Hurrah! I have just now finished adding the locations to Adelsverein: The Gathering, Daughter of Texas, Deep in the Heart, and The Quivera Trail to the Squirl website, so that anyone who has that app on their cellphone can “look around” and find locations written about in books… or conversely, look up a book and find the locations in it.

This has taken a bit longer than I thought, especially for Quivera Trail … because the characters traveled a LOT! I have to call up a map, match the location in the book to a location on the Squirl map, and add a bit of commentary and an excerpt from the book to that. Still to come – Adelsverein: The Sowing and The Harvesting, Sunset and Steel Rails and finally — To Truckee’s Trail, which will be … fun, because that book was ALL journey.

This is absolutely awesome – this particular find, since it falls just within the scope of the current WIP. A whole Mississippi/Missouri-era steamship, with a cargo of goods intended for frontier settlements, sunk in the mid-1850s with cargo entire, There are so many artifacts retrieved, that they have to display them in an old department store, and take advice from retail…

Behold – the Steamship Arabia! (or a reasonable facsimile thereof.)

Steamship Arabia

Dance with the Bunny Boiler in the Pale Moonlight

Some weeks after Romeo Gonzales arrived and set up his own campsite in the near-deserted Age of Aquarius, Richard pedaled up the road – deftly avoiding the ruts, bumps and puddles that nature and the passage of the occasional heavy vehicle had scoured into the clay-like soil with the skill of experience. It had rained lightly the night before, so puddles there were in plenty, and the fresh new grass had begun just raising tender new blades coyly between the old dead hay of the previous season.
On the whole, he had found Romeo Gonzales to be a congenial neighbor, given that it was hard to be anything else at half an acre space between their trailers and workplaces some blocks distant from each other. At least, Romeo showed no inclination to conspire together with malignantly-inclined micro-media operatives to ambush him at the door with lights, cameras and harassing commentary, unlike the egregious Penn. Who, in concordance with the injunction delivered through Jess, showed every inclination of making himself scarce whenever Richard was around. Richard was profoundly glad of that, not least because he treasured his afternoons of solitary contemplation of the pleasant but uninspiring landscape and his studies in Larousse.
And besides all that, Romeo was good at fixing things. He took it upon himself to shinny up and lubricate the old-fashioned windmill that drove the water-pump which supplied hot water to the old concrete block washhouse in the campground. Romeo adjusted the handbrakes and the chain of Richard’s bicycle, and when completely bored and bereft of things to do, popped up the hood of his pick-up truck and tinkered with the mysteries within. Still, Richard had looked out of the Airstream’s windows, very late at night, rubbing his eyes because he thought he could see some kind of ephemeral apparition – kind of like the Northern Lights, but rather more red-tinged than electric green, writhing and twisting in the air over Romeo’s Fifth-wheel. But as soon as he blinked, that vision was gone.
Now, that very pick-up coasted slowly across the campground, and Romeo leaned out of the drivers’ side window. “Hey, Rich – I’m heading out to Karnesville to swap out my propane bottles; you were saying that one of yours is empty and the other almost – you wanna come along?”
“Certainly – and thanks for the offer,” Richard answered with honest gratitude. “Run over to the Airstream – I’ll put them in.” He had been experimenting with various interesting recipes on the tiny propane-powered cooker in the Airstream, which had completely drained one tank – and to judge how the burner flame had been flickering of late – was close to emptying the other. The tanks were heavy – and the Walmart in Karnesville was a good ten or fifteen miles distant. In the space of a minute or two, his tanks were in the back of Romeo’s sturdy workman’s pick-up, and they were out on Route 123 – the back road between San Antonio and Aransas Pass, which gained in scenic qualities and relative lack of traffic in its soothing meandering across scenic portions of South Texas what it lacked in the boring celerity of the major highway.
But there was frequent traffic upon it; some miles along the way to Karnesville, the two of them witnessed evidence of that, in the form of a very late-model, velvet-black Mercedes sedan, off on the grassy verge on the other side of the road. The front left tire of the Mercedes was fatally, hopelessly flattened, and the driver stood uncertainly by it, very obviously boggled by this misfortune, although she held a cellphone in her hand.
“Oh, man,” Said Roman, in admiration. “What a gorgeous piece …”
“I don’t care!” Richard, recognizing the unfortunate driver, was horrified. He barely restrained his first impulse to dive under the passenger-side dashboard of Romeo’s truck – which being one of these huge garish American things, would have been big enough to hide at least two people, three of them if they were light of build. “Drive on – that’s the horrible Susannah! She’s a stalker, the bunny-boiler of Mills Farm! An executive of theirs! She has haunted me – chased after me! She came out to the trailer … for god’s sake, man – don’t stop! If you do, you’ll regret it, I tell you!”
“She came out to the Aquarius?” Romeo answered. “Damn, Rich, she’s way to classy for a regular lot lizard. I’ll run that risk, sure. And that Merc is one awesome bit of machinery.” He sighed, as the pick-up swept past the stranded Mercedes. “Sorry, man – you have issues with her. Your problem, not mine. I don’t leave ladies with car trouble by the roadside – just my personal standard.” He grinned sideways at Richard, who felt his heart sink right down to the level of his trainers. (Bought at Marisol Gonzalez’s thrift shop in Karnesville. He did wonder briefly if he could impose on Romeo to make a quick pit-stop there after trading in the gas bottles.)
“She’s a remora in human-guise,” Richard gabbled, frantic and horrified, as Romeo made an easy U-turn and drove back towards the stranded Mercedes and Susannah Wyatt – as always, slim and dressed to the nines in elegant and high-fashion vacation wear. “Just drive on! Call your uncle with the garage and the wrecker – anything! Once she latches onto your flesh, she doesn’t let go! A relentless succubus …”
“Sounds like my kind of woman!” Unmoved, Romeo did another U-turn and eased the pick-up off the road, backing up and parking just ahead of Susannah and her stranded Mercedes.
Richard slid down in the passenger seat, lower and lower, hissing between his teeth as Romeo turned off his engine, “I won’t be a part of this – I can’t be a part of this! For the love of God, don’t let her see me – don’t tell her I am here! The woman is a menace – you have no idea of what you are letting yourself in for …”
“No problem, bro,” Romeo answered, with total assurance. He unsnapped his seat belt, and opened the driver-side door. “I reckon maybe that I do … and I just won’t leave a woman stranded by the roadside with car trouble. That’s just not the Gonzales way.”
“You’ll live to regret it!” Richard made one final frantic and fruitless plea … to no avail. He slid farther down in the passenger seat, certain that he would not be seen, since Romeo’s truck sat so much higher than the Mercedes and had tinted windows in the back. But he could observe what transpired in the mirrors and hear Romeo’s and Susannah’s voices since the windows were open.
Romeo – swaggering just the tiniest bit like an old movie cowboy – doffed his hat and drawled, “Say there, little lady, you look like you’ve got a flat tire, there.”
Richard sank even farther down in the seat. “Oh, god – the bloody stereotype. Kill me now.” He couldn’t hear Susannah’s reply, but Romeo continued, “Don’t you fret, ma’am, I can change it for ya – just show me where your spare is. I got all the tools I need in the back of my truck. I’m Romeo Gonzales, by the way – of the Luna City Gonzaleses. You must be Miss Wyatt, from out at Mills Farm … I’ve heard so much about you.”

