Broken blisters can be painful. A dab of Listerine is a powerful antiseptic.

What can you do about a bruise? Let Vinegar come to the rescue! A cotton ball soaked in vinegar makes a good compress and will reduce the blue and help heal the bruise more quickly.

You can treat arthritis pain with Quaker Oats. Mix 2 cups oats with one cup of water in a bowl and warm in the microwave. You should enjoy the soothing relief. The add to your bath water? Maybe not if they're sticky. Apply to your face and allow to cool and dry for a mask.

Did you know you can use peroxide to clean your shower to disinfect when you can't use bleach? Bleach has such a strong odor.

Baking Soda makes a fine scrub for your kitchen sink, counter tops, bathroom sinks and tubs. It's more gentle that most scrubs on sale. You can also add some to your toothpaste to clean your teeth.

If your pet has fleas, Dawn dish washing detergent makes a great doggie shampoo. Pine cleaners work well, too. Use only a few drops of either.

Got a headache? Sip two glasses of Gatorade.

There are several well known salves and treatments for burns. Cool water is one. Many of us keep an aloe plant for that purpose. Grab the Colgate toothpaste and use as a salve. Who knew?.

Toothpaste for zits and burns? Cool. Really cool!

Remember to use the toothpaste on the zits only and not on your entire face!

For a sore throat mix 1/4 cup of vinegar and 1/4 cup of honey. Take a teaspoon six times a day.
I find a tablespoon of salt in warm water works well for gargling.

For dry sinuses you can purchase a saline spray or you can sir 1/4 teaspoon into a cup of warm water and sniff it three times a day to moisten sinuses. Breath it into your nostrils.

For arthritis pain, soak raisins in gin! Honest. Pour the raisins into a container, not metal, that can be covered. pour gin over the raisins to barely cover them. Allow to soak for a week to 10 days or until the raisins soak up the gin. You can eat 9 a day as part of your breakfast or a snack. You might want to cover the container to keep bugs and trash out.

On that note, I'll stop for now. Check below for part one in this series. Want more?

Feel free to add your favorites.

I promised makeup but that will come later.

Have you ever used nail polish to keep the screw in your glasses from loosening? Clear polish works. A little dab on the screw works.

Honey is magic, really! If you have a skin blemish, cover it with a dab of honey and place a BAND-AID over it.
Search for the blemish in the morning.

If you don't have honey you can put a dab of white toothpaste on the skin blemish to dry it out. I recommend doing this at night unless you aren't going anywhere. You might need to do this more than one night.

To take the red out of a blemish when you notice it, don't panic, dab it with Murine or an eye care product for taking the red out. It will take the red from your zit.

Icky thought, toenail fungus, and ugly, too. Soak your toes in Listerine mouthwash or dissolve a denture cleaner tablet in a small container and soak toes.

More icky stuff. If you have a boil, make a compress with tomato paste. The acids will sooth the pain and bring the boil to a head.

Bees, wasps and hornets hate cleaning spray.

COME BACK FOR MORE LATER TODAY!!!

My Mom doesn't know I'm doing this and she'll probably blow her stack when she finds out but I think someone slightly removed from everything ought to put in a few comments.

My name is Acashi Daylin--or at least I thought it was until this war business started. My father is Tran Daylin, my mother Andrea Talltrees. Dad's an Albegensi and was one of my grandfather's farmhands before he married my mother. From all I can tell, it was what the old ladies around here called a "real love match"--and why not?--Dad's tall and handsome and...well, I wanted to be just like him! Oh, he's strict, but I guess a kid needs that, sometimes! Anyway, Grandpa gave them a farm, and they and I worked it. Made a pretty good living, too. Whatever.... I consider myself a Navajo--I look like Dad, tall and dark--and a Natural, part of the Naturals Cult, believing in not using anything that wasn't around during the time of our ancestors in the mid-20th Century. We also believe in Equality of All Species, and that once got us on the Federation's Suspect List. Since we also supply all the food for the nation, it also got us off just as fast, otherwise the American Sector would've slowly starved!

That was my place in life when the Albegensi-Terran War broke out. Then, my whole world just shattered. Dad was arrested as a spy, Mom wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep. I tell you--I thought she was going to die! Our Spirit Leader, George Windrider, showed up, made her some blackberry tea, and sent her to Old Town to look up a friend of his--some smuggler. How George ever came to know a criminal, we didn't find out until much later, and was that ever a tale!

