On the NEW YORK TRIP from June-July 2009
So far . . .
For those interested, I drove straight through from our great Atlanta to the Hudson Valley in New York. It was a long ride, (18 hours) but with the windows open, my red hair flying, sunglasses on, water and snacks handy, let alone the "boys" I never leave home without, (Trace Adkins, Toby Keith, Travis Tritt,) and Celtic CD's also blaring; I was a happy road-rider! (Yes, I actually use cruise control, and stick to the speed limit for inquiring minds clicking their pens getting ready to write out their duty-driven tickets.) I drove side-by-side with a big navy blue 18-wheeler up I75, I81, then I84—right to the Hudson River, and that same truck driver kept spotting me after rest stops and yanking on that loud horn to say hello. There is a certain comfort in that camaraderie. Now, for a non-demonstrative Scottish-descended woman (I am not touchie-feelie, but care deeply,) those who know me would have had a good laugh at my last lone wave goodbye, when the blue truck and I finally parted ways. A lost, never-known friend, never to be seen again on the road of just being a couple of regular people on a road trip for their careers.
I do love road trips. Even when it is lacking the companionship of an intelligent conversational friend at your side. I love soul-nourishing adventure; I love the calm of oneness with the world when you are on that road trip and realize just how big the world is, America especially, and how lucky you are to be part of it.
It is the moments to be cherished, so many forget that. The feel of the growing breeze, the smell of rain-soaked trees, the sight of a fading red and oranged streaked sun through a stormy blue sky. I had to drive through a thunderstorm and fog so thick, by the time it was three in the morning, my car was crawling, following the blinking lights of the trucks ahead of me. Then the storm abruptly ceased, the ground wet and reflecting as the sun inched its way into dawn once more. Some might complain because of the rain. I was happy to experience it. Rain splattered me and soaked my hair until I closed the windows. I laughed to feel the cold wet. Life. I am still the appreciative romantic despite my book genre. Laughing in rain is good for you.
July 4th . . .
A wonderful festive day. The sun was shining, the sky was that delicious icy blue with great big white puffy clouds. Green grass thick and lush against your bare feet. (Yes, I am a country girl and love the feel of cool grass as I go barefoot. This sole to earth exchange I am hesitant to do home in Georgia due to snakes and scorpions. Need I mention spiders to which I am allergic to?) It was brief though, that tickling of toes in the grass. Water guns and nephews running amok assured running through mud, and I took cover with my white sandals in hand, to the safety of the deck.
(My friend Walter's bike.)
To my associates and friends in Georgia, I am known to be very near brazen with mischievous intent and love to have good clean innocent fun. How I wished for my own water gun and one of my siblings in sight! Even a cousin or two! To those who have known me at this particular New York party, I was always the "quiet one." (Cousin Johnny's Harley:
thanks for the ride from the car show!)
It comes from being a writer, I am a "watcher" as most deep-thinkers are, pondering and observant, taking in all the sites as well as behavior of those around me. I am happy to analyze and listen to those interactions of bonded human behavior and appreciate all the different personalities surrounding me. Observance for observance sake, as examining logic for the sake of logic, and not being cold or unfeeling. Many "watchers" who simply enjoy other people by observance, are commonly mistaken to be cold and unfeeling or said to do not participate in life. I can assure you readers, this is simply not the case. Some of us watchers like a good thumb-wrestling session or a cut throat game of scrabble. (You heard me.) My personal goal is to use all those tiles and the fifty point bonus, and am determined to fight word for word, for force met with force in equal measure is acceptable to Godly defense of a writer's reputation! (Let alone life itself.) I like a challenge, I can be a challenge, and I love a mind-challenge of scrabble wit, but not mind-games. (Which are unethical and simply not nice.)
Seemingly meek is not weak, but if you are reserved, sometimes you fade into the background of a room full of gargarious fun-loving people. To top things off, most those whom I had the privilege of sharing the holiday with, all worked together at a wonderful German
(Friend of twenty years & NY book reviewer, Rainee. She wants a Leandor from the S3C series. I say it's all about the chivalry of those viking-like warriors; for that, a real male makes— she begs to differ.)
restaurant with my two sisters, and they are a tight-knit family from their many years of working side-by-side. Those who did not work with the others are like family too, for they were patrons and regulars; in fact both my sisters married two of them. These wonderful people are some of the constants in my life that I count on as being there when I visit my beautiful sisters in New York, for it wouldn't be the same without seeing them. They don't change, they just grow, and fondness is another heartfelt feeling when I share time in the presence of these people. (My youngest sister Cheryl.)
