The keyboard is the new doorbell!
August 01, 2012
April 14, 2012
Humorous, light romance for Kindle & Nook
The great guy Lily meets at her company's St. Patrick's Day party isn't rich but he isn't a leprechaun either, so he has that going for him...Kindle, Nook, $2.99
I had a lot of fun with this one. The main female character is the girl next door type and the guy she falls for (a jewelry designer) is a knock-out. I have two Jamaican characters that I think you'll really like and some characters that my senior readers will like. Who says romance is just for the young?
This is a very light romance that's a fun read. Suitable for all ages. Give it a try! You'll like it, I promise!
April 10, 2012
Kennedy Ng'ang'a, prolific artist from Kenya
Kennedy Ng'ang'a
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=V52FZLEDs2E
Below the video is a story about his life in Africa. It's very sobering to look at this young man's accomplishments even though he is confined to a wheelchair. This video and article is posted in a magazine called Transforming Today's World Magazine.
March 25, 2012
Thank you, Amazon Prime!
Amazon's promotion of my book, A Three-Turtle Summer, is over. Thank you Amazon! With it's help, I was able to give away over 1200 books in the US, UK, and DE.
I hope all of you who got a free book enjoy it. I have to tell you that being able to reach out to readers all over the world is one of the most exciting things that has ever happened to me. I was checking the stats everyday to see where my books were going (Amazon only tells me the country, so there are no worries about privacy issues).
A Three-Turtle Summer is the first book in my Turtle Trilogy. If you like the first, you might try the next two: As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries and Custer and His Naked Ladies.You can read all about them on my homepage: www.JanelleMerazHooper.com
As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries, is also part of the WorldReader program in Africa. How I love to think about a child in Africa reading about powwows and Indians in Oklahoma! What fun!
As I am not as mobile as some, it's my way of traveling to places I will never actually be able to go. I tell my family that I can't go, but my books can!
Thank you, readers...and thank you, Amazon. I had a great time!
March 20, 2012
Amazon Prime promotion, A Three-Turtle Summer
Amazon promotion May 20th-24th, 2012
Valid in the U. S., UK, DE, & FR!
This week, Amazon Prime members can get a free Kindle copy of my first novel, A Three-Turtle Summer for free. Read the five-star reviews on Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/Three-Turtle-Summer-Turtle-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B0029LIB2M/ref=kinw_dp_ke?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2 and on my website, www.JanelleMerazHooper.com
The first book in my Turtle Trilogy, A Three-Turtle Summer, is the first place winner of the 2002 Bold Media Award for fiction. The next two books in the Turtle Trilogy, As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries (finalist in the 2004 Oklahoma Book Awards and first place fiction winner in the 1999 Surrey Writers' Contest) and Custer and His Naked Ladies are also available for purchase in paperback and Kindle.
A Three-Turtle Summer
Janelle Meraz Hooper
An entertaining book about women who stick together to help one of their own find her place in the world for herself and her daughter…Fort Sill, Oklahoma, 1949…Grace and her five-year-old daughter, Glory, are living through A Three-Turtle Summer—a summer so hot the turtles are dying. It’s also the summer that Grace’s sisters and mother join forces with Grace to help her dump Dwayne, her abusive husband, who her sister Pauline says is “meaner than a rattlesnake and dumber than adobe.”
Besides her Hispanic family, a rich list of characters also assist in her escape, including: Sako, an American-born Japanese neighbor whose former home was the internment camp at Poston, Arizona; two gay dance instructors; a Negro gospel singer who sells lip-smackin’ Barbecue out of the trunk of her new orange Cadillac convertible; and Rudolf, her older sister’s husband who’s a colonel in the Army.
This women’s fiction story, set in the Southwest, will appeal to women everywhere who are looking for an absorbing story with a happy ending.
It's a good read. I promise!
email: JanelleMHooper@comcast.net
March 07, 2012
New interview on Walt Shiel's blog
Today, I had a new interview posted on Walt Shiel's (Five Rainbows) blog. You can see it here:
http://waltshiel.com/2012/03/07/author-interview-janelle-meraz-hooper/
Those of you who have had questions about my Oklahoma background and my teepee connection may find it interesting.
This week I made the posters for a Northwest Authors' Book Event. I think they may be my last marketing project until I get my printer replaced. It seems to balk at printing color. This machine definitely doesn't fit my personality. I'd buy colored paper towels if they were available. Oh, no. I guess I wouldn't--it'd probably kill the fish in the streams.
On my bed table- I've just finished a terrific out-of-print book by E. A. Burbank, the famous American Indian painter. It's title is Burbank Among the Indians. This may be my favorite book in the world. Even before my new Gauguin Polynesia book that I got at the Seattle Art Museum exhibit last week. That's really saying something.