(to be continued in amusing fashion. Luna City 3.14159 will be released late this year, in both print and ebook versions.)

OK, then – I am working at putting the various locations in my books up on an app called Squirl – which allows people to pull together the locations of books set in the place where they are! Since my various characters traveled all over the place, this will take a couple of days. It won’t be quite as detailed as the walking tour of Fredericksburg, Texas – but close enough!

All of us with Bridget Smith

All of us with Bridget Smith


So – the Daughter Unit and I spend the greater part of Monday morning doing our bit for the San Antonio Indy Authors and our second bookfest, this coming Saturday. C.M. Bratton, our tireless organizer for this bookfest and last years’ managed to get us a bit of publicity on the KENS-5 mid-morning show, Great Day SA. What with one thing and another over the years, we’ve been to their studios over on Fredericksburg Road – the last time was for the first bookfest, so the Daughter Unit and I knew the drill. Meet with C. M. and the other authors in the visitor parking lot, draw our special T-shirts, sign in on the guestbook in the lobby, get a badge from the receptionist, be escorted in a group to the studio, and find places for ourselves on the bleachers. I don’t know what it is for Good Morning SA when there isn’t a fairly substantial group of people, but it appears that the guests generally serve as the in-studio audience, and rotate into position when their segment comes up.

All very structured, of course; a snippet of news, a weather and traffic report, and then on to the light and fluffy stuff. Oddly enough, I found this program very comforting after the last couple of weeks of news; a long hot summer of race riots, ISIS coming up with horrible new ways to execute people, Europe melting down over Brexit, rumblings of menace from China and Russia … really, I was beginning to dread turning on the computer of a morning and discovering some fresh hell in the headlines.

So – let’s see; what was a summer Monday on Great Day SA all about? Well, there was a franchise ice cream parlor owner, who demonstrated how to whip up instantly frozen ice cream by using liquid nitrogen. I really couldn’t see from where I was sitting in the bleachers – but it seems that it involves stirring in a dash of liquid nitrogen into the ice cream base. It was just hard to tell, with all the white clouds of vapor, dissolving all over the place. And then – a bit about how to keep dogs comfortable in the summer; the owner of a doggie day care and spa, which has a swimming pool for dogs, was interviewed, with one of her dogs on hand. He was a big brown cupcake of a pit named Moose, who was a bit restless but otherwise well-behaved. There is a special kind doggie ice cream, it appears; a specially formulated frozen whey, which is better for them than cream and sugar.
There were three performers and two puppets from the Magik Theater, and the theater manager, doing a song from their current production; La Cinderella. This is a musical adaptation of the Cinderella story, set in Spanish Colonial San Antonio. And then – a new hospital facility opening up; specializing in physical therapy and rehabilitation – which looks to be quite awesomely well-appointed. The pictures of the lobby looked like the lobby of a particularly luxurious hotel.

