Author Archives: lauralibricz

About lauralibricz

Laura Libricz was born and raised in Bethlehem PA and moved to Upstate New York when she was 22. After working a few years building Steinberger guitars, she received a scholarship to go to college. She tried to ‘do the right thing’ and study something useful, but spent all her time reading German literature. She earned a BA in German at The College of New Paltz, NY in 1991 and moved to Germany, where she resides today. When she isn’t writing she can be found sifting through city archives, picking through castle ruins or aiding the steady flood of musical instruments into the world market. Her first novel, The Master and the Maid, is the first book of the Heaven's Pond Trilogy. The Soldier’s Return and Ash and Rubble are the second and third books in the series.

Welcome to the #RRBC RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB “SPOTLIGHT” Author Blog Tour!! #RRBCSpotlightAuthor @ChuckWesJ

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Welcome to this month’s #RRBC Spotlight Author Blog Tour! Please join me with Charles W Jones, author of, among other things, CIRCUS TAROT:

pic_charleswjones[1709]“Many strange things are present in World Circus, and not just the sideshow acts. If you were to take a walk northwest of World Tent, you’d come across a little café where you can get your fill of corndogs, snow cones, and, of course, cotton candy. But that’s not what I want to show you, the spectacle of interest is Tower. The yard and maze around it is always midnight with firefighting Clowns running to put out fires from embers that drift to the ground from the fire that shoots from the top of Tower. This excerpt is Mary and Johnny’s journey through Tower.”

Excerpt from Chapter 26

Mary and Johnny released hands and began looking around. The foyer opened to a larger room with nothing in it but a spiral staircase in the center. The walls and floor were the same golden granite as the foyer; no windows disrupted the smooth surfaces.

“Looks like we go up,” she said, assessing the stairs. “Not just through.”

He stared at her, without saying a word, waiting to see who took the first step. Deciding to take the lead, he held his foil in front of them. They clamored up the spiral, their footfalls echoing in the chamber.

“I need to take a break,” he said as he slowed, gripping the railing.

“It does seem like we’ve been climbing a very long,” she replied, stopping a few steps behind him.

She looked up. The top appeared to be a short distance from them, maybe fifty more steps.

“Oh shit,” he exclaimed. “Don’t look down.”

“What? Why?” she asked.

Without taking his advice, she looked down, over the side of the spiral of the railing. Hardly believing what she found, a momentary wave of nausea flooded her system. Thousands of feet below them was the base of the staircase. From their vantage, it appeared the stairs carried them diagonally to the ceiling. Her foot slipped backward. A shrill scream of surprise jumped from her mouth as she fell backward. Johnny watched with an ashen face as she tumbled slowly back down the stairs. Her hands fluttered, looking for purchase on the railing. A jolt of pain shot through her shoulder when a hand caught hold of the railing, ending her descent. Awkwardly, she righted herself and climbed with shaking legs back to Johnny.

“Are you OK?” he asked when she was ten steps below him.

“Yes, I’m glad I only fell a few steps.”

“More like down at least three spirals.”

“What?” Her voice cracked. She stopped her head from turning to look down.

They stood in silence, clutching the cold metal railing as horror abated from their systems.

“Next time someone tells me to ‘not look down.’” She panted. “I will listen.”

He nodded, then turned carefully on the step to continue the climb. From time to time, they looked up to see whether it looked as though they had made any progress to the top, and were careful not to allow their eyes to look below them. Finally, the stairs ended. They stepped into a slightly smaller space.

“There’s no way out,” he said with a shaky voice, looking around the room. “I think we should go back down.”

“We can’t.”

He turned back to her. The gilded iron railing and the opening in the floor no longer sat in the center of the room. He rushed back to her side.

“What do we do now?” he questioned shrilly. “I want to go home.”

“I do, too,” she consoled.

She left him in the center of the room as she walked the circumference. The granite was cold to the touch, which seemed odd to her. The fire burning in the turret should cause the room to be at least warmer than it was. There had to be something she missed, but what?

He gave up on the idea of ever going back to normal and thought of staying within the walls of Tower for the rest of his life. He was locked in the center of the Tower with her, no one ever knowing what happened to them. He watched her rubbing the polished walls, looking for a way out. He blamed his mother for sending him to their house to check on them—they were not his friends!

“Quit pouting, and come help me.”

He grumbled to himself as he stood. What was there to do in this room requiring his help? He shuffled to her with a put-upon expression. She glanced back at him.

“There’s a seam here. I want you to put your hand on it so that I can find it again. I think I found a hidden door. I want to take a look from a few steps back.”

His mood lightened, and he did as she asked, placing his hand across the fine seam in the granite. The cold of the stone gradually became warmer as he watched her task of slowly sliding her finger along the wall next to him.

“Mary,” he said, his tone alarmed.

“Yeah?”

“My hand is starting to burn.”

“What?” She spun around, facing him.

She looked at the place his hand met the wall; neither looked different.

“It’s probably just the stone warming with your body heat. Take your hand off the wall and use your other hand for a while.”

Watching him try to pull his hand from the wall, she furrowed her brows. It didn’t budge no matter how much force he used. He grabbed a finger with his other hand, attempting to pull it free. A cry of agony filled the room while his face flashed various shades of red. She assessed his hand and the wall again, thinking of the meaning of the Tower. At first, she found no correlation, and then it came to her.

“You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself. We’re in this together. If you think we’re going to stay here forever, we will. Only you can change your fate.”

Tower groaned as though it were taking in a deep breath to inflate a balloon. The walls and floor vibrated. She looked him solemnly in the eye and without a word passing between them, he understood it was up to him.

“We’re getting out of this,” she coaxed.

He looked into her eyes, believing her.

“We’re going home,” he said, smiling.

His hand came away from the wall. She smiled proudly.

“I’m sure this is a door,” she said, leaving what just happened alone. “I can’t figure out how to open it. Any ideas?”

He surveyed the area her fingers smudged the glossy stone.

“If it’s a door,” he declared. “Shouldn’t we just push it open?”

He placed his hands firmly on the wall, using strength he didn’t know he had. She joined his efforts, both grunting and groaning. Finally, the block of granite slid forward. They didn’t stop until they were in the next chamber, slumping to the floor exhausted.

