A little background:
For fans of the movie "Jaws", we're all familiar with the scene of Quint in the boat with the Chief and Mr. Hooper before the big finale with the shark.
This is a parody for Todd, always a fan of the movies!
Quint: “Little beige row boat slammed into the beach in front of the Power cabin during the great flood of ’17, Chief. It was coming from the other side of the lake, just beyond the narrows, after the storm. The thunder storm.
One tall man went into the water. One tall man came back for the lifejacket and swimmer shoes.
Vessel came aground in twelve minutes.
Didn’t see the algae for about the first half an hour. Green. Sticky stuff. You know, you know that when you’re in the water, Chief? You tell by lookin’ in the water and then at your clothes. Well, we didn’t know. ‘Cause our storm had been so secret, didn’t even make the weather channel. Huh, huh. Local news didn’t even list the rain accumulation for a week.
Early evening, right, Chief. The stink blows. So that tall man formed himself into his swimming gear, cruisin’ in his life vest. Still kept his tee-shirt on. You know it’s…kinda like ‘ol vendetta, like I gotta get rid of this stinking row boat. It’s not ours. And the idea was, the algae’ll just wash off. So he starts hollerin’ and screamin’ and sometimes with a good washcloth, the algae would go away. Sometimes, in the crack of his bum, it wouldn’t go away. Sometimes, that algae, it just sticks. Gets right into your eyes.
You know the thing about that row boat…it don’t care about the algae. When it comes back onto the beach, it just sits there, bobbing in the waves. Seems to be a livin’ thing. Until you gotta get back into the water, with the green algae. No blue blooms.
And then, ah then, you hear the moans and groans and the lake turns green in spite of all those good intentions.
Y’know by the end of that first day, even when pushed out to the centre of the lake, the little rowboat came back. I don’t know how many times the tall man cleaned, maybe once. I don’t know about the little groves and cracks, algae gets everywhere.
By the next weekend, Chief, the rowboat bobbed over the reeds. The ones lining the front of the beach. Tall stuff, brown with fluff, healthy. They keep the beach clear. I thought they were great. The damn things cut! Reached over to grab one to steady myself and sliced my palm.
Noon the next weekend, Mr. Hooper, that beige little bastard of a rowboat was back again. I swear to God, if I gotta get back in that lake to drag the fucker out. I need an anchor. Water level had gone done, and managed to get the last pieces of the dock in. Everyone says they hadn’t seen a storm like that in the last twenty years. I called bull-shit to that, Mr. Hooper. Anyway the storm came and the storm went. Thunder boomed and lightening lit the sky.
And by the next day, that little beige rowboat had been picked up by a passing boater. You know that time when you wonder, do they own it or are they just stealing the damned thing. An opportunity like. That was the time I was most frightened. Waiting to see if they would just bring it back.
I’ll never swim with algae again.
So, one tall man gets into the lake. All to take one small rowboat back out to the middle, so anyone could have taken ‘er, August 2017. Anyway, that was the storm.
Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies. Farewell and adieu to you ladies of Spain.”
As I prepare birthday cards for the coming month I am pondering the recipients ability to read my note. I include a hand-written message in each. That's just my thing. But as I completed the task, I thought of my children and what really seems like a lost of art of handwriting, or how they term it - cursive script.
My youngest will be going into Junior High as my oldest completes High School. Both rely heavily on their computer and other IT equipment for completing their school tasks. Though we have surely put "pen to paper" in this house, the modern protocol for getting the job done IN The SCHOOL SYSTEM is via electronics. In that my oldest can read "cursive" marginally, while my youngest, not at all.
Have we done them any favours?
I don't think so.
Don't get me wrong, they can both read and write-well. Printing and understanding each of their letters. But writing is faster than both printing or typing. Added to this is the beauty of the flow of the letters and words on the page as an art in itself.
Will these future generations look at our historical documents, all hand written, and treat them like Egyptian Hieroglyphs?
