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It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book’s FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

and the book:

Charting the Course

Authentic (April 1, 2008)

Dr. Bruce Howard joined the faculty of Wheaton College in 1980 and currently serves as professor of Business and Economics. He holds a PhD in economics and a masters of administration in accountancy. He is a member of the American Institute of Certified Public Accountants. He has also has worked with Tyndale House Publishers since 1980 and currently serves as a member of the board of directors. Prior to his academic career, Dr. Howard worked in the banking and health care industries.

Product Details:

List Price: $ 12.99
Paperback: 168 pages
Publisher: Authentic (April 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1934068357
ISBN-13: 978-1934068359

Mr. Howard takes on the dilemma of reconciling fixed, transcendent moral values with an economic system based on relative value.  He shows that there is a way to move forward and influence the economy in a way that will bring positive change to the world.  This is the opportune time for that change.  All around us both morals and the economy are crumbling.  He charts a course enabling us to navigate the choppy waters of commerce.  Jump into the boat with us and let’s take a ride with Mr. Howard.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

My family had just moved into our new home, and Dad was helping us get things situated. He’s a handy kind of guy and good with virtually any home project. In short, he’s the perfect father-in-law for me. We had a new coach light to install outside by the front door. Coach lights involve electricity, and that, of course, meant that I called my father-in-law.

No problem! After a quick survey of the situation, he decided on the course of action. My job was to turn off the electricity while he pulled the old lamp off the wall. There was a switch inside the house that controlled this light, so I dutifully turned the switch off. If you understand the workings of electricity better than I do, you already know what’s coming. Don’t ask me to explain it—but although turning the switch off might have extinguished the light, it did not kill the current to all of the wiring. A few moments later I heard this nasty “pop” and saw my father-in-law flying off the ladder with a smoking screwdriver in his hand! The noise was so loud that even my neighbor from down the street heard it and came running to see what had happened!

The word shocked is used in many contexts, but it really should be reserved for moments like this. Dad was shocked, a bit dazed, and sore from the fall, but otherwise OK. The only lasting result was a little spot on his ring where a bit of the metal had melted.

I don’t think there is a person on earth today who believes electricity is a bad thing. On the contrary, electricity is a wonderful form of energy that does us a tremendous amount of good. But make no mistake, electricity can also hurt you physically—and do a great deal of damage to property as well. If you’re going to work with any force, be it electricity, natural gas, coal, or nuclear energy, it is critical to understand that force and to maintain a healthy respect for what can go wrong.

There are economic forces as well. And just like the forces of energy, they have the power to do us either good or harm. In the everyday course of life, it is easy to take these forces for granted. I’d like us to consider for a moment the power of market forces to bring us goods and services by thinking through some of the daily events of our lives.

THE PERVASIVENES OF MODERN MARKETS

What did this day look like for you? Did you begin by taking a shower? At a moment’s notice, clear, clean, hot and cold H2O came rushing to your beck and call. Did you happen to take a moment to reflect and ask, Where does all this water come from? How about the soap and shampoo? Did you use a towel made in Indonesia and blow-dry your hair with a hair dryer made in Taiwan?

Did you have cereal for breakfast made with grain grown in North Dakota or Argentina? Coffee from Colombia? Sugar from Honduras? Orange juice from Florida? Did you put on clothes made from cotton grown in Texas but sewn in Thailand? Or were they made from synthetic fibers engineered and produced by an international chemical giant with production facilities in Germany?

On your way to work, did you read a newspaper using paper made from pulp shipped from the Northwest, ink produced in the Midwest, and printed on presses made in the Northeast? Maybe you pulled out a laptop computer assembled in Malaysia with computer chips manufactured in California and ran a piece of software designed and written by programmers in Calcutta. If you drove to work, you may well have chosen to listen to the radio. You may have selected one or even half-a-dozen stations to listen to, depending on the traffic and the ease with which you could surf the airwaves looking for just the right melody or message to suit the moment. A cell phone, of course, would have opened a completely new vista of options for what you could have done during your commute.

Think just a bit about that car you may have been driving. Did it use gasoline refined in Houston but made from crude oil imported from somewhere in the Middle East and then transported on ships built in Japan? Where was the car made? The most difficult part of that question is figuring out where all the component parts came from. Of course, the car was probably assembled in and shipped from one place. But even so, I have been in auto assembly plants both in the United States and in Europe and have noted that much of the highly automated process involves sophisticated robotics and other machines that are themselves manufactured in other places in the world. So trying to figure out the real source of all value-adding activity that goes into assembling an automobile these days is an exceedingly complex task.