And then – our bit, at the end of the hour, with C. M. wrapping it all up and the rest of us holding up our books. Not a bad way to kill a morning, and if it brings out crowds to Say Si on Saturday, then all to the good!

(So, here is a taste of the next Luna City book – and, yes, there will be several more, as the creative urge takes us.)

It was part of Richard’s gradual acceptance into the community of Luna City – as a pillar of the same in his office as manager/cook of the Luna Café and Coffee – that he do a turn in the old home economics classroom of Luna City’s secondary school teaching a necessary adult survival skills to twenty or so sixteen and seventeen year old students. The high school was named for Hernando “Nando” Gonzales, the legendary jet fighter ace of the Korean War and native son of Luna City; the adult survival skills course had been the mind-blowing stroke of genius on the part of Nando’s second cousin once removed, Geronimo “Jerry” Gonzales while serving as Luna City Superintendent of Schools. A series of adult experts offered an educational smorgasbord; household budgeting and basic income-tax return preparation, simple auto and household trouble-shooting, repairs and maintenance, First Aid … and Richard had been tapped for a week of cooking classes. The class met in a room which had been set up to facilitate cooking lessons, back in the decades when that meant cooking and sewing instruction for girls; five fully-equipped kitchenettes and a central instruction area with an overhead mirror over the prep-area and cooktop. Richard felt oddly at home on the very first day, although it was jarring to be addressed as ‘sir’ or Mr. Astor-Hall. And he felt terribly old, when he made a reference to Graham Kerr, the Galloping Gourmet, on the very first day, and had to explain it to a roomful of baffled teenagers.
“I could do a two-week segment, next semester,” he remarked to Jess Abernathy, at mid-week, when they had their regular management consult. “They’re a very promising lot. I had a brilliant inspiration, regarding roast chicken; you know, start with preparing a basic whole roast chicken with basic herbs and lemon on the first day, then move through several different recipes incorporating the leftover cooked chicken … simple dishes, exploring various cuisines … and then finish up with using the bones to make a stew, with dumplings. Tasty, economical, simple; what do you think?”
“The kids will eat it up,” Jess said, and Richard replied,
“Well, of course – that’s the whole point. D’you think I could offer an internship over the summer to one or two of the most promising?”
“You’d have to pay them at least as much as they would earn, bussing tables at Mills Farm,” Jess warned him. “We’ll look at the finances at the end of this year, see if it can be done. I’m glad you like doing a part of the class, Rich – I was afraid you’d regret it as a waste of time.”
“Teaching someone to cook for themselves is never a waste of time,” Richard answered with adamantine conviction. “Every creature on earth eats – but cooking your food and cooking it well is the foundation building-block of civilization.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” Jess laughed. “Hey, if you happen to see Romeo this afternoon – remind him about the costume rehearsal tomorrow at the Pryor’s. Kate is going to come and take pictures of the main characters for the newspaper and website, so it’s absolutely important that everyone be there.”
“So he did get convinced to be the groom?” Richard had almost forgotten about the Luna City Players’ benefit event to rebuild the church parish hall, free of the twin scourges of black mold and asbestos; an event which involved staging a terribly dramatic mock-wedding with all the required and traditional trimmings.
“Of course,” Jess giggled. “Patricia is terribly persuasive, and Romeo has always been putty in the hands of strong-minded women who don’t want to sleep with him.”
“He’s also putty in the hands of those who do,” Rich said – for yes, the velvet-black Merc had made occasional appearances, discretely parking on the far side of Romeo’s Fifth-wheel, and the gossip that he couldn’t help overhearing in the Café of a morning, had it that Susannah and Romeo spent many an evening and into the wee hours, honky-tonking in various bars and dance halls in Beeville, Karnesville and even as far afield as Victoria. To his relief, Susannah appeared to make every effort to avoid being seen, especially by Richard, although Romeo had jovially thanked him for the semi-introduction, and leered when he advised, “If the trailer is a-rocking, then don’t come knocking!”
“Point taken,” Jess looked amused. Yes, she must also have heard the Café gossip, although since she and Joe Vaughn were an established couple, this intelligence may have come to her via pillow talk. “Yes, if you want to teach a two-week session next semester, I’m sure Jerry will approve.”
“They’re nice kids,” Richard admitted, feeling somewhat foolish that he had never had much to do with the sub-adult specimens of his species since he ceased being one of them. “I’d like to see them off to a good start in life.”
“So do we all.” Jess gathered up her spreadsheets and receipts. “So do we all – since they’re the ones who will be managing our assisted-living residences.”