The day Mom left for Old Town was the last time I saw my mother for over a year. While Mom was gone, Dad escaped from detention and some friends of his put him on a ship headed for Albegensia. Mom was accused of engineering the escape and a Federation Marshal in a Search Drone showed up looking for her. She had to run, leaving me behind.

During that time, I lived with my grandparents, trying to ignore everyone's pity. Poor little Cash! Abandonec! Father and Mother fugitives. Poor child! I never believed what they said about either of them. I love my parents...still do...both of them!

Anyway, about eighteen months later, Mom reappeared. One of our neighbors, Eli Nighthorse--he's been sweet on Mom before Dad came along--found her walking along the highway one rainy night. For several days after that, there were Marshals swarming over our property, talking to Mom behind closed doors. She had to go to the old capitol in Sacramento to testify at a hearing. Then, she came home, called me into the kitchen, and said she had something to tell me.

I remember she sat there in one of the chairs my great-grandfather had carved by hand, wearing that weird-looking, shapeless dress she said some nun had given her. She looked so fat--my mother was never fat! Dad used to tease her about being so slim--"My sylph-like little Terran," he used to call her--but now, her belly was bulging out the front of that sack she was wearing. She told me my father wasn't coming home, I'd never see him again, and while I was trying to understand that, went on, in a totally toneless voice, "Cash--the man who helped me find your father...I'm going to have his baby...." I didn't wait to hear any more, just bolted--out of my chair, out of the house, into the field, to throw myself into the grass and burrow my face into its clear, sweet smell, as I burst into tears....

Sorry about that--it was a pretty big shock for someone to get...hey, I'm only 16...!

Anyway, after I had some time to think it over, I calmed down a little.

Our people are shunning Mom now, and me, too, to a certain extent, because I defend her. I've accepted the fact of the baby and I think I'm looking forward to having a little brother or sister--I think I'd like a sister, to help take care of, even if it does look like him, with cat's eyes, and red hair--God, what if it has a tail? Lately, I'm starting thinking about him, too...did he know about the baby and what would he do if he did? Personally, I think he loves my Mom. I know she still loves him. Sometimes, I hear her crying at night and calling his name. There's a rumor that he's back in Old Town, and I've gotten this idea. Only problem is, I think Mom's on to me. She's forbidden me to drive the Rover out on the highway. Says the Marshals might pick me up...fat chance of that! They're too busy chasing spies to bother a 16-year-old kid!

She's left the keys on the table--she's too big to drive now, being nine months pregnant--and I'm sitting here wondering what's to stop me from taking them. What if I went to Old Town and met this Sinbad sh'en Singh and told him about the baby and how Mom still loves him--what would he do?

I'm going to do it! I think I can make it to the highway before Mom finds out, and if all goes well, I just may come back with a passenger.... Wish me luck!

(Sinbad's Last Voyage is the first novel in the series The Adventures of Sinbad, [published by Double Dragon Publications as an e-book and paperback. It has also been made into an audio book by Books in Motion. The sequel, Sinbad's Wife, is scheduled for release in June, 2008.)

Toni V. Sweeney
Sinbad's Wife, Double Dragon Publications
Three Moon Station, The Wild Rose Press (Writing as Icy Snow Blackstone)

Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.

Oscar Wilde

The Picture of Dorian Gray

Perhaps, the same can be said of writers. Our books are self portraits. I'm not vain enough to think I resemble my gorgeous heroines but a lot of me goes into each character and each paragraph.

(The hunk is Travis Fimmel, the once infamous Calvin Klein underwear model whose ad, clan only in briefs, stopped traffic in Trafalgar Square).

I wrote this poem some time ago--dedicated to an old love. A poet I'm not but this was from the heart.

By the sea, she stands and watches the waves
She wonders at the elemental forces
That stir the planet and the restless dreams
That stir her soul as if tossed there by the tide.
This dream found a face that led her
To the brink of hoping and then fell silent.
As dreams so often do.
Dreams are elusive things, as fragile as light
And as hard to catch.
One cannot pursue lest they disappear
Quite suddenly in the night.

Was he the one she'd loved some other time
By some other faraway shore?
It came to her ever so clear
That perhaps she'd never know.
Was he afraid as she was afraid of the power
Glittering between them, breathless, motionless, or
Did he simply enjoy the butterfly game of chance?
A light bright touch of words, a glance.
She gazed at the immortal sea and sighed.
Perhaps, she'd never know.

