Greetings Dear Readers,
This week I had the pleasure to visit my editor's English classes at one of America's finest high schools. I found her studnets both intelligent and energetic. As a challenge to them and to all learners, I would like to say that I found it refreshing that improvment of vocabulary is still a high school require. I challenge all of you to let me know when you come accross a word in my writing that is new to you. Feel free to ask why I chose and for your own benenfit, always read with a dictinoary near by.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
13 October 2005
29 September 2005
Name My Novel
Greetings Faithful Readers,
I have almost finished editing my third novel and am still in want of a title. Belowe is a chapter and it gives the gist of the novel and the character's first impression. Let me know through comments on this post what you think the title should be.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Working Title: Portimus
Introduction
Most of the Jews who appear in this tale appear in an unfavorable light. Most of the Jews who have lived and do live are noble people who hold passionately to an honorable faith. So that I have said it clearly, no single race, faith, or person is responsible for the death of Jesus Christ. We all are. Our sin cost his life. The politicos of the time are all guilty of conspiracy but they acted their part in a divine plan to redeem us all.
Jesus said that no man could take his life from him but that he laid it down freely. In a previous tale you met Portimus, a Roman soldier who befriended Joseph and his family in Nazareth. He would not leave me alone as he had more to say about Jesus and the nature of man. Time has kept its undying, unstoppable pace and we rejoin Portimus, now a Praetor at the beginning of holy week. He has been hunting Zealots for the empire.
That I believe in the Resurrection of Christ is not a doubt. Beyond that are many questions as to how it was dealt with politically, socially, and practically by many of the parties involved. Many have given the evidence of the Resurrection of Christ as factual material to be viewed through the eyes of scholarly consideration. Portimus is the first century equivalent of a detective.
While in Jerusalem over the Passover holy day, events surrounding the Crucifixion begin to unfold. Involuntarily Portimus becomes embroiled in the crime of eternity and a mystery that will cause man to ponder its details for the rest of history. Other deaths surrounding the death of Christ cause the Roman to realize that a conspiracy lies before him.
He deals with several issues during the week of the crucifixion and the following cover-up by the Pharisees and the Romans. Please join me as a man who cares only for truth tracks down the information necessary to decide the questions of the Resurrection and assign them logical legal answers.
Covering the truth for political gain is not new. Questioning the truth to avoid embracing it is deadly. I believe that some of the ruling counsel of Jerusalem and of Rome acted politically for their own gain. I also believe that thousands of witnesses and direct evidence are available to the honest.
Please remember dear reader that I write fiction with respect to the truth. In this tale, I ask you to seek the truth of the Resurrection of Christ while enjoying the unfolding of a mystery. Should you find my musing offensive, please remember that I am a storyteller and claim no right to impeccable understanding of Roman history or detective work.
Enjoy and as always, feel free to share with me your thoughts.
A Stitch in Time
Brilliant stars and an even brighter moon illuminate the landscape of a chill Judean night. Unaffected by the night air, an angel sits astride a ruddy mare. Both Polemos, the Angel of War, and Eman, his mount are untouched by the elements and invisible to the eyes of man. He waits at the end of a flower field near the Jerusalem gate. The man for whom he waits enters the opposite end of the field. Polemos hastens to his side, aware that his mount will not harm any of the flowers nor leave any trace of his passage. The War Angel knows that he is to observe the man and protect him. He wonders why but obediently takes his place beside the rider.
The rider makes his way silently across the field of night blooming Narcissus. Out of respect for the unknown owner, he guides his horse through the narrow path used to tend and irrigate the ocean of fragrant flowers. The scent of the Narcissus provides welcome relief from the coppery stench of the blood still damp on his tunic. Checking the puncture wound between his third and fourth rib the Roman solider notes with relief that the bleeding has stopped. Pulling the arrow from his pack, he studies it under the moonlight. Looking up into the night sky, he whispers to no one in particular, “Zealots.”
The timber of his single word accusation is more anguish than anger. He knows that Rome grows weary of the lack of assimilation in this region. Even their great celebration of Passover is celebration of freedom from oppressors. Portimus does not see that Rome oppresses Israel but he also knows that how he sees it did not matter to the recently dispatched band that ambushed him in the mountains near Gaza.
Having tracked them there from the site of their attack on a Greek caravan, the Roman offers the four men the opportunity to surrender and live. Their response, attacking on foot against a mounted soldier, proves unwise. That this particular Praetor could best any four other Centurions any given day proves fatal for the untrained inexperienced assailants.
Weapons and will do not complete a fighter. The Zealots have both but lack the confidence of practice and wisdom of action. The first two of them rush him, flailing their swords wildly as if to scare him. Although this tactic works on caravans of merchants and women, a sidestep with his horse, a parry, and two quick thrusts cut the number of opponents in half, literally.
The third, the one with the bow, becomes overconfident when a lucky shot pierces the Roman’s side. Portimus shifts his gladius to the hand holding his mount’s reins at the same moment the emboldened Zealot stands and aims for a second shot. With speed uncommon for his size the mounted warrior grasps a javelin from his quiver and lets fly. The bow shot sails far over the soldier’s head as the force of javelin drives the Zealot into the rock wall behind him.
Fear shows in the eyes of the fourth Zealot. Unfortunately, for him bravado and
rage soon replace his fear. He charges Portimus screaming epithets, his sword raised high. Portimus nudges his horse back and to the left. The Zealot’s swing goes wide and the soldier calls to him in flawless Aramaic, “You cannot beat me. Surrender and you will live.”
The assailant screams at the soldier. “I would rather die than receive mercy from a Roman.” He spits on the ground and charges again. Seeing that there will be no parley with the Zealot Portimus grants his request. The soldier kicks his horse to the right and beheads the rebel as he passes. The Roman takes no pleasure in killing but has dispatched all four Zealots efficiently and professionally in a matter of seconds.
He takes a moment to carefully remove the arrow from his side and wash the wound. It is not life threatening but will need professional attention. He gathers the fallen men’s belongings and the camels and items taken from the caravan. Returning to the place where the caravan survivors wait, he delivers their belongings to them.
Bidding the travelers well, he presses on toward his assignment in Jerusalem. He knows that the gates are already closed for the night and makes his way around to the needle’s eye. This small gate is guarded and allows access to travelers only via a narrow passage. There is an opening through which animals must stoop to pass. The guards recognize the Roman’s rank and hasten to open the larger gate for him.
Portimus rides through the crowded streets to the garrison. The pre-Passover bazaar makes the going slow but he is determined to clean up and assess the city before reporting to the Governor. Pilate does not mind late night chats but he prefers clean officers in his presence. The night watch at the garrison snaps to attention and salutes as he rides up. To his credit, one of them notices the blood on the Praetor’s armor and summons aid. To his further credit, he rouses the garrison commander, alerting him to the arrival of a higher-ranking officer.
Polemos moves away, aware that his charge will be well for now. The War Angel’s brothers are gathering. Something requires his attention and there is a sense of foreboding in all of creation. Whatever is on the horizon, his new interest will play a part in it.
The soldier retreats from his commander’s quarters and guides the Praetor to an empty officer’s billet. Portimus gingerly removes his armor and lays it with his pack and weapons by the bed. He checks that his letters to Pilate are safely in the baggage and asks direction of the solider to the baths.
While waiting, Portimus enters the bath to soak away his road weariness. A Greek physician arrives, bleary eyed and groggy. Inspecting the wound carefully he announces that there is no infection, applies some foul smelling ointment, and stitches it closed. Two servants enter with food for the soldier and he thanks them. The leader of the garrison, Castor, notices this and wonders why a Praetor would bother to thank a servant.
Portimus dines in silence listening to Castor report of activities in the city. Having attended the Passover celebration in Jerusalem a number of years ago, he is used to the common complaints of overcrowding and various petty crimes surrounding the bazaar. The Praetor’s attention focuses when Castor mentions problems with the ruling religious council of the Jews, the Sanhedrin.
He listens intently as the officer explains the problem the council has with one of the local religious fanatics. “Apparently, the fanatic in question is rumored to work miracles and has defied the Pharisees’ abuses of their religious law for personal gain. It seems that this rogue teacher is going to enter the city tomorrow and the Jews are worried about a public uprising in his favor. If you ask me they make too much fuss over a carpenter from Nazareth.”
Only his keen discipline keeps Portimus from visible reaction. He knows the only carpenter from Nazareth that could cause such a stir. He has not seen him in over five years, but he knows him and is sure that the stir and the rumors are genuine. He will look further into it tomorrow, after he reports to Pilate. For now he needs rest and apparently preparation.
* * * * *
The sun rarely rises before Portimus. The wound offers a degree of stiffness but he dons a clean tunic and his body armor, ignoring the pain. Most officers of his rank wear the decorative Lorica Musculata, a vain, poorly functional bronze cuirass. Portimus prefers the subtlety and protection of his Lorica Hamata, a chain mail shirt that covers all of his torso and usually turns away any weapon. The massive strength of this man more than compensates for the additional weight of the mail shirt. Most other officers chide him about his lack of show. He always points out that his sporran, the leather belt he wears, signifies his rank and that his armor tells other legionnaires that he will fight at their side not watch from the rear.
After girding on his sporran holding his gladius and pugio, then donning his cloak of rank, he spends some time in quiet meditation. Following his morning rituals, the officer assures that he has the proper look for his position. To him example is vital to command authority.
Once up he dines with the men in the garrison common room. Dining with men of lower rank often yields much more information than any inquiry. Those who do not know him will not immediately know his rank if he is already seated when they arrive. He listens as men assigned to keeping the peace among a less than peaceful people discuss the duties of the day. Their concerns over the influx of pilgrims and the associated threats monopolize the conversations.
A young soldier with clear eyes and clean face takes the seat opposite Portimus. The morning fare of bread and cheese goes well with the warm wine they share. He learns from the young legionnaire that during the end of his watch, in the early morning, a celebration broke out in the city.
The legionnaire’s eyes sparkle as he reports the spectacle, “The Jewish prophet entered the city riding a white donkey. People gathered at the Golden Gate, laying down palm fronds for him to rider over. They laid down their cloaks in front of him hailing him as King of the Jews. The man waved at the crowds but said nothing. People began to chant ‘Blessings on the King who comes in the name of the Lord; peace in heaven and glory in the highest places.’
Our captain ordered our squad to follow him through the city. He arrived at the Mount of Olives and dismounted. All the Jews there were praising him as if her were a god. I overheard people speak of him raising the dead and healing people.”
The legionnaire lowers his voice conspiratorially as he continues, “Some of the Pharisees called for him to rebuke his followers, accusing them of blasphemy. He paused just long enough to see that all present would hear him. His reply was simple and enraged the priests. He said, ‘What good would it do to stop them. If they fall silent the very stones will immediately cry out the same.’
This made the Pharisees so angry that they stormed away to the temple. He sat down to speak quietly to the crowed just before my watch ended. I fear that the crowed will cause trouble over their holy days. There were thousands of them.”
Portimus reassures the young soldier, “I do not think you need to fear this man. I have heard of his kind. He is not a Zealot. Tell me something. Did you hear his name mentioned.”
A moment of thought and a sip of wine are enough for the legionnaire to recall it, “Yes, his friends called him Jesus, and he came from Nazareth.”
The Praetor’s smile spreads slowly across his face, “I spent some years in Nazareth. Zealots do not come from there. The people you speak of are kind and peaceful. Save your fear for the trouble the Pharisees may yet bring because of this man’s popularity.”
