Adventures for the Average Woman

Newsstand price: $8.00 Nov. – Dec. 2007 Volume 2, Issue 6

Boldly go wherever your imagination takes you!

A PERIODICAL PUBLICATION OF SERIAL FICTION AND FACT-BASED ADVENTURE TALES PRINTED WITH EARTH-FRIENDLY RECYCLED MATERIALS

IDEAGEMS ® PUBLICATIONS

by Im Sook Kim ©2007*

Vague Prayer

INSIDE THIS ISSUE

Almost Home & The Lobster Roll

2

Along Came a Shepherd

6

Turkish Travel Disaster

9

Mystic Arena

13

Tea Time for Your Dosha

20

A Lifetime of Making Waves

22

Going Hollywood, Maine Style

24

”Ex” Doesn’t Mark the Spot

27

Book Look

28

Change the Reel

29

Stolen Boy

30

Undercover Angel

31

Healthy Living Spaces

32

On My Own Two Feet

34

The Power of Positive Parenting

36

The Secret to Never Ending Motivation

37

Your Vision for 2008

38

A Word With You

39

Deep down in the mines of the imagination are buried raw fictions, the distortions of surface reality.

Peer into the shafts and caverns of the creative process.

Be dazzled by the underground fluorescence of surreal perceptions.

Hereunder lie the multifaceted reflections of the inner self.

Explore what lies below to unearth the entertaining and illuminating treasure you seek.

* The eerie, ethereal art of Im Sook Kim can be seen at http://blog.naver.com/rameau1.do. Her works will be on display in March 2008 at the Baum Art Gallery, Bolkae Bldg., 1F, #228, Wonseo-dong, Jongro-Gu, Seoul 110280, South Korea. For more information, contact Director, Sang-il Kim at Tel: 82-2-742-0480, Mobile: 82-11706-8545 or email: human3ksi@freechal.com

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We are pleased and privileged to feature another terrific tale by native Maine writer, Martha Stevens-David.

This one is a sad but true story! Martha is a published writer and has been featured on the Bates College Eclectic E-Zine online magazine, the Lewiston Sun Journal newspaper and by www.Maine.gov, the official State of Maine information site. She has been working on a short-story collection of more than 150 stories about life in a small Maine town for more than twenty-five years. Please feel free to contact her at: lmdmsd@megalink.net

High Up in the Holy Lands

Photograph courtesy of Rachael Gaskin © 2007

Almost Home I’ll never forget the very first time I met Samy. It was in the first week of September, 2006, at the start of the fall semester at Bates College. He came through the double glass doors of our gallery at the Bates Museum of Art and walked softly up to my desk. Having met literally thousands of people in my position as gallery attendant at the museum, I was instantly aware that I was meeting someone” special.”

Samy had applied to work in the “Work Study” program at the museum and after introducing himself, I explained the job responsibilities for his position. I liked his sweet shyness and soft replies as he answered my questions and asked about different things related to the exhibits. His ready smile lit up his face and he had a quick wit and a quick mind too. “He’s a keeper!” I thought to myself and looked forward to getting to know him better when he and I were scheduled to work together.

As the weeks passed, I got to know Samy quite well, and on weekends when we were both working, we spent long hours together talking about one subject or another, both political and non-political. In my twentyfive- plus years as a short story writer, I’ve spent countless hours doing research for my stories. I’m always interested in people, and as I’ve been known to say, “Everyone has a story.” Samy did too.

Samy volunteered stories of his own, and I learned that he came from the small town of Beit-Lahia in the Gaza Strip. He has one older brother and an older sister. His parents are both dentists in Gaza City. Samy is presently a junior here at Bates College, majoring in Political Science and Religion.

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I noticed that Samy always had a sad look in his eyes when he talked about his home and his family, and I could easily see that he was missing his homeland and his family very much. He told me sweet stories about his grandparents and what it was like growing up in the Middle East. Stories about Muslim culture, the food they grew, dishes his grandmother and mother prepared for him and the reason they dressed the way they did and his plans for the future. We got to know a lot about each other in a very short time. I told him that I was going to be his “American mother” for the time he was here at Bates.

I soon took it upon myself to bring food from home. On Saturdays, when it was quiet in the museum, I taught Samy, Chiara, Hanna and Zack and several other students who were working in the Olin Arts Center, how to make homemade bread, cakes and other dishes that we Americans usually eat. This time with them became known as “Martha’s Cooking Class, 101.” It was such fun to watch these young people learn how to make basic white bread and teach them how to roll out the dough and add butter, cinnamon and sugar to make cinnamon bread. The news of the cooking class soon caught on, and I found more and more students appearing in the Olin kitchen to see what we were making that day.

I always worried about the foreign students and what their plans were for our upcoming holidays. Since so many of them were so far from home, I liked to invite them to my home to have dinner with my husband and myself. So, I was happy and surprised when another student told me the good news that Samy was “going home” for the upcoming holidays.

The following day was Saturday and Samy was scheduled to work four and half hours with me. He had a huge smile on his face as he came through the door into the museum and in his hands he held two large containers of coffee that he had purchased at the Den on campus. He gave one as a gift to me, and then he sat down in the chair next to my desk. I looked into his shining face and said, “So, Second Son, I’ve heard the wonderful news! When are you scheduled to leave?”

The smile disappeared from his sweet face and the light died in his brown eyes. He said in a voice that was almost a whisper, “Martha, I haven’t been home for a year and a half. I’m not really going home; I’m going ‘almost home.’”

Thinking that I had misheard his reply, I looked carefully at him again and asked, “What do you mean you’re going ‘almost home’?”

“Martha, you know that the borders between Israel and the Gaza Strip have been closed for a long time. So, when I leave Bates on December 14th, I will first go to Boston and board a British Airways flight to London.

When I arrive in London, I will then board another flight that will take me to Tel Aviv. I cannot cross into Gaza without the permission of the Israelis, and I doubt that I will be allowed to cross the border. From Ashqelon, I can actually look into Gaza City because it is only about one hour away, but I will not be allowed to enter.” With that, Samy looked away from my gaze. I could see the tears and longing for his homeland shimmering there in the back of his eyes.

“But Samy, why are you going to spend all that money and your precious vacation time just to go to spend time in a place that is not your home?”

Samy looked at me again and said, “Because it is ‘almost home,’ and if that’s as close as I can get, I’m going to go! I’m making plans to meet my sister, May, there, if she can gain permission to leave Gaza City and join me in Jerusalem. She is planning to bring me a small bottle of dirt from my home, and I can hold her hand. My sister has been trying to leave the Gaza Strip for the past five years because she wants to marry a man from Jerusalem, but she too, has not been allowed to leave.”

I looked at this lovely young man. I was right! “Everyone does have a story!” Samy’s was the most heartwrenching that I’d heard in a long time. “Samy,” I said, “once you arrive in Tel Aviv, if you are not allowed to pass through to Gaza City, what will happen to you?

“Well,” Samy replied, “I’ll probably be arrested and sent to a determent camp where I’ll be held until I’m deported to another country which will probably be Egypt. Then, after further detaining, the Egyptian authorities will allow me to fly back to the United States, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be coming back to Bates to finish my degree.”

“Oh, God, Samy! We, as Americans, have heard of all the Middle East conflicts, but because it doesn’t affect us directly, we normally don’t pay that much attention, I’m ashamed to say.” Samy looked at me and nodded his head, “I know Martha. It’s that way with the rest of the world too. If it doesn’t directly affect you, you don’t think about it.”

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As it now stands, Samy is still scheduled to leave Bates College on the 14th of December and fly off to his homeland, hoping against hope the by some miracle, he will be allowed to cross the border into Gaza City and go home. This is the season in the Christian faith that miracles are supposed to happen, could we, just for once, forget all the trespasses of neighbor against neighbor and let this very fine young man, go “all the way home”?

Doesn’t everyone, no matter who they are and where they’ve been born, have the inalienable right to go home whenever they want? So, I’m asking the ”powers that be,” and in the Holy names of Allah, Buddha, Muhammad, God, and Jesus, to please look out for Samy, grant him a safe journey and please let him go “all the way home.”

Postscript: The Lobster Roll On the same day that I decided to write this story about Samy, this event happened at the Olin Arts Center, and I think it would be appropriate to include it with Samy’s story.

It was October 27th and because Bates was hosting a very prominent pianist from Manhattan, in the Olin Arts Center that evening, I was scheduled to work a twelve-hour day. I arrived early at the Bates College Museum of Art around 9:30 and immediately called security to open the museum for me.

I’d gotten up early that morning and prepared my white yeast bread and brought the rising dough to the museum in order to show the students how to make homemade cinnamon bread. After I’d taken all my cooking equipment to the Olin kitchen, I walked around the upper and lower gallery to get all the exhibits ready for the visitors who might visit the museum that day.

Because it was a Saturday, it was a while before I expected any visitors. I sat down to wait for my student helper to arrive. As Chiara and I sat talking about her studies and my latest story, a well-dressed gentleman came through the glass doors into the museum. I greeted him, and I could see that he was a little agitated. He quickly explained that he was scheduled to perform that evening and that all the practice rooms were locked.

He needed me or someone to unlock a room so that he could practice. I called security and was told that someone would be over to help him as soon as they could.

I escorted him back to the Olin side and took him to the kitchen where I made him some fresh coffee. When he’d calmed down a little, he thanked me and said that he had some things to do and would be back in a little while. I went to the Olin Office and got Zack to come and help me make the cinnamon bread.

Zack was very keen to know how the bread was made. He thoroughly enjoyed stretching out the soft dough, spreading on the butter, and sprinkling on the sugar and cinnamon mixture. We cut the rolled dough into eight equal parts, put them into small baking pans, and slid them into the oven to bake. It wasn’t too long before the tantalizing aroma of baking bread filled the corridor on the Olin side of the large building.

After about twenty minutes, I wandered back to the kitchen to check the bread and as I opened the oven door, the pianist came into the kitchen once again. He said that everything was fine, that security had opened a practice room, and that he’d practiced for a while. I asked him if there was anything else I could do for him and he stated that his friends had told him not to leave Maine without having a lobster roll. He really wanted to go to a nearby restaurant to have a lobster roll for lunch.

Just as he said this to me, Samy came into the room and I introduced them. As they stood talking, I heard him say that Samy came from his neighborhood, and the thought came to me. I grabbed Samy by the arm, pulled him out into the hallway and said, “Samy, this poor man was very upset because he arrived here early this morning and he couldn’t find a room that was unlocked so that he could practice for this evening’s concert.

Would you mind to take him to a nice restaurant in Auburn or Lewiston for lunch? He wants to have a lobster roll.”

Samy didn’t hesitate at all. “Sure Martha, I’d be happy to take him, but who will help you in the museum?”

“Don’t worry about me Samy,” I replied. “It’s Saturday, and usually it’s pretty slow until later in the day.”

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With that, Samy offered his assistance to our guest, and off they went to find the most delicious Maine lobster roll to be had in the immediate area.

The hours slid by slowly. Then about three hours later, the museum door opened and Samy came in. He was smiling, but I noticed that he looked a little stressed. I looked at him and asked him how everything had gone. He slid into the chair by my desk and wiped a hand across his face, ran his fingers through his hair and replied, “Oh, we finally found a place that would serve him a lobster roll, and he loved it! He insisted that I too have one, and he ordered a very fine wine to go with it.”

“Oh Samy, that’s wonderful. I’m glad that he treated you, too, because it was very gracious of you to accompany him, especially since he was a complete stranger to you. Thank you very much for showing him around.”

Samy looked at me, and then he said, “Martha, did you know that this man and I are practically neighbors?”

“No, Samy, I’ve never met him before. He said that he lived in Manhattan.”

“Oh, he does Martha, but he’s also an Israeli, and he and I talked at great length about the political problems that face both of our countries.”

It was then that I realized what I had done. Both Samy and I broke into un controllable laughter. As we wiped the tears from our eyes, I apologized to Samy, and after I’d thought about it a little, I turned to Samy and said, “Samy, this is a good lesson for both of us. We go about our lives and meet strangers on a daily basis, never knowing anything about them. And today, by simply doing a good deed for a stranger, you spent time and shared a meal with a man who might have been considered a mortal enemy. Remember Samy, you’re studying to become a diplomat here at Bates, and he is a very accomplished pianist. Peace just might begin with only two men.”

Samy looked at me and nodded his head. “You know what Martha, you’re right!”

In an email posted on December 11, 2007, Martha had this to say: “I wrote that story very quickly and send it off to several newspapers but none would run with it. I tried so hard to get someone to help this young man but it seems that the NY Times, Boston Globe, The Washington Post, Lewiston Sun Journal and the Portland Press Herald were all to friggin’ chicken to interview him/me to get the story. Anyway, he is very disappointed not to be seeing his mom. She can't get permission to leave Palestine and he can't enter. He did attend the recent conference in Washington with the Hammas and the Israelis and had the opportunity to discuss many of the issues that are so important to his homeland becoming a country in its own right. Let’s hope that by the time he becomes a diplomat, he will be able to come and go at will.”

Are you a writer who needs that second pair of eyes?

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Ali Alavi, a native of Iran, came to the United States in 1995 as an international student. He attended the University of Southern Maine and received a BS in electrical engineering, a BS in business administration, and a Master’s in Business Administration. He is the author of three poetry collections written in his native language, Persian, and a series of short stories. He currently resides in Portland, Maine, the setting for his novels. Along Came a Shepherd is his second novel. This is the continuation from our last issue.

Self Will

by Im Sook Kim ©2007

In our previous issue, chapters one through four told the story of Carol Drayton, an aspiring writer and English teacher in Portland Maine, finds herself on the brink of suicide. Her dire plan is interrupted with the arrival of a mysterious woman named Angela who has a plan and a purpose for Carol.

Chapter Five That night, after Angela Shepherd left, for the first time Carol recognized the burden of guilt that she had been carrying all those years for having betrayed her true self, for having forgotten her true calling. Once a promising new voice in New York’s literary circles, she had wasted five years of her life attending to the incessant needs of a pathological philanderer who finally left her for another woman-the event which had crumbled her soul, bursting the bubble of oblivion and denial in which she had resided for years. Utterly humiliated, she could not bear to be the laughing stock of Manhattan’s intellectual elite who all seemed to know that for the renowned Broadway playwright, Jack Albertan, exercising fidelity would be a slow and torturous demise. After her divorce, Carol had moved to Portland where she found a teaching job at a public high school. That had been a year earlier. That night, for the first time since the beginning of her ordeal, she stopped thinking about Jack Albertan, her divorce and her torn apart life.

She slumped in the rocking chair by the fire place; her eyes shut, while her mind replayed the tribute the old woman had given her.

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You are a good writer, thought Carol, smiling. The old woman believed in your talent. Her delicate body slowly rocked with the chair as she relished that thought.

