Tomorrow is not Promised ~ by Shannon Binegar-Foster

Just 5 days into the new year our community suffered a tragic loss. One firefighter died in the line of duty. He was fighting a fire in a grain bin when it exploded causing him to fall 80 feet. Another firefighter was critically injured and has a long road to recovery ahead of him. 

To see the outpouring of love and support from our community has been overwhelming. The day after the explosion, I found myself overcome with great sadness. I can’t imagine what the families were feeling at that moment. It is times like these that I am reminded how important it is to tell those you love how much they mean to you. 

In today’s world we are all so busy, so much so that we often forget to tell our family we love them. We don’t spend enough quality time with friends or family. So this is my gentle reminder for you to stop and make time for those important to you. Say what you feel and reach out to those you have lost touch with for tomorrow is not promised.

Photos courtesy of  Pexels.com free photos

NEW ORLEANS, DOORS FORBODING AND PIRATES ~ by Ralph Duncan

FORBODING: a strong inner feeling or notion of a future misfortune, evil, etc.

Yeah, that kind of sums it up for New Orleans. 

Before the year 2000, I had never been to New Orleans. Since then, I have traveled there almost twice a year—sometimes more often.  This last week I took an afternoon walk through the alleyways and cobblestone streets that cris-cross the historic part of downtown known as the French Quarter. 

On this trip, I was particularly interested in some of the intriguing doorways you find off the beaten path.  In a place like New Orleans, your mind can play tricks on you. One can imagine all sorts of things when peering into a darkened entry. 

Is this some ghostly portal? What devilish creatures haunted this place a hundred years ago? 

Or did it house that relief from months at sea, that so many worn out sailors craved?

On one of my previous trips, I was drawn to one of the most famous sites in New Orleans - Pirate's Alley. 

Graphite drawing by Ralph Duncan

Famous or infamous, detailed, factual information about the history of Pirate's Alley is elusive. And yet, it is one of the most photographed and painted landmarks of the city. One can find some version of a painting or photograph in nearly every shop in the French Quarter.

I had heard about it and sought it out, walked it many times before I decided to pencil my version.  And I went back several times after. It is one of those places that you can get a different feel each time you stand on the cobblestone street; a street that is just 600 feet long and 16 feet wide. In the daytime warmth of the south, there is a feeling of welcome and contentment. But in the evening, as darkness begins to fall and the fog from the Mississippi rolls in, you might start looking over your shoulder, fearful of---well, pirates.

It seems that the pirate Jean Lafitte (although he would have referred to himself as a privateer) is the main character in the story of how this alleyway got its name. Lafitte, his brother Pierre, and their men came to New Orleans about 1803, the year of the Louisiana Purchase. Accounts say that people would whisper behind his back---PIRATE! Lafitte and his band controlled the black market commerce and the sale of illegal goods openly in Pirate's Alley.  Throughout history, it seems that the line between outlaw and hero has many times been blurred. This time was no exception. It has been said that Pirate's Alley was the meeting place between Lafitte and Andrew Jackson when they allied together to defeat the British at the Battle of New Orleans in 1814.

Some say the street is as famous as the residence of the renowned author William Faulkner. In fact, his former living quarters is now the home of Faulkner House Books. But, truth be known, Faulkner only lived in Pirate's Alley in 1925 for about six months.  But that is New Orleans and Pirate's Alley; famous for food, fun, and great legends, and an excellent subject for artists. Here is my version. Enjoy—and watch out for pirates!

Unconventional Love by Grace Augustine

      

Courtesy of Pexels.com free photos

     Ben and Hildy sat at the park from mid-morning until the sun went down. It wasn’t uncommon to see the couple every Saturday, choosing just the right spot to spread out the blanket. There was always a book, always laughter, always a picnic basket filled to the brim with snacks to share.
     Theirs was a unique relationship. Ben, twenty years’ Hildy’s senior, had lived a hard life…one of prejudice at work, as well as church and many other societal situations. He’d worked hard in the coal mines until age got the better of him. Retirement sent him into a deep depression for which he was hospitalized. That’s where he met Hildy.
     Hildy, a sassy thirty-year-old, loved her work as a therapist on the psych floor of Trinity Hospital. She’d seen many come and go and smiled when she remembered her part in their healing. She’d stopped by Ben’s room the day he was admitted.  Her heart sank when she saw the uncommunicative, handsome older man sitting near the window.
     “Hi, Ben. I’m Hildy. It’s nice meeting you,” she greeted, taking the older man’s hand in hers and smiling brightly.
Her greeting met with no response. 
     “I can see we’re going to have to do something to cheer you up.”
     Ben turned toward Hildy and looked at her compassionate blue eyes. He shrugged his shoulders.
     “What’s the use?” The deep voice questioned. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
     “Oh, now, that is just a lie, sir, and you know it. Before I snap my fingers, you’ll be waltzing out of here. I promise.”
     Hildy continued meeting with Ben daily for the next two weeks. Each day she read excerpts to him from her favorite books. By the end of the second week, she noticed Ben smiling and engaging in conversation with her.
     “I have a surprise for you, Ben. Get your sweater and come with me.”
     Ben followed Hildy from the room. Soon they were walking hand in hand to the gardens at the hospital where they sat on a bench in the noon-day sun.
     Hildy opened her book and read several poems from Edna St. Vincent Milay. Her voice was sweet and positive and soothing. She glanced at Ben and smiled when she saw him smiling, eyes closed, as he took in every word she read.
     Each Saturday, Hildy led them to the same bench. Each Saturday, Ben held one side of the book and Hildy the other. Each took turns reading. Then, one day, it was time for Ben to be released from the hospital.
     “You’re going home today, Ben.”
     Ben sat with his elbows on his knees, hands folded, and head lowered. He wasn’t sure he should say what he was thinking but went ahead anyway.
     “Why did you do what you did, Hildy? Why did you read to me? Why were you kind to me? Not once did the color of my skin matter. Not once did my former profession matter. Not once did you judge me.”
     Hildy patted Ben’s arm then grasped one of his hands in both of hers.
     “Ben, I only see your heart. I see a loving, kind man who needed to be shown his worth.
     A tear fell down Ben’s cheek.
     “Hildy, I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”
     “Who says we have to say goodbye?”
     Every Saturday, for the past five years, Hildy and Ben met at the park at 10 am. They sat on a blanket, they laughed and read books, they shared a meal and their souls with each other. And, when the sun went down, Ben walked Hildy to her car and hugged her tightly.
     “I love you Hildy.”
     “I love you, too, Ben.”