About Circus Tarot

In the strange land of World Circus, Mary and Darrin discover they aren’t in their safe, dull life any longer, but have taken the identity of one of the cards from the Circus Tarot. After a terrorizing encounter, resulting in death, they learn the bizarre rules of the land and discover that the denizens of the sinister World Circus want more than to entertain them.

Don’t forget to get your copy of Circus Tarot at Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00785VJIW

Find Charles W Jones at the following places:

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ChuckWesJ

Facebook: https://facebook.com/ChuckWesJ

Website: https://charleswjonesauthor.com

 

Welcome to the “WORLD UNKNOWN” Blog Tour! @Jinlobify #4WillsPub #RRBC #RWISA

Welcome to the Vagaries of Life Blog Tour Day 4. Today we have the wonderful Joy Nwosu Lo-Bamijoko with us to talk about her newly-released book THE VAGARIES OF LIFE AND GIRLS TALK!

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joy-photo-for-rwisaThis is the fourth day of my ten days tour.

There was a time I was terrified of writing. Especially, when deciding which of our spoken languages to write in. Writers from my culture before me have also faced this type of fear. Some have written just as they spoke, and it was not always grammatically correct, but they told their stories.

One of my favorite authors, Cyprian Ekwensi wrote in pidgin. Pidgin is a corrupt form of the English language spoken in Nigeria. It is our lingua franca as everyone both the educated but especially the illiterate speaks it. Other English speaking African countries have their own form of pidgin.

It was trilling for me, the first time, to read Ekwensi’s story in Pidgin. I will never forget the effect this book titled Jaguar Nana had on me. It was the story of a Saucy and abrasive young girl. Market women read this story. Those who couldn’t read had it read to them. I had mauled the idea of writing in Pidgin.

The Rules:

I will choose only three winners from the correct matches. The winner with nine correct matches will be gifted with a $15 Amazon gift card and an eBook copy of your choice from any of my books. The second with eight correct matches will be gifted with a $10 Amazon gift card and an eBook copy of your choice from my books. The third winner with seven correct matches will be with gifted a $5. Amazon gift card and an eBook copy of your choice from my books.

Now the catch! If you follow the tour and read the snippets, I would hope that you would buy and read the complete stories and leave a review of the book after the tour.

This tour is supported by another of my books; Pregnant Future. If you want to read that one too, that will be great. However, the focus will be on Vagaries of Life: And Girls’ Talk. Good reading!

Snippet 4:

The first time it struck me that society dictated how I lived was when a highly regarded jazz artist came to Lagos. He visited Nigeria while being hosted by the American Cultural Institute in Lagos. All notable artists in Lagos converged to spend the night with this jazz musician and to listen to him play.

I walked into the venue, to find the place packed full of a mixed audience of both males and females, but I stuck out because I had walked in alone. All eyes shifted to me. I’m not a shy person, but with all those eyes on me that evening, my knees buckled.

I looked around, searching for a seat. Someone stood up and offered me the stool he was sitting on. I thanked him, took the stool and went and sat facing the grand piano. The piano top was open, and it shielded me from the player. That was the whole idea. I wanted to be near the piano, but not able to be seen by the player.

A few minutes after I had taken my position, the jazz musician arrived, flanked by two officers of the Cultural Centre. Behind them walked a popular couple known in Lagos for their jazz spot, Femi and Janice. The two walked hand-in-hand, smiling and waving at everyone…

About the Author, Joy Nwosu Lo-Bamijoko

Joy has written and published extensively on national and international scholarly                journals, magazines, and newspapers. 

Her first short story I Come from Utopia was published in African Voices, Spring/Summer, 2007, pg. 18. Since then, she has published numerous others in RAVE SOUP FOR THE WRITER’S SOUL Anthology, Vols. 1 & 2.

Mirror of Our Lives: Voices of Four Igbo Women was published in 2011 and was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Book Contest in 2012. She has also two books published in the Italian language. The First titled: Io Odio, Tu Odi, & Cinema E Africa Nera, are both by Edizione, Tindalo.

The Legend of the Walking Dead: Igbo Mythologies, is a journey into the   mysteries of life and death of the Igbos of Nigeria was published in 2014.

In Pregnant Future: No One Knows What Tomorrow Will Bring, Justina is the story of every young woman who found herself alone in the world to fend for herself. It is the story of the pitfalls that await such a woman. It is the story of survival.

Her latest book, A collection of Short Stories, titled: Vagaries of Life: And Girls’ Talk was published in December, 2018.

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Pregnant Future – Blurb

 Justina was a fighter. And, although it seemed the world was against her and her future was destined for failure …she persevered in the face of it all.

The future that was being thrown in her face, was not the one she had dreams of …and if she wanted to get her feet on the right path, she was going to have to show the world her strength. But, does she?

Will she have the will to make it to the end, unscarred?

What would you do if you knew what the future had in store for you?

Would you run towards it with open arms, or would you run away and never look back?

Justina must make a choice …before life chooses for her.

Links to Joy’s Social Network:

 My Web Site

 FaceBook

 Goodreads

 Twitter

LinkedIn

Thanks for supporting Joy and her work today! To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site.  If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.  

Lastly, Joy is a member of the best book club ever – RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB {#RRBC}! If you’re looking for amazing support as an author, or if you simply love books, JOIN US! We’d love to have you!

 

 

My #review of WHOBEDA’S GUIDE TO BASIC #ASTROLOGY by #RRBC #RWISA author Marcha Fox @startrailsIV

5STar

What a fun read! Whobeda’s Guide is a great reference book and one that can be referred to again and again. I read this on a kindle but I’m going to buy one in paperback for referencing. Marcha Fox does a great job of keeping the reader entertained while jogging us through the solar system! This book would also make a great gift if you know someone who likes astrology and would like to analyze their own birth chart or others as well. Check out Marcha’s wonderful daily horoscope on Whobeda’s facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/Whobeda/

marcha-fox[1420]Marcha says:   This is the book I wanted to find when I was first learning astrology. If you want to play “hyperlink bingo” you can find this information on my website at ValkyrieAstrology.com but I compiled it into book form at the request of various other astrologers who were using it as a textbook in their beginning astrology classes. Some of it is tongue-in-cheek, some possibly offensive since I’m a Capricorn with a dry sense of humor. Let’s just say that my 10 year old grandson read it and started analyzing his mom and his sisters. In other words, it’s not technical or boring, so I think you’ll like it and learn a lot.