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the type of fictional hero I like. During an on-line pacing class with Mary Buckham, one of the class exercises was to make a note of characters that made an impact on me and stayed in my memory. Immediately, two heroes (and I use that term loosely in the first case) came to mind. Jean Claude the master vampire from Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake vampire hunter novels, and Roark from J.D. Robb’s In Death series. Interesting that neither series is romance per se, although both men are involved in romantic relationships with the story heroines.

The characteristics that attract me to these men and makes them stick vividly in my mind—apart from their physical beauty—is they are both successful, powerful, wounded, and dangerous. Just the sort of man I want my daughter not to marry LOL.

If I met these men in real life, I’d admire them from afar and stay well away. So what is it in my psyche that makes me fascinated with them in fiction? Maybe the vicarious pleasure of getting to know the dark and dangerous, seeing inside their heads and playing with fire along with the heroine.

I’ve also had the realisation that I enjoy writing the wounded, dangerous type of guy as well. My current hero is a lovable rogue, and I’m finding him a lot harder to get to grips with than I expected. But I’m sure I’ll wrestle him into submission soon!

What type of hero do you enjoy reading about? Does he bear any resemblance to your real-life choices?

(Borrowed from another forum)

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As Valentina turned toward the earl, Sir Roland struck her. She caught herself before her face hit the floor. She slid her tongue along the inside of her mouth, the metallic tinge of blood wetting her lips. Swabbing shaking fingers against her cheek, she gulped a dry sob.

“Enough!” A dangerous flash of the earl’s eyes stopped Sir Roland’s uplifted arm.
Valentina wavered, stood with dignity, and bolstered her spine. She grimaced at the shooting cramp in her legs, turned numb from sitting so long on the floor, hoping they would not buckle beneath her and betray her weakness.

She defied the earl’s outstretched hand, noncompliant. What could he possibly do? She was of no use to him if she were dead. She shivered, thinking the unthinkable. Black fear swept through her, repellent and vivid. In front of his men, surely the earl could not be thinking of rape.

Annoyance flickered across his face. “The elusive gypsy girl. My men have searched for months, because I know firsthand you are the finest fortuneteller in all of England. Are you not?”
She folded her arms and did not answer him.

“Are you not?”

Feeling better, braver, she glared into his grey eyes, and spat.
It caught him off-guard, the spittle spraying his face. He flinched, swearing, his fingers tensing.
Out of the dimness, two watchmen lunged, silent and invisible sentinels. They yanked her backward, their fingers digging into her arms. She recoiled and doubled her fists.

“Disgusting gypsy. I wager ye shall pay for your disrespect.” Sir Roland spoke again, her despicable riding companion. He wheezed, licked his lips, and blocked her view of the earl. She wrenched her arms to free herself from the watchmen’s grips.

“Release her,” the earl thundered. The men dropped their hold and stepped back into the darkness. “The next man who touches her will face me alone.”

“My lord, she is odious and repulsive.”

Valentina boldly met his glare.

Best Buy online is offering several music CD's for $4.99 with free shipping. Great assortment of titles. Just the thing for keeping writers "in the mood" to write.

Time out of mind, herbs have figured prominently in mystery and romance. Shakespeare is probably the most famous author to incorporate the juice of monkshood as the deadly elixir in Hamlet. Mandrake, the screaming roots in Harry Potter, made up the sleeping potion that sent Juliette into a death-like slumber. Poor Romeo, if only he’d known before he drank belladonna, a member of the deadly nightshade family, or wolf’s bane. It seems no one is quite certain what the ill-fated lover knocked back.

Many whimsical fancies sprang up around the shape of plants. The bell-like flowers of foxglove were thought to be the minute gloves that fairies wore, especially as foxglove bloomed in shady woodlands where everyone knows the little folk dwell. Commonly called digitalis, this now-famous plant is widely used to treat heart disease. But too strong a dose and bang––you have a murder mystery. In Pocketful of Rye, Agatha Christie favored a poisonous concoction made of yew disguised in marmalade. The author hid deadly hemlock in a bottle of cold beer in Five Little Pigs.

Many herbs also had romantic uses. The love potion in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream has been analyzed by a fellow of the Royal Society of Chemistry in England. Doctor Sell thinks it was made up of heart’s ease (violas) blended with the sweetness of musk roses. In the play, Oberon drops the flowery decoction onto the eyelids of the sleeping Titinia, but the good doctor cautions against trying this at home. Rather, opt for the nape of the neck or the décolleté. Men just love the décolleté––breasts pushed up by a tightly drawn corset for those of you who didn’t realize.