As he finishes his statement, Castor enters. The legionnaire sees his commander approach and rises to attention. Out of courtesy, Portimus rises as well. The young soldier looks confused when his breakfast companion fails to salute the commander.
Castor returns the legionnaire’s salute in turn originating one to Portimus. The younger man’s confusion only deepens until his commander speaks, “Praetor, the Governor sends word that he will receive you any time this morning. Apparently matters with the Jews need your attention.”
Portimus acknowledges the information with a nod, “This young legionnaire has given me an excellent report of events at the Jews’ Golden Gate this morning. Although he is young, he is alert and intelligent. Please see that he gets an opportunity to put those skills to better use than as a night watchman.”
Castor beams at the excellent favor of a Praetor. “Flavius Silva is a good soldier and will be given opportunity at your word. May I begin by assigning him as your escort while you are in Jerusalem?”
At this, the young legionnaire merely stands straighter and sputters slightly. Portimus laughs and nods his agreement, “Give him time to rest and he may meet me at the Governor’s after midday. Get him some better armor and a new tunic. Have the stables assign him a good horse and proper equipment for travel.”
Castor snaps an affirmative reply, “All will be ready by midday.” Turning to Silva he continues, “Go to your rest and then to one of the private baths on my authority. If you are to stand before the Governor, you must represent us all well. I will give you a letter of entry.”
The color drains from the young soldier’s face as he realizes how quickly his life has just changed. He can only think to obey his training. Snapping off a salute, he turns briskly and exits. The two officers share a laugh at the young man’s expense after he is out of earshot.
Portimus collects his helm and cloak then addresses Castor, “I wish to be kept informed about the activities of the prophet from Nazareth. Should there be trouble surrounding him I want to know at once. Keep me informed quietly, but keep me informed.”
Castor, a politically wise officer ignores his minds questions as to the Praetor’s interest in a Jewish prophet. “I will see to it,” is all he allows.
“Excellent,” allows Portimus, “I will be with the Governor most of the day. Keep your men alert. Something is on the move.”
I have almost finished editing my third novel and am still in want of a title. Belowe is a chapter and it gives the gist of the novel and the character's first impression. Let me know through comments on this post what you think the title should be.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Working Title: Portimus
Introduction
Most of the Jews who appear in this tale appear in an unfavorable light. Most of the Jews who have lived and do live are noble people who hold passionately to an honorable faith. So that I have said it clearly, no single race, faith, or person is responsible for the death of Jesus Christ. We all are. Our sin cost his life. The politicos of the time are all guilty of conspiracy but they acted their part in a divine plan to redeem us all.
Jesus said that no man could take his life from him but that he laid it down freely. In a previous tale you met Portimus, a Roman soldier who befriended Joseph and his family in Nazareth. He would not leave me alone as he had more to say about Jesus and the nature of man. Time has kept its undying, unstoppable pace and we rejoin Portimus, now a Praetor at the beginning of holy week. He has been hunting Zealots for the empire.
That I believe in the Resurrection of Christ is not a doubt. Beyond that are many questions as to how it was dealt with politically, socially, and practically by many of the parties involved. Many have given the evidence of the Resurrection of Christ as factual material to be viewed through the eyes of scholarly consideration. Portimus is the first century equivalent of a detective.
While in Jerusalem over the Passover holy day, events surrounding the Crucifixion begin to unfold. Involuntarily Portimus becomes embroiled in the crime of eternity and a mystery that will cause man to ponder its details for the rest of history. Other deaths surrounding the death of Christ cause the Roman to realize that a conspiracy lies before him.
He deals with several issues during the week of the crucifixion and the following cover-up by the Pharisees and the Romans. Please join me as a man who cares only for truth tracks down the information necessary to decide the questions of the Resurrection and assign them logical legal answers.
Covering the truth for political gain is not new. Questioning the truth to avoid embracing it is deadly. I believe that some of the ruling counsel of Jerusalem and of Rome acted politically for their own gain. I also believe that thousands of witnesses and direct evidence are available to the honest.
Please remember dear reader that I write fiction with respect to the truth. In this tale, I ask you to seek the truth of the Resurrection of Christ while enjoying the unfolding of a mystery. Should you find my musing offensive, please remember that I am a storyteller and claim no right to impeccable understanding of Roman history or detective work.
Enjoy and as always, feel free to share with me your thoughts.
A Stitch in Time
Brilliant stars and an even brighter moon illuminate the landscape of a chill Judean night. Unaffected by the night air, an angel sits astride a ruddy mare. Both Polemos, the Angel of War, and Eman, his mount are untouched by the elements and invisible to the eyes of man. He waits at the end of a flower field near the Jerusalem gate. The man for whom he waits enters the opposite end of the field. Polemos hastens to his side, aware that his mount will not harm any of the flowers nor leave any trace of his passage. The War Angel knows that he is to observe the man and protect him. He wonders why but obediently takes his place beside the rider.
The rider makes his way silently across the field of night blooming Narcissus. Out of respect for the unknown owner, he guides his horse through the narrow path used to tend and irrigate the ocean of fragrant flowers. The scent of the Narcissus provides welcome relief from the coppery stench of the blood still damp on his tunic. Checking the puncture wound between his third and fourth rib the Roman solider notes with relief that the bleeding has stopped. Pulling the arrow from his pack, he studies it under the moonlight. Looking up into the night sky, he whispers to no one in particular, “Zealots.”
The timber of his single word accusation is more anguish than anger. He knows that Rome grows weary of the lack of assimilation in this region. Even their great celebration of Passover is celebration of freedom from oppressors. Portimus does not see that Rome oppresses Israel but he also knows that how he sees it did not matter to the recently dispatched band that ambushed him in the mountains near Gaza.
Having tracked them there from the site of their attack on a Greek caravan, the Roman offers the four men the opportunity to surrender and live. Their response, attacking on foot against a mounted soldier, proves unwise. That this particular Praetor could best any four other Centurions any given day proves fatal for the untrained inexperienced assailants.
Weapons and will do not complete a fighter. The Zealots have both but lack the confidence of practice and wisdom of action. The first two of them rush him, flailing their swords wildly as if to scare him. Although this tactic works on caravans of merchants and women, a sidestep with his horse, a parry, and two quick thrusts cut the number of opponents in half, literally.
The third, the one with the bow, becomes overconfident when a lucky shot pierces the Roman’s side. Portimus shifts his gladius to the hand holding his mount’s reins at the same moment the emboldened Zealot stands and aims for a second shot. With speed uncommon for his size the mounted warrior grasps a javelin from his quiver and lets fly. The bow shot sails far over the soldier’s head as the force of javelin drives the Zealot into the rock wall behind him.
Fear shows in the eyes of the fourth Zealot. Unfortunately, for him bravado and
rage soon replace his fear. He charges Portimus screaming epithets, his sword raised high. Portimus nudges his horse back and to the left. The Zealot’s swing goes wide and the soldier calls to him in flawless Aramaic, “You cannot beat me. Surrender and you will live.”
The assailant screams at the soldier. “I would rather die than receive mercy from a Roman.” He spits on the ground and charges again. Seeing that there will be no parley with the Zealot Portimus grants his request. The soldier kicks his horse to the right and beheads the rebel as he passes. The Roman takes no pleasure in killing but has dispatched all four Zealots efficiently and professionally in a matter of seconds.
He takes a moment to carefully remove the arrow from his side and wash the wound. It is not life threatening but will need professional attention. He gathers the fallen men’s belongings and the camels and items taken from the caravan. Returning to the place where the caravan survivors wait, he delivers their belongings to them.
Bidding the travelers well, he presses on toward his assignment in Jerusalem. He knows that the gates are already closed for the night and makes his way around to the needle’s eye. This small gate is guarded and allows access to travelers only via a narrow passage. There is an opening through which animals must stoop to pass. The guards recognize the Roman’s rank and hasten to open the larger gate for him.
Portimus rides through the crowded streets to the garrison. The pre-Passover bazaar makes the going slow but he is determined to clean up and assess the city before reporting to the Governor. Pilate does not mind late night chats but he prefers clean officers in his presence. The night watch at the garrison snaps to attention and salutes as he rides up. To his credit, one of them notices the blood on the Praetor’s armor and summons aid. To his further credit, he rouses the garrison commander, alerting him to the arrival of a higher-ranking officer.
Polemos moves away, aware that his charge will be well for now. The War Angel’s brothers are gathering. Something requires his attention and there is a sense of foreboding in all of creation. Whatever is on the horizon, his new interest will play a part in it.
The soldier retreats from his commander’s quarters and guides the Praetor to an empty officer’s billet. Portimus gingerly removes his armor and lays it with his pack and weapons by the bed. He checks that his letters to Pilate are safely in the baggage and asks direction of the solider to the baths.
While waiting, Portimus enters the bath to soak away his road weariness. A Greek physician arrives, bleary eyed and groggy. Inspecting the wound carefully he announces that there is no infection, applies some foul smelling ointment, and stitches it closed. Two servants enter with food for the soldier and he thanks them. The leader of the garrison, Castor, notices this and wonders why a Praetor would bother to thank a servant.
Portimus dines in silence listening to Castor report of activities in the city. Having attended the Passover celebration in Jerusalem a number of years ago, he is used to the common complaints of overcrowding and various petty crimes surrounding the bazaar. The Praetor’s attention focuses when Castor mentions problems with the ruling religious council of the Jews, the Sanhedrin.
He listens intently as the officer explains the problem the council has with one of the local religious fanatics. “Apparently, the fanatic in question is rumored to work miracles and has defied the Pharisees’ abuses of their religious law for personal gain. It seems that this rogue teacher is going to enter the city tomorrow and the Jews are worried about a public uprising in his favor. If you ask me they make too much fuss over a carpenter from Nazareth.”
Only his keen discipline keeps Portimus from visible reaction. He knows the only carpenter from Nazareth that could cause such a stir. He has not seen him in over five years, but he knows him and is sure that the stir and the rumors are genuine. He will look further into it tomorrow, after he reports to Pilate. For now he needs rest and apparently preparation.
* * * * *
The sun rarely rises before Portimus. The wound offers a degree of stiffness but he dons a clean tunic and his body armor, ignoring the pain. Most officers of his rank wear the decorative Lorica Musculata, a vain, poorly functional bronze cuirass. Portimus prefers the subtlety and protection of his Lorica Hamata, a chain mail shirt that covers all of his torso and usually turns away any weapon. The massive strength of this man more than compensates for the additional weight of the mail shirt. Most other officers chide him about his lack of show. He always points out that his sporran, the leather belt he wears, signifies his rank and that his armor tells other legionnaires that he will fight at their side not watch from the rear.
After girding on his sporran holding his gladius and pugio, then donning his cloak of rank, he spends some time in quiet meditation. Following his morning rituals, the officer assures that he has the proper look for his position. To him example is vital to command authority.
Once up he dines with the men in the garrison common room. Dining with men of lower rank often yields much more information than any inquiry. Those who do not know him will not immediately know his rank if he is already seated when they arrive. He listens as men assigned to keeping the peace among a less than peaceful people discuss the duties of the day. Their concerns over the influx of pilgrims and the associated threats monopolize the conversations.
A young soldier with clear eyes and clean face takes the seat opposite Portimus. The morning fare of bread and cheese goes well with the warm wine they share. He learns from the young legionnaire that during the end of his watch, in the early morning, a celebration broke out in the city.
