Catching Up With Myself

Happy New Year 2024!

What a wild and crazy couple of months it’s been in my world! I posted my last blog and sent my last newsletter early in October, right after my book, Force of Nature made its debut. Then it got so crazy busy that this new post has been sitting on the back burner ever since!

Thank you to everyone who purchased a copy of my book! I am deeply grateful. If you’re in the neighborhood and I’ve not yet signed your copy for you, please, reach out and I’ll make arrangements to do that!

Thank you, too, to everyone who joined me for my book launch events! There was the grand festivities in October in Auburn, complete with food and games. Eighty people came out in their hiking costumes to celebrate with me and to have their photos taken with my treking sisters right out of the pages of the book, Caroline “Cappy” Hickson and Jane Riedel. Thanks especially to those who flew in (Dean, Marta, and Pam) or made a long road trip (Terry, Russ, Irene, Mary, and Barb) to share the day with me! Thanks also to everyone who managed the event and the stations for me! Sooo fun!

Then there was the music-and-dinner party at Beth Moore’s Wild Eye Pub in Grass Valley in November. Special thanks to Los Liberators (Terry O’Keefe & Bob Santin) for bringing fresh bright live music to that event and to those who trekked a distance (Sue & Dave) to get there to celebrate with me!

Force of Nature is now available in paperback, ebook, hard cover, and audiobook!

In November, I had the delightful opportunity of meeting Anna Crowe, the woman whom I chose to narrate the the audiobook. I was in Southern California and she lives in Ventura (my old stomping grounds), so we arranged to have lunch down in the Ventura Marina. We hit it off immediately and talked nonstop between bites. I love love love how she brought my written words to life with her voice. If you’d like to listen to a sample of her narrations, you can at the book’s Amazon Audible page.

If you are a member of a Book Club and would like me to come visit with your group, either in person or via Zoom, please reach out. I would love to join you. We can talk about the book’s story, about the John Muir Trail, about writing in general, or whatever you’d like. On my website is a special Book Club Kit you can check out or download and use for your group. Click here to access the kit.

And one more thing—I have custom handmade bookmarks that were made as a “thank you” for my readers. There are beaded ones I made, embroidered felt ones stitched by Janiene, and vintage crocheted bookmarks by Victoria. If you’d like one to go with your book, just reach out.

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Now for the fun part!

Special Guest Author Philip Jacques

You may remember, my bear story “Reflections on Water” was a finalist in the Gold Country Writers’ Short Story Contest a couple months ago. The first-place winner of that contest, “Triple” by my brilliant author friend Philip Jacques, has now, in addition, been selected by Stories on Stage Sacramento for their next performance! Perhaps, you can join us. You can find tickets at the link.

And, I’m thrilled to tell you that author Philip Jacques has agreed to be my guest writer this month. He is sharing his gold-medal-winning short story “Triple” with my readers! I am so excited! I just know you will love this well-told story from his childhood. It’s a snapshot of a stellar play during a high-energy boys’ baseball game. Here it is:

“Triple” by Philip Jacques

"Take your base!" The umpire yells, motioning the batter to first on the called ball four. Runners advance, loading the bases. No outs.

"Damn!" Slapping my glove against my knee, I approach the mound to talk with Russ. Kevin jogs up from home plate, all chest protector, facemask, and slap, slap, slapping shin guards. Three eleven-year-old boys huddle up—the weight of the world heavy upon us.

"What's the problem?" Kevin smacks the ball into Russ's glove.  

"Dunno," Russ mumbles, "Can't seem to find it. The zone, ya know?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Kevin responds. "But you got to, Russ! This is the last inning, and we only lead by one."

"That ain't much, Russ," I put my hand on his shoulder.

"You gotta get control of yourself and pitch, dammit! The next batter is Biff. The Bomber!" Kevin's hot. He has his twisted face nose-to-nose with Russ. "He kills it every time, Russ. Throw it down and outside."

Russ pushes right back, "Cut me some slack, Kevin. I'm beat."

"Slack? Slack? We ain't got slack. We got tight. Like a dart to a bullseye!" Kevin turns in a huff to home plate, taking a few steps before looking over his shoulder at Russ, "Like a dart!"

A fastball down and outside to a right-handed batter means a one-hopper straight to me, the shortstop. I jog back, stopping at my usual spot, but thinking of the pitch, I move close to the infield line. I'd better be ready. Kevin signals the outfield to align left, where we believe a big hit will go. But with the bases loaded, I signal the infield to stay put, which means Toby's usual set-up at first leading off toward second, and Davey at second toward first. I have the gap between third and second, while Vince covers the runner tight at third. He's the only runner that matters right now. We cannot let him score.

Bat in hand, Biff stands in the batter box. He sweeps the plate clean with his shoe, then sets his cleats firmly into the orange sand. He wraps both hands around the throat of his bat and swings a slow-motion warm-up, showing Russ where he wants the pitch—belt high and center. Like everyone here, he knows Russ is struggling. Now's his chance to take it all. A single brings the runner on third home and ties the game. A double brings the runner at second also home and wins it. A home run shames us forever.

Biff gives Russ a shit-eating grin wide as a manhole cover and waits.

I lean into my bent-at-the-waist and bent-at-the-knees position. I adjust my blue cap against the noonday sun, slap my glove with my right hand, and chant, "Hey, batter, batter, batter! Hey, batter, batter." The infield and outfield join in—we're a chorus now, "Hey, batter, batter, batter!" over and over to distract the fearsome Biff. He couldn't care less. He raises his dinged-up Louisville Slugger and stares right through Russ.

