Bears in the Hibiscus is a a book about Mary, a divorced woman in her late thirties who is resisting the dating scene. When her ex-brother-in-law Mark, a Montana Park Ranger, lets her know he’s interested, Mary’s life becomes complicated because getting involved with him would also mean becoming a part of her ex-husband’s family again. When fate puts Mary and Mark in Hawaii at the same time, romance begins to bloom. However, Mary still struggles with her initial feelings about her ex-in-laws. Will she be able to overcome her fear of pressure from Mark’s family and make a new life with Mark?

You can read Chapter 1 of this novel on this Janelle Meraz Hooper’s Web page.

What follows here on The Blue Rose Bouquet is:

Chapter 3: The Montana Kahuna

Mary was so busy getting her ducks in order so she could get out of town, she didn’t have time, at first, to think much about Mark spending the night at her house. When she did, she wondered why had he picked her house, when he had a brother nearby? Actually, he had his own place a few miles away, on his parents’ compound. Why was he spending the night on her floor?

Before she went to bed the night before his visit, she made sure he could find the floor. All of the old newspapers, newsletters and mail-ads were either banished to recycling or put into a box in her car trunk so she could take them to Ray, who ran the layout department. Other peoples’ magazines were a gold mine for layout and design ideas, not to mention leads for new clients for the advertising department. Mary would almost sooner throw away money than old magazines.

A rental car was in the driveway when she got home the next night, and Mary had a rush of guilt for not offering to pick Mark up at the airport. What was I thinking?

She forgot her guilt when she got a whiff of something wonderful. Something only vaguely familiar. Something—trout! She raced upstairs, not sure which sight was more welcome, Mark or the trout he and Kate were cooking in the skillet.

“Mark! You brought the fish, I could have at least cooked them!”

“That’s okay, sis,” Mark grinned. “Kate wanted to learn how to cook fish that aren’t named Charlie.”

“It smells wonderful! I love the way you cook fish with just salt, pepper, and flour. I hate all those Frenchy sauces.”

“When there’s sauce on the trout, lookout!” Mark cautioned, “It’s probably covering up a fish that’s older than you are.”

“I guess being frozen kept them fresh on the trip.”

“Actually, I got up early and caught these before I left the park. You’d been without so long I figured you were due. Kept them cool in an old Styrofoam ice chest.”

“Did you get any strange looks at the airport when you checked your Styrofoam luggage?”

“No, the floor was covered with ice chests bigger than mine that belonged to people who had been fishing for Kings in Alaska. My little chest looked kind of pitiful next to theirs.”

“The best things come in small packages, they say.”

Mary left the cheerful cooks to change into a boxy pair of khaki walking shorts and a forest green tank top. She had a closet full of similar clothes. Her outfit was fine for the Northwest, especially since she was having dinner with a Montana Ranger, but she had trouble picturing it on a Hawaiian beach. She’d have to dig a little deeper into her closet and see if she could find something a little brighter.

Before she returned to the kitchen, Mary gave herself a quick look in the mirror. What looked back at her was a woman with long brunette hair and a medium frame. She was a few pounds lighter than the last time Mark had seen her, and she’d lost her tan. Both changes could be attributed to an increased workload. She hadn’t stopped any cars lately, but she thought she looked as well as she could without the benefit of one of those instant facelifts she kept reading about in the women’s magazines.

How she hated being the ex-wife. What would this ex-brother-in-law say to Brian the next time they spoke? Maybe, “I saw your ex, she looks pretty good for her age, but your new love is a real knockout.” It distressed her to imagine other people commenting, “I saw your ex, she had wrinkles all over her face! No wonder you’re shopping around for a trophy wife.” Well, she doubted that people would actually make those comments out loud, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t think them. Mary hated most to hear, “When I look at Kate, I can see just how pretty Mary must’ve looked years ago.” Mary loved her daughter, and they did look a lot alike, but who could compete with someone half her age?

Well, she was hungry, and she doubted that her two cooks would deliver fresh, pan-fried trout to her bedroom door. “There she is!” greeted Mark when Mary entered the kitchen, “How about some wine?”

“Oh, you must have found my cardboard box in the fridge,” Mary said as she held out her glass.

“Yep. Park rangers know how to find their quarry. It was marked Wednesday, so I thought it must be fresh.”

“Very funny. Actually, I’ve got a box dated Thursday; I’m giving you the old stuff.”

“It tastes good to me.”

Dinner was delicious. Mary looked down at a plate of fresh trout, green salad with raspberry dressing, and lightly buttered and toasted Como bread, and thought she was in heaven.

After Kate downed her trout like it was a burger at Dollar’s and left with a carload of friends, Mary and Mark settled down with fresh glasses of wine on the sundeck. Mary cringed as a whole flock of fruit bats flew into her big cherry tree. The crows stripped her fruit trees in the daytime and this was the night shift. Not surprisingly, she preferred the crows.

“So, how’s it going, sis?” Mark asked as he eased into a deck chair that had seen better days.

“Not bad. How about you?”

“Good. I’m really looking forward to getting away for a few days. I didn’t get much rest this year after the forest fires started.”

“Kate and I watched the news every night. It was the worst we’d ever seen.”

“That’s for sure. We were lucky we didn’t lose any of the firefighters.”

The niceties were over, and Mary asked what she really wanted to know, “Mark, you know you’re welcome here, but why did you come here instead of the compound or your brother’s?”

