“Misfits Abroad” tells us “Adventures in Love, Language, and Foreign Lands.” it is a delightful read for anyone who has ever traveled to Europe and wondered. In a collection of essays spiced with humor and insights, Martine tells us her unique perspective of learning by immersion. It’s an enriching, amusing story.
All-American girl Martine takes an Army crash course in German. Coming from Fort Huachuca, she dives into the foreign land. Mind you, her Volkswagen rabbit is transferred to its home country as well. The first action in Bremerhaven is to push start the groggy yellow rabbit. No push-pull-engage-the-clutch gets it going. Rabbit needs mechanical help.
Settling in with Zwetschgenkuchen
And so the adventures of discovery continue. The new apartment has no ceiling lamps or appliances, but everywhere there is a “Schrank” (wardrobe). And how exactly do you behead a boiled egg? It takes a perfect swipe with a knife. Finally, the neighbors bring Zwetschgenkuchen, only to demand perfect quiet time in the afternoons.
Life in Germany shines a new light on Martine’s American upbringing. She learns the Army wife privileges of clearance and PX, appreciates the discounted souvenirs at the base, but also ventures out to Wertkauf. She has stories to tell about German men doing “Kegel exercises,” confused Army brats coming to America at age 22 for the first time, and managing her involuntary “alone time” by going to Disney movies or surviving the Autobahn.
Martine (left) and AnnElise at the Tucson Festival of Books
Martine has a different and elucidating take on the then sparse German TV programs, the desperate attempt to make sense of the dubbed over American movies, and the mechanics of the German language, where Spiel-zeug is a play thing and Werk-zeug is a work thing. But be careful of your English such as “fix it.” It could be heard as a four-letter expression in German.
Language Troubles No More
The intricacies of the German language provide Martine a wide playing field of pitfalls, errors, and humor in this delightful book. No wonder she wanted everybody to speak at least correct English. Aside from a mass communications professor, formerly with the Idaho State University, she is also a certified instructor of English as a second language.
Martine is not the only misfit within Army reach. A whole set of misfitted characters gave her material for sometimes tender, sometimes ironic, but always insightful behavioral studies of people blown over to Europe by the US Forces. She introduces a microcosm of assembled players that could make a Robert Altman movie.
Final word, the unique perspective that Martine takes on a number of things that we are familiar with makes her book valuable. She reflects back on the end of the Wall and Ossies pouring across Checkpoint Charlie. She bites, against mother’s advice, the bullet to give hitchhikers a ride and discovers a whole new explorer self. And she also analyzes the underlying ideology of the world famous Oberammergau Passion Plays.
Altogether an enlightening and fabulous read for anyone ever lost in another culture. When in Germany, do as the Germans do. Martine tried her best and lived to tell her stories. You can order “Misfits Abroad” here at Amazon:
Fritz Häber, 16 Months in an American POW Camp by Bernd Häber (grandson) is a remarkable document of WWII history. In it, Bernd shares the complete war diary of his grandfather Fritz, born January 22, 1910, in Leipzig (40 years in GDR). The historical assessment in the Foreword by Björn Krondorfer and the commentary in the Introduction by author Bernd Häber frame up the historic context.
Surviving on Animal Farm
In May of 1945 the war was over for the Germans. Fritz Häber, an anti-aircraft unit commander, by then a father of 7 children, surrenders to the Americans in late April. He and his comrades are taken on a miserable odyssey from one gargantuan make-shift prisoner camp to another. No shelter, no clothing, barely any water or food, no sleep. Men lost strength, muscle and mind. Some didn’t survive the torturous conditions at what can be best compared to “Animal Farm.” Eventually, the situation improved and Fritz did what he knew to do best: he made himself useful. At last, in the Metz (France) POW camp he worked as mechanic/welder/blacksmith for the American military. Whatever was thrown at him, Fritz took as a learning opportunity. Being a true-to-life socialist, Fritz also noted his reflections on the wrong turns the Reich took.
Fritz Häber, as is apparent in Krondorfer’s Introduction, lived through Orwellian times. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, he plowed through his daily responsibilities like so many. But unlike the majority, he let his heart make the call whenever there was wiggle room. He never lost circumspection or humanity.
Bernd Häber & AnnElise at the Treffpunkt
The biggest lesson we can learn from Fritz’s life story: a strong conviction may always put you on the wrong side of any regime. Fritz was imprisoned in the 1930ies for being a Communist. Paradoxically or not, the Reich wanted him as a soldier anyway. In the end, Fritz ends up judged as a Wehrmacht “Nazi” prisoner. His socialist conviction would have also been troublesome with the Americans.
Disgraced Communist
Finally, the Communist party expelled Fritz as well for having been a member of a Wehrmacht shooting squad. Even Fritz’ son Herbert, who became a prominent member of the GDR Politbüro, could not get Fritz reinstated. Herbert himself fell victim to a high-power conspiracy and lost his party position. In the end, after Germany reunited, Herbert was indicted as a Politbüro member by the Berlin courts in 1990 for being responsible for several killings at the Wall. Fritz was cleared of all charges and was fully rehabilitated. Fritz and Herbert were men of strong convictions.
Different Planets
Author Bernd Häber and myself grew up on different “planets”: he in the Democratic Republic, I in the Federal Republic. Maybe we were raised on different versions of “Mitschuld.” Krondorfer in the Foreword discusses the idea of “co-responsibility” in clear terms. I learned at my Bavarian Gymnasium about “Kollektivschuld”. That “Schuld” (guilt) didn’t go away with the Marshall Plan. We kids were prompted to ask our parents: Why didn’t you do anything? They told us at least one reason why. Even listening to the wrong radio station (BBC) could get you into a concentration camp too. And yet our parents often risked their lives by flying under the radar in the name of kindness.
What about us now? Have we learned anything? When will we speak up about nations taking all the wrong turns? We should not wait until NPR becomes the “wrong” radio station.
A Tiny Piece of Blue, cast in 1934 rural Michigan in the winter months, tells the harrowing story of a dirt-poor girl abandoned by her parents to fend for herself during the Great Depression. In the course of Silstice’s struggle for survival, she comes into her own. “Silly,” technically orphaned after her parents’ house burns down, gets on with a kind farm woman, Edna, who dotes on her but who is powerless in getting her husband on board to help the kid. One cannot fathom how crustaceous and heartless the old man Vernon is. He may not know any better, and his farm may be down the hill too.
Poverty Close Up
It’s a heart-breaking, close-up look on destitution and poverty. Penny-pinching pain. Charlotte gets into the heads of all three at-risk main characters: Silly the destitute, the kind woman, the self-righteous man—all three shine a light on the plight each from their own perspectives. The pace, the writing, the research, the sensitivity—are awesome! Charlotte does a wonderful job of bringing a critical part of American history alive in this close-up. Child trafficking adds to the wild adventure. Many lost boys roamed the country on cattle wagons during that time. That’s why Boystown came into existence.
Resilient Characters
And what a juxtaposition of characters: Silstice, the matter-of-fact orphan who struggles for survival, takes on Vernon. The tight-wad, heartless curmudgeon does not seem to know any better than to subjugate his wife. In contrast, the kind-hearted, do-gooder wife Edna, in lieu of not having children of her own, takes a gaggle of 4-H girls under her wings. As the story takes one breathless turn after another, the prospects change, mostly getting more dire and haphazard. And the characters change too. Is there yet a spark of kindness in Vernon or is he all business with the girl?
The pairing of a life-wise, hardened curmudgeon with a young girl facing the realities of life is a crafty presupposition for Charlotte’s character development. She stages her characters at a farm, a library, and the county fair at a time when the survival power of one dollar is another week.
A Tiny Piece of Blue (find out what is blue) is a wonderfully gripping read. I couldn’t put it down until it was finished. A Tiny Piece of Blue is available on Amazon.
Florian is a tough little boy battling leukemia, quite a hero
By Renate Mousseux
Once upon a time there was a house named “Loretto 8,” a great three-story home to three different families.
On the first floor lived a family who had a grocery store. The family had two daughters, Uli and Margie. On the second floor, the owner of the house lived with his beautiful wife Rita and two daughters Gabi and Suzie. On the third floor lived a lady with her niece, Renate, “moi.”