She could not remember the last time she had been praised for her work or accomplishments. Looking back, it occurred to her that contrary to what she had thought, under the shadow of Jack Albertan’s fame, she had not been deemed insignificant. The truth was that she had been completely invisible – even to herself.

The young woman savored the sound of Angela Shepherd’s words as she replayed them in her mind over and over, wondering about the magical power that was embedded in them. For even though she was still haunted by grief and distress, she was suddenly feeling that she no longer wished to die – not that night – that night was worth living, only if because of the joy of remembering what Angela Shepherd, her “fan”, had said. The old woman had reminded her of her true self – what she had been afraid to do for a long time – because she had been ashamed of the way she had treated her very self. And now she felt that she needed to be alone with her true self more than ever before, realizing how much she had missed the old Carol.

Chapter Six Carol was born on October 5, 1971, to a well cultured, middle class family. Her father, a native of England, taught Art History at Columbia University, and her mother, though usually busy raising three children, was a gifted sculptor who would take on a project every chance she got. She was a true New Yorker who firmly believed that she would not be able to bear living anywhere else but in her beloved Manhattan. She frequented the galleries, attended workshops, and helped novice Broadway producers raise funds for their projects.

Carol was a graduate of NYU. She held a degree in American Literature. Shortly after graduating from college, she started teaching English and writing composition at a private high school in Brooklyn. It was not long before she learned of her popularity among her students. And soon thereafter she launched a writing competition for juniors and seniors and became the champion for her proposed project: creative writing workshops for all the four grades. The publications of her short stories in Paris Review coupled with the positive reviews, which she received in a handful of literary papers and magazines, filled her heart with joy and motivated her to pursue her dream of becoming a professional novelist.

In the December of 1999, shortly after the publication of Moonlit Covent Garden, she attended a writing seminar in Long Island with the aim of discussing her book project with the participating agents and editors. That day she met the dashing Jack Albertan who swept her off her feet with his charm and charisma. The two of them began a passionate romance, which soon turned out to be all consuming for Carol as her experienced lover could clearly see that the young woman’s infatuation was giving way to love and attachment. Carol’s new preoccupation did not leave any room for pursuing her old dream. In the years that followed Jack’s career continued to flourish and so did his appetite for womanizing. Throughout it, however, Carol remained partly oblivious and partly in denial.

Ever since her divorce, Carol had spent her nights agonizing over her failed marriage, and every night she had fallen asleep while blaming herself, her ex-husband, her family and friends, and the universe.

But that night she fell asleep thinking of her fan, Angela Shepherd, and her proposition.

Chapter Seven Angela Shepherd woke up early that morning. Her husband, Charles, was still in bed. She opened the bedroom window, which overlooked the ocean, letting the cool breeze in. She took a deep breath and glanced at the overcast sky. The sun hung low behind the gray patches of rainy clouds. Her friend, Freddie, the seagull who always came by for breakfast was already there, waiting for her to show up. The old woman had named the bird “Freddie,” but she was not sure whether the bird was actually a male. Freddie always sat below her bedroom window and waited for tasty morsels to be tossed from the balcony. This morning, Angela winked at the seagull who was staring at her with a pair of hungry eyes.

“Good morning, Freddie,” she said smiling.

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She walked down the hallway and went downstairs to the kitchen where she opened a can of sardines and emptied it on a plastic plate that belonged to Freddie. She went outside and set the plate below the balcony and left so that Freddie could scavenge in peace.

After a long, relaxing shower she donned a traditional African costume, similar to the one that she had worn the night before only the color of this one was light yellow. She wore her pearl necklace, and went downstairs to make some coffee. She tuned into the local radio station that was playing a soothing piano piece. She opened the door, picked up her Sunday paper that lay on the doormat, and began to leaf through it as the coffee brewed.

When she got to the book review section she entertained the thought of seeing an article on the book she intended to convince Carol to write -- a book that was based on her life story and the important lessons that she had learned. She did not want that book to be Angela Shepherd’s biography. Who would care to read my life story? She thought. But a beautiful novel with the themes that I have in mind will find many readers. And that is how Angela Shepherd was: an optimist. If she thought a project was worth carrying out, she would never let the thought of possible obstacles deter her from seeing it through. And the book she had in mind was a project worth fighting for, because she believed it could change the lives of its readers for the better. People could benefit a great deal from what I have learned in my lifetime, she thought.

At about eight thirty her husband joined her for breakfast on the porch. Their house was built on a two-acre piece of land with beautiful, well maintained gardens, and multiple roman style fountains and ponds. There were old pines, oaks, and spruces here and there among the flowers and neatly trimmed bushes. Pretty soon the color of the leaves would turn to crimson and yellow. Angela loved the New England autumns as much as she loved its springtime. She would come to the porch with a novel or a collection of poems and read all afternoon.

Her favorite American writers were Harper Lee and Ernest Hemingway. Having grown up as a minority in the South, she found Lee’s To Kill a Mocking Bird to be an accurate and poignant portrayal of the predicament that faced her people for a long time. She also adored Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea because in her opinion, the story illuminated, in a symbolic fashion, the perpetual battle between humankind and life struggles.

Her husband, Charles Evans, was also an avid reader. He was two years older than Angela and was a retired family doctor. He was tall and slender and had thick, gray hair, slightly receded in the front, and a goatee.

Charles was also an African American, but he had grown up in the City of Brotherly Love – Philadelphia. The couple had two sons: James and Adam. James was thirty-eight years old, married with two children. He was a lawyer and worked for the DA’s office in Boston. Adam was three years younger than James. He taught Sociology at Portsmouth College in New Hampshire. He had married a year earlier, and his wife was four months pregnant.

Charles and Angela kept framed pictures of their sons and their families on the walls, bookshelves, and tables all around their home. Since both Adam and James lived near Portland, Maine, they came to visit their parents every chance they got.

Angela had told her husband about her plan for the day. Charles was going to visit some of his old friends in Kennebunkport. It was a weekly gathering, which took place at a private club that was located about a fifteenminute drive from their house.

After breakfast Angela began to prepare the big family meal. She cooked smoked rice, and salmon, and baked some carrots, potatoes and green beans, and made some garden salad.

She had already baked an apple pie for dessert. She washed the fresh fruits that she had bought the day before and put them on a large china fruit dish and set it on the living room table next to the pastries and other refreshments. She had a bottle of white wine chilling in the fridge.

At about eleven o’clock Angela was ready for her guests. She walked her husband to his car and waved to him as he drove away. She then walked up on the porch and started reading the articles in the book review section of the Maine Sunday Telegram, wondering what they would say about the book that was going to be based on her life.

“Don’t disappoint me, Carol. I need you to make it happen.”

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Peter Ackroyd - the classic ever changing ADD specimen: a Classics graduate from Durham University, he received his teaching certification at Loughborough College, and Master of Philosophy degree at Liverpool University. He was a Yorkshire County champion swimmer and coach as well as a foil fencing semi-finalist. Peter has cycled up to the Arctic Circle and the length of Europe (twice) and worked as an international truck driver, and EFL teacher in Germany, Greece, Thailand, and Hong Kong. He was a university professor in Korea (where he watched one of his swimmers win Olympic Gold at the 1988 Seoul Olympics) and university senior lecturer in Cyprus. He's now fulfilling family commitments back in England where he drives trucks, teaches freelance English, Drama, French, German, and even, despite weight gain and injury, Phys. Ed. He has an auto engineering patent awaiting publication and is still trying new directions - hence this small sample of writing from a motorbike tour. Send your comments to packroyd@gmail.com.

2007 - It’s July.

I’m sitting with my right leg raised - an eight week sentence in plaster. Two little boys thought it would be fun to block a school door, then suddenly let it go when I pushed harder, so I would fall.

Now - disability benefit; no prospect of teaching income till September but I’ll be lucky to get work before October. Hope I can do some trucking when the pot comes off. The National Union of Teachers gives me all the protection of a chocolate condom.

No holiday of course.

There comes a time when……..you’ve got to remember a previous series of incidents if only to cheer up with memories of an even worse string of bad luck…

Sailing Along the Bosporus

Photograph courtesy of L. Notch © 2007

1985 Freedom! With the end of August the battle of wits between me and the cleverest, laziest students in the universe has subsided to a smiling stalemate. Summer school has finished and I am off on holiday. But there are two problems when you are enjoying the gentle poverty of an English teacher in Crete.

One is – where can you go that is more beautiful than the mountains here around Hania?

The second is – where can you go where you are not an instant pauper. The English teacher’s monthly “salary” in drachmas, on which you sink relatively slowly into penury, is closer in buying power to what you give as a tip in a Swiss restaurant. Choices of country are therefore restricted.

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Several deep financial breaths later, PTU135P, my well worn BMW R90S motorbike – a relic of much more solvent and stressful teaching in UK – is piled high with camping and survival gear. I am off to catch the ferry to Cyprus. Well, that’s the plan…

There comes a time when your past catches up with you, and on the way from Hania [where I live in a delightfully situated hovel on top of the old city wall] to Heraklion [where the outrageously priced ferry departs] the clutch decides that it is time to pay me back for all the “four up” trips hauling drunken friends home from tavernas. At least it has the decency to lock solid on the main highway to Heraklion rather than in town, so I am able to exploit the engine’s legendary flexibility and get to a garage in Heraklion with some brutal, clutchless gear changing and an enterprising attitude to junctions and traffic lights.

Parts have to be flown from Athens; I sleep behind the wall of the garage and after the mechanic has bled me of my reserves [I am at his mercy because you need a couple of special tools to change a BMW clutch], Cyprus is no longer an option. It has to be Turkey, or I’m not going to have time to explore any other country till next year.

I waft along the coast road to Agios Nikolaos where, Greek rumour has it, there’s a cheap ferry to Rhodos, then another to Turkish Marmaris. I have a day to kill before it leaves – sorry, make that two days once I get there and discover that there’s engine trouble and it will be, in true Greek tradition, late.

Since all my money is going into the petrol tank, I’m finding open spaces to overnight on my much-abused air mattress. So I head for the cool of the mountains above this disappointingly British tourist trap, escaping the summer suffocation below.

Now I believed that the Good Lord decreed “Thou Shalt Not Have Rain in Summer in Crete”. No one told the island that, and as I reach the heights, a cloudburst of tropical proportions descends. The road becomes an instant quagmire and mud jams solid between my front wheel and mudguard. Poking the gunge out with a stick works for less than 50 metres before the wheel locks solid again. Pushing a 900cc motorcycle plus travel gear is not even an option with a mud jammed wheel, but as I am about to take off the front mudguard, a voice hails me from the treeline in the weirdest Greek I had ever heard. After much repetition I gather that Jiannis, a sheep and goat herder is inviting me to spent the night, and continue next day when the road is dry.

There follows a trip back in time.

Bread seller on the Marmaris L. Notch © 2007 Here I am with a gentleman and his teenage son who lives in a rough stone hut in the cloudy Cretan mountain mists, another world away from the teaming tourist masses only 20 minutes away down at Agios Nikolaos. No electricity of course. They take me up even higher to milk their flock – summoning them by whistles. Not only their own, but another herder’s flock, respond, also wanting to be milked! Each alien ewe is instantly recognised and sent packing with well-aimed stones.

Milking and a dinner of thyme and marjoram spiced vegetable stew are followed by something rare. After the father and son have extracted what they can from me to satisfy their curiosity, the father suddenly develops a fixed stare and lapses into the most comfortable silence I have ever experienced. The son does likewise. It is clearly their way of spending the evenings in a place without books, radio, TV or other external entertainment.

The Greeks are intensely talkative – real artists of metaphor and wit – so the contrast with this taciturn Cretan herder from a bygone age is a shock. But the real surprise is the comfort of the silence! I think of how often in company we fill the vacuum around us with noise to cover up our shallowness or absence of communal feeling.

Here there is no such need, and the memory of peace still lingers to this day.

When I leave, I ask Giannis what he would like as a gift when I come again. He thinks for a while, then replies “Ena Kritiki macheri - A Cretan knife”. Two years later, I’m proud to say he got his knife – but not too proud of how long it took me to get it to him.

You pay a great deal for a R90S BMW. But you get in return a machine that can take you from England to Munich in a day, cruising at 160kph while you just sit and admire the scenery. But you also get something with such a low centre of gravity that it will take you, fully loaded, on rutted tracks where my top heavy Kawasaki 900cc Z1 would have enforced a new chain and exhaust, several changes of underwear and a hospital visit.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

These complacent thoughts are going through my mind as I charge along a Turkish road that has degenerated into a pair of ruts deep enough to cause the side protruding cylinder heads to brush the centre mound regularly.

Pride goeth before a stone through the oil sump. Even BMWs have their limits, and my blithe confidence is shattered by a graunching as the long travel suspension travels about 2cm further than the sump was happy with. As the SAE 20-50 lifeblood drains into the Turkish countryside, I have a one-kilometre push to the end of the promontory, mostly downhill thank goodness. There stands one of the many delightful marine restaurants – all their customers come from tourist boats - where I spend the afternoon taking off the oil sump, thoroughly cleaning it with petrol and then letting it dry in the sun. A filling of Araldite followed by a top coating of superglue provides a repair that in 2007 is still holding.

Turkish hospitality has its downsides. The restoration supervisor of Kral Harabeleri, one of the many historic cave dwelling sites, offers me an overnight floor. I try to sleep on a mat in the men’s area with him and his sons.

The trouble is, he doesn’t trust me. The fluorescent light is left blazing in my eyes all night.

In the morning his wives bring his daughter for her ten minute allotted daily play time with her father before she is led crying back to the women’s quarters.

I give him my Casio watch, not out of gratitude but to avoid feeling indebted.

I’m having a great time! The beach is golden, so is the weather. Not a soul! Just me fishtailing happily along the firm wet sand. One glance down at the tank wipes away my smile. I’ve left the fuel taps up on their reserve setting – another look into the petrol tank confirms my fears – I’ve been running on reserve and the tank is almost dry. No way can I retrace my route to the main road.

Ahead of me lies a small river that cuts into the beach. The only way is inland, up a sand dune by the river mouth.

There is nothing for it but to unpack the bike and carry everything up to the top. Then I have to heave the front wheel a few centimetres, then the back end, and lever the bike up the dune through the deep sand.

Swimming training, though not designed for such a purpose, does come in handy.

I reload the bike, roll gratefully down the track on the other side of the dune that runs parallel to the river.

Sitting on the bank, I wash away the sweat and eat the remainder of the sweetest grapes in world history, donated by an ancient Turk wanting to inch nearer to heaven by following the xenophile commandments of the Koran. I do hope he made it.

I was in mixed company, sharing my washing place with about a metre and a half [I did not trouble to measure more accurately] of black snake heading rapidly in my direction.