“Mom is letting company from Minnesota use my house at the compound while they’re here on vacation. And I didn’t feel up to spending the night staring at the bare chest of Brian’s latest Seahawk cheerleader. I think he should start carding those girls. Besides,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “I thought it would be tacky to sleep on my brother’s floor when I was thinking about dating his ex.”

Mary choked on her wine, and reached for a tissue from her pocket before wine came out of her nose. “Mark! Don’t go there!” Mary said with surprise.

“Too late! I’ve already bought a ticket! What’s wrong? Have someone else?”

“No…”

“I have cooties?”

“No…Mark, I like you, but I’m just not sure if it’s smart for me to get involved with a Bergstrom again. You’re a great guy, but I don’t think I fit in with the rest of your family.”

“Mary, you fit in just fine. Don’t be intimidated by the Bergstrom money. It has nothing to do with me or us.”

Mary was still wiping wine from her nose when she said, “I can’t help the way I feel.”

“Well, I always like to leave a woman in a state of shock, so I’ll go to bed now,” he said with a grin. “Thanks for the hospitality, sis. I’ll be gone when you wake up, so I’ll call you in Hawaii to see if you’ve managed to get your mouth closed yet.” Mary felt him hesitate as he walked behind her, but he kept walking. Is he going to touch me? Pat me on the head? What?

Whatever he almost did, Mary was glad he hadn’t. Her brain was occupied trying to list all of the reasons why their dating wouldn’t be a good idea. Mark had already left the sundeck, so whatever thoughts she had remained unspoken. She was left with an empty deck chair, half a glass of wine, and a big full moon that she was sure was laughing at her. Or was the laughter she heard coming from the bathroom where Mark was? She vaguely felt a mosquito chewing on her bare arm and swatted it with one hand while she finished her wine with the other. She groaned when she heard him turn on the shower. There was no question that Mark was a hunk. Knowing he was less than ten feet from her made her knees tremble. What would Roxanne do? The answer to that was easy. What was Mary going to do? “Nothing!” her friend’s voice ridiculed from the darkness.

The next sound Mary heard was Mark shaking out his sleeping bag. And fluffing his pillow. He made a big deal out of fluffing his pillow. There was something else. She was sure she heard another laugh when she scooted to the bathroom to get ready for bed. He was laughing at her. She was sure of it. And why shouldn’t he?

Kate was due in at any time, so any thought of giving in and crawling into Mark’s sleeping bag with him was pointless, even if she could find the nerve which, of course, she couldn’t. By the time Kate’s friends dropped her off in her driveway, Mark was already fast asleep. How could he do that? How could he make a pass at me and then just go to sleep? Mary was in her bedroom, wide awake, curled up into a tight, fetal position, with her pillow over her head so she couldn’t hear the soft gentle breathing of a man who was totally at ease on her living room floor. For now.

The next morning, Mary heated up the coffee that Mark had left in the pot and swore that it, too, was laughing at her. The living room was neat as a pin, and only a slightly wrinkled pillow rested in the easy chair. She resisted the urge to stop and fluff it.

The Montana Kahuna is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Introduction:

I imagine this is the first book you’ve read that’s written by somebody who’s inside of a computer, instead of just seated at one typing in his story. In fact, now might be a good time for you to boot up that CD that came with this book. You’ll need it later in the journey anyhow, and for now it’ll give you a chance to see what I look like and allow me to officially introduce myself.

I know. That still doesn’t answer how I got inside of here in the first place. Be patient. We’ll get to that. First, in order to understand how that happened, you need to know about Dr. F.

His full name is Dr. Mortimer Franklin.

While we’re on the subject of names: you’ll recall from that CD intro that mine is Albert. My friends call me Bert; however, Dr. F. usually just calls me “BT” That’s short for Beta Test.  Sometimes he calls me Beta, or just “B” When I first met him and he’d get really impatient, he’d mutter “baloneyforbrains” under his breath, like it was all one word, while his eyes rolled so far back in his head you’d think he could see behind him. Of course, with all that Dr. F. can do, maybe he can do that, too. But I digress….

Dr. F. is well known throughout our town as being a bit eccentric. His tinkering with his latest invention often subjects the local townspeople to what he called “beta tests.” People still talk about the time he outfitted his dog, Data, with The Ultra Animal Translator. Equipped with the UAT, Data could fetch your morning newspaper and read you the front page!

As with many of his inventions, Dr. Franklin was soon asked to dismantle the device when Data began telling humans how dogs really felt about them. The final straw was when Data got really upset when one of the neighbors tried to feed him steak that was well done.

“You obviously don’t know the first thing about gratitude,” Mr. Gordan, the well-meaning neighbor, said to Data when he complained about the steak.

“And you know even less about canine cuisine,” Data reportedly retorted.

Things went downhill after that and got downright ugly, with Mr. Gordan doing lots of growling, and not in the least amused when Data tried switching to witty repartee in an attempt to diffuse the situation.

Being his neighbor, my family and I constantly heard strange noises from Dr. Franklin’s lab.

Before I actually met him, I would often sneak towards his workshop, careful to avoid the various outdated circuit boards, motors, antennae, and scrap metal that littered his lawn.  I’d get up on the tips of my feet  and peek through a hole in the wall at Dr. F’s latest creation.

They were almost always too abstract to identify. So, I would usually only be treated to a glimpse of patchwork metal humming away in the corner and would have to guess at its intended purpose.