The adult-skills class was the final regular class of the day, which ended at 3 PM. Richard rather liked it, since it let him put full-time at the Café, and added an extra fillip to complete his working day. The final bell dismissed the class – and he was unexpectedly touched to see that most of the kids departed rather reluctantly, rather than jetting out the premises at full speed, a handful of them lingering to ask very specific food-preparation questions which suggested they were going to go right home and attempt them there that every evening.
Which he thought was all to the good – given his fake biography which involved fixing meals for a mythical starving and neglected family of younger brothers and sisters, and his real-life experience, in cooking for his parents – all pleased and appreciative they were, although some of his early experiments with fusion cuisine were not all that successful. Although his parents were, if anything, sporting about it, since they ate the results with a becoming show of pleasure. He went out the back of the school to where he had left his bicycle leaning against a handy rack, thinking again of how much he owed his parents.
He was mildly surprised, therefore, to observe two Luna City Police department vehicles (about half the force, until there is sufficient funding to purchase a fifth SUV) parked around in back of the school, in a sweep of gravel by the auto hobby shop enclosure, the gymnasium and the field house which served as an overflow parking lot when the Moths played home games. And he noted, with a rising feeling of disquiet, that the Walcott’s blinged-out Humvee with all the extra add-on features was also parked next to a battered panel van with the logo of the popular local conjunto band, Los Maldonados, stenciled on the sides.
As he took up his bike from the rack where he had left it – for no one locked their bicycles any more than they locked their doors in Luna City – he heard Sook Walcott’s steam-whistle shriek of outrage, emanating from the direction of the double doors to the gymnasium, followed very shortly by the pint-size domestic terror herself, dragging her teenage daughter Belle by the arm in one hand and flailing blows in the direction of a dark-haired teenaged boy with the other, while two civilians – Coach “Music Man” Garrett and an older Hispanic man that Richard didn’t recognize, but who was in the customary performance garb of Los Maldonados, as was the boy and Belle Walcott – and Joe Vaughn with three of his officers attempting to reason with the infuriated Sook.
“You no canoodle with crummy musician!” Sook shrieked at top decibels and her distraught daughter wailed in response, “Mom! Javi wasn’t doing anything!”
“Mrs. Walcott!” That was Coach Garrett, mild, middle-aged musician and football coach for the Luna City Mighty Fighting Moths, who hadn’t won a game against any of their division opponents in three decades, although the Moths Marching Band, under his exacting tutelage were state and national champions in the marching band sweepstakes several times over. “Mrs. Walcott, please – calm down and listen to me – there was no impropriety here, we were finishing up Belle’s audition tape for ….”
“My daughter not be crummy musician!” Sook screamed, unappeased. “She go to proper college, perfect SAT! No canoodle with stupid musician boy!”
“Mom! You’re embarrassing me!” Belle pleaded, sobbing. “Javi – Coach – I’m sorry, I didn’t know Mom would carry on like this!” While Coach Garrett begged for reason and decorum and the older Maldonado attempted to pull the teenaged boy out of her reach, the four officers hovered uncertainly – although Rich could see that one officer – whose name badge read “Gonzalez” was already exchanging heated remarks in Spanish with the older Maldonado. Finally, Joe Vaughn shrugged, obviously giving up on reasoned diplomacy and settling for sheer lung-power.
“Enough!” he roared, in a parade-ground bellow which likely could have been heard in downtown Luna City and possibly as far as Karnesville. “Miz Walcott, lay a hand on Javier Maldonado again, I’ll have you in handcuffs on charges of assault and battery. Now – everyone, just calm the hell down. Milo, Jim-Bob, you two see Ignacio an’ Javi to their vehicle un-assaulted. Coach, what in the blue blazes is this all about?” he added in slightly lower, but no less aggravated tones, as Sook Walcott shoved her weeping daughter into the Humvee. “Oh, hi, Rich. You got anything to add to this?”
“Not really,” Rich ventured. “But I’ve been told that crime waits for no man.”
“Not now, wise-ass,” Joe said, as Sook Walcott spun the SUV out of the area in a spray of gravel. Coach Garrett sighed very deeply. “Chief, I just don’t know what gets into that woman, sometimes – but it was all my doing.”
“She seemed pretty upset, regardless.” Joe said, with remarkable patience, considering. “She must have had something to get fired up about, minor as it usually is. What were you doing here, with Javi and Ignacio and Belle, all dressed up?”
“It was an audition tape,” Coach Garrett explained. “For Belle to send with her application to Julliard.”
“Julliard – the school for musicians, the one in New York City? That Julliard?”
“My alma mater,” Coach Garrett answered, with an air of modest pride. “We were putting together her pre-screening DVD – she’s got the Ravel, Rossini and Mozart pieces down pat – but for the solo of her choice, she wanted to go with jazz; Mangione – and Javi and Ignacio were just here to help. She’s … wound pretty tight about all this, as you can imagine. Mrs. Walcott, she has it in her mind that Belle is going to one of those serious colleges, study medicine or law, or something heavy-duty like that.”
Remarkably, that seemed to make sense to Joe, who nodded, very slowly. “Their oldest boy – Jerry, is it? He bailed out of all that, broke his parent’s hearts like enough, when he went off to study nursing. At a public college, in San Antonio, no less. Don’t see why they got all bent out of shape, though – it’s a skilled calling, but …” he shrugged. “Kids, they have their own minds. I know that I did, when I was that age.”
“So, Sook and Clovis now have all their ambitions invested in Belle,” Richard mused. He had been just long enough in Luna City to have had business dealings with both Walcotts, seen Belle playing the trumpet with the Moths Marching band, and with the Maldonados at various local fetes. She was a pretty, but nervous-looking girl with bitten fingernails – as who wouldn’t be in her position, given her mother’s towering and ear-splitting social and parental ambitions.
“That’s it,” Coach Garrett nodded, an expression of deep concern on his middle-aged and otherwise bland countenance. “That’s it, exactly.” He looked at Richard and Joe. “And that’s the trouble – because she is really, really good. All my band kids are good, or at least fair enough by the time I’m done working with them. But she could be world-class … is almost world-class as just as she is. She needs a place like Julliard … just to have the space to stretch her wings and really learn. She needs music like normal people need air and water. I … just don’t know how to deal with her mother.”
“Join the club, pal,” Joe tilted his white Stetson a little farther back on his head. They watched the Maldonado’s van pull away, and Coach Garrett sighed again.
“At least we got the videotaping done,” he said, with a determined air of good cheer. “I can tweak the final bits when Mrs. Walcott came busting in. It’s only a prelim screening, anyway. If they accept her, they’ll schedule a live audition, in New York.”
“Do you think she has a chance of acceptance, Coach?” Joe asked, and Coach Garrett nodded. “Oh, yeah – depend on it. She is that good.”