The red flashes above its eyes surmounted by white streaks may cause great admiration under other circumstances – but their beauty is lost on me. Fortunately, the object of immense attraction, an attraction I wholeheartedly approve of, is a hole about a metre from where I am sitting – clearly Chez Snake – into which my companion slithers at a most satisfactory rate of knots.

With a river to the right of me and jungle to the left, there stands a bridge. This is no ordinary construction. Whoever has designed it has led a sheltered life in which motorcycles Horse-cart vendor in Istanbul L. Notch © 2007 have never figured. The designer, like the BMW R90S engineers, has had a minimalist philosophy. This bridge consists of two large, all too round, logs, slippery green with lichen, over a very deep 3 metre wide ditch. This would be not too demanding in a four-wheeled vehicle with a track the same width as the gap between the logs. A motorcycle loaded up with touring gear is another matter.

There is no way round. Pushing the bike over on a single log is impossible. Going all the way back over the sand dune, along the beach and back to the main road is almost as unthinkable. So, choosing the wider of the two logs, I scrape away as much of the slippery moss as I can, aim the bike along the middle line, take a very deep breath, rev up and charge.

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Five minutes later I am on the main road, riding as if nothing has happened. I just trickle the bike over the top of a mountain pass, from where I coast down to a charming seaside village where a gentleman obligingly fetches me some petrol with his mo-ped.

Paradise lost once more.

If there is one thing that can almost match offroading, it is drifting along a Turkish mountain road on a purring bike with the warm wind in your hair on a fragrant Mediterranean evening.

The tusked boar that emerges from my left and gallops parallel to the road does not share my euphoria. I am too happy to think that it might bear me ill feeling. Then things happen too quickly to feel anything. The memories that remain indelible are: 1. The beast swinging its tusks into my front wheel 2. The United Flight - I head northwest while it flies northeast. “I’m not wearing a helmet! If I die I hope it’s quick.”

3. The thwack as it hits the road on its right side, “Someone’s having roast boar tonight.”[Me and my food fixation!]

4. “Christ, this is hurting so much I can’t be dying.” [After I’ve landed on my head.]

5. “I’m in shock – I must drink as much as I can to avoid fluid loss” – [Ah, memories of my Loughborough College lifesaving course!]

6. “Why isn’t that car stopping for me when I’m waving to it?” [Would you stop if you saw a rather dishevelled large man with a bottle in one hand trying to stop you on a Turkish mountain road at 10pm?]

7. “Where’s the pig gone?!!!” [Well, I was in shock…]

8. “BMW flat twin design is fantastic! When you crash, you know what’s going to get smashed. The only thing that stops me riding on is a chewed up cylinder cover - I’ve got a spare. It’ll take ten minutes [a huge underestimate when you’ve landed on your head] to change it.”

I’ve replaced at last the cylinder cover. Then Turkish Good Samaritans stop – it’s about 11pm – they’re very brave. One speaks German. My left foot is a mess so they help me get on the bike; I ride it, by putting it in gear by hand from a rolling start, back to a mountain restaurant. They take me back to the last town where a doctor sews up my scalp without anaesthetic, bandages what is left of my left foot, and says that it’s only because of my sport that I’m still alive.

I take a bus the next day back to the bike; my left foot is ballooning with infection so gear changing is still out of the question; the doctor did not think of antibiotics so I buy some and they work like magic within hours. In the mean time I have 200km to ride to the ferry from Marmaris to Rhodes so I can catch the return ferry to Crete for the start of the school term.

I shift gears clutchlessly by wrenching the foot lever with my left hand and the long suffering gearbox endures another spate of graunches, but I make it back to Crete and, bandaged but unbowed, I proudly turn up to the first lesson. My bossess takes one look at me; she sends me home.

Epilogue Faith, my houseguest, is a nurse and takes out the stitches a week later.

Four months on, the gearbox seizes up on top of the Brenner Pass, North Italy. It’s mid winter. But that’s another story.

Ceiling design, Grand Bazaar L. Notch © 2007

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Adventures for the Average Woman

William Patrick 'Pat" Gooley, a Navy junior, lived in Japan and California before his father retired and moved the family to Oregon, where he grew up in a small river valley. Two years in a Franciscan seminary in high school, he attended the University of Notre Dame via an NROTC scholarship one year. He was then appointed to the U.S. Naval Academy where he graduated with a B.S. and a major in Russian in 1975.

He served mainly on surface ships and staffs, with three years doing foreign military sales and training in Saudi Arabia. Pat retired in 1994 as a Lieutenant Commander when he pursued his M.S. Ed. from Old Dominion University. He taught English in a Korean university one year and in Virginia public schools five years, then worked six years as a technical writer for a Navy contractor. He is currently semi-retired in Hampton, Virginia, semi-writing and mostly caring for Cathy, his wife of 32 years, who is severely disabled. The Gooleys had a horse farm until 2005, when Cathy got too ill for them to maintain it, but they still have a dog and five cats. Send you comments to pat_gooley@hotmail.com.

In the first installment of this tale of mystical intrigue and suspense, Father Robert Gilley, an American priest serving in a mission in a Rwanda, astounds and dismays the church hierarchy with his ability to “view” remote locales and psychically project the scenes for others to see. He is sent to the Vatican to demonstrate his uncanny ability with the determination that his gift might serve the interests of Vatican intelligence gathering.

Robert was learning enough in his moral theology classes at the Alphonsian Academy in Rome that he now had no qualms about having given the pyx to Mutara. He was also incredibly busy. He had spent a semester and the summer prior to entering primarily studying Latin and Italian, since classes were taught primarily in Italian. That done, he had courses on the Old Testament, history, natural law, development of conscience, and other topics leading to his licentiate. Upon concluding that successfully, he would continue on to a doctorate.

He was also continuing studies in Arabic and starting Hebrew to meet the requirements for that language.

The classes were all taught by experts, most with more than one Ph.D. or multiple graduate degrees.

Discussion was brisk, and his fellow students enjoyed arguing the respective merits and demerits of their programs and classes.

“Biblical experts know what God said. Canon lawyers know what he meant,” said one of his friends one night as several of them were having a good-natured argument in a small restaurant not far from the Vatican. The owner, who was sitting with them, rolled his eyes.

“I have heard that joke every year for thirty years,” he said. “Is that all they teach you in that school?”

Abashed, the speaker laughed and let someone else speak for a while. Robert was just as happy, since he didn’t have an equally clever quip regarding moral theology, and he was hopeful that if someone did, it wouldn’t get the same scornful response from Signor Puccenni.

Back at his cell in the Casa Generale, he studied his assignments for the next day and continued working on his thesis. After compline, he decided to go for a walk. Finding a quiet park, deserted now after dusk, he concentrated, and soon he was looking at Mutara’s house. Merging a square around him, he walked up and knocked on the door.

Mutara was delighted to see his friend. “Welcome, Father Robert, welcome. I am leaving soon for seminary in Nigeria, so I am glad you came tonight.”

Father Robert smiled and relaxed briefly. “How are things here?” he asked, using the Hutu dialect almost without thinking.

Mutara’s face was grave. “Muteteli Uwimana is very ill. I am afraid she is dying. Can you help?”

“I will try. Let me see her.”

They walked over to the sick woman’s home. She was in bed, alone, sweating badly in the clutches of a severe fever. Robert examined her, but she was nearly unconscious and did not recognize him. Robert was no doctor, but he had learned enough in his years of mission work to make some broad diagnoses. The rash and fever were severe, probably dengue, he thought, but several hemorrhagic fevers had similar symptoms.

“Has she had Tylenol?” he asked.

“We have none left.”

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Robert thought. “Wait here, I will return as soon as I can.”

Back in Rome, Robert ran to Guy Nidal’s quarters. The little priest heard him out. “I do not think we want to involve more people in your unique ability,” he said thoughtfully, “but I will see what I can do.”

The little Moroccan made a few phone calls. He looked at Robert, “Do you know how to start an intravenous drip?” he asked.

“I’ve done a few, but am no expert.”

They took a taxi to a nearby apartment. Going up several floors, they stopped at a door. Guy knocked, and an elderly nun opened the door. Guy made some introductions and explained the problem again, but without mentioning the sick woman was in Africa.

“You should carry her to hospital immediately,” said Sister Maria. “Whatever the fever is, she may need fluids, as I told you.”

Father Robert looked helplessly at Father Guy, who shrugged. “I guess we have to tell her,” he said.

Father Robert spoke carefully. “This woman is a parishioner of mine, in Africa. I can reach her almost as quickly as I can cross Rome, but she is in grave danger. I do not know whether she had dengue or something even more dangerous, but I fear she is in danger of dying. Can you help us?”

“A proper exam would be better. The treatment is best if we know what we have.”

Father Robert decided he needed to tell her more. “Sister Maria, if you will get whatever you think you might need, I can get you to the patient and back tonight.”

She was still skeptical, but looked intrigued. “And how will you do this?”

“Trust me. I can take you to her as quickly as stepping through a door.”

She decided to humor this mad man. Her medical locker contained saline solution, equipment for setting up intravenous treatment, and various other supplies. Putting a good cross-selection in a carryall bag, she followed them down stairs. In a nearby piazza, under a tree, Father Gilley merged two squares, and Sister Maria stepped into Rwanda with him. She was amazed, but remained composed as Father Robert introduced her and Father Guy to Mutara. Mutara’s English was far from fluent, but it was sufficient for their purposes.

Sister examined the sick woman. “Probably not Marburg or Ebola,” she said, “but it’s still viral in any case, so antibiotics are of no use. All we can do is treat the symptoms.”

She started an IV in the sick woman’s arm, hooking it to a bag of saline solution. “Fluid replacement is the main thing she needs.”

Muteteli was nearly unconscious, but Sister Maria was able to administer some liquid Tylenol, which the sick woman swallowed with little effort. The first bag drained, Sister Maria hung a second. Mutara kept watch that no one entered the home while she was there, but the fallback in case someone came in was to explain the three religious had been in the area when Mutara found them and asked for help.

After another hour or so, Sister Maria was satisfied she had done what she could. Muteteli’s fever was easing, and she did not appear dehydrated any more. She started a third bag of saline and instructed Mutara how to remove the needle once the bag drained. She also left him the container of liquid Tylenol and a jar of tablets. “She most likely will live if her body can fight off the rest of the virus. When she wakes, you can give her the liquid or tablets once she can take more than liquid. A few days of soup and tea should take care of her.”

Looking around the area curiously, the three religious returned to the piazza in Rome. It was early morning, about an hour before sunrise.

“Some day, I hope you can explain this to me better,” said the nun. She was intensely curious to know more, but Father Guy had requested she not tell anyone of the experience and was somewhat vague as to what Father Robert had actually done. Out of deference, Father Robert did not explain more himself, trusting his friend to decide the best way to end this episode.

“I can get more supplies when I make my regular rounds,” said Sister Maria. She routinely attended free clinics in the poorer areas of Rome, sometimes the only doctor in them, other times assisting another doctor or one of the nursing staff. She looked closely at Father Robert, “Whatever it is you did, I am privileged to have helped. God bless you, Father, and thank you.”

The priests made their way wearily home as the sun rose behind them.

“I hope you will not do that sort of thing too often,” said Father Guy. “It is an admirable act, but your ability must not become public knowledge.”

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“I know,” said Robert sadly. “We cannot cure every ill, and exposure would be more harm than good. I wish it weren’t so, but if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.”

“Go to bed,” said Father Guy gently. “We can discuss this more later.”

Robert did just that. Having no classes that day, he slept some, said his office and Mass, and spent the rest of the day working on his thesis.

A few weeks later, Father Gilley was walking home from his last class of the day when he heard his name called. Turning, he recognized Bishop Bauermann.

“Do you have time to join me for an espresso?” asked the bishop.

Robert was cautious, but agreed he had nothing pressing.

At his office, the bishop arranged for some espressos and biscotti to be sent up. After they arrived, he closed the door and spoke quietly, “Father Guy tells me you are managing to fit some travel into your busy study schedule.”

Robert blushed and looked down. He cleaned his ear briefly with his little finger, then dropped both hands to his lap.

“I am not scolding you, Robert,” said the bishop. “What you did was right and proper, but somewhat of a risk.

“Cardinal Mouhanna and I recently discussed your status with His Holiness. Relax, relax,” he said as Robert stiffened in shock, “You don’t think we all forgot you when you started your licentiate, did you?”

“No, Excellenza,” said Robert sheepishly. “It’s just that, after nearly two years, I thought maybe no more would come of it.”

“No, Father, we have followed your progress. It seems almost certain you will graduate magna cum laude and continue to the third cycle for your doctorate, but then what?”

“I have been enjoying the studies, Excellenza, but would still like to return to mission work one day.” It seemed strange to be discussing this with a bishop not one of his order, but it was a strange sort of discussion.

“His Holiness and His Grace think you may have potential in the Curia,” said Bishop Bauermann carefully.

“Specifically, they would like you assigned to the Secretariat of State after your studies. There, you may make use of your schooling, serve missions in an advisory capacity and perhaps employ your, uh, other talents as well.”

“What, am I going to be a spy? I thought I was going to the International Theological Commission over at the Congregation.”

The bishop laughed. “I thought you might say something like that, and I told His Holiness as much. You will be officially with the commission, and you will do most of your work with them, but the Secretary of State will be able to use you for special assignments. But no, you are not a spy, we don’t use them.” “’We,’ Excellenza?”

“The Secretariat does have some intelligence-gathering capabilities, but all are overt. I know, I know, the Vatican is reputed to have one of the best intelligence services in the world. The Secretariat of State is responsible for diplomacy and has Papal nuncios in many countries in the world. The Vatican has quite a remarkable network of educated observers, all performing legitimate church functions. Those are the priests and bishops, for the most part, and our reports may be confidential within the church, but our activities are hardly covert. There were certain covert operations during World War II, when the Catholic Church saved thousands of Jews from the Nazi death camps, and Pope Pius XII personally authorized many of the covert effort that went on. The Vatican has some covert capabilities today, but those conspiracy theorists that identify Opus Dei, the Knights of Malta, or the Servizio Informazioni del Vaticano (a favorite on UFO discussion groups) as secret spy agencies are wrong.

The Vatican has its secrets and ways of protecting them, of course. Some diplomatic discussions are sensitive, and negotiators always have some cards they do not wish to show. You might be asked to report observations when you travel on regular duties, and we might ask you to secretly monitor some diplomatic discussions, but priests do not parachute into enemy territory or carry out espionage with guns and knives, with or without the help of Nordic-looking aliens from Alfa Centauri. Seriously, Father Robert, there may be rare times when the Pope needs information that probably only you can provide. Can you do this?”