On my living room sofa table- The Melagro Beanfield War by John Nichols. I loved the movie--it has a magical ending--and I've always wanted to read the book. Loving it so far, but it is different. He definitely has his own style!
I'm always trying to increase my reading time. It isn't easy because my vision isn't as good as it once was. A few weeks ago I added yet another lamp in our living room and it has been the answer to my prayers. My reading has increased along with my comfort level. All for just a $15.00 lamp! As my husband likes to say, I'm a cheap date!
On my television- I'm still watching the old classic movies on the Turner Movie Channel. Love them.
My one-man show, Friending Geronimo, is making the rounds of LA little theatres in Los Angelos, looking for a home. I'm keeping my fingers crossed.
The illustrations are coming in for Mr. Hop's Garden. I plan to publish this book on Kindle. The stories are already written but there's a queue for artwork by my illustrator, Sherri Bails. Right now, she's doing a large watercolor of an African singing group.
I love the epigram that I found for the front of the book,
“Once you learn to read, you will be forever free.”
Frederick Douglass
I work on setting up the format whenever I get a spare moment.
Coffee! I need coffee! Hope you're having a wonderful week.
Happy reading!
Janelle
Oh! I almost forgot- Bernie Madoff you King of Thieves and destroyer of people's lives, what's for lunch over at The Big House? I hear it's pig's feet tacos. Yum-Yum!
March 03, 2012
Death on the Tundra, saying goodbye to Bright Moon, Conley Snapper McAnally, guest blogger
Alaskan cemetary © 1984 Janelle Meraz Hooper
One of my favorite writers, Conley Snapper McAnally, has a blog (http://conleymcanally.blogspot.com/ ) that is near and dear to my heart because one of his subjects is Alaska. I've invited him to share one of his posts because it exemplifies a thought I've written often, "Sometimes we forget that everyone else is living their moments while we're living ours..."
When I was a docent in the Anchorage Museum many years ago, I came to love and respect the native cultures. I hope you enjoy this little window into Alaskan Native culture as much as I did.
Conley writes about all of his world travels. I also love his stories from Italy. Check out his blog!
Death on the Tundra
Saying goodbye to Bright Moon
© Conley Snapper McAnally
Bright Moon and a bunch of her friends were riding their four-wheelers on the beach late one night. They were playing a game the kids called ditch'em. Bright Moon was riding with three other girls when they hit a piece of driftwood and were thrown in different directions. All suffered head trauma. They were evacuated to the regional hospital a couple of hundred miles away by plane. No small feat in the middle of the night in the Alaskan bush but unfortunately a common one. Bright Moon was the most severely injured so she was sent to Anchorage. The family managed to raise enough money to be at her side the next day and eventually faced the horrendous decision of pulling the plug.
School was sort of a dismal place waiting for news about Bright Moon's condition. The vice-principal spoke over the intercom to try and set the record straight about her condition and asked everyone to observe a moment of silent prayer. An hour later he came back over the intercom and informed us that Bright Moon had died. School was dismissed.
The next day some village elders, a social worker, and the missionary came to Bright Moon's classroom and had everyone who wanted to talk about her and more or less comfort one another. They sang songs, held hands, and prayed. No separation of church and state that day.
A day or so later her body was flown back to the village where it was laid out on the family's living room floor. The wake was like a wake anywhere else. Friends and neighbors brought food, shared hugs and memories, shed tears, and bid Bright Moon farewell.
The next day a large funeral was held in the school gym. All the stores were closed, school was put on hold, and even the post office closed down.
A few days later Bright Moon's mother came to our classroom and presented us with an 8x10 colored photograph of Bright Moon. I found an old rosary and draped it over the picture. The picture and rosary hung there the rest of the school year.
When I returned the next school year the picture was still hanging on the wall. Some of Bright Moon's friends came by and asked if they could take it to their new classroom. It was a procedure that would be followed until her class graduated from high school.
The yearbook that year will have a page dedicated to Bright Moon and her presence and at the graduation ceremony her picture will be placed on the seat where she would have sat. Her name will be read as if receiving a diploma and then a close friend or relative will carry the picture down the aisle toward the future that should have been hers.
Note: Conley was a teacher in Alaska for several years.
February 13, 2012
A Walk in the Park, short story
The last few years I’ve been posting a few covers and book excerpts from friends. For a change, I want to begin adding some short pieces that come my way and posts from friend’s blogs. This is the first short story. It’s by Elaine Seldner, a gifted teacher (now retired), artist, world traveler, and possibly the brightest person I’ve ever known. Not surprising, as I knew her mother, who was also one of my favorite people. Enjoy!