If you want to learn more about astrology but currently know nothing more than your Sun Sign, then this is the book for you! This entertaining and easy to comprehend guide provides all the information you need to understand astrology’s basic principles and terminology. In addition, you’ll discover how this ancient cosmic art allows you to understand yourself and those around you at a deeper level, plus aid in career selection, parenting, getting along with others (both at home or in the workplace), as well as selecting the best time for any endeavor. If you already consult with an astrologer, the information within will help you speak astrologese and thus get even more out of your professional readings.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Marcha Fox is a prolific writer who has addressed a wide variety of subjects, but her favorite is science fiction. It began as a love of astronomy, which eventually led to a bachelor of science degree in physics from Utah State University. This was followed by a 21 year career at NASA’s Johnson Space Center in Houston, Texas where she held a variety of positions including technical writer, engineer, and eventually manager. Her NASA experiences included trips to Cape Canaveral in Florida, visiting other NASA centers in Mississippi, Alabama and Maryland, as well as trips to the European Space Agency in The Netherlands, but the most memorable was the sad task of helping to recover space shuttle debris in East Texas following the tragic Columbia accident in 2003.

Get to know more about Marcha’s hard scifi adventure series Star Trails Tetralogy here.

 

 

 

Welcome to the “ACE CARROWAY AND THE BLOG MONSTER” Blog Tour! @GuyWorthey #4WillsPub #RRBC #giveaway

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Please join me today and welcome RRBC author GUY WORTHEY! He is the fantastic author of the Ace Carroway series. I am currently reading Book 1, Ace Carroway and the Great War.

Please be sure to leave a comment below for your chance to win one of the following prizes:

-(3) Kindle ebooks – Winner’s choice (US residents only)

-(1) $10 Amazon gift card (US residents only) or $10 (via PayPal for non-US residents)

And now over to Guy!

Guy Worthey[1592]Greetings one and all, and a hearty thank-you to my kind host and 4 Wills Publishing!

In this eighth blog tour stop we meet the fifth of Ace’s five associates. He’s got sandy hair and blue eyes in a dark tan face. The suit he wears is almost the same as Bert’s from yesterday but somehow comes off as less showy. It could be the same suit; the two men are about the same average size, both trim, both good-looking as far as my limited powers of judgement can discern.

GW: Greetings, Quack.

Quack: Greetings to you.

GW: Oh, you’ve got a bass voice! I’m a bass.

Quack: Have you ever done radio?

GW: Yes, but tell me, what’s your full name?

Quack: Boxnard Warburton Snana.

GW: Decode that for me. I’m not getting a feel for country or region.

Quack: It is a mixture. My father was, shall we say, well-traveled. His and my last name is his family name among the Lakota, but he could never stay still. He loved South Dakota, but also spent time in Boston and London. Cities fascinated him.

GW: How did you get the nickname Quack? Surely not from Boxnard or Warburton or Snana.

Quack: I was a field medic in the Great War. Bert — I knew Bert at the time — was fond of pointing out that I was not a fully trained doctor, and called me a quack.

GW: How do you feel about that?

Quack: It’s fine. Honestly, the name hasn’t stuck much outside our little group. Also, it’s convenient. “Quack, duck!” is shorter than, “Warburton, get your head down!”

GW: Does that come up very often?

Quack: Often enough. This detective business is risky.

GW: Your grin says that maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Quack: I love it. We all love it.

GW: You’re talking to a guy who is fine with strawberry jam on his toast, and raspberry is acceptable, but leaping to orange marmalade is just too risky.

Quack: It’s not for everyone. You do have to be a little heyoka, a little backwards in the head. But, let me be clear, none of us have death wishes. When somebody says, “duck!” we duck!

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GW: What do you do when you’re not getting shot at?

Quack: I have no steady job, but I do have an unsteady one. From time to time, I’ll land a role in a play. I’m an actor.

GW: No kidding?

Quack: “In jest, there is truth,” says the Bard.

GW: Shakespeare? That’s … very pithy.

Quack: Jest is also necessary to stay sane. We can’t dwell on those times we almost died or we’d be unable to peel a potato for fear of getting impaled.

GW: Honestly? Don’t talk like that. I faint at the sight of blood.

Quack: That’s perfectly fine. You have the luxury of being able to do that.

GW: What? Luxury?

Quack: Imagine living in a small village surrounded by tigers. Danger is constant. Injuries and deaths are common. In such a life, could you really permit yourself the luxury of fainting at the sight of blood?

GW: I’d be tiger food.

Quack: Yes.

GW: Are you really an actor?

Quack: “Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.”

GW: I stand convinced. Thank you for speaking with me today, Quack.

Quack: It is my pleasure.

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Quotes by Quack:

Bert-scolding: “Wipe that smirk off your face, Brat, or I’ll wipe it off for you!”

Learning lines and diction: “How do you say saboteur in German?”

Improving Bert: “Envy, Bert? Tsk. It does not become you, old chum,”

On Ace Carroway: “Wait! I heard about you! You were on track to be the youngest M.D. in Harvard history! It only clicked just now.”

Bert-praise: “You got your man, though. By the thunder of the Wakinyan, I think you broke his face!”

On Gooper: “It is odd. Somehow, he blends into the scenery. His red hair is like the red leaves. His pale skin is like birch bark.”

On flying: “We walk on sky trails.”

Quack gets to say the line that I regard as the very pinnacle of book one: “She’s Ace!”

And a limerick!

Blond Quack is a whiz at disguise.

He’s 5 feet, 9 inches, blue eyes.

Actresses: Notice

This actor’s tight focus

And (hard to miss them) tight thighs.