It was a momentary local drama; Richard pedaled away home, arriving with a sense of relief that no fresh drama awaited him there. Even Romeo Gonzales, the potential provider of that was gone – doubtless tom-catting on his own, around the various clubs and bars dedicated to providing entertainment and alcohol to the single man, and those women looking to bag one. But the matter came roaring back, Friday morning at the Café, just as the morning rush slowed to a crawl, and he had the time to answer a phone call from a harassed Clovis Walcott.

A selection of books from the PTA book sale, including some issues of AH

A selection of books from the PTA book sale, including some issues of AH

Well, that was a bit of a shock this morning, when I went to my bookmarks menu to look for an article I recollect reading ages ago about Theodore Roosevelts’ first wife – and the bookmark for the American Heritage website turned up … well, nothing. As in – nothing found. I used to use their archive to find articles in my vintage hardbound copies of American Heritage, a collection that I started to rebuild through used book sales, in an attempt to reconstruct the collection of them that my mother had. Mom was a subscriber from the very earliest days, when Dad was a grad student on a tight budget. This must have been a substantial expense for them – as she had a subscription to AH’s sister publication, Horizon. Both were hard-bound, without advertising – and the collection filled almost half a wall of shelves in the house that burned in 2003.

My own love of history and enduring affection for writers who make ripping good read out of writing it can be directly laid at the door of those issues of American Heritage which regularly arrived in the mailbox, and which I devoured. (I swear also that reading Horizon in similar fashion also greased my way through college, since – whatever the topic was, I had gleaned some interesting tidbits from those pages, like the derivation of the word ‘chauvinism’ which a professor dropped on us one day, in mid-lecture. I was the only one in the class who knew it, and the professor confessed in some awe that I was one of a bare handful of students he had taught in his time who did.)

Mom did keep up the subscription, when it went to a quarterly, softbound and chock-full of advertising, and I dipped into the later iterations for a year or two at a stretch, but the updated version just didn’t have the same … I don’t know – wide-ranging gravitas that the early, hard-bound versions had. Mom remarked once or twice that in the later versions, they didn’t seem to go any farther back in time than mid-20th century, whereas the older issues romped freely from early colonial times on. It turns out that she was correct on this, and it was deliberate editorial policy in the publication’s later years.

And so – I pretty much lost interest in keeping a current subscription, which turns out to be just as well, and it seems that those who did have a current subscription were left flat when American Heritage suspended print publication four years ago, without even refunding subscribers. Possibly around that time they stopped adding content to the website. Four years ago … and I never even noticed until now, which is pretty sad, considering what an influence Mom’s subscription to it had on me. Some things just end with a bang, but some with a barely audible whimper and then sink without a trace from the internet.

Yes, from the next Luna City Chronicle – an excerpt introducing Araceli and Berto’s cousin Romeo, who works in the oilfields and … well, things happen when he is around. Things involving broken hearts and occasionally smoking rubble…