Russ takes the sign from Kevin but rejects it, shaking his head no.

"Oh, jeez," I mutter.

Kevin shoots me a glance and rolls his eyes. A curveball. He gives Russ the sign. Two fingers tapping his right inside thigh.

Russ shakes it off.

Damn it, Russ! Kicking the field with my toe. Quit screwing around.   

Russ takes the third sign, and Kevin darts his eyes at me, then his right knee. It's the low, outside fastball Kevin called for the first time. I slap my glove, crouch, and screw my eyes into the bat poised above Biff's shoulder. Ready.  

But Biff raises his hand. Calling for a time-out, he takes two steps out of the batter's box, hiking his pants. Biff spits. Biff smiles. Biff rubs his hands and picks up his bat, stepping back in. He's toying with Russ. Everyone sees.

Kevin calls for the same curveball as the first, and this time, Russ agrees. 

"Hey, batter, batter, batter!" the infield sings.

Russ stands straight, eases his hands to his belt buckle, and pauses. The player at third slides away from the bag two, maybe three feet closer to home and a score. Russ stares at him. The player stares back. It's a dangerous cat-and-mouse situation.

Oh, no. Don't do it! Screams my brain.

If Russ twitches even a little toward the runner but doesn't throw to Vince at third to get the man out, that is a balk. A balk is a walk, and a walk ties the game.   

Russ ain't taking the bait. He turns his head slowly toward home plate. His fluid left leg raises to his right hip, twisting his torso like a spring, his right arm stretching back, his right hand clutching the ball, fingernails piercing the twin red seams. He thrusts forward in a hot rush and zings a fastball, big and fat, right down the center. Waist-high.

CRACK!

A scalding sonic-boom line-drive to my left, high over my head. So fast, I cannot see it.

I jump to its feel instead. To where I think it should be—to where I want it to be, reaching my glove as faarrr…WHACK!

I catch it!

I come down fast but open my glove real slow. The ball trapped in the pocket of my tan Shoeless Joe mitt is hot and smoking. I can almost hear air molecules boiling off its surface. I can't take my eyes off it. I just stand there, stupefied.  

Not for long.

I hear the runner on second making a beeline for third. His cleats rip through the infield, popping the rough sand like Rice Krispies in milk. I twist my ear and jerk my head. I couldn't see the ball, but I see him. I pivot fast on my heel, bending to my left, spinning like a clock going backward. I lash my arm sideways, snap my glove, and tag the flapping pockets of his fleeing butt.

"OUT! The ump cries.

Time stops. I'm thunderstruck. Two outs in two seconds. I stand there. Dazed again. Again, seared in place. What just happened?

I made a double-play!

My teammates yell my name, "FILLLL, FILLL!"

"Huuuh, what?" I turn my molasses head. I blink lazily at their blurry bodies, jumping up and down, wavering like palm trees in a mirage but pointing.

"FILL…TUUURD!"

I blink.

"PHILL, THIIIRD"

I shake my head.

"PHIL! THIRD!"

They are on fire. Davey at second and Toby at first are waving their hands, yelling and screaming at me. Russ stands on the mound, pointing with an outstretched arm, his eyes beseeching me to see the action at home plate.    

When I finally do, I see Bill Sandusky huffing and puffing back to third from home. Then it hits me.

He didn't tag up!

Like us all, Bill thought the line-drive rocketing off Biff's bat would burn a hole over the outfield fence, bounce in the parking lot, and smash a bunch of windshields—he took off running. All three runners did, which is why, with sheer dumb luck, I had made a great catch, glided on a smooth pivot, and, smacking my glove like a flyswatter, made two outs in two seconds.   

Now, here comes Bill.

I know. I should be a good sport and throw the ball to Vince at third, making Bill out number three—game over. But I don't.

I hate Bill Sandusky.

I hate him a lot. He's a bully. He towers over us, pushes small kids like me around, and calls us names like "shrimp," "small fry," and "dwarf." I hate his gap-tooth grin, poop-on-fire breath, and his jelly belly.

Watching him bounce his gut up the third-base line makes me smile. His red cap falls to the track behind him. Sweat pours down his face, chest, and arms. I gaze at the third base bag, then at him. I give him a wink. He glares, but it's useless. Bill and I both know he can't get to third before I can.

"Throw me out, twerp!" He yells.

"Throw me out; I'm dying here!" He begs.

I stare at him, our eyeballs on each other like snipers.

"Your mother wears combat boots!" he taunts.

That does it. No mercy. No mercy at all,

Still smiling, but never taking my eyes off him, I stroll over to Vince at third base and plop the ball into his face-up, yearning glove.

"Don't drop it," I say, walking calmly off the field.

A TRIPLE-PLAY!

Oh, my god! A triple-play all by myself! I can hardly grab a breath, yet I run around in the grass, dancing a boogie-woogie.  

From the field, the players break into a dead heat. From the dugout, the team explodes off the bench. All the guys and the coaches rush higgledy-piggledy, yelling and screaming, slapping me on the back, pushing, shoving, and lifting me on their shoulders, shouting, "Hooray!"

I break out laughing. I can't stop. For this one moment—these twenty silver seconds hoisted in the air—the clouds open, and the sun gleams down on my great big grin. It feels so good.  

I am a hero!

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What did I tell you? Wasn’t that a delightful story? What did you like about it? Did it remind you of any childhood memories? Phil and I would both love to read your thoughts about it!

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