Futurism ~ by R. R. Saucier, Editor, Writer, Observer

     I am an amateur futurist. Ever since I saw my first episode of the Jetsons in 1962, I have wanted my own flying car, Rosey the robot maid, and a wind tunnel that would do your hair, wash, and dress you while you did nothing (I am not a morning person). None of those have come true yet, but the Jetsons’ future bewitched me, enticing me into a lifelong fascination with what the future might bring.

The ‘60s were manic-depressed when it came to the future.  The Seattle World’s Fair predicted technological nirvana and built the Space Needle as a lasting tribute to a future not dissimilar to the Jetsons—after all, George and Jane were living in a Space-Needle-like home. But while many were promising a glorious future, dire warnings of a future filled with overpopulation and environmental disaster were prevalent.  Many predicted the earth would suffer horrible calamities in 50 years if we did not control our population. Hunger, drinking water shortages, and people living in overgrown rabbit warrens prone to crime and despair were all part of the portrait of the future.

It’s now 60 years later; have the warnings of the 1960’s come true? Overpopulation is a moving target, depending on the amount of people the earth can maintain without causing environmental deterioration and an impaired quality of life (see Webster for this definition). Most contemporary estimates put the carrying capacity of earth under our current conditions somewhere between 4 and 16 billion.  Current population is over 7.3 billion…so are we there yet?

One of the most fascinating books on population basically says the earth will take care of itself.  Laurie Garrett’s The Coming Plague (1995) supposes that the natural environmental forces that govern the existence of life on the planet will take over when human population overstrains the environment. Garrett provides the science behind the correlation and causation of a wide number of diseases and overpopulation. Whether it’s malaria, tuberculosis, hantaviruses, or Ebola, she makes a case for humanity’s numbers being curbed by our own infections. 

So when I read articles on the current typhus epidemic in Los Angeles or the growing number of cats in Wyoming who are dying from bubonic plague, I think back to Laurie Garrett’s work and wonder if nature isn’t striking back—again. [And yes, bubonic plague is contagious between cats and humans. Fleas and rodents are not your friends!]  

The environment may be overstressed, but human overpopulation is the cause. While we work to clean up the environment, Mother Earth is working on the root cause—as is the Bill and Melinda Gates’ Foundation. But few in our leadership talk about overpopulation directly, because if you think politicians are too scared to deal with the environment, try overpopulation with its corresponding issues of birth control, abortion, and equal access to health facilities and insurance.  Those issues are enough to scare us all. But Mama Earth does not respond to lobbyists, folks, so she’s going to take care of all of us, whether we like her approach or not.  

Laurie Garrett, The Coming Plague.  Worth a read.

Laurie Garrett. The Coming Plague. 1995. Review, Michiko Kakutani, Nov. 9, 1994, New York Times.

“Typhus epidemic Worsens, While Los Angeles’ Response ‘Too Slow, ’” NBC News, Los Angeles, Oct. 11, 2018.

Cat with bubonic plague in Wyoming is third in six months, KIRO news, Jan. 13, 2019:

Heirlooms~ Gifts from our Ancestors ~ by Lori Crecelius Roberts

I love history. I’m a history geek and claim it. I’ve always loved antiques for as long as I can remember. Through the years, I’ve been blessed to have in my possession many heirlooms from my family. As a historian, I see the value in those items that were part of my ancestors’ lives.


My father’s ancestors came to America from Germany in 1764. For as long as I can remember, the stories about their emigrating to first Philadelphia and then to picturesque eastern Tennessee in the 1780s piqued my curiosity. It’s no wonder the genealogy bug bit me at a young age.

My grandmother and I spent many hours talking about the family. She and my grandfather lived on the same home place that my great-great-great-grandfather and grandmother lived before Indiana became a state in 1816.  

As an author, the names and stories passed down through my grandmother and family members have found their way into the pages of my novels. The items from their past appear in the scenes of my stories.

I use family names in my stories as well. In my latest book, the main characters are my Crecelius ancestors who came to America from Reichelsheim, Germany in 1764.

My grandfather’s pipe from the early twentieth century was the first heirloom I received. It still has the smell of the tobacco inside. A shaving mug and brush, razor and strap, land deeds, and family Bibles are treasures that I hope to pass down someday. 

My great-great-great-grandmother’s spinning wheel that traveled from the mountains of eastern Tennessee to the hills of southern Indiana remained in the homestead until the 1960s when it spent the next fifty years with my aunt. Upon her death, the heirloom was passed to me. 

A cast iron bean pot that also came to Indiana was used during the 1700s and placed in the fireplace of the Indiana homestead. It stayed with my mother and father until this year. 

Slowly, items from the first generation in America have found their way to me. Perhaps it is fitting and proper, one who loves family history should be the keeper of the heirlooms. The items can only be enjoyed by those who see their value.