I don't know, really. Just because it's easier to teach kids printing only and concern ourselves with typing as the modern form of written communication, I can't help but mourn the loss and lament another basic skill gone.
Book Two in the "Under Suspicion" series.
Reviewed By Deborah Lloyd for Readers’ Favorite
"Interesting characters, romantic interludes and action-filled scenes. The interweaving of the personal and professional lives of Lorna and Mitchell demonstrates the adept writing skills of the author. Although many characters are involved in the story, it is easy to grasp the personality of each one. Author Lori Power gives just enough information about Lorna and Mitchell’s first adventure to entice the reader to want to read the first book of the series, if s/he has not already done so. Additionally, at the end of the book, she includes the first chapter of Book Three. It will be interesting to see what adventures this couple encounters next!"
Reviewed By Lisa McCombs for Readers’ Favorite
"A fast-paced, incredibly suspenseful continuation of Lori Power’s thrilling tale that grips the reader instantly. Packed full of the twists and turns of a true crime novel, the story includes just enough steamy romance and intoxicating scandal to force the reader to keep turning pages. Convincing dialogue propels the story line to the ranks of a great read and leaves this reviewer anxiously awaiting Book Three."
Reviewed By Patricia Reding for Readers’ Favorite
"Lori Power delivers an engaging story in The Tables Have Turned. Her characters--including the secondary players--are well developed, and the manner in which she portrays the relationships between them all is top notch. She has excellently captured the pain of a formerly abused person, the power of a man of honor, the anxiety of a would-be Mayor's wife who guards a potentially destructive secret, and the true evil and sliminess of a villain. Further, Lori Power has captured the manner in which people process information internally, trying to work themselves to a goal. I found the circumstances of the story believable, the dialogue real, and the ultimate outcome delivered at just the right time. For lovers of mysteries, Lori Power delivers a bang in The Tables Have Turned."
Book One in the "Gentle Surf", "Sea Breeze" has opened to rave reviews.
Jack Magnus for Readers’ Favorite
“A marvelous blend of mixed messages and tangled identities as two star-crossed lovers fall in love despite their families' histories of cut-throat competition in the banking world…This beautifully written story is filled with strains of soft jazz singing mingling with luscious images of warm Southern California evenings on the beach and the island charms of Trinidad where Elleah's mother was born and she comes to heal. Sea Breeze is a sweet romance, with two marvelous main characters, that feels like one for the ages; it's that good. Sea Breeze: The Gentle Surf Series, Book 1 is most highly recommended.”
Patricia Day for Readers’ Favorite
“Lori Powers has written a beautiful story, drawing the reader into the world of wealth, greed, power and love. The lives of Elleah, Reginald, Catherine and Andrew will never be the same again, and they each travel a rocky road trying to gain independence from parental expectations. It is an awesome story. Beautifully written, with very credible characters. Loved the story and the outcome. Highly recommended reading.”
Sefina Hawke for Readers’ Favorite
“A unique romance that reminded me a bit of a more modern Romeo and Juliet with how Elleah and Reginald are both from rival banking families. I found Sea Breeze to be much more enjoyable than Romeo and Juliet, though, as it truly sets itself apart from other romances by keeping the rival nature of the two families a secret from Reginald. I found it interesting that Elleah took on a different name so that she could be a singer at the Hotel Del Coronado. Elleah was my favorite character because I felt like I could understand her the most, and I sympathized with her indecision in regards to Reginald. I look forward to reading the second book in the Gentle Surf series!”
Lisa McCombs for Readers’ Favorite
“A delightful, light-hearted romance that will assuredly fill the reader with only good thoughts. As a romance, I find Power’s novel a welcome escape from popular promiscuity that often leaves the reader with conflicting emotions. Sea Breeze is the perfect story for a beach read or weekend escape. There are no compromising sexual or suggestive passages, making this an easy and relaxed read. I enjoyed the story very much.”