I do not know why I was wandering around Rittenhouse Square that morning at seven. Dad’s place was up on the tenth floor overlooking the square. Perhaps he wasn’t awake yet. I know I’d gone down for some coffee only to discover the corner coffee café, redundant as that seems, wasn’t open for any coffee at all. I’d tapped on the door. A tall fellow in a tall white toque pointed to the array of carafes with a shoulder-shrugging, open-handed gesture that meant, “Sorry. Not even perking yet.” Well. It wasn’t the end of the world. The day was bright and the park was certainly open for business. I don’t often linger in the square. I simply cross it on my way to & from my parked car, different paths from differing parking spaces and garages in the area. It’s not like this park is part of my home, to settle into and soak in the sun.
The restaurants in a row on the east side of the square, elegant and empty, were all fetching, but their goodies were locked away. The book store on the north side had its cozy nooks for feeding body & soul. But there was no access at this time of day. On the south stood the church with its lacquered red doors. I’d heard the PLAYER send out his bell notes of hymn. He practiced some afternoons and song would spread freely over the park. I’d only hear it if the windows to Dad’s place were open or if we were being quiet. His place was behind me now, the south side filled with apartment houses gently spilling early risers to work or jog or walk the dog. I had no purpose in the park. Waiting is no purpose. I began a tour through the square admiring the mature old trees, the design of the floral borders, the layout of paths and statuary, the antique kiosk once manned, now empty. All of this had been planned out in the Gay 90’s, I supposed, having the look of some Parisian pleasure garden.
I took the steps up to the terrace that held the ornamental pool, and sat at the edge. A man of middle age, younger than I, sat on the balustrade opposite. I got up and walked the short way across the wide path. He watched me approach. He had a quiet and alert demeanor. “Coffee?” I inquired.
“You got some?” Clearly, no.
“It’s time the shop’s open,” I indicated with a head nod.
“Sure,” he said. And I headed on a diagonal back toward the café. I hadn’t asked him how he took it.
He called after me, “Black is okay.”
I turned as I kept walking. “Black it is.”
The toqued tall fellow at the shop recognized me and explained, redundantly, that the coffee hadn’t even started brewing when I’d been at the window. He’d discounted his most eloquent gesture. “Take your pick,” he said, pointing to the display of identical urns. Each had a silver plaque hung around its neck . All manner of exotic names could be read, betokening nuanced flavor notes explained in parentheses below. I chose “rich and full,” and poured a prodigious amount of milk into mine. I wished then that I’d asked if he’d take it with milk.
I returned through the quiet park and handed over the cup. “Thanks,” he said.
We pried off our lids together. “How are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh, not so bad,” he averred. We slurped down a draft.
“Do you sleep here in the park?”
“Nearby. Sometimes. I move around.”
“How do you find a place?” I asked as my head tilted towards my coffee.
“Oh, you’d be surprised how many city buildings have a vacant spot nobody bothers to tend to.” I imagined gardening sheds, pump rooms, coal bins as I drank.
“You out of work?”
“Oh, yeah. There’s plenty of unemployed. I had a good job. Few years back I lost it. Then I lost my wife. I got kids. “ He’s nursing his cup. Not as eager as I am to finish up.
“Geez. That is tough.” I take a swig.
“Hardly a point in looking for a job these days. But I keep at it. This’ll turn around. There’s ups & there’s downs. God will provide. I just gotta keep going till things turn around.”
I suppose I gave him a look which, loosely translated would have said, “Are you sure about that? “ hopefully nuanced with, “ I half believe you’re serious,” because he then said, “I’m okay. Really,” followed up with, “It was hard at first. It was really hard when my wife threw me out…I miss the kids.”
“Do you get to see them?” I take another gulp.
“Oh, yeah, from time to time. The youngest is seven. My older boy is nine.”
“Good kids?”
“Oh, yeah. They’re good kids.” He takes a good drink.
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Yeah. Real good.”
We drink together.
“You going to be here tomorrow? “
“Probably not. I have plenty of places around the city.”
“And food?” I drain my cup.
“There’s the shelter, kitchens.”
“Clothes? “
“I get by. The churches have ‘em. Different churches.”
My cup is empty. His, too. “You want me to take that?” I indicate the garbage receptacle at the end of the path.
“Naw; I’ll take care of it.”
I wish him a good day and better prospects.
“Don’t you worry,” he tells me. “God will provide.”
Dad would be awake by now. It was time to get back. I looked up at his windows. I imagined him looking down. Just in case, I waved.