One day I noticed that Dr. F’s car wasn’t around, so I figured he wasn’t home and that I could finally be assured some privacy while I checked things out. I mean, who would have guessed that there was a mechanic in town who could work on his car? It’s a cross between a Model T and a spaceship, and it’s a wonder that it works at all. It has running boards and one of those old flip-up seats in back with headlights that resemble infrared heat-seeking missiles. One minute the car’s a convertible and the next minute, before you’ve even had a chance to see anything happen, the car has a top. So, I’m almost afraid to speculate what it has under the hood. Choreographed lemurs, for all I know. Anyway, when I didn’t see the lemurmobile burrowed in its rightful place among what I’ve come to think of as Dr. F’s lawn ornaments, I got a bit more bold about looking around. In fact, I was leaning against a pink flamingo that I figured Dr. F. had put next to some artistically arranged copper tubing to add a bit of contrasting color and was about to venture in closer for my latest look inside of his lab, when I felt something that I can only describe as “squishy.”

I never have found out for sure what it was. You can bet I didn’t stick around at that moment to find out. I just knew that there was no physical reason why my left shoulder and then other parts of my body, from my right elbow to my earlobes, should be getting that strange, prickly sensation. It was kind of like how your foot feels when it falls asleep. After the first squish, I knew my body was on full alert and totally awake. After I’d felt a few of those squishes, anybody watching me run from Dr. F’s lab window would have thought I was a member of the Olympic track team instead of a World Class Marathon Sit-On-My-Behind Computer Whiz.

Can you believe that there are actually people out there who make fun of others just because they’re smart? I, for one, find learning new stuff to be one of the greatest adventures there is. But, I guess I digress again….

In my opinion, curiosity didn’t kill the cat; it’s how she gained the knowledge to become aloof and confident enough  not to care about what other people think. Curiosity is one of the things that leads to learning. I become curious about how something works and I want to take it apart to find out.

Maybe that’s why Dr. F’s lab beckoned to me like a Christmas gift box hidden in the closet. I just couldn’t wait to get a chance to look inside. My compulsion was enough to drag me away from my computer for hours at a time. I gained a renewed affinity for my tree house. It became my lookout post from which I waited to see what exactly Dr. F. was up to in his lab.

One day I climbed the ladder, took a look around, and found my reward! The lemurmobile was back in its rightful place among the lawn art. Now all I had to do was watch and wait. I knew it was just a matter of time. Someday I’d catch a glimpse of Dr. F. driving away in that strange car of his. I could be patient, knowing that I’d soon get my chance to do some first-class, uninterrupted exploring again. I didn’t figure the guy could stay at home all of the time! Nobody lives on delivery pizza and Chinese food forever. At the very least, I figured he’d have to go out and buy toothpaste or something.

Within a few days I got my wish. From my perch inside the tree house, I saw Dr. F. exit the lab. His lab coat trailed  behind him, caught up just as much from the momentum of his step as from the wind that had just started to whip the limbs of the trees. With Data yapping at his heels, he pulled what I imagined was a beeper from his pocket, and from where I stood, crouched in the tree house, it looked like he pressed a button. The next thing you know, Dr. F. and Data have disappeared from next to the car, which is suddenly speeding down the driveway, Data sitting almost cross-legged in the rumble seat, his head hanging out the back window.

I waited for what I thought was a respectable (and safe) length of time and then climbed down from the tree house. Once I hit the ground, there was a sense of urgency in my step. The wind was picking up and the sky seemed to be darkening as well. Had I known at the time that I’d eventually be telling you about what happened, I wouldn’t have picked a time as clichéd as “a dark and stormy night” to do my exploring.

That night, I feared we must be in for a monster of a storm because not only was the sky growing dark at an amazing pace, but the blue roses that surround Dr. F’s house were already hunkered down for the night … literally. The stems holding the buds seemed to shrink almost to the ground and, while I watched, the leaves began forming umbrella-like canopies above the tender blue blooms.

As fascinating as it was looking at Dr. F’s strange flowers, I didn’t have time to spend that night watching them. I began to weave my way among and between the flotsam and jetsam that littered–or decorated, depending on your perspective–the yard, working my way toward the lowest lab window, all the while glad it was apparent that Dr. F. had left the lights on inside. Otherwise, on a night like this, I knew I wouldn’t have been able to see a thing.

Like an old school teacher who refuses to forego the chalkboard and embrace the overhead projector or other new gadgets, I saw that Dr. Franklin had found a way to reach a compromise in his lab. Before that night, I’d seen blackboards. I’d also seen the kind of boards that are green. But, I’d never seen a blueboard. Must be his favorite color, I thought, the rain-sensitive roses still fresh in my mind. Lining all the bare walls in the lab, and suspended from chains like some sort of psychedelic, descending movie screen in front of the dozens of filled bookcases, I saw boards of every shade of blue one can imagine. Gone were the misshapen chunks of metal whirring away that had once filled every available space in the lab. In their place was board after board after board. Light blue ones with navy lettering and vice versa. Others had an almost eerie metallic glow reminiscent of those holograms I’d once thought I’d find in the lab. And covering every surface on every one of the boards were formulae I couldn’t begin to decipher. The only similarities I was able to discern in the short time I had to look around was that somewhere on each board were the letters “J-T-C-I” with arrows and icons and numbers leading to and away from the letters. “JTCI,” I heard myself mutter aloud, as a gust of wind blew the hairs on the back of my head so they tickled my neck and another cloud rolled in to further mask the sun. Then I felt something else. And this time, it was definitely squishy!

“A bit jumpy tonight, aren’t you?”

The reality of a voice behind me made me jump again.

“Whoa there, boy. Calm down.”

Who can be calm at a time like this? I thought as I tried to coordinate my jumping with my efforts to discern what had caused the squish.