Everybody got along great, all the girls were friends, and are still friends to this day! I moved to America, but we are all still in very close contact.
To my great joy, they all visited me on different occasions in the States. In the USA, I became a foreign language teacher, German and French. Usually, I traveled to Germany once a year at the end of my guided Educational Tours. I have retired since and not traveled because of my health conditions.
Uli married, moved to Switzerland, and became the owner of a successful dental laboratory. Margie took over the grocery store. Gabi graduated with a doctorate in Indology. Suzie moved and worked in another city, married, and had a wonderful son.
That great son is now an adult, successful, and has a family of his own. And low and behold, they have a beautiful son, Florian. He is lively and very intelligent, well spoken, and just an all-around great boy.
Suzie, the grandmother, is so very proud of Florian. Every long-distance phone call we had, she told me wonderful stories about her grandson. Until this one day: she called and related to me that Florian, 6 years old by now, has developed cancer, Leukemia.
We were all extremely touched and saddened by this sad news. He is in and out of the hospital and receives chemotherapy. The parents and family deal courageously with the situation. But the real hero is Florian who still smiles and submits to all treatments as required.
The nurses love Florian and are so impressed. They insisted to take a photo with him because he is such a wonderful young patient. He explained in detail to his parents and grandmother what medications he needs to take and their effects. Florian is amazing, he pays careful attention to all instructions given by the doctors. In the recreation room he has a tricycle, which he loves and uses. He races around with it so fast that the father has the hardest time following him with the transfusion stand.
There is also a girl who was also just admitted with leukemia. They befriended each other.
I thought maybe a bandana would cheer Florian up a bit, he could be a little “German Bandana Cowboy.” I live in Arizona, where I see many cowboys. I sent him a red bandana like theirs, and yes, I was right: he did like my present.
My friends sent me a great photo of Florian proudly wearing the bandana. What a joy!!!
If I win a prize for this true story I will forward the entire $ amount to little Florian to fulfill any wish of his.
My wish is also that this story will have a happy ending like all stories beginning with “once upon a time.” The great difference is: The above is a true, real-life story and not a fairy tale!
For all of you who pray, please do so.
For people with strong mental abilities, send positive energy please.
My cover designer ghosted me. I can’t blame him. He has had enough of my pet peeves. The last cover we worked on took long to get finished based on my special requests. Little did the designer know that this book and its cover had history. It was the debutante novel of a novice novelista. And as such, having been through many hoops, I took a critical approach.
Now I hope I haven’t lost a valuable artist and designer. Especially since one of my next books (Cowboy story) could be an interesting series, which all would need a cover. I should have known better. When I worked in the textbook production business, we had a “team.” In various status meetings, the acquisitions editor, developmental editor, the permissions people, the production editor, and the art department checked through the timeline and brought production challenges to the fore. And sometimes these meetings didn’t go without a spat.
After one such meeting, I stepped into the cave of an especially irate art director. What happened? In our process, the cover design thumbnails were circulated through the various departments to have everyone sign off on the draft. In my position, I would have to screen for any and all typos, regardless whether it was just an initial blurb. No problem with that. However, with this one design I had a bone to pick. It was for a modern language textbook and showed the arches of a gothic church window. What was modern about that? I wrote that on the comment sheet.
Boy, was I in trouble. I did get the evil eye and a sermon from this female art director that we are a “team” and we don’t publicly criticize each others jobs. And also, she said, I overstepped. The esthetics were her domain. All right. She had a point. I deferred and we became friends again.
Why did I overstep? Because I am a photographer with a good visual sense and because I have a brain with a good common sense. And I later put together one or the other cover myself, for better or worse. Yes, I now realize, I can mess too much with other people’s work. Because I am a little pedantic.
Now I don’t know whether my wonderful cover designer will ever pick up any of my jobs again. Apologies—I mean it. That last book and I had too much history. I will behave myself next time.
Yes, the same book with three different covers. The difference is clear. Maybe I can put aside my nit picking attitude and go with the flow of the art.
I have many reasons for being unable to break out of anonymity. But the most telling one lies in my childhood.
When I was four years old, my parents took us to the zoo. It was spring time. Somewhere around the miniature goats, there was a green activity patch: May bug hunt. Instead of Easter eggs, the activity team had laid out lifelike chocolate bugs wrapped in printed tin foils. At a shot gun start, they let a bunch of us kids inside that corral. I picked up a bug and proudly showed it off to my parents.
“Run,” they yelled. “Get more!” But I was too slow for that. In 30 seconds, all the bugs were picked. It hadn’t occurred to me that I could take more than one treat. My parents were disappointed. I should have gotten at least five chocolate bugs for the 1 Mark fee they had paid.
This childhood May bug story only just starts to describe my predicament. I thought about it long and hard and came up with at least 13 reasons why I can’t be famous:
I am in a slow, contemplative gear by nature.
I am a perfectionist and my projects take a while to get them just right.
I am too nice and let other people go first.
I was raised to take turns and believe other people would do so too.
I was never taught to be greedy.
I abhor risk and gamble.
I hate bragging and lying.
I dislike small talk and public appearances in general.
I cringe at social media and the commitment to post.
I am bad at business and calculating my profit.
I missed the boat 20 years ago because now everybody is famous.
I am too old to spark the flame of fame.
I get stage fright.
My comfort zone gets disturbed easily.
Who’s got time for this?
I got better things to do. Maybe I don’t even like being famous.
Charlotte cherishes her blue bandana. This type of bandana is often associated with western attire, do rags and country folks. No doubt about that. But this one is truly extra special for its history.
“You ought to get rid of this ratty old thing, mom.” Carlene Davis leveled the large plastic frame that held a badly faded, formerly deep blue bandana.
The old thing was ratty with wear and tear and tears and snot from decades of overuse. A hole burned into the lower right edge was exactly the size of a 7.55 x 53 mm Mauser cartridge. The only thing not overly faded was a hand-sewn letter T in the center and a couple of dark reddish-brown stains. Apparently, the only thing holding the piece of cloth together was the smudged glass in the frame.
Carlene was a doting daughter, a member of the Southern Baptist Women’s Missionary Union, the Library Volunteers, and half a dozen community organizations in the small town of Token, Arkansas. She was 54 years old, portly in appearance and always slightly overdressed in style. Her gray hair was poorly disguised by whisps of light green, purple, and red streaked through-and-through in an attempt to recapture a youth she had never really experienced.
Her mom, Charlotte Tetrozoa, was the picture postcard image of a modern-day granny. She also was on the portly side, something she never tried to disguise. Her gray hair was pure gray, something she would never have thought to disguise either. She stopped her knitting and pointed a needle at her daughter. “Your granddaddy carried that ‘ratty thing’ into the trenches back in the Great War. Some German sharpshooter put a hole through that bandana and right into his chest. That blue rag plugged the hole and saved his life, young lady.”
“Mom, I’ve heard the story a thousand times.”
“Not enough times, I see. Your daddy took it with him all the way through the second great war.”
“I know, mom.”
“He took it to Korea.” She paused and sniffed. “That’s your daddy’s blood in the corner.”
“I know all that, mom, but it’s so . . . Well, it’s ratty, mom.”
“It’s yours when I’m gone. Do with it as you want, then.”
“Mom!”
“Enough of this. I got to fix supper. You staying?”
“Of course, mom.”
A week later Carlene burst into her mother’s home. She was practically giddy. Charlotte said, “What’s got you so agitated?”
“The university wants to expand their collection of historical artifacts and they’re really wanting stuff from World War I.” She waited for a specific response that never came.
“Mom!”
“That’s interesting.” Charlotte continued stirring her pot of pinto beans. She never looked up.
“The bandana, mom. That’s just what they’re looking for.”
“No, ma’am.”
“It’d be in a museum, mom.” Charlotte, focused on her cooking, didn’t see the rolling of her daughter’s eyes. Carlene looked over to the framed source of her grief and seemed to be imagining a paint-by-the-numbers substitute.
“That bandana is family. It’s right where it’s supposed to be.”
“They’re paying money if they like something–real money. They got a grant.”
“You don’t sell family, darling.”
“It’s an historical artifact.”
“You’re trying too hard, daughter.”
Carlene took a moment to take in a deep breath. “They have an appraiser. I’ve met him.
“I’m sure you have.”