Speaking of romance, it was thought that a young maiden could toss a sprig of St. John’s Wort over her shoulder and soon learn the name of the man she was to marry. Leafy branches of this herb were also hung in windows to ward off evil spirits and burnt to protect against devils, goblins and witches. Bear this in mind, if you’re troubled by them.
Legend has it that angelica was revealed in a dream by an angel to cure the bubonic plague. All parts of the plant were deemed of great value against enchantment. And don’t forget boughs of the sacred rowan tree to ward off evil spells.

Feeling timid? Anoint your feet with catnip tea to embolden yourself. Fennel seed is said to boost desire. Lavender is “of ‘especiall good use for all griefes and paines of the head.” For those of you who would be true, rosemary is the symbol of fidelity between lovers. Traditionally, a wreath of the aromatic herb was worn by brides. Rosemary is also the herb of remembrance left at the grave of loved ones.

Historical writers, especially, can incorporate the use of herbs to flavor their stories, as do I. But anyone can mix in a love potion or fatal elixir to spice up the usual suspects in a suspense or murder mystery.
_________________

The fire in the fireplace of the great hall hissed, the hour well past midnight. Valentina rubbed her arms, chasing away the chill, the rings she wore sparkling in the firelight. Forced on her knees by a shadowy knight, she yanked her tangled, multilayered gown around her feet. Her once vibrant clothes were now muted, matching her unwashed body and grimy appearance.

Rage and riotous thoughts pounded in her head.

Her mother.

Yolanda.

The caravan.

She glared at the tall man who strode in and stopped abruptly, Sir Geoffrey and several men lined behind him.

“Bury me standing.” “Prohasar man opre pirend.” Valentina repeated her mother’s words in her native Romany tongue. If he were going to kill her, she would be brave, like her mother, and protect Yolanda.

“What do you say?” the man demanded. He folded large, muscular arms over his flowing black cloak. His face stayed hidden in the shadows, but she recognized the aristocratic lines. The masculine profile, dark against the light from the fireplace, reflected back, strong and rigid. He stepped forward, his compelling silver eyes raking her face, her body.

“I speak the language of the Romany. My language.” Valentina spoke the words in perfect English. This lofty noble did not frighten her, no matter how threatening he appeared. She wiped her palms along her thighs, taken aback at the sweat despite the coldness in the hall.

“Stand so I may see you.” His low voice issued the subtle command. He held out his hand.
The tops of her bare feet scraped against the rough surface of the stone floor. When she stood, she would never kneel again. And certainly she could stand without his assistance.

“His lordship, James Saren, the Earl of Colchester, directed you to stand. He will not wait for a gypsy.” The familiar, raspy croak of Sir Roland spoke from the unwelcoming walls.

The Earl of Colchester. An earl.

Her dream came back in a rush. A rich man. A powerful man. He whispered to her when her sleep deepened, and disappeared before she could reach him. Her mouth went dry. She swallowed.

This recipe is delicious and very low calorie:

3 or 4 oranges, peeled and cut up
1 15 oz. can pineapple, in its own juice
1 tsp. almond flavoring
6 packets of equal

Serve over toast or angel food cake. Keep in refrigerator in airtight container. If on weight watchers, one cup is 1 point.

Enjoy!

Liz Jasper here, introducing today's guest blogger author Terry Odell, who writes romance with a twist of mystery. Her novels have been flying off the shelves and we are delighted to have her with us today as she counts down the launch to her latest, HIDDEN FIRE. Without further ado, here's Terry:


How same is same? How different is different? If I go to a bookstore and browse the Science Fiction shelves, I have totally different expectations of what I'm going to read than if I'm in the Mystery section, or the Romance section. Each has its own 'rules' because readers want some sort of a clue where the ride is going to take them when they sit down with a book.

Authors who write series with continuing characters probably have to deal with the 'same but different' approach even more than series set in a continuing setting. I'm primarily a mystery reader, and I love finding an author whose characters resonate with me, and following them as far as the author will take them. Half the fun of the read is the character arc, and usually there's some sort of relationship between characters that grows, although there's no real expectation that the relationship will continue. Personally, I prefer things to carry over through several books rather than deal with the 'woman of the month' setup. But a detective novel is a detective novel, and a romance is a romance. In the former, I expect the detective to solve the crime. In a romance, I expect the HEA ending, simply because those are the conventions of the genre. If I get a book off the 'women's fiction' or 'mainstream' shelf, then it's no holds barred, and I get what I get and have very few expectations going in.

