Contests and More Contests

Recently I sponsored via my friend Roseanne, a contest on Goodreads. The winners received a copy of Taya: Daughter of Jacob (my young adult Book of Mormon romance/adventure) and NYC: Murder Brooklyn Style, A Summer Winter Mystery.

I seem to like long titles... Oh well.

Anywho... as my mother would have said... Hundreds of people entered and 3 people won! Yay!!!! Lucky 3!

I hope all the rest of them buy the ebooks or the paperbacks... I'm not choosy...

Currently, down in California at Lehi's Tree Bookstore (Can find this online if you don't live nearby) owned by my friend JoLynn Cook, there is another contest going. This is a fun contest with nothing to do but write your name on a card and put it in a box for a drawing happening at the end of JoLynn's Grand Opening... YAY!.... The winner will have their name used as a character in my upcoming 3rd Summer Winter Mystery, NYC: Monopoly on Murder.

Doesn't that sound fun? Why, yes, it does... So, I'm sure JoLynn would love to see you at her Grand Opening and I'd love to have you want to be used as a character in my next book!

I'm saving a spot for you as I write... Catch ya' later.

Yamoransah Village

Every kilometer we drove from Accra seemed to cross a time zone, not in the sense of clock time, but in the sense of calendar time.

Years.

Frederick Antwi had invited us to his home in the village of Yamoransah. We left before sunrise. It would take us nearly three hours of difficult driving to reach his village. We ran out of asphalt long before we ran out of road.

Decades.

They knew we were coming. They were waiting for us. Brother Antwi’s family was anticipating our arrival and I had no idea what to expect. Time travel has interesting side effects.

Centuries.

As we climbed from our SUV, stiff and sore from the long journey, Brother Antwi’s mother-in-law was sitting on the stone step beside her home. She had the regal air of an African Queen, the matriarch of her village.

I asked her if I could take her picture.

“She doesn’t understand,” Brother Antwi said.

“Would she mind if I took her picture?”

“No,” he said, crossing the threshold. We were meant to follow.

I raised my camera and looked through the lens. She stared at me with cloudy eyes. I took my eye from the lens and looked at her from around my camera. I held my camera out and used a hand signal to seek her approval.

She stared back at me, proud.

I looked through the lens once more and I could see the cataracts, which obscured her vision. I could see the lines written on her face, lines which told stories of childbirth, hunger, famine, war and survival. I could feel a tolerance mixed with profound sadness. But I could not cross the barrier to understanding. The journey, for me, was much too far and much too hard. This temporary visit was not enough for me to expect her acceptance. I could take her image with me but I could not take her story. My vision was clouded by cultural cataracts.

Brother Antwi waved at me to follow him. The moment passed. I tried to say thank you with words she didn’t understand. Frustrated by the barriers between us, I nodded my head in salute. Slowly she nodded her head in response. Her lips did not open, but the corners of her mouth turned. I hope it was her smile.

The Devil Wears Poodle

I don’t know about you, but my opinion is that living with pets--dogs--brings out the strongest of love-hate relationships imagineable.

They snuggle, they sit on command, they run to you when you come home. Love.

They puke—on carpet, themselves and you—they nip, they dig a mud hole in the center of the lawn you finally leveled and seeded last summer. Hate.

Last week I threw (figurativley—promise--) our poodle puppy outside after doing something unforgiveable that I can’t recall now. I didn’t care if he pooped all over the kid’s play area, dug trenches or tore up toys. I just wanted him OUT.

When I settled down and went to welcome him in…I saw red.

Bright red pawprints all over the deck. And because he was so excited to see me, he pranced all over the deck, spotting the unfinished wood with bloody prints EVERYWHERE.

I admit I was conflicted. I didn’t know whether to feel guilt or rage.

It’d been a long day.

I decided to feel nothing and just take care of what had to be done. He had sliced his toe somehow, so after a “loving” scrub in the tub, I bandaged his paw and crossed my fingers that this wouldn’t turn into a nasty vet bill from an infection.

What did I get?

Absolute Bliss. A wonderful week where the bandage made walking around way too awkward. He followed me around and laid at my feet instead. We cuddled. We hugged.

We forgave.

The day the bandage came off? He sprung a leak on the bathroom rug.