“He’s real interested in that bandana. Can I at least bring him over to look at it?”
“Of course, dear.” Charlotte waved her right hand over the top of the bubbling pot and breathed in the earthy aroma. Her glasses fogged up and she took them off. “That’ll do. Are you staying for supper?”
Carlene showed up the next morning with the appraiser. Charlotte was waiting with a tray of coffee and cookies when she heard the knock on the door. Stedson Alborty was not exactly what she expected. Instead of a “university type,” he was a large, handsome man dressed in blue jeans and a work shirt. He wore a baseball cap emblazoned with LSU, Louisiana State University, in gold on a dark purple background. His eyes went immediately to the framed bandana.
“May I examine the—”
“Not to be rude, Mr. Alborty, but let’s chat a bit first.” Charlotte gestured to the couch and chairs around her coffee table. “Why are you so interested in what my daughter calls a ratty old thing, Mr. Alborty?”
Carlene looked away.
Alborty finished a sip of coffee. “Stedson, please. Call me Stedson.”
“Certainly.” Charlotte tended to be more formal than her nature when meeting people for the first time. She was not standoffish, merely observant.
Alborty was very polite and he made a fine and only a mildly passionate presentation. He spoke of the need for preserving history. He called it “real history,” the memories and artifacts of people who were really “there.” Charlotte eventually began nodding in agreement. Carlene nodded so vigorously that she was in danger of pulling a neck muscle. Alborty said, “I have a substantial budget. More than that, if I don’t spend it all, I’ll never get a bigger acquisition budget next year.”
“What exactly does that mean to me, mister . . . Stedsen?”
“It means I pretty much have to offer you more than top dollar for your bandana.” He smiled and scribbled a dollar figure on a notepad he carried in his pocket.
“This is quite a sum for a ratty old thing.”
“Mom!” Carlene reached over and took the notepaper. “Oh, my!”
Alborty said, “Like I told your mother, this really is a one-time offer.”
“Oh, mom, you have to. You just have to.”
Charlotte leaned back into her couch and thought for a long moment. She looked at her daughter. “This will make you happy?”
“Me. And a lot of other people. A museum, mom!”
Charlotte looked over to the bandana in its cheap plastic frame. It had slipped again and was hanging at an angle. She sighed and said, “If that’s what you want . . .”
Alborty sat up straight and seized the opportunity. “Thank you, Mrs. Tetrozoa. For me and the university. And for the people who will see this in the museum. I will be by in the morning with a check and you can hand over the bandana then. Is that all right?”
Charlotte nodded.
Alborty and Carlene stayed only long enough to be polite before leaving. As she heard them drive away, Charlotte leaned back and took in a long look at the frayed and stained bandana.
Alborty arrived at ten a.m. the next morning. Charlotte was not in the least bit surprised to see her daughter with him. When they entered the house, Charlotte was nearly frantic.
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry, Stedson. Carlene. I am so, so sorry.”
“Mom, what happened?”
Charlotte motioned them farther in and led them to the kitchen table. An old cardboard box rested on the edge. “I . . . I wanted to make sure our bandana would be, you know, proper for a museum.” She wrung her hands nervously.
“Mom?”
Charlotte ducked her head and reached into the box. “I wanted it clean and pressed for you, Mr. Alborty.” She pulled out what looked like a large white handkerchief.
Stedson leaned in for a closer look. He saw a hole the size of a WWI German bullet in one corner. A badly washed-out letter T dominated the center. The blood stains were completely gone. “I am so sorry.”
Stedson’s shoulders sagged just a bit. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. “Well, Mrs. Tetrozoa, obviously . . .”
“Of course. I understand. I really am sorry. I just wanted to—”
“That’s all right. Things happen. Your loss is our loss, but I understand how you must feel. I, too, am sorry.” He seemed anxious to leave.
Charlotte folded the white cloth. “Well, at least I still have something.”
There was not much left to say. Carlene had bummed a ride with Alborty, so they left together. When they were gone, Charlotte walked over to the wall where the framed bandana had been. She reached behind the nearby couch and retrieved a paint-by-the-numbers painting of a farmhouse on a rural road. It was something she grabbed at a neighbor’s yard sale the afternoon before. She hung it and stepped back, nodding with appreciation.
That evening before going to bed, Charlotte pulled open a bottom dresser drawer in her bedroom. She pulled out the old plastic frame still holding in the old bandana. She wiped off a fingerprint smudge, smiled with approval, and placed the heirloom back in the bottom drawer.
Social media are sometimes full of surprises! I am not a frequent player, but somehow I got on Align. In the process of many notifications flitting by, I almost overlooked Kris Keppeler’s message. She offered to read and record a Bandana story for me–and here it is. Now you can listen to my bandana berry experience.
Kris Keppeler is a much requested narrator and voice over talent. You can contact her at her website
The Bandana Book II was well received at the launch party. Thirty guests with international backgrounds celebrated the UNUSUAL ENCOUNTERS in the newest Bandana edition. With 24 delightful stories, the new Bandana Book is bigger and better than the first. Hopefully, it keeps going.
People came from just as many countries as backgrounds. We had a lot of amazing talent from India, Sri Lanka, Germany, Peru, Finland, Colombia, Latvia, cross-USA, and even home-grown Arizona talent. Let’s see where all the bandana stories and guests come from.
DAN BALDWIN, Bandana Author
is a prolific Mesa writer, ghostwriter, author, public speaker. He has two new titles out:
“My new how-to book on writing, I’m Looking for People Who Can’t Write Good – Random Brilliance, Brainstorms and Blogs on Writing is now available in ebook, paperback, and hardcover.
My latest paranormal non-fiction book will be released by the end of June –The Sky People and Our Ancestors. I’ll be appearing on podcasts Conflict Radio,on Shifting Paradigms In Medicine, and on The Typical Skeptic in June.”
is a writer, cowgirl poet, and reenacter of the Western glory days of the Wickenburg Marshals in Arizona. She teaches art and gives art therapy in her art studio or behavioral centers. She spends as much time as she can writing. You can find all her meanderings and writings atwww.americancowboyjournal.com or at www.jeantolle.com
RAINE (KEYA HUNTS-IN-WINTER), Bandana Author
Raine won the Imakinations “Totally Young Writer” Award. She is at her young age–going to be a sophomore in high school–a prolific writer of fan fiction and fantasy stories. She likes to dive into online platforms and has gotten an amazing response in cyber space.
NOEL ALVAREZ, Bandana Author
Noel is a longtime school counselor with Mesa Public Schools and over the years has served many families in the Native American Education Program, until she recently transferred into another position. She is Navajo and Muskogee Creek. She has improved many a student’s outlook in life. She makes anyone feel better with her gracious smile.
BETTY MERMELSTEIN, Bandana Author
“My latest publication: This is Fetch, an illustrated children’s book published by Pegasus Publishers. My books for children and adults can be found at Punkynotes, including published poetry and short story links.”
Tuula, now living in Henderson, NV, is a native of Finland and a world traveler. She has enjoyed encounters with Jane Seymour, James Patterson, and other celebrities. She likes to read true crime stories and mysteries along the lines of Patterson. She has written about two suspicious or criminal incidents.
UTA BEHRENS, Bandana Author
Uta Behrens has made her career as real estate investor. She has sponsored many educational and community organizations. In her golden years, she has authored 7 books: The Truth Seeker, Journeys in the Lifeboat, Journeys Into the Past, Ultimate Betrayal, Journeys into Foreign Lands, and Journeys as a Landlord. I enjoyed helping her produce the last two volumes.
TIM HUNTS-IN-WINTER
Tim is a member of the Lakota Standing Rock Reservation. He has been an advocate for Native rights and has worked as promoter and coach for Native youth in Mesa school system. He is also an excellent story teller and a treasure trove of Native American history. Lately, he has specialized in researching the Lakota code talker history of WWI and will soon publish a paper about his findings. Timothy Hunts-In-Winter
SRIANTHI PERERA
Srianthi is a professional, international journalist and book author with roots in Sri Lanka. She entered the book world with her well-received coming-of-age story, A Maiden’s Prayer. Srianthi recently published a humorous and educational travel story book that she coauthored with her childhood friend Romany, Two Friends on Many Roads.
