Spring Piglets: A Short Story about Grampa by Julie Christen

 

    This time of year on a farm is so full of new life, which often translates to new perspectives for me. It's a time to look forward to the future, but for some reason - especially as I grow older - springtime sends my thoughts to the past too. 

    Here is a short story reminiscing of a time when I learned something - something about life as well as something about people. Country Magazine showcased it in its "The Way It Was" section back in 2012. I thank my "scary" Grampa Frank Spiekermeier for it. 

    This is for him.

Spring Piglets 

By Julie Christen

            At dawn, I wake in the farmhouse. I sneak soundlessly from my little cot under the window to my suitcase where I dress without a sound into my purple corduroys and Black Stallion shirt. I am not supposed to be up. The creaky stairs threaten to give away my early rising, but I continue down on tip-toe.

            The box elder bugs slowly creep along the windowsill as the sun begins to brighten the living room. The grandfather clock ticks. My feet are soundless still.

            Around the corner, I see the long kitchen counter span all the way to the breezeway. Grandma Olive stands in her housecoat and slippers gazing out the kitchen sink window at her dewy, no-frills vegetable garden while she sips her first of many cups of black coffee.

            Grampa Frank’s massive frame, dressed in pin-striped overalls swelling at the seams, sits in his spot at the end of the room on his black, vinyl-covered steel chair. His heavy boots, already muddied, grind gravel into the flooring. I see him rustling through a shoebox full of papers and receipts. He smokes a cigarette, probably not his first of the day and certainly not his last, and slurps coffee from a thermos while he listens to the tinny radio squawk about weather and crop prices and news.

            They are silent. They are the past.

            I bite the side of my lip and peek into the kitchen. It is so early for little blonde-haired girls to be up. I am up, nonetheless.

            “Well. It’s our little Julie Andrews,” Grampa says then laughs a gravelly, “Heh, heh, heh,” and grunts.

            He so often finds me in the hay shed singing to the mice. “Doe, A Deer” is my favorite.

            Coughing, coughing, coughing. Juicy, croupy, gurgly coughing. Heavy wheezy breathing. “You’re up early!”

            Grampa Frank has a gruff voice and a gruff demeanor. He is kind of scary. I just sidle up next to Grandma Olive.

            “Let’s get you some breakfast,” she says.

She fries me an egg and sits me down at the metal kitchen table. My tiny juice glass with the orange slices on the outside is filled with freshly squeezed orange juice. I try to strain the pulp through my teeth, but I end up politely chewing the juice, regardless.

They have their routine, quiet and busy all at the same time. My legs are antsy to move about. I begin playing my own kind of hopscotch on the black and white linoleum squares.

“Listen, Julie honey,” Grandma Olive says, “can’t you do that somewhere else?”

I am underfoot. I go to the adjacent dining room and stare out the picture window at the crab apple tree in the picket-fenced front yard. Nothing to do. Nothing to do.

“Say, Julie.” Her no-nonsense tone startles me out of my daydreaming. “Go with Grampa Frank,” Grandma Olive tells me.

So few words. Why did they use so few words?

I swallow a nervous lump in my throat. Grampa is already gone, his heavy footfalls pounding mercilessly. Coughing. The screen door groans and slams in complaint. I hear “Outa the way, damn it!” and cats screeching. They sit at the door looking for warmth or a scrap from Gramma, but that puts them underfoot. I know how they feel.

I can hear Bocci’s and Brownie’s toenails scratching the garage floor as they prance around his feet. The big, hairy German shepherd and golden mutt are always happy to see me too. They never think I’m in the way.

The animals compel me to go.

Following the trail of cigarette smoke, I slip on my rubber boots and windbreaker in the breezeway. By the time I greet the dogs, rub their bellies, and scratch their ears, I see Grampa is already lumbering to the hog barn.

Does he really want me with him? I wonder. He doesn’t so much as say my name or turn around to motion me toward him. He just keeps walking. This is all Grandma’s terrible idea, I think.

Stalling, I reach for the comfort of the black barn cat sitting amongst the disaster of shop tools on the workbench. It doesn’t have a name. Barn cats are for mousing. And that is it.

But I hold this one and scratch his ears while his grumbly purr soothes me, and I stare out the garage door toward the hog barn. Brownie and Bocci are already off romping into their next adventure. No one would see hide nor tail of them until nightfall, unless of course, Grampa gives a whistle.

With the dogs gone, I decide that even if Grampa really doesn’t want me with him, I will hang in the shadows of straw bales and watch him work. This is far better than being lonely.