At the risk of belaboring a point, think for a moment about all of the things you can possibly purchase at a moderate-sized grocery store, and then ask yourself, Where does all this stuff come from? Pick up any packaged product, and you will find a list of ingredients on the label; ask the question again: Where did all those ingredients come from?

I can’t possibly tell you where all of these things came from, but I can tell you how they got there. They got there through the power of the marketplace. Embodied in our use of the goods and services we take for granted every day are the acts of literally thousands of economic agents (people doing a job) engaged in millions of acts and making millions of little decisions that collectively all add up to the stuff of our lives. It is the power of markets that brings to us the things we want—when and where we want them.

Markets are simply unparalleled for serving our material needs and wants. Each and every day, in hundreds of ways, markets mysteriously work in the far reaches of the world, as well as just down the street, to orchestrate our own personal concert of consumption. It is virtually impossible to comprehend the full magnitude of all the global activity that occurs each day in order to fulfill our sophisticated, individualistic, and highly nuanced set of needs and desires.

One of the most amazing aspects of all of this is that we don’t personally have to ask for any of it. Through the power of markets, the vast majority of things we use every single day come to us without our asking. The only thing that is required of us in return is a willingness to part with some of our money in exchange for the stuff of life.

The Meaning of Marketing

Marketing is a word that is mostly misunderstood. People generally associate it with sales and advertising. Marketing is treated like a noun, but it is better understood as a verb, an action—the action of making markets. Marketing is the process of looking outward in order to discern the needs and wants of society. It also includes looking inward at the resources and skill set of the producer to see how they can be used to meet these identified needs and wants of society. The marketing process includes everything that has to happen in order to first generate an idea and then implement that idea in economically sustainable ways to meet the needs of the targeted segment of society.

This is a big job, and it operates on a 24/7 basis. Right now literally millions of people are thinking about you and me and what they can do to meet some unfulfilled need or want we might have. People are thinking about ways to cure our cancers, treat our diabetes or heart disease. They are also thinking about new gadgets to help us chop onions, carve a turkey, or secure our homes and automobiles. A host of people work hours on end trying to figure out new ways to entertain us and otherwise help us enjoy our leisure hours. They are also thinking about ways to improve the many products and services we already use. It might be a better-tasting toothpaste. Maybe it’s a new form of packaging that is easier to open and reseal. Maybe we would prefer a smaller—or larger—package of a particular product. How many times have you heard the phrase “new and improved”? Next time you do, you can pinch yourself and say, Ah, that is the result of marketing!

The most powerful component of the marketing force is this channeling of the creative capabilities of all of humanity toward the goal of serving the material needs and wants of humanity.

The world is moving at an accelerated pace to embrace markets as the system for organizing economic activity. Many are pleased with this trend, and many are not. But like it or not, it is a force that began thousands of years ago and is growing exponentially as fast as people around the world can connect. When one more person or firm enters the world of markets, it is much like adding another fax machine to the global inventory of fax machines. If there are already a billion fax machines operating in the world, then adding one more machine increases the world’s faxing potential by a factor of not just one, but one times the other billion fax machines with which it can connect. So it is when one more player enters the market arena. The potential for additional market transactions increases by one times the billions of already existing participants.

People throughout the world are connecting like never before. Iron curtains that previously shut people in have melted away, and countries that were once closed have opened their doors to market forces. These same market forces are working to unite Europe and increase the connectivity of people throughout the continent by allowing the free flow of people, goods, and services between borders and by adopting a common currency and set of economic rules.

I recently traveled down a rather remote, single-lane road in the Bohemian-Moravian Highlands of the Czech Republic where we stopped outside an old stone building that looked like a converted barn. All around were potato fields. Chickens roamed freely about the grounds. But something remarkable was going on inside this building. No matter what it looks like on the outside, inside a global business is providing employment for twenty people from the local community. This crystal-cutting factory crafts beautiful glassware that is sold primarily to customers in China and Japan. These customers use the Internet to find this company and then to place their orders. Products are shipped worldwide via UPS and DHL. I went away scratching my head and trying to figure out whether this is a high-tech or low-tech business. Either way, it is certainly a global business.

When the world was much less connected, people only had the small number of residents in their villages or communities available to think about, create, and deliver the goods and services they enjoyed. But today there are vast numbers of people on the other side of the world thinking about us and our needs and desires and how they can marshal their particular set of resources to fulfilling those needs and desires.