INGE McKEEVER
Inge, with German and Latin American roots, has been a successful business woman, a Jill of Many Trades. She has the drop on fashion trends and is currently dealing in themed costumes. Special events and Halloween are keeping her real busy. As she has had much multilingual experience with the preschools she ran earlier, she is now working on a bilingual curriculum for children. It could be the next Rosetta Stone.
PATRICIA SAUNDERS
Patricia is the older sister to Inge (above). She recently documented her incredible life story in a memoir. Her journey led her from Ecuador to Colombia to finally Portland, Oregon. She overcame many challenges and professional obstacles to become a successful woman with great trust in God. Faith alone didn’t get her to the top; she worked hard for her success. A woman of her word, Patricia directly speaks her mind. Read up on her journey in From Surviving to Thriving.
MATT & MAYA KELLER
Matt (from New Mexico) and Maya (born in Lima, Peru) Keller are our long-time serendipity friends from church. Matt and Maya are expert trailblazers, and we enjoy their encyclopedic knowledge of hidden paths. Matt is a horticulturist and shares his experience with domestic and foreign fruit trees on his blog Phoenix Tropicals.
SANDE ROBERTS
Sande has been a mitigator for public organizations and a life/success counselor in schools and private practice. Her motto is “You can be the difference!” She now teaches workshops in suicide prevention, PTSD, Emotional Freedom Technique, and financial personality. Her book We Need to Talk about Suicide has received great attention. Recently, she also published a children’s book, Blake’s Great Day.
JEANNE DEVINE
Jeanne, our activist friend and founder of the grassroots organization Unlimited Potential in Phoenix, always inspires us to seek new adventures in humanitarian efforts.
as well as Dr. Inder Raj Singh Makin (host), Sarah Bohrer, Ruth Ann & Jerry Thacker, Rita Rucks, Debosree & Tamas, and everybody.
AUTHORS celebrating with us in Spirit:
ELISABETH SHERWOOD, Payson, AZ
Elisabeth is the inspiration and creator for the Bandana cover image. Her cowgirl, and now cowboy, collages are mysterious and humorous at the same time. You can see more of her art at INSTAGRAM.
CHRISTIAN BAUDY, Hamburg, Germany
Christian is a poet, painter, activist, and author. His German debut poetry collection Blättern unter Bäumen (Turning Pages below the Trees) appeared in 2021. In 2022, Christian published his first bilingual children’s book, Robert’s Teddy/Roberts Teddy. Sometimes Christian’s poems are coupled with paintings. His recent INSTAGRAM.
GISELA BAUDY, Hamburg, Germany
Gisela is a trained editor, and long-time freelance journalist, focusing on ecological and socio-economic change. Many of her poems can be found online and in her poetry volumes Worthaut (Word Skin), Blaues Ufer (Blue Shore), and Winter im April (Winter in April). She writes eco-social haikus, eleven-word poems, prose poems, and epigrams with her husband Christian Baudy. Follow her INSTAGRAM.
EMILY TOADVINE, Kentucky
Emily is this year’s first prize winner. She spent 25 years in journalism, mostly as features editor at a newspaper in Danville, KY. She now works in Kentucky’s bourbon tourism industry.
RENATE MOUSSEUX
Renate, originally from Freiburg, Germany, has been a lifetime educator in foreign languages, foremost German and French. She has documented her harrowing life story that ultimately led to great success through tenacity and ingenuity in her memoir, Renatle. After retirement, she has also become a body language interpreter and has evaluated witness behavior in famous criminal cases for TV stations. Her humanitarian activism is exemplary. She certainly has earned the Totally Humanitarian Trooper Award.
ZARCO GUERRERO, Mesa, AZ
Zarco Guerrero is an eminent figure in the Valley’s (Phoenix) cultural life. He is most well-known for his masterful masks that he carves or creates with papier maché, fabric, and other materials. He is also a community activist, philanthropist, story teller, performance artist, and historian. Zarco researched a much philosophical background behind the bandana, which is included in this collection. Find out more about him at Zarkmask.com
RUSS YOUNG, Kentucky
Russ is a photo historian who has researched a number of historic processes, such as cyanotypes and kalotypes. He gets called on many professional conventions that study the evolution of photographic chemistry. He has a keen eye for landscape photography. And he is a keeper of tradition to the point of reenacting parts of the same.
EDDA BUCHNER, Texas
Edda is a journalist and German correspondent living with her husband, Helmut, a sculptor, on a homegrown ranch near San Antonio, Texas. Edda has for many years shared her farm experience in her First Hand Living column in the New Braunfels newspaper and later collected her stories in a book called Texas Kaktuswein, Leben aus erster Hand. She continues, painting, writing stories, and gardening.
KATHERINE ZAWADA, Pennsylvania & Montana
Katherine is a first-year student at Swarthmore College by Philadelphia, PA. She earned herself a tennis scholarship and continues on the college path with top grades. If she keeps up the good writes, we will see a book from her soon.
BETH DOTSON, Kentucky
Beth won a prize in the first Bandana Book, but got too busy with her first novel. “This year, I will finally see one of my dreams fulfilled—my debut novel, Rooted in Sunrise, will be published and released into the world on September 17, 2024,” she writes in her newsletter. Aside from writing and publishing, Beth likes to get her hands dirty while gardening. bethdotsonbrown.net
VICKY LESCOE, Mesa, AZ
Vicky is a much cherished educator in the Mesa Public Schools system. She was recruited by her friend Noel to write a story about her hiking experience and knight in shining bandana. We hope she will write more for us.
HAPPY TRAILS to all of you writers! Keep up the good writes!
That’s why I wrote Random Accident in Sector Noah 135/56 or the story of The Last Book on Earth. I can see it coming. Can’t you?
I have been in publishing since Gutenberg invented the printing press. Or rather, I got my hands dirty with linotype and ink. Remember? That’s when the lines of lead type had to be read in reverse? Yes, you can learn to detect typos reading upside down, from right to left, with letters mirrored. And then came the revolution of the photo paste ups. How easy was that! Boy, and now we have the Adobe full page layout programs. It’s magic!
I started daily reporting with linotype in high school (now you can guess how old I am). After college, while working as an editor at a weekly paper, we waxed up the filmsetting paper strips. And eventually, after another master’s degree, I had all the publishing technology at my fingertips with Office and Adobe programs through the Amazon’s “Every man and woman’s press.” It’s called self-publishing. What a revolution!
Books have always been my passion. Since I was ten years old, I had wanted to write a book. Back then I was dreaming of concocting another volume for an Enid Blyton adventure series about twin girls in boarding school. And now I do write books.
With a deluge of social media and self-publishing platforms, everybody is their own printing press and broadcasting station. One question is, how good is that? Another question is, who needs books? I do. Because I still want to write them.
Sandy’s world is shattering–then what?
Are you still with me? It will get easier from here on out: ChatGPT will hammer out my next prompt into a flawless manuscript. This will be put through the Amazon AI machine to publish it in triplicate as paperback, hard bound, and Kindle with a dashing cover. Then all I have to do is sell it. Right!
Yet no matter how much self-publishing keeps Amazon awash, books seem to be doomed. The ones printed on paper for sure. Such was my assumption for my picture book Random Accident.
Now imagine a world without books.
In this ancient (written 20 years ago), far future, retro-story, where everything is under control—except for earthquakes, the weather, and random accidents—a little girl chances upon an old-fashioned book. Sandy has never seen a book in her world of monitors, projections, and mood balancers. She tries to make sense of the pictures and wishes for what’s in it: a garden. Bob, the all-knowing caretaker of this solar system and Sandy’s planet earth, will only go so far to help her.
Sandy has to help herself. And so, she does.
Random Accident, illustrated by my daughter Priyanka Makin, is a humorous, futuristic picture book for all ages. It is built on the exercise of kindness and discovery.
Random accidents never get old because nature always has the magic of surprise.
Kreuzfeuer in Texas (Crossfire in Texas), a Western, is based on a true story. It happened during the Civil War (1861-1865) in Fredericksburg, Texas, Gillespie County. The German settlers, who had arrived 15 years earlier with the German Adelsverein emigration project, were against slavery. Therefore, in 1861, almost all Fredericksburg citizens voted against secession and for remaining in the Union. That was the beginning of a calamity. Immediately, all immigrants had to swear an oath on the Confederacy or be hanged, the Union Loyal League was disbanded, the young men sent to war, the old men recruited for the home defense. And the Comanche kept in check by the Frontier Regiment. Worst of all, in August 1862, a group of 61 German Unionists was slaughtered by the Nueces River on their way to Mexico. Their remains weren’t buried until after the war. Germans were afraid to draw more wrath on themselves.