When I wrote Finding Sarah, I hadn't envisioned it as a series of any sort. However, when I finished, one of the secondary characters, Colleen McDonald, wanted her own story, which ended up being Starting Over. I picked her up and moved her across the country, with only the vaguest references to what had happened before she left Pine Hills—and her trigger for moving was not part of Finding Sarah at all. Also, I wasn't sure I'd be able to sell Finding Sarah, and I didn't need a book 2 if there was no book 1.

Randy and Sarah insisted they weren't done yet. Another dilemma. Hidden Fire was going to be another romantic suspense, but my hero and heroine already knew each other and were already in the typical HEA required by the genre. How to begin? I put the two of them together and let them go. To maintain the conflict and tension of the relationship, I fast-forwarded a few months, and pulled Randy out of the scenario letting Sarah re-evaluate the relationship. After all, she'd spent most of Finding Sarah wanting to be independent.

Here's the blurb from Hidden Fire:

Returning from a stint as part of a task force on violent crime, Randy Detweiler is eager to reunite with Sarah Tucker in Pine Hills, but she’s having second thoughts about their relationship. Can she deal with a cop who gets called away at a moment’s notice, especially one who won’t talk about his job?

Their reunion is cut short when a body is discovered and rumors fly that it’s the work of a serial killer. To make matters worse, the Town Council might disband their police department, and Randy's under added pressure to solve the murder before they take action. Forced to work under the radar, Randy struggles to balance work with a shaky relationship.

Sarah can’t cope with apparently meaning less to Randy than his job. Should she force him to choose between his job and the us she envisions for the two of them? All bets are off when Sarah herself becomes a suspect in Randy’s case. Before long, it’s more than their relationship that’s in danger.

If you'd like to see more of Randy and Sarah, visit my website or blog. I've posted an interview with them – after all, I did have to get their approval before writing Hidden Fire. Or did I?

Terry has a Countdown Contest running on her blog this week. Anyone who leaves a comment at any countdown post will be entered in a drawing for a free download. Visit her blog at http://terryodell.blogspot.com/ and learn more about Terry and her books at her website: www.terryodell.com

Hello, I'm Andrea Talltrees, and I'm here to smooth over ruffled feathers and undo anything that Sinbad sh'en Singh might have upset with that little speech he made here a week or so ago. Sin's too impetuous, really doesn't know when to soft-pedal things....

Here's goes: They call me Andi. I'm a Navajo--yes, I know I have blonde hair and blue eyes, but I've lived with Vincente Talltrees and his sons since I was two, so as far as I'm concerned, he's my daddy. My real father, Jon Pardee, was a Federation soldier who was MIA in the Terro-Felidan War, the same war which eventually led to Sin and his father being imprisoned in that awful Fort Joy. (Okay--so he does have reason to hate Terrans!) Vicente promised he'd take care of me if that happened and, after my mother died, he kept his word.

I married a man who worked on our farm, we had a son, Cash--and nothing else remarkable happened to me until I was around thirty--and then a new war started. All Alien Nationals were rounded up, and my darling Tran was arrested as a spy! That was totally ridiculous. Tran's a farmer. The only unusual thing he ever did was go to Angel City once a month and have a drinking bout with others from his home planet.

Angel City used to be called Los Angeles until the Great Quake of 2338 dropped the lower half of the state into the Pacific, leaving behind only Angel City, Coast City, and a small island called Baja.

When Tran was taken to a secret intern camp, my godfather, George Windrider, suggested I seek out a Felidan smuggler to see if he could find its location. His hangout, the Asteroid Cantina, was a crowded, smoky place, filled with drunken men and scantily-clad women. Several men tried to stop me but when they learned who I was looking for, they shied away. They seemed frightened of just his name--and when I saw him...my God! He was the ugliest creature I'd ever laid eyes on--almost seven feet tall, eyes like a cat's, and the wildest, curliest red hair! He was dressed all in black leather, shirtless, and had a tattoo emblazoned across his chest that read We Ravage the Stars!

We went into a private room--it had a bed which looked as if it had been used many times--and I told him why George had sent me as he smoked a really smelly cigar. Though I told that tobacco was illegal and he was ruining his health, he just laughed. Then, he told me he'd help me--for a price. The creature actually wanted me to go to bed with him! I couldn't believe it--or that I agreed. All I wanted was my husband back. He never had to know what I'd done. I told him I'd do as he wanted...and fainted dead away....