“Get a grip, Bert,” I said out loud.

The sound of my voice brought me back to reality, if not to earth. Other than the jumping, I’d only seemed to be running in place anyhow. In a voice that sounded like chalk scraping across one of those boards in the lab, I heard myself ask, “Who’s there?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking the questions, young man? After all, you’re the one trespassing on my property.” That said, I felt a hand on my shoulder as he turned me around to face him.

“Dr. Franklin?” I asked.

“Up close and in person,” he answered. Before he could say anything else, I had a flashback remembrance of something decidedly squishy and started looking back and forth over my shoulders, trying to find what had caused that eerie sensation.

Dr. F. harrumphed as only an impatient adult can harrumph, and grabbed hold of my nose this time, turning me toward him. “I’m over here, son. Stay focused.”

“But…”

“Perhaps you’re looking for this?” he asked, as he opened his palm to reveal what I’d likened to a beeper earlier. As I watched, he pressed a button and I felt that weird squishy sensation move through my fingers and then simultaneously tickle my thumbs. This time he chuckled. “Gets your attention, doesn’t it?”

“What…?” I managed to stammer.

“We don’t have time for trivia tonight,” he said, with another one of his distinctive harrumphs. “You need to get home before the storm hits, and I have work to do.”

Dr. F. punched another button on the tiny control panel he held in his hand and I watched as his strange car pulled up alongside him. With another press of a button, the engine shut down, the lights went out, and Data jumped out of the backseat just as the roof appeared over the car. The only thing that surprised me was that a garage didn’t suddenly appear around the car. I guess even Dr. F. can only take technology so far.

A few days later, I was up in my tree house again when I heard voices in the yard. Some people may think I’m getting a little old to be spending so much time up there, but it’s a peaceful place. I like spending time alone. It’s easier to think without having others around to distract me. So even though I’d decided there probably wasn’t a foolproof way to spy on Dr. F’s lab, I still spent time there. Who knows? Maybe deep down I thought that in a moment of solitary contemplation the perfect plan would occur to me. As it turned out, I didn’t need a plan. I was about to gain carte blanche access to the lab. Yes! To the inside of the lab.

Anyhow, that night I happened to be gazing up at the stars through this set of binoculars my granddad had given me. Dad told me later that Dr. F. wandered into our yard and asked if it was okay if he joined me in the tree house. Dad said he’d wondered how the “old guy” was going to handle the rickety steps, but he told him if he was up to the climbing, he was welcome to join me.

I didn’t hear him approach, so I almost jumped out of my shoes when he tapped me on the shoulder. I guess I can be thankful he didn’t do that squish thing to announce his arrival. Dr. F. shrugged when I realized who he was, and without saying a word, reached into his pocket protector and pulled out what I thought was a laser pointer like the one I carry with me (I mostly use it to give my dog Broccoli Spears something to chase when I’m busy trying to read or do other stuff). Anyhow, I heard some clicks and, before I knew what was happening, he’d unfolded the device into something that looked like a miniature telescope. I got a closer look at the planets that night than I ever did at the local university planetarium. I got my first up close look at a lone neutron star. I saw the black hole in the spiral galaxy M87 in greater detail than I’d ever seen on the NASA Web site. Literally seeing for myself that Dr. F. has something that powerful in his tech arsenal was enough to make me believe the rumors that he communicates with aliens, even though I’ve still never seen him do that.

I lost track of how much time we spent stargazing. Dr. F. would give me what he obviously thought was time enough to stare in appreciation at something before he’d take the telescope away from me, make a few adjustments, hand it back to me, and point me in another direction. I could have spent the entire night gaping at the skies, but without any indication that I was handing the telescope back to him for the final time, I sadly watched as Dr. F. folded it up and put it back in his pocket protector.

“You still curious about what I’ve got in my lab?” he asked me.

“I guess so.” I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going. I didn’t want to risk sounding too eager or anything.

“Your dad says it’s okay if you come over to help me out occasionally. Think you’d like that?”

Think? “That wouldn’t be too bad, I guess.”

We shook hands and the deal was struck. We climbed down out of the tree house, and after I’d hung around long enough to eat some of the pizza mom had brought out to the patio, I went upstairs to my room and settled back down in front of my computer.

After that night, I frequently visited Dr. F’s workshop. One night, however, I noticed something familiar to me, but new to the lab. Dr. Franklin had set up a computer in his workshop.  There was a hard drive, a monitor, a keyboard, and a mouse. All the usual stuff. Which was actually unusual for something normally found in his lab. Just as I made this discovery, Data came bounding up from behind where I was examining the computer and unleashed a flurry of barks. Dr. F. burst through the front door and found me cowering beneath Data’s mercifully untranslatable outbursts.

In hindsight, Dr. Franklin did seem a little too glad to show me his latest creation. He fixed me a cup of herbal tea in a glass beaker held over a Bunsen burner. He was always telling me that “kids these days drink too much of that sugary soda pop,” so I soon learned it was easier to just drink the tea, rather than hope to find something else in one of those coolers or refrigerators he kept here and there throughout the lab. (Now I’m actually starting to like the stuff, but I don’t let on.) Anyhow, he began to introduce the computer that sat upon his desk like it was an actual person or something.

“This, my young man, is a computer…” he began , as if I didn’t already know that. “I affectionately call her Preemptive Portal Packet,” he continued. I decided right then and there that this guy really needed to get out more. Find somebody to date. Something. “Through 3P and the use of the Internet, I will be able to bring the people of the world a wealth of knowledge that they have only dreamed about.”