Vereinskirche in Fredericksburg, TX
The hunt on the Germans was on. Self-declared partisan rangers pressed the settlers for money, food, goods, and valuables. Fredericksburg was terrorized by the Hängerbande for years. The top rabble rouser was a certain Captain Waldrip. He led especially vicious attacks on German citizens. In February 1864 the teacher and merchant Louis Schütze is murdered. His brother Julius Schütze reports that incident and the events following the murder in his 1886 Texas Vorwärts account “Meine Erlebnisse in Texas”. Julius initiates the prosecution of the murderers, which spawns off the Grape Creek massacre. I read Schütze’s account while researching German history in Texas. It made such an impression on me that 25 years later I decided to make a novel out of it.
Engelbert Krauskopf
We kept as close to the story as we could. My coauthor Georg Unterholzner and I introduced several Native American (Comanches) characters to the mix. They spruced up the points of view in this murderous tale of redemption. The real life model for our protagonist was the pioneer Engelbert Krauskopf. He was a pioneer, gun maker, business man, explorer, and master of many trades, as well as a community leader. He also kept friendships with Comanche chiefs.
Here is the Kreuzfeuer story: Eberhard Kohlkrug, the gun maker of Fredericksburg, is an ordnance officer for the Frontier Regiment. But he rather delivers his percussion caps to the Germans and their home defense. The Major presses him to produce more ammunition, his wife Rita becomes wary of their Comanche maid, the Indian raids are increasing, but Eberhard always plays it safe. Until his friend Louis is abducted. Eberhard gets his friend Matasane involved to recapture Louis. Too late. Louis body is still warm when they cut him from the live oak.
Julius Schütze rides up from Austin. He demands justice for his brother. The wolf pack does not like to be dragged in front of the judge. Now the events take a dramatic spin for the worse. One of the Waldrip gang, Gibson, threatens Eberhard several times about his ammunition, raids his shop, and rapes his Comanche maid. Eberhard is a reluctant hero, but Gibson had it coming. From this point on, Eberhard’s life spins out of control. Done with playing it safe.
Eberhard swore three oaths in his life: never again to make a coffin, never again to shoot a man, and to do away with this scumbag. He broke all three.
Now the Western is out. In German, of all languages. It will be a while until it’s translated. But I will keep you posted.
What sparks an idea? I used to think that inspirations would strike me with thunder and lightning. But, no, sparks can be quite slow at times. Think about the ketchup bottle. It’s been around for a hundred years, but only since the last twenty it’s also standing on its head. Duh! Why didn’t we think of that sooner?
Bandana Book I
The Bandana spark, which has now become a book (CLICK ON RIGHT), came with a slow glimmer too. I never go out on a hike without a neckerchief. Since my old Texas days, I have become protective of my neck. Sunburns sting! Yep, that’s why I my collection of bandanas keeps growing.
One of them was a gift from my daughter, with a Native American design. Once I went into the gas station at Star Valley, says someone behind me, “I like your bandana.” This Native American had recognized the Hopi pattern on it. It was nice to be noticed. A bandana can carry a strong message. Since then, I have also acquired a Navajo design on top of many other colorful patterns.
Bandana Stories
The older a bandana, the better the tale. Master mask maker Zarco Guerrero, here portraying a Cholo, knows all about the mysteries of Dia de los Muertos, plus the Central American bandana. When you Google for bandanas you certainly come around many Boy Scout uses, such as for a bandage, splint, tourniquet, wash cloth, trail marker, carry bag, and what not. And then, as you might imagine, all these incidents have circumstances. And the circumstances make for suspense. You can spin a gazillion yarns off of one small bandana.
Bandana Origin
Even the origin of the almighty, universal, wonderful bandana has a good story or two. I heard, the bandana was a tobacco snot wipe to begin with. Imagine, or don’t, that rag used to be white. And the tobacco stains wouldn’t come out any more. Therefore, an Irish tradesman had the fashionable idea to print his bandanas up in color. The print work was done in India, thus the pretty paisley patterns. As we all know, the cowboys came to appreciate the bandana too—duh, red neck. Bandanas trigger excellent cowboy stories.
Bandana Warriors
Or think about famous men. Some of the toughest cookies wear bandanas: Geronimo, Winnetou, Rambo, Hulk Hogan, John Wayne, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, Willie Nelson, and other warriors. Right, the bandana takes to the street for activism.
Here is Ed Kabotie, member of the Hopi tribe, a well-known edu-activist, sharing his fight against uranium mining at the Grand Canyon. He also resents the now much in vogue “land acknowledgment” towards the Native American nations as a hindsight excuse for the colonial land grab and subsequent oppression.
Bandana Art
Independent from my instigations, Elisabeth Sherwood had made a collage series of bandana cowgirls, the mysterious types. (One of her gals to the left.) This was just perfect for the Bandana Book cover. I asked my friends, they wrote stories, I put them all in a book. The second one is on its way. It’s titled “Unusual Encounters.” The stories cover a rainbow of experiences and are deliriously good.
When I see a bandana these days, my imagination gets sparked. What’s next? An exhibition? Do you paint? Make photographs? Prints? Sculptures? How about making a bandana exhibit together?
LIVING INSIDE HISTORY: That Barbarian, Bavarian 70ies story.
Katrina, 17, lives in 2000-year-old village. And yet her historical essays stink. Success comes when Katrina plagiarizes her late grandmother’s diary and the story gets run in the paper. Now the whole village is up in arms against her. There was some old dirt and a skeleton in the closet. This is only the beginning of Katrina’s adventures, because soon a real skeleton is found.
What a story! Katrina is looking for love in all the wrong places until she starts seeing ghosts. Now the Celtic Stallion is out in English! The Celtic Stallion now also rides the American plains.
St. George’s Chapel on the hill, minus the horse ghost, painted by my grandmother Katharina
The original “Keltenschimmel” started in my Bavarian home town. There was a sensational archaeological find in the village: in the year 2000, a Celtic princess was unearthed during the renovation project of an old farm house. Imagine—she comes to life again. And imagine all the other ghosts in between. St. George’s Chapel on the hill had at least four of them: the dragon, the hound, the witch, and the white stallion.
I sat down and wrote the Celtic Stallion then, perhaps in a pursuit of preserving the “good old days.” My book of coming-of-age amidst village myths—between a Celtic burial 2000 years ago and the Comanche who roamed the area during WWII—spilled forth on the pages. I could not have turned this off. But why this urge?
Votive paintings, such as these, are part of a church robbery in the story that Katrina gets blamed for
Was I processing my past? Perhaps. Back then, as a teenager, I could feel the exclusion and sublime bullying caused by my pursuit of higher education. Was I processing the present? Maybe even more so. Conglomerate farming and the insanity of modern times had knocked tradition to the ground. Nobody went to church, but everybody was at the Corn Field Party. Does this show my age? I (hypocrite) am not such a good church goer myself. And, finally, I could not handle the fact that another archaeological study was done towards clearance for a hypermarket building permit. All that was discovered there, is now buried under the sales floor of the grocery store. And even more farmland fell victim to the new commercial district.
This could be the hen house in which Katrina dueled with her type writer against grandpa’s peening clanks
Enough of that. My story plays in a small, 70s, Bavarian village, when the world was mostly still in order. Or so Katrina, the 17-year-old high school student thought. Oh, well, not so OK for a capricious teenager. Katrina was looking for love in all the wrong places, wrote the worst essays ever, and sparred against her mute grandfather in a duel of clattering noises: he sharpening his scythes, she hacking away at her typewriter in the hen house. Needless to say, a modern girl who lives in an old-fashioned village is bound to run into trouble. And ghosts as well. The Celtic Stallion indulges you with the Otherworld or Adventureland of modern German mythology. Be entertained by Katrina’s mishaps and the devious ghosts of St. George’s Hill: the witch, the dragon, and the white stallion. They all come to life, one way or another. History never dies.
The Celtic Stallion is now available in English on Amazon.