As you can probably tell by now, I am very impressed with the power of markets to produce goods and services and raise the material standards of living for people throughout the world. In my life roles as a consumer, an auditor, a banker, an accountant, and a professor of business and economics, I have had my share of exposure to markets. We all have. In my primary vocational role of teaching business and economics, I have plenty of opportunities to share my enthusiasm about this powerful force.

I love to teach the introductory course in economics. My students are mostly college freshmen and sophomores. By the time I get them, they have studied lots of math, history, science, and language. They began studying these subjects in grade school and continued doing so right up through high school. But very few have ever taken a formal course in economics. Therefore, I have the opportunity to open the lid on this discipline and introduce my students to the world of economic reasoning. Even after teaching this course for over twenty years, I believe the subject is as fresh as it was the first time I taught it. Much has changed over the last twenty years, and it is interesting to talk and think about those many things. But it is equally interesting and even more important to reflect upon the things that have not changed. The operational principles of markets have not changed. They are an enduring force to be reckoned with.

Is There a Worm in Your Apple?

Over the years of teaching economics, however, I have discovered a real problem. Teaching about market economics is like offering my students an appealing, lush, ripe, juicy red apple. Here it is; take a bite. See for yourself just how sweet and delicious it is. Savor that taste for a while, and then enjoy another bite. With each additional bite, students get closer to the core of the apple. And as they do, they are very likely to discover that at the core of this apple there is an ugly, repugnant worm. A word of caution: Don’t eat the worm!

This book is the result of my own wrestling with the question of what I am supposed to do with this worm at the core. I began this journey eight years ago. Back then I wrote a manuscript in response to the problem that, by my own admission, was not a very good manuscript. Good writing is essentially about good thinking and having something worthwhile to say. At that point, I don’t believe my efforts reflected either quality. But during the past eight years I have thought a great deal about this issue. I have read and listened to many other voices along the way, all the while trying to process those voices in the context of my wormy problem. This book is my humble attempt to name it and then deal with it.

I am absolutely convinced that we need to name the worm and warn others that it is present, lurking at the core.

So, what is the worm?

Today we have another guest post written by one of my flybaby friends, Satoyna.  She’s had her world turned upside down this past year and a half.  Read why.

This is for all you “surprise parents” out there.  The “surprise” you ask?  It would be a parent with a 14 and 10 year old, and counting down the days/years for them to attend college. It’s a parent looking forward to empty-nesting with your husband when lo and behold, you find out you are pregnant and starting all over!  And 2 weeks before heading to Jamaica, no less!  I must say THAT was not on the to-do list.  After getting over the initial shock (which, in my case, lasted until last week and my baby is now 7 months old)  the planning starts. 

Notice, I mentioned my youngest who was my “baby” is 10 years old.  So, nothing in my house was fit for a baby.  To top it off, this baby took me through the ringer and back.  I was 37 years old and reduced to “riding the cart” in the grocery store because she laid on my sciatic nerve for nearly 5 months.  I felt like a senior citizen having a baby.  I had to keep reminding myself that “babies are a blessing”.  I am thankful for the multiple baby showers held for me and baby Aloni.  It helped to get things that we were going to need. We were starting from scratch again.  All previous baby items had been sold or given away.  She came 3 weeks early and on a day least expected.  Her 4 month old cousin died from SIDS earlier that morning, and her arrival was traumatic as well.  My placenta ripped away from the uterus and she lost a lot of blood and oxygen for nearly 2-3 minutes before we were whisked away for an emergency caesarean section.  She remained in the neonatal intensive care unit for her entire hospital stay — a week.  She went to her pediatrician weekly for her first month and progressed beautifully.  I am proud to say that Aloni is nearly 8 months old and from the looks of her you would not know how traumatic her delivery was. 

Although having a baby was not anywhere on my list, I would not trade her for the world!!  Some of my friends joke and say that when Aloni heads off to school on the bus, the daily senior citizen’s activity bus will be following right behind to pick up me and my husband.  My wish was that she was born while I was still 37 years old; her original due date was the day before my 38th birthday.  She listened to mommy and came 3 weeks early!

Sing to the Lord, all the earth.  Tell of his salvation from day to day.  Declare his glory among the nations, his marvelous works among all the peoples.  For great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised; he is to be revered above all gods.  For all the gods of the peoples are idols, but the Lord made the heavens.  Honor and majesty are before him; strength and joy are in his place.