Of course, I knew all about the computer and the Internet. “Doctor,” I said gently, so as not to hurt his feelings, “the computer and the Internet have been around for awhile.”

Sometimes, as I think I’ve already mentioned, Dr. F. isn’t known for his patience. “I know that, Beta,” he retorted, rather forcefully. “But, do they know how it works?”

It suddenly dawned on me why lately Dr. F. had seemed emphatic that I understand some stuff that he referred to as Time Division Multiplexing and Modified Real/Time Theory of Relativity.

However, like he so often does with my nickname, once he tells you a term, he resorts to the acronym, so it’s been TDM this and MRTTR that in a lot of his recent conversations with me, although perhaps conversation is the wrong word, as I barely get to say anything.

Although I sometimes find my self doing it in class, I don’t dare zone out while Dr. F. is talking. He really hates to repeat stuff. Little did I know how risky it would be to have missed one of his earlier explanations. It wasn’t until later that I knew understanding what he was talking about was easier when I could associate the words with the acronyms. I’d spent the past few weeks pondering just what exactly he meant every time he talked about “JTCI.” I didn’t plan to repeat that mistake! Or maybe I just assumed I’d missed it. Knowing Dr. F., he might have kept that one on a need-to-know basis. After all, it was the acronym I’d seen written repeatedly on all of those mysterious blueboards, so I’d think that no matter where my mind was at the moment, hearing the doctor mention those letters should have gotten my attention. Doesn’t matter now, I guess. Besides, I’m digressing again.

Getting back on topic: TDM and MRTTR are the terms that Dr. Franklin uses to explain the ability to observe nanosecond operations using one’s real time senses.

Dr. F. is also a firm believer in immersing oneself in study in order to comprehend a subject. I never dreamt he meant that literally when he was telling me about how, much like when an adrenaline rush brought on by a crisis can make things seem to happen in slow motion, TDM and MRTTR technology takes the brain’s subconscious ability to comprehend data quickly and translates it to real-time, conscious observation.

Aside from that, I couldn’t help wondering what TDM and MRTTR were going to have to do with the Internet. Everybody knows things are transmitted quickly over the Internet. I couldn’t understand why Dr. F. felt they needed something as esoteric sounding as TDM and MRTTR technology to comprehend that.

“Most people don’t really care how the Internet works, do they?” I asked. “Beyond learning how to turn on the computer and click the mouse, that is. Once they learn how to log on, what else do they need to know?”

“Do you want to settle for being like most people? Don’t answer that, B. It was a rhetorical question.” Even though he’d called me “B” again, I could tell he was over his impatience. He was now into one of his preoccupied modes. Or so I thought.

“Now sit here, my young Beta Testee,” he continued.

His modification of the name he used to address me did concern me a bit, but I did as I was told. I sat down.

“Allow me to demonstrate my latest invention.”

As he spoke these words, I was suddenly aware of what the eccentric doctor had in mind. He muttered something about “Inverse Particle Projection — IPP, if you will” while he adjusted the Web cam that until that moment had been walking back and forth across the top of the monitor on tiny little legs. I began to think about whether or not I should panic.

Before I could react further, he pointed the Web cam directly at me and pushed a large blue button.

“JTCI, BT,” I heard him say, almost as if he were speaking through a megaphone held backwards. “Now you begin your Journey to the Center of the Internet!”

I was suddenly drawn into what should have seemed like a series of tiny cables but actually became these huge circular walls on all sides. Lights flashed about me as I beheld the digital scenery rushing past me. Or was I rushing past it? While I tried to push my stomach back down to its proper place and get a grip about what was going on, Dr. F’s workshop became a chaotic stew of swirling images from my past and my mind became a firing range for random synapses. I was soon overcome and fell into an almost semi-conscious state. Actually, it felt more like what I imagined somebody undergoing hypnosis might feel like as everything around me seemed to slow down and the lights about me seemed to pulse less frequently than my racing heart beat.

I closed my eyes for a bit in order to steady my breathing. When I opened them again, I found myself in what almost looked like a large, well-ordered city. Networkopolis or something, I thought to myself.

Okay, I told myself. Things are now under control.

“How are you doing in there, Beta?”

Okay. Maybe not so good. Either I’m hallucinating or that hub just talked to me!

Copyright © 2002 Pamela Rice Hahn
Used by permission.
All rights reserved

Book Information:

Amazon.com

Author Pamela Rice Hahn’s Web site

Journey to the Center of the Internet is a post from: The Blue Rose Bouquet

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Note: When this short story first appeared in The Blue Rose Bouquet, it was an excerpt of Chapter 1 of the author’s (as yet) unpublished novel, A Three-Turtle Summer; see the author bio after this excerpt for exciting book details!

It’s A Three-Turtle Summer—hot—and Grace has to dump a man who’s meaner than a rattlesnake and dumber than adobe.

1. A Sister in Trouble

Fort Sill, Oklahoma, July, 1949

It was too hot to play cards, especially if someone were keeping score, and Vera was.

“Ay, carumba! You can’t stand to go two hours without beating someone at something can you?” Grace Tyler playfully pouted.

Vera ignored her little sister, and began shuffling cards as she gleefully announced, “Senoras, the game is canasta, and we’re going to play according to Hoyle.” She began to deal the cards like a Las Vegas gambler while Pauline laughed and pointed at her mother, a notorious and frequent card-cheater.