About Guy Worthey:

Wyoming native Guy Worthey traded spurs and lassos for telescopes and computers when he decided on astrophysics for a day job. Whenever he temporarily escapes the gravitational pull of stars and galaxies, he writes fiction. He lives in Washington state with his violinist wife Diane. He likes cats and dogs and plays keyboards and bass guitar. His favorite food is called creamed eggs on toast, but once in a while he heeds the siren song of chocolate.

To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site.  If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.

Lastly, Guy is a member of the best book club ever – RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB #RRBC! If you’re looking for amazing support as an author, or if you simply love books, JOIN US! We’d love to have you!

About the Ace Carroway Series:

Join Ace Carroway and her motley gang of associates as they travel the world, solving mysteries and fighting crime.

In ACE CARROWAY and the GREAT WAR, sixteen-year-old Cecilia Carroway lies about her age and joins the war effort as a pilot. She earns her Ace nickname over France, but is forced down behind enemy lines. Escape plans are imperiled when Ace catches the attention of imperial minister Darko Dor.

Three years later, in ACE CARROWAY AROUND THE WORLD, Ace’s father dies in a hail of bullets in quiet Hyannis, Cape Cod. Lieutenant Drew Lucy is on the case, but it’s Ace Carroway at the top of his list of suspects.

In ACE CARROWAY and the HANDSOME DEVIL, Ace barely survives an assassination attempt at the hands of her old nemesis Darko Dor. Figuring the best defense is offense, she starts a detective agency in New York. Before the paint on the door dries, a new web of deception ensnares the rookie sleuths. Sudden romantic attention from a pair of handsome strangers is good, right?

Links #1 Great War #2 Around the World #3 Handsome Devil
Paperback Paperback Paperback Paperback
Kindle Kindle Kindle Kindle
Nook, Kobo, Apple, 24 Symbols, Playster, Scribd, Angus & Robertson Ebook $1.99 Others Others

 

Welcome to the SEASONS Blog Tour @ErnestineRose25 #4WillsPub #RRBC

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Today I am so pleased to be hosting the wonderful RRBC author ERNESTINE ROSE! Please join me and enjoy this piece about the inspiration behind her newest book, SEASONS.

How I Came to Write Seasons

 

To everything there is a season,

and a time to every purpose under Heaven…

A time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

                                                                                                                              – Ecclesiastes 3:1&4

Surviving Grief

I lost my husband of forty-one years to sarcoidosis, a disease that few people know much about. My beloved struggled through a year of fatigue, anemia, and other health issues, with doctors at the county hospital telling us he was doing “just fine.” When he died, I went through all the stages of grief, from anger and depression to acceptance, and I realized that our good times far outweighed the bad. So I turned to journaling, and the 800 pages I wrote in the last three years became my book, Seasons: My Journey through Grief.

The Value of Journaling

I found my comfort in writing. Before my husband died, I prayed for healing for him and patience for me. After, I communed with God, my thoughts and nature as I wrote pages nearly every day, using the words of others, including the Bible, to inspire and console me. They gave me wisdom and courage to help me come to terms with my loss without baring my soul and tears in public. As Oprah said, “Keeping a journal will change your life in ways that you’d never imagine.”

After two years, I had turned my journals into my fifth book, Seasons. I selected my best passages and organized them into four sections: summer, autumn, winter, and fall, recounting his death and the year that followed. This is the true story of my journey through my own seasons of grief.  If you’ve lost a loved one, especially a spouse, you might gain some insight from my journey. Or it might be an excellent gift for someone you know who has lost a member of their family.

“Your season may be a year, or it may be five or even ten. Take your time but recognize the changes from one season to the next. Little by little, you will see spring again, and you will have hope.  So put on your shoes and start dancing.”

                                                                                                                                          —Seasons 

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Author Bio:  Ernestine Rose grew up on the west side of Chicago during the turbulent 50’s and 60’s. Adopted by an older couple, she spent a great deal of time as a child reading and participating in dance and drama club activities in school. Bradley University and the University of Dallas prepared her for a successful career as a teacher of English, speech and theater in Peoria and Fort Worth, where she earned numerous educator awards.

As a retired public school teacher and mother of four sons, she made her debut as an author with the publication of three books: 7 Tips for A Successful Marriage, Raising the Roses, and Tales from the Family Tree, all in 2012.  She later produced a romance novel, Monday Morning Blues. Her most recent work reflects her experience as a caretaker and widow, Seasons: My Journey through Grief. Inspired by Toni Morrison and Alice Walker, her focus in both writing and theater is on the power of language, love, and family. Follow her on Facebook, Twitter, and her website.

BONUS!!! The Author is also hosting a giveaway during each day of her blog tour. Simply comment on each stop to be entered. You can win a copy of one of her e-books or even a $10 Amazon Gift Card!! (There will be a total of 13 giveaways!!)

To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site.  If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.  Thanks for supporting this author and his work!

 

 

 

Welcome to the Visionary Fiction and the Soul Blog Tour @pdeblassieiii #4WillsPub #RRBC

deblassie

Please join me today and welcome RRBC author Paul DeBlassie III, Ph.D. Paul is a depth psychologist and award-winning writer living in his native New Mexico. He specializes in treating individuals in emotional and spiritual crisis. His novels, visionary thrillers, delve deep into archetypal realities as they play out dramatically in the lives of everyday people.

Here is an excerpt from his novel The Unholy:

pd the unholy with awards[1535]“Hush now, child,” said a voice she recognized as that of her mother’s closest friend. “The man cannot harm you, mijita, as long as you are with us. We will make him think you are dead. But you must be very quiet. Ya nollores,” the woman warned, raising a finger to her lips.

The woman then carried her into a dark cave illuminated by the light of a single candle. The cave was frightening, with shadows of what appeared to be goblins and demons dancing on the red sandstone walls. “I will return for you soon. You will be safe here,” the woman said. The girl watched the woman walk away, shivering as a breeze blew through the cave’s narrow passages.

Closing her eyes, she rocked back and forth—imagining herself safe in her mother’s arms—then opened her eyes to the light of the full moon shining through the mouth of the cave. The shadows on the walls were just shadows now, no longer goblins and demons. As she slipped into a trance, images flickered in her mind. She saw the woman who had brought her to this place scattering pieces of raw meat around the open mesa where her mother had struggled, helped by two other women the girl could not identify.