Ascribe to the Lord, O families of the peoples, ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.  Ascribe to the Lord the glory due his name; bring an offering, and come before him.  Worship the Lord in holy splendor; tremble before him, all the earth.  the world is firmly established; it shall never be moved.  Let the sea roar, and all that fills it; let the field exult, and everything in it.  Then shall the trees of the forest sing for joy before the Lord, for he comes to judge the earth.  O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; for his steadfast love endures forever.

I Chronicles 16:23-34

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book’s FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

and the book:

Murder On The ‘Ol Bunions

Barbour Publishing, Inc (February 29, 2008)

S. Dionne Moore is a bunion-free supermom, able to leap piles of homework and loads of laundry in a single bound. Not only does she write, homeschool her daughter, and help her pastor-husband, she also plays piano, loves to garden, and encourages other writers.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $ 4.97
Mass Market Paperback: 256 pages
Publisher: Barbour Publishing, Inc (February 29, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 159789639X
ISBN-13: 978-1597896399

This has been a very enjoyable read.  I especially like mysteries and this combines chick lit and mystery.  What a combination.  Then throw in some humor and you have a book you don’t want to end.  I’m looking forward to reading a nice long series of LaTisha Barnhart mysteries.  Let’s hope she never gets those bunions repaired.

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

“Mercy, Marion,” I reached up to still the clattering noisemaker and called down the narrow building toward the soda fountain Marion used as a counter, at the back of the store. “When you goin’ to bless us all by removing this thing?”

No one answered. Strange, that. Silence is not one of Marion’s virtues. Come to think of it, her Virtue list is pretty short, if you get my meaning. And no one enters Marion’s store without her verbally pouncing on them with news of her latest purchase of quality merchandise or her daughter Valorie’s most recent show of academic brilliance.

My sweet husband, Hardy, set the bell to rattling all over again as he heaved his plaid pants a little higher and stepped inside the shop and out of the Colorado sunshine. He shot me a grin that sported his pride and joy—his lone front tooth, covered in gold. But the sight of his weathered black face and grizzled gray-black hair has filled my heart with contentment for going on thirty-eight years. ’Course, I don’t let him know that too often, or he’d be thinking he’s got me wrapped around his little finger.

Hardy shut the door and gazed up at the spastic bell. He reached to silence the thing, fingertips three inches shy of meeting their goal. His cocoa eyes rolled in my direction, waiting. You see, Hardy’s as short as I am tall.

I reached up to squelch the bell and patted him on the head, not bothering to hide my smile. “Where’d you disappear to? I looked all around the library for you, then gave up and came here.”

Hardy’s grin didn’t dim. “Went to Payton’s to talk music. He tried to sell me a book on playing the banjo.”

“You don’t play the banjo.”

“Yup. Where’s Marion?”

“How am I supposed to know? I just got here myself.” Reaching around Hardy’s slender form, I opened the door wide enough to set the bell to making noise and slammed it hard. We both cocked our ears toward the room for any sound to indicate Marion’s arrival.

Hardy guffawed. “Never thought I’d enter a place owned by Marion Peters and not hear her mouth flapping.”

I sailed past the old Broadwood concert grand piano that took up one side of the room and peered into one of the two boxes of books I’d purchased earlier in the day. Marion had grudgingly agreed to let me leave the boxes until I could fetch Hardy to haul them for me. “I suppose we can just take this box and go. Wonder where the other one is?” Where was that woman? “Marion!”

“Lot o’ wind in them lungs for an old woman.”

“You better shut your trap, Hardy Barnhart. Years of yelling after you has given me my lung capacity. Marion!”

Hardy’s eyes twinkled. “She’s giving you the silent treatment. I figure she’s still mad at you for—”

“You hush.”

“Marion can hold a powerful grudge.”

His words came to me through the filter of my own warring thoughts. Something wasn’t right. I could feel it. Marion never left the store without flipping the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. And forgetful she’s not. Ask anyone who has ever done her wrong. I glanced back at the door. The sign definitely said OPEN.

“You go ahead and load this box into the car, I’m gonna look for the other one.”

Hardy shuffled forward. “You paid for them?”

I sent him a healthy dose of the look I made legendary with my children. “Of course.”

He held his hands up, palms out. “Just askin’. If LaTisha Barnhart is thinking of starting a life of crime, I want to make sure I get cut in on the loot.”

