars and an answer to their questions.”

She looked at me with wonderment.  “You talk strangely.  Why are you not content with this?”

“It is man’s nature, Itchakomi, to wonder, and thank all the gods for it.  It is through wonder that we come to know.”

The Shadow Riders
Louis L’Amour
224 pages

Synopsis -10 /10
Plot – 9/10
Characters – 9/10
Overall Story – 10/10
Conclusion -10/10

Overall – 48/50

Synopsis: Dal and Mac Traven left Texas young and idealistic. They came back from opposite sides of a living hell, a war that had torn the nation in two. They wanted only to reclaim their old lives…but one man held their future hostage.

Colonel Henry T. Ashford had gathered an army of criminals and renegade soldiers, leading them on a path of destruction and kidnapping through Texas to the Gulf. Among Ashford’s captives were the Travens’ sister and Dal’s tough-minded fiancée, Kate.

Now Mac and Dal must take up arms once again and ride together against Ashford’s army—ready to fight another war, if that’s what it takes to win the freedom of the women they love.

Review: I am a big fan of Louis L’Amour. He writes a story that when you start it you feel like you’re actually there while it’s taking place. Like a couple of his other novel’s this particular book was made into a movie…Which I too enjoy. Naturally, I saw the movie before I read the book but I was equally happy with both.

The Traven brothers – Mac, Dal and younger brother Jesse – all head off to the war between the states. When the war is over they head for home only to find that a whole ‘nother “war” has taken place before they even get home. A tough confederate Colonel who refuses to let the war end has taken to assembling an “army” of rouge soldiers and outlaws and proceeds to lead them on a path of death, destruction and kidnapping across Texas all the way to the Gulf of Mexico.

Now what this Colonel doesn’t know is that he has taken the Traven’s sister and Dal’s tough-as-nails girl, Kate, hostage. The Traven’s don’t take to kindly to that thought and take up arms to get back their family as well as the other’s who have been kidnapped. What happens next is a pretty AWESOME story of determination, love and some “ha, ha sucks to be you.”

There will come a time when you believe everything is finished.
That will be the beginning.
—Louis L’Amour, American novelist

My father used to collect Louis L’Amour books.  L’Amour used to write about the West.  It’s no wonder that my father gravitated toward it.  He and L’Amour, the man, had a lot in common.  Both left home in their teens to wander the world.  Both went to war.  I remember reading once that L’Amour always attributed his success to hard work over luck, but his books certainly embrace the idea of coincidence. 

When my father told me stories, they were always stories about men who wore white hats crusading against the bullies of the world in their black hats.  In these fairy tales, the good people eventually won.  But there was always a struggle that made the good people better.  And my father was the best man I knew, some larger than life figure who always wore that white hat, involved in some epic battle to save his world.  Only the man in the white hat didn’t win this battle.

After my father died, I created an entire world for myself that was just mine.  No one could break through because I kept it secret.  In this world, Mama was invincible.  Even when I was in my twenties, I honestly believed Mama would never die.  She used to tell me I had to hurry up and have her grandbabies…that she wouldn’t be around forever…and I’d dismiss her comments with a “you’re not going anywhere, Mama.”  Until the week before her death, and that dream I had that I found her dead, it was as essential to my identity as my red hair.  I believed that, no matter how old I was, I’d always have a Mama.  She wouldn’t leave me like he did.  The girl in the white hat lost that bet, too.

###

My favorite author in the whole world is Paul Auster.  I am so much like my father sometimes that it’s no wonder that I’d gravitate toward a writer who tends to examine American history and the role of coincidence.  And I am my father’s daughter because, like Auster, I also tend to try to examine the shadow of my long-absent father.  I remember reading Moon Palace for the first time and feeling like Auster was talking about my life.  This week — this year — in so many ways, I feel like I’m existing in some Auster novel.  I feel like I’m Marco Fogg, in some haze…wandering in Central Park…losing everything.  And I keep waiting for Kitty Wu to come in and save me. 

I’ve been doing okay, dealing with it…ranging from being pissed off to the point of turning into some psycho dynamo on a mission to pull herself out of oblivion to laughing hysterically at the absurdity of all this shit.  I’ve gotten through by telling myself things I absolutely believe. 

