An Exciting Winter!
Location: Tucson, Arizona
This winter has been a roller coaster ride, yet neither of us threw up! Not even once. Put Kay on a real coaster, however….
In this lifestyle issue:
- Roughing It
- Two New Books
- RV Rally & Seminars
- Maintenance of Animates & Inanimates
- 2024 Annual Voyager Flute Festival
1. Roughing It
Those of you who follow our misadventures on Facebook know Kay and I survived for three months this winter without refrigeration. But wait, you might ask, don’t you live in a camper? So, what’s the big deal?
Folks, we live in a motorhome, with emphasis on the syllable HOME. This is our only home. All the time. We are not camping at this stage of our lives. For those of you who are sticks-‘n-bricks dwellers, imagine no working refrigerator in your house for one-fourth of an entire YEAR. And then ask your question again.
Don’t get me wrong. We got by just fine. Borrowed an ice chest from our daughter Michelle (thanks, Hon) and fed it, on average, four sizable bags of ice per week to tuck around our food. One saving grace: our motorhome features a small chest freezer in the “basement” (accessible via storage-bay doors outside, below “the house”).
So I’d go “shopping” in the cooler and freezer outside, sometimes in the rain, often in rather cold weather, three times a day at mealtimes. And because we are a vegetarian and a vegan, we needed to shop for our bulky fresh organic produce every other day (ten miles into town). That became our routine. And it worked.
But imagine what a luxury it was when the parts finally arrived to repair our seven-month-old refrigerator/freezer! Yeah, kids, it’s the little things in life we take for granted that we shouldn’t!
So, for 3+ months we “enjoyed” a non-working fridge/freezer plopped in the middle of our kitchen-slash-living room. Then, ahhhhhh….
2. Two New Books
Yup, it’s been a busy winter in addition to myriad distractions. Tom Kasprzak, my writing partner and I, cranked out two more exhilarating Sam Travis Adventures. Firing on all cylinders out here, kids. We’ll launch one this summer and another in the fall. Crazy, huh?
If you haven’t checked out book one of our Sam Travis series, click HERE. Look for LETHAL TRAIL (book two) in late May or early June, and a few months later, LETHAL BOUNTY (book three). Our early (pre-publication) readers proclaim these are our best yet in this genre. Watch this space for these outdoor adventure stories that will keep you turning pages and staying up past your bedtime.
Grab your sneak peek at the cover art for both books below (from left to right: back cover, spine, and front cover of each):
Here’s a peek at one scene from LETHAL TRAIL:
May 20, 1988
Framingham, Massachusetts
* * *
Sam Travis hadn’t visited the Massachusetts Environmental Police Academy a half-hour west of Boston in years. But he was ordered to appear. He knew by whom and why. The academy’s commandant and he needed to finish something together. Trust didn’t come easy these days, not even within law enforcement. So they treated this like an off-the-books operation. Both knew how to do that all too well. But their unfinished business had nothing to do with the academy.
Travis hadn’t forgotten this place: the painted brick buildings, the sense of excitement and anticipation in the air… so thick he could almost smell it. If it hadn’t been for the discipline this place instilled in him, his life might have gone in a very different direction. Not a good one.
A gilded sign of gold, black, and green, with white letters near the facility’s entrance gate and guardhouse announced this was a military-style installation:
Environmental Police Academy
Framingham, Massachusetts
Some of the old-fashioned buildings on the campus looked even more old-fashioned with pillars and porches. Groups of cadets marched with drill instructors counting cadence. Memories—mostly pleasant—flooded Sam’s mind at the sights and sounds. How long had it been since he was a cadet? He felt as old as some of these structures. He’d dragged his mind and body down some hard roads since then. Approached an ordinary door on the main floor of the administration building. The sign on the door read:
Captain L. Jamison,
Academy Commandant
Sam knocked and entered the outer office. His smile was a mask to cover what was going on inside. What was his secretary’s name? He pretended he remembered until he got close enough to read the name plate on her desk. “Ellie, so good to see you again. Remember me?”
Ellie blushed. She had passed her prime a decade earlier, but she was still a beautiful woman and a force of nature. “Officer Travis, it’s good to see you, too.”
“I’d come around more often, but I’d hate to make your husband jealous.” He winked.
Ellie’s blush blossomed even as she smirked. “Like you have a shot, young man.”
They both chuckled. As expected. She said, “Go right in,” and she winked back at him. He shook his head from side to side. Too much woman for him, anyway.
One quick knock later, Sam swung open the door to Jamison’s office. “Sir.” Neither man smiled. They were about to discuss how they might bring down a corrupt federal agent from the US Fish and Wildlife Service, or USFWS—a fed—and likely another high-level conspirator or two in the bargain, maybe within their own organization, as well. Sam would do whatever it took to both disguise the venomous hatred he nurtured for both of these criminals, and to go to any lengths to see these dirtbags in prison, or preferably, in the ground. He ensured his neutral mask did not crack.
“Sit, Sam. Let’s get right to it. How the hell did Mason slip away?”
***
Look for LETHAL TRAIL Early Summer 2024
And how about the first historical scene from LETHAL BOUNTY
(before the story jumps forward to 1989):
Charlestown, Massachusetts
June 17, 1775
Ankle-deep in the blood of their dead and dying compatriots, he and his aide crouched behind a redoubt—one of the earthen barriers his men had hastily constructed on the ridges during the night. Still visible through the dense clouds of smoke in the stagnant air that stung their eyes and burned their lungs, the sun now hung high in the early afternoon sky. It was an otherwise brilliant day.