This man. He makes me crazy. I glanced down the length of him and smirked. “Got your drawers hitched too high again, don’t you? I can always tell—you start spouting crazy things.”

“Yeah, like the day I said, ‘I do.’ ”

“That’s not what you said. You said, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ”

I peeked into the box. The old books, covers frayed and worn, were neatly stacked, and definitely the ones I’d purchased. I motioned to Hardy and he lifted the box to his shoulder. I turned and mentally itemized the merchandise in the store. Having worked at Out of Time until my youngest left for college last fall, I knew exactly where everything should be. A few dustless outlines proved recent sales had helped boost Marion’s receipts, but other than that things looked normal. And why shouldn’t they be?

The store didn’t hold much. A huge oak bookcase, a mahogany secretary, and a cherry dining room set, took up most of the twenty-one-foot length. Thanks to her going-out-of-business sale, Marion’s overpriced stock now sported tags well within the price range of Maple Gap folk. The store’s impending closing had surprised many of the citizens. Everyone figured Marion’s elite clientele of wealthy collectors both here in tourist-laden Colorado and across the United States would keep Out of Time a thriving landmark for many years.

So much for that thought.

The scent of old books and dust hung heavy in the air. A draft of cold air raised shiver bumps on my arms. I stilled myself, turned, and studied everything again, forcing deep, calming breaths. Something was eluding me. Whatever stirred my senses to high alert seemed to be strongest at the counter. I returned there and sucked in another breath. And that’s when I caught it. A certain strange scent. What was that odor?

A mental image of my grown son at the age of eight bloomed. Tyrone had been helping Hardy build a shed and had sliced his finger a good one on the saw. Tyrone gave out a yelp. I went running. Hardy’s dark chocolate face took on a milk chocolate patina at the sight of the blood, so I took charge. As Hardy hit the ground in a faint, I barked instructions to my children on how to care for their father and hustled Tyrone to the car.

I directed our old Buick through town, one hand on the wheel, the other helping Tyrone maintain pressure on the wound. I tell you, blood seeped through that towel faster than I felt comfortable with, filling the air with its copper scent.

That was it! I inhaled the air in Marion’s shop, held my breath, and then released it slowly. My stomach clenched hard. Blood.

All my senses flared, spitting warnings, making my head spin. With a hand on the counter, I steadied myself for what I knew needed to be done. As if pulled by an unseen string, I gravitated toward the only corner of the room I hadn’t already examined. Some sixth sense screamed at me, telling me to hightail it out of there. But I ignored it, my feet leading the way, my brain screaming at my toes, telling them to cease all forward movement, turn tail, and run.

I focused on the things scattered along the counter, a white envelope, an old-fashioned cash register, brochures of the store, a small bell for service. The now identified scent of blood saturated the air. My throat clenched. My feet must have finally got the message because they wouldn’t move forward at all now, so I steeled myself and leaned forward over the counter.

Marion.

Her head lay in a pool of blood.

Cold shivers tingled along my scalp. My heart skittered. I pressed both hands flat on the counter and squeezed my eyes shut to block the horrible image as shock carried me over the edge of rational thinking into one where every impulse had its way. I opened my mouth and gave vent.

Hardy came on the run, his steps banging along the wooden floor as he skidded to a halt beside me.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

My tongue stuck to the roof of my dry mouth.

“You getting ready to drop over or something?”

Tears glazed my eyes and turned Hardy into a fuzzy, carnival-mirror image. I raised my hand and shooed him away. “Get back,” I finally croaked. “Go back outside. You don’t need to see her.”

Hardy’s eyes got wide. “What you talking about, woman? See who? You ain’t been sniffing glue again, have you?”

He sure knew how to get to me, but I wasn’t having any of it. “You know I only did that once on a dare. Now you get.” I waited for him to retreat, instead he stared. I flicked my hands at him, hoping he’d trust me on this one. “Hardy. . .” My glance at the place where Marion now rested gave everything away.

Hardy’s expression melted into a frown. “What’s back there?” He took a step closer.

“No! You’d better not stick your nose over that counter. I’m warning you. You’ll be sorry. Don’t look.”

[SB]

“Hardy’s coming around, LaTisha,” the young doctor of Maple Gap stood in the doorway of Out of Time, divested of its annoying bell at long last by the chief of police himself.

“I think he’ll be just fine.” Dr. Troy Gordon motioned me to precede him back into the store. “It’s not every day one sees a dead body.”