When I awoke, Sinbad's attitude changed. He agreed to help me, no strings attached. Before he could start, however, Tran escaped, the Federation was after me, and I was a fugitive, abandoning my son as I ran for my life.

In the year to come, Sin and I visited places I never dreamed I'd see and meet people I didn't realise existed. Once, he was nearly killed and I had to use my knowledge of herbal medicine to save his life. It was while he was so ill that I came to understand the tortured soul hiding within Sin's heart and what a brave and wonderful creature he actually is...and that's when I fell in love with him, seeing him for the first time not as the vicious animal the Federation called him but as a haunted, lonely man.

I didn't tell him, didn't know that he'd begin to feel the same way about me--he has a weird moral code of his own. He won't touch a woman who's already spoken for. It wasn't until a stormy night in the Serapian jungle, in a hidden cave with only a few glow-stones for light, and the rain coming down in a flood outside, that we confronted each other and admitted how we both felt....

...and then, we found Tran....

Afterward, things fell apart. At a convent hospital with sympathetic nuns who treat the Brothers of St. Dismas when they're wounded, Sin discovered he has the same disease which killed his father. He doesn't think I know, even sent me away, pretending he never really loved me...told me some hurtful lies....

I lied, too...didn't tell him I was carrying his child...just left, hugging my little secret inside me.

My people shun me for being a married woman pregnant with another man's child. I don't care. I have my own land and I'll live here and brave their disapproval. My son will never know his father but he'll never suffer as Sin did, and perhaps someday, his life will make up for the waste of his father's.

Cash has taken the news better than I thought--about both his father and the baby. He's 15 now, the same age Sin was when he escaped from that awful prison. Lately, he's been asking a lot of questions about Sin and Old Town. I think he's getting some kind of scheme in that fertile brain of his and I've forbidden him to drive our old internal-combustion vehicle on the highway, but George just told me he's taken the Rover and is headed for the Thieves' Quarter. As if I don't have enough to worry about! That boy's going to drive me....

...Wait a minute! The Rover's coming up the road, sputtering and polluting the air, as usual, and-- who's that with him...a red-hair figure.... Oh, my God!

Excuse me, I have to go...it's going to take me a long time to walk from the barn to the house in my condition. If I could, I'd run....

(Sinbad's Last Voyage is the first novel in the series The Adventures of Sinbad, (published by Double Dragon Publications as an e-book and paperback. It has also been made into an audio book by Books in Motion. The sequel, Sinbad's Wife, is scheduled for release in June, 2008.)

About five years ago, my young adult son moved into the big white farm house on our other farm. We have two farms located near each other in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia and both homes are well over one hundred years old. Some of his guy friends moved in and everything was fine, then he and his fiancée (now wife) got to work remodeling the house. At first, no one thought much about the noises. Neither of them even mentioned a thing to me.

Then one night my son called, alone and uneasy. He was hunkered downstairs with his cat. Seems there were footsteps he couldn’t account for and a certain bedroom upstairs with a door that wouldn’t stay shut. No matter how many times he closed it, come morning it was always open. Earlier that week, his fiancé had been distressed when the bathroom doorknob turned and the door opened on her. No one was there. It freaked the cat out. Didn’t do her much good either. She was promptly converted from a disbeliever in ghosts to one strongly considering their reality.


Now, she’d gone away on a trip with her church and none of my son’s other friends were around. The last of his roomies had moved out. I suspected all the remodeling they’d done to the house had stirred something up. So, I went over. Here, I’ll digress to say I’d dreamed earlier of a small grave plot way back in the fields behind the house and of a restless spirit associated with both. As it turned out there is just such a cemetery, an antiquated one. After I arrived that evening, my son and I went upstairs to the suspect bedroom and shut the door. I wanted to scream, and not just because I'm claustrophobic.


We held hands and I repeated the Exorcism prayer sent to my mother from an Episcopalian woman in England. She’d written my mother about visiting the church manse at the invitation of the new priest who was plagued by a poltergeist--one so violent, it had flung portraits down from the hall upstairs and hurled a saucepan lid across the kitchen. But the congregants, along with the priest, had prayed it out. As this was a Christian prayer, my son and I did the same. Never again did he or his fiancé hear footsteps or have any more trouble with doorknobs turning. That bedroom door remained as they left it and the chill feeling I had in the room is gone.