Despite an incessant hail of musket balls, they bobbed their heads up to risk yet another glance down the hill from their impromptu command post at the advancing British troops. The redcoats were at least double their own numbers, and possessed superior training. Ten yards away with fire in their eyes, the reckless British bastards leapt over mounds of their fallen and advanced with ruthless abandon. Like they have for the last six-and-a-half hours. These were battle-hardened professional soldiers of the realm. The young colonel now doubted the wisdom of holding these hills against such a force with the now-dying or already dead farmers and shopkeepers in his own ranks. This is madness.
Most of his troops, twelve-hundred strong at the onset, were raw civilians, but harbored a passion for freedom from the oppressive Crown. That passion pounded in their hearts. Those who still lived, anyway. While this battle had only been joined at sunrise this day, they were now thrust into the third bloody month of this brutal siege on their own city. They fought to take back their own neighborhoods, their own homes. The new Continental Army dared not relent as long as their families and friends remained in the clutches of tyrants. Worse, the Crown’s considerable occupying force now terrorized all of Boston, Middlesex County, and beyond. He shouted over the din of musket fire, now growing more sporadic from their side, “Lads, they’ve already paid dearly, far more than we. In the future, they’ll think twice before—”
“Sir, sorry to interrupt,” his aide gasped. “Runners are reporting in. Squad leaders report their surviving men have little or no powder remaining. What are your orders, sir?” The aide stood shoulder-to-shoulder with one of the runners. The runner’s face of crimson blinked against the blood dripping from his brow into his eyes.
Colonel William Prescott was a man of action, and valor, but also of conscience. He nodded as he wiped the sweat from his brow and addressed his fanatically loyal aide, “The rest of our militia dies here along with General Warren and the others if we do not now retreat. You’ve done well, boys.” He glanced around at his youthful command staff that had mustered in haste. “They’ll not soon forget this battle here atop Breed’s and Bunker.” Then, to the runner and to his aide, “It is time to muster elsewhere and abandon these wretched mounts to the King’s ruffians. Order retreat.”
His aide saluted. “Yes, sir.” At that moment, the left side of his aide’s face disappeared into a pink mist.
***
Look for LETHAL BOUNTY Fall 2024
3. RV Rally & Seminars
I presented two writing/publishing seminars at the 106th FMCA (Family MotorCoach Association) International Convention in Perry, Georgia a year ago. They asked me to return to do the same at their 108th Convention. That’s one of the reasons we’re now here in Tucson. This rally was smaller than Perry. “Only” 1,200 RVs here vs over 3,000 in Perry. A helluva lot of fun and a beautiful desert venue.
4. Maintenance: Animates & Inanimates
Moving from city to city makes it a challenge to not outrun healthcare. So, we go like hell to get all our doc appointments, tests, eye exams, and hearing aid appointments in before we move on. Same with motorhome “health care.” Biggest issue here is waiting on parts. Yup, both animates (us) and inanimates (our motorhome) require regular care and feeding.
Kay found some doctors here in Tucson she really likes, and as a disabled vet, I’m able to leverage Veteran’s Affairs here (and elsewhere). If they can’t help me on some specialty, they refer me to a local civilian medical facility they trust. Good healthcare here, and more accessible than Florida.
Finding an RV service center we trust AND can fit us in is always a challenge on the road. We needed oil/filter changes on both the main engine and the generator. We also needed the chassis lubed (pretty important on a 40,000-pound bus), the rooftop A/Cs and diesel boiler serviced, rooftop caulking inspected (since I’m no longer allowed “up there” after my fall two+ years ago, now), a bathroom fan replaced (as stuff ages out, we replace it), and a few other tidbits (aren’t there always other tidbits?).
Then, there’s waxing, going to a local Jack Furrier Tires for four new tires on the drive axle in a week or so, and we will outrun one part we couldn’t get in time (one of five heat exchangers for the furnace), so we’ll get that done in the San Francisco area where we’ll stop for a few weeks (Petaluma). It never ends. Keeps life interesting.
5. 2024 Annual Voyager Flute Festival
The season is winding down here. Another reason we’re in Tucson this time of year is the Annual Flute Festival organized by my friend Paul Surhoff at the Voyager RV Resort. This festival draws talent from all over the Southwest, and is an annual celebration of music and heritage of our country’s indigenous peoples and their culture (the rest of us are just immigrants!). I am enamored of the Native earth “religions” (they merely think of considerately connecting with all that is around us, including each other). This remains their proud heritage.
We enjoyed being entertained by an award-winning flautist, vocalist, and storyteller, Shelly Morningsong and her talented husband Fabian Fontenelle. They’ve been performing traditional Zuni/Omaha dances and playing traditional music since they were children. Shelly and Fabian still live in Zuni Pueblo, New Mexico, celebrating the tribe’s traditional lifestyle every day, and they travel to entertain and educate.
The audio isn’t great, but what a feast for the senses! If this interests you, check out Shelly’s website in the link above (click on her name). She offers CDs of their music as well as her own custom Native clothing & accessories, all handmade. A delightful couple, Shelly and Fabian. And their performance is so… atmospheric.
And then there’s JP Gomez, a talented young man who’s been through so much, expressing and healing himself through his flute music. Says it transports him. JP is also a talented flute maker.
That’s it! So, until next time, and wherever….
Let’s roll!
Gene
I gave up my “stuck-in-the-sixties” persona
(and before I lost 65 pounds).
P.S.
Oh, allow me to share a recent watercolor painting I’m rather proud of as I seek to rediscover my neglected painting skills. Below is a street scene from the Caribbean Island of St. Lucia in the Windward Island chain a few hundred miles off the coast of Venezuela and Trinidad. Kay and I sailed through there many years ago with our dear friends Doug and Marti. A wonderful memory. I’m striving to achieve a loose but vibrant painting style (yeah, I have a long way to go):