I stepped over to the end of the counter, careful to keep my eyes off the form flanked by the police chief and another man I’d never seen before. I gazed down at Hardy’s waxy complexion. He needed a thorough chiding, so, being the good wife that I am, I warmed to the event like a microwave on high. “I told you not to look. You never do listen.”

The doctor knelt next to my man and patted Hardy’s shoulder as he tried to sit up. “You’d better lay back down, Mr. Barnhart. You’ve had quite a shock.”

“Naw,” he grated out. “She talks to me like that all the time. Ignoring her works best.”

My tongue poised to reply, but a wave of dizziness gripped me so hard I felt myself whirling. “I’m a-thinking I’m going to lay me down, too.”

Doctor Dr. Gordon’s wide-eyed face tilted up at me, and he jumped to his feet. Just as my knees gave way, a hand jerked me backward and my body folded onto a chair.

“Head down, LaTisha.” Doc’s hand pushed my head between my knees, or as far forward as it could reach over my stomach. Diet is a four letter word, after all.

Within seconds the dizziness began to release its grip. Something tickled down my belly. As my head cleared, I realized the sensation came from my pantyhose beginning a southern migration. Never could get a decent pair anymore.

“How do you feel?”

Doc Gordon’s voice penetrated my thoughts. I croaked a little hiccup and raised my head slowly. “I’ll be fine.” But I wanted air. Real bad. I nodded toward the door. Doc must have understood my silent plea because he gripped my arm and helped me get up. With his hand directing me, I broke out of that shop and back into the spring sunshine. He helped me get settled into one of the two Windsor chairs he’d dragged from Marion’s shop.

“I’ll bring Hardy out here, too. I daresay he’s had enough excitement in that store.”

Within minutes, Doc Gordon returned with a wan, shuffling Hardy.

“You don’t look so good,” I said as Hardy slumped down next to me and buried his face in his hands.

“Neither did she.”

I scootched my chair closer to him and squeezed his shoulders, drawing his head down to my chest. “You listen next time I tell you something. Thought you’d done gone and had a heart attack.”

I spread my hand on his slender back and wondered how, after thirty-eight years of my cooking, the man had yet to put on more than five pounds. He was too skinny. Of course, he always told me I’d gained enough for both of us.

Hardy’s voice came out muffled. “I wouldn’t leave you to have all the fun.”

The doctor reappeared. “Officer Simpson wants to talk to you, LaTisha. I told him you weren’t feeling well and to wait awhile. He’s pretty anxious to ask you some questions. Do you feel up to it?”

I twisted around in the chair and saw the young police officer standing in the doorway. I nodded at him, anxious to have the whole incident behind me. “Come on over here and get to your asking.”

Doc gave Hardy a pat on the shoulder. “I’ll be inside if you need me.”

Hardy straightened in his chair as the officer approached. I gave his complexion a good once-over before frowning at the policeman and jabbing a finger toward Hardy. “You can ask me what you need to until he’s feeling perky.”

“I just have a few questions, ma’am.”

“You new to town?”

The young officer swelled up a bit. “Yes, Mrs. Barnhart. I moved into town last week.”

I gave the newcomer a good scrub down with my eyes and wondered why I hadn’t heard of his arrival. No way was I anxious to have to go through the whole trauma of explaining how I found Marion’s body with this young fellow.

“Job doesn’t pay well,” I started out, making good and sure he knew I had the upper hand. “We just lost two men a month ago because the city council didn’t approve raises. One of them moved his family to Seattle, the other became an insurance salesman.”

“Uh, yes, ma’am.”

“I’m LaTisha Barnhart. And you?”

“I’m Officer Mac Simpson.”

“Not a bad looking boy. How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Tisha.”

Hardy’s voice held an edge that I recognized right away. I rolled my eyes his way. “I’m just trying to be neighborly.”

“Let the boy do his job.”

I huffed back into my chair and crossed my arms, considering. Doesn’t hurt to give the new guy a few warnings about small town living. Who knew? A murder right after a new person arrives in town. . . Suspicious if you ask me.

With Hardy getting uptight with me, I’d have to summarize my welcome speech. “You must have bought the Hartford’s place. Only house for sale that I know of. I’ll bring you some of my fried chicken. Don’t want newcomers to feel unwelcome here. I consider it my duty to make sure new people have at least one good square meal. Moving is hard work, and organizing a kitchen takes a woman’s touch. You got yourself a woman? Preferably a missus.” My eyes slid to his left hand. No ring. “We can take care of that for you, too, just give us a chance.”