Suddenly, the scene shifted to a stone ledge jutting over the mesa, and she heard the pounding footsteps of a man running toward the women. The girl felt her heart race and her breathing quicken, afraid that the bad man would spot them and kill them. Then the image shifted again, and she now saw on the mesa three gray wolves circling the raw meat and the man walking away from the granite ledge. As he left, she heard his thought: The child is dead.

***

Paul DeBlassie III, Ph.D. is a depth psychologist and award-winning writer living in his native New Mexico. He specializes in treating individuals in emotional and spiritual crisis. His novels, visionary thrillers, delve deep into archetypal realities as they play out dramatically in the lives of everyday people. Memberships include the Author’s Guild, Visionary Fiction Alliance, Depth Psychology Alliance, International Association for Relational Psychoanalysis and Psychotherapy, and the International Transpersonal Psychology Association.

Website

Facebook

Twitter

To follow along with the rest of the tour, please visit the author’s tour page on the 4WillsPublishing site.  If you’d like to book your own blog tour and have your book promoted in similar grand fashion, please click HERE.  Thanks for supporting this author and his work!

ebook goddess of the wild thing with awards[1536]

“Exquisite, expansive narrative.” Read the latest 5* #review for #histfic THE SOLDIER’S RETURN #RWISA #RRBC

SoldiersReturnSquare

Exquisite, expansive narrative

“An expansive saga of early 17th Century Germany during the Catholic Counter-Reformation, The Thirty Years’ War, and the Witch Trials of Bamberg – one of the most destructive conflicts in human history. This exquisite narrative follows the travails of a kept farm maid, an alcoholic soldier on the run, and a sadistic Jesuit priest hellbent to rid the region from pestilence, famine and evil through tortuous and murderous forms of purification. Through the lives of these characters we experience the vermin-infested life on the farm replete with bedbugs, lice and fleas; the soldiers’ disease-ridden life on the march, and the zealot’s monastic life of prayer and inquisition. Written from the omniscient perspective of a credible researcher of history, the author pulls no punches in her vivid, sometimes purplish, depictions of plunder, torture, rape and murder, and she portrays the desperate plight of women and children trying to survive against the random vagaries of marauding armies, starving vagabonds, sweeping famine, incest, and the drunken forays of virtually every man in their cloistered lives. Glimpses of love, joy and hope are quickly trampled under the grind of survival, but like the sun, they rise again and again, as does the indomitable spirit and work ethic of the Germanic people. The primary characters’ lives have brutally collided in the past, and their trajectories propel them toward violent ruin. Who will survive? The history books will relate the choices of kings and pope, but if you want to know how their decisions were felt on the ground at the human level, read The Soldier’s Return.”

Review by author Douglas C. Gilbert

THE SOLDIER’S RETURN:

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The year is 1626. A senseless war rips through parts of Germany. Ongoing animosity between the Catholics and the Protestants has turned into an excuse to destroy much of the landscape situated between France, Italy and Denmark. But religion only plays a minor role in this lucrative business of war.

The young dutchman, Pieter van Diemen, returns to Amsterdam in chains after a period of imprisonment in the Spice Islands. He manages to escape but must leave Amsterdam in a hurry. Soldiers are in demand in Germany and he decides to travel with a regiment until he can desert. His hope of survival is to reach Sichardtshof, the farm in Franconia, Germany; the farm he left ten years ago. His desire to seek refuge with them lies in his fond memories of the maid Katarina and her master, the humanist patrician Herr Tucher. But ten years is a long time and the farm has changed. Franconia is not only torn by war but falling victim to a church-driven witch hunt. The Jesuit priest, Ralf, has his sights set on Sichardtshof as well. Ralf believes that ridding the area of evil will be his saving grace. Can Pieter, Katarina and Herr Tucher unite to fight against a senseless war out of control?

Available in paperback and for kindle right here: mybook.to/SoldiersReturn

Welcome to the WATCH #RWISA WRITE Showcase Tour, Day 16! #RRBC #RRBCWRW with @BeemWeeks

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Thank you all for joining us today on this showcase tour being sponsored by RWISA (RAVE WRITERS – INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHORS), an elite branch of the amazing RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB! This showcase will feature 19 awesome writers, each having their own special day of being featured on multiple blogs.  We ask that after reading the written work of art by each RWISA Author, please click on the link to take you directly to the author’s profile page on the actual RWISA site.

Today we welcome author BEEM WEEKS!

BeemNightly Traipsing

There might’ve been a dream. Or maybe not. Violet Glass really couldn’t recall. Probably, though. A dream concerning some stupid boy—or even a girl.

Whatever.

Can’t control what creeps through your sleep.

Her body stirred awake as the blackest part of night splashed its inky resolve across that part of Alabama.

Violet stared at the ceiling, tried like the dickens to recall a face, perhaps a voice—anything belonging to the one responsible for this latest agitation.

Nothing came through, though.

Even dead of night did little to lay low that sticky heat. Old-timers in town swore oaths affirming this, the summer of 1910, to be more oppressive than any other summer since before the war between the states.

Violet eased her body from her bed; the soles of her feet found cool the touch of creaking floorboards.

There’d be nobody to catch her—not at this hour.

Nobody, but Ruthie.

And Ruthie Sender?—she’d never let on of these doings.

Violet scampered through the kitchen, flung her blue-eyed gaze against the darkened parlor. Only shadows and silence bore witness to her planned escape, a girl’s nightly traipsing.

The back door gave up with only minor provocation.

Dripping moonlight splashed the yard with a silvery sheen; promising secrets lingered among the gathered glow.

Around the rear of the house she skulked, careful to hold close to the shadows, to remain hidden from the ones who’d blab, those others who’d hold it over her head for gain.

Back behind the barn she found her crouching spot, fell low to the ground, fixed sight on the direction of Ruthie Sender’s place a few hundred yards away. Traipsing just didn’t hold its fun without Ruthie tagging along.

Violet rushed her granddad’s cotton field without that hesitation she’d known only a summer earlier.