Some clanging and banging echoes from the hog barn, but I can’t make out what Grampa Frank is doing in there. As I draw a little nearer, some thrashing and scrambling and screaming stops me in my tracks. Horror fills my veins.

What is he doing to those pigs?

I know that life on the farm is very different than my life by the lake. I know it can be … harsh. Sunday dinner’s pork chops or fried chicken or roast beef doesn’t just drop from the sky. It comes from the animals fattened in the coup and the pens and the fields.

My heart grips my chest as I wonder if Grampa is going to teach me about the harsh realities of life today. Is he planning to show me how to toughen up? Make me learn that the world is a nasty place, and you have to get over it if you want food on your plate? Is he going to try to show me how I can’t just daydream and sing songs and climb around on hay bales all day?

My throat tightens as I clench my jaw and absentmindedly squeeze the black cat. But that only makes him meow and jump out of my arms. I am on my own for the rest of the journey.

When I arrive, I see my grampa leaning over a makeshift pen of straw bales. He doesn’t look at me, but I go to him. I hear snuffling and shuffling on the other side.

When I look into the pen, I see them. Ten black and white piglets, hardly bigger than a breadbox. They’re rummaging and rutting around exploring their new space. I look up, up, up to my grampa’s face and find that he is now looking at me with a toothless grin.

He shoves his cap high on his forehead and asks, “What do you think? Do you want one?”

“Want one?” I whisper.

“Sure. To play with today. You pick out your favorite, and I’ll shoo out the rest of these.”

“Just for me? Like … he’s mine?”

Coughing. “Yep. Just like he’s yours.”

We analyze all ten discussing their markings and determining which ones have the best personalities. It’s the longest conversation I have ever had, and will ever have, with my grampa.

At long last, I pick out one piglet with a particularly interesting pattern of spots and a rambunctious personality. I name him Spot. Grampa Frank stays with me while I chase my piglet around and try to teach it tricks. He laughs his “heh, heh, heh” laugh in between coughs while he leans against the gate.

“Can I pick him up, Grampa?” I ask.

“Sure, you can. Just don’t go dropping him. He’s damn wiggly, that one.”

“I know it,” I manage to say while I strain to get Spot into my arms. “I’ll tame him, though.”

“I’d like to see that,” he says pushing his bushy eyebrows up high.

The piglet squirms with all his might, but I manage to set him down gently before he falls.

Grampa Frank grunts then says, “Go get him again there, little Julie Andrews,” as he waggles a beefy finger at me. That makes me laugh for some reason, and I am off after my pig in the dust and the straw.

As the morning warms, I play, and Grampa watches. I can tell that there is no ulterior motive to educate me on the cruel realities of the world today. Nor will there ever be. He sees me for who I am, and he is enjoying a little frivolous time with his youngest granddaughter. For the time being, I don’t recall his gravelly, scratchy nature. In fact, I wonder how I ever could have thought him scary.

I do not know, of course, that in two short years, Grampa Frank will be gone. Something about those cigarettes and that nagging cough of his. And though it will matter so very much in two year’s time, it does not matter at this moment. This is my morning with my grampa and the piglet he has given me for a day.

Grampa Frank's Spotted Poland China Piglets

One Take Jake by Jay Lang

 

 

For purchase information click here to visit Jay Lang's BWL Author page

One Take Jake

             While outlining this rock and roll thriller, I experienced the strangest thing
The moment I began typing the first sentence, the characters sprang to life, guiding me through an incredible journey. I found myself struggling to keep pace with them, quickly jotting down the exciting scenes unfolding before my eyes.

The subject matter of sexual abuse within the music industry was undeniably grim. However, I felt a strong urge to address it after reading headline news about a musician charged with drugging and raping young girls. Despite knowing that certain aspects of this story would be difficult to confront, I believed it was crucial to shine a light into this dark corner and discuss the long-term effects on the victims of these horrendous crimes.

Much to my amazement, over a dozen high-profile musicians joined my story ad wrote compelling quotes in the book. Their determination to speak out on this issue was fueled by a deep-seated resentment toward the predators who used the music industry as a breeding ground for their crimes.  

Before writing this book, I had firsthand experience with celebrities and the music industry. Having worked as both an actress and a clothing designer for rock bands, I gained valuable insights into the entertainment industry. This prior experience greatly helped to authentically navigate the settings of this rock and roll story.
Among the many books I've written, "One Take Jake" stands out as the story that most closely mirrors my own character.
"One Take Jake" and its newly released sequel, "One Take Jake: Last Call," hold a special place in my heart. They're like my babies, and I love them deeply. If you are a thrill seeker and love a fast-paced murder mystery, I think you’ll enjoy these books.