Everything happens for a reason.

This, too, shall pass.

You’ll be okay.

You’ll get what you need, even if you don’t think you need it.

When you’re given much, much is required of you. 

All good thoughts.  All comforting in some way.  All sort of stupid, too.  Because bad things happen to good people.  It doesn’t matter how good or smart or worthy you are.  Shit happens.  Randomly sometimes.  You can comfort yourself all you want.  Shit will still pile up, and it seems to do it when you are the weakest you’ve ever been.  Sometimes, there isn’t a reason…and, maybe, that’s the damn reason.  Sometimes, things never get better.  Sometimes, all you can hope for is different.  You’ll get that, but sometimes, it’s the same thing in a different package.  Sometimes, you won’t be okay.  Sometimes, you’ll get through it and you’ll lose yourself for a long, long time.  And sometimes, you die before it gets okay.  Sometimes, you never figure out why you needed that terribly shitty thing.  So, if you never figure it out, how badly did you actually need it?  When you’re given nothing, much is still required of you.  There are no good guys or bad guys.  There is no black and white.  It’s just you and me, hanging out on this limb…trying to enjoy the view until the branch breaks.

Tonight, after about the fifteenth unexpected, horrendously bad thing happened to me this week, I finally broke down again.  I was writing a stupid paper…or trying to…not being all that successful at it as the clock tick-tocked away.  I had been on the verge of tears all day long, but then thought of some hare-brained scheme that could fix everything.  I had started the wheels turning, and I had felt so much better…still upset, but okay enough to not break down.  I’m one of those people who needs to try…who has to do SOMETHING…and this was my something…even if it failed miserably.  And it was crazy enough to work.  I won’t know if it has for a few days, possibly longer.  And then, I decided I was thirsty…went down to get my mail…and was hit with one more thing.  One more thing.  And I just didn’t have it in me anymore to say I’ll be okay. 

I sat down at my computer, stared blankly at the damn screen…had nothing I wanted to say…and just started crying.  I half-heartedly reached out to various friends, saying nothing about how bludgeoned I felt, only to then excuse myself because I should finish writing this stupid paper.  And I wrote something on Twitter/Facebook about wondering how much more a person could take because I’m so damn tired…so drained.  I just don’t have anything left.  Not one drop of anything.  And all these kind people reached out to me…told me they loved me…told me I’d be okay because I’m me and they believe in me…asked me if I needed anything…if I wanted to talk…suggested I get sleep…that I’d feel better in the morning.

And I loved them for it…was grateful for all of it.  But I just responded with…”yes, I know” or “i’m okay” or “no, it won’t…but it was a nice thought.”  And I didn’t mean it in a shitty way.  I just…I’ve been through Hell and back and back again forty times over.  It’s not okay.  I’m not okay.  I’m crumbling here, and I don’t know how to stop.  And basically, I’m just holding out hope that the world stops sucking before I completely lose my mind.  And I love you, and your hug is nice…and your shoulder is nice…but it doesn’t fix it.  Tomorrow, that shit will still exist.  It doesn’t matter if I forget it exists for an hour. 

I lived my whole life trying not to see the shit in my life.  Living in some crappy Hell while pretending it was some other version of reality.  But it wasn’t.  Eventually, I had to face my life.  I had to admit that it sucked, and I had to rebuild it somehow.  I never gave myself permission to fail…to admit that I was hurting…to admit that I needed anything.

And, even now, when so many people are reaching out to me…I’m still standing alone because this is how I deal with things…this is what I know how to do.  And it will eventually get different.

It reminds me of something Auster said about one of his characters, “But in the end, he manages to resolve the question for himself — more or less.  He finally comes to accept his own life, to understand that no matter how bewitched and haunted he is, he has to accept reality as it is, to tolerate the presence of ambiguity within himself.”

I am not six years old anymore, and I am alone.  Sometimes, you come visit me.  But, all in all, on most days, I am sitting in my own life.  And I’d rather sit in shit than the pretend version of what isn’t.