A Walk in the Park
© 2012 Elaine Seldner
I do not know why I was wandering around Rittenhouse Square that morning at seven. Dad’s place was up on the tenth floor overlooking the square. Perhaps he wasn’t awake yet. I know I’d gone down for some coffee only to discover the corner coffee café, redundant as that seems, wasn’t open for any coffee at all. I’d tapped on the door. A tall fellow in a tall white toque pointed to the array of carafes with a shoulder-shrugging, open-handed gesture that meant, “Sorry. Not even perking yet.” Well. It wasn’t the end of the world. The day was bright and the park was certainly open for business. I don’t often linger in the square. I simply cross it on my way to & from my parked car, different paths from differing parking spaces and garages in the area. It’s not like this park is part of my home, to settle into and soak in the sun.
The restaurants in a row on the east side of the square, elegant and empty, were all fetching, but their goodies were locked away. The book store on the north side had its cozy nooks for feeding body & soul. But there was no access at this time of day. On the south stood the church with its lacquered red doors. I’d heard the PLAYER send out his bell notes of hymn. He practiced some afternoons and song would spread freely over the park. I’d only hear it if the windows to Dad’s place were open or if we were being quiet. His place was behind me now, the south side filled with apartment houses gently spilling early risers to work or jog or walk the dog. I had no purpose in the park. Waiting is no purpose. I began a tour through the square admiring the mature old trees, the design of the floral borders, the layout of paths and statuary, the antique kiosk once manned, now empty. All of this had been planned out in the Gay 90’s, I supposed, having the look of some Parisian pleasure garden.
I took the steps up to the terrace that held the ornamental pool, and sat at the edge. A man of middle age, younger than I, sat on the balustrade opposite. I got up and walked the short way across the wide path. He watched me approach. He had a quiet and alert demeanor. “Coffee?” I inquired.
“You got some?” Clearly, no.
“It’s time the shop’s open,” I indicated with a head nod.
“Sure,” he said. And I headed on a diagonal back toward the café. I hadn’t asked him how he took it.
He called after me, “Black is okay.”
I turned as I kept walking. “Black it is.”
The toqued tall fellow at the shop recognized me and explained, redundantly, that the coffee hadn’t even started brewing when I’d been at the window. He’d discounted his most eloquent gesture. “Take your pick,” he said, pointing to the display of identical urns. Each had a silver plaque hung around its neck . All manner of exotic names could be read, betokening nuanced flavor notes explained in parentheses below. I chose “rich and full,” and poured a prodigious amount of milk into mine. I wished then that I’d asked if he’d take it with milk.
I returned through the quiet park and handed over the cup. “Thanks,” he said.
We pried off our lids together. “How are you doing?” I asked.
“Oh, not so bad,” he averred. We slurped down a draft.
“Do you sleep here in the park?”
“Nearby. Sometimes. I move around.”
“How do you find a place?” I asked as my head tilted towards my coffee.
“Oh, you’d be surprised how many city buildings have a vacant spot nobody bothers to tend to.” I imagined gardening sheds, pump rooms, coal bins as I drank.
“You out of work?”
“Oh, yeah. There’s plenty of unemployed. I had a good job. Few years back I lost it. Then I lost my wife. I got kids. “ He’s nursing his cup. Not as eager as I am to finish up.
“Geez. That is tough.” I take a swig.
“Hardly a point in looking for a job these days. But I keep at it. This’ll turn around. There’s ups & there’s downs. God will provide. I just gotta keep going till things turn around.”
I suppose I gave him a look which, loosely translated would have said, “Are you sure about that? “ hopefully nuanced with, “ I half believe you’re serious,” because he then said, “I’m okay. Really,” followed up with, “It was hard at first. It was really hard when my wife threw me out…I miss the kids.”
“Do you get to see them?” I take another gulp.
“Oh, yeah, from time to time. The youngest is seven. My older boy is nine.”
“Good kids?”
“Oh, yeah. They’re good kids.” He takes a good drink.
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Yeah. Real good.”
We drink together.
“You going to be here tomorrow? “
“Probably not. I have plenty of places around the city.”
“And food?” I drain my cup.
“There’s the shelter, kitchens.”
“Clothes? “
“I get by. The churches have ‘em. Different churches.”
My cup is empty. His, too. “You want me to take that?” I indicate the garbage receptacle at the end of the path.
“Naw; I’ll take care of it.”
I wish him a good day and better prospects.
“Don’t you worry,” he tells me. “God will provide.”
Dad would be awake by now. It was time to get back. I looked up at his windows. I imagined him looking down. Just in case, I waved.
Thanks, Elaine!
February 02, 2012
Ghost story, quick Valentine's Day present
Lisa's Place
Got Kindle or Nook? Need a quick Valentine's Day present?