Thanks for reading, Jay Lang

What readers have wanted to know by donalee Moulton

                                         

                                                      Click here for purchase information.

I’ve been doing a lot of book readings and book signings recently. It’s a wonderful opportunity to meet readers and discuss all things mystery. They also keep me on my toes. Here are some questions I’ve been asked recently.

What was the first seed of an idea you had for your mystery book? How did it develop?

 

It started with a bath. I’m a big believer in bubbles, candles, scrubs, essential oils, and music with birds chirping in the background. Friends call this bathroom time my shrine. One night immersed in a lavender cloud I realized it was time to begin writing my mystery. Get off the pot kind of thing. That led me to a litany of possible characters and crimes. Through the mist Riel emerged. Not fully formed but outlined enough that I wrote down my ideas before I even moisturized.

How did you celebrate the publication of your first book?

Sunday dinners are a tradition in our family and at our house. Over the years the faces around the table have changed, but they are all family and friends. It’s not unusual for us to have 10 or more people for dinner, and dinner is a communal process: cooking, cleaning, setting the table, making tea.

Hung Out to Die is dedicated to my 95-year-old godmother. When the first copy of the book was in my hands, three of us decided to surprise her with this inaugural copy and celebrate its publication. As we were sipping tea and finishing the last of dessert, I gave my godmother the book and directed her to the dedication page. She started to cry and without speaking passed the book to the next person at the table. They began to cry. They passed the book on. It made its way around to everyone. Most of us were in tears, even those of us who knew why my godmother cried even before the book reached them.

What a wonderful way to celebrate my first mystery novel.   

How would you describe your writing process? Do you outline? Let the muse lead you? Or something else?

 

I am not a marathon writer. I am a sprinter. I can’t sit and write for hours at a time. I break up my writing by taking a yoga class, soaking up some sunshine, checking email, doing some paid work. I do try to write 1,000 fictional words a day. Some days I achieve this. We don’t need to talk about the other days.

 

I love the idea of plotting out my books from beginning to end. However, the idea remains just that. I have the most basic of plot outlines and work from there, filling in and exploring options as the writing unfolds. When the characters become their own people, I know I’m on the right track.

When you get the edits back from your editor, how do you work through that process?

I’m a firm believer in the importance and power of editing. When I get an edited anything back – novel, article, short story – I read through the comments and take some time to think about them. Then I dive in. Often I agree with the editor; sometimes there is a compromise. Always the writing is better for another set of eyes. 

What books have influenced you as a writer? 

When I was about eight or nine, a next-door neighbor tossed me a Nancy Drew book. She thought I might like it. I sat on the curb between our two houses and read the entire book cover to cover. I loved the puzzle, figuring out who dunnit, and being propelled into a world outside my own. 

That same year someone gifted me Charlotte’s Web, and my life was forever changed. Not only could words transport you to new worlds, they could become a part of your heart, change you in ways you could not have imagined. I wanted to do that.

 

What is the best piece of advice about writing that you have ever heard or read? What would you tell aspiring writers today? 

Write. This sounds simple. Many days it isn’t. Some call this dedication, others devotion. I’m not sure it matters what it’s called as long as it happens. You will never be a better writer, you will never write another book if you don’t sit down in front of your computer screen and begin to put words in front of you.

 

BWL Publishing New Releases for June 2024

 

Releasing June 2024

Twice Hung

Book 10, Canadian Historical Mysteries - Prince Edward Island

Vanessa Hawkins

Ethel Arsenault's been hearing noises in her brother's house ever since she arrived from Summerside, but when he turns up dead, could the supernatural be to blame, or her sister-in-law Dolly who's been caught talking to herself when night falls?

Ethel isn't sure, nor is she happy when she's left alone to care for Ernest's estate. Was her brother the victim of sweet, little Dolly Arsenault, or is some other sinister force at work? The city of Charlottetown is quick to point the blame at Dolly, but now Ethel has been hearing things in the house...

 

 ... or is it just her imagination?

 

 

 

A Thing or Two about Running by Eden Monroe

 

Click here to purchase

In Sunrise Interrupted, movie star Alexandra Martel is a recreational runner, and what better way to ease away the tensions of a hard day on set than to go for an early-morning jog in the beautiful New Brunswick countryside.

“… off she went in a soul-pounding run down the narrow secondary road. The birdsong itself was rich and luxuriant as she drank in lungfuls of crisp fresh air. The smells of the fields, the flowers, the trees, just nature itself as it was laid before her inviting the warmth of the sun preparing to make its grand entrance above the horizon. Oh how she had missed this.