Every author you read — whether they’re any good or not — influences you as a writer. They either show you what to do or what not to do. And the thing is, you have to pick and choose. Usually there’s something redeeming in almost any author’s work (with some notable exceptions). Over the next couple of days, we’re going to talk about influences: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I can’t remember the first book I ever read, but I can remember the first real novel I read — Sackett’s Brand, by Louis L’Amour. To this day, L’Amour’s novels hold a special place in my heart even though I see them for the incredibly repetitive stuff they are. L’Amour had about three stories to tell — and he retold those stories using new (or slightly used) characters, over and over again.

I’ve already written about Robert B. Parker in a previous post. I love his gift for dialogue. When I sit down to write a scene/chapter, I wonder how my dialogue holds up to his — or to Elmore Leonard’s work. Those guys are the gold standard when it comes to dialogue.

Stephen King has a gift — not just for scaring the pants off of readers, but also for creating fully realized characters. The folks that people his novels are so real you can picture them walking down the street. That sense of terror happening to “real” people is one of the things that’s kept King at the top of the bestsellers lists.

Donald E. Westlake is probably my idol. He had a strong, middle-of-the-road career, with nearly 100 novels published under his own name or others. Some were bestsellers. Most were not. He’s credited with creating the comic crime caper — and novelists like Carl Hiaasen and Dave Barry would have had a hard time getting their own funny crime novels published if Westlake hadn’t paved the way.

Then there are the classics. I try to read something by Hemingway and Fitzgerald each year to remind myself what the language can do — what writers are capable of doing when they’re at the height of their powers. I’m also a huge fan of Tom Wolfe (though I doubt I could ever fully realize a novel like A Man in Full. Too much work.) as well as Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and Joyce Carol Oates.

Synopsis:

Deep in Indian country, Major Mark Devereaux and his men find a grisly scene: a wagon train savagely attacked, with no survivors. One of the wagons originally with the group is missing; in it is a fortune in gold and Devereaux’s daughter, Mary. The slaughter, Devereaux learns, was not the work of Indians but of a murderous outlaw band. With the stakes rising in a deadly game, the only wild card is Lieutenant Tenadore Brian, who is riding with the missing wagon—against orders. Devereaux knows Brian is a good soldier, but is he good enough to protect a saddlebag full of gold . . . and the life of his daughter?

I’m going to keep this one short and sweet….I loved it! Suspense, action, drama, a little bit of romance…you name it it was in this one. From page 1 until the very end it kept you guessing….Is Lieutnant Brian that good or is he not? Do they or don’t they? I wonder what’s gonna happen next?

5 out of 5

Synopsis:

Tom Kedrick earned his stripes during the Civil War, fought Apaches, and even soldiered overseas. But in the high desert country of New Mexico, the battle-hardened Kedrick is entangled in a different kind of war, fueled by greed and deception. Hired by Alton Burwick to drive a pack of renegades and outlaws off the government land recently set aside for an Indian reservation, Kedrick begins to notice that things are not as they seem. As his suspicions grow, he realizes that he may be fighting on the wrong side of a land swindle. Disillusioned and outraged, Kedrick must take action against the very people who hired him–or be forced to witness the bloody massacre of innocent men and women.

Here is another Louis L’Amour book that again I had a very difficult time putting down because the action, drama, and suspense were always at a high. In the little town that the story takes place in….all things are not as they seem. The main character is hired to get rid of “renegades and outlaws” so that the land can be set aside for an Indian reservation. But once Kedrick starts nosing around there seems to be a LOT of things that just are NOT right about the situation at all.

If you’ve never read a Louis L’Amour book this is another one that is TOTALLY AWESOME in my opinion….Actually, this is the first one that I started with. 5 out of 5

Synopsis:

Lance Kilkenny has a debt to pay, and he isn’t about to let the friend who saved his life go down in a range war. But when Kilkenny tries to stop the fighting, he finds there’s more at stake than land or wire. Whoever is stirring up trouble has big ideas for the Live Oak country—and an army of hired guns to back them up. Nita Riordan, the beautiful and fiery owner of the Apple Canyon Saloon, warns Lance that the mysterious man orchestrating the conflict wants him dead. Lance realizes that if he doesn’t watch his step, he’ll pay the debt he owes with his own blood.