Bears in the Hibiscus
January 14, 2012
Thank you Amazon Prime...I'm reading the winter away!
http://www.janellemerazhooper.com/
Got Amazon Prime? Read some of my books for free! See my website to pick your book!
Got Amazon Prime? Read some of my books for free! See my website to pick your book!
Boogie, Boots & Cherry Pie
Janelle Meraz Hooper
When the great guy Lily meets at a party takes her home he discovers she lives at the Zoo, an apartment building that caters to exotic pet owners. But one of the creatures is missing, and when Mike drops her off, the first thing he sees is a sign on the front door:
Please don’t let out the snake!
Is this the beginning of a great romance or just the beginning of a great snake hunt? Tension rises when Boogie, the snake, stalks Boots, the Jamaican landlady’s pet iguana.
Boogie, Boots, & Cherry Pie, a light romance, written by award-winning author Janelle Meraz Hooper. Set in the Northwest. $2.99 on Amazon’s Kindle and Barnes & Noble’s Nook, and others.
Note to readers: This is a very light romance. I am not a formula writer. I treat each story with the style it requires. That's why, if you don't like one book, you might try another! On the homepage of my website you can read a little about each book and decide which one you think will be best for you.
***
What’s new?-
On my bed table- The Melagro Beanfield Wars by John Nichols. I saw the movie years ago and am just getting around to reading the book. If you haven’t seen the movie, get it! It’s one of my favorites.
On my coffee table- Birds in the Thicket by Gerry Bradley. Gerry’s life story of his battle with a bi-polar condition is inspiring. Most of us stumble when we dent our fender. Nothing has stopped Gerry! I’m a softie, so at times it is hard to read, but if you know someone who is bi-polar, it’s an informative read.
On my Kindle-(Are you beginning to see a pattern here?) The Paris Paris Paris
I don't know about you, but I don't mind paying more for a timely book and the convenience of having it delivered to my Kindle in minutes. I'm not sure where the notion started that all books should be .99-cents. You get what you pay for. That said, some of the .99-cents I've purchased have been very good!
What else?- Not much, I guess.
Oh! I’m closing in on finishing my one-man show on Geronimo and writing a short blog on myths and legends of Puget Sound for a friend, Lisa Vandiver. I’ll let you know when it’s posted.
I’ve done an interview for a writer that hasn’t sold yet—I’m pretty sure I got it because I was the only author who answered the phone on New Year’s Eve.
HBO’s Classical Baby-I’ve given up locating this three-part series on Infinity. I’m going to order my DVD on Amazon.
And I’ve coerced a friend and artist, Sherri Bails, into providing the artwork for a small collection of children’s stories that will be on Kindle. I haven’t decided upon a title yet.
I’d better get back to work so I can pick a free book to read from Amazon Prime's list. No time to edit! Send all complaints to my email:
I’d better get back to work so I can pick a free book to read from Amazon Prime's list. No time to edit! Send all complaints to my email:
Or visit my site:
January 03, 2012
December 28, 2011
Where's Wanda the Witch?
I just noticed that a lot of people are looking for my Wanda the Witch stories that were mentioned on my blog to be on my regular website. Sadly, they have been taken off my main website to make room for a new web design. Hopefully, they'll be back. I don't know how to take off the ad for it above my blog. However, one Wanda story was posted on this site during the Wall Street debacle.Look for: Wanda the Witch Hits Wall Street on this blog (October 11, 2008). I'm so sorry for the confusion. I'll try to delete the blog but I don't know if that'll get rid of the icon at the top of my page. Augh! (I did it!)
Today, for the first time, I had a hit on this blog from Mexico. I was thrilled! A lot of my books and short stories are about my Hispanic family and I've always wanted to share those stories with readers in Mexico.
On my DVD player- Tony Bennett, Duets II. If you like Tony Bennet, you'll love this CD. All of the duets are spectacular but Lady Gaga, Amy Winehouse, k.d. Lang, and Queen Latifah are a real thrill. Of course, Mr. Bennett is amazing as always.
On my bed table- It's more like What's NOT on my bed table. About 5:30 A.M. this morning, I decided that life is too short to read Tolstoy. Vronsky, et all, you and Anna Karenina are on your own. I'm moving on!
On my TV- By accident, I ran across a show called The Art Show on HBOFW. If you have children, find it. You won't be sorry. I've got to find out when it's on because it is a jewel among swill. I haven't seen this show since the first time. It's possible it's just on HBO dvd now. Look for: Classical Baby, The Art Show.
Keith Olbermann is back on Current TV-It's hard to watch right now with all of the injustice going on in the world but we'd better watch it to keep up. The bad guys are counting on wearing us down--don't lettum'.