Everyone was hot, but in her long-sleeved shirt and long skirt, Grace was sweltering. Sweat beaded up on her forehead and neck and she kept stretching her legs out because the backs of her knees stuck to her skirt.

“Gracie, for God’s sake, go put some shorts on,” Vera said.

Grace ignored her sister, pulled her shirt away from her perspiring chest and asked, “Anyone want more iced tea before Vera whips the pants off of us?”

Momma and Pauline both nodded and Grace poured tea over fresh ice cubes while Vera got a tablet and pencil out of her purse.

The room was almost silent as each woman arranged her hand. Only Momma barely tapped her foot and softly sang a song from her childhood under her breath:

“The fair senorita with the rose in her hair …

worked in the cantina but she didn’t care …

played cards with the men and took all their loot … awh-ha!

went to the store and bought brand new boots … ”

“Awh-Haaa!” Grace’s five-year-old daughter Glory joined in.

Unconsciously, the other two women started to hum along while they looked at their hand. About the second “Awh-Haaa!” Vera abruptly stopped humming and looked at her sisters with a raised eyebrow. Something was fishy; Momma was much too happy. Barely containing their amusement, they watched as she cheerfully arranged her cards.

Finally, unable to suppress her laughter any longer, Vera jumped up, snatched the cards out of her mother’s hands, and fanned them face-up across the table.

“Ay, ay, ay!” She cried out, “Momma, tell me how can you have a meld and eleven cards in your hand when we’ve just gotten started?”

The fun escalated as Vera rushed around the table and ran her hands all around her mother and the chair she sat on to feel for extra cards.

“Stand up!” Grace and her sisters said as they pulled their mother to her feet. They shook her blue calico dress and screamed with laughter as extra cards fell from every fold.

“Glory,” Vera told her young niece, “crawl under the table and get those cards for your Auntie Vera, okay?” Grace moved her feet to the side so that Glory could scramble under the table. Her childish giggles danced around the women’s feet as she scrambled for the extra cards that dropped from her grandmother’s dress.

“Momma,” Vera laughed, “you’re a born cheater. How did you know we were going to play cards today?” she asked.

“I’m not the only one in this family who’s been caught with a few too many cards,” Momma said in her defense.

“Yes, but you’re the family matriarch. We expect better of you than we do our good-for-nothing brothers,” Pauline said.

“Huh! Matriarch, my foot. You girls never listen to a word I say,” Momma grumbled.

“Maybe that’s because we can’t trust you,” Vera said.

As another card dropped from Gregoria’s dress and slid across the floor, Vera added, “We’ll strip you down to your rosary before we ever play cards with you again, Momma.”

“Yeah,” Pauline, chimed in, “the next time you’ll play in nothing but your lace step-ins and a bra made from two tortillas.”

“Well, at least I’ll be the coolest one at the table,” Momma chirped.

Vera reached across the table to gather all the cards and reshuffle them. “We’re going to start all over, and we’ll watch you every minute.”

Grace felt a sharp pain in her stomach when she looked up and saw her husband’s scowling face through the screen door. Why was he home so early? She didn’t have to look at him again to know his normally handsome blond features smoldered with disgust.

###

Copyright © 2001-2008 Janelle Meraz Hooper
All Rights Reserved

Author’s bio:

Janelle Meraz Hooper is a writer from Oklahoma with a Hispanic background. Her novel, A Three-Turtle Summer, was published in September 2002. The sequel, As Brown As I want, The Indianhead Diaries, was published in 2003. Her other books include Free Pecan Pie And Other Chick Stories and Custer and His Naked Ladies.

In June 2003, four of her short stories and a poem were published in a Northwest anthology, Dream Makers (compiled by Val Dumond, published by Muddy Puddle Press). She has been a contributing writer for The Northwest Guardian Newspaper, Ft. Lewis, Washington, and other newspapers. In 2002, she was awarded The Bold Media Book Award for A Three-Turtle Summer.

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Quoting from the info on amazon about this book:

Everybody wants more time, which is why on Discworld its management is entrusted to the experts: the venerable Monks of History, who store it and pump it from where it’s wasted, like underwater (after all, how much time does a codfish really need?) to places like cities, where harried citizens are forever lamenting, “Oh where does the time go?”

And while everyone always talks about slowing down, one clever soul is about to stop. Stop time, that is. For good. Going against everything known (and the nine tenths of everything that remains unknown), a young horologist has been commissioned to build the world’s first truly accurate clock. It falls to History Monk Lu-Tze and his apprentice Lobsang Ludd to find the timepiece and stop it before it starts. For if the Perfect Clock starts ticking, Time — as we know it — will stop. And then the trouble will really begin.

Favorite passages:

Nine-tenths of the universe is the knowledge of the position and direction of everything in the other tenth. Every atom has its biography, every star its file, every chemical exchange its equivalent of the inspector with a clipboard. It is unaccounted for because it is doing the accounting for the rest of it.

Nine-tenths of the universe, in fact, is the paperwork.

–

They were the observers of the operation of the universe, its clerks, its auditors. They saw to it that things spun and rocks fell.

And they believed that for a thing to exist it had to have a position in time and space. Humanity had arrived as a nasty shock. Humanity practically was things that didn’t have a position in time and space, such as imagination, pity, hope, history and belief. Take those away and all you had was an ape that fell out of trees a lot.

Excerpted from THIEF OF TIME.
Copyright 2001
All Rights reserved

For more information on other passages from the book, visit www.thiefoftime.net.

Thief of Time by Terry Pratchett is available in HARDCOVER and PAPERBACK.