Samantha Dewitt (Rivera) for Readers’ Favorite
“It’s an interesting story and it’s really unique at the same time. The idea of a young woman who wants to leave behind everything that has hurt her and create a life for herself is a strong one. It’s something that anyone can relate to. Even more, there’s a strong male character to back it all up. I was impressed and would love to read more about these characters. I’ll be looking at books from this series too, because it really seems like a great background. Sea Breeze is a book that I’m going to remember and it’s one that I’ll read again.”
Arthur followed her and then paused briefly on the threshold, pulled her tight against him, and kissed her brow. Then his heavy step echoed down the corridor.
She watched him depart. Elleah lingered, one foot in the hallway, hand on the door, and waited. He didn’t look back. Once he had taken the turn to the stairwell, with a heavy heart, she turned back to her hotel room.
Mid-stride, she stopped, surprise making her gasp.
Across the hall, another door stood open. Just inside the doorway, a tall man with heavy brows and a stern chin stared with open curiosity. Thick hair, bed tousled, made her wonder if he’d just woken up. His forearm braced against the jamb while he raised a glass with amber liquid to his mouth. Lips upturned in a casual smirk, he sipped. Over the crystal brim, his daring gaze coldly travelled the length of her flowered silk robe in frank appraisal.
Without confirming the robe had indeed fallen open to drape loosely across her breasts, Elleah turned on her heel and closed her door with a decisive click.
There is young love in our house.
The sweet sincerity of romance and romantic thought.
In this day in age of mass media and social engagement, I have been reminded of the value of the hand written letter.
Without giving too much away and getting into trouble for telling tales out of school, this lovely couple do all of the things young couples are expected to do...they talk on the phone, they use their social media connections, they share and facetime, and spend time together..but then they also write letters. I'm talking hard copy, old-fashioned, put a stamp on it, and go to the mail box letters.
This practice first caught my attention a few months ago and I shrugged it off as a passing fancy. BUT NO, These letters are a part of their relationship. Almost weekly, a letter is sent and a letter is received. The envelop is treasured for its postmark and the fact that its contents are hand written-no computer print out pages.
Of course I am not privy to the contents, but I can tell by the dreamy look in the eye, and the high colour on the cheeks, the power of the love letter has not lost its everlasting impact.
I am reminded that a text on the phone, an e-mail in a saved account folder, or a voicemail is no match for the mighty pen to paper, crinkle of the sheet, worn and wrinkled from being read so often and charished for the words, love letter.
Figures of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprisingly unexpected.
Where there's a will, I want to be in it.
Since light travels faster than sound, some people appear bright until you hear them speak.
If I agreed with you, we'd both be wrong.
We never really grow up; we only learn how to act in public.
War does not determine who is right--only who is left.
Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit...wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.
To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many is research.
I didn't say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.
In filling out an application, where it says, "in case of emergency, notify;" I put DOCTOR.
Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut and still think they are sexy.
You do not need a parachute to skydive. You only need a parachute to skydive twice.
I used to be indecisive. Now, I'm not so sure.
To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and call whatever you hit the target.
You're never too old to learn something stupid.
I'm supposed to respect my elders, but it's getting harder and harder for me to find one now.
An excerpt from Book Three in the "Gentle Surf" series entitled: "For a Song"
The light from the parted shades sliced through his lids like shards of glass. His hand groped to find his face and prevent further injury from the invasion.
“Shut the drapes . . .” He crocked, his voice dying with the effort of speaking.
A shadow crossed his lids. “Trip, baby, come on.” The wine of the voice jiggled the rocks inside his head so they smashed against his skull. “You promised at the club last night you’d take me out on the boat today.”
She moved, taking her shadow with her and the sun again assaulted him. He wasn’t surprised he couldn’t remember her name, but he was surprised he couldn’t remember being at the club. Typically he could at least recall arriving, if not leaving and with whom. This could be the start of something positive. Perhaps soon he would be able to forget everything.