Out of time for today-- have a good one
Oh...and Bernie (Madoff)- I haven't forgotten you, you greedy destroyer of dreams and lives. What's for lunch over in the big house? I hear it's tunafish lasagna--yum-yum!
December 20, 2011
Hello, World!
(The ornament that's round with lots of colors is a sand dollar that our
daughter painted when she was about eight...a long time ago!)
Before I get back to the Christmas tree I want to stop and welcome all of my readers from Germany, the UK, France, Italy, Russia, Spain, and other countries too numerous to list. I laughed the other day when the stats showed I had one reader in Canada. ONE! Ha! I try to write very clearly so that I'm easily understood. If you are having any problems with this blog or any of my books, please let me know. Sometimes a word will pop up in the news that I think is funny so I'll use it. Sometimes, it isn't even a real word but something another writer has made up. I'll try to be better about that.
Before we know it, we'll have a new year. May we all find peace and justice.
December 07, 2011
Children's Christmas Story!
Note: Clip art from Microsoft--thanks, Bill!
Ribbons at Christmas
Janelle Meraz Hooper
This is a story about a cat. A house cat. He belonged to a little girl named Hannah. She had named her cat Ribbons because, when he was a kitten, he loved to play with the gift ribbons that were kept in a box under the stairs in the pantry.
Ribbons was a very good cat eleven months out of the year, but the twelfth month was almost his undoing.
It was Christmas! The month of holly, silver bells, and CHRISTMAS TREES! It wasn't just the tree itself that got Ribbons into trouble. Oh, no, the tree in his house was dressed in twinkling lights, shiny Christmas Balls, and long silver icicles that hung almost to the floor.
None of these beautiful things, of course, were meant for Ribbon's entertainment, but no one thought to tell him!
As soon as the last ornament, the golden star, was placed on top of the Christmas tree, and all of the lights began to blink, Ribbons went into action.
His first leap was from the floor to the sofa. Then from the sofa to the middle of the tree. He
was well on his way to the top when he felt the tree begin to tumble. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor, and the tree was on top of him! Lights, icicles, and Christmas balls were scattered all over.
Dad was shouting, Mom was yelling, Hannah was crying, and Gramma and Grandpa were laughing. What a lot of racket!
Ribbons was so frightened and embarrassed that he ran for the basement. He hid in the very back of the pantry, under the stairs. He was very frightened and fully intended to stay hidden until there wasn't a scent of pine left in the house!
Meanwhile, upstairs, the family had rearranged the tree and it looked as good as ever. Everyone was very sad, knowing Ribbons must be so miserable in the pantry. Finally, even father admitted he missed Ribbons. He went to the top of the stairs and called down, "Ribbons, I'm sorry I threatened to make you live in the barn. Please come upstairs and spend Christmas with us!" But Ribbons wouldn't come upstairs.
Next, Mom went to the head of the stairs and called down, "Ribbons, I'm sorry I called you clumsy—please come upstairs!"
Gramma didn't bother to say anything. She just went to the kitchen and made much ado about pouring dry cat food (Ribbon's favorite) into his bowl. Before she put the food away, she shook the box a few times in the direction of the stairs. Ribbons had to have heard that! But still he didn't come.
Grampa took the strong approach, "Ribbons," he commanded, "get up here!" But that didn't work at all. Ribbons just shrank back further into the pantry.
The house became very quiet. If things didn't improve, it was going to be a very sad Christmas!
There was only one person left who hadn't spoken to Ribbons and asked him to come back upstairs—Hannah. Now, Hannah was very small but somehow she knew what to do. She went to the tree and took off the shiniest red satin ball. Then she very carefully backed down the stairs on her hands and knees, holding the shiny red ball close to her heart. Quietly, she made her way to the very back of the pantry, and sat down next to Ribbons. She gave him a big hug and pulled him onto her lap. Next, she placed the shiny red ball between his paws.
Before long, the rest of the family could hear a very playful Ribbons and a very clever Hannah playing on the stairs with the shiny red satin Christmas ball. Soon, they would be all the way upstairs.
Gramma went to the kitchen for milk and cookies for everyone...it was going to be a very Merry Christmas, after all!
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The end
Merry Christmas!
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November 22, 2011
How to cook a turkey--if you're a reader
Are you cooking this week? Here's a tip: buy the biggest frozen turkey you can find. Put it in the oven now. That should give you plenty of time to read my books on Kindle and Nook before you have to serve dinner on Thursday!