The legionnaire’s eyes sparkle as he reports the spectacle, “The Jewish prophet entered the city riding a white donkey. People gathered at the Golden Gate, laying down palm fronds for him to rider over. They laid down their cloaks in front of him hailing him as King of the Jews. The man waved at the crowds but said nothing. People began to chant ‘Blessings on the King who comes in the name of the Lord; peace in heaven and glory in the highest places.’
Our captain ordered our squad to follow him through the city. He arrived at the Mount of Olives and dismounted. All the Jews there were praising him as if her were a god. I overheard people speak of him raising the dead and healing people.”
The legionnaire lowers his voice conspiratorially as he continues, “Some of the Pharisees called for him to rebuke his followers, accusing them of blasphemy. He paused just long enough to see that all present would hear him. His reply was simple and enraged the priests. He said, ‘What good would it do to stop them. If they fall silent the very stones will immediately cry out the same.’
This made the Pharisees so angry that they stormed away to the temple. He sat down to speak quietly to the crowed just before my watch ended. I fear that the crowed will cause trouble over their holy days. There were thousands of them.”
Portimus reassures the young soldier, “I do not think you need to fear this man. I have heard of his kind. He is not a Zealot. Tell me something. Did you hear his name mentioned.”
A moment of thought and a sip of wine are enough for the legionnaire to recall it, “Yes, his friends called him Jesus, and he came from Nazareth.”
The Praetor’s smile spreads slowly across his face, “I spent some years in Nazareth. Zealots do not come from there. The people you speak of are kind and peaceful. Save your fear for the trouble the Pharisees may yet bring because of this man’s popularity.”
As he finishes his statement, Castor enters. The legionnaire sees his commander approach and rises to attention. Out of courtesy, Portimus rises as well. The young soldier looks confused when his breakfast companion fails to salute the commander.
Castor returns the legionnaire’s salute in turn originating one to Portimus. The younger man’s confusion only deepens until his commander speaks, “Praetor, the Governor sends word that he will receive you any time this morning. Apparently matters with the Jews need your attention.”
Portimus acknowledges the information with a nod, “This young legionnaire has given me an excellent report of events at the Jews’ Golden Gate this morning. Although he is young, he is alert and intelligent. Please see that he gets an opportunity to put those skills to better use than as a night watchman.”
Castor beams at the excellent favor of a Praetor. “Flavius Silva is a good soldier and will be given opportunity at your word. May I begin by assigning him as your escort while you are in Jerusalem?”
At this, the young legionnaire merely stands straighter and sputters slightly. Portimus laughs and nods his agreement, “Give him time to rest and he may meet me at the Governor’s after midday. Get him some better armor and a new tunic. Have the stables assign him a good horse and proper equipment for travel.”
Castor snaps an affirmative reply, “All will be ready by midday.” Turning to Silva he continues, “Go to your rest and then to one of the private baths on my authority. If you are to stand before the Governor, you must represent us all well. I will give you a letter of entry.”
The color drains from the young soldier’s face as he realizes how quickly his life has just changed. He can only think to obey his training. Snapping off a salute, he turns briskly and exits. The two officers share a laugh at the young man’s expense after he is out of earshot.
Portimus collects his helm and cloak then addresses Castor, “I wish to be kept informed about the activities of the prophet from Nazareth. Should there be trouble surrounding him I want to know at once. Keep me informed quietly, but keep me informed.”
Castor, a politically wise officer ignores his minds questions as to the Praetor’s interest in a Jewish prophet. “I will see to it,” is all he allows.
“Excellent,” allows Portimus, “I will be with the Governor most of the day. Keep your men alert. Something is on the move.”
26 August 2005
Book Crossings - Setting Books Free
Greetings Dear Readers,
It has been a great writing week and I have had the unique opportunity to set a book free. There is a site called book crossings that tracks books that are left out in the open for others to take and read. See the above site. Let me know what you think.
TO RJ's STUDENTS:
I have not had anyone take me up on the challenge. Is she working you too hard? See the post on the encroaching fall.
Wishing you all joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
It has been a great writing week and I have had the unique opportunity to set a book free. There is a site called book crossings that tracks books that are left out in the open for others to take and read. See the above site. Let me know what you think.
TO RJ's STUDENTS:
I have not had anyone take me up on the challenge. Is she working you too hard? See the post on the encroaching fall.
Wishing you all joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
19 August 2005
The Encroaching Fall
Greetings Dear Readers,
Because I dwell in the Northern Midwest, the summer drifts away sooner than for most of the nation. Even though it is August and the temperatures still hover in the low eighties, the very subtle hints that Summer is packing her bags linger in the air. The morning temperature are in the mid to low fifties. The dew lies heavier on the lawn and my thoughts turn to camp fire, hot chocolate, and corn mazes.
I would like to give you all a writing challenge. Capture the essence of fall in one five sentence paragraph. Submit them via email to aramisthorn@aol.com. I will choose the best one and send you a free copy of my newest book. I will also publish it in this blog. Let me see who can make fall come alive for me while the AC is still running.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Because I dwell in the Northern Midwest, the summer drifts away sooner than for most of the nation. Even though it is August and the temperatures still hover in the low eighties, the very subtle hints that Summer is packing her bags linger in the air. The morning temperature are in the mid to low fifties. The dew lies heavier on the lawn and my thoughts turn to camp fire, hot chocolate, and corn mazes.
I would like to give you all a writing challenge. Capture the essence of fall in one five sentence paragraph. Submit them via email to aramisthorn@aol.com. I will choose the best one and send you a free copy of my newest book. I will also publish it in this blog. Let me see who can make fall come alive for me while the AC is still running.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
29 July 2005
When Ideas Leap from the Head
Greetings Dear Readers,
One of the things in a writer's life is both a bane and a blessing. It is that moment when you are somewhere, concentrating on something else, and an idea leaps into your brain without so much as a "good day, may I enter?" These events are survivable but you must be prepared. Here are some steps to take.
1. Realize that this is going to happen and be prepared to get the idea into something permanent.
2. If you are in a social situation, excuse yourself if possible. People will know that you are a writer and assume you are a little nuts.
3. Keep a small pad and pen or a voice recorder with you to get the idea into recallable form.
4. If the story demands it, stay up all night and write it. I do not recommend getting into a habit of this. It is to controlling on the part of your muses.
5. Be as detailed as possible in recording your idea.
6. Get back to the idea soon so that you may begin to develop it.
These steps will assure you that you do not lose those gems and sit in front of a blank page begging the writing muse to whisper those sweet somethings back into your brain.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
One of the things in a writer's life is both a bane and a blessing. It is that moment when you are somewhere, concentrating on something else, and an idea leaps into your brain without so much as a "good day, may I enter?" These events are survivable but you must be prepared. Here are some steps to take.
1. Realize that this is going to happen and be prepared to get the idea into something permanent.
2. If you are in a social situation, excuse yourself if possible. People will know that you are a writer and assume you are a little nuts.
3. Keep a small pad and pen or a voice recorder with you to get the idea into recallable form.
4. If the story demands it, stay up all night and write it. I do not recommend getting into a habit of this. It is to controlling on the part of your muses.
5. Be as detailed as possible in recording your idea.
6. Get back to the idea soon so that you may begin to develop it.
These steps will assure you that you do not lose those gems and sit in front of a blank page begging the writing muse to whisper those sweet somethings back into your brain.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
22 July 2005
Papago's Passing
Recently my closest and dearest friend lost one of her favorite cats. She knew the end was coming but that never makes loss less. I grieve with you and know that your tears are from the heart.
Papago’s Passing
By Aramis Thorn – July 16, 2005
Our calico hunter, sleek and demure,
Slipped away the bounds mortality,
Leaving behind human mourners unsure,
Of how to carry this finality.
Having fought for life against blight and age,
Improved movement and energy gave thought,
That our friend might yet have time upon this stage,
To bird and mouse and share of what was caught.
On the stoop, no more barely allowed strokes,
Or talks of news from the surrounding wood.
An earthly lingering sadness evokes
Hope that in wisdom the Creator would
Have a peculiar secret realm he keeps,
For the mouse police who forever sleeps.
Papago’s Passing
By Aramis Thorn – July 16, 2005
Our calico hunter, sleek and demure,
Slipped away the bounds mortality,
Leaving behind human mourners unsure,
Of how to carry this finality.
Having fought for life against blight and age,
Improved movement and energy gave thought,
That our friend might yet have time upon this stage,
To bird and mouse and share of what was caught.
On the stoop, no more barely allowed strokes,
Or talks of news from the surrounding wood.
An earthly lingering sadness evokes
Hope that in wisdom the Creator would
Have a peculiar secret realm he keeps,
For the mouse police who forever sleeps.
18 July 2005
This Week's Reading 07-18-2005
Greetings Dear Readers,
I am still rereading Steven King's On Writing and also I have returned to a tome I find invaluable for refilling my well. It is Julie Cameron's The Artist's Way. I find the exercises in this second book invigorating and challenging all at once.
I will be cracking open the J.K. Rowling's novel, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Price this week so that I can keep pace with my writer's and artist's discussion group. I would love to hear your about reactions to Rowling's work.
Remember that no one steel the books we have already read.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
I am still rereading Steven King's On Writing and also I have returned to a tome I find invaluable for refilling my well. It is Julie Cameron's The Artist's Way. I find the exercises in this second book invigorating and challenging all at once.
I will be cracking open the J.K. Rowling's novel, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Price this week so that I can keep pace with my writer's and artist's discussion group. I would love to hear your about reactions to Rowling's work.
Remember that no one steel the books we have already read.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
16 July 2005
When Writing is Hard
Most mornings I get up ready to write and anxious to create. There are a few mornings when I am distracted, concerned, or down right empty. All the players in my head are silent and the wonders of my several created worlds are hidden from me. It is frustrating, daunting, and even frightening to find this place. Quickly awakened are the haunts of my place as a writer, my self doubt, and the temptation to chuck it all and go dig ditches somewhere.
It is important to do two things when you feel this way. One is to write something anyway. Make yourself pound out some words. Do some free writing to loosen up your brain. Get some words down no matter what their quality or lack of quality. If you feel later that you should line the parakeet cage with what you have written, that is all well and good. The important thing is that you are only a writer if you write. You can then move on to the second thing knowing that you are still a writer and have worked today. Make yourself write every day that you are supposed to write.
The second thing is to do something to recreate yourself. What is it that recharges you? Go for a walk. Visit a museum or library. Watch some little kids play your favorite sport. Do something to rebuild who you are from the inside out. Clear your mind and see the beauty of the universe in some new way. Do something to recharge your battery.
Even if it takes a day or two or three to get back to your stride, you will get it back. The important thing is to keep at it. A writer writes, always.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
It is important to do two things when you feel this way. One is to write something anyway. Make yourself pound out some words. Do some free writing to loosen up your brain. Get some words down no matter what their quality or lack of quality. If you feel later that you should line the parakeet cage with what you have written, that is all well and good. The important thing is that you are only a writer if you write. You can then move on to the second thing knowing that you are still a writer and have worked today. Make yourself write every day that you are supposed to write.
The second thing is to do something to recreate yourself. What is it that recharges you? Go for a walk. Visit a museum or library. Watch some little kids play your favorite sport. Do something to rebuild who you are from the inside out. Clear your mind and see the beauty of the universe in some new way. Do something to recharge your battery.