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Book excerpt:

Teach Yourself Grammar and Style in 24 Hours

Rhyme

Rhyme is a series of word endings that repeats the same, or similar, sounds.

Old Mother Hubbard went to her cupboard….

Rhymes can be used to add a whimsical, yet effective, touch to ad copy:

e.g.

You can always trust our milk, so buy some now.
The only stuff fresher is still in the cow.

If you’d enjoy playing a word game designed increase attention spans and improve the vocabulary in young children, take a look at “Task: Rhyme Time” from page 14 of Teach Yourself Grammar and Style in 24 Hours:

Task: Rhyme Time

Rhymes increase a child’s attention span because the child soon learns to listen for the repeated, familiar sound patterns. You can use this to your advantage if you have a youngster in the car with you during a long trip.

Example: Through the fog, the little green frog in a soggy wet bog jumped from log to log before the dog could hog all the grog.

Play a game to see how many rhyming words you can use in a sentence. This stuff is allowed to be fun, too. (Don’t forget to let the kid win!)

End note:

One of the sentences that survives from when I’d play that game with my daughter Lara is: Please don’t tease the fleas on my knees, you’ll make them sneeze and wheeze; just give them a cuddle, and give them a squeeze, and feed them some cheese.

Last week, I recited that sentence to my granddaughter — who just celebrated her fifth birthday in August. She listened to me say the sentence and remained silent for a minute, then said, “You left out trees.” So, we modified the sentence to: Please don’t tease the fleas on my knees, the breeze from the trees makes them sneeze and wheeze; just give them a cuddle, and give them a squeeze, and feed them some cheese.

Copyright © 2000 Pamela Rice Hahn
All Rights Reserved

You can read more about this book — expanded table of contents, introduction, author bio’s — on this Web site.

For more fun with rhymes, read The Ball That Started It All, also in The Blue Rose Bouquet.

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I imagine the first cookout occurred one day when, after a thunderstorm, cavemen (and women) from the Bar-B clan formed a queue around a wooly mammoth that had been zapped and charred by a bolt of lightning. Once they tasted that fire-roasted flavor, mammoth tartare just didn’t satisfy their palates anymore. Finding a way to duplicate that aroma and piquancy became as important as their hunting rituals. This was a can-do tribe!

So, because they were a forward-thinking group of nomads, they formed a committee. The committee then designated project teams, whose job it was to find ways to grill meat for the next feast. They rounded up herds of animals and trapped them in the valley, while the more limber members on their team danced a rain dance around the perimeter. They herded those animals to different locations, just in case the rumors about lightning strikes frequency were true.

One day, tired and frustrated of being one link in a human fence, and also getting very hungry by this time, a junior member of the team took a break from his daydreams of becoming a freelance consultant and decided to make use of some loose rocks lying in the gully. First he stacked them in a spiral pattern that encompassed his tribe’s understanding of their outreaching purpose of life on this planet, sacred geometry, and the Feng Shui dynamic he intended to write a book about once somebody developed a language. Eventually though, growing weary from his task, he stumbled on some loose stones and dropped a rock, which struck some flint, which kindled some twigs clinging to another rock, and the rest, as they say, is history. (Alas, his boss took credit for the discovery.)

However, this breakthrough not only led to expertly grilled meals (and arguments among alpha members of the clan as to whether or not the food was done yet), it also led to smoke signals, which evolved to other means of communications, which resulted in the Industrial Age, which made possible standardized grill construction, which eventually brought us to where we are today — hoping I now have your attention so you continue to not only want to read my cookbook, but savor the recipes and have a good time in the process. Enjoy! (Please.)

Sample recipes and more information about the book

Copyright © 1998-2008 Pamela Rice Hahn
All rights reserved.

Note: This page updated to reflect the revised and expanded edition of this book; original title was Master the Grill the Lazy Way.

Author bio:

Pamela Rice Hahn is publisher and editor-in-chief for The Blue Rose Bouquet and author of Lazy About Grilling: the feet up, hands down easiest ways to barbecue and twelve other books (so far). You can learn more about Pam by visiting her personal Web site and CookingWithPam.

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The Walking Drum by Louis L’amour

“It has seemed to me that each year one should pause to take stock of himself, to ask where am I going? What am I becoming? What do I wish to do and become?

“Most people whom I encounter were without purpose, people who had given themselves no goal. The first goal need not be the final one, for a sailing ship sails first by one wind, then another. The point is that it is always going somewhere, proceeding toward a final destination…

“Up to a point a man’s life is shaped by environment, heredity and movement and changes in the world about him; then there comes a time when it lies within his grasp to shape the clay of his life into the sort of thing he wishes to be. Only the weak blame parents, their race, their times, lack of good fortune, or the quirks of fate. Everyone has it within his power to say this I am today, that I shall be tomorrow. The wish, however, must be implemented by deeds.”

From: The Walking Drum by Louis L’amour

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Chicken Soup for the Surviving Soul:
101 Stories to Comfort Cancer Patients and Their Loved Ones

THE “WE” NURSE
by Norman Cousins

When I was in the hospital, I had a “We” nurse. She began each sentence with “How are we today?” “We need to have a bath.” This really irritated me, so I decided to play a little joke on her.

One day, she brought in a specimen cup and requested a urine sample. After she left, I poured my apple juice into the cup. When she returned for the specimen, she observed it and noted, “My we’re a little cloudy today, aren’t we?”

I asked to see it, removed the lid and said, “Yep, better run it through again,” and drank it. The look of shock on her face was priceless.