Now, what do you think of that?

By Beth Trissel


Here's the Anglican prayer. Do not try this at home if the presence you sense is evil, only with a strong group of Christians, the more, the better. And join hands. *Even if you think I'm nuts.

“In the name of God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Ghost, may this distressed soul be relieved of his obsession with this world and sent to where he belongs.”
I added, 'go to the light,' although a truly evil presence won't, but a troubled, restless one may. Seems only right to offer that as an option. :)

Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

PART ONE

I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,

The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,

And the highwayman came riding—

Riding—riding—

The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;

They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,

And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;

He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there

But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,

Bess, the landlord's daughter,

Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked

Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;

His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,

But he loved the landlord's daughter,

The landlord's red-lipped daughter,

Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,

But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;

Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,

Then look for me by moonlight,

Watch for me by moonlight,

"I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,

But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand

As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;

And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,

(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)

Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

_________________________________________________________________

There are two parts to this fabulous, romantic poem. Many of you know this verse but some might not have been exposed to the dashing Highwayman, whom I have loved since I first read this work. Tomorrow I'd like to post another segment.

If you read my rant Sunday, you might find some of these comments and suggestions helpful.

ABOUT HEARING ISSUES

By Mary Marvella Barfield

Why should we be concerned about the hearing problems of others? Because we operate in a world with other people, and one day any of you could start losing your hearing.
It’s happened to me, and it often affects my interactions. You might know someone who hides a hearing problem or you might not be paying enough attention to notice. Some people aren’t aware they’re not hearing everything.

For example, I was walking with two people at a writers’ workshop. I was looking down while we talked. One of the people asked me to repeat what I said. After a while he caught my attention and said he hadn't heard much of what I was saying.

I thought I was the only person who didn't hear everything, and I looked up at him and said so. I had been talking to the ground instead of up toward the tall man with me. No wonder he didn't hear what I said.

The other person with us commented she hadn't heard half of what I said for the four years she had known me. I responded that she should have said something, because the half she missed was the good stuff.

SUGGESTIONS

1. If you can't hear someone, say so. As someone who talks to herself, I tend to mumble, though I deny it to certain people. People don't always hear me. We all have habits that may prevent others from understanding us, like chopping off the ends of our words. And as we grow older, our ability to hear clearly can diminish. Our friends grow older, too, and they often need help. Do everyone a favor by being kindly honest.

2. Don't walk away while speaking to someone. Try to face the person to whom you're speaking. If you don’t, some of us will lose parts of what you say. Get a hearing aid? Hearing aids can do just so much. They can raise volume, but there are limits and the gadgets don't help all hearing problems. They cure nothing. Since they aren’t cure-alls, many hearing aid owners discard them. If you have a friend or family member who needs a hearing aid, learn as much as you can to help this person adjust and get the most from it.

3. If you ask a question that isn’t answered correctly, restate it. Some of us answer the question we thought you asked instead of the one you did ask. When that happens, let us know and make sure we're looking at you when you speak.


OBSERVATIONS

People who tell jokes or funny stories often lower their voices or look down when they get to the punch-line or the funny stuff. If you look down or drop your voice, some members of your audience won’t get the point, probably more than you realize.

When a speaker reads a speech, he might lower the pitch of his voice and/or the volume. Readers tend to speak into their chests or the podium, speed up their pace unconsciously, and trail off with their voices as they read.

Hearing and understanding speakers involves both volume and enunciation, and often involves being able to see the speaker's face. Many people lip-read to a small degree before they realize they have minor hearing loss


PRESENTATION TIPS

1. Don't wave away the microphone because you feel you speak loudly enough.
2. Face your audience when speaking instead of fellow panel members.
3. Pull the microphone close enough to hear your voice amplified.
4. Enunciate clearly and make yourself slow down.
5. Make your presentation without reading it or read as little as possible.
6. Don't let your hands or anything else hide your mouth when you speak.
7. To project better, stand when you speak.
8. If you have question and answer time, please repeat the question or make it clear in your answer.

The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.

Oscar Wilde

Have you ever felt in a crap mood for days? Maybe for weeks or longer? Or maybe you'd just like to sleep really late and take naps.

I find frustration and loss of control over my life causes anger to simmer and some level of depression to raise its head. I don't have real depression that needs medication.