The story below was originally from Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories. I'm posting it here because it's about my family. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
A New-fangled Thanksgiving Tradition
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Thanksgiving dinner was always the same at Mom’s, and that was how we liked it. In a changing world that created new stress by the minute, we could always depend on Mom’s turkey to be perfectly browned, and her cornbread dressing nicely laced with celery, wild pecans, and raisins. Giblet gravy, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and peas filled in every spare spot on our plate. There were no tortillas on this day—I suspect because there just wasn’t enough free counter space in the kitchen to roll them out. The rolls we ate were the packaged kind that came in a paper tray and were already partially cooked. The cranberry sauce that replaced the normal salsa was canned and always served on our fancy glass tray that had been around since Roosevelt put a turkey in every pot (or was that a chicken?). Okay, so it wasn’t a gourmet meal, but it was good—and the large family that came to share it thought it was perfect. Almost every time.
But one year, when my mom and her sister were both close to eighty, my aunt arrived from California and brought her new-fangled ideas about tradition with her. Thanksgiving morning, my Aunt Pat got up early and beat my mom to the kitchen, determined to “California-ize” our turkey dinner. The first item on the menu that she changed was the cranberries―she used real ones. Mom was suspicious when she looked at the marble-sized fruit bubbling on the stove with bits of fresh orange peel. She didn’t like the looks of those orange shavings. To her, they looked like something that slipped past the food inspectors. Mom believed cranberry sauce should be pushed out of a can with those little ridges that showed her where to cut the slices. “No one will know what this stuff is.” she worried. “This isn’t what they’re used to. And it smells funny.”
My aunt stood her ground. Resigned to a cranberry failure, Mom went to the living room to relax and read the paper. She didn’t see my aunt pull my mom’s traditional cornbread dressing out of the oven and stir in a bag of fresh spinach. The last thing my aunt did before she left the kitchen was replace the table butter with an unidentified soy product she’d brought in her handbag from Santa Barbara that didn’t look, taste, or smell like butter.
The family was sitting down at the table when Mom pulled the dressing out of the oven and discovered that it’d turned green. Her sister told her it was the latest thing in California, and much healthier. Mom was appalled and predicted, “No one will eat it.”
And they didn’t. That bowl was passed around the table so often it looked like it was in its own special green orbit, and no one would touch it. On one of its last flights around the table, my cousin reluctantly put a spoonful on her toddler’s plate, but the kid broke out in tears, so my cousin took it off and hid it in her napkin. Finally, my aunt mumbled something about taking the dressing to the kitchen to heat it up. It never returned.
The fancy cranberry sauce met much the same fate. When it was passed around the table, everyone would try to get a portion that was not laced with orange peel. No one succeeded. Soon it entered its own orbit, crisscrossing the orbit of the green cornbread dressing. Around and around the table it flew until the contents of the bowl were just a fragrant red blur circling the Planet Table, not unlike the rings around Saturn.
Mom and her sister are both gone now, and I think of them often, especially around the holidays. Looking back, maybe green dressing and orange cranberries wouldn’t have been that awful. I should have at least tasted them. Although, sister rivalry being what it was, I’m sure Mom would have never forgiven me if I had.
It has been years since that dinner, but the saga of the New-Fangled Thanksgiving Tradition lives on to this day. No one in our family will accept an invitation for Thanksgiving dinner without first inquiring, “What’s in your cranberries—and what color is your cornbread dressing?”
November 20, 2011
King George's Sleepover, World War II
All Kindle and Nook novels $2.99 USD
I like the film for lots of reasons, but the biggest is the character of the speech therapist, Lionel Logue, played by Goeffrey Rush. A normal person. Not royal-born. Not a doctor. Nonetheless, this unassuming person is able to provide a great service to King George VI and to England. I like that. And the king and his wife stood by him. I like that too.
This week, so soon after our Veteran’s Day, something in the movie triggered a memory of a story my father used to tell. I think it’s true, even though I have to admit my father was a great storyteller. He used to say that, in World War II, when the American soldiers landed in England, they had them set up camp on the grounds around Windsor Castle.
One evening, my father remembered, King George VI and his daughter, the future Queen Elizabeth, walked around the encampment, shook hands with the soldiers, and thanked them for coming. Imagine! Cowboys from Texas, loggers from the Northwest, stevedores from New Jersey, maybe even Indians from The Great Plains—all shook hands with the king!
Oh, I hope the story was true. If so, King George—and his daughter—had a lot of class. And that’s not something that comes automatically with a crown.
November 10, 2011
Raven meets Quidditch!
My raven
11-10-11- I like to make little vignettes of books or stories in my house using whatever I find in the closets. This one is a reference to a Native American story about how the raven stole the earth...only I used a Quidditch ball for the earth (okay, it's really just a Quidditch Christmas ornament). Perhaps the funniest thing is that the family never comments! This little story has been up for over a week now...no one has noticed!
