MY DEBUT NOVEL TROPHY GIRL

TROPHY GIRL excerpt, page 20, for fun--Now available for pre-order with a 15% discount using code preorder2021 before launch September 30Th: at https://www.blackrosewriting.com/womens/trophygirl. 

OFFICER MCDONOUGH motioned for Frank to follow him to the parking lot, well away from where Sandy stood by the open door looking back and forth from them to the girl in the bed. He placed one foot on the bumper of Frank’s ‘55 buckskin-and-white Mercury and bit down on a toothpick. “So what’s really goin‘ on here?”

Frank gazed out across the lot and patted his chest in a nervous reflex, feeling for a pack of cigarettes. “You wouldn’t happen to have a smoke on you?”

McDonough pulled out a red-and-white pack of Winstons and tapped the top against his index finger to coax a cigarette out.

Frank took it and put it between his lips, then ran his hand down his hip, getting it caught in the folds of the bed spread. “Shit! Gotta light?”

McDonough lit Frank’s cigarette, then one for himself. “So, Frankie. Is she your kid or not?”

Stay tuned!

#TrophyGirlNovel

#novel #fiction #author #mustread #summerreading #bestnewbooks #booksoutin2021 #authorstowatch #debutnovel #racecar #racing #dirttrackracing #readinglist #bookclub #bookaddict #goodreads #booklovers #midwesterner #nostalgia #carracing #racetrack #comingofage #WichitaRacing #81Speedway #HutchinsonFairgrounds #TaftStadium #Kansas #Oklahoma #racinglegend #racingbooks #trophygirls #romance #candidchildhood

TROPHY GIRL IS OFF TO THE RACES!

 TROPHY GIRL, my debut Historic Fiction, is now available for pre-order at 15% discount using code preorder2021 until launch date of September 30th, 2021, using the code preorder2021 from blackrosewriting@sales/womens/trophygirl.

And I'll be signing copies at the Grand National Race the novel is centered around.

C. Ray Hall (former owner of 81 Speedway in Wichita) who is organizing the GRAND NATIONALS has invited me to set up a book table in front of the grandstands July 15, 16, and 17--and in the pits Saturday morning. When C. Ray and I were track rats, I NEVER got to go into the pits until after the races were over, forcause I'm a girl, you know.

Mar-Car’s Dub Richardson Ford official Pace car 
April 24, 1965, with Queen Priscilla Fields on the far left and Linda Green on the far right, mentored by the legendary queen-maker Mary Carson.

#TrophyGirlNovel

#novel #fiction #author #mustread #summerreading #bestnewbooks #booksoutin2021 #authorstowatch #debutnovel #racecar #racing #dirttrackracing #readinglist #bookclub #bookaddict #goodreads #booklovers #midwesterner #nostalgia #carracing #racetrack #comingofage #WichitaRacing #81Speedway #HutchinsonFairgrounds #TaftStadium #Kansas #Oklahoma #racinglegend #racingbooks #trophygirls #romance #candidchildhood

Laughing Matters

 

My starter husband was a great joke teller. Me not so much. I once tried to retell a visual joke of his where he wiggled and flourished his index fingers and thumbs forming two circles (think circus music here), put them behind his head, and ta da! Out from behind his head they came, magically hooked together!!!

Simple and silly and what could go wrong, right? 

So one day I decided to share the joke--made two circles, hooked them together behind me, and then . . . wait, what?!? I'd put my arms behind my back. 😆 

Eventually, I just turned around to reveal the "magic," the joke being on me.

May we find much to laugh at as we emerge from our Covid cocoons. And if you have a funny to share, as Pops, my favorite character in the novel I'm currently writing, says, "I guess that'd be awright."

A Trip to the Principal's Office--Half a Century after Graduation

I sub in our little town--K through 12. I'm nice, I kid around, I teach all I can when I can, and encourage kids to apply themselves. I teach them the one thing they'll never get any more of is time. The little ones make me cards with hearts  and write stories about how I fight off the evil pop quiz monsters. The middle graders write, "Ms. Marlis is the best!!!" on the white boards, a standard and acceptable form of sucking up.

We do yoga, the starfish stretch, and for the more anxious kids we do "tapping." You can check it out for yourself: https://www.google.com/search?q=tapping+solution. An anxious second grader with chronic headaches and stomach issues, who wanted only to be allowed go home, let me teach her to tap, and two weeks later ran to me on the playground all bouncy and bubbly to report it was working, and her mom and teacher were delighted with her improvement. (She's older now, so instead of running to me for hugs, we grin at each other and tap our chins in a private greeting.)