Father Robert thought. “I have some reservations. I will not do anything against the interests of the Redemptorists or the United States. I will not undertake any assignments I cannot carry out in good conscience, and I will not commit any acts of violence.”

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“We would only ask you use this skill in especially critical situations, such as seeing what the Mormon Tabernacle Choir is up to or obtaining the Southern Methodist University football play book,” deadpanned the bishop. He laughed at the expression on Robert’s face. “Honestly, I am certain you will never be asked to do anything to cause you to worry about its morality or legality. May I convey your acceptance and conditions to His Holiness?”

“Yes, Excellenza, but may I ask one more thing?”

“Ask.” “Will I ever be allowed to be just a parish or mission pastor again?”

The Bishop was serious now. “I honestly wish I knew, Robert. I wish I knew. Perhaps one day you will. But, I do not know and would not venture a guess at this time.”

The Bishop drank his espresso quickly, Roman style and chewed on a biscotto. The silence drew out to a few minutes.

Robert knelt before the bishop. “I will carry out my assignments in obedience, Excellenza,” he said, kissing the bishop’s ring.

Bishop Bauermann quietly told him to sit again. “You may continue to practice your skills, subject to the previous restrictions. However, please do not involve any more people than already are aware of your abilities without contacting me first. As long as you are discreet, I think your contacts with Mutara are safe. As to other cases, in an emergency, try to reach Father Guy before you do anything. And try not to scare any more nuns half to death. Sister Maria is a tough old doctor, but she was pretty shaken by the experience. I had to pull some strings to make sure she didn’t discuss it with her regular confessor. So, no more flying nuns, please.

Anyway, I don’t anticipate you will be asked to do anything until after you get your doctorate.”

Father Gilley walked back to the Casa afterwards very quietly thinking about all that had been said, and pondering what might have been left unsaid. *

*

*

In June a few years later, Robert successfully defended his dissertation. He would continue to teach through the summer until the dissertation was published. Only then would he receive his actual doctorate. Doctorate or not, he was going to the Secretariat of State assignment early in the autumn.

Mutara arrived, as he had written, in early July. On Sunday, they went to a reception at the United States embassy to observe Independence Day. Bishop Bauermann had arranged for invitations, and they drove with him to the Via Vittorio Veneto a few kilometers away.

“At least clerical collars allow us to avoid tuxedos,” commented the bishop. All three men wore summer suits over their shirts. Mutara was the least comfortable, as he had rarely worn a jacket at home. At least the embassy was air conditioned.

Inside, they mingled with the other guests. The buffet tables had the usual fancy delicacies, but plates of corn on the cob, barbecued ribs, hamburgers, and other “American” foods were also available. Large screen televisions were broadcasting the previous year’s Boston Pops symphony, since this year’s would not be until well after midnight Rome time. In the main reception room, away from the buffet, a live band of US Marines and Army musicians played marches and other tunes.

A man in a tuxedo walked up to them. “Good evening, Your Grace,” he said, “and is this the new Dottore?”

Robert blushed. “Not quite dottore yet. I still have to publish my dissertation.”

“I’m sure that will happen soon enough. Scuse, I am Lee Dornan, the naval attaché.” Gilley realized that what Dornan wore wasn’t exactly a tuxedo, but a white jacket with small medals and a gold pin of some sort on the lapel. Shoulder boards with four gold stripes and a star completed the jacket. He wore a gold cummerbund over black trousers, and gleaming black shoes stuck out under them. Dornan was a bit over six feet tall, slim, with bright blue eyes. His thinning blond hair was cut shorter than local styles, and he had no facial hair.

“Captain Dornan, good to see you again,” said the Bishop Bauermann. He introduced Mutara and told Robert, “Captain Dornan was commander of the aircraft carrier America when it was over here early last year.

Now he is back as the U.S. Navy attaché. Or maybe the attaché case.” The bishop laughed at his own joke.

“Anyway, he has been coming to my Masses regularly for what, about eight months? He arranged our invitations tonight.”

The Navy officer smiled, “Yes, we’ve been here less than a year. About two more to go.” He offered the priest and seminarian business cards. One side was printed in English, the other in Italian. The card gave his 16

Adventures for the Average Woman

name, job title, the embassy address, and telephone numbers for office and cell. Dornan wrote an e-mail address as well. “I didn’t want e-mail from everyone I might have to give one of these,” he explained, “but I think we may see one another sometimes thanks to our mutual friend His Grace.”

Bishop Bauermann grinned. “It makes it easier to plan seating at a dinner when we don’t have to do all that boy-girl-boy-girl calculating. Clergy just have to be sorted by personality. That, and sometimes I have to make sure I keep the Franciscans and Jesuits apart.” He grinned again.

“It must have broken many female hearts when you entered the priesthood, Your Grace. That smile could tempt a Mother Superior.” An attractive red-headed woman had walked over to them. She was wearing a black evening dress and silver jewelry set with green stones that matched her eyes.

The bishop assumed a very solemn face. “Why, Captain,” he said sternly to the Navy officer, “I do believe your wife is flirting with me!”

“Aye, Your Grace, that she is,” said the officer, equally somber. “I’ll probably have to restrict her to quarters on bread and water for that.” His eyes twinkled, and the bishop let out a loud laugh that turned heads near them.

Captain Dornan introduced his wife, Mary. “My wife and His Grace carry on shamefully like this,” he explained to Father Gilley and Mutara. “It seems they both came from the same interior flatland state back home, and they find some nostalgia in chatting about cows and wheat, sorghum and things like that.”

Mary Dornan and the bishop laughed. The three clergy shook hands with her and chatted some about the weather, current events, and other generalities.

Gilley glanced at his friend. Mutara was not sophisticated in many ways, and the priest did not want him to feel uncomfortable or be scandalized by the way the embassy couple talked so casually with this prelate.

Mutara caught the look and smiled. He gave a little shrug that the priest knew was his signal that he was doing fine.

“How do you like Rome so far?” Mary Dornan asked Mutara.

“It is…very crowded,” he replied carefully. “And people here drive even crazier than in my country.”

She laughed, and the other men chuckled. “Yes, I am glad I don’t often drive myself. Most of the time, I walk or taxi, since Lee usually has the car at the embassy or wherever he has to go to meet visiting ships.”

“I do spend a lot of time on the roads to and from Napoli,” he said. “We have an excellent assistant attaché at the consulate there, and the NATO base has plenty of people to take care of ship requests, but protocol still requires I put in an appearance down there from time to time.” Dornan checked his watch. “I hate to rush off, but the ambassador has a speech in a few minutes, and we need to be in our places for it.” His wife took his arm, and they walked off toward the other side of the room. The speech was to be in the large room where the military band still played.

“We might as well go that way, too,” said the bishop. “Probably just a general welcome and some Fourth of July patriotic remarks, but we ought to listen. Sometimes it’s as important to be seen as to see.”

The music stopped, and a man stepped up to the microphone the singer had been using. In slightly accented English, he began, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I am John Maroncelli, ambassador for the United States, and I welcome you here tonight for our Independence Day celebration.” He repeated himself in Italian.

“This is a festive occasion, and I hope you will enjoy yourselves. I know you came here to do that, and I will not keep you from the good food and music much longer. The United States declared its independence nearly two hundred fifty years ago, when Rome was a mere stripling of two thousand five hundred.” He paused for the laughter and some applause from the Italian guests. “In the recent past that is United States history, many eminent Italians have made major contributions to our country. “Italians have been active in American politics, giving us mayors of cities like New York, Boston, New Orleans, and San Francisco. Governors of New York with Italian ancestry include Mario Cuomo, George Pataki, and Al Smith, who was born Alfred Emanuele Ferrara.

William Paca, who signed the Declaration of Independence in 1776, went on to be Governor of Maryland. Ella Grasso was the first elected woman governor in the United States, in the state of Connecticut. Colonel Luigi Palma di Cesnola, who served in the U.S. Army during the War between the States was the first Italian to earn the Medal of Honor, America’s highest military decoration. Many Italian Americans have done so since. Marine General Peter Pace was the first Marine Chairman of the American Joint Chiefs of staff. Scientists such as Enrico Fermi and Robert Gallo are two of dozens of famous Italian thinkers who made or still make their homes in the United States. And American sports and entertainment cannot start to number all the famous athletes, singers, actors, cartoon animators, composers and conductors whose families came from this country. America Volume 2, Issue 6

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would be a poorer place without these and all the other Italian immigrants who never became famous nation wide. Again, welcome, everyone, and enjoy the evening.”

A round of applause followed, and the musicians started a Sousa march.

Mutara said thoughtfully, “Your United States is a country of many countries, is it not?”

Bishop Bauermann grinned, “That is an excellent way to say it, young man. May I borrow the phrase and use it some day?”

Mutara looked down and mumbled something that the bishop took as permission.

Robert smiled. “Mutara here has a tremendous intellect and a talent for words. I hope his training here can develop it, even if he won’t be a Redemptorist.”

Mutara looked at him, smiled when he realized his friend was teasing.. “No, I must return to Rwanda and serve my bishop there. I think this travel and my school in Nigeria will be as much as I do outside my homeland.

But I will b ea priest of my diocese for life, I think.”

Bishop Bauermann said softly, “If you do it well, your reward will be great in heaven, son. Not all of us can be missionaries and great preachers like your friend. Most of us have to settle for being priest and prophet in a single area, and the world is well off for it.” He gazed off into the distance. “Let me tell you, I wouldn’t have given up a minute of the time I was with the Military Ordinariate, but I spent more time on airplanes than I ever want to again. A see that consists of all the military from the United States around the world took a lot of traveling, and I was one of three assistants. I think I would have been happy just to spend my life as a country priest back home in Nebraska, but we are not here for our own happiness on earth.” He looked at the small African. “Whatever you do, do it well, and ask for no more. Now, I’m repeating myself. Let’s get some more refreshments. Go where you will, we’ll stay another hour and a half. Meet me in front at eleven thirty if we get separated.”

They followed the bishop to the buffet, then went their own ways with plates of food. Gilley was handing his plate to a passing waiter when a voice behind him said, “Well, Father, I guess we colonials have to stick together don’t we?”

He turned and saw a face he recognized, but the name didn’t click. Blond, slightly pudgy, Australian accent, clerical collar. “Father Ford?”

“Aye, well met again. Are you in Rome for more visits, or here long term?”

“Long term, now. I am finishing moral theology studies at the Alphonsian and will apparently be staying on at the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith for a few years. What about you? Did your candidate get beatified yet?”

“No, or I’m sure you would have heard of it. News of the first Australian Redemptorist saint would undoubtedly reach the Academy. But I guess we will be seeing more of one another – I was just posted to the Secretariat myself. I guess they needed an Aussie in the section for relations with English-speaking states.”

“I guess, if you consider your dialect English.”

The Australian laughed. “Who’s your mate?” he asked.

Gilley introduced Mutara, who shook hands firmly with the Australian Redemptorist. Ford asked, “Are you going to join the Redemptorist Order, or do you have other plans?”

Mutara cheerfully explained that, although he greatly admired the Redemptorists, “especially after knowing Father Robert,” that he was going to be a diocesan priest back in Rwanda. “Archbishop Agbatnou says that if I can finish my theological studies with good grades, he will ordain me deacon as soon as I get home. After one year more in Rwanda, I can become a priest. I think I will at least be able to do more of the things in Bishando or Kaishanga, baptisms, for example, and save much work for the priests, laying on hands for healing, that sort of thing. And he said as deacon I could preach at communion services with no priest.”

“Excellent. And how long will you be in Rome before that?”

“About three years, I believe. With classes all year, I should finish Theology by then.”

“Good. The Order could use you, but if your heart is in Rwanda, you can serve just as well there as anywhere.”

“Have you been a missionary, Father Ford?” asked Mutara.

“Not overseas, I was a late vocation,” the Australian explained. I was in the SAS – Special Air Service – for nine years, and I traveled quite a lot then. But Australia is still essentially a mission country, so my work there 18

Adventures for the Average Woman

has been with the poor and underprivileged around Galong and Kew, mostly. Those are down near Melbourne, in the southeast,” he explained, knowing that Australian geography might not be Mutara’s strong point.

“I’m glad you added that,” said Father Gilley. “I am pretty weak on Australian cities and where they are. What did you do in the SAS? They are kind of like American Special Forces, aren’t they?”

Ford nodded. “Yes, we mostly did that sort of thing, long range patrols to scout places before other units went there. I was mostly in Afghanistan and Peshawar, but scooted around the desert in the Middle East a bit, too.

Can’t really say exactly where or when, much, even now. Can’t say I think it matters much, though.”

“What made you leave that for the priesthood?”

Ford’s eyes were sad. “I saw too many people die, decided I didn’t want to cause any more deaths if I could.

I started reading philosophy at university, and it just sort of went from there.” He shrugged, bunching his jacket.

“Life blunders on, mate, and sometimes you get a chance to make things right.”

Gilley revised his estimate of Ford; that appearance of pudginess was more the result of being well muscled, not so much well-fed. “I imagine we will be colleagues, then, in a few months. I would be interested in learning more then.”

“Aye, mate, though I prefer not to talk much about the old days. Rather compare note on parishes in the Aussie bush and Africa these days.”

“Fine by me,” said the American. “My dad was in the U.S. Navy for a while, a boatswain’s mate, before I was born, mostly. He got out when I was about four, I think. He stayed in the Reserves and retired a while back, but I was never really interested in the military as a way of life.”

“No, plenty of chance to see the world as a Redemptorist, and you don’t get shot at quite as often,” said Ford, “although some of the older missionaries might dispute that last.”

“As a matter of fact, one of my instructors at novitiate told about the time he was stopped at a roadblock in Zimbabwe when a guard’s rifle went off by accident. Father was only hit in the shoulder, fortunately, and knocked unconscious, but they got him to hospital in time to save the arm. He would have had some harsh words for the soldier had they ever met again, though. He’s a tough old fellow, but we thought he was the greatest. Not so much of that sort of thing these days, fortunately.”

“I hope not, but things could get tense again for our young seminarian, if I read right. If anywhere is going to provide adventure in the future, I think Africa is a good place to find it. Not that all the adventures are good.

Many of us grieve for Rwanda,” he said seriously, looking Mutara in the eyes very solemnly.

Mutara agreed. “It has been difficult in my country all my life. Violence is a problem there, and the refugees make the need for priests even greater. I hope things calm down again, but the tension is always there.”

“Aye, mate. Well, I must be off. Good to see you, Father Robert,” and the Australian priest walked off toward the main door.

They watched him go. Father Gilley idly cleaned his ear with his little finger, then realized what he was doing and dropped it with a tinge of guilt. “As bad as sucking my thumb,” he muttered.

“Pardon?” asked Mutara.

“Nothing. He’s a strange one. I would never have guessed he had been military,.”