The German reading at the Grabenmühle near my hometown was staged with love and care. We had four presenters, who practiced their stage skills. Harp music and singing, were all part of it.
With The Medford Remains Jackie Sereno has put out her second “Circling Eagle Mystery,” after her debut novel “Breaking Ground.” Her second volume of the family saga tells us about the making of a murderer, a Native American boy breaking free from the foster system. This story with a real twist unfolds on two time lines. Richard Circling Eagle investigates his father’s mysterious demise and his mother’s unexplained disappearance. The Medford Remains is an incredibly rich and suspenseful murder mystery and family saga playing in Northern Wisconsin. For all of you who like Tony Hillerman stories, Jackie Sereno very well matches that in-depth research.
I had the great pleasure to help Jackie with the pictures for her Medford Trailer. Actor Cainan Thomas from Fort McDowell (AZ, Yavapai) was the model for the key pictures of the story. It was such a nice adventure to set up for the shots at my friend Renate Mousseux’s house in Fountain Hills. As his former teacher, Renate has know Cainan and his family since his childhood. Cainan is an actor who has played Native American characters in movie productions.
The pictures (below) turned out great. Here is the gist of the story: “Decades after Thomas Circling Eagle’s suicide, his wallet is discovered buried in an abandoned barn. That puzzling fact intrigues his now grown son Richard, especially because its contents contradict the suicide assumption and include a reference to mysterious human remains uncovered in the wilderness near Medford, WI.”
That sets Richard on a quest for the truth.
A long forgotten wallet with troubling clues inside.
If you are an “adult” like me (whatever that means), you may have left most cartoons behind you. But I like an animated movie once in a while. Animations help us to look beyond reality. They punch our buttons, hit us on levels of irony and travesty, where reality just does not reach. Here are my top five animation movies.
Shrek turns all fairytales upside down. I like it so much, because I grew up with a lot of Grimms’ stories in Germany. And Shrek busts our stereotypes once and for all: nothing noble about the steed, a prince turned out short, and an ogre who is a philosopher. There are surprises around every corner. I love how all the characters are mixed up in a paradoxical stew. Best of all is the twist in the end: Be who you are, not who you think you should be. And don’t we all love dragons!
Monsters Inc. shows us the inside workings of a scare corporation–very well done! The monsters are more scared of humans than the other way around. When the monsters march to work, I am reminded of our current political scare tactics. Doors hold a fascination for all of us. Don’t we always want to know what’s behind them? Are we afraid to open them? So cool, how the doors are played throughout. The nice thing about Monsters Inc.: Truth be told, laughter creates more energy than fear.
Wall-e is the most real and scariest animation that I know. I have always had a knack for utopias (Brave New World, Time Machine, 1984). A tiny robot is the only worker left in a post apocalyptic world, when spoiled-beyond-belief humans have escaped on a spaceship. Humanity, all fat like mast oxen, has fallen victim to limitless comfort seeking, subscribing to the Buy&Large, until all life on earth was buried under trash. So what should we do? Go about our business, as the world goes down? Think. Think again. Do something! Recycle, vote, refuse the plastic!
Rango must be counted as one of the best Westerns of all time. It’s up there with Dances with Wolves and Unforgiven, but not only because Johnny Depp is the chameleon. If you’re ever talking “characters” in an animation–it’s Rango. But I like it the MOST for its DIRE dire story line, especially for us in Arizona. A little desert town called Dirt is running out of water–because a greedy corporation diverted it. Similar monster developers and corporations have bought up everything in the Valley of the Sun. When will our Valley run out of water? What can we do to conserve it? Certainly the cancer-like sprawl doesn’t help.
Finding Nemo instantly thrilled me. It had a good story, I can identify with short term memory loss (ha, ha, Dori!), and I have always been fascinated with sea life. At one point, I had wanted to become a marine biologist, reading too much about Jaques Cousteau and an Austrian scientist, Hans Hass. Both swam with sharks and studied their behaviors. They weren’t the blood-thirsty beasts as often portrayed. Imagine:
100 million sharks are killed by us in a year!!
Sharks, in return, hardly kill 10 humans a year. Something is off here. Something is also off at the Great Barrier Reef. It’s dying from global warming.
Thank God for animation! At least we are able to participate in nature vicariously via movies. Although that’s not enough for me. I need a regular, in-person experience with nature to balance me out—not necessarily with sharks, but a good hike on the Rim will do.
So, if you got nothing better to do, watch a movie! I just gave you my top five animations.
Guest Column by Dan Baldwin, Ghost-Writer & Author
I remember the 1950s when conformity in life, belief and culture was not only expected, it was demanded. Most people went along, but there were a few on the fringe who refused to conform. This was before the age of the hippie. (Although of that generation, I have more in common with the beatniks—jazz, writing, being cool as opposed to being loud, “sick” comedians like Lenny Bruce, Mort Sahl.) We seem to be living in a retro-fifties era today. The cries for conformity are everywhere. If you’ll watch the news carefully you’ll see that the “free” kids of the sixties, who are now in their seventies, are bringing back the worst of the fifties.
That’s true in the writing universe, too. As with the “pantsters” vs. “plotters” debate, we have an ongoing confrontation between those who believe in the conventional and those who believe in the cool (originally a beat term).
Dan talking to the spirits of the past with his pendulum
The conformist seek comfort in well-established, inflexible rules. The cool isn’t afraid to risk pushing the edge of the box or even punching through now and then. For example, the conventional believes with the faith of a 12-year-old Southern Baptist at her first tent revival that a work must—must mind you—be rewritten and rewritten and rewritten until like Goldilocks says, “it’s just right.” The cool, with the confidence in his own ability looks across the uncharted literary landscape and says, “I wonder what’s over there” and then makes the journey to find out.
Being a beat generation survivor, I think of myself as a cool. I send my works to first readers for their input. I listen to that input, evaluate it, and incorporate their suggestions if I agree with them. A conventional writer will automatically submit to the recommended changes of an editor, critique group, best friend, fellow writer, or first reader without hesitation. Why? Because that’s the way it’s done. The rule book says so.
A conventional knows for a fact that the way to publishing success is to get an agent who will get a publisher who will then publish the work. He knows for certain that this is the only sure-fire method. The cool knows that he can take that road or choose another, such as self-publishing. I’ve debated the pros and cons of traditional vs. self-publishing and each side has its share. The amount of emotional attachment some authors have to conventional thinking, however, borders on religious belief.
I am not against conventional writing, publishing or marketing techniques provided they are not employed by rote simply because ‘that’s the way we’ve always done it.’ To me, conventional or cool should be a choice and not a self-imposed mandate.
Something to think about, eh? Give it some thought.
Dan Baldwin has been my role model and motivator for the last 15 years. He has penned and ghosted probably more than 70 books. Mysteries, thrillers, westerns, and the paranormal are his favorite genres. In his spare time he works as a psychic detective to let the departed speak through his pendulum. You can contact him through his website below.
Here is a taste of my my bandana story. It’s about the red snuff kerchief that my Opa always carried along. But how will this story end?
Opa took me to the St. Leonhard’s horse parade. I was 2 years old
“Opa has picked berries for you!” Mom was in her typical taking-care-of-business mode. She rushed past me through the kitchen with a load full of washed laundry. She had no time to waste before heading back out into the field.
This was the berry-picking and haymaking season in my Bavarian village. You could tell by the tattered house dress Mama was wearing. Her hair was tied under a headscarf. Her skin was flushed. On her upper arms tan lines showed from longer sleeves. She was ready to jump on the tractor as soon as the sheets were hung.
I flung my school bag into the corner of the bench. Then I dropped my four letters down and grabbed the plate, warmed-up pancake soup and a schmalznoodle. For those who do not know, pancake soup is a clear broth with plain omelet strips cut into it, and schmalznoodles are sticks of fried bread. Beggars can’t be choosers, but I could smell the berries before Mama had set the bowl on the table.
“Here, Opa picked these for you!”
Wow, raspberries, blueberries, strawberries. They glistened like sumptuous little jewels. “Where did he find them?”
“Inside the Marsh Moss clearing. Didn’t take him but 15 minutes to scoop these up.”
Grandpa always looked out for us kids, me and my three younger siblings. He helped us build bird houses, constructed an underpass along the creek so that we didn’t have to cross the busy state road, and made sure to drive us home at 6:30 with a stick.