I read this book not all that long ago. Actually, this author is what got me into my current reading addiction. I do LOVE me some Louis L’Amour. I really LOVED this book. The action and suspense was at a high through the whole book. There are a couple of little twists and turns in it and you never would have guessed who the “bad guy” turns out to be.

If you’ve never read a Louis L’Amour book give this one a try. I was hooked and didn’t put it down until I finished it. I give this one 5 out of 5.

I thought I’d write a little bit about how my taste in books have evolved over the years and why.

I was a fan of westerns in my teens. I began by reading Max Brand, but I really got hooked on Louis L’Amour. One of my big thrills as a teen was that I got to meet him at an event in Minneapolis that we both attended. I liked his classic heroes and high adventure. In his later novels, he stretched himself somewhat with books like The Haunted Mesa, Last of the Breed and Jubal Sackett. I enjoyed them as well, though they weren’t really westerns.

As I got to be college age, I began reading more horror, in part, because The Haunted Mesa had touched on it a bit. It tried a lot of the different horror writers, but I found that I really liked Dean R. Koontz (he still used his middle initial back then). Koontz has written in a number of genres and I discovered them as I devoured his books. Then he began moving more into thrillers and I moved with him.

This led me to discover writers like David Baldacci, Harlan Coben, Michael Connelly, Jeffrey Deaver and Robert Crais.

At the same time, I stumbled on a book called Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card and became a big fan of his. This led me to read more science fiction and fantasy.

In general, I’d have to say that my evolution has been driven primarily by my favorite authors. I find an author I like and read all of his or her books. As the writer’s taste in stories changes, my taste follows for the most part. I guess once an author gains my trust as a writer, I’m willing to follow them into new genres and new adventures.

Blessed are those whose strength is in you, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage. As they pass through the Valley of Baca, they make it a place of springs; the autumn rains also cover it with pools. They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion (Psalm 84:5-7).

In Louis L’Amour’s The Mountain Valley War, a group of settlers defending themselves against a powerful enemy have to cross a desert to get supplies.  The author paints a picture of a bleak wasteland hard to navigate.  The settlers are obviously suffering as they make their way through it. But it’s the only way they can survive, so they keep moving.

The Psalms describes a place out in the desert called The Valley of Tears (or Baca).  There is some conjecture that this refers to a place where Hagar and her son Ishmael went when Abraham sent them away (Genesis 21).  Here they were, out in the desert, crying.   But God heard their tears and sent them an angel who showed them a well. 

Hagar and Ishmael survived. But they did more than that. Ishmael fulfilled God’s prophecy that he would become a great nation.  He is the father of the Arabs.

There is some old folk wisdom that says, “It is always darkest before the dawn.” Hagar probably thought she and Ishmael were going to die in the desert, their lives over. Similarly, the disciples of  Jesus probably felt that the light in their lives was gone when Jesus was crucified. 

But later His disciple Peter, now an apostle,  told the people of Jerusalem, “Look, you killed the Author of Life.  When Pilate was going to let Him go, you disowned Him and asked for a murderer instead.” But he went on to tell them that God raised Jesus from the dead and it was faith in Him that made a  cripple he had just healed strong. Peter called them to turn from their sin to God, so that “times of refreshing may come from the Lord (Acts 3:19)”. 

Sometimes God takes us into the desert, and there seems no end to it. We can easily lose hope while we are on the journey in the wilderness.  Yet God provides us life-giving water and we also through His strength make it into a garden  We work hand-in-hand with God. And one day there will be an end to the trek.

The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The next best time is now” [Chinese Proverb].

I really like this proverb. It is a reprieve for all of us who didn’t take advantage of the “best time.” Sure, we should have planted the tree, planned for retirement, focused in on the dream, and developed our potential 5, 10, maybe even 20 years ago.

But for whatever reason, it didn’t happen. So what? What’s your next step?

Mark Strand said, “The future is always beginning now.” Isn’t that refreshing? We didn’t miss the deadline for creating our future! Every day brings with it the next best time — the opportunity to begin anew.

The way I look at it you have three choices.