Gilley checked his watch. It was getting close to 11 pm. The party might go longer, but they could not. As they moved toward the doors out front, they caught up to Bishop Bauermann as he paused to thank Captain Dornan again for the invitations. They added their thanks and shook hands again, then left past a pair of Marine guards.

TToo bbee ccoonnttiinnuueedd iinn oouurr nneexxtt iissssuuee… … DDoonn’’tt mmiissss oouutt!!

SSuubbssccrriibbee ttooddaayy!!

Volume 2, Issue 6

www.IdeaGems.com

19

Every issue, Laurie Notch seeks out an aspiring woman entrepreneur (or two) and writes an article to encourage women in business to keep fighting the good fight of hard work, ceaseless product development, and pursuing the dream. What follows are two articles about two dynamic ladies living by their talents and passions.

The first, Sarah Richards, is just venturing out with making herbal teas her livelihood, while the second, June Stevenson, is a World Ward II veteran as well as a veteran artist with a lifetime of work to stand on. It is my hope that both women intrigue and inspire others to follow.

How many times have any of us done it? We go by a shop or restaurant on a daily basis, look at the menu in the window and tell ourselves, “We’ll have to come here sometime.” Sometime turns into weeks and months, even years and we have yet to step inside.

This was exactly my case with a quaint little storefront whose windows were alive with planters overflowing with greenery. I’d walk past it day after day, reviewing its sign, Homegrown Herb & Tea. I’d often see the owner, Sarah Richards, outside writing up the specials for the day on the street board. I kept telling myself, “I’ve got to check this place out!” But I never did.

Then last week, on a cold December day, I decided I was going in. I pulled up a stool at the bar (yes, that one on the far end in the photo), introduced myself, and asked Sarah to tell me all about her business.

As Sarah told me a bit about her 16-year history as an herbalist, which she did on the side while working as a Spanish teacher in the public schools, a customer entered the shop and asked about mixing rooibus with black tea (which Sarah doesn’t advise). He then asked about her homemade “lip buttah” (Maine dialect, you know). Two other customers came through the door, bellied up to the bar, and told Sarah what ailed them. One complained of a sour stomach trouble while the other, a martial arts instructor, talked of needing a shot of energy before facing his class. I chimed in about suffering from a migraine. Sarah queried for more specifics: “Do you feel nauseous? Is it a stress headache?”

She made me a “cooling” tea made from basil, chamomile, lavender, and thyme (with a dollop of honey). She explained how migraine sufferers (like) me needed destressers to cool down their pitta or “fiery” dosha. (Okay, so what the heck is a dosha?) Sarah explained that the concept of dosha comes from Ayurveda, the ancient indigenous East Indian practice of medicine. She claimed, “Learning about Ayurveda really got me motivated.” to quit teaching and open up an herbal tea shop, which, by the way, is the only one of its kind with a bar to sit at and teas tailor-made for the customer’s dosha.

All right, so I actually did have to go home and look this stuff up. Here it is in a Wikipedia nutshell: Dosha is the Ayurvedic term for the body’s humors. Ancient Greco-Roman and European medieval medicine determined the body had four humors from internal fluids: sanguine (blood), phlegmatic (mucus), choleric (urine), and melancholic (bile). Dosha (from Sanskrit) are “the manifestations of elemental forces in the physical body, and not are not physical substances in themselves.” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humours_(Ayurveda)) The principal Doshas are: Vata (air), Pitta (fire) and Kapha (water and earth). When the doshas are in balance, good health is the result. The key to Sarah’s recipes for a wide variety of organic teas is to souse out the symptoms from the customer (i.e., fatigue, aches and pains, nausea, etc.) determine that person’s dosha then prescribe the infusion, which she’ll make on the spot for there or to go. Sarah can also make tea bags to infuse at home. Just add hot water.

Located at 195 Congress Street in Portland, Maine, Homegrown Herb & Tea is a great place to sit, sip, and chill (especially on those chilly winter days). Her shop has a cushioned seating area, living room style, complete with guitar for the compulsive picker and strummer. There’s also a separate sitting room (via floor cushions) where groups can gather over a nice pot of tea. I chatted with her about why she chose the Munjoy Hill area of Portland. She said: “I looked all over town. I liked the notion very much of being on the hill. I used to live up here and absolutely love it here.” I asked if business has been good on the Hill. Sarah told me it had been, even though she is the only one manning the infusion fort.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Just then, another customer walked in. Sarah got busy preparing a batch of Vata Grounder and espoused her philosophy: “The backbone of what I’m doing is to try and cure people with tea. My opinion is most of what is therapeutic about a cup of tea is not the actual cup of tea. It’s what happens when you have that cup of tea. It smells good, it feels good, it tastes good. You’re talking to people. That’s a big part of what I do -- Just people coming saying. ‘Ah, you know, I’m feeling so this lately, and blah-blah-blah,’ and just chit-chatting about it and taking the time to sit and do nothing but reflect on it is so much therapy.”

I watched Sarah create concoction after concoction (see her hands whirring a-blur in the photo?), without any one specific recipe in mind. In spite of the fact she has a menu with over 300 recipes on file, she said she still enjoys experimenting. “It’s as rewarding for me as it for the [customer]. It’s not factory work. It’s like learning for free. I am doing it at my own pace in my own way…it’s really fun and inventive and creative.”

I asked Sarah how long she had been in business. She told me a little over a year. She explained that it wasn’t easy to launch on her own. She didn’t have a lot of money. She wasn’t sure homeopathic teas would be a big hit.

There were times when she’d drive home in tears over not knowing how she would pay her bills, but with perseverance, faith in her product, and a steady stream of regulars with new clientele (like me) walking through her doors on a daily basis, she has managed to cross over the hump of start-up-business trials and tribulations. Sarah told me how she feels especially blessed to be doing what she loves.

Having just purchased her first computer for her new home office setup, Sarah said she’s the brink of jumping into cyberspace with her products. But with a Web site still a ways off, Sarah relies on word of mouth to promote her wares which include homemade lip butter, Ayurvedic skincare products and body oils, handmade soaps, delicious ginger-almond scones, lavender cookies, seedlings, potted herbs, and herb seeds. I asked if she grew all her own herbs, and she told me it was one of her dreams to have a fully homegrown product, but that would have to wait for the future. Right now, she orders her herbs from Mountain Rose Herbs in Eugene, Oregon.

More customers come in. I sit and polish off my second infusion, lending effective relief to my migraine. While folksy guitar music plays over the speakers, I study the menu and ponder what neat treat Sarah’s teas would make for my gift list.

To order Sarah’s special, special teas, you can call her at (207) 774-3484. Homegrown Herb & Tea store hours are Tuesday through Saturday from 11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. EST. Or write to Sarah Richards, 195 Congress St., Suite 1F, Portland, ME 04101.

Volume 2, Issue 6

www.IdeaGems.com

21

Life seems to have come full circle for 89-year old artist and Long Island, New York native, June Stevenson. “It all started with this, “she said as she held up a newspaper clipping. “It appeared in the Sunday supplement, of the Portland Press Herald in November 2006. When I saw this I nearly flipped.” On the page was picture of an elderly woman in Navy blues. June went on to relate how the woman featured in the paper had not only been at the same training base in Iowa where June had attended, she had been stationed at the same Seabee base in Rhode Island where June had served as a Wave during World War II! To further June’s amazement was the news that this woman, Betty Fleetwood, was living in Kennebunk, Maine, not far from Portland, where June has been residing for many decades. Suddenly the past met the present in a swirl of sweet nostalgia and serendipity of time and place.

June entered the service in 1942. She served until the end of the war in 1945. She is listed on the World War II Memorial in Washington DC, along with all those among our nation’s “Greatest Generation” who served.

During her stint as a Wave, she sang with bands on her base in Davisville, Rhode Island.

Before June joined the service (following her sister’s example who had signed up as hospital corpsman after graduating from Holyoke College), she lived in New York, held a job, did painting, and took art classes at the Art Students League. After enlisting, June joined a team of 32 Waves working in a Naval insurance office. She was chosen to work as the personnel officer’s yeoman for Commander Blancke. After the war, she visited his Wall Street Office where he worked as a stock broker. She confided, “I should have invested right then and there. I would be a millionaire today.”

June sang with prominent big band musicians and singers in the armed services, including, Ray Kibbe, a guitarist with the Ozzie Nelson Band (far right in picture on left). Her singing career began in an interfaith church service when she got the nickname, “The Singing Wave.” June sang with bands on her own, before forming a trio with two fellow Waves. They were asked to sing on “This Is The Navy” on national radio in Boston.

June was one of many talented servicemen and women who entertained the sailors. June’s trio sang in the intermission in the road show of “Oklahoma” that had come to her base and received enthusiastic response from the cast.

During a different show, June had to perform in an evening gown (which she got from a secondhand store in Providence). Her poor commanding officer got faulted for June’s being out of uniform!

June not only sang, she danced. (See the little arrow pointing at her in the photo?) But after the war, her musical career ended. “Everyone said, was I going to sing? No way!

Smokey little lounges. No way! Everybody smoked and drank.

It was horrible. That was the only place a girl could sing,” June explained.

Times were tough during the war. Food and other items were rationed. As a serviceperson, June only got filtered news about the war and the political situation. June and her comrades were even used as a guinea pig for sulfa drugs.

(This was how antibiotics along with other new-line pharmaceuticals were product tested in those days.) As a Wave, June was support staff to the Seabees. They were always on alert in the event of an enemy strike on our shores or any other national emergency. But in spite of the dire times, June still found time for leisure.

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June loved sailing and made a starling accomplishment during her tenure as a yeoman with the Navy for being the only Wave (out of 100 candidates in training) to become a fully licensed boat skipper! She owned her own boat and competed in team sailing events, that, she claims, they always won (because the other guys had such bad boats). Years later, in 1990, at the age of 72, June served as a deckhand and tour guide on the Nantucket for threeand-a- half years. She even steered the vessel over to Two Lights using a sextant to guide her.

The war ended in 1945, and June returned to civilian life where she took up her passion for art, especially painting. In 1947, she did portraits in the Greenwich Village art shows (photo at right) while studying at The National Academy of Design. She went on to the Art Students League. After she got married and moved to the country, June was the first teacher in the newly created Country Art School in Westbury, Long Island (founded by Joan Whitney Payson). While teaching, she raised a family of four children, with her oldest daughter, Joan, becoming a fine artist in her own right.

Today, June lives and works in her townhouse in Portland, Maine, where she works with mixed media and oils. Occasionally, June’s work appears in galleries and shows, including the annual St. Luke’s Cathedral show. In 2003, she had a unique show that opened on Earth Day called, “Fragile Earth,” at the Three Fish Gallery in Bayside, featuring her monoprints mounted in circular mattes bearing titles such as “Flora Gone Wild,” and “Fragile Earth, I through III.’ Then there is the striking and perturbing “Formless Matter,” which expresses June’s personal distress over all thef “junk in space.” She used precious gold and silver powders to give a cloudy, metallic effect.

June’s home boasts an inventive and extensive collection of art from oil-based summer landscapes of Deer Isle (where she and her family vacationed for years as depicted in the painting at bottom) and a triptych of the Scarborough Marsh, to gelatin prints, including one of an urchin diver she had seen die on the docks in Stonington (whose figure mysteriously and unintentionally loomed up and out of the design as seen in image on right).

June is fortunate to have made waves in her life from serving her country during a crucial time in our history, to breaking through gender-bias barriers in maritime ventures, to exploring and expressing her talents in the arts, eventually making a life for herself as a talented and established artist who has never quit coming up with new ideas. “A lot goes on in my head all day long,” she asserts with an ever-curious spark in her eye.

The daughter of an architect father and landscape-architect mother, whose legacy lies in Long Island landmarks as well as Radio City in Manhattan, June has led a rich and celebrated life. At the venerable age of 89, she is going strong with plans for future shows and presentations. June’s vision at this stage is to bring the photos, letters and objects painting the picture of lifetime achievements in a video documentary where past connects with present for future generations to appreciate. She feels it is time that her story and that of the other Waves she served with (and the amazing way she came to encounter one of them through a news clipping) be told.

For more information about June and her work, please email us at ideagems@aol.com

Volume 2, Issue 6

www.IdeaGems.com

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Recently, Mary Regan (Anyway PR) interviewed Laurie Notch, Managing Editor at IdeaGems® Publications and creator of the graphic novel, “Cube Ghouls,” along with Flat Foot Films’ Ted Hemberger, Travis Wood, and Brian Cross, who will be making the feature film.

Mary: Laurie, how did the idea for Cube Ghouls come about, and how did you all meet?

Laurie: Well, this came about in December of 2004 when I had a terrible nightmare that I was going to have to go back and work in the corporate world and I literally in the dream was back in my old cubicle and I saw myself going over to another cubicle to ask a coworker for some text because I was a technical writer for a number of years – and I found him eating another coworker. So, it was a really horrible nightmare that could have freaked me out, but instead I turned it into something very creative. I wrote a graphic novel [which has] been just kind of sitting around for 3 years. Then I met these wonderful gentlemen at a party.

Laurie (back left), Ted (kneeling by tombstone), Travis (standing), Brian (squatting by monitor), doing a night shoot of Cube Ghouls.

Ted: Yeah, we met at a dinner party with Brian’s mom, [Deb]. Laurie is a friend of Deb’s. And, we got to talking and Cube Ghouls sounded pretty interesting. Then we had a couple of production meetings and jotted down some ideas on paper.

Brian: Yeah, it was my birthday party.

Mary: But this is a new kind of shoot for you guys, right? Because you guys are known for shooting skateboarding and sports related or documentary films.

Travis: Yes, we actually have a couple of films out – documentaries – but this is actually our first plot kind of film we’ve done.

Laurie: (Laughing) Oh, there’s a plot? Yes, there is cemetery plot.

Mary: How do you think of these ideas when you write something like this? What inspires you?

Laurie: Well, real life is the ultimate inspiration. I mean, this would not have happened if it hadn’t been for the horrible nightmare jobs that I actually worked. And the beauty of this is that you’re going to find millions out there who are going to relate to the concept of the corporate zombie literally being the corporate zombie. You’re going to have a guaranteed audience for this out there. Whatever it is – if it’s your job or your marriage or your rotten boyfriend or your rotten girlfriend or whatever – life is what inspires all of us. And, even with Stephen King, there is always some ounce of truth in all of the things he produces even though they are horrific and highly exaggerated.

Travis: Well, if you’ve ever worked in a cubicle, then I’m sure you can relate as can plenty of people can out there.

Brian: My family owns an insurance company and I tried to get into the family business and work in a cubicle doing paperwork and being a zombie is not my thing! So, I can totally somehow relate.

Mary: Yeah, I’ve worked in cubicles, too, and there is something about it that’s just too confining.

Brian: Yeah, there is nothing very creative about a zombie world.