As I sat there, enjoying the antics of jokes and boccie ball, the smell of big cigars, clinking of glasses, downing of "Happy 4th of July" shots, and the baseball game on the outside TV, I could not help but smile. Food being grilled, and laughter, long-voweled city accents blended with Irish and Austrian accents of educated businessmen and plain down-to-earth bonded friends and golf-buddies. Golf is serious among these good men of character and my beloved brother-in-law. I love to hear them talk about their games; it reminds me of my dad and all my uncles when I was allowed to go play golf with them.
Three of my uncles were SERIOUS, the rest playful cheaters: kicking the golf ball an inch or foot depending on need. There would always be a fight (argumentative-wise) and half would pack it up and leave, throwing clubs and golf bags into the back of old station wagons, a few choice words equally flung in the air. Alas, it is true, in New York certain words which should not be uttered from a lady's mouth were taught this lady during her teen years, as acceptable adjectives. (I have since broken the habit, though I occasionally backslide when provoked beyond my tolerance of another's unacceptable disreputable behavior.
(Sad, but true, nephew David plays my guitar better than I do!)
These presently unvoiced selective adjectives, also are uttered under my breath when a man feels he should treat me with disrespectful cat-calls or assumptions as to my integrity and character simply because of the adult content books I write, or my gym clothes. [And to be fair, only one man has made that mistake at the gym, which has nothing to do with the integrity of the gym, just that nameless man's bad choice—of which he is lucky I did not punch him right in the nose; but fear not, those who are reading this, and now wondering . . . I am not prone to violence. Besides, the man in question made such little impression on me I can not recall his face anyway.] This is what happens when a writer is provoked: the nameless and the shameless might end up in my web pages reprimanded whilst along side of the gentlemen heroes to whom I revere of their integrity! The choice of not being a gentleman lies at your feet sir.)
Back to golfing uncles . . . Uncles' not-so civil war? Hence sometimes that is the way it is with brothers of such a large number. I was taught to use a seven-iron for everything except for teeing off. I grew up thinking it was their job (the uncles') to get teed-off and my job just to play through, for the superior golf players had abandoned the greens for my opportunity to pretend I was better at golf than I was, for the competition was gone.
I wish my uncles were still around to fight. I miss the sound of their voices, shouts, yelling and laughter, and my dad, the peacemaker, trying to gather them together. Stubborn and loyal were my uncles, a sometimes volatile combination. I have to admit I am the same, but not as stubborn, it is more tenacity on my part.
I do not give up easily and am counted upon without hesitation from my own siblings and cousins, and close friends. Choices are freedom, you see. Even of behavior and your own character and integrity. The 4th of July is that ultimate celebration of the freedom of choice. That is what makes America great.
Happy 4th of July!
July 07
Hopewell Junction is a happening place. When I mention I am originally from upstate New York, and am a "country gal," I mean it. But dear reader, do not let the "country" part fool you. Hopewell Junction is as loaded with "transplants" as Atlanta is; only not so diversified. More citified moving upstate vs. statewide moving to Georgia. If you are originally Crossing the Hudson River on the
from New York City or Yonkers, Newburgh-Beacon Bridge
(remember the movie, "Hello Dolly")
you adjust fast. .
As a girl, my friends thought I was moving to Petticoat Junction from TV fame. There were trains, there were cows and horses, there was no Shady Rest Hotel. Lots of trees. Lots of fishing. Mountains. Trees. deer, raccoons, groundhogs waddling at top speed right by your feet.Did I mention trees?
The oldest tree in Newburgh, which is across the river from Hopewell Junction. This tree is from 1606, and held tall and straight by cables, fenced in, cared for and loved in equal reverence as The General is in Georgia.
A quiet rural town. Jeans and work boots. Gardens and well water. Church was in the school until one got built. But there was racing. And old cars: classics, hot rods and bikes. You would be surprised at the work going into rebuilding cars. The hunt in car graveyards, shifting through piles of scrap rusted metal for that perfect fender, the right mirror. The hunt is half the appeal. Treasure. Perfection. Sweat and (not admitted, according to the men I spoke with) tears of joyful frustration at a find which simply won't fit where it is suppose to!( Above pictures of Wappingers Creek [from "The Rec" the park in Hopewell,] which runs like a snake through Hopewell Junction, Fishkill, and Wappingers Falls. I used to fish here, and brought my dog to play in the water. The couple who took my picture for me was there with their own dog that day.)
Below are pictures of the car show around the corner of my mom's house where I am staying.