Women are taught to control anger, so we can't always, or maybe ever, yell at the people who are at the cause of our frustrations. Family and friends often do things to frustrate us, and because they are family or friends we can't yell at them about or throw things at them. Women are peace keepers and moms and "nice" people who hold things inside.

One frustration for me comes from my hearing loss. Friends have even asked why I don't just get a new hearing aid so they wouldn't have to deal with my problem. That's mean of me. They felt my pain and thought a new aid would let me hear better and feel less left out and confused. See? I have to try to put a positive spin on things.

When I don't hear or understand what a person says, I hate to ask that person to repeat what I didn't get. Maybe I heard most of a comment or explanation but not all of it.

Do you know someone who makes you repeat everything you say? Love it don't you? The eye rolls and heavy sighs aren't because you find repeating things once or twice or more a pain, a bother, are they? Of course they are. We people who can't hear should just get help. I've had hearing aids for around fifteen years and they aren't cheap. They sometimes whistle and chirp and some people won't wear them once they get them.

Once I decided I'd need to get a hearing aid for the ear I had considered my good one, I researched the cost of a pair or one to give me one good hearing ear. After finding several so expensive I wanted to throw up on the salesmen's desks, I found a better price at a discount club, a hearing aid that didn't cost as much as an economy car. Good, cause I needed two aids.

I went for a hearing test, prepared to order a set. Now I HATE having anything in my ear, so wearing one for the past fifteen years hasn't been a picnic. The decision to have a plug for both ears wasn't easy. That raised my crap mood but I figured hearing better would improve it.

That led to two visits to one ENT doctor before the hearing aid tech would make test my hearing.
This gave me more time to let the world around me fade when I became frustrated with people who mumble and whisper to keep me from hearing things. Just kidding.

Once I sat through the hearing tests the tech sent me back to the ENT doc to see if there might be a surgery to help me hear a little better. He sent me to another specialist. We're talking weeks to think about possibilities and costs and get appointments and think about possibilities and costs some more. Well, after more than a month I ordered two instruments of torture that should let me hear better again.

Here's hoping when I finally get the new gadgets in ten days and learn to use them my mood will be less crappy.

Oh, since I was raised to think that no matter what my problems are there are people with worse ones. That means my mood has to be better.

Remember, if you know an old man who can't hear thunder, he might have hearing aids he hates at home or he might prefer the world quiet with fewer people complaining. His battery might be dead or the aid might be old or...

Just tap him so he will face you and speak slowly so he can hear better. Flatter him, too since men hear what they want to. Those techniques work on me, too, except the selective hearing.

I'll add a link for my article on hearing problems and how to work with people with them.
Have a great day and speak slowly and loudly. People who hear well will think you've lost your mind.

Green-gold light slants into the walled garden in the back of the house, my secret place. Time stops here as I kneel beside the heady mix of herbs…silvery sage, lavender-flowered nepeta, and minty bergamot. The red blossoms that will follow are irresistible to hummers. Pungent Russian sage awaits the blue flowers that envelope it later this summer.

Unaware of my silent presence, a rust-capped sparrow rustles beneath the wild privet, planted by his kind, and the bittersweet vine...its white flowers lemony sweet when they appear later in spring. He darts past the peach tree in the center of this verdant space to scavenge sunflower seeds from under the feeder that hangs in the sour cherry tree. A towering crabapple that my great Uncle Houston warned me would get far too large has fulfilled his prediction and presses against the back of the house. But its shady branches filter the hot western sun from the kitchen and are glorious beyond words when dripping with a wealth of crimson blossoms. A profusion of flowers, more than is sane or possible, crowd along the garden wall, fill the island around and under the peach, and creep or swarm their way into the rock-strewn path.


Soft light touches glistening white iris, spires of lavender dame’s rocket and regal lupines. Nodding columbines meld together like kindred spirits in shades of pink, rose and yellow. Dainty sprays of pink coral bells float above a cloud of blue forget-me-nots and filmy love-in-a-mist. Bright yellow globe amaranth flowers intersperse almost everything, all rioting together in happy abandon.


More herbs mingle with the flowers in every bed I touch and the vegetable garden: thyme, sweet marjoram, lavender, dill, basil, parsley, and with them their rich link to the past. Ancient Romans, Greeks, and my ancestors from the British Isles knew many of these same plants as they are today and cherished their varied uses. When I see, touch, smell, or taste herbs of antiquity, I am experiencing what countless generations have before me.

My job? To tend this bit of earth, but mostly to savor and learn.

Contributed by Beth Trissel