Copyright © 1996 Jack Canfield
Published by Health Communications
All rights reserved

From:
Chicken Soup for the Surviving Soul:
101 Stories to Comfort Cancer Patients and Their Loved Ones

Index of Cancer T Shirts and Gift Idea Designs

Index of Breast Cancer T Shirts and Gift Idea Designs

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At first glance, Ronny looked like every other kid in the first-grade classroom where I volunteered as the Reading Mom. Wind-blown hair, scuffed shoes, a little bit of dirt behind his ears, some kind of sandwich smear around his mouth.

On closer inspection, though, the layer of dirt on Ronny’s face, the crusty nose, and the packed grime under his fingernails told me he didn’t get dirty at school. He arrived that way.

His clothes were ragged and mismatched, his sneakers had string for laces, and his backpack was no more than a plastic shopping bag.

Along with his outward appearance, Ronny stood apart from his classmates in other ways, too. He had a speech impediment, wasn’t reading or writing at grade-level, and had already been held back a year, making him eight years old in the first grade. His home life was a shambles with transient parents who uprooted him at their whim. He had yet to live a full year in any one place.

I quickly learned that beneath his grungy exterior, Ronny possessed a spark, a resilience that I’d never seen in a child who faced such tremendous odds.

I worked with all the students in Ronny’s class on a one-on-one basis to improve their reading skills. Each day, Ronny’s head twisted around as I came into the classroom, and his eyes followed me as I set up in a corner, imploring, “Pick me! Pick me!” Of course I couldn’t pick him every day. Other kids needed my help, too.

On the days when it was Ronny’s turn, I’d give him a silent nod, and he’d fly out of his chair and bound across the room in a blink. He sat awfully close – too close for me in the beginning, I must admit – and opened the book we were tackling as if he were unearthing a treasure the world had never seen.

I watched his dirt-caked fingers move slowly under each letter as he struggled to sound out “Bud the Sub.” It sounded more like “Baw Daw Saw” when he said it because of his speech impediment and his difficulty with the alphabet.

Each word offered a challenge and a triumph wrapped as one; Ronny painstakingly sounded out each letter, then tried to put them together to form a word. Regardless if “ball” ended up as ”Bah-lah” or “bow,” the biggest grin would spread across his face, and his eyes would twinkle and overflow with pride. It broke my heart each and every time. I just wanted to whisk him out of his life, take him home, clean him up, and love him.

Many nights, after I’d tucked my own children into bed, I’d sit and think about Ronny. Where was he? Was he safe? Was he reading a book by flashlight under the blankets? Did he even have blankets?

The year passed quickly and Ronny had made some progress but hardly enough to bring him up to grade level. He was the only one who didn’t know that, though. As far as he knew, he read just fine.

A few weeks before the school year ended, I held an awards ceremony. I had treats, gifts and certificates of achievement for everyone: Best Sounder-Outer, Most Expressive, Loudest Reader, Fastest Page-Turner.

It took me awhile to figure out where Ronny fit; I needed something positive, but there wasn’t really much. I finally decided on “Most Improved Reader” – quite a stretch, but I thought it would do him a world of good to hear.

I presented Ronny with his certificate and a book – one of those Little Golden Books that cost forty-nine cents at the grocery store checkout. Tears rolled down his cheeks, streaking the ever-permanent layer of dirt as he clutched the book to his chest and floated back to his seat. I choked back the lump that rose in my throat.

I stayed with the class for most of the day; Ronny never let go of the book, not once. It never left his hands.

A few days later, I returned to the school to visit. I noticed Ronny on a bench near the playground, the book open in his lap. I could see his lips move as he read to himself. His teacher appeared beside me. “He hasn’t put that book down since you gave it to him. He wears it like a shirt, close to his heart. Did you know that’s the first book he’s ever actually owned?”

Fighting back tears, I approached Ronny and watched over his shoulder as his grimy finger moved slowly across the page. I placed my hand on his shoulder and asked, “Will you read me your book, Ronny?” He glanced up, squinted into the sun, and scooted over on the bench to make room for me. And then, for the next few minutes, he read to me with more expression, clarity, and ease than I’d ever thought possible from him. The pages were already dog-eared, like the book had been read thousands of times already.

When he finished reading, Ronny closed his book, stroked the cover with his grubby hand and said with great satisfaction, ”Good book.”

A quiet pride settled over us as we sat on that playground bench, Ronny’s hand now in mine. I at once wept and marveled at the young boy beside me. What a powerful contribution the author of that Little Golden Book had made in the life of a disadvantaged child.

At that moment, I knew I would get serious about my own writing career and do what that author had done, and probably still does – care enough to write a story that changes a child’s life, care enough to make a difference.

I strive to be that author.

Passage was part of the Chicken Soup for the Soul Home Delivery daily email list.

Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul

by Jack Canfield (Editor), Bud Gardner, Mark Victor Hansen is available in HARDCOVER and TRADE PAPERBACK.

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A favorite passage:

They stood in the bower the lilacs formed. Pat scolded and then snapped; Beth leaped into the driver’s seat. She didn’t kiss him. She would see him in two days, anyway. In fact, she would see Pat before the sun went down, Beth later recalled — and she had not kissed him then, either, not then or for months afterward, so that the first time she did, their teeth knocked, like junior-high kids’, and she noticed, for the first time, that his tongue tasted of coffee — a thing she had never noticed before, during all years when his tongue was as familiar in her mouth as her own.

The Deep End of the Ocean by Jacquelyn Mitchard is available in PAPERBACK and TRADE PAPERBACK.

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