There were many interesting people there, some of which I grew up with and did not recognize me. There is a certain humor in that.
A couple of nice men allowed me to take their photos with their cars. We all agreed Hopewell Junction is a happening town just as much as Atlanta! The one on the right was a local businessman who had his business logo tattooed on his upper arm. Why not? He was proud of it, worked hard for it, was still working hard for it; and swiftly showed me. I, myself, have decided to just stick to my one little tattoo, though I love my own logo, it will not be landing on my arm or otherwise strategically placed anywhere or anytime soon. I am happy with my tattoo which I only got after my dad passed on. Self-preservation? Maybe a little, and I am smiling fondly as I write this. I didn't pierce my ears until I was 25 years old! It was not planned. It was not expected. My ears were not mine own that day . . .
This is how that happened:
1) Go shopping with innocent-looking mother.
2) Mother tells daughter: "Sit down here."
3) Obedient daughter does as bid.
4) Strange woman steps in line of vision of daughter, hand of lightening speed grabs daughter's ear the same time shoves back her hair and BLAM! hole stabbed into ear. Piercing . . . is just too soft a word for what I felt.
5) "Happy Birthday!" shouts jubilant mother to struck dumb and stupid daughter who was just shot through the ear with a needle of steel, wondering if said-ear is still attached to her befuddled head.
A tattoo? That symbolic thing some women who normally do not have tattoos, do, when they hit ages they need to take a stand in. As a friend told me, age doesn't matter. Not in things that matter. Besides, as I can assure you, the needled ink gun hurt like . . . I am not planning any other tattoos. (I am sure my mom is also glad to hear it. Tattoos are where rebel-modernization of mom's daughters end.) I have a high tolerance of pain, but needles . . . draw my blood, my eyes cross and the floor is a very fine place to cool off from the previous lava sweated fire scorching my body, as I sway to and fro like a sail in the wind. Blood and needles. (I just closed my eyes and wondered why I am pursuing this commentary of self-torture.) I can help others in need, if need be, but as for me and blood work, never the two shall sit well in accordance to witnessing the plunge of metal to vein and red to vial. Closing my eyes is vital to remaining upright and steadfast. (Yes, even now as I type away, no needles in sight.) My mom would not like to return home this eve and find me on her floor. It was bad enough when I endured living in a "MASH unit" for two days, dashing like a gazelle trying to outrun a lion, through ice cold freezing pressureless shower water, because the furnace shut down, then that same green furnace started smoking when I turned it on, and oil smoldered black fog as scary basement fire alarms went blaring.
Yeah, that was fun. Let it not be said God does not have a sense of humor towards the daughter of a professional firefighter. Was warm water worth it? The black smoke billowing forth from the evil green furnace in the dank dark basement? They say ice water tightens the skin anyway. It might save some time at the gym.
My sister laughed delightfully on my unintended escapades, (for as poised and regal as I try to be, I was known as "Lucy" among family and friends—not just as in "I Love . . . " but in that delightful movie: "While You Were Sleeping." Things just seemed to happen?) and my sister said I should have let the house burn so mom could get a new one. That would be all I need.
Burn. Down. Mom's. House.
Did I mention the Scottish women in my family live a long, long time? With long memories. (A quick note: Men of weak constitutions beware. Strength in equal measure. We are a challenge, we need to be challenged. We back up our men, just don't back us into a corner. Us Royal Stewart-MacLeod-MacKenzie women are of backbone and strength despite some of those rolling back eyes at blood. God forbid the honor and loyalty we hold our men in high esteem is turned on them due to betrayal or deceit. We say nothing, we do nothing. We waste not energy on the unappreciative. We simply wipe our hands and disregard the soil of their shame from our lives. This is not a warning to any one particular, least you the reader might assume it is . . . tis simply fact and has a deal to do with the next paragraph. The point: the Scottish women in my family may forgive, but never forget.)
Life span and memory—Years: 90, 100 . . . (Aunt Bess comes to mind.) For me, from my mother, the mentioning of burnt-down houses and pressing little red buttons on furnaces would be long-lived.
Forever in infamy as not "my daughter, the author," but the one who burned down the house.
Then maybe I just might be willing to pump out my red-blue Scottish blood one needle at a time.
This Volkswagen was my favorite. The red and white striped seats were so much fun. A little car of character.
Who needs a limo anyway?
These engines were like mirrors, so shiny and clean and pristine. I commend the car owners.