Shadows stirred and wiggled in the distance. Figures formed, made shapes around a low-burning fire. Even at the center of all that cotton, Violet could pick out words of songs sung by the coloreds, those kin to Ruthie Sender.

They sang about standing on wood, an old slave’s saying, drawing up recollections of a time they themselves belonged to someone else.

Belonged to Violet’s kin.

Wood smoke fogged the night air.

Violet hunched low, skirted the yard where those coloreds took up with their fire and song and whiskey. Friendly sorts, all of them. Always first with a kind word, an interest in Violet’s family, how the girl’s folks were getting on—even if that interest leaned toward pretend. But that’s the nature of the matter. It’s Violet’s great-granddad who’d once owned all those souls that gave creation to the very ones now singing and drinking.

She broke through shadows collected beneath an ancient willow tree, found respite behind the Sender family’s privy, and waited for the girl to either show or not show.

The colored girl’s legs appeared first, dangling from the pantry window, bare feet scrabbling at the air, searching for a solid thing to set down upon. The thud of her sudden drop wouldn’t wake anybody.

A dingy gray nightshirt clung to Ruthie’s body. Her dark-eyed gaze landed out where she knew to find Violet. If the girl offered a smile, it couldn’t be seen—not from this distance.

“Go out back of Tussel’s, maybe?” Ruthie asked, finding space in Violet’s shadow.

“Catch a strap across my butt, I get found by that saloon again,” Violet promised. “Daddy don’t say things twice.”

Ruthie said, “Chicken liver.”

Violet backed down a notch, weighed her options. “Who’s gonna be there?”

“Fella named Ferdinand something. Plays piano.” Ruthie tossed a nod toward those others out by the fire. “They won’t share us no whiskey.”

“Won’t share up to Tussel’s, neither—unless you got some money.”

*      *      *

They were born the same night, Violet and Ruthie, back during spring of 1895. Only a few measly hours managed to wedge in between them, separated the girls from being twins of a sort.

Close enough, though.

Ruthie came first—if her folks were to be believed.

“Where we going?” Violet asked, following after Ruthie’s lead.

“Lena Canu’s place,” said Ruthie.

“How come?”

“She got stuff to drink, mostly.”

Droplets of sweat ran relays along Violet’s spine, leaving the girl’s skin wet, clammy. “Awful hot, it is.”

“She a conjure woman,” Ruthie announced, laying her tone low, protected. “—Lena Canu, I mean.”

Midnight’s high ceiling lent sparse light to the path splitting the two properties. Violet’s kin, they’d once owned the entire lot. Her great-granddad, he’s the one took notion to make things right, gave half of his land to the slaves he turned loose after the war.

Ruthie’s kin, mostly.

Senders and Canus.

Couldn’t ever really make a thing like that right, though.

A small cabin squatted in the brush; the orange glow of a lamp shined in the window. Used to be a slave’s shack, this one here.

Moonlight dripped on the colored girl’s face, showed it round and smooth, lips full and perfect, eyes alive with life and mischief. “Gonna see does she have any drink.”

Violet leaned closer, her bare arms feeling the other girl’s heat. She asked, “Can she tell fortunes?”

“Like reading a book.”

That dark door yawned wide; Lena Canu peered into the night. “I’ll tell your fortune, white girl,” she said.

Ruthie gave a nudge, guided Violet up the walk and into the shack.

A table and four chairs congregated at the center of the bare space. Kerosene fed a flame dancing like the devil atop the glass lamp. A pallet in a corner threw in its lot with the scene.

Lena Canu tossed a nod toward her rickety table. “Have you a seat, now,” she ordered, “—both of you.”

Violet sat first. Ruthie found perch across from her friend. Beneath the table naked feet bumped and rubbed, each girl assuring the other this would be a good turn.

“You one of them Glass girls, ain’t you?” Lena asked, dropping onto a chair of her own.

Violet said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Lena waved her off. “Ain’t no ma’am. Call me Lena, is all. You the one runs wild.” A pronouncement rather than a question.

Ruthie asked, “You got any liquor?”

A clear pint bottle came into the moment; its bitter amber liquid promised that sort of burn a person won’t mind.

Each girl drew off a long pull, let the heat mingle with their blood. Neither girl had ever gone full-on drunk; only a swig or two is all they ever dared.

Lena Canu, conjuring woman, spread a pile of bones over the table and commenced to ciphering future happenings a girl might need to know.

Things about boys and marriage didn’t come up. Neither did mention of babies and such. All Violet heard portended mainly to trouble.

“Quit you runnin’ wild,” Lena proclaimed, “and you be just fine.” She took up her narrow gaze again, aimed to settle matters. “But you keep doin’ what you been doin’, things gonna go bad.”

The suddenness of gunfire echoed through that sticky air. Three quick shots chased by a lazy fourth that staggered along a moment later.

Lena jumped first, ran for the door. Ruthie followed after, peering into the dark, no doubt expecting to put a face to the one pulled that trigger.

Violet remained stuck to her chair, attentions tugging between the matters outside and those sayings left to her by that conjuring woman. Did she really believe in such things, or was it all just a mess of nonsense?

“What am I gonna do to make things go bad?” she asked, supposing it wouldn’t hurt to know—just in case.

But Lena had other notions to work over. “Sounds like they come from over to your place,” she said to Ruthie.

Ruthie tipped a nod, said, “Could be they gettin’ liquored up too much, huh?”

“Might could,” answered Lena.

It happens that way, boys and their whiskey, wandering along crooked paths of discontent, blabbing things not really meant for harm—just boasting, is all.

But boasting to a drunken fella is as good as a punch on his nose.

“Gonna go see,” said Ruthie, pushing past the threshold, pressing on toward home.

Violet held her ground, let the colored girl disappear in the night. Attentions ceased their tugging, settled on the one making proclamations concerning bad manners and trouble to come.

Lena came loose of her thoughts, brought one to words, said, “Go on home now, white girl. Nighttime belongs to devils.”

*      *      *

Clouds laid a brief smudge against the moon, stripped its shine right off the night, left Violet to wonder if it really might be footsteps stumbling along behind her, following that same narrow path toward home.