Just today I got an affirming high-five in the high school gym from one of the cool boys and the usual hug from another kid who seems to have made me his pet sub. You get the picture. I do okay.

So . . . when I got a call from the principal of one of the schools to come to the office to "talk," I was not only surprised, but as apprehensive as when I was a teen. Seriously? A formal meeting in her office?

The walk down the hall was reminiscent of other walks of shame more than half a century ago. Yes, I really did cut class, and yes, one day in 9th grade I really did not even bring shoes to school to wear, and so on. My junior-year English teacher explained that I was an A student doing B work and getting a C because I was so disruptive in class. But that was then, right?

When the principal smiled and asked me how I thought my subbing was going, the red flag shot to full mast and began flapping. Pretty well, I said. Was there a problem? Well, yes, in fact, there had been a problem reported . . .

When the 7th graders asked me if they could work with partners, I asked if they usually did, and they answered in the affirmative, so we partnered up. And, yes, it got a little loud. Enough so that I put two pairs in the hall to spread them out more. And so I didn't hear the heated exchange of insults between two boys in language that is not appropriate. As it would happen, some other students overheard and ratted them out.

Lesson learned: if it's not written down in the sub instructions, don't go there. Regardless of how many of the darlings insist it's really really okay.

A pleasant chat followed, and I said I'd get stricter with the kids. I wrote an apology to the teacher, who wrote a lovely "not-to-worry" email back.

And what I was thinking was how lucky they never found out that the H.S. band convinced me they could stand on their chairs if they'd memorized their parts. My first-born daughter, who teaches fourth grade, sent me a big MOM! text and talked about liability insurance. No students or horns were harmed, but I've made sure they keep their feet on the floor.

And I'm pretty sure the art students who waved and laughed at me through the window when they realized I'd locked myself out of the room did not pass that news along. Why would they give up the leverage?

And I'm truly grateful that the disgruntled boy in the fifth grade who kept insisting he wanted to work with a partner didn't tell his teacher that I told him--with a tad of frustration, I'll admit--that what I wanted was to go to a dance in a red dress and drink a beer, but that that wasn't happening either. (Who knew that beer--which echoed throughout the room in whispers--was a trigger word?)

In English class last week when I had received written instructions that no one was to leave the room for anything but a trip to the bathroom, I finally got them to word their requests to leave "appropriately" (I suspected such devilry as runs to a locker for a forgotten item or the refilling of a water bottle). I'm learning how to survive the system all over again. And now, when they try to tempt me into bending the rules, I just tell them I've already been to the principal's office and I'm not risking that again. It's given me quite a lot of street cred.

Don't Forget to Check Your Teeth

Frank and Joan Manley with his first race car, a Deutsch-Bonnet

When my father and step-mother began to drift toward the unraveling edge of independent living--both health and mobility-wise--I flew to Bellevue, Washington. Several times. Eventually to diminished receptions as we drank lattes and good gin while putting off discussing the hardest things amidst the deteriorating circumstances of two brilliant lives lived in the literal fast lane (sports car racing and officiating and tours in far-off countries investigating airplane accidents). 

Here's what my year of rescuing my parents from the places and life they loved that could no longer sustain them taught me: there. is. no. best. way. There's only way. Way too hard. Way too messy. Way too complicated. And whenever it happens, for them it's always going to be way too soon. 

Unless it's way too late, and then--as a home care worker in Washington advised me--the next of kin can be held criminally libel for . . . I'm not sure what. But as an only child, I took heed. 

After months of researching independent living units in Kansas City, where their only child and three of their grandkids and their families live, and a doable drive from my step-mother's extensive Nebraska family, I embarked on yet another downward path to wisdom. What to do with the stuff--from a table made from a zebra skin (including legs, now illegal to sell in the USA, so donated, with like artifacts, to a local museum) to household records dating back to 1962. Post-its were applied: "Moving Van," "Donate," "Pack," "Estate Sale," etc. I spared them the "I've got Junk" truck labels. But there were two loads. 

Letting go is not for sissies.

Then all that's left is preparing a house to sell, arranging the estate sale, a car sale, emptying the safe-deposit box and moving accounts, checking on meds, getting the cats their shots and buying two soft, squishable carriers for under middle seats, asking your son to come lend two hands and a good brain, and buying four more plane tickets. Finally, in spite of the loose ends flailing around you like brain fog, you arrive at the airport, secure wheel chairs, and start to roll through what to my parents must have felt like the Wonderland rabbit hole. 