July 17th
A delightful weekend was had. The annual Roof-a-Thon took place. For those who do not know what a Roof-a-Thon is, it is a charity event which originated via the roof of a local 7-11. The rock radio station, 101.5 WPDH, was the sponsor.
The Road Warriors stand in the intersections with collection buckets and accept donations for the year's charity. This year's charity was Juvenile Diabetes.
Donny is one of the original warriors, he started in 1991. He told me a funny story of one year he was collecting, and a woman with CT plates was stopped at his intersection. Full of good humor is Donny's delightful personality (This man is a constant smiler!) He told the woman she needed to pay NY tax—(what a surprise there readers . . .) as she fumbled for change, Donny laughed and said he was only kidding. The woman was so happy it was a joke (and relieved about "traveler's road tax" I am sure) that she gave Donny a double donation! Why does Donny volunteer his time collecting for charity as a Road Warrior? I asked him. This was his answer:
"It makes you feel good to help others, and the warriors are like a family."
Well, you were a pleasure to converse with Donny.
Madison has been a Road Warrior for 22 years. It all started with a meeting with a former WPDH DJ and Programing Manager in Middletown, NY. Madison met him at a PDH promo they were holding. The DJ spoke about the (former) MDA Roof-a-Thon and invited Madison to participate. Madison says there was no turning back for him after that first Roof-a-Thon. The purpose is ingrained in his giving nature: "I wanted to raise money for people to have better lives, no matter what their ailments."
Madison told me two very interesting stories:
"About 15 years ago, we were on the roof when a major storm came in. The wind was violent, the sky was dark, the tent canopy on the roof was lifted straight up into the air. The afternoon DJ Robyn, was holding onto the metal canopy leg as lightening was flashing and rain pouring like a monsoon. Suddenly she was airborne as the tent flew another two feet into the air. Road Warriors grabbed her legs as she skyrocketed up like Mary Poppins and lightening bolts electrified the black sky."
The second story I feel is a warning to the perils of low cut shirts and high stepping men.
"A DJ who will remain nameless, spotted a beautiful woman from his rooftop view (She was a visual goddess, says Madison, other commentary followed which will remain . . . non-quoted . . .) So enthralled was the DJ with her voluptuous attributes, his eyes followed her, his head looked down, his body followed suit, and over the edge of the roof ledge he went until I(Madison) dived and grabbed the DJ's legs."
In this author's view: Apparently the DJ fell for the girl, and didn't realize he was head over heels until he was yanked up by the seat of his pants!
While keeping this Road Warrior (on left) company for a little while, this nice man waited at the traffic light near us, and was kind enough to allow me to take a picture of him and his wonderful car! Passer-bys were all calling out to him, "Nice car!" ; "Great car!" Indeed it was!
Speaking of hairless cats . . . this is the real (from The Gypsy Curse novel) Carole's cat. I am begging—please get this gremlin a sweater! Seriously. (Pretty different from the tiger cub I fed at the fair one year.) He is a sweet animal really, and the skin is softer than it looks. Warm to the touch too. Muscular. After a while you simply forget about hair or no hair, and the soul of uniqueness of which this living creature possesses, comes blazing out through its beautiful blue eyes and all you want to do is stroke it and hear it purr. I like this little gentleman cat. As demonstrated in the picture of Carole holding him, he is a kisser. He was very vocal with me, no doubt understanding I like to engage in good conversation . . . don't worry dear reader, I did not meow back. I let him speak his piece. I am a good listener too.
Coming soon: More pictures of the Roof-a-Thon, the Festival in the Park, and the parade!
Let's not forget: Bands, bikes, and the Knights of Columbus Beer Tent!
Did I mention the magician swallowing a four foot long balloon? I have the pictures to prove it. (Hammering the giant four inch nail into his nose looked too much like a needle. Sorry, absolutely no pictures of that one . . . I was lucky I staggered back to the Road Warrior tent without hitting the ground after my stomach did a flip-flop as the nail was held up!)
July17th Parade pictures! Hit the arrow to view!
I have arrived back on the scene in GA via PA. It was a 14 hour trip diagonally south, rest stops and gas fill-ups along the way. Staying a head of the trucks so I could read the road signs. I was driving alongside a race car driver, his trailer, and also a band on tour. —Made me even more homesick to want to see the familiar of parked tour buses of my musician neighbor: the landmark and comforting sign to myself that I am back home where I belong. As many people as I saw, met, and spent time with; I was still a little lonely. That is the other reality of road trips. Adventure is wonderful, but reality is being on the road is not everything people assume it is. Yes, after three weeks, I am glad to be home and missed Georgia. It just shows, it is true what happens when you relocate to a place which eases and calls to your soul all at once: northern by birth, southern by choice. The pace is . . . different. It is a more relaxed pace here. New York has just as many nice people, but the walking, talking, laughing is quicker. Abrupt, to the point, over and done with, are points made: no side-trips or off-course explanations. Explanations during conversation, here in the south, I have found to be smooth, soothing and stretched-out. That certainly means nothing except reflection on style. It's all in the delivery of a point, or good joke, even a lesson-learned. America is such a great country, subcultures, styles, the freedom to choose where to live.