Even if it takes a day or two or three to get back to your stride, you will get it back. The important thing is to keep at it. A writer writes, always.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
11 July 2005
This Week's Reading - 07-11-05
Greetings Dear Readers,
This week I am delving into some oddly different areas. I am reading Steven King's On Writing, a must for any writer. I read this annually to remind me of some of the things I do to keep my writing going. I am also reading The Person and Work of the Holy Spirit: The Holy Spirit Effects in Us What Christ Has Done for Us by Donald T. Williams. The book has a long title but is one of the best tomes I have found on the Holy Spirit. I am also still working my way through The Last Best League. I usually read very quickly but when I read about baseball I tend to adopt the easy pace of the game as if it were August and I was in the old Atlanta Stadium surrounded by hope and humidity.
Go find a good book and tell me about it.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
This week I am delving into some oddly different areas. I am reading Steven King's On Writing, a must for any writer. I read this annually to remind me of some of the things I do to keep my writing going. I am also reading The Person and Work of the Holy Spirit: The Holy Spirit Effects in Us What Christ Has Done for Us by Donald T. Williams. The book has a long title but is one of the best tomes I have found on the Holy Spirit. I am also still working my way through The Last Best League. I usually read very quickly but when I read about baseball I tend to adopt the easy pace of the game as if it were August and I was in the old Atlanta Stadium surrounded by hope and humidity.
Go find a good book and tell me about it.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
10 July 2005
On Editors
Greetings Dear Readers,
Many things, both wonderful and woeful pass through out lives. Sometimes they stay. Occasionally, when the timbre of the great song is just right, the universe sings out an amazing and kind editor. In my mind, editors are mostly curmudgeonly old men with red pens and sour stomachs. Since God loves to shatter my stereotypes he sent me an editor who is kind, vibrant, and very encouraging.
None of the things I have mentioned are requirements to good editing but what they do for the author is unchartable. I have had three professional editors in my writing career. The first was critical, mean spirited, and chemical dependent. His goal was more my destruction than the healing of my writing flaws. He almost drove me away from writing all together. My second editor, truly one of God's greatest creations, was too busy to be great. I have retained her as my first reader. (If you do not know what that is read Steven King's On Writing, heck read it anyway, as a matter of fact I think that I will reread it today.) She is an awesome first reader and will always fill that role as often as she wishes. My third editor is also a singularly clear note in the universe. She is efficient, encouraging, and pushes me to be a better writer.
When you choose someone to edit your work, do not rest until you find someone who loves editing and gets you as a writer. Avoid frustrated authors who became editors so that they could hang onto the edge of the writing world without really living in it. True editors like mine are not standing on the edge waiting for the courage to write. They find their passion in making writers better at their craft.
Here are some things to look for in an editor
Skill in the language
A passion for excellence
Kindness - Kind Editors exist, therefore, we should use them and drive the others out of business
Good communication skills
A teaching aptitude - My editor is great at showing me flaws in my grammar without making me feel like and idiot. After all I have a Ph.D., I just have trouble with things like spelling and split infinitives.
Above all, it is vital to entrust your writing to someone you trust. You are handing them a piece of your life. Your time, thoughts, and heart went into what is on the page. Your editor should respect this. I know mine does. She is a joy and a blessing.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Many things, both wonderful and woeful pass through out lives. Sometimes they stay. Occasionally, when the timbre of the great song is just right, the universe sings out an amazing and kind editor. In my mind, editors are mostly curmudgeonly old men with red pens and sour stomachs. Since God loves to shatter my stereotypes he sent me an editor who is kind, vibrant, and very encouraging.
None of the things I have mentioned are requirements to good editing but what they do for the author is unchartable. I have had three professional editors in my writing career. The first was critical, mean spirited, and chemical dependent. His goal was more my destruction than the healing of my writing flaws. He almost drove me away from writing all together. My second editor, truly one of God's greatest creations, was too busy to be great. I have retained her as my first reader. (If you do not know what that is read Steven King's On Writing, heck read it anyway, as a matter of fact I think that I will reread it today.) She is an awesome first reader and will always fill that role as often as she wishes. My third editor is also a singularly clear note in the universe. She is efficient, encouraging, and pushes me to be a better writer.
When you choose someone to edit your work, do not rest until you find someone who loves editing and gets you as a writer. Avoid frustrated authors who became editors so that they could hang onto the edge of the writing world without really living in it. True editors like mine are not standing on the edge waiting for the courage to write. They find their passion in making writers better at their craft.
Here are some things to look for in an editor
Skill in the language
A passion for excellence
Kindness - Kind Editors exist, therefore, we should use them and drive the others out of business
Good communication skills
A teaching aptitude - My editor is great at showing me flaws in my grammar without making me feel like and idiot. After all I have a Ph.D., I just have trouble with things like spelling and split infinitives.
Above all, it is vital to entrust your writing to someone you trust. You are handing them a piece of your life. Your time, thoughts, and heart went into what is on the page. Your editor should respect this. I know mine does. She is a joy and a blessing.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
04 July 2005
This Week's Reading - 07-04-05
Greetings Dear Readers,
So many books, so little time. This week my mind wrestles anew with the words of Thomas Traherne and George Herbert. One of my dear colleagues gave me a Latin and English version of George Herbert's works as a graduation gift and I use it to keep my skills at the long dead language honed. Amidst the great messages of the humble pastor, Herbert lies the constant reminder of the ways in which Christ shares our journey with us. Thomas Traherne's words are eternal no matter what your faith or practice. His Centuries of Meditation cause the reader to look at the universe as his own and see the ways in which his calls a man to greatness.
I am also reading The Last Best League, by Jim Collins. This is a baseball story about the Cape Cod League and therefore has my heart. The book was a gift from my youngest son this past Father's day. Giving books as gifts is a tradition that must remain. Books are eternal gifts in which you can package messages that remain for many years. Buy someone a book. Buy them one of mine if you wish. Stephen King called them "uniquely portable magic."
Feel free to tell me what you are reading or recommend books for me. Stay cool in the heat and read something amazing.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
So many books, so little time. This week my mind wrestles anew with the words of Thomas Traherne and George Herbert. One of my dear colleagues gave me a Latin and English version of George Herbert's works as a graduation gift and I use it to keep my skills at the long dead language honed. Amidst the great messages of the humble pastor, Herbert lies the constant reminder of the ways in which Christ shares our journey with us. Thomas Traherne's words are eternal no matter what your faith or practice. His Centuries of Meditation cause the reader to look at the universe as his own and see the ways in which his calls a man to greatness.
I am also reading The Last Best League, by Jim Collins. This is a baseball story about the Cape Cod League and therefore has my heart. The book was a gift from my youngest son this past Father's day. Giving books as gifts is a tradition that must remain. Books are eternal gifts in which you can package messages that remain for many years. Buy someone a book. Buy them one of mine if you wish. Stephen King called them "uniquely portable magic."
Feel free to tell me what you are reading or recommend books for me. Stay cool in the heat and read something amazing.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
02 July 2005
The Freedom To Write
Greetings Dear Readers,
Since it is Independence Day weekend I thought I would talk about the freedom involved in the writing life. If you are a writer in America, you can write about almost anything you wish and if you find an audience, get published and paid for writing. The Constitution guarantees out right to speak freely, including via the written word. There are still countries where it is illegal and even dangerous to write things that are not politically correct or socially acceptable.
We are free to write but must be careful to protect this freedom. An example of threats to our freedom to expression is the whole concept of political correctness. When someone tells me I must say something a certain way they are telling me that my intent is determined by their interpretation of my words.
This is an error. When I use a word to describe something in my writing, it is my intent that matters, not the readers assignment of my intent. Many have gone back to great past writings attempting to assign their social framework to another writer's intent. Authorial intent always matters. Coaching demands for political correctness in terms that sound kind makes it no less improper. People accuse those rejecting political correctness of be exclusive or non-inclusive by their word choice. To me, this borders on the always to be feared thought police.
We must try not to offend out of hand, but sometimes the truth is offensive. This means that there will be offense just because we speak the truth. That is too bad. It is a slight on our freedom to demand that we temper the truth so that it is inoffensive.
The concept of political correctness also forces a logical fallacy. It offends me to demand that I be politically correct in my expression so, political correctness becomes, by its nature, offensive and therefore wrong. Political correctness is a threat to our basis freedom of expression. Too many people gave their lives and continue to do so in order for me to write. It would be dishonorable for me to speak anything less than the truth, tempered with kindness.
Have a great holiday, and go write something.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
Since it is Independence Day weekend I thought I would talk about the freedom involved in the writing life. If you are a writer in America, you can write about almost anything you wish and if you find an audience, get published and paid for writing. The Constitution guarantees out right to speak freely, including via the written word. There are still countries where it is illegal and even dangerous to write things that are not politically correct or socially acceptable.
We are free to write but must be careful to protect this freedom. An example of threats to our freedom to expression is the whole concept of political correctness. When someone tells me I must say something a certain way they are telling me that my intent is determined by their interpretation of my words.
This is an error. When I use a word to describe something in my writing, it is my intent that matters, not the readers assignment of my intent. Many have gone back to great past writings attempting to assign their social framework to another writer's intent. Authorial intent always matters. Coaching demands for political correctness in terms that sound kind makes it no less improper. People accuse those rejecting political correctness of be exclusive or non-inclusive by their word choice. To me, this borders on the always to be feared thought police.
We must try not to offend out of hand, but sometimes the truth is offensive. This means that there will be offense just because we speak the truth. That is too bad. It is a slight on our freedom to demand that we temper the truth so that it is inoffensive.
The concept of political correctness also forces a logical fallacy. It offends me to demand that I be politically correct in my expression so, political correctness becomes, by its nature, offensive and therefore wrong. Political correctness is a threat to our basis freedom of expression. Too many people gave their lives and continue to do so in order for me to write. It would be dishonorable for me to speak anything less than the truth, tempered with kindness.
Have a great holiday, and go write something.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
27 June 2005
This Week's Reading 06-27-05
Greetings All,
This week I am reading an excellent work of fiction and some good thinking materials.
The fictional work is Steven King's Nightmares and Dreamscapes. It is somewhat of a departure as all of the stories are not terror. There is a mixture of terror, suspense, science fiction, and human nature study. I highly recommend this for a more well rounded view of SF's mind and skills. When I am finished with this book, I plan to begin his Dark Tower series. I know, I am way behind, but I am catching up ;-}
The other book I am journeying through is Ken Wilber's A Brief History of Everything. It is philosophical, scientific, and religious all at once. I often disagree with Wilbur's assumptions but find him an excellent foil to my thinking. The conversational style of the book can be difficult at times, but I started reading it as if I were reading a script and that helped. Limber up your brain and give Wilber a whirl.
I am also reading a great deal about the early star gazers called Magus or Magi. I am working on a novel about them and have been digging into the early days of astronomy. Some of the books I havd found useful are The Magi, by Ken Vincent; The Star of Bethlehem, by Michael R. Molnar, and The Gospel in the Stars, by Joseph Seiss.
I would like to challenge all of you to develop and use a summer reading list. Let me know if you do and what you are reading.
Until next time,
Wishing you all joy in the journey,
Aramis
This week I am reading an excellent work of fiction and some good thinking materials.
The fictional work is Steven King's Nightmares and Dreamscapes. It is somewhat of a departure as all of the stories are not terror. There is a mixture of terror, suspense, science fiction, and human nature study. I highly recommend this for a more well rounded view of SF's mind and skills. When I am finished with this book, I plan to begin his Dark Tower series. I know, I am way behind, but I am catching up ;-}
The other book I am journeying through is Ken Wilber's A Brief History of Everything. It is philosophical, scientific, and religious all at once. I often disagree with Wilbur's assumptions but find him an excellent foil to my thinking. The conversational style of the book can be difficult at times, but I started reading it as if I were reading a script and that helped. Limber up your brain and give Wilber a whirl.