Romeo

When Richard woke the next morning – having slept the sleep of the righteous in Superman sheets – he was alone in the Gonzales children’s bedroom, where mid-morning summer sunlight leaked around the edges of the roller blind that covered the single window. The bed opposite, neatly made with Disney princess sheets, was empty and Kate Heisel was gone; Richard was unsure if he was regretful over that, or not. In telling him bluntly that he was very much a celebrity back number and that no one in his old life seemed inclined to seek him out for any purpose; that was a comfort in one way, but a definite kick in the crotch to his ego in another.
His clothing from the night before was neatly folded and stacked at the foot of the bed where Kate had slept, his shoes next to them. Really, Araceli thought of everything. Richard dressed – his native good manners belatedly kicking into overdrive – and took his borrowed pajamas with him.
The smell of bacon frying greeted him out in the small kitchen, where a sleepy-eyed Patrick was scrambling eggs at the stove.
“Hi, Rich,” Patrick yawned. “’Celi said you were sleeping like a rock – and not to bother you until you woke up. She’s gone to work, the kids are at school – me, I’ll hit the sack myself in another twenty minutes.”
“What time is it?” Richard asked. “Thanks for the loan of the PJs. I was … not in good shape last night, but I am much better, now – thanks to yours’ and Araceli’s hospitality.”
“Half past nine,” Patrick answered. “Glad to hear it … ‘Celi said it was quite a ruckus last night. I’m sorry to have missed the excitement. But on the other hand – I might not have been near as polite as Joe was. Just put those in the laundry basket in the bathroom, and siddown for a bit of breakfast. You want some hot sauce on your eggs?”
“No, I’m pretty much a traditionalist when it comes to my morning eggs,” Richard replied, repressing a small shudder,
“You’re missing a thrill,” Patrick shrugged. “Everything goes better with a bit of siracha sauce.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Richard replied. They ate breakfast in companionable silence, Patrick stifling the occasional yawn. Richard, still feeling a little at odds through not having another day at work, decided that he would ride the bicycle home to the Airstream and spend a leisurely afternoon reading Larousse. The weather being temperate – cool autumn being welcomed after the searing blast of summer – he might even sit outside.