Joan Manley, now a young 97, and granddaughter Nancy 

Klein enjoying Happy Hour at Brookdale Wornall

And then . . . we discovered my father--world traveler extraordinaire--had put his wallet and passport into his checked bag. A fabulously understanding worker allowed us to go through in spite of that little hiccup--with wheelchairs, walkers, canes, a carryon with important papers and the family jewels, lattes, sack lunches, and two cats in carriers. Once on the plane in the front row of economy for the three of them, me across the aisle one row back in the middle so I could stow the other cat, my father needed to use the bathroom--fortunately just steps from his seat. But it was not an easy negotiation. I assisted, but still, we delayed the flight. On take off, the cat in the front row relieved itself as well. As soon as we were airborne, wet paper towels flew at my son who had charge of that feline. 

As I sat there deep breathing in a middle seat--willing the second cat to maintain control of its bodily functions for the duration of the flight--I made the inane mistake of shaking my head and wondering--almost aloud--what else could possibly go wrong? That's the exact moment I felt the bridge on my upper right side slip loose and settle onto my lower teeth. 

I rested my head against the seat and let the irony wash over me as we sailed over Washington State headed for Kansas. I desperately wanted to laugh, but how to explain that to the strangers on either side, and what if the bridge fell out into my lap and bounced onto the floor? With kitty under the seat, my purse and carry on were in the overhead compartment. Eventually, I ordered a drink through clenched teeth and discretely wrapped the appliance in a cocktail napkin and stuffed it into my pocket. I thought about wiping it off and jokingly asking the flight attendant if it was too late to check it, but even I know a bridge too far when I see it.

#SCCA #sportscars #seniorliving #pettravel #aging #caregiver #brookdalewornall #racing #flying #i'vegotjunk #passport #dentalbridge #looseteeth

RIP Skip

We were both way past our prime when I brought the skinny white horse to Four Mile to be a companion to my Tennessee Walker, Travis. Trav was going on five, Skip was going on twenty-nine.

People who know horses said he probably wouldn't last through the winter. Boy did they underestimate him. He was a retired show horse whose former family had to let him go. You could see it in the lightness of his feet, the way he held his head. He never forgot who he was. And he put on nearly a hundred pounds that first winter and never lost it.

During his five years at Four Mile, Skip carried more than 20 riders--some bareback--with never a wrong step or a head toss. His youngest rider was 18 months old, his oldest 70. They were five really great years.

When he was a few months shy of 35 (around 100 in people years), he went blind in one eye from the pressure of glaucoma (like a steady headache). Then he began rubbing his good eye until he split that eye lid open as well. It was clear that he was struggling with the pain in spite of the treatments and medications we'd tried.

Eventually, we all said our goodbyes, and the kindest, gentlest vet on the planet set him loose on the rainbow bridge.

That's a popular if somewhat childish image. But better to dwell on than the empty stall, the green winter blanket with the leg strap stitched back on wrong-way-round lying in the garage with the red halter that looked so striking against his white face. Or the silver champagne chiller half full of the hydration hay soaked in warm water there wasn't time to finish before a friend's horse trailer circled in front of the barn for one last haul. Nope, rainbow bridge it is.

At first, I worried whether Skip would take to our more humble facilities, tolerate my lack of expertise. Then one day, I was watching a friend work Travis in the round pen, and I felt the softness of a chin settling onto my shoulder and felt warm breath on my neck. I think it was Skip's way of saying I'd do.

I hope I did.

#equine #horses #rainbowbridge #riding #puttingdown #showhorse #paint #tennesseewalker #vet #horsevet #olderrider #womenandhorses

Word Clouds

I miss my old typewriter that took everything I had to give and reliably mirrored it back at me--typos and all.

Now we live on and in computers, where ideas are reshaped and replaced and even stricken almost before we’ve finished thinking them. 

I’m bothered by where all the letters go that I mistakenly type outside the designated boxes--when my screen doesn’t capture what my careless fingers fling at it. 

Do these mistyped fragments of instructions, queries, reflections, and heart-deep secrets careen down some cyber rabbit hole as they miss their marks? 

Do they slam into a cyber wall and disintegrate into the ether, or drift like marooned astronauts, raising a serif as they float past each other searching for an appropriate word cloud? 

Perhaps they accumulate in nonsensical clusters, not unlike much of my input that actually reaches its destination more or less intact. I prefer to think they swirl in an alphabet cyber soup where they stir themselves into the true meaning of life and that someday I’ll get a taste.

#cyber #cybertalk #alphabetsoup #typewriter #typos #meaningoflife