“How did he carry them home? Did he have a basket?”
“Nope.”
“His hat?’
“Nope, his bandana. You know how he ties these knots in it.”
“His bandana?”
“Yes. Eat up. I must go now. There is some cream in the fridge. Aren’t you getting a royal feast today! Thank your Opa for it.” And out she was. Seconds later, the small tractor puttered off the yard.
Gramps’ bandana? The berries suddenly didn’t smell so good any more. I didn’t dare imagine all the places the bandana had been. And he never put it in the wash. He insisted on washing it himself, usually in the rainwater trough under the gutter spout. Easy grandpa logic. That red bandana was his only one. His lucky bandana. He couldn’t do a day without it. So, he washed it himself, as needed.
As needed? I gagged. I kept on ladling my pancake soup, very slowly. Gramps’ bandana, was it washed? When was it washed last? I ogled the sparkling berries in front of me. And my imagination went wild. Poisoned by a snuffed out bandana?
Should I risk a light bandana poisoning? It was a hot day today, and gramps for sure had wiped his sweat on his bandana. Or was I in for a severe intoxication from snuff snot? That is, my gramps was addicted to stuffing Gletscherprise (Glacier Pinch) up his nose and then blow it out like an erupting volcano into his almighty bandana. Brown goop. That and the recent bloody accident had made the “bandana berries” most unpalatable to me. Three days ago, gramps had spliced not only the kindling but also his palm with his splicing knife. Blood was dripping. “No big deal,” he had growled after mom had rushed to bring him a bandage. He beat her to it and wrapped his good-fortune bandana around his palm. Maybe it had curative properties? The next day the cut was gone.
Where all had the bandana been? I stared at the bowl of berries. The soup was finished and I was still hungry. I pulled the bowl closer and sniffed the stunning aroma.
Bandana berries—to eat or not to eat was the question
How do you think the story ends? Send me your (alternate) ending for this bit. It would be great fun to contribute your guesses to my story.
NOTE: My webmail isn’t jinxed. It just may ask you to declare yourself as human. So write in any time if you’re not an android. If you’re getting a weird reply, it’s my spam blocker.
Wow, I hopped on the Internet–it’s astounding what bandanas are all good for! I thought I could make a book of it. But not without your help. Submit your entries! Download the guidelines below. $200 grand prize; $100 second; and $50 for honorable work (multiple)–tell your friends!
Bandana gone to the dogs
Bandanas have been an important hiking gear for me. Sometimes we have turned around when I forgot my neck-saver. Indeed, I am a redneck. I burn easily. Perhaps that happened to the cowboys too, when they were driving cattle under the scorching Texas sun. Ditto. Necks turn red. Or, wait a minute, were they wearing a paisley red bandana? That would explain the expression, too.
My bandana is blue and has Hopi dancers and decorations on it. Of course bandanas come in all colors and patterns, but red is still the best. And those colorful mini rags are usually dirt cheap. Michaels, the crafts store, will sell them for a couple of bucks. Don’t pay any more than ten. Some bandanas like to claim a boutique extravaganza. Mine actually came from a Goodwill store. Maybe 50 cents? I’ll ask my daughter.
John Wayne’s trademark rag
What else is a bandana good for? It got me thinking. My grandpa never left house without one in his trouser pockets. Mostly—gee thanks, but gross—he used it to wipe snuff and snot off his mustache. But at times (I hope that kerchief was clean), he carried mushrooms or blueberries home in his bandana. He tied the diagonal corners together to make a carry bag. On one occasion, he used his bandana as a bandage after he cut his hand splicing kindling wood.
A bandana could, seriously, save your life. Maybe you got injured and needed a tourniquet. Or you got lost and needed a flag for the helicopter search team to find you. Or you needed to filter drinking water from a desert puddle. My friend Edda might use a bandana as a signal flag for the prettiest Texas cedar tree for Christmas. And on it goes.
Bandanas are not only for hikers, cowboys, and pirates. Animals like bandanas too. Do you have a bandana at home? Maybe you can write a story about it and send it to me. I am so much looking forward to that!
My friend Earley is a Jack of many trades. Yes, Jack Earley is his name. Much to say about him (Jack on right; middle, Kate Earley; left, me)
Jack has been creative all his life, one way or another. He is a painter, book dealer, philosopher, and writer. His wife Kate keeps Jack’s back free for artistic exploration. We have been friends with the Earleys since our Loveland (Cincinnati, Ohio) days. Jack’s paintings hang on our walls in Arizona. They make us feel like we are still neighbors.
Jack’s “earliest” passion was writing. “I have been writing since I was 18,” Jack said. He got interested in literature around the time when he started college. “Everybody was talking about the weird guy next door, so I went over to meet him.” That guy got Jack to read all the great novels, about 20 of them—Moby Dick, War and Peace, Brothers Karamazov, The Red and the Black, and so forth. He has been writing every since.
Only in the last 2 years Jack has produced finished products.
Like many circumspective writers, he catches a good story when it comes around. “One morning, I was doing tai chi, and I heard a news article”, Jack recalled. “There the novel just came to me and I started writing it. It was like I was a secretary transcribing what automatically appeared in my brain.”
Jack’s novel is called “Through the Ice”. A man drives his car through the ice on a lake. In shock and far away from any help, he has to walk back to town with a coyote. Imagine that!
After this revelation, many short stories started popping into Jack’s mind. He collected 103 twitter-like vignettes together in a volume called “Saturday Nights”. They are all related to Saturday family events, poker nights, and memorable pranks. Recently, Jack has started another series called “Every Day of the Week.” He has more than a dozen together but wants to come up with over 100 to match the “Saturday Nights” stories. He records the readings of his stories for YouTube, where people can subscribe for free.
Each of Jack’s short stories contains a little snap, a little epiphany. “We all go about doing things that we think are right. Suddenly, out pops a piece of knowledge, an unexpected awareness. According to James Joyce, such an epiphany normally means that God revealed himself in the streets.”
Jack camouflages these real life events by fictionalizing the characters, but all experiences are his own. In “Steak Every Night” he cast himself as the young dude getting annoyed with a loud-mouthed Polish coworker. There is a true learning moment there. If you pay attention, in each of Jack’s stories a little light bulb goes off.
All right, easy enough. But, then, ask Jack about science. Scientific discoveries may not come on accident. “In science, people are working their tails off in one direction,” Jack said, “until a little epiphany takes them into a completely different direction—because more stuff is coming at them than they are aware of.” His conclusion: Science is the art or attempt of predicting the future.
Now we are getting philosophical. Let’s take it one more step further.
According to Jack, neither painting nor story are linear, they only appear so. All of the time is right now, regardless in which order the paint was laid down or the characters enter the scene. The future is only the place where the energy is heading.
Get it? Along the way of our unsuspecting lives we are collecting more knowledge than expected. So that is called a learning experience.
Based on his definition of the common man’s epiphany, Jack is bothered by a movie called “Arrival.” In it some aliens gift humanity with a “una-language” for perfect communication and a glimpse at the future.
“However, if you can see the future, it means it is already here,” Jack said. “And if it’s already here, it means everything already happened. And if everything already happened, what’s the point? What’s there to learn? Why aren’t we just catatonic? Why do anything?”
Good question.
Quick, Jack, just write another story, paint another picture.
Mark Twain is my American literary hero. Recently, I had a chance to take a picture with my idol at Tlaquepaque in Sedona. Wow! Our chat felt nice.
Mark Twain, aka Samuel Clemens, was a journalist before he was a novelist. He started to craft stories as young as 12 years old. He ceaselessly honed his art as a newspaper reporter, first in St. Louis, MO, and then many other places. Twain found just the right words, perspective, and dosage of humor that he was able to “get away with murder.” Lesser scribes would have been hung.
I believe in Twain. A master of social criticism and satire, he pointed out hypocrisy, absurdity, and profound human misery. Imagine, a seasoned alley cat like Huck Finn coming to his own conclusions about the runaway slave, Jim. These unlikely companions float down the Mississippi on a raft with plenty of time to learn from each other. Use your brain, man! So Huck did. In his own way, Huck Finn was a humanitarian of the simplest kind. Kind.