I am also reading a great deal about the early star gazers called Magus or Magi. I am working on a novel about them and have been digging into the early days of astronomy. Some of the books I havd found useful are The Magi, by Ken Vincent; The Star of Bethlehem, by Michael R. Molnar, and The Gospel in the Stars, by Joseph Seiss.
I would like to challenge all of you to develop and use a summer reading list. Let me know if you do and what you are reading.
Until next time,
Wishing you all joy in the journey,
Aramis
23 June 2005
A Challenging Week
Greetings Dear Readers and Other Friends,
This has been a very challenging writing week. Many other life issues demanding my attention have impeded on my writing time. This brings to mind Stephen Kings insistence that a writer keep his writing time sacred. I usually do but this week has demanded that I pay attention to other things. Some of them have been pleasure some have been duty but all were necessary. Hopefully the adventures will prove grist for the imagination and make my writing better.
I have decided to keep you all posted on what I am reading as well. Feel free to interact about this or ask direct questions. I will talk about what I read and interact with the other writer. You are encouraged to read if you are to write. You cannot draw from a dried out well. It is the nature of the universe. Look for a separate post each week on what I am reading.
Have a great week,
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
This has been a very challenging writing week. Many other life issues demanding my attention have impeded on my writing time. This brings to mind Stephen Kings insistence that a writer keep his writing time sacred. I usually do but this week has demanded that I pay attention to other things. Some of them have been pleasure some have been duty but all were necessary. Hopefully the adventures will prove grist for the imagination and make my writing better.
I have decided to keep you all posted on what I am reading as well. Feel free to interact about this or ask direct questions. I will talk about what I read and interact with the other writer. You are encouraged to read if you are to write. You cannot draw from a dried out well. It is the nature of the universe. Look for a separate post each week on what I am reading.
Have a great week,
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
18 June 2005
Chasing the Big Fish
Greetings Loyal Readers,
As I rose early this morning to click out my thoughts I considered the hamster wheel upon which I run. I know that I have something to say to the world. I know the world needs to hear it. I also know that the publishing world is nearly impossible to penetrate without proper connections. For those of you following me, I will let you know if I make any significant connections. As I look for that big break, I remember that the importance is in the writing not the success. I am called by God to write. I will, therefore, write.
For those I am following, I will gladly hear any advice you wish to offer. Please be kind in your suggestions, but pass them on. A special note of thanks to my friend, the Sage near the Lonely Mountain for his kind words and encouragement.
As a final thought, if any of you know Oprah and can get her to recommend my books, feel free.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
As I rose early this morning to click out my thoughts I considered the hamster wheel upon which I run. I know that I have something to say to the world. I know the world needs to hear it. I also know that the publishing world is nearly impossible to penetrate without proper connections. For those of you following me, I will let you know if I make any significant connections. As I look for that big break, I remember that the importance is in the writing not the success. I am called by God to write. I will, therefore, write.
For those I am following, I will gladly hear any advice you wish to offer. Please be kind in your suggestions, but pass them on. A special note of thanks to my friend, the Sage near the Lonely Mountain for his kind words and encouragement.
As a final thought, if any of you know Oprah and can get her to recommend my books, feel free.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
14 June 2005
A New Novel Complete and A New Editor
Greetings Loyal Readers,
I have finished a third book set in my Biblical world. It has a poor working title and is currently at the editor. I have a new editor who is awesome. For purposes of this Blog, and to protect her anonymity, I will give her a name, Melisand. I will be inviting her to post here and her students may use this to view updates on my work.
My latest book is about a Roman Soldier, Portimus, who is assigned to investigate the disappearance of the Body of Jesus Christ. If you have read The Foster Father of God then you have already met the noble Roman. I will past in a teaser chapter here. Let me know what you think.
A Stitch in Time
Brilliant stars and an even brighter moon illuminate the landscape of a chill Judean night. Unaffected by the night air, an angel sits astride a ruddy mare. Both Polemos, the Angel of War, and Eman, his mount are untouched by the elements and invisible to the eyes of man. He waits at the end of a flower field near the Jerusalem gate. The man for whom he waits enters the opposite end of the field. Polemos hastens to his side, aware that his mount will not harm any of the flowers nor leave any trace of his passage. The War Angel knows that he is to observe the man and protect him. He wonders why but obediently takes his place beside the rider.
The rider makes his way silently across the field of night blooming Narcissus. Out of respect for the unknown owner, he guides his horse through the narrow path used to tend and irrigate the ocean of fragrant flowers. The scent of the Narcissus provides welcome relief from the coppery stench of the blood still damp on his tunic. Checking the puncture wound between his third and fourth rib the Roman soldier notes with relief that the bleeding has stopped. Pulling the arrow from his pack, he studies it under the moonlight. Looking up into the night sky, he whispers to no one in particular, "Zealots."
The timber of his single word accusation is more anguish than anger. He knows that Rome grows weary of the lack of assimilation in this region. Even their great celebration of Passover is celebration of freedom from oppressors. Portimus does not see that Rome oppresses Israel but he also knows that how he sees it did not matter to the recently dispatched band that ambushed him in the mountains near Gaza.
Having tracked them there from the site of their attack on a Greek caravan, the Roman offers the four men the opportunity to surrender and live. Their response, attacking on foot against a mounted soldier, proves unwise. That this particular Praetor could best any four other Centurions any given day proves fatal for the untrained inexperienced assailants.
Weapons and will do not complete a fighter. The Zealots have both but lack the confidence of practice and wisdom of action. The first two of them rush him, flailing their swords wildly as if to scare him. Although this tactic works on caravans of merchants and women, a sidestep with his horse, a parry, and two quick thrusts cut the number of opponents in half, literally.
The third, the one with the bow, becomes overconfident when a lucky shot pierces the Roman's side. Portimus shifts his gladius to the hand holding his mount's reins at the same moment the emboldened Zealot stands and aims for a second shot. With speed uncommon for his size the mounted warrior grasps a javelin from his quiver and lets fly. The bow shot sails far over the soldierÂ’s head as the force of javelin drives the Zealot into the rock wall behind him.
Fear shows in the eyes of the fourth Zealot. Unfortunately, for him bravado and rage soon replace his fear. He charges Portimus screaming epithets, his sword raised high. Portimus nudges his horse back and to the left. The Zealot's swing goes wide and the soldier calls to him in flawless Aramaic, "You cannot beat me. Surrender and you will live."
The assailant screams at the soldier. "I would rather die than receive mercy from a Roman." He spits on the ground and charges again. Seeing that there will be no parley with the Zealot Portimus grants his request. The soldier kicks his horse to the right and beheads the rebel as he passes. The Roman takes no pleasure in killing but has dispatched all four Zealots efficiently and professionally in a matter of seconds.
He takes a moment to carefully remove the arrow from his side and wash the wound. It is not life threatening but will need professional attention. He gathers the fallen men's belongings and the camels and items taken from the caravan. Returning to the place where the caravan survivors wait, he delivers their belongings to them.
Bidding the travelers well, he presses on toward his assignment in Jerusalem. He knows that the gates are already closed for the night and makes his way around to the needle's eye. This small gate is guarded and allows access to travelers only via a narrow passage. There is an opening through which animals must stoop to pass. The guards recognize the Roman's rank and hasten to open the larger gate for him.
Portimus rides through the crowded streets to the garrison. The pre-Passover bazaar makes the going slow but he is determined to clean up and assess the city before reporting to the Governor. Pilate does not mind late night chats but he prefers clean officers in his presence. The night watch at the garrison snaps to attention and salutes as he rides up. To his credit, one of them notices the blood on the Praetor's armor and summons aid. To his further credit, he rouses the garrison commander, alerting him to the arrival of a higher-ranking officer.
Polemos moves away, aware that his charge will be well for now. The War Angel's brothers are gathering. Something requires his attention and there is a sense of foreboding in all of creation. Whatever is on the horizon, his new interest will play a part in it.
The soldier retreats from his commander's quarters and guides the Praetor to an empty officer's billet. Portimus gingerly removes his armor and lays it with his pack and weapons by the bed. He checks that his letters to Pilate are safely in the baggage and asks soldieron of the solider to the baths.
While waiting, Portimus enters the bath to soak away his road weariness. A Greek physician arrives, bleary eyed and groggy. Inspecting the wound carefully he announces that there is no infection, applies some foul smelling ointment, and stitches it closed. Two servants enter with food for the soldier and he thanks them. The leader of garrison, Castor, notices this and wonders why a Praetor would bother to thank a servant.
Portimus dines in silence listening to Castor report of activities in the city. Having attended Passover celebration in Jerusalem a number of years ago, he is used to the common complaints of overcrowding and various petty crimes surrounding the bazaar. The Praetor's attention focuses when Castor mentions problems with the ruling religious council of the Jews, the Sanhedrin.
He listens intently as the officer explains the problem the council has with one of the local religious fanatics. "Apparently, the fanatic in question is rumored to work miracles and has defied the Pharisees' abuses of their religious law for personal gain. It seems that this rogue teacher is going to enter the city tomorrow and the Jews are worried about a public uprising in his favor. If you ask me they make too much fuss over a carpenter from Nazareth."
Only his keen discipline keeps Portimus from visible reaction. He knows the only carpenter from Nazareth that could cause such a stir. He has not seen him in over five years, but he knows him and is sure that the stir and the rumors are genuine. He will look further into it tomorrow, after he reports to Pilate. For now he needs rest and apparently preparation.
I have finished a third book set in my Biblical world. It has a poor working title and is currently at the editor. I have a new editor who is awesome. For purposes of this Blog, and to protect her anonymity, I will give her a name, Melisand. I will be inviting her to post here and her students may use this to view updates on my work.
My latest book is about a Roman Soldier, Portimus, who is assigned to investigate the disappearance of the Body of Jesus Christ. If you have read The Foster Father of God then you have already met the noble Roman. I will past in a teaser chapter here. Let me know what you think.
A Stitch in Time
Brilliant stars and an even brighter moon illuminate the landscape of a chill Judean night. Unaffected by the night air, an angel sits astride a ruddy mare. Both Polemos, the Angel of War, and Eman, his mount are untouched by the elements and invisible to the eyes of man. He waits at the end of a flower field near the Jerusalem gate. The man for whom he waits enters the opposite end of the field. Polemos hastens to his side, aware that his mount will not harm any of the flowers nor leave any trace of his passage. The War Angel knows that he is to observe the man and protect him. He wonders why but obediently takes his place beside the rider.
The rider makes his way silently across the field of night blooming Narcissus. Out of respect for the unknown owner, he guides his horse through the narrow path used to tend and irrigate the ocean of fragrant flowers. The scent of the Narcissus provides welcome relief from the coppery stench of the blood still damp on his tunic. Checking the puncture wound between his third and fourth rib the Roman soldier notes with relief that the bleeding has stopped. Pulling the arrow from his pack, he studies it under the moonlight. Looking up into the night sky, he whispers to no one in particular, "Zealots."
The timber of his single word accusation is more anguish than anger. He knows that Rome grows weary of the lack of assimilation in this region. Even their great celebration of Passover is celebration of freedom from oppressors. Portimus does not see that Rome oppresses Israel but he also knows that how he sees it did not matter to the recently dispatched band that ambushed him in the mountains near Gaza.
Having tracked them there from the site of their attack on a Greek caravan, the Roman offers the four men the opportunity to surrender and live. Their response, attacking on foot against a mounted soldier, proves unwise. That this particular Praetor could best any four other Centurions any given day proves fatal for the untrained inexperienced assailants.