“Fool boys,” she muttered, tossing nervous glances over either shoulder.

Footfalls fell heavy—like boots hammering the earth. An eager thing born of desperation.

Violet bolted left, squatted low behind a pile of brush that had the makings of a snake shelter. She held her breath and waited for the one at her back to pass on by.

A piece of tree limb came to her hand, a long and heavy thing, able to put a soul right should he come at her with wrong intentions.

That smudged moon went shiny again, dripped light across the path, showed off the shape of a man loping toward home. Tall and thin, this one; he moved quick with purpose.

Going the wrong way, though, Violet thought, waiting for the man to pass.

She gained her feet, charged his retreat, swung that heavy piece of wood and caught that interloper straight between his shoulders.

“Jay-zus!” the man hollered, hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“This is private property!” Violet informed him, fixing up for a second swing.

The fella pulled up on his knees, tried to reach for that spot on his back no doubt gone swollen. He said, “It’s private property only ’cause I say so.”

Foolishness seeped into the girl. She squinted against the dark, drew recollection of his face. “Granddad?” she said, hoping her recollections proved wrong.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he demanded, giving his legs a try.

“Came out to use the privy,” she fibbed. “Heard gunshots, came to see, is all.”

“Liar!” the old man spat. “You been gallivanting again, ain’t you?” He moved closer to the girl, sized her up, made a big fuss over her running around in only a nightshirt and nothing else. “Your daddy’s gonna hit ya where the good Lord split ya—then he’s gonna move you to your sister’s room upstairs. Won’t be no sneaking out from there.”

Her gaze caught that glint at his waistband, a familiar hunk of blued steel. “Don’t matter,” she said. “Daddy’s gonna put you in the county home.”

“On account of what?”

“On account of you’re going senile, traipsing off, bothering colored folks again with that pistol of yours.” Violet leaned closer, continued her spiel. “Heard him and Mama talking just last week, saying how you’re a danger to yourself just as much as to others.”

The old man’s jaw fell open and slammed shut; intended words went lost to the night. He couldn’t tell on her now—not without personal risk.

Defeat fogged his eyes. “I won’t tell your business if you don’t tell mine.”

Violet seized the moment with both hands. “That depends,” she informed him.

“On what?”

“Who’d you shoot tonight?”

“Nobody. Just meant to scare, is all.”

“Gonna kill somebody one day—if you ain’t already.”

“Ain’t in my blood, killin’.”

“Don’t have to mean it to do it.”

The old man pulled back, let frustration have its way. “We got a deal or don’t we?”

“You gonna leave Ruthie’s people be?”

“Just want what’s mine,” he complained.

“But it’s their land, Granddad—been so for forty-five years. A hundred guns ain’t gonna make it not so.”

He never did wear misery well.

Violet’s arms went easily around the man. She pulled close to him, breathed in that familiar odor of sweat and tobacco.

He said, “I won’t bother them no more.”

“Then we have us a deal.”

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Beem’s RWISA profile page

How would you like to become a RWISA Member so that you’re able to receive this same awesome FREE support? Simply click HERE to make application!

 

 

Welcome to the WATCH #RWISA WRITE Showcase Tour, Day 15! #RRBC #RRBCWRW with Gwen Plano @gmplano

Gwen5

Thank you all for joining us today on this showcase tour being sponsored by RWISA (RAVE WRITERS – INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHORS), an elite branch of the amazing RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB! This showcase will feature 19 awesome writers, each having their own special day of being featured on multiple blogs.  We ask that after reading the written work of art by each RWISA Author, please click on the link to take you directly to the author’s profile page on the actual RWISA site.

Today we welcome author GWEN PLANO!

MOM’S FINAL WORDS

by Gwen M. Plano

Worn out by time, mom lay motionless on the sheets. Life lingered but imperceptibly. At ninety-one, she had experienced the full range of life’s challenges. And, now, she rested her aged shell of a body and waited.

A farmer’s daughter and wife, her life was marked by practicalities and hard work. Always up before daybreak, she prepared the meals, washed the clothes and hung them on the clothesline, and otherwise attended to the needs of the household.

Her garden was a cornucopia of tomatoes and corn, of squash and lettuces. And the refrigerator always had freshly gathered eggs and newly churned butter.

Mom rarely paused, to catch her breath, to offer a hug, or to sit calmly. Time is not to be wasted, she taught. And so, she was always busy.

Over the years, there were multiple times that she almost died. But, with each surgery or ailment, she emerged from death’s clutches more determined than before – to surmount her difficulties, to forge a path, to care for her family. “Life is a gift,” she would say to us.

Mom knew poverty and uncertainty. Ration coupons from the war lay on her dresser, a reminder of harsh realities. Nothing ever went to waste in our household, not food, not water, not clothing. “Many have less than us,” she claimed. She would then insist we be conservative and share.

She knew sorrow well, having lost her parents when she was young, and then two of her nine children. As the years passed, she also lost her sisters and many of her friends.

Mom was a woman of faith. Throughout the day, you could hear her quiet entreaties. Prayer was always on her lips. When mom walked from one room to the next, she prayed – for this person or that friend or for our country. She’d stand at the sink washing dishes and invoke help, from the angels, from Mary the mother of our God, and from the Holy Spirit. “Pray always,” she’d remind us.

This busy mother fought death to the end, but when the doctor finally said that nothing more could be done, she simply responded, “I am ready.”

It was then that she met with each of her seven children. Barely managing each breath, she whispered her I love you and offered a few words of guidance.

When I was at mom’s bedside, she told me she loved me, mentioned a few family concerns, and then in a barely audible voice she said, “I don’t know what to expect.”

This precious little woman, who had spent her life busy with raising a family and helping with the farm, now was unsure of what would happen next. I was surprised by the words.

She taught me to pray when I was quite tiny. “Get on your knees,” she would instruct. “Offer up your pain for the poor souls in purgatory,” she’d suggest. Then, she’d lead us in the Lord’s Prayer. Mom had us pray for family and friends, for anyone suffering, and always for our country. She’d share stories of angels and saints, of miracles and wonders, of midnight visitations and afternoon impressions. This fragile diminutive woman had instructed my siblings and me of the invisible eternal. And, I lived with those images as a child until they became as real to me as the world we see.