Another character I admire is the dude in the Connecticut Yankee at King Arthur’s Court. That’s a story of brain power gone awry. The Yankee’s square-headed mentality and modern weaponry caused total destruction in the chivalrous, medieval world. In a doomsday scenario, royal jousting spiraled fully out of control.
Yes, Mark Twain showed us the whole spectrum of human nature.
Twain was a master of religious satire and got away with it as well. Captain Stormfield’s Visit to Heaven tells a story of how the afterlife turns out much differently than expected for the main character.
One of our greatest problems is, which Twain often indicated, that we people like to overrate our own importance. “All you need in this life is ignorance and confidence, then success is sure.” Dang it! We see that all the time.
I learned a lot of good words from Mark Twain as well and added them to my American street vocabulary. Although by now antiquated, I still thoroughly enjoy expressions like “low life, bottom feeder, scallywag, carpet bagger” and many more. We might use other words today but the same character types are still lurking around each corner.
Finally, Mark Twain’s excursions into the German language are hilarious. How can the prefix from a verb break off and resurface at the very far tail end of a sentence? And he sure admired the German knack for assembling some of the longest composite nouns in the universe, such as “Donaudampfschifffahrtskapitänsmützenabzeichen” (Danube Steam Shipping Company medal for the captain’s hat).
And if Twain were still alive, he might play even mightier tricks with words. Especially now that we have entered the age of alternative truths and official lies are not even concealed any more.
Language has always been a creative process. It has to, because the world keeps changing all the time. If Latin were still a living language, someone would have made up new words for “aircraft carrier” or “underwater mortgage” or “fragile facts”. Or borrowed them from another language?
Let’s face it. Since the last elections, our vocabulary will soon add some new inflexions: That’s so trumpish! What the trump just happened? Don’t trump me! Let’s join the Trumpler Club. (Not me. I am not a Trumpionista.) Atta trump!
Oh, trump! Where will this end? Let’s read those Mark Twain stories again.
A Tiny Piece of Blue, cast in 1934 rural Michigan in the winter months, tells the harrowing story of a dirt-poor girl abandoned by her parents to fend for herself during the Great Depression. In the course of Silstice’s struggle for survival, she comes into her own. “Silly,” technically orphaned after her parents’ house burns down, gets on with a kind farm woman, Edna, who dotes on her but who is powerless in getting her husband on board to help the kid. One cannot fathom how crustaceous and heartless the old man Vernon is. He may not know any better, and his farm may be down the hill too.
When I was four years old, my parents took us to the zoo. It was spring time. Somewhere around the miniature goats, there was a green activity patch: May bug hunt. Instead of Easter eggs, the activity team had laid out lifelike chocolate bugs wrapped in printed tin foils. At a shot gun start, they let a bunch of us kids inside that corral. I picked up a bug and proudly showed it off to my parents.
is a writer, cowgirl poet, and reenacter of the Western glory days of the Wickenburg Marshals in Arizona. She teaches art and gives art therapy in her art studio or behavioral centers. She spends as much time as she can writing. You can find all her meanderings and writings at 
Noel is a longtime school counselor with Mesa Public Schools and over the years has served many families in the Native American Education Program, until she recently transferred into another position. She is Navajo and Muskogee Creek. She has improved many a student’s outlook in life. She makes anyone feel better with her gracious smile.
Tim is a member of the Lakota Standing Rock Reservation. He has been an advocate for Native rights and has worked as promoter and coach for Native youth in Mesa school system. He is also an excellent story teller and a treasure trove of Native American history. Lately, he has specialized in researching the Lakota code talker history of WWI and will soon publish a paper about his findings. 
ELISABETH SHERWOOD, Payson, AZ
Zarco Guerrero is an eminent figure in the Valley’s (Phoenix) cultural life. He is most well-known for his masterful masks that he carves or creates with papier maché, fabric, and other materials. He is also a community activist, philanthropist, story teller, performance artist, and historian. Zarco researched a much philosophical background behind the bandana, which is included in this collection. Find out more about him at 
Edda is a journalist and German correspondent living with her husband, Helmut, a sculptor, on a homegrown ranch near San Antonio, Texas. Edda has for many years shared her farm experience in her First Hand Living column in the New Braunfels newspaper and later collected her stories in a book called Texas Kaktuswein, Leben aus erster Hand. She continues, painting, writing stories, and gardening.
Beth won a prize in the first Bandana Book, but got too busy with her first novel. “This year, I will finally see one of my dreams fulfilled—my debut novel, Rooted in Sunrise, will be published and released into the world on September 17, 2024,” she writes in her newsletter. Aside from writing and publishing, Beth likes to get her hands dirty while gardening. 
That’s why I wrote Random Accident in Sector Noah 135/56 or the story of The Last Book on Earth. I can see it coming. Can’t you?
I have been in publishing since Gutenberg invented the printing press. Or rather, I got my hands dirty with linotype and ink. Remember? That’s when the lines of lead type had to be read in reverse? Yes, you can learn to detect typos reading upside down, from right to left, with letters mirrored. And then came the revolution of the photo paste ups. How easy was that! Boy, and now we have the Adobe full page layout programs. It’s magic!
Books have always been my passion. Since I was ten years old, I had wanted to write a book. Back then I was dreaming of concocting another volume for an Enid Blyton adventure series about twin girls in boarding school. And now I do write books.
Random Accident, illustrated by my daughter Priyanka Makin, is a humorous, futuristic picture book for all ages. It is built on the exercise of kindness and discovery.
Now available on 
Julius Schütze rides up from Austin. He demands justice for his brother. The wolf pack does not like to be dragged in front of the judge. Now the events take a dramatic spin for the worse. One of the Waldrip gang, Gibson, threatens Eberhard several times about his ammunition, raids his shop, and rapes his Comanche maid. Eberhard is a reluctant hero, but Gibson had it coming. From this point on, Eberhard’s life spins out of control. Done with playing it safe.
Bandana Stories
Bandana Origin
Bandana Warriors
Independent from my instigations, Elisabeth Sherwood had made a collage series of bandana cowgirls, the mysterious types. (One of her gals to the left.) This was just perfect for the Bandana Book cover. I asked my friends, they wrote stories, I put them all in a book. The second one is on its way. It’s titled “Unusual Encounters.” The stories cover a rainbow of experiences and are deliriously good.
It had to be written—I don’t know why.
I had the great pleasure to help Jackie with the pictures for her Medford Trailer. Actor Cainan Thomas from Fort McDowell (AZ, Yavapai) was the model for the key pictures of the story. It was such a nice adventure to set up for the shots at my friend Renate Mousseux’s house in Fountain Hills. As his former teacher, Renate has know Cainan and his family since his childhood. Cainan is an actor who has played Native American characters in movie productions.
The pictures (below) turned out great. Here is the gist of the story: “Decades after Thomas Circling Eagle’s suicide, his wallet is discovered buried in an abandoned barn. That puzzling fact intrigues his now grown son Richard, especially because its contents contradict the suicide assumption and include a reference to mysterious human remains uncovered in the wilderness near Medford, WI.”
I remember the 1950s when conformity in life, belief and culture was not only expected, it was demanded. Most people went along, but there were a few on the fringe who refused to conform. This was before the age of the hippie. (Although of that generation, I have more in common with the beatniks—jazz, writing, being cool as opposed to being loud, “sick” comedians like Lenny Bruce, Mort Sahl.) We seem to be living in a retro-fifties era today. The cries for conformity are everywhere. If you’ll watch the news carefully you’ll see that the “free” kids of the sixties, who are now in their seventies, are bringing back the worst of the fifties.
Being a beat generation survivor, I think of myself as a cool. I send my works to first readers for their input. I listen to that input, evaluate it, and incorporate their suggestions if I agree with them. A conventional writer will automatically submit to the recommended changes of an editor, critique group, best friend, fellow writer, or first reader without hesitation. Why? Because that’s the way it’s done. The rule book says so.
A conventional knows for a fact that the way to publishing success is to get an agent who will get a publisher who will then publish the work. He knows for certain that this is the only sure-fire method. The cool knows that he can take that road or choose another, such as self-publishing. I’ve debated the pros and cons of traditional vs. self-publishing and each side has its share. The amount of emotional attachment some authors have to conventional thinking, however, borders on religious belief.
Something to think about, eh? Give it some thought.