Satisfied that I’d had my say, I waited for the man to begin with the questions. He blinked like a barn owl in the sunlight for a full thirty seconds.

“Hurry up and ask what you need to ask. I haven’t got all day.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he cleared his throat. “I—” He glanced at the small notebook in his hand as if it contained the script he should follow. I knew the pages were blank. Noticed it right off. Not much escapes me. Ask any one of my seven children. They’ll tell you their momma not only has eyes in the back of her head, but she’s got ’em on the sides, too, and the high beams are always on.

Being that I had more education about these police things than he probably did, I decided to help him out. “You want to know what I was doing in the store and how I found Marion.”

His lips cracked a small smile. “That would be a good start. Yes.”

“The chief asked me all this already.”

“Yes, ma’am. He wanted me to ask again.”

Now if there’s one thing I don’t like to have to do is repeat myself. I tell you once. That’s it. You ask for a repeat and you might get it—slowly and with every vowel enunciated—but you ask again, and I’ll call the ear doctor and set up a fitting for you to get yourself a hearing aid.

I leaned forward, deciding I’d give this boy a second chance. This time. Since he was new and all. “I went into the store to pick up some things I bought earlier. Hardy came in after me. Something seemed funny when Marion didn’t start talking right off. That’s Marion for you. She never had any need for quiet. Anyways, I went around the counter and there she was.” I had to push hard at the sight of her that flashed in my brain. Forcing back my emotions, I went on. “Payton heard me—that’s the owner of the music store next door, don’t suppose you’ve met him yet—and he came over right after Hardy fainted. He’s the one who called you boys. That’s it.”

Officer Simpson scribbled in his book. “Did you see anything suspicious? Hear anything out of the ordinary?”

“I smelled blood.” And still did. I swallowed hard. “Took me awhile to figure out what that smell was, but I did. That’s when I thought to look behind the counter.”

Voices carried over from the doorway of the shop. The chief of police and a man I didn’t recognize talked for a minute before the stranger went back inside. Chief Chad Conrad caught my gaze and headed our way.

Simpson saw his boss coming. His expression became severe. “I must say you’re pretty calm for someone who just saw a dead body.”

I latched onto his eyeballs with mine. “Look here, I’ve had seven children, five of those are boys. Between bumps, scrapes, and breaks, there isn’t much more that’ll shock this momma. If one of them boys didn’t drop blood every day they’d thought they was girls. You feelin’ me?”

“Uh, I—” Officer Simpson’s face became a fiery red, and he gave his boss a mortified look. “Why, no, Mrs. Barnhart, I’d never—”

“That’s not to say I’m not sorry for Marion. She was a pillar in this community, but she’s also a woman who is well known for her high-handed ways and churlishness. I figure most folk wanted to give her a good push at some point or other, but that doesn’t mean I did it!”

Chief Conrad presented a slick authority figure beside his younger counterpart. He also maintained the honor of Maple Gap’s most eligible bachelor, though Officer Simpson’s hand, sans ring, might mean the chief’s days retaining that honor were numbered.

The chief leaned to whisper in Officer Simpson’s ear. Relief flooded the younger man’s face. He sent me one last, almost terrified glance and went back inside.

Conrad hooked his thumbs over the edge of his thick black belt. Squint creases on either side of his eyes, coupled with his thin lips and dark widow’s peak, gave him the look of a tough guy. “I should appoint you to the force, LaTisha. The way you intimidate people is amazing. You and I could do the good cop/bad cop routine quite well.”

Hardy snorted to life. “Yeah, but you’re a little too mean looking to be the nice guy, Chief.”

The two laughed themselves stupid at that. I crossed my arms and glared. But the idea of being a cop, an investigator, or an officer on the force. . .

“I’ve only got one more semester before I’ll have my degree in police science,” I offered, pointing a finger after the departing Officer Simpson. “Bet that boy doesn’t have one of those.”

“I can’t be too choosey at this point, LaTisha. The budget restraints are stretching us as it is.” His gaze shifted to the store, and I could almost hear his brain churning. He doesn’t know how he’s going to manage a murder investigation as short staffed as he is.

Conrad pulled his gaze from the store. “How are you two feeling?”

I glanced at Hardy, relieved to see the familiar sparkle in his eyes.

“We’ll survive.”

Couldn’t help but wince at Hardy’s choice of words. Chief just grinned.

My curiosity got the best of me. “How do you think it happened?”