His bicycle was where he had left it the afternoon before, leaning against the stairs leading to the screened back porch. As he left by the front, where a low chain-link fence enclosed the front garden, he did note a single lonely news microphone covered with an enormous furry windscreen muff lying abandoned by the gate. It looked at first glance like a very large, very road-killed raccoon. A Basset hound with lugubriously drooping ears waddled over from across the road, cocked a leg and peed luxuriously on it, and looked at Richard as if seeking approval.
“Good boy!” Richard said. Gunnison Penn and his friends must have retrieved the rest of their jettisoned video gear under cover of darkness. He wheeled out his bicycle and set off, feeling as if he were on a bit of a holiday.
Coming up to the dirt road turn-off for the Age of Aquarius, he heard a truck behind him – slowing to make the turn. He took the prudent step of pulling entirely off the road and letting the truck pass him; a slightly battered but otherwise well-kept extended cab pick-up truck of the sort that half the working men around Luna City drove. There was a weathered twenty-foot Fifth-Wheel travel trailer hitched to the back of the truck – one of the plain bare-bones models without any of the bump-outs that increased the living space when parked. Trailer and truck alike were layered in dust, and alike bore North Dakota license plates. Richard let the dust settle, before he followed after; it looked like Romeo Gonzales had not followed the advice of his friends to just keep going.
Well, thought Richard – a social gain for him, in having company at the Age of Aquarius, besides the over-friendly goats and the annoying Canadian treasure hunter, Gunnison Penn. By the time he got to the campground field proper, the driver of the truck had deftly backed the Fifth-wheel into a parking place at the other end of the field from the Airstream. Well – since the place was all but empty for much of the year, they might as well give each other space. As far as Richard was concerned, Gunnison Penn could give them all the space of the entire county.
“I wonder how much longer he’ll be staying anyway,” Richard wondered aloud. He really hoped that Romeo would be a more congenial neighbor, in spite of Sefton Grant’s worrisome aside about Romeo’s propensity for attracting strange energies, and Araceli’s tale of how he was a particularly disaster-prone Jonah in the oil fields. So, good that his Fifth-wheel and pick-up were parked the length of the campground away. Richard propped his bicycle against one of the posts that held a metal awning over the Airstream and opened the door; he had adjusted so much to the ambiance of Luna City that he never locked door any more, either. He felt again the contentment of coming home, a feeling unknown to him since his school-days. When Romeo the walking disaster-area was done with settling his trailer in, he might walk over and introduce himself.
Some fifteen minutes later, a small yellow Jeep Wrangler appeared in the rutted and unpaved lane leading to the campground. Richard closed Larousse Gastronomique; Jess Abernathy; thirtyish CPA and championship barrel-racer, daughter of Martin the acting mayor, an Abernathy of the hardware store Abernathys, who as things went in Luna City were nearly one of the establishing old families. The Jeep bumped across the lumpy field and parked next to the Airstream, and Jess emerged from the driver’s seat.
“Hi, Rich,” she said, with an expression of relief. “Doc said that I should check on you today, although Araceli says you seemed to be OK this morning.”
“I’m fine,” Rich answered. “You needn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“No trouble,” Jess grinned, mischievously. “And I was coming out here anyway. When Doc heard about last night, he was pretty pissed-off. He considers you one of his personal projects, which is terribly patriarchal of him, but hey – consider him a product of his age and upbringing. He had his personal lawyer get ahold of the district judge and write up an injunction. Mr. Gunnison Penn is hereby instructed on pain of arrest to not approach within thirty feet of your person, your place of residence, the Café, or any private or public place where you happen to be.” Jess flashed a large manila envelope. “And the same with regard to Araceli and Patrick and their kids. I was charged with delivering copies of the injunction to Mr. Penn, since Doc was too angry to wait on the availability of a bailiff. Not an errand, but simply one of life’s little pleasures.”
“Ah – it seems this Monday morning has much to recommend it,” Richard was feeling better and better. “And your friend Romeo has arrived safely – is that him?”
“It certainly is,” Jess shaded her eyes. The distant driver of the truck with North Dakota plates was now busying himself with setting the braces to balance the trailer, and unhitch it from the truck bed. She looked amused and exasperated. “But we really aren’t friends, as it were. He was … oh, three years ahead of me in high school and our social circles didn’t intersect. He was a total jock … Around here, there is a sort of social pecking order, based on your sport. Did you play sports at your school, Rich?”
“Nothing brutal like rugger – I was on the rowing team, and on the school sailboat.”
“La de-dah,” Jess snickered. “Then you wouldn’t have rated at all, when it came to date-bait. Neither did I, back then.”
“I presume that you were a total swot … what you Yanks call a bookworm?”
“Glasses and braces both,” Jess nodded. “Romeo was always perfectly charming … but just a sort of male butterfly, flitting from flower to blooming flower. He usually didn’t bother much with the barely-open buds.”
“I was going to wait a while before I introduced myself,” Richard ventured. At that moment, Sefton Grant appeared from the direction of the Grant’s untidy yurt-based home site farther up the hill. He was carrying something over his shoulder – several very long slender poles, some of them tipped with … Richard blinked. Some kind of green glass insulating knobs, of the old-fashioned sort that used to be used to insulate electrical wires, and a heavy sledge-hammer in the other. “What on earth …”
“We may as well go say howdy,” Jess said, firmly. “And see what fresh lunacy Sefton and Judy are going to inflict on their guests. Mostly it’s the fairly harmless kind, although the LCVFD safety officer did have to warn them sternly about that sweat-lodge they built at mid-summer…”
As they passed Gunnison Penn’s RV with the fading Treasure Hunter International logo painted across the side, Sefton Grant had paced off the corners of the space surrounding Romeo Gonzales’ Fifth-wheel. He was setting a pole in each corner, plunging the end deep into the ground – which had been mercifully soften by a series of recent rains – and then pounding it further in with blows from the sledge-hammer. Each blow clanged like a bell; once well-seated in the earth, the second, glass-tipped pole was set into it.
Jess muttered something under breath about New Age crapola, and demanded, “Sefton, what on earth is this?” as soon as they came close enough to speak without shouting. Sefton Grant, who looked like a younger, fitter and less-run-to-seed version of Willie Nelson, hefted the sledge-hammer, and picked up the last set of poles.
“Judy’s idea,” he explained, somewhat abashed. “Something to bleed off the excess psychic energies before they build up. I’d explained it already to Romeo … hey, Romeo, you remember Jess Abernathy, don’t you? And this is Richard – he runs the Café now, lives out in the old Airstream. He’s from England.”
Romeo, thus addressed, wiped grime off his hands with a somewhat less dirty bandanna, tilted his straw cowboy hat further back on his head, and stuck out his right hand.
“Howdy, folks,” he drawled. Richard was momentarily nonplussed. He had never, in his life, either before arriving in Texas or after, observed anyone tilting their hat and saying ‘howdy, folks.’ “Jess! Good to see you, girl! You don’t say – England, huh? Man, I feel like I’ve driven from there, these last few days, instead of all the way from Missoula, Montana. Good to meet you!” he pumped Richard’s hand with the strength which can only come from a man who has spent the last fifteen years wrangling heavy tools and machinery. “I guess we’re neighbors, then!” Romeo added, with a cheerful and wholly openhearted grin.
“I guess that we are,” Richard said, after searching his mind for something to say.
“I’ve heard about you,” he added. Which he had; but one of those things he had not heard was that Romeo Gonzales was so very blindingly the winner in the lottery of good looks in a clan whose appearance clustered around a norm of ‘average’ to ‘pleasant’ with an occasional outlier of younger Gonzalez/Gonzaleses in the direction of ‘cute.’ Physically, he was tall, lean-hipped wedge of a man, with chiseled facial features, and pale blue eyes which contrasted to devastating effect with black hair and a tan not acquired in a salon through artificial means.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of you, too – you’re that chef guy, ‘Celi’s boss,” Romeo exclaimed. “Say – when I get settled, we ought to go out honky-tonking together! It’ll be a blast…”
“That’s what we’re all afraid of,” Richard thought he heard Sefton say, in a discrete murmur, and to cover it, he replied, “Well … I have the Café, and they expect me to be there very early most mornings, so my evening social life is … for the moment, pretty constrained.”
“No problem,” Romeo favored him with another one of those blinding grins. “I’m gonna work driving the wrecker for Uncle Jesus at the garage, so I’ve gotta be careful myself about staying out of trouble, I reckon.”

(To be continued of course. Luna City 3.0 will be out this fall, in time for Christmas, hopefully!)