1. You can live with the regret of what might have been — berating yourself for past failures and missed opportunities. Wasting time and energy.
2. You can allow current circumstances to continue to steal your time and dilute your focus. Riding the merry-go-round of your daily schedule, falling into bed exhausted, failing to make the time to “plant a tree” again today.
3. You can take advantage of the next best time — today — and begin putting your plans, ideas, and dreams into motion!

Think about this: In 20 years, TODAY will have been the best time to take action. July 27, 2010 and 2019 and 2029 are coming. Will you look back with a sense of pride and accomplishment at how your tree has grown? Or with regret that you let another year or ten years pass by, wishing you had taken advantage of today — right now — the next best time?

You are the one who will decide what your future becomes, and you decide it by your actions today. “Everyone has it within his power to say, this I am today, and that I shall be tomorrow” [Louis L'Amour].

The future is a place that is created –
created first in the mind and will,
created next in activity.
The future is not some place we are going to,
but one we are creating.
[Unknown]

Yesterday is over. Last week is a memory. Today is the next best time to begin creating the future.

“My interest is in the future because I am going to spend the rest of my life there” [Charles F. Kettering].

Whatever you are, be a good one!

Deanna

One day I was speeding along at the typewriter, and my daughter – who was a child at the time – asked me, “Daddy, why are you writing so fast?” And I replied, “Because I want to see how the story turns out!”

—Louis L’Amour

I never knew much about chickens.  Least of all Bantam chickens.  I do know a good deal about books.  And I have read plenty of grand titles published by Bantam Books, in particular.  In my literary-focused world, that’s what Bantam has meant to me.  The likes of Louis L’Amour and John Steinback – two great American frontier writers were published by Bantam.  Bantam also published the original “Choose Your Own Adventure” book series for children.  But, I digress…

I sit here at my writing desk, staring out at the old Douglas Fir tree and the quiet country road the Farmer and I live on, and I hear the constant, meditative cluck of two Bantam hens running free on the open range of our organic farm.  It’s different.

Our Bantams are wild birds.  We salvaged them from a farm in Mulino belonging to a family that is sadly losing it all.  I don’t pretend to write the sentiments of Steinback, who by virtue of timing and experience, became one of the most powerful, prolific voices of the American Great Depression.  Nevertheless, I am living in rural America and I’m seeing the harsh reality of our economy’s tired, desperate fists.  Truth is, we’re seeing more and more farms foreclosing and it makes me worry.  Oregon is second to Michigan in its unemployment rate.  I am one of those people on unemployment, and I can only hope the Farmer and I will be able to stay afloat.  There are no guarantees and, I suspect, we have a lot to learn from our wild Bantam friends.

Here I am on the day we brought the Bantams home

For one, our Bantams live freely off our land.  They walk or run around for a good part of the day, plucking worms and bugs from the ground, feasting straight from the earth.  When they sense danger, they open their wings, hop a little and then kick into rocky flight up into the limbs of our apple, black walnut and fir trees.   The trees are their sanctuary. Sooner or later, they come back down and resume their activity on the ground.  Sometimes, they sneak back into the barn and flutter up to the nesting boxes for a nap and, hopefully, to lay an egg or two.  Sometimes, they jump up on top of an old, decrepit bunny hutch left over from the previous residents, to chill out while the Farmer is out in the fields on his tractor, or I’m in my garden combating slugs.  The Bantams seem to respect our space, thus far.  They have not meandered into the farm fields or my gardening nooks.  They haven’t been pooping out of control, either.  They happily fly up to the tree branches at dusk, nest for the night, and then come back down at dawn. 

What I love most about the Bantams is their instinct of flight.  I had never seen flying chickens before, only ones with clipped wings kept in covered coops.  I like that they know freedom, that they instinctively steer clear from our cats and anything else that could be predatory.  I like that they spend their days busily taking care of business, and by business I mean eating, pooping and sleeping.  It’s a simple way of life, but I get it.