Mary: What inspires you? Who did you look up to when you were learning how to be a writer?”

Laurie: My muse is Rod Sterling… the author of The Twilight Zone. When I was a kid, when we had a television in the house, that’s all I watched pretty much. Any horror movie, you know, with the greats, Boris Karloff, Vincent Price – I mean, I just couldn’t get enough of that kind of stuff. That’s always been my inspiration. And ever since I was a child… I remember when I was about 12 or 13 years old, my friend and I would always draw these horrible Addams Family type of cartoons… we had a character named “Uncle Wolfie” back when we were like 14 but… you’re supposed to grow up and forget all of that stuff.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Mary: What do you hope comes about with the Cube Ghouls film project?

Laurie: Look, when we do the media kit, [producers will] want to see our background. … This (interview) is like a back story [we] can show… about the film and… us… [for] whoever is going to be interested in hopefully financing our movie because they’ll want to know who they are going to be dealing with. And when the movie is done [with]… DVD sales down the line, that’s the kind of stuff people like. Somehow, they want to hear about [us[ and how [we did] this.

Mary: Not only do you write but you draw unbelievable characters… so, what is your favorite medium of expression?

Travis (left) preparing a Cube Ghoul.

Laurie: I’m a graphic artist. I used to be a sand sculptor. I hated it, but it’s the only art form I’ve won awards for.

I always wanted to illustrate. I was in art school, and back in those days, they were teaching [us] how to color coordinate [our] work for yuppie furniture; so I got out of there. Then I spent… about 20 years teaching at universities overseas. I’d do some artwork there, and I’d write a little. But I never took any of it seriously. When I came back to this country, something just drove me. I was having all of these wild, wicked, horrible dreams that were so vivid and just so realistic – not just the Cube Ghouls dream – I’ve got 5 or 6 novels, one of which did get published this summer . Very vivid, very graphic – readers say they could just see it play out like a film.

Next film, guys! (Laughs) Mary: What’s the name of that novel?

Laurie: That one’s called, The Spoiler, not to be confused with cars.

Mary: And people can get that on www.Amazon.com?

Laurie: Yeah, Amazon. The Spoiler. by L. Notch.

Mary: And you guys (of Flat Foot Films), what is your inspiration when you’re shooting film? Who do you look up to as a role model?

Ted: I guess each other. (Laughs) Brian: I would have to say one of my most favorite filmmakers is Quentin Tarentino as he is, by far, probably one of the most talented guys I’ve ever seen in the film industry. Just the way everything comes together is epic – it’s totally different than anything you’ll ever see again. I’m a fine arts photographer at heart, so Quentin is pretty much my inspiration when it comes to film.

Travis: I think we look at a lot of movies, too and critique them more as a whole. And the genres – we like a lot of different kinds of movies so this gives us more of an aspect that we know. You know, we can shoot a zombie movie one day and go to the mountains and shoot snowboarding the next day and so on.

Brian: Yeah, we can’t watch movies anymore. (Laughs) People hate watching movies with us ‘cause we pick them apart.

Mary: And you’re doing something for a local band here soon?

Ted: Yeah, we’re doing a documentary for the Rustic Overtones. It’s going to be out in September of 2008.

Mary: What’s your favorite genre so far that you’re working in, or are you having fun with it all?

Ted: The horror genre is pretty fun. (All Laugh). You know, the documentary is pretty plain and simple, you know, you go in and film them everyday and follow them around. But with film, it took like 2½ hours just to light a shot.

Travis: Yeah, it takes a lot of coordination.

Mary: What are your hopes and dreams for this and any other projects down the line?

Laurie: Money, money, money, money! Show us the money! We want to be creative with a payoff. It will be nice to produce something that will be entertaining [where] people spend their $10 or $12 bucks to come out and Volume 2, Issue 6

www.IdeaGems.com

25

see the movie. Or, they’ll buy it on DVD, and that helps these guys… build their portfolio. This is what they want to do. I mean, how many people are really trying to live their dream job? We all have a day job, right?

What’s your day job?”

Ted: I sit in a cubicle and edit.

Mary: So, you’re a Cube Ghoul…?

Brian: I work in a warehouse. Mindless, zombie work!

Laurie: And I drive a cab when I have to. … The fact is, we all have to live, but to live the dream where you can use your creativity and your training and your artistic vision...”

Travis: And you can get a lot of motivation from us, too, because we don’t like our situation right now. We want to make it different. You know, you see a lot of people, even people we know who are fine with their mediocre jobs, but we don’t want that anymore.

Mary: Life’s too short, right?

Ted: And, as you can see right now, we are filming in a pretty much dump of an apartment. (Laughs) And this bedroom is just a “Media Room.”

Mary: So, Laurie, any more to say about Cube Ghouls?

Laurie: Cube Ghouls is more of a visual project, though, yes, it has a script; it has a plot. It’s got a lot of little plot twists going on, so it’ll be pretty wicked.

You’re working in your cubicle late at night.

You notice something strange about your coworkers who are drooling blood from ghoulish grins, informing you:

A Production of

FILMS And 26

www.flatfootfilms.com (a subsidiary of IdeaGems ® Publications)

Adventures for the Average Woman

Elizabeth Brackett is a junior at the University of Southern Maine. She grew up in Bath, Maine and now lives in the great city of Portland. She enjoys writing in her spare time and spending time with her family, friends, and all her pets. Once again, she has blessed us with her insights into today’s relationship scene for twenty- and thirty-somethings. Hell, this probably applies to any and all who’ve discovered that breaking up isn’t always so hard to do. Send your fan mail to red_grrrlie@hotmail.com.

I know you are just as guilty as I am at doing this. If you say you’re not, then I know you are at least guilty of lying. I’m talking about dating your ex boyfriend, going for that round two, or perhaps even round three in the dating ring. You know the guy you dated a few months or years ago, you broke up, and now loneliness (or boredom) has set in and you are thinking about dating him again. And why not, anyway? I mean, you dated, you had a great time together, the sex was probably at least decent (don’t lie, you know you wouldn’t get back together with him if it wasn’t good), you already have met his family…it’s nothing new. Nothing complicated.

Something that is simply familiar with that extra excitement of telling your friends, “We are going to give it another shot,” as they sit rolling their eyes, knowing how it will pan out in the end.

Let me tell you something, dating at ex boyfriend is like trying to fit into your skinny jeans. You know the jeans, the ones in the back of your dresser drawer that are about four sizes to small, but you just KNOW if you keep them, someday you will be able to zip that zipper up with the ease of opening a cold can of Diet Pepsi.

Here’s the thing: they aren’t ever going to fit again. Never. Ok, well maybe if you quit eating for two weeks or perhaps have a bout of pneumonia, then, yes, maybe they will. But in reality, no. It’s not going to happen. They used to fit. They might even almost fit right now, but they are just a bit too tight. A bit uncomfortable and they just don’t quite compliment you like they used to. Sure, they were once fashionable, they once looked good on your body, but now, they’re just not quite right.

This is the same with revisiting that ex relationship. Yes, I know, I know, you use to have so many good times!

You were in love! There was so much passion… blah blah blah… I’ve heard it enough times. Hell, I’ve said it enough times. We’ve all seen The Notebook a hundred times. We all want that kind of passion and romance. I mean, who doesn’t want to be engaged, but then start wondering about your first love, or hell, maybe even your second love, and then want that intense passion back?

It’s the drama that draws us back time and time again. It’s that need for adventure and secrecy. It’s that little voice in the back of our minds that says, “Kiss him. Don’t think about tomorrow.” And just like that, WHAM, you are back with your ex.

Does it work out, you ask? Well… how are those skinny jeans fitting? Exactly. Even if you do fit into those skinny jeans because you just had a near death sickness that kept you on bed rest for a few weeks and you dropped twenty pounds… you’re going to eat again. Things will go back to the way they were and those cute little jeans are going to start feeling tighter and tighter growing more and more uncomfortable as every day goes by.

All girls know the wonderful book, It’s Called a Breakup Because it’s Broken by Greg Behrendt and Amiira Ruotola-Behrendt, and if you don’t know it, I suggest you go right now to your closest bookstore and purchase it.

Sit down with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s or perhaps a bottle of Pinot Noir and read this book cover to cover. Just like the title so perfectly states, you should, if nothing else, remember that: it’s called a breakup because it’s broken.

The chances of an ex boyfriend becoming your knight in shining armor after he was once your nightmare in a shiny Jetta are slim to none. Something was wrong in that relationship. Something didn’t quite fit right. Just like the skinny jeans you want to fit into again, it’s not going to happen. You’ve grown. You’re older now. You’re wiser and whether you know it or not, you’ve changed. Let go of the past, both men and clothes that keep us hopeful in a kind of neurotic way, and instead embrace the change. Embrace the new and forget what once fit.

You should remember that just the same as our taste in clothing changes (come on, are you seriously telling me you STILL wear wind suits?) so does our taste in men. It might have once looked good, might have once fit perfectly, but those days are gone. Time to go shopping again for that new, perfect fit.

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Below is a showcase of books we’ve reviewed and featured so far. These tomes of thrills and suspense are well worth the read! PLUS they make terrific stocking stuffers for that special holiday gift!

ALL THESE FINE BOOKS ARE ALL AVAILABLE FOR SALE AT WWW.AMAZON.COM OR CONTACT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSTORE TO ORDER YOURS TODAY!

And for even more fantastic reading for you, your family, friends, and your local book club, take a look of the terrific books featured in the following pages of this special holiday issue!

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Adventures for the Average Woman

The Book Change the Reel is a metaphor. Our life is a trip to the movies. It challenges us to take ownership of our choices and decide what we really want so we can live the life of our choosing. This simplistic comparison illustrates how our perceptions, beliefs, and behaviors provide a framework for what we pursue in life as well as a boundary for what we can achieve. By the end, we understand that in order to change our life, we must first “change the reel”.

What others are saying: “ Wow! This is definitely worth reading again AND using as a tool for change.”

James Hamilton, Global Training Manager JBH Enterprises “It was like sitting down with a cup of coffee and talking to a good friend.”

Tracey Edwards, Director HelpSister Network

BUY IT NOW! www.refiningredefining.com

"Succinct, nice read, thoughtful."

Amanda Mosola Geologist ExxonMobil “An effective guide for personal change. Very common sense-ish. Easy to relate.”

David Willis, Project Analyst ExxonMobil

The Author Kimaka N. Willis has been involved in the exploration, development, and production of natural resources for years. First, helping people explore and recover their own hidden, and often overlooked, potential. Then she became a geologist for ExxonMobil, searching for oil and gas. She founded Refining Redefining, a personal empowerment organization, in order to equip people to refine the way they redefine themselves. Today, she is a senior petroleum geologist, author, and an accomplished motivational speaker, helping individuals and groups find their own natural resources and use it to fire up their goals.

Kimaka is known for her attentiveness and wisdom beyond her years. She is appreciated for being kind, non-judgmental, and encouraging. Moreover, she is valued for her honest, direct, and uncompromising approach to problem-solving.

Kimaka gained experience working with children through many years of teaching in Children’s church ministries.

She has also worked with adults while participating in and leading several dance ministries. She volunteers in her community, facilitating personal development workshops in local women’s shelters. She serves as the President of her Toastmasters club and is a mentor for people seeking to improve their communication and leadership skills. She also coaches individuals, empowering them to be the change they seek in their lives.

Kimaka enjoys taking complex topics and presenting them with simplicity. In her book, Change the Reel, she uses the analogy of a trip to the movies to explore typical limiting behaviors and challenges the reader to make deliberate choices to get what they really want for their lives. Her goal is to teach for understanding and creative application, not regurgitation. Her use of everyday analogies makes learning engaging, entertaining, and memorable.

Kimaka earned a Bachelor of Science degree in Chemistry from Fort Valley State University in Georgia and a Bachelor of Science and Master of Science in Geology from the University of Oklahoma. She resides in Houston, TX with her husband and 2 young children.

Put a Book or Two Under Your Tree The Book Volume 2, Issue 6

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In the privileged neighborhoods of Southern California, bored teenagers string one lazy afternoon into another, searching for their next thrill. When you live life without consequences, anything can happen. And on one heated summer day, something terrible did.

That’s when pot dealer Mickey Youngblood kidnaps the kid brother of his hated nemesis, and everyone’s fate becomes sealed. Youngblood convinces his gang to hold young Bobby Leblanc “for ransom,” but Bobby gets caught up in their world of drinking, drugs, and partying, all the while blissfully unaware of the danger he actually faces.

In the meantime, Youngblood and his boys have lost sight of the fact that the kid is a hostage—and when the party turns bad the rogue crew must face the tragic conclusion it never saw coming.

BUY IT NOW!

Based on a true story still being played out in the California criminal court system and captivating international audiences, screenwriter Michael Mehas brings us Stolen Boy, a gripping novel resulting from his unprecedented research and access to confidential case files.

www.michaelmehas.com

The Author

AA tthhrriilllliinngg aanndd ddrraam maattiicc ttrruuee lliiffee ssttoorryy!!

Michael Mehas is a writer and attorney living on California’s Central Coast. While attending Pepperdine University in the early 80s, Michael performed and worked for his mentor–– independent film legend John Cassavetes––who gave him the best advice he’d ever received for an aspiring writer: “Go get experience in life to write from.” And so he did. In 1988, Mehas received his Juris Doctorate from Pepperdine University School of Law, and the following year graduated from the Academy of Justice School of Advocacy, having learned all aspects of criminal trial preparation, management, and resolution. He followed this with a brief stint with the Public Defender’s office and private practice where he researched, prepared, and tried felony criminal matters, including a death penalty case in only his third trial. In the 1990s, Michael divided his energies as a screenwriter and freelance journalist, his work published internationally. In 2003, he co-founded an international news and feature Internet magazine called The Inquisitor. Later that year, he again teamed with writer/director Nick Cassavetes as the associate producer on Alpha Dog, a major motion picture from Universal, starring Justin Timberlake, Bruce Willis, and Sharon Stone. Based on his unprecedented research, access to confidential case files, and interviews with key participants, Michael has just finished the extraordinary psychological thriller, Stolen Boy, scheduled for release in July 2007.

A Taste Saturday, July 3, 2001—12:01 a.m.

The explosion of shattered glass shook Mickey Youngblood to his very core. He jumped up in his sleeping bag but couldn’t tell where he was or how long he’d been out. His head swam in a fog of booze and dope, and his heart raced as he realized that the shards of broken glass raining down upon him had once formed the front windows of his living room.

He’d been out partying late with his buddy John Barbados, when they came home and ended up passing out in sleeping bags in the middle of his living room floor. This was how Youngblood slept these nights. His house was empty, because he was in the process of moving out and selling it. Too many people knew where he lived.