20. June 2016 · Comments Off · Categories: Domestic

Yes – we have books. And there was a long note and some discussion on this particular regular thread about places where there are no books, or even just fake books, or real books chosen for the color of their binding or the general richness of appearance … Yeah, my daughter watched some of those celebrity home shows, where there were huge rooms and endless lengths of shelves …
And no books, or anything much save a scattering of knickknacks interspersed with sports or performing trophies. It seemed a sad and desperate way to live, in a house or a mansion without books, or even magazines – although perhaps the internet and ebook readers are taking the place of corporeal books.

Still, not to have books at all … even my paternal grandparents, who were not bibliophiles, by any stretch of imagination, had a small case full of books, stashed away in the guest room, mostly – and Granny Dodie had a library card and used it. So did Granny Jessie. Her possession of three shelves full of books (mostly by turn of the last century lady authors with three names) marked out Mom’s family as the towering intellectuals of South Lotus Street.

Mom and Dad bettered either one of the ancestral collections, when they married and set up a household – which naturally included books. For a good many years, the bookshelves in the den – which contained the bulk of the collection – were of concrete block uprights with well-smoothed and varnished planks laid across them to serve as shelves. (Sensibly, I don’t think this unstable arrangement went higher than about three levels.)
I went out on my first overseas assignment with a box or two of my own favorite books, eventually adding to the collection through being overseas, in places where English-language bookstores were thin on the ground away from base, and the base libraries and Stars & Stripes bookstores were usually quite small. So – book clubs and mail-order catalogues were my friends, and it was a good thing that Amazon was a distant dream the whole time I was overseas, for I might have returned to civilian life with twice as many books as I did. (When we packed out from Spain, the packers had a bet going on how many boxes of books there would be. It topped out at 65, eventually, and I don’t know what the winner of the pool got. Bragging rights, maybe.)My working space - with the most often-referenced books

When she was in high school, my daughter managed to swing a good few term papers using our own book resources. And that was even before I started seriously writing myself, and acquiring even more books, specifically for research and reference. I’d say the collection of Texiana and for the 19th century frontier is pretty comprehensive – and if I carry through with the intention of writing another in the Adelsverein series, going back to how Carl and Margaret Becker’s Opa Heinrich came to America as a soldier of Hesse in the Revolutionary War … there will need to be another shelf at least.

14. June 2016 · Comments Off · Categories: Domestic, Uncategorized

Yes – the Edwardian walking suit and the spectacular feather, lace, net and flower-trimmed hat did everything that I had hoped for at the Wimberley event; attract attention, in a room full of forty or so other authors. It did not attract much in the way of immediate sales (although there has been a good follow-on, as we passed out flyers, postcards and bookmarks throughout the day). But as my author friend with the books set in 19th century China who had a full rig of formal Mandarin robes with all the trimmings advised – you gotta do what you gotta do. The formal Mandarin robes worked for him in a crowded field, the Edwardian suit and flamboyant hat worked for me, and were actually not as uncomfortable as other people seemed to think. (And some of them were incredibly awed that I had actually sewed them myself; hey, I am not just a pretty face!)

What with a full schedule of author events this summer and fall – I mean, there is at least one a month, and by the time we get into the Christmas shopping season there’ll likely be something every weekend, and a couple of them may go for more than one day – I have a thought to adding to my collection of outfits. I may as well do so on the cheap right now, since the fabrics at the going-out-of-business sales at Hancock Fabrics are hitting the 60% off threshold, and there is still a goodly selection available at the nearest store to us. (It’s the last remaining open in San Antonio, apparently – so they have stock from the other local stores and their warehouse.)

The Next Project

Picture this in dark violet with gold lace trim … and me wearing it, of course.

One fall events – the Giddings World Wrangler features an evening reception – and what better option than a period evening gown? Edwardian again, since that period was relatively uncomplicated, in comparison to – say, the full Gone With The Wind massive hoopskirt, or the massive Gilded Age bustle and trailing train. Butterick Patterns has a perfectly lovely pattern for a relatively plain evening gown, Downton Abbey style. I recalled that I had bought some lovely amethyst earrings and a matching brooch/pendant with a stone in it the size of a pigeon’s egg when I was in Korea. Something in a color that would set that off, would be grand, although I think that a tiara would be over the top. Something in lavender or purple, or perhaps brown … although my daughter warned that I would likely look like a fat ripe grape in the first, and not to consider brown… Anyway, we found some heavy dark lavender satin at about $4 a yard, and I had the idea to look for the thick lace trim in gold and found it on Amazon – naturally. So – the next seamstressing project. I aim eventually to have about four different outfits, relating to my books and the period they are set in; perhaps Sophia Brewer Teague’s Harvey Girl black dress and white apron, and Isobel Becker’s tailored riding habit. There are patterns out there which are within my skill set to make, and with the prices for fabric plunging throughout the next month at the Hancock Fabric outlet, there is no better time. Someone in a comment thread over the weekend also recommended this particular fashion blogger for costuming on a budget through creative use of a thrift store and craft store finds.

And I promise – I will come up with pictures of me wearing the outfits. Soon. Promise.