Weapons and will do not complete a fighter. The Zealots have both but lack the confidence of practice and wisdom of action. The first two of them rush him, flailing their swords wildly as if to scare him. Although this tactic works on caravans of merchants and women, a sidestep with his horse, a parry, and two quick thrusts cut the number of opponents in half, literally.
The third, the one with the bow, becomes overconfident when a lucky shot pierces the Roman's side. Portimus shifts his gladius to the hand holding his mount's reins at the same moment the emboldened Zealot stands and aims for a second shot. With speed uncommon for his size the mounted warrior grasps a javelin from his quiver and lets fly. The bow shot sails far over the soldierÂ’s head as the force of javelin drives the Zealot into the rock wall behind him.
Fear shows in the eyes of the fourth Zealot. Unfortunately, for him bravado and rage soon replace his fear. He charges Portimus screaming epithets, his sword raised high. Portimus nudges his horse back and to the left. The Zealot's swing goes wide and the soldier calls to him in flawless Aramaic, "You cannot beat me. Surrender and you will live."
The assailant screams at the soldier. "I would rather die than receive mercy from a Roman." He spits on the ground and charges again. Seeing that there will be no parley with the Zealot Portimus grants his request. The soldier kicks his horse to the right and beheads the rebel as he passes. The Roman takes no pleasure in killing but has dispatched all four Zealots efficiently and professionally in a matter of seconds.
He takes a moment to carefully remove the arrow from his side and wash the wound. It is not life threatening but will need professional attention. He gathers the fallen men's belongings and the camels and items taken from the caravan. Returning to the place where the caravan survivors wait, he delivers their belongings to them.
Bidding the travelers well, he presses on toward his assignment in Jerusalem. He knows that the gates are already closed for the night and makes his way around to the needle's eye. This small gate is guarded and allows access to travelers only via a narrow passage. There is an opening through which animals must stoop to pass. The guards recognize the Roman's rank and hasten to open the larger gate for him.
Portimus rides through the crowded streets to the garrison. The pre-Passover bazaar makes the going slow but he is determined to clean up and assess the city before reporting to the Governor. Pilate does not mind late night chats but he prefers clean officers in his presence. The night watch at the garrison snaps to attention and salutes as he rides up. To his credit, one of them notices the blood on the Praetor's armor and summons aid. To his further credit, he rouses the garrison commander, alerting him to the arrival of a higher-ranking officer.
Polemos moves away, aware that his charge will be well for now. The War Angel's brothers are gathering. Something requires his attention and there is a sense of foreboding in all of creation. Whatever is on the horizon, his new interest will play a part in it.
The soldier retreats from his commander's quarters and guides the Praetor to an empty officer's billet. Portimus gingerly removes his armor and lays it with his pack and weapons by the bed. He checks that his letters to Pilate are safely in the baggage and asks soldieron of the solider to the baths.
While waiting, Portimus enters the bath to soak away his road weariness. A Greek physician arrives, bleary eyed and groggy. Inspecting the wound carefully he announces that there is no infection, applies some foul smelling ointment, and stitches it closed. Two servants enter with food for the soldier and he thanks them. The leader of garrison, Castor, notices this and wonders why a Praetor would bother to thank a servant.
Portimus dines in silence listening to Castor report of activities in the city. Having attended Passover celebration in Jerusalem a number of years ago, he is used to the common complaints of overcrowding and various petty crimes surrounding the bazaar. The Praetor's attention focuses when Castor mentions problems with the ruling religious council of the Jews, the Sanhedrin.
He listens intently as the officer explains the problem the council has with one of the local religious fanatics. "Apparently, the fanatic in question is rumored to work miracles and has defied the Pharisees' abuses of their religious law for personal gain. It seems that this rogue teacher is going to enter the city tomorrow and the Jews are worried about a public uprising in his favor. If you ask me they make too much fuss over a carpenter from Nazareth."
Only his keen discipline keeps Portimus from visible reaction. He knows the only carpenter from Nazareth that could cause such a stir. He has not seen him in over five years, but he knows him and is sure that the stir and the rumors are genuine. He will look further into it tomorrow, after he reports to Pilate. For now he needs rest and apparently preparation.
18 May 2005
A New Novel Begun with A different Voice
Greetings Dear Readers,
I have begun a semi-autobiographical work that is also a work of fiction. I hope to capture the essence of growing up in the transitional South of my youth and the emerging South of my older years. It is intended to be humorous and speak with a voice differnt from my other writing . Here is a sample to enjoy. Let me know what you think.
The title is Sheetrock on the Road. I could use some ideas for cover art.
Glimpses of Eden
Sometimes in the early summer there are glimpses of Eden. We catch them out of the corner of our eye always wondering if they are really there. The reality that must have been a world where everything was perfect and right eludes us when we attempt to grasp it. One such glimpse presents itself each year during early summer.
Frost fades, humidity rises, and the farmer’s market fills with the smell of summer’s first offerings of fruits and vegetables. My Grandfather always knew by instinct the right day for this particular pilgrimage. It was one of his high holy days and the ritual began at sunrise. We would clean out the trunk of his ’57 Chevy, reluctantly but necessarily leaving behind the fishing gear and small tool box he always kept there.
Armed with our 450 air conditioning[1] and the vast empty trunk of the Chevy we embarked on our pilgrimage seeking the rare Edenic treasures yielded from the fallen Georgia soil. The drive lasted under an hour and no real line formed until you reached the gate of the farmer’s market. This is why we began our journey early. Another of my Grandfather’s magical abilities was to be the first one to arrive practically anywhere.
The line of cars formed, stretching down Sylvan Road, waiting for the gates to open. It formed behind us. We waited, dining on the breakfast pilfered from my Grandmother’s refrigerator. This morning’s plunder included cold pecan pie and left over salmon croquets from last night’s dinner. Just as we finished our repast the gates opened.
The Chevy slips easily from neutral to drive and the engine’s powerful idle is enough to propel it forward. We cruise easily through the long shed rows that make up the vending stalls for the farmers. You can smell the earthy freshness of the produce and its bright colors magnify the richness. It is too early for corn or okras and too late for strawberries. Early peas and crookneck squash, even the first crop of cucumbers fill the large vending trays. An enterprising vendor or two even has some pallets of green tomatoes. Our treasure lies further on.
My Grandfather always drove every isle of the market even if what he sought were on the first isle. It was his way of paying homage to the men and women who worked the sun-baked soil of summer. He would nod to all the farmers and wave to those he knew. This slow drive through the stalls was as much an act of worship for him as the hymns he led in his small Baptist church on Sundays.
Occasionally he would stop and talk with a farmer he knew well. More than once I saw him slip some folded money to a farmer who was having a rough year financially. He loved and respected these men who split the soil, begged God for rain, fought round worms, and sat in sweltering stalls hoping to get full price for their produce. I knew what we sought and was impatient to get to it. I also knew that the treasure would be sweeter because of the pre-purchase acts of worships and giving.
After what seemed thirty hours but was really thirty minutes of conversations about the weather, soil conditions, and trout fishing on the Flint River, we move to the last isle of the market. I can smell the treasure before I see it. The sweetness both the savory and the sugary intoxicate me at once. I begin to salivate and anticipate. The powerfully purring Chevy seems interminably slow now. I am sure arthritic snails could outpace it.
I see the onions first. Pearly translucent globes of yellow white stand piled high in several stalls. The scent is savory and demanding. My Grandfather slowly pulls over to the second to last farmer in the row and calls out. “Good morning James Brock.”
The man knows my Grandfather and greets him by name, “Morning to you Reverend Sam.”
At this moment a signal passes between the two southern gentlemen and a time honored ritual begins. This ritual is as old as the open air market but my Grandfather had honed its subtleties to a rapier edge. Keep in mind that both men know the purpose, content, and outcome of the evolving conversation. This knowledge will in no way abbreviate or limit the conversation. The ritual is an entity in Southern life and it will be served. Long sworn family oaths and ancient expectations preclude me from giving away my Grandfather’s actual methodology in the ritual but here is the gist of it.
The first step in the verbal waltz is the cordial misdirected inquiry. The farmer, shirtless under well worn overalls, walks around to the driver’s side of the car and doffs his oversized corn straw hat. He pauses a moment to spit the juice from his chaw being sure to miss Sam’s car. “So what brings you out today?” He bends down to look in the window at me. “Are you showing the Grandson[2] how honest men work?”
Sam’s step in the dance is to respond with equal indirectness. He smiles back at the nut brown farmer. “We came out for a morning drive and a pecan pie breakfast. Just don’t tell Janie we had pie for breakfast or we’ll both have to cut a switch.”
While this exchange seems innocuous important groundwork has been laid. The shared secret knowledge of the pie puts the men on the ancient equal footing that all gentlemen need. Sam has forged a bond between them. By enlisting the farmer in the ranks of southern men who live their lives in constant trepidation of their wives discovering the small subterfuges used to indulge in daily life, Sam has made the man both his equal and his confidant.
The farmer grunts. “My wife Lizzie feels the same about me fishing in the evening. Way I figure, there’s no use having a four acre lake on your land if you can’t drop a line in when you have a mind.”
The man has given Sam the perfect opening to make the next move toward actually buying onions. “That lake of yours would tempt me to fish all the time too. I think we are having some of the catfish you and I caught together last spring for supper tonight.”
The farmer’s smile broadens and he gives permission for the dance to move closer to the onions. “Is your Janie going to make her home made hush puppies to go with those cats?”
It is Sam’s turn to produce a larger smile. “Even the magnificent catfish from your lake would seem incomplete without Janie’s hush puppies.”
The farmer rolls his eyes and looks wistfully over toward the mountain of fresh onions. “I guess you might need some onions for those puppies.”
Now the farmer has created a misstep in the dance. Traditionally this line belonged to the buyer not the vendor. The thing about my Grandfather was that no one would be embarrassed by him no matter how blatant their social blunder. At the same moment the farmer’s eyes widen in realization of his gaff, Sam steps in with a graceful saving joke. “I am so glad you reminded me. We were looking to get some fruit for a fruit salad. Janie would have skinned us both if we had come home with some Vidalia’s.”
Now you need to know a few things before we can continue. Not only had Sam just said one of the few truly power magic words in the entire world, but he has saved the farmer from seeming pushy in the same moment. That the farmer will save face is excellent. That my beloved Grandfather has finally spoken a magical incantation is beautiful. For the uninitiated, the magic word is ‘Vidalia.’
The Vidalia onion is unique in the vegetable world. Unlike most onions the Vidalia is sweet, robust in flavor, and eatable in almost any form imaginable. These miraculous, softball sized globes of savory sweetness are only available in limited quantity as they may only be grown in a six county area in South Georgia. Anyone claiming that they have some other onion that is just is good has one of several problems. They either have never truly had a Vidalia, they are out right lying to take your money, or they have an onion that suffers from delusions of grandeur.
In short, there is nothing in the universe that compares to a fresh, firm Vidalia onion. People will try to sell you fakes and some folks in Texas have the idea that they grow an onion just as good. In every field of endeavor there is a best. In the world of onions the Edenic soil of South Georgia produces the best there every will be. The world may never plumb the depths of its epicurean uses. My Grandmother used them to make amazing onion rings, luscious jars of pickled onions, and her literally award winning hush puppies.
The instant I hear the word my mind recalls last year’s onion rings and pickled onions. I know that tonight’s hush puppies will exceed all my memories. Before that can happen Sam and the farmer must complete their waltz. Recovering quickly from his unintentional gaff the farmer slides into comfortable negotiation. “I have plenty of Vidalia’s but they are small and not sweet enough.”