An image of Kurt fighting with the sails, bushy hair flying in his eyes, always smiling, wavered between the pounding in his temples. Fisting his hands, Trip screwed the cuffs of his hands tighter to his eyes to squeeze out the image. Just how much booze would it take to finally eradicate the memories?
The bed bounced and whatever he picked up last night settled too close, her fragrance overpowering, the floral scent too sweet. His stomach heaved and he swallowed to control the sensation. She brushed fingertips through his hair and he cringed, his skin prickled with resentment. With the effort of Hercules, he pushed up on his elbow and splayed his fingers apart to view the party gift from the night before. Typical. She looked like every other girl he brought home. Long limbed, fresh, and tanned, her hungry eyes were eager to have a chance to slay the dragon.
Imagine if you will...narrow roads, with next to no shoulder. To one side, the earth falls off, giving way to the ocean's incessant on-slaught. On the other is lush forest, so thick, mere feet inside cocoons against noise and the outside world. Travel down these twisting, turning roads - up and down as they trace the rugged coastline.
This is a vision of my home. This is where my imagine returns time and again for inspiration.
In these woods, I hide secrets for the reader to discover. Within the howling wind, you can hear cry of the sea gull carrying clues. Upon the ocean waves, the hero sails in to save the day. And when the summer sun shines, you can catch the romance of the gentle surf.
This is the place where homes are painted the bright colours of the sea: blue, green, grey-and always the red to welcome you back.
No matter where you've been, how long you've been away, first time visitor, or long-time friend...When people pass, they smile and a wave because even if they don't recognize you, they know you. You're here now. You're a friend. Within a short span of time, they will know, have you related to someone they know from somewhere, or make some connection to bind you to the area, so you too can call the place home too.
My home town, a dot on the map, is significant to me. From this inspiration, there's always a story to tell. History marks the area with Pirates, Sea Farers, people of commerce, fishermen, farmers, Olympic athletes, and World War II heroes of valour, now featured on the Canadian stamp, I am proud of my home town.
Thank you for always welcoming me home!
Things are heating up in the sequel to "Hit 'n Run"
"The Tables Have Turned"
an "Under Suspicion" Novel
The double sinks were visible from the bedroom through an open arch. The toilet and shower further in the room were private, separated by a pocket door. Via the vanity, he could see Lorna sitting on the edge of the queen bed, loosening her hair out of the chignon. He chuckled remembering how he had first called the up-do her helmet head. Doing too much at once, he hiccupped and accidently swallowed some toothpaste.
“Blah.” He spit, rinsed the brush, and resumed the procedure. He rolled his eyes.
Watching her splayed fingers run through the thick mass made it hard to concentrate. The light brown strands swung about her shoulders. Head tilted back, eyes closed, all he wanted to do was drop the brush and kiss that long neck. He’d start at the base of her throat and work his way—slowly—into the sensitive area along her jaw bone, close to her ear lobe. His fingers tightened on the counter anticipating her throaty “ahh” when he hit all the right spots. Then he imagined working his way south in the same slow manner, taking his time to pay proper homage to pert—not too big—not to small—breasts along the way.
Mitch coughed when he realized he’d forgotten all about brushing his teeth. But he was reluctant to interrupt her motions. Seeing Lorna so unguarded and natural was a rarity. She lived a life of focus, surrounded by lists and goals. For a few moments, he wanted to enjoy the rare view into the woman who would be his wife soon.
She shifted the mass to one shoulder and kicked off her heels. Tracing her fingers up her leg, under the hemline of her somber skirt, she fit her thumb under the edge of the stocking and started to move it down the shapely leg. At the ankle, she pulled the nylon from the toe and tossed it to the floor. As she started to repeat the process on the other leg, Mitch had to step back from the edge of the sink. His blood was raging through his veins, engorging certain parts of his body.