“There was nothing to compare with being in nature, nothing filled up the soul in quite the same way. She usually ran in the city but it in no way compared to this. How she missed her uncomplicated life in New Brunswick. She knew her family loved hearing about her glamourous lifestyle as a movie person, but there was much that was lost too.”

Running, or jogging as it was originally called, gained popularity in North America during the early 1970’s and has never looked back. Now a global sensation, we look to New Zealand for the origin of the sport as we know it today (atreyu.com). Arthur Lydiard was an outstanding athletics coach in that country, and is “widely regarded as the founder of modern jogging.” It was during the late 1950’s and early 1960’s that Lydiard implemented this new form of training for his athletes, a low-intensity exercise that he called jogging. His goal was to improve their overall fitness and endurance, while avoiding excess strain on their bodies. His vision “revolutionized the sport of distance running” as well as motivating a new generation of fitness seekers.

According to Vox.com, the US craze can date its inception back to Bill Bowerman, a running coach at the University of Oregon, who is described as legendary. He was made aware of the phenomenon of jogging while on a trip to New Zealand where he met Arthur Lydiard, and immediately became convinced of its many physical benefits. As a future co-founder of Nike, it seems he also understood the importance of proper footwear in which to run. He also wrote a book on the subject with Dr. W. E. Harris entitled “Jogging”, which is “justifiably credited with kick-starting a movement.”

Dr. Kenneth Cooper of the United States also advocated the health benefits of running. He is also considered “a key figure in the history of jogging” and it was Dr. Cooper who coined the term “aerobics.”

But people have been running for eons. It was a necessary component of a successful hunt in order to survive. The hunter’s fitness and speed were both important elements in chasing down their chosen prey to the point of exhaustion, a vital tactic that enabled them to make the kill. According to Eastermichael.com: “The researchers discovered the bones of prehistoric homo sapiens were more dense than ours, suggesting early humans likely ran far more often—and for longer distances. Other studies suggest many early humans had the running capacity of today’s competitive cross-country athletes.”

As for competitive running, there were plenty of running events at the Ancient Olympic games in Olympia, Greece, from completing three marathons in one day to chasing down a live hare. These ancient competitors were the real deal and included such superstars as Leonidas of Rhodes who mastered so many of these events he was “arguably the most impressive Olympian of all-time”. (Olympics.com)

However, not everyone can or will become an Olympic god for their efforts, but today millions lace up for their daily jog, or weekend-warrior marathon. But when the craze first began in the sixties in the United States, anyone who wasn’t a serious athlete, such as a boxer, was considered to be engaging in “suspicious activity” says Vox.com. That was the reason given by police when Senator Strom Thurmond was stopped while jogging in Greenville, South Carolina in 1968.

Jogging was considered an amusing trend, according to a New York Times piece that referred to those who took part in the activity as  “a handful of unusual freaks who chose to run in their free time.”

Runners today enjoy a plethora of running events, other than a brisk jog for good health. For the keenest of them all there are the ultra runs, the top ten in that category considered to be the toughest in the world, so says Redbull.com. The following are the top three:

At number one is the Hardrock Endurance Run 100 held in Colorado. With altitude (10,000 metres), wilderness, storms and steep drops, it’s considered to be “the toughest 100-miler in the US.”

Number two features The Jungle Marathon in Brazil, two hundred kilometres in which you’ll contend with swamps, snakes, mosquitoes, leeches, crocs and mud. It’s billed as the “world’s most terrifying adventure”.

In third place is Montane Yukon Arctic Ultra, described by organizers as “… cold, very cold”. Its distance is 692 kilometres (about 430 miles), with a climb of 6,000 metres. The hazards of this Canadian adventure are hypothermia, frostbite and exhaustion. It’s “the world’s coldest and toughest ultra thanks to the epic conditions”. If you decide to enter this race you’ll be pulling a sled with all your mandatory equipment and food aboard in temperatures that average between plus twelve degrees Celsius and minus twenty-five degrees Celsius. “Just surviving is an achievement.” There is little room for error.

Kind of makes the Saturday morning run look pretty tame by comparison, but then one never knows. Alexandra thought her sunrise jog would be a routine affair, but it turned out to be something quite different altogether. Some might even consider her run to be the most dangerous of all:

“He crested another knoll, passing basecamp on his left but there was no sign of her, and then ahead in the distance he saw something on the side of the road and he cut his speed. It had to be her! His heart was drumming a spectacular tattoo now that the moment of contact was at hand.

“He had the black hood ready on the passenger seat, the rag soaked with chloroform in a plastic bag. She was just a few feet ahead of him now….”

 

https://www.bookswelove.com/monroe-eden/