Two thirds of what the farmer has just said is a lie. He does have plenty of onions but they are huge and the pungent evidence of their sweetness permeates the air. In most bartering cultures the buyer works to lower the price by calling into question various aspects of the quality of merchandise. In the slow humble system of the Georgia Farmer’s Market, the rules are different.
The farmer’s quiet downplay of his merchandise requires Sam to give a polite and honest evaluation of the produce. Ever the Southern Gentleman, he does just that. “The onions I see look larger than any I can recall.” Lifting one he sniffs it thoughtfully. “This smells as sweet as any. I think you have a fine crop this year.”
Sam’s natural kindness gives away his genuine respect for the man and his produce. The man responds in kind. “I am happy you are pleased. How many onions do you need this time?”
The question is perfect. It inquires about the needs of the buyer without yet touching on the base issue of price. My Grandfather knows what he needs. “We intend to put up a lot of onions this year. I think that two bushels will be enough.”
The farmer’s eyes widen at this good fortune. Even though he will never speak it aloud, he knows that my Grandfather will not haggle on price. He will pay whatever the man asks trusting God and the bond of friendship he shares with the man to see that both are treated fairly. Price is never discussed. The farmer and my Grandfather load the onions into the trunk of the Chevy. As the trunk closes the farmer barely speaks the price. Sam pulls the bills from his wallet, pays the man, and they shake hands warmly.
Before Sam gets back to the drivers seat, the sweet pungency of the onions permeates the car. My Grandfather knows the smell has made me ravenous. It is why he saved the next slice of our brief visit to paradise until last. The Chevy rumbles to life and with a final wave to the farmer we move to the last row of stalls.
If the smell of the Vidalia onions assaulted my senses then the aroma of the final isle overwhelms and conquers them. Again the stalls hold vast piles of tempting globes. The color of the fruit transitions along the surface from buttery yellow to a deep purple red. Each globe of fruit holds a promise. Locked inside the beautifully painted skin of each one is the sweetness that to me will always be the taste, smell, texture, and feeling that must have been Eden.
Unlike the onion farmer, Sam does not know the peach vendor. This does not inhibit the dance in any way. Subtle differences play out but the result is the same. The two men reach the end of their mercantile minuet six half-bushel baskets of ripe Georgia peaches[3] are loaded into the back seat of the Chevy.
I understand that peaches grow all over this fine country. Some upstart in the North West thinks that their peaches are the best. They have a tourist oriented farmers market in the Northern Mid-West town in which I currently reside. One of the vendors actually sold something they called “Home State Peaches.” These small bits of yellow granite no more resembled real peaches than the icy freezing rain of South Georgia resembles real snow. You may as well try to feed me banana slugs while telling me they are banana peppers. There is nothing like a Georgia peach.
Another difference in the peach dance is that after loading the peaches into the car, the farmer moves around to my side and leans into the window. Looking to my Grandfather he waits for a nod of approval. Once received the man smiles and me and silently proffers two huge peaches in a large paper napkin. Rubbing my head he warns me, “Don’t get peach nectar all over your Grand’s car leather. Any youngster who sits so quiet while his elders do business deserves a treat for the ride home.”
I thank him out of duty and joy. My real thought is to get my teeth into one of those peaches as quickly as possible but the dangers of transgressing politeness give me the strength to briefly delay my passion. After about two centuries of proper goodbyes my Grandfather slips the Chevy into drive and the car prowls down the back roadway past the stalls heading toward the gate. A nod from my beloved Grandfather tells me I need wait no longer.As I lift the peach toward my mouth its scent precedes it promising all the joys that are the first peach of summer in Georgia. The Next few days will be spent peeling, pickling, and preserving. Peach cobbler, home made peach ice cream, peach preserves, and pickled peaches all wait in the four half bushel baskets in the back seat. My lips brush the fuzzy skin, my teeth sink into the succulent flesh, and ripe juices flood my taste buds. Eden is as real to me as that first morning Adam woke up and saw a naked Eve made just for him. Few things in this fallen dying world are blazing reminders of a better life. The hope is encased in the sunset skin of the first Georgia peach each summer is enough to remind us that God loves us. That first taste screams that the world will be redeemed and that we are promised a future composed of that single succulent moment stretching out endlessly in every direction forever.
[1] If you are unfamiliar with 450 air-conditioning, it is the earliest type available in automobiles. You can find it in any model four-door car. You simply roll down all four windows and drive at fifty miles per hour. This does not do any good when stuck in traffic or on days (about 362 of them a year in Georgia) where the humidity is too high for the wind to matter. Cars used to have small triangle shaped vent windows that you could point inward to force the wind directly onto your sweltering form. This always helped when you were moving. The ignoramus auto designer who got rid of these should be forced to sit in a black car in the afternoon summer sun in Plains, Georgia until her swears to put them back and retrofit all existing cars with them. Another amazing cooling device removed from cars was the lower vents in the dash board. My 1965 Dodge Dart had them and you could send a flow of cool to tepid air over your legs just by driving. All the environmental Nazis worried about Fluorocarbons and the Ozone Layer should demand a return to cars with triangle windows and lower vents. It makes it a lot easier not to push that little blue button on the dash board.
[2] It used to be that children under twelve rarely were introduced by name. At first thought this seems impersonal but I must say that I did not really care if people knew my name when I was eight. I did, however, glory in the feeling that emerged every time Sam referred to me as “his Grandson.” Perhaps there is something in the belonging that goes beyond the name.
[3] A note here is necessary on Georgia peaches. There is not nor will there ever be, this side of heaven anything equal to a Georgia Peach. Nothing will ever match the intricacies of their flavor, sweetness, smell, juiciness, texture, colors, and out right perfection. In a fallen world there are few absolute proofs that God created the universe and declared it good. Anyone who claims that the Georgia Peach happened because some amino acid bumped into just the right protein in some pool of primordial ooze is just plain stupid. If you believe peaches evolved you have never really tasted a Georgia Peach. If you disagree with this I will acknowledge your God given right to be absolutely wrong.
I have begun a semi-autobiographical work that is also a work of fiction. I hope to capture the essence of growing up in the transitional South of my youth and the emerging South of my older years. It is intended to be humorous and speak with a voice differnt from my other writing . Here is a sample to enjoy. Let me know what you think.
The title is Sheetrock on the Road. I could use some ideas for cover art.
Glimpses of Eden
Sometimes in the early summer there are glimpses of Eden. We catch them out of the corner of our eye always wondering if they are really there. The reality that must have been a world where everything was perfect and right eludes us when we attempt to grasp it. One such glimpse presents itself each year during early summer.
Frost fades, humidity rises, and the farmer’s market fills with the smell of summer’s first offerings of fruits and vegetables. My Grandfather always knew by instinct the right day for this particular pilgrimage. It was one of his high holy days and the ritual began at sunrise. We would clean out the trunk of his ’57 Chevy, reluctantly but necessarily leaving behind the fishing gear and small tool box he always kept there.
Armed with our 450 air conditioning[1] and the vast empty trunk of the Chevy we embarked on our pilgrimage seeking the rare Edenic treasures yielded from the fallen Georgia soil. The drive lasted under an hour and no real line formed until you reached the gate of the farmer’s market. This is why we began our journey early. Another of my Grandfather’s magical abilities was to be the first one to arrive practically anywhere.
The line of cars formed, stretching down Sylvan Road, waiting for the gates to open. It formed behind us. We waited, dining on the breakfast pilfered from my Grandmother’s refrigerator. This morning’s plunder included cold pecan pie and left over salmon croquets from last night’s dinner. Just as we finished our repast the gates opened.
The Chevy slips easily from neutral to drive and the engine’s powerful idle is enough to propel it forward. We cruise easily through the long shed rows that make up the vending stalls for the farmers. You can smell the earthy freshness of the produce and its bright colors magnify the richness. It is too early for corn or okras and too late for strawberries. Early peas and crookneck squash, even the first crop of cucumbers fill the large vending trays. An enterprising vendor or two even has some pallets of green tomatoes. Our treasure lies further on.
My Grandfather always drove every isle of the market even if what he sought were on the first isle. It was his way of paying homage to the men and women who worked the sun-baked soil of summer. He would nod to all the farmers and wave to those he knew. This slow drive through the stalls was as much an act of worship for him as the hymns he led in his small Baptist church on Sundays.
Occasionally he would stop and talk with a farmer he knew well. More than once I saw him slip some folded money to a farmer who was having a rough year financially. He loved and respected these men who split the soil, begged God for rain, fought round worms, and sat in sweltering stalls hoping to get full price for their produce. I knew what we sought and was impatient to get to it. I also knew that the treasure would be sweeter because of the pre-purchase acts of worships and giving.
After what seemed thirty hours but was really thirty minutes of conversations about the weather, soil conditions, and trout fishing on the Flint River, we move to the last isle of the market. I can smell the treasure before I see it. The sweetness both the savory and the sugary intoxicate me at once. I begin to salivate and anticipate. The powerfully purring Chevy seems interminably slow now. I am sure arthritic snails could outpace it.
I see the onions first. Pearly translucent globes of yellow white stand piled high in several stalls. The scent is savory and demanding. My Grandfather slowly pulls over to the second to last farmer in the row and calls out. “Good morning James Brock.”
The man knows my Grandfather and greets him by name, “Morning to you Reverend Sam.”
At this moment a signal passes between the two southern gentlemen and a time honored ritual begins. This ritual is as old as the open air market but my Grandfather had honed its subtleties to a rapier edge. Keep in mind that both men know the purpose, content, and outcome of the evolving conversation. This knowledge will in no way abbreviate or limit the conversation. The ritual is an entity in Southern life and it will be served. Long sworn family oaths and ancient expectations preclude me from giving away my Grandfather’s actual methodology in the ritual but here is the gist of it.
The first step in the verbal waltz is the cordial misdirected inquiry. The farmer, shirtless under well worn overalls, walks around to the driver’s side of the car and doffs his oversized corn straw hat. He pauses a moment to spit the juice from his chaw being sure to miss Sam’s car. “So what brings you out today?” He bends down to look in the window at me. “Are you showing the Grandson[2] how honest men work?”
Sam’s step in the dance is to respond with equal indirectness. He smiles back at the nut brown farmer. “We came out for a morning drive and a pecan pie breakfast. Just don’t tell Janie we had pie for breakfast or we’ll both have to cut a switch.”
While this exchange seems innocuous important groundwork has been laid. The shared secret knowledge of the pie puts the men on the ancient equal footing that all gentlemen need. Sam has forged a bond between them. By enlisting the farmer in the ranks of southern men who live their lives in constant trepidation of their wives discovering the small subterfuges used to indulge in daily life, Sam has made the man both his equal and his confidant.
The farmer grunts. “My wife Lizzie feels the same about me fishing in the evening. Way I figure, there’s no use having a four acre lake on your land if you can’t drop a line in when you have a mind.”
The man has given Sam the perfect opening to make the next move toward actually buying onions. “That lake of yours would tempt me to fish all the time too. I think we are having some of the catfish you and I caught together last spring for supper tonight.”
The farmer’s smile broadens and he gives permission for the dance to move closer to the onions. “Is your Janie going to make her home made hush puppies to go with those cats?”
It is Sam’s turn to produce a larger smile. “Even the magnificent catfish from your lake would seem incomplete without Janie’s hush puppies.”