I miss my Aunt Norah. She was playful too. One time we had the key to a relative's house so we could feed her cats when she was away. We "broke in" and left a full-size cardboard cutout of Billy Ray Cyrus (Achy, Breaky Heart) in her kitchen. Along with balloons and a sexy note.
In my novels she's always out of town but I write about her a lot. I guess my Turtle Trilogy novels are really fictional autobiographies. Who knew? At the time, I was just trying to get the books written before I lost all of my favorite aunts and my mother. I didn't make it. Not one of them lived long enough to read my valentines to them.
November 08, 2011
New, low Kindle and Nook prices
New, low Kindle and Nook price: $2.99 USD
11-08-11- There's been a lot of discussion among writers who are making their paperback and hardcover books available on electronic devices. What's the right price? What's a fair price? No one knows. In the end, independent writers will make their own decisions. I have made mine: I have lowered the prices of my Kindle and Nook books to $2.99 USD.
Not because there is anything wrong with them (an award winner is still an award winner even if the price changes). And it's not because some of them are old. If you haven't read a book yet, it's still new to you.
Mostly, it's about copyright. I happen to own my works, and there are no "middlemen" for me to pay.
I hope you'll check out my books. They're good reads. I promise.
Other news:
My Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories book of shorts and short stories and As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries are now a part of Amazon's WorldReader program. I'm delighted to participate in this program to bring books to needy children in underdeveloped countries. I'm hoping other authors will join this program. It's easy. Amazon does all the work!
In October, when I put my As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries book on sale (the sale is over now) for $.99 cents USD, I was just fooling around. I was sick. And bored. What fun! I got messages from relatives and friends who read the book and remembered some of the events. I never expected this to happen. Thank you all!
October 06, 2011
As Brown As I Want: The Indianhead Diaries
Back cover...
The summer of 1952, Lawton, Oklahoma… Eight-year-old Glory has a father who’s taken out a $50,000 accidental death insurance policy on her—now he’s spending the summer trying to collect.
In his first attempt, he throws Glory to the snakes, but a giant alligator snapping turtle scares the snakes away.
Glory writes in her diary: Well, Powwow Pete drove us home to talk to Mom, but we didn’t get very far. Mom thinks I just have a wild imagination. At least Powwow Pete believes me. I think it was the turtle that killed it for Mom
“How could there be a turtle that big?” she scoffed. They talked some more and Powwow Pete got kind of mad and got up to leave.
This was one of those times when a kid thinks they’re talking about a turtle, but the grown-ups are really talking about something else entirely. In this case, I think Powwow Pete was accusing Mom of still loving my dad, but he never said that, he just kept talking about the turtle. Mom was doing the same thing: talking about the turtle but meaning that she didn’t want to get messed up with some guy who was a pathologgy liar (Glory can’t spell).
1999 1st place fiction, Surrey (Canada)
2004 Oklahoma Book Award finalist
September 07, 2011
Remembering 9-11
Two Windows on Ground Zero (reprint)
Janelle Meraz Hooper
September 11th found me stuck at home alone with only a 38-inch screen TV, and a large living room window.
I could have done without the big screen TV. This was one time a one-inch screen would have been too big—too painful to watch. Over and over and over I watched the planes hit the WTC towers in New York City.
A feeling of being trapped overcame me as I looked out the living room window. No sign of the tragedy was visible in the surrounding homes. Not a person was in sight. Maybe it was a nightmare—but no—there it was on CNN. On ABC. On CBS. On Fox. On CBUT, the Canadian channel. I turned to Univision, the Spanish-speaking channel, and saw a blazing banner: Bajo (Low) Attack!
I must have paced between the TV and the window thirty or forty times. Looking at the TV, looking out the window. Still no sign of life in my neighborhood. Where could everybody be? At the time, I couldn’t leave my home, but they were all fully mobile. I can’t explain the intense need I felt to see a human—especially an American human.
Suddenly, A little dark blue import, driven by an elderly gentleman, raced up my neighbor’s long driveway. Attached to the back window of the car was an American flag. A message was painted against the dark glass in white paint: GOD BLESS AMERICA!
While I was waiting for him to come by again, I heard cars honking down the hill. Soon, a car full of hollering teenagers flew by my house. The car was painted all over with patriotic messages, and a young man was fully reclined on the hood holding up an American flag. He was wearing a shirt with an all-over pattern in red, white, and blue stars and stripes. Suddenly, I felt connected.
Dragging my bandaged body along with me, I hastened downstairs to get our flag. When I got to our front porch, I was disappointed to discover that my husband had removed the flag holder from the front of the house. Or had it just rusted off? Anxious to communicate with passersby, I stuck the flag in a huge flowerpot by my front door and went back to my television and my window. The window was a lot easier to watch.
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