Yes, I was surprised by mom’s words to me. “I don’t know what to expect.” But then I wondered, did she know? Did she know that I had studied near-death experiences? That I had written of the dying process? Had I ever told her?

I don’t know what to expect. Simple words, but a storm of thoughts followed. I held back my tears and took her hands in mine.

“Mom, I will tell you what friends have said and what the research has shown. The angels are coming soon, mom. You will see them in the light. Just follow their lead. Your sisters will join you, as will your mom and dad and your babies. Your whole family is waiting for you. It will be a wonderful reunion. There will be much joy.”

Her breaths grew slower.

I told her of Charles, a friend I met in my prayer group. He had died twice and because of that, he had no fear of his final death. Through his experiences, he saw that life continues. He spoke of celestial beings, of extraordinary love, of boundless joy. And, he told the prayer group that he looked forward to death.

I shared these things and more. And, as I spoke, her eyes closed, and her breathing slowed. She had fallen back to sleep, to the middle ground between this world and the next. And I wondered, did she really need to know what to expect or did she want me to remember that life never ends?

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Gwen’s RWISA profile page

How would you like to become a RWISA Member so that you’re able to receive this same awesome FREE support? Simply click HERE to make application!

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Welcome to the WATCH #RWISA WRITE Showcase Tour, Day 14! #RRBC #RRBCWRW with Harriet Hodgson @healthmn1

harriethodgson2014-websize-squareThank you all for joining us today on this showcase tour being sponsored by RWISA (RAVE WRITERS – INT’L SOCIETY OF AUTHORS), an elite branch of the amazing RAVE REVIEWS BOOK CLUB! This showcase will feature 19 awesome writers, each having their own special day of being featured on multiple blogs.  We ask that after reading the written work of art by each RWISA Author, please click on the link to take you directly to the author’s profile page on the actual RWISA site.

Today we welcome author HARRIET HODGSON!

Lookout World: A Loving Grandma is on Duty

by Harriet Hodgson

Recently I read some blog posts by grandmas. Though a few posts were positive, most were negative. The grandmas couldn’t seem to find anything positive to say about aging or the wisdom they had acquired. My reaction to aging is different. Because I’m a grandma, I’m saying and doing things I’ve never done before. Maybe I need a badge that says GRANDMA ON DUTY!

I’m on marriage duty.

My husband’s aorta dissected in 2013 and he had three emergency operations. During the third one he suffered a spinal cord injury that paralyzed his legs. Since I drove him to the hospital emergency department I’ve been his caregiver and advocate. Although we have a less mobile life these days, we have a good life, and are more in love than ever. Each day is a blessing and we savor the days we have together.

I’m on GRG duty.

After my twin grandchildren’s parents died from the injuries they received in separate car crashes, the court appointed my husband and me as their guardians. (My daughter was, and always will be, the twins’ mother.) The court appointed my husband and me as the twins’ guardians and we became GRGs—grandparents raising grandchildren. According to the US Census Bureau, 10% of all grandparents in the nation are raising their grandkids. Raising the twins for seven years was a responsibility and a joy. Though the twins are adults now, I’m still a GRG when called upon.

I’m on safe driving duty.

When I noticed drivers weren’t stopping at stop signs—just slowing down and proceeding forward—I became upset. The police call this practice a “rolling stop” and it’s dangerous. What if a car hit a walking child or a child on a bike? I wrote a letter to the editor of the newspaper and asked drivers to follow the law and come to a full stop at stop signs.

I’m on political duty.

Contentious as politics has become, I always vote and stay informed on issues. A friend of mine asked me to write for her political campaign, and I agreed to do it because of her teaching background and focus on children’s issues. My tasks included proofreading letters, writing new letters, helping with promotional materials, and delivering literature to homes. I was delighted when my candidate won re-election.

I’m on anti-theft duty.

We live in a townhome on a private street. It’s a safe neighborhood so I was surprised when a porch pirate stole my husband’s asthma medication. I reported the theft to the police and a detective came to our home. According to the detective, thieves look for neighborhood that have connected mailboxes, such as four linked together, because it saves them time. I also reported the theft to the neighborhood association and it is pursuing the idea of locked mail boxes.

I’m on learning duty.

My family didn’t get a television set until I was a senior in high school. Instead of watching television, my brother and I went to the library and took out as many books as we could carry home. I still love to read. The day doesn’t seem right and is a bit “off” if I don’t learn anything that day. Learning is good modeling for grandchildren. The twins know I love to read and love to learn.

I’m on writing duty.

To keep my skills sharp, I write every day, everything from articles for websites, magazine articles, handouts to support the talks I give, and writing books. My 37th book is in production now and comes out in the fall of 2019. It’s a book about being a grandmother and I’m excited about it. I’m excited about the cover too. Waiting for the release date is going to be difficult.

I’m on giving duty.

Giving to others helps them and makes me feel good inside. I give free talks to community groups, talk to school kids about writing, and donate to the food bank in memory of my daughter. One of the best gifts I give is the gift of listening. A grandchild can feel like nobody is listening. That’s why I practice active listening. I make eye contact, nod to show I’m listening, and refrain from interrupting. Active listening takes more energy than passive listening and it’s worth the energy.

Grandmas have special skills to share with families. They are also keepers of history. “A house needs a grandma in it,” Louisa May Alcott once said, and I think she was right.

I’m just one grandma, trying to make a difference. There are millions of grandmas like me. Working alone and together, we are loving, protecting, and nurturing grandchildren around the world. Some grandmas are activists, others are advocates, and others are both. Instead of sitting around and waiting for things to change, grandmas are initiating change.

Be on the lookout for the loving grandmothers in your community. Join their efforts. If you can’t join in, support their efforts verbally and financially. The loving grandmas of the world are on duty, and always will be. Hug a grandma today!

Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today!  We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan.

We ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs.  Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent!  Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:

Harriet’s RWISA profile page

How would you like to become a RWISA Member so that you’re able to receive this same awesome FREE support? Simply click HERE to make application!