The farmer rolls his eyes and looks wistfully over toward the mountain of fresh onions. “I guess you might need some onions for those puppies.”
Now the farmer has created a misstep in the dance. Traditionally this line belonged to the buyer not the vendor. The thing about my Grandfather was that no one would be embarrassed by him no matter how blatant their social blunder. At the same moment the farmer’s eyes widen in realization of his gaff, Sam steps in with a graceful saving joke. “I am so glad you reminded me. We were looking to get some fruit for a fruit salad. Janie would have skinned us both if we had come home with some Vidalia’s.”
Now you need to know a few things before we can continue. Not only had Sam just said one of the few truly power magic words in the entire world, but he has saved the farmer from seeming pushy in the same moment. That the farmer will save face is excellent. That my beloved Grandfather has finally spoken a magical incantation is beautiful. For the uninitiated, the magic word is ‘Vidalia.’
The Vidalia onion is unique in the vegetable world. Unlike most onions the Vidalia is sweet, robust in flavor, and eatable in almost any form imaginable. These miraculous, softball sized globes of savory sweetness are only available in limited quantity as they may only be grown in a six county area in South Georgia. Anyone claiming that they have some other onion that is just is good has one of several problems. They either have never truly had a Vidalia, they are out right lying to take your money, or they have an onion that suffers from delusions of grandeur.
In short, there is nothing in the universe that compares to a fresh, firm Vidalia onion. People will try to sell you fakes and some folks in Texas have the idea that they grow an onion just as good. In every field of endeavor there is a best. In the world of onions the Edenic soil of South Georgia produces the best there every will be. The world may never plumb the depths of its epicurean uses. My Grandmother used them to make amazing onion rings, luscious jars of pickled onions, and her literally award winning hush puppies.
The instant I hear the word my mind recalls last year’s onion rings and pickled onions. I know that tonight’s hush puppies will exceed all my memories. Before that can happen Sam and the farmer must complete their waltz. Recovering quickly from his unintentional gaff the farmer slides into comfortable negotiation. “I have plenty of Vidalia’s but they are small and not sweet enough.”
Two thirds of what the farmer has just said is a lie. He does have plenty of onions but they are huge and the pungent evidence of their sweetness permeates the air. In most bartering cultures the buyer works to lower the price by calling into question various aspects of the quality of merchandise. In the slow humble system of the Georgia Farmer’s Market, the rules are different.
The farmer’s quiet downplay of his merchandise requires Sam to give a polite and honest evaluation of the produce. Ever the Southern Gentleman, he does just that. “The onions I see look larger than any I can recall.” Lifting one he sniffs it thoughtfully. “This smells as sweet as any. I think you have a fine crop this year.”
Sam’s natural kindness gives away his genuine respect for the man and his produce. The man responds in kind. “I am happy you are pleased. How many onions do you need this time?”
The question is perfect. It inquires about the needs of the buyer without yet touching on the base issue of price. My Grandfather knows what he needs. “We intend to put up a lot of onions this year. I think that two bushels will be enough.”
The farmer’s eyes widen at this good fortune. Even though he will never speak it aloud, he knows that my Grandfather will not haggle on price. He will pay whatever the man asks trusting God and the bond of friendship he shares with the man to see that both are treated fairly. Price is never discussed. The farmer and my Grandfather load the onions into the trunk of the Chevy. As the trunk closes the farmer barely speaks the price. Sam pulls the bills from his wallet, pays the man, and they shake hands warmly.
Before Sam gets back to the drivers seat, the sweet pungency of the onions permeates the car. My Grandfather knows the smell has made me ravenous. It is why he saved the next slice of our brief visit to paradise until last. The Chevy rumbles to life and with a final wave to the farmer we move to the last row of stalls.
If the smell of the Vidalia onions assaulted my senses then the aroma of the final isle overwhelms and conquers them. Again the stalls hold vast piles of tempting globes. The color of the fruit transitions along the surface from buttery yellow to a deep purple red. Each globe of fruit holds a promise. Locked inside the beautifully painted skin of each one is the sweetness that to me will always be the taste, smell, texture, and feeling that must have been Eden.
Unlike the onion farmer, Sam does not know the peach vendor. This does not inhibit the dance in any way. Subtle differences play out but the result is the same. The two men reach the end of their mercantile minuet six half-bushel baskets of ripe Georgia peaches[3] are loaded into the back seat of the Chevy.
I understand that peaches grow all over this fine country. Some upstart in the North West thinks that their peaches are the best. They have a tourist oriented farmers market in the Northern Mid-West town in which I currently reside. One of the vendors actually sold something they called “Home State Peaches.” These small bits of yellow granite no more resembled real peaches than the icy freezing rain of South Georgia resembles real snow. You may as well try to feed me banana slugs while telling me they are banana peppers. There is nothing like a Georgia peach.
Another difference in the peach dance is that after loading the peaches into the car, the farmer moves around to my side and leans into the window. Looking to my Grandfather he waits for a nod of approval. Once received the man smiles and me and silently proffers two huge peaches in a large paper napkin. Rubbing my head he warns me, “Don’t get peach nectar all over your Grand’s car leather. Any youngster who sits so quiet while his elders do business deserves a treat for the ride home.”
I thank him out of duty and joy. My real thought is to get my teeth into one of those peaches as quickly as possible but the dangers of transgressing politeness give me the strength to briefly delay my passion. After about two centuries of proper goodbyes my Grandfather slips the Chevy into drive and the car prowls down the back roadway past the stalls heading toward the gate. A nod from my beloved Grandfather tells me I need wait no longer.As I lift the peach toward my mouth its scent precedes it promising all the joys that are the first peach of summer in Georgia. The Next few days will be spent peeling, pickling, and preserving. Peach cobbler, home made peach ice cream, peach preserves, and pickled peaches all wait in the four half bushel baskets in the back seat. My lips brush the fuzzy skin, my teeth sink into the succulent flesh, and ripe juices flood my taste buds. Eden is as real to me as that first morning Adam woke up and saw a naked Eve made just for him. Few things in this fallen dying world are blazing reminders of a better life. The hope is encased in the sunset skin of the first Georgia peach each summer is enough to remind us that God loves us. That first taste screams that the world will be redeemed and that we are promised a future composed of that single succulent moment stretching out endlessly in every direction forever.
[1] If you are unfamiliar with 450 air-conditioning, it is the earliest type available in automobiles. You can find it in any model four-door car. You simply roll down all four windows and drive at fifty miles per hour. This does not do any good when stuck in traffic or on days (about 362 of them a year in Georgia) where the humidity is too high for the wind to matter. Cars used to have small triangle shaped vent windows that you could point inward to force the wind directly onto your sweltering form. This always helped when you were moving. The ignoramus auto designer who got rid of these should be forced to sit in a black car in the afternoon summer sun in Plains, Georgia until her swears to put them back and retrofit all existing cars with them. Another amazing cooling device removed from cars was the lower vents in the dash board. My 1965 Dodge Dart had them and you could send a flow of cool to tepid air over your legs just by driving. All the environmental Nazis worried about Fluorocarbons and the Ozone Layer should demand a return to cars with triangle windows and lower vents. It makes it a lot easier not to push that little blue button on the dash board.
[2] It used to be that children under twelve rarely were introduced by name. At first thought this seems impersonal but I must say that I did not really care if people knew my name when I was eight. I did, however, glory in the feeling that emerged every time Sam referred to me as “his Grandson.” Perhaps there is something in the belonging that goes beyond the name.
[3] A note here is necessary on Georgia peaches. There is not nor will there ever be, this side of heaven anything equal to a Georgia Peach. Nothing will ever match the intricacies of their flavor, sweetness, smell, juiciness, texture, colors, and out right perfection. In a fallen world there are few absolute proofs that God created the universe and declared it good. Anyone who claims that the Georgia Peach happened because some amino acid bumped into just the right protein in some pool of primordial ooze is just plain stupid. If you believe peaches evolved you have never really tasted a Georgia Peach. If you disagree with this I will acknowledge your God given right to be absolutely wrong.
26 April 2005
An Offer to the Masses, or a Contest if you wish
Greetings,
This offer is for any who would buy my books. Keep reading to find out the details.
I keep careful track of sales and the venue through which my books are sold. There are four ways to acquire one of my published novels. Here they are:
Order directly from me. This is the best way, you get it autographed and personalized. This is great for gifts and for your own library. aramisthorn@aramisthorn.com
Order from my publishers. They are awesome and friendly. If you order from them and want an autographed book, feel free to send your book to me with an SASE of proper size. Email me for the mailing address. http://www.bbotw.com/description.asp?ISBN=0-7414-2231-X
Have your local bookstore order it. This is great because they here my name and may order more.
Order it from Amazon. I love Amazon and they are great folks, but I only make about 10% of my normal royalty when they sell my books. Here is the link any way. http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/search-handle-form/104-2590332-1322328
I want to sell a million books. I need your help. I can track all orders easily from the first two sources. They are the only viable sources for this offer. The person who buys the one millionth copy of either of my books will receive from me a brand new VW bug. This is not associated with VW in any way, it will just be my way of saying thank you to the person who puts me over the top. I look forward to our visit to your local VW dealer whoever you are.
The legal stuff:
This offer requires that the participants pay any associated taxes and in no way obligates anyone else to support the vehicle once purchased. Winner must be of a legal age in their state to purchase said vehicle and acceptance does not further obligate the giver in any other way once the purchase is complete. Subject to all rules and regulations in the winner's state and the home of the author.
This offer is for any who would buy my books. Keep reading to find out the details.
I keep careful track of sales and the venue through which my books are sold. There are four ways to acquire one of my published novels. Here they are:
Order directly from me. This is the best way, you get it autographed and personalized. This is great for gifts and for your own library. aramisthorn@aramisthorn.com
Order from my publishers. They are awesome and friendly. If you order from them and want an autographed book, feel free to send your book to me with an SASE of proper size. Email me for the mailing address. http://www.bbotw.com/description.asp?ISBN=0-7414-2231-X
Have your local bookstore order it. This is great because they here my name and may order more.
Order it from Amazon. I love Amazon and they are great folks, but I only make about 10% of my normal royalty when they sell my books. Here is the link any way. http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/search-handle-form/104-2590332-1322328
I want to sell a million books. I need your help. I can track all orders easily from the first two sources. They are the only viable sources for this offer. The person who buys the one millionth copy of either of my books will receive from me a brand new VW bug. This is not associated with VW in any way, it will just be my way of saying thank you to the person who puts me over the top. I look forward to our visit to your local VW dealer whoever you are.
The legal stuff:
This offer requires that the participants pay any associated taxes and in no way obligates anyone else to support the vehicle once purchased. Winner must be of a legal age in their state to purchase said vehicle and acceptance does not further obligate the giver in any other way once the purchase is complete. Subject to all rules and regulations in the winner's state and the home of the author.
16 March 2005
Welcome To My World
Greetings All This Site will chronicle my journey through the maze of writing and publishing. Once the lot of you make me a best selling author, I will use it as a contact point for your inquiries and questions. Please read my books, pass them on, enjoy them, but mostly, let me know how they interact with your journey.
My purpose is to show you Jesus Christ and his love for you. I love everyone and although my theology is conservative my sociology does not remove anyone from validity as member of the human race deserving of my kindness and respect.
Come walk with me.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
My purpose is to show you Jesus Christ and his love for you. I love everyone and although my theology is conservative my sociology does not remove anyone from validity as member of the human race deserving of my kindness and respect.
Come walk with me.
Wishing you joy in the journey,
Aramis Thorn
05 February 2005
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