His first thought was that someone had shot out his windows. But as he studied the shadows, he realized there were no bullet holes, only what sounded like muffled laughter coming from around the side of his house.

Whoever had broken out his windows, he was pretty sure, was now in the process of trying to escape.

He reached under his pillow and tossed Barbados the black semiautomatic pistol he always kept for protection. After pulling on his tennis shoes to protect his feet from the broken glass, Youngblood pushed his muscular five-foot-four-inch frame into a crouch. Like a crab, he scrambled over to the closet, opened it, grabbed his pistol-grip shotgun, and pumped a shell into its chamber. His finger slid to his lips as he rose and slipped 30

Adventures for the Average Woman

silently past Barbados and over to the jagged window frame. Youngblood gazed intensely out into the night.

Seeing only darkness, he turned to Barbados. “Cover me.”

Barbados nodded, and Youngblood skulked across the living room to the front door. He stood behind the door, grabbed the handle, and twisted it slowly …

The Book Lisa Lockwood endured childhood poverty and an abusive marriage to become a soldier in Desert Storm, a police officer, undercover narcotics detective and the first female SWAT team member.

A former beauty pageant contestant, Lisa had to suppress her obvious femininity in order to conquer the "Boys Club" of law enforcement, but her beguiling beauty would become her best asset as an undercover narcotics detective. It was in the gritty world of drug rings, Mafia members and child molesters that she rediscovered the power of her femininity and learned to use her disarming sexuality as a professional asset in ensnaring criminals.

BUY IT NOW!

Lisa's journey was fraught with inner conflict as she struggled to balance her dangerous profession with a desire to be a complete woman, worthy of genuine love. Undercover Angel is Lisa's illuminating story of perseverance and unstoppable drive that took her deep into the heart of a violent world and left her in a place of happiness, self-confidence and inner peace.

www.lisalockwood.com

The Author Lisa Lockwood is currently a speaker and coach. She lives with her new husband and three step-children. With the charisma, drive and eternal optimism she has dedicated her life to mastering, Lisa has written and published her memoir, Undercover Angel. It is written in a manner that will inspire, educate and entertain readers. Since Ms. Lockwood's resignation from law enforcement, she has been engaged in activities such as coaching, speaking, NASCAR driving, marathon running, scuba diving, skydiving and snowboarding.

Lisa has been approached consistently over the years regarding her unique experiences as a police officer, SWAT team member, and undercover detective. These inquiries accompanied with the passion to inspire and motivate the diverse market of readers provided the impetus for the book.

Lisa's femininity, initially perceived as a drawback in the male-dominated world of law enforcement, became her greatest weapon in the field. She also explores instances in which her sexuality was both an asset on the job and a detriment.

Lisa's personal philosophy of, "Acting as if" which includes optimism and perseverance in the face of adversity and the acceptance of responsibility helped her overcome the obstacles that stood in her path.

Over the last six years, Lisa has implemented her academic and career experiences in the field of personal development.

A T as t e GI Jane Training In The Air Force A drill instructor approached, “hang up the phone, your time is up!”

“I have to go Mom, they are hollering at me to hang up.” I surrendered the phone to the next crying victim in my squad. I was a mess, sobbing uncontrollably as the angry drill instructor ordered me to move into another line. I desperately wanted my mommy. Trembling and on the verge of hyperventilating, I marched into the next Volume 2, Issue 6

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formation and stood alone among hordes of strangers where I experienced my first encounter with inner courage. It was then I decided that I was doing this thing until the bitter end. I could not return home a quitter. All we needed to do to survive the six weeks was to be compliant, subservient, offer no excuses, take responsibility for every act, and do exactly as ordered.

Dictator Dad’s Welfare Home Dad was quite the disciplinarian, which meant weekly Saturday beatings for all seven of us. The neighbors often heard our screams penetrating the closed basement window of Dad’s House of Justice. There was always a struggle after each strike, as we would squirm and yelp in pain, making involuntary attempts to block the next impeding blow with our hands. This would make him angrier; if we moved we knew to expect an additional strike. What was most perplexing was that, every week, no matter what, in Dad’s eyes, we all managed to do something that required a beating.

Competing In The Miss Illinois USA Pageant A whole new world was opening up for this dark blonde, 110 lb., 5’5, brown-eyed, eighteen-year-old girl. The one striking physical quality that I was often recognized for was my prominently high cheekbones. I received these from Dad’s gene pool. His parents were a mixture of Swedish, English and Native American Indian (Cherokee).

Beauty, poise and personality were the only requirements for the competition. I thought I possessed all of them, but suddenly I was feeling less than adequate. Who was I, anyway? I was eighteen, living at home, attending a community college while working as a waitress. Was this the making of a Miss Illinois winner?

Patrol Officer’s Delicate Touch Through trial and error, I leaned how to quell many volatile police calls with the use of minimum force. For example, when handling drunk drivers, domestic altercations, warrant arrests or even bar fights, I built rapport with the offenders and the victims by treating everyone with respect, even after I determined who would be going to jail. I found that most of the offenders I dealt with were men and being a petite blonde woman certainly gave me an advantage over my male counterparts. If I had a quarter for every time a male criminal or victim said, “Officer, aren’t you going to pat me down?” I would have retired after two years.

Promoted To SWAT I expected some slack from the men, but still felt hurt and betrayed. I’d been helping them train, socialized at lunch with them and even took off into the woods to relieve myself, trying to fit in. I was OK as their role player, but that was it. All they knew was an all-male team and that’s exactly how they wanted to keep it. I knew the team leaders were looking for a levelheaded team player who had proven him or herself effective through proactive police activity and dedication to the department. It was the team members that wanted to keep it a boys’ club. As much as I wanted to believe the guys would perceive me as an equal, the reality was that it wasn’t going to happen. If I was selected, it would be like starting all over again. Yet another time for me to prove myself in a man’s world.

The Book Our homes and offices may be clean, but are they safe? Armed with aerosol sprays and bleach, we wage war against germs and household dirt, but at what cost?

The cost can be substantial: It turns out, our interiors are not so pristine. Those cleaning products, as well as fresh paint, carpeting, and manufactured wood products, are some of the more common items that may be making us sick. The worst offender may be mold.

Fuzzy black spots colonize, lurk in the walls, and send spores into the air.

If we consider all the things that can be unhealthy for us, the list can be overwhelming.

We may feel it’s difficult to create a healthy home.

BUY IT NOW!

Fortunately, ninety-percent of indoor-health issues can be avoided.

www.healthylivingspaces.com The book, Healthy Living Spaces, makes commonsense suggestions for creating a safe, allergy-free environment, for your home should be a place that nurtures you, one that feels great to be in. There is no reason 32

Adventures for the Average Woman

you can not live in such a place. Readers will appreciate the book's matter-of-fact approach to making our homes, offices and schools as healthy as possible.

The Author Dan Stih is an indoor environment consultant who investigates homes, schools and offices to solve complaints and health problems related to being indoors.

He was previously an aerospace engineer and got started in this business after retiring as an engineer and taking up work as a handyman.

While working as a handyman he discovered some of his clients who were sick also had things wrong with the buildings they were living in. The buildings were responsible for their illness.

Many people who don’t feel good indoors think they have mold. Dan’s experience has led him to discover that in many cases mold is not responsible.

He experience led him discover a pattern. Most people’s health and well-being can be improved by simple, inexpensive changes for 10 common, indoor health hazards.

And those who are not sick can create healthier indoor environments that make us feel better, help children get better grades in school and office workers more productive.

The Issues Are “Green” buildings Healthy?

Often not. A lot of people are jumping on the band wagon, buying green buildings. Most of these are worse for your health than conventionally built homes. People who think they are getting a healthy building are being fooled. Dan will explain what “green” means and what you can do to make you home or office “green” and healthy.

Is mold toxic?

When ever people have mold they want to know if it is “black” mold. There’s more to it. Why does everyone seem to think bleach kills mold? Bleach doesn’t kill mold. Stih puts it in perspective and tells how to prevent mold, what to do if you think you have mold problem and how to prevent one.

Is your spouse irritated at you?

Environmental factors might be making her irritable. Learn what they are and how to eliminate them.

Is your school affecting your child’s grades?

It’s not rocket science. Stih explains what the common hazards affecting concentration and academic performance are and simple ways to improve them and boost your child’s’ grades.

Trouble in Paradise Buying or selling a home? There’s a good probability that your dream home has a toxic mold problem. Don’t’ buy a money-pit. Stih tells us how to spot trouble before you buy or sell.

Are employees calling in sick? The office might be responsible.

Billions of dollars are lost in sick time each year from poor indoor air quality. Stih explains the simple, inexpensive fix.

Think Green this Holiday Season!

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The Book

BUY IT NOW! This book is dedicated to all women.

www.onmyowntwofeet.com

We wrote this book because the unfortunate reality is that the majority of women are not living from a position of financial strength. As a result, all too many women are experiencing financial stress in the present and financial hardship down the road. It doesn’t have to be this way! Learning a few simple yet powerful financial lessons while you still have time on your side will both increase your confidence today and your financial security tomorrow.

Poor financial nutrition is not limited to women. The American Payroll Association reports that over 70% of Americans today live paycheck-to-paycheck. However, On My Own Two Feet is written for women because more often than not, women are the ones left carrying the bag at the end of the day. According to the Women's Institute for a Secure Retirement, 80% of men die married while 80% of women die single. Too many of these women face extreme financial hardship. According to the Administration on Aging, women are twice as likely as men to live out their golden years at or below poverty levels. Our aim is to help you avoid this fate.

It is our deepest hope that after reading On My Own Two Feet not only will you have the tools necessary to take charge of your financial life but you will also be inspired to act on that knowledge!

The Authors Manisha Thakor (right) and Sharon Kedar (left) both have extensive experience in the financial services industry. At various points in their careers they have worked as financial analysts, portfolio managers, and client servicing/marketing executives for leading investment management firms with billions of dollars in assets under management. Both Manisha and Sharon earned MBA degrees from Harvard Business School and are Chartered Financial Analyst (“CFA”) charterholders. Manisha received her BA in American Studies from Wellesley College and lives with her husband in Houston, TX. Sharon received her BA in Economics from Rice University and lives with her husband and daughter in San Francisco, CA.

Rave Reviews!

“This is the path to true liberation: how to handle all those hard-earned dollars. Or make do with what you’ve got.

And if I were a modern boy, I’d put on a wig and buy one as well. We all need this guidebook.” - Lynn Sherr: ABC News Correspondent & Author of Outside The Box: A Memoir “On My Own Two Feet is a must-read for all women who want to own their own destiny. In clear, penetrating prose, Thakor and Kedar guide their readers along the journey to financial security and personal freedom.

Whether you are going to run a corporation, a household, or your own extraordinary life, this book is indispensable.” - Nancy F. Koehn: James E. Robison Professor of Business Administration, Harvard Business School 34

Adventures for the Average Woman

“A real page turner - and that's not something typically said about personal finance books! On My Own Two Feet is chock full of powerful, straightforward advice about how to take charge of your financial future. Trust me, you can't afford to miss this book.” - Denise Brosseau: Co-Founder, Forum for Women Entrepreneurs “On My Own Two Feet is the financial equivalent of the basic black dress and red handbag in every woman’s closet. Choose it early and use it often for maximum positive effects. I mentor many young women, and this book will be one of my recommended financial tools as they build for future professional and personal dreams.” Betsy Heller Cohen: Vice President & Futurist, Nestlé Purina Petcare Company “If you’ve got a nagging sense of needing to put your financial life in order but dread facing up to it, On My Own Two Feet gives you the solid, straightforward advice you need, in a brief and super-efficient manner. This guide is an excellent place to start when you don’t know where to begin (and don’t even feel like getting going!)” Shira Boss: Author of Green With Envy: A Whole New Way to Look at Financial (un)Happiness “I'm crazy about this book. It is a must for every woman who wants to move more easily through life with a good, basic understanding of personal finance. It is a book that can help our grandmothers, mothers, daughters and girlfriends get on top of their money issues quickly and confidently.” - Susan Harmon: Managing Director, Public Radio Capital “If you want to get smart about your money, On My Own Two Feet is essential reading. This delightfully concise and to-the-point book gives you the tools AND the inspiration to achieve personal financial empowerment.” Mei-Mei Tuan: Founding Partner, Notch Partners LLC “On My Own Two Feet is a ‘must-read’! Thakor and Kedar lay out clear, practical and actionable financial advice. It is also amazingly easy to read, with breakthrough insights and plenty of real life examples. This book can definitely help any and all women achieve financial independence. I wish I’d had this book when I was in my 20s; I’d be comfortably retired by now!” - Marilyn T. Smith: President, Life Companies, The Hanover Insurance Group “On My Own Two Feet is an easy-to-read guide, with useful tools and common sense rules. It covers all the bases a young woman (or man) needs to manage her financial life successfully. Read it, do what it says, and keep it for future reference.” - Ellen G. Hoffman: Former Senior Vice-President, Fidelity Investments “On My Own Two Feet demystifies money and lays out a clear roadmap for achieving financial security. By the time you are done reading this book, you’ll know how much to save (and for what), how to invest wisely, and how to protect yourself against the unforeseen. Learn to take charge of your financial future and you give yourself a gift that will last a lifetime.” - Rosemary Jordano Shore: Founder & Chairman Emerita of ChildrenFirst Inc. ”This is the book Mom would write for you, if she knew about money and thought there was the slightest chance you would listen.” - Ronna Lichtenberg: author of Pitch Like A Girl: Get Respect, Get Noticed, Get What You Want

Win a Free Copy of ON MY OWN TWO FEET! We are interested in better understanding the questions and concerns women face around the subject of personal finance. Email us your experiences, fears, questions, etc. around the subject of money by March 31, 2008 and we will choose five people at random to receive a free copy of ON MY OWN TWO FEET. Email us at: ms@onmyowntwofeet.com. We look forward to hearing from you!

What are you waiting for? … Go For It! Volume 2, Issue 6

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The Book This easy-to-read booklet brings to parents eleven standards against which they can evaluate their methods of raising their children. These standards are based on the latest research on effective parenting in today's challenging times. This booklet is the combined English/Spanish version.

The Power of Positive Parenting also provides numerous practical recommendations for how parents can bring their current ways of raising their children more in line with these important standards - and thereby better prepare their children for success at school, at work and at life itself.

BUY IT NOW! http://ciccparenting.org

The guidebook provides standards and recommended parenting practices for: Building more positive and nurturing relationships with children and teenagers; Disciplining in ways that bring about cooperation without having to resort to yelling, screaming, threatening and spanking; Preparing children for school and work, and supporting their formal education; Helping children relate productively to the multi-cultural world of today's school and work settings; Modeling practices and life styles that increase children's overall chances for health and happiness

By following the guidelines and recommended practices from The Power of Positive Parenting, parents will be engaging in those actions that research shows are most likely to keep their children off of drugs and out of gangs. The booklet is also available in a combined English/Khmer version and an English only version.

