Once again Ken hits it out of the park. I’d like to have his drive. The cover’s simplicity is particularly appealing.
In the early 70’s, in the middle of the night, on a dried out lawn in a broken down neighborhood in the Southern Californian community of Santa Ana, Nate Brewer’s mother held him as they watched his father leave them to an uncertain future. After that, it was every man for himself.
At least, that’s how Nate and his brother, Ira, saw it.
Now, Ira’s 45 years old. He’s losing his wife. He lost his career. His mom is losing that same home in Santa Ana and Nate thinks he may be losing his mind.
That’s just the beginning of indian paintbrush, a darkly, bitter-sweet comic tale told by Nate himself. He thinks he’s writing a journal for his psychiatrist but, as his recollections grow darker, he realizes that he has let every bad moment in his life keep him from reaching for anything good. This could be his last chance at remembering just what it is he can’t live without.
Some people grow up hoping things will change but, very often, the only thing time changes is our memories… Maybe there are times when “family” comes down to a group of people you just can’t stand, who you actively hate. And these are the people with whom you will share some of your fondest memories.
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A few folks have asked me if I made up the fighting bracelets (cuffs) that my desert warrior princess handles with precision. Although the bracelets below are 20th century Saharan, the ones Hafina wears are 15th century. Now that is one girl who will make you think twice.
I’m terrible with graphics. I did try to isolate the cuffs, but to no avail. It is the upper left corner. The sheath is removed prior to engagement exposing deadly blades. In the 15th century, the tips were dipped in poison.
When I think of roses, I think of June weddings, kittens frolicking in the garden, and balmy summer evenings. I don’t tend to think of Indian Summer, apple pie, or the approach of fall.
Yet that’s exactly what I was thinking of when I found these roses (above, and below) in our garden last week.
Over the last two Indian Summers, I’ve noticed that we always get a few late-bloomers. It’s pretty startling to walk out of your house in a jacket, your breath fogging as it hits the air, and still see baby roses as you pass your flowerbeds.
While the other roses are dying on the vine, a few still dare to show their blooms. That takes considerable tenacity, courage and a marvelous disregard for the “order” of things—even for a flower.
How much more for a human being?
Over the years, I’ve begun to suspect I’m as late a bloomer…
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