My brother did warn me I would feel different once I visited the place I grew up at. (He has been a Georgian for 16 years or so.) It is bittersweet to understand one has found their place in the world, the comfort of their own skin, and understanding you simply can not "go home again" when you have bonded to a new life.
Magician swallowing a balloon!
More updates coming soon. The real people who are the background characters of the novel, The Gypsy Curse, Knights of Columbus Beer Tent for charity, and pictures of family, friends, and fans for downloading! As always, thank you for reading! —LA POWERS
Ah yes, the Knights of Columbus. Men who work at charity and changing people's lives. Council 1646 is a great group of guys at my former church. It is a big council. After all, in the Hudson Valley of New York, for each council, there is a church which can boast of 4-5000 members. I can attest to the fact when I needed to relocate to Georgia . . . fast, there were those who helped with the neccesity. John Gorman comes to mind for electric, most especially Max Deo for carpentry. 
Max worked hard at putting a sub floor in my kitchen, also showing me how to correctly spackle (despite the many times I helped my dad with building walls, putting down floors, digging up the septic tank, and simply handing him tools.) I will be forever grateful to these men, especially Max. I can honestly say if it weren't for Max's generosity
Max "Mad Dog" & Tommy "Bags"
of time, I would not be where I am now in my beloved Georgia life when I needed to be. (Also thank you to cousins Debbie and Ron, my brother Chuck, and friend Janice for all they did too.) Yes, I can put in a new sink, tub surround, disassemble a toilet: remember the gasket seal, if you will, please!) I am not found of tiling floors; let alone using a chisel and hammer to take one up! Cousin Deb
The Beer Tent was fun during the Roof-a-thon. It, of course attracted a lot of attention and patrons. (What a surprise there!) After all, what goes better with a festival of laughter and charity work, fellowship and fun, then a nice cold beer?
The pictures are in and around the Beer Tent. Thank you for the hospitality gentleman!
I could not resist the lineup of bikes as they multiplied. "Bags" apparently knew everyone who rode in.
I just love community.
Ever the gentleman, ladies, Tommy "Bags" walked me down Main Street to my car which was parked at the Kof C building parking lot. (Though to be fair . . . first he scared the living hades out of me when I turned, and peering through my camera lens, saw a man's face coming at me! Verra funny "bags.") We decided to go to The Quiet Man, an Irish pub on the way to see what was going on there. It was also pleasant opportunity for me (thanks Tommy) to relax with a nice soda (Yes it's true. Soda.) as I do not frequent pubs by myself. Inside were some of Garrison's piper core, (And no, for curious inquiring minds concerning the brazenness of Fantasy Authors . . . , I did not ask them what was under their green kilts; for being Scottish I quite know the answer: which is shorts! This is not the Highlands dinnae know! Nor tis back in 1600! The jeweles and wiley wares are kept under lock-n-key for propriety sake!) . . . and we listened to live Celtic music from bagpipes. Nothing like it. When I went to the Celtic Festival up at the historic Mills Manor every fall, all the corps would gather and the pipes would play Ava Maria to the open blue sky. It sent chills up my spine with the ferocity and time-past wonderment of calls to battle of my Scottish ancestors. I have to say, those of Celtic blood can attest to the fact, the spirit is strong in us, we remember things we should not know and dream of things that are soul-connected. Ah yes, I am a daughter of the Seers of Rassay. Clans of distinction. Blessing and a curse to have instinct, more so when you are an author. Fact or fiction, fantasy or imagination. If anything, my roots help me picture words into images and appriciate life around me. I still hear the bagpipes playing. The soulful call. The quiet knowlege that I know who I am in my own skin. That is what Celtic music says to me. live. breath and watch, listen and feel. Be one with life; it is bigger than we realize, and shorter than we anticipate.
Indeed, I am glad to be home.
To view Family, Friends, & Fans pictures, please go to that page.
Inside The Quiet Man, around Main Street in Wappingers falls, and the tribute to fallen Fire Fighters.