The day we picked up the Bantams was a little slice of comedic heaven.  I thought we would arrive in Mulino to find a cage neatly filled with the five or so hens and twenty chicks we were to bring home.  Only, the small cage housed just two caught hens.  The Farmer and the owner’s teen aged son spent the next two and a half hours chasing hens and chicks.  Two flew up into the trees.  The two men ran around with nets.  At one point, five hens were finally in the cage, but, because it wasn’t correctly clasped, they all got out just as we were about to leave.  I wished to God I had brought a video camera with me to document the unfolding pandemonium.

The Farmer and I have a good sense of humor.  In this world, you need one.  I often call my suburban and city friends with horrific stories of cat prey left on our nice rugs, or a half-eaten beheaded chicken corpse from our neighbor’s coop that got dragged onto our front porch by the huge, neighborhood skunk, who then met his untimely fate by the wheel of a car or truck on our quiet, little one lane country road.  Yes, I spotted bits of stinky skunk tufts on the side of the road while I was driving the John Deere to our neighbor’s house to move some logs.  It was beyond a reasonable doubt the very same stinker who stole chickens on our street.  Country life is amusing, at times.  And often ironic.

Back to our Bantams.  They are pretty birds.  There’s a book all about them, which I intend to pick up, called Bantam Chickens by Fred P. Jeffrey, which was published by the American Bantam Association.  Which, I had no idea there was even an association.  Perhaps I may join…  I don’t know how into these chickens I envision myself becoming.  I could be that crazy lady down the road with her swooped up straw hat with mini, feathery chicken dolls adorning the rim, bantering all about the history, breeding, behavior, management and exhibition of American Bantams.

I am more likely to play mother hen to my Bantams, and simply take care of them with little to no handling.  These Bantams are pretty independent creatures.  Scoop a little organic feed into their feeders each day, make sure they have fresh, clean water, and the rest is pretty much up to them.

I remain a bird watcher, a humble witness to these wild, wonderful Avis beauties.  When I’m lucky, I get to see them lift off and land safely into the arms of our sturdy, rugged trees.  It really is a marvel if you’ve never seen a chicken fly before.  I let them keep me grounded, aware of the potential danger out there, cognizant of the steady role nature plays in our lives, and fully grateful for the simple beauty of eating, pooping and sleeping.  It means we are alive, we are well, and we are blessed.

     I must have been twenty or twenty one years old when I first discovered Louis L’Amour.  It was in a second hand bookstore that I read a short biography on the back page of one of his many novels, and began my life long admiration for the man. I’ve long since gotten better, but at the time I was hooked.  I bought a handful (probably eight or nine) of them and went on a bender.  For the next week or two, my nights were spent were spent inhaling his pulp fiction western novels like cocaine.  I couldn’t get enough of them, but kept buying more and more, I could fly through one in a matter of hours.  Much like cocaine, I was always chasing that first hit, and for me that first snort was his biography.  Louis wasn’t a very good writer.  I’m sure even he would have admitted that, so I didn’t read his books because I liked them, I read them because his life story was so fascinating to me, I thought maybe I could learn more about the man’s personality through his stories.  His cheap dime store novels were all centered around lonely cowboys out on the range, and damsels in distress, as a result he was considered trash by my overly literate university chums, and I distinctly remember hiding copies of his books under my mattress for fear of facing an intervention.

     Louis L’Amour, was born in 1908. His grandfather fought in the civil war, his father was a cattle doctor, and his uncles were genuine cowboys, the last of their kind.  Up until the 1950s, when he was contracted by Bantam books to write three novels a year, Louis had so many different jobs, traveled to so many different places, and did so many fascinating things, that it’s impossible not to be awestruck.  During the depression, he rode the rails as an itinerant worker, doing every thing from skinning cows, to cotton picking.  He became proficient at boxing and would take on matches from town to town in order to earn money to buy more books (a voracious reader, he died owning the largest privately held library in the United States).  Next, he traveled the world for many years as a merchant seaman, then a soldier in WW II, then back to riding the rails as a Hobo.  He must have temporarily occupied a hundred different careers, before going on to eventually write 105 novels.      

     As a young man I had a deep respect for the volume of variety that defined his biography, and I vowed to emulate his approach to life.  It’s now twenty years later and I think I’ve succeeded to a certain extent, just 104 novels to go…