The Author Dr. Kerby T. Alvy is a nationally and internationally respected authority on parenting and parent training. He is the Executive Director and Founder of the Center for the Improvement of Child Caring, which has received worldwide acclaim for creating, delivering and disseminating model parent training programs. He is also the Founder and a Founding Board Member of the National Effective Parenting Initiative. Dr. Alvy is a prolific author of books and articles on parenting, parent training, child development, and child abuse prevention, as well as authoring and co-authoring parenting education programs and seminars. His major publications include: Parent Training Today: A Social Necessity, Black Parenting: Strategies for Training, The Power of Positive Parenting, The CICC Discovery Tool, and Bringing Parenting Education Into Early Childhood Care and Education Systems.

His latest book, The Positive Parent: Raising Healthy, Happy and Successful Children Birth-Adolescence, will be published in November 2007 by Columbia University’s Teachers College Press. Other publications by Dr. Alvy have appeared on the editorial pages of metropolitan newspapers like the Los Angeles Times and in such professional journals as the American Psychologist and the Journal of Community Psychology.

Dr. Alvy has also distinguished himself as a creator and director of numerous community service projects to increase parental effectiveness and reduce child abuse, drug abuse, juvenile delinquency, school failure and gang involvement. Projects that he has designed and directed have gained the support of various state and local funding bodies, and the support of over 75 private foundations and corporations, including the Ford Foundation, AT&T, Xerox, Annenberg, Mattel and Hearst.

Dr. Alvy was previously affiliated with Kedren Community Mental Health Center in South Central Los Angeles for seven years where he served as Director of Children's Services, and with the California School of Professional Psychology for 17 years where he was a Professor and Dean for Academic Affairs. He has also taught at other institutions, including UCLA and the California State University at Los Angeles.

Dr. Alvy has received numerous awards for his and CICC's accomplishments in improving the quality of child rearing in America, including being honored in the White House in 1995 as part of the First National Parent's Day Celebration, receiving the Distinguished Alumni Award in 1997 from the State University of New York at Albany, where he received his doctorate, and earning the "Illuminating the Way to the New Millennium Award" from the Parenting Coalition International and the Center for Substance Abuse Prevention in 1999.

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Millions of us set goals each year. Yet we struggle to achieve the goals we set, time and time again. Most of us lose our excitement and motivation just days after setting our goal. We've just never been able to maintain our motivation for any length of time, until now! The answer is finally here.

It's called Never Ending Motivation™!

Your ability to stay motivated about your goals and desires will allow you to achieve the things you've only dreamed of. Yet, few people can maintain their motivation. Motivational programs have been around for years, and they work when we stay with them. This program identifies, specifically, how to stay motivated and stay with the program.

Nearly all of us could benefit from the ability to stay motivated, yet few of us have the ability to do so. As a result, the spoils of life have been limited to a small few, while the rest of us wander through our days wanting more.

Now there's a better way...

Free e-book Download ...

Never Ending Motivation Series You can download the introductory volume of the Never Ending Motivation series absolutely FREE, using the following link: http://www.neverendingmotivation.com/freeebook.html In this volume you’ll discover the 7 Motivation Assassinators and learn which ones are keeping you from reaching your goals. This Incredible information can be applied immediately to start improving your ability to maintain your motivation. Using the simple principles taught in this book, you'll begin to recognize the obstacles that interfere with your motivation and start to watch it become never-ending!

Change starts with a decision! Will you let the fear of failure keep you from achieving your goals yet again? Our program will offer you amazing insight into what defeats your motivation, and allow you the true power to reach out and take hold of your life using motivation. Don't let this opportunity pass you by. Make a decision to finally change your life. Make the decision to take back control and create your own path in life.

G Geett M Moottiivvaatteedd aan ndd M Maak kee Y Yoouurr O Orrddeerr ffoorr aan ny y ooff tthheessee i www.IdeaGems.com d Volume 2, Issue 6 37

Dr. Robin is a Mediator and Mediation Trainer specializing in divorce, family matters, business partnership, small business, workplace, and other relationship disputes. Email her your questions to elinorobin@aol.com or visit her websites http://www.afriendlydivorce.com, http://www.elinorrobin.com/ and http://www.mediationtraininggroup.com/.

Your life vision is your plan and your path for your future. This vision gives expression to your desires and your intentions. Your vision is the picture of your future that begins in your imagination. Your vision allows you to focus on capturing, communicating, and reconciling your goals and your methods for achieving those goals.

Ultimately, your life vision serves as reinforcement, as it increases your clarity, enthusiasm, and commitment.

Knowing where you're going and how you intend to get there will contribute to the self -direction and drive that are necessary for success.

Your willingness and ability to envision are the keys to your creating a life vision. Envisioning is about dreaming. Close your eyes, take a few deep breaths, and give yourself permission to relax. Gently, without judgments, fast-forward yourself to one year from today. Visualize yourself in December, 2008. You are living your perfect life. Let your mind run free - there are no restrictions in your perfect life. Glance at the past and reflect on your accomplishments, experiences and successes during the past year. Now, focus on where you are, what is happening, whom you are with, and how you are feeling. Allow yourself to see as much detail as possible. When you are clear about your vision, begin to write using the following questions as a guide.

Where am I? What am I doing? What is my work? What is my play? What has changed in me, my situation, and/or my environment? What is the same? What have I accomplished? How am I spending my time? What am I enjoying? Who is with me? Who is no longer in my life? How much money do I have? What else is important?

When the vision is clear, both on paper and in your mind, see yourself stepping into your vision and staying there. Act "as if" and observe how it feels. As you step into your vision you align yourself with the life that is waiting for you.

Dr. Elinor Robin Conflict Strategist & Mediator * PhD in Psychology with a Specialization in Conflict Management * Licensed Mental Health Counselor and Licensed Marriage & Family Therapist * Florida Supreme Court Certified Mediator and Mediation Trainer * Teaching mediation - over 5000 professionals trained at http://www.mediationtraininggroup.com/ * Thousands of commercial, family, criminal, community, & workplace disputes resolved - http://www.elinorrobin.com/ * Divorce Mediation & Forms - http://www.afriendlydivorce.com/ * The Dr Elinor Robin Show-on WNN1470AM-Mon & Thurs 8-9pm http://www.wwnnradio.com/ Click on Listen Live MOVING to WBZT 1230AM-Friday 7-8pm and weekdays 6am-9am on The Early Edition-www.wbzt.com-Click on Listen Live. * Blog - http://www.elinorrobin.blogspot.com/ Boca Raton, FL 561-394-9226 954-415-5645 CELL elinorobin@aol.com

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Adventures for the Average Woman

Let’s celebrate! We have made it through two years of publication, but it hasn’t been easy. Our unpaid staff has flitted off to busier jobs and places far, far away. Our contributing artists have dwindled down. Our contests tanked. Our subscriptions have been sluggish. (Yeah, we all know how hard the economy is these days.) But still, we keep plugging along, determined to make this little ‘zine zoom and soar.

Now, let’s pray. We believe there is potential with our concept. It’s just going to take moxy, muster, and yes, money, to keep it going. Due to rising production costs, we may very well have to forfeit our printed version and just stick to Web-based or PDF format. But as other irons are in the fund-raising fires, we surely hope to continue publishing this entertaining and enlightening feuilleton. What we would give to have the backing to do a full-paged glossy version! Now, that would be slick. Ah, the stuff dreams are made of.

As usual, we end our issue with an invitation and encouragement for writers and artists who need to believe in their talents and build up their credentials in the publishing biz, to submit their work. We welcome a wide range of material, from fiction to non-fiction to poetry to graphic arts. Be it ever so humble, there is no ‘zine like ours!

You got your fashion rags, your home and gardening glossies, your gossip and lifestyle tabloids, but you don’t have a magazine devoted mainly to women and their adventures (true or imagined)!

Recently, I personally attended a huge publicity summit in New York City where I met publishers, producers, and other authors, many of whom you see featured in this issue’s Book Look section. IdeaGems® is all about promoting authors and artists (not that any of this pays our bills). It’s all about giving them that leg up in the industry. Why, I’ve heard from half a dozen writers who started with us that they are now being picked up by mainstream publishers – for pay! This is why an imprint like ours needs to exist. We thank the many talented writers, artists, sponsors, and subscribers who have so generously contributed to keep this dream ‘zine going! But we need more. So please, encourage others to buy a subscription or send us a story.

Remember: IdeaGems® hunts for gems of publishing. Our mission is to open up hidden veins deep beneath the strata of mainstream, commercial publishing and seek glimmering creativity. We will take most any literary gem – no matter how rough-hewn — shine it up and put it on display in our ‘zine. We know how every woman (not to exclude men) — no matter how average — has an adventure to tell.

For our submission guidelines, go to our website.

We hope you enjoyed this issue and ask for your continued support.

— Laurie Notch, President and Managing Editor

Cool links:

www.lifeunlimitedforme.com

www.wolfetales.com www.lawlesspolitics.com www.maddyrosenberg.com www.whatarelief.net www.vidpitch.com

www.mainecenterforcreativity.org

www.kimmacdougall.com

http://fc.umit.maine.edu/~robert.mendoza/newjournal.htm

w w w w m m m ww ww w...m mooovvveeem meeennntttaaassshhheeeaaallleeerrr...cccooom m www.towardthelight.org

Volume 2, Issue 6

www.IdeaGems.com

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ANYWAY PR

will handle the PR needs of a small business owner with no regular P.R. or marketing dept. who many have occasionally press needs and individuals (ex.: artist, singer, etc., who needs help publicizing their gallery or their event or band, etc.)

WE know how to get the word out through News, Ad copy (of which I can also voice or sing!)

Press releases, Brochures, Newsletters, etc.

Anyhow, anyway, we’ll get the word out for you!

For more information, contact Mary E. Regan, Publicist, Cell 207-807-2718 – Email: meregan@maine.rr.com Website: http://www.freewebs.com/meregan

Photographer Deb Strout was born in Bar Harbor, Maine and grew up in Bangor, Maine. She earned a degree from Husson College, Bangor, Maine (non-traditionally) in court reporting and was active in the court reporting profession for several years.

She moved to Portland to pursue her love of photography at the University of Maine, Augusta and freelanced as a photographer while at the same time managing a retail photography venue. During her time at UMA, she had three photography shows in Lewiston, Portland and Boston.

Documentaries Deb’s long-term photography goal has always been to be a still photographer on film sets. This dream was realized partially in 2004 when she worked on "Straight Out of Compton2" which filmed in Portland, Maine and Los Angeles, CA. She worked alongside cinematographer, Danny Moder. Since then she has worked with known talent, Blair Underwood (LA Law), Earnest Harding (White Men Don't Jump), Izabella Miko (Coyote Ugly), Beth Grant ( The Rookie), Austin Nichols (The Day After Tomorrow) and Kate Bosworth and Kevin Spacey on the Columbia Pictures set "21" due out in spring of 2008.

Presently, she is a generalist. Her scope of experience covers: corporate headshots, legal/evidence photography, documentary/editorial work, product shots, and advertising. She works with smaller companies doing website, brochure, and advertising shots, and works with Investigations architectural firms developing spectacular shots for their bid/spec sheets. Deb photographs artwork (paintings). She also does high-school senior portraits, weddings, and events.

Deb’s studio is located at 82 Gilman Street, Portland. Since she travels a lot on shoots, It's best to either email or call: Deb Strout www.freezeframephotography.com 207.318.9072 cell 310.775.3168 LA cell www.imdb.com/name/nm1811697 Movies Sets

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Landscapes

Adventures for the Average Woman

We’d like to thank and promote these fine folks who have faith in us….

GigaBack, Inc, 40 Sierra Drive.

South Easton, MA 02375

USA

support@gigaback.com sales@gigaback.com www.gigaback.com

TYHRX TOURS & TRAVEL LTD P.O Box 5279 Kampala Uganda TEL: +256782841772 +256752640943 simonpeterkayongo@yahoo.com

Volume 2, Issue 6

Chance of a lifetime – See the Mountain Gorillas in their natural habitat!

www.IdeaGems.com

TYHRX Tours & Travel will provide you with a game viewing and birding experience of exceptional quality in a pristine natural wilderness that is unsurpassed.

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Thanks for subscribing! As we need more & more support to keep going, please pass this copy on to family & friends! If you’re a business owner looking to advertise with us, PLEASE DO! Artist Bruce Buchanan makes “heavenly metal” gates and sculptures from antique farm implements perfect for your yard, garden, or even interior space.

VOLUNTEER STAFF Hell, we can’t pay anyone, but at least we can put their names in glitzy print: LAURIE NOTCH Super Managing Editor, faster than a speeding deadline, more powerful than crashing hard drives, and who can leap tall production orders with a single bound!

CYTHERIA HOWELL Ever the ethereal and ultimate alter-ego…

Where, oh, where art thou?

NADIA SEDUISANTE Melchizedek Priestess, spiritual guide, and creative consultant from New Orleans LINDA KENT

Bruce also has a wide collection of rural antiques and collectibles for sale which can be purchased directly or through

Sewing machine gate

Gone to Beijing, China! But she’s still on board, all the way through cyber space.

KYUNG SOON KIM Asian art coordinator, photo-essayist, and persistent promoter of AFTAW KUMAR GHOSH Never-enough time-to write writer, international publisher, and micro-financier of women’s programs in India

Wheel gate

For more information or to make a purchase or order for your own heavenly metalwork, contact Bruce at: bbuchananbigcity@sacoriver.net or call (207) 929-3968

DAN MESNIK Once-in-a-blue-moon music review maven and percussive publications expert from the “beat” streets of DC MARY “THE ROCKET” REGAN Our born-and-raised “Maine-iac” copywriter and assistant editor torn between media and politics, she pencils us in whenever…

Decorative stools

Adventures for The Average Woman IDEAGEMS ® PUBLICATIONS

TorquedTales (being retooled)

All rights reserved. The duplication or publication of any of the articles, artwork, or stories featured in this production without the express permission by the author(s) and/or artist(s) is strictly prohibited.

New England —

Ideagems is a registered trade name whose publications “Adventures for the Average Woman” (AFTAW), “Torqued Tales,” and “Cube Ghouls” are the brain children of Laurie E. Notch who is the sole proprietor.

Metro Washington, D.C. —

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www.ideagems.com

www.torquedtales.com

P.O. Box 4748 Portland, ME 04112-4748

Cube Ghouls

(Shhhh! Eyes only!)

www.cubeghouls.com 1110 Bonifant Street, Suite 600 Silver Spring, MD 20910

(still pending… sigh) www.ectomist.com

Adventures for the Average Woman