“We won’t be sure for a while. State police are on their way with a mobile crime lab vehicle. Could be she just had a bad fall and slammed her head against that radiator.”

“She’d have to have fallen awful hard. It’s not like she weighs a lot.”

Conrad pursed his lips. “True. We’ll let the state men do their thing to find out. In the meantime, there are a few more things I need to ask you. Payton has offered us the use of his store while Nelson finishes taking pictures of the bo—”

I shook my head and ran a finger across my neck so he wouldn’t shake up Hardy again with reminders of Marion’s body.

“—uh, the details.”

“Does Hardy need to stay?” If Conrad insisted on talking bodies and blood, my man needed to leave or we’d be sweeping him up in a dustpan after he shattered.

“How about I talk to you first. While we’re talking, if Hardy could play us a tune. . . ?”

Hardy pushed to his feet. “Sure thing, as long as Payton doesn’t try to sell me anymore banjo books.” He laced his fingers together and stretched them, palm out in front of him, until his knuckles cracked. “I’m a piano man.”

I ventured into the kitchen today for an all day go at it.  I used to cook, bake, can, freeze, make jelly, everything all the time before I ran away to the sun, sand and surf.  In my new life I still cooked, but worked a lot and didn’t get quite so involved in the kitchen.  Okay, okay!  I was almost totally uninvolved.  I had a 6″ skillet, a fridge and frozen dinners.  So now you know that I ate a lot of yogurt or ate out or scrounged hospital food in the middle of the night when I was working.  Those were the days when I  worked agency and had very little money in the summer months. That was low season in my tourist’s paradise, and the snowbirds were all up north for the summer.  Those were the “Happy Hour” days when establishments served real food and plenty of it at happy hour.  Two for the price of one watered down drink, and I could eat like a queen. 

Eventually, I bought a set of pots and pans.  When my mother and aunt came down to visit about six months later, I even took them out of the box.  I got back into the cooking and was taught how to cook West Indian style.  Love that food. Then I started working at sea.  For about ten years I cooked a couple times a year when I took a little work break.  I might help my mother cook when I stayed with her, but usually she preferred for me to stay out of the way and clean up the mess instead.  I would often spend a week on one of the islands for some R & R since there was no resting at my mother’s.  While in the islands I stayed at guest houses which had cooking facilities.  I would cook up a storm.  Hmmmm….West Indian home cooking. 

When I came back to land, I had to cook more.  Consumer Man can fend for himself, but I prefer to cook for him.  I feel less guilty that way.  Depending on my work schedule, I got back into the habit of cooking almost every day   That went on for about four years or so.  Then we decided to separate.  I moved back over to the west coast of the state and left him on the east coast.  I still cooked, but the frequency decreased.  Eventually I came full circle back to the yogurt, frozen dinners and occasionally something in the skillet. 

Last year I decided to let Consumer Man move back in, and the cooking began again.  But now I’m a diabetic and I was trying to get up at an ungodly hour to cook breakfast for the man.  I couldn’t get back on a schedule that worked for me, so my blood sugar started going wonkers. My health in general went downhill for awhile.  Finally, I came to my senses, told him I love him, but if he wanted to eat in the morning, he would just have to come up with something on his own.   Except for the weekends when I work, I did continue to cook evening meals for him.  That was working out quite well, especially since I rediscovered my crock pot. 

Now that due to the economy, Consumer Man is back working over on the east coast, I’ve started to slack on the cooking. I was starting to like that yogurt, cottage cheese, cereal and an occasional meal from the skillet or crock pot.  Something nice and easy.  But that doesn’t work anymore.  I have to watch my food intake and make sure it’s all balanced.  So, now I’m back to cooking. 

Today was a cook in batches and freeze day.  I’ve decided to do that at least once a month.  I’m planning on getting a nice little stash of goodies built up and then I won’t have to cook much at all the rest of the month.  Today I made a huge pot of chili, fried up some sausage to use in an egg muffin recipe with some left for a casserole later, mini meat loaves from a recipe on the back of a Kretschmer wheat germ label and some whole wheat biscuits.  I’m feeling a bit smug and giving myself a pat on the back.  Soon I’m going to cave in and find my bed.  I’ve already cleaned up my mess and have the dishwasher running, so it’s okay.  Have you all tried making any freezer meals?

We are about to enter an unsettling time in our nation.  I think these verses are appropriate as to what our actions should be.  It’s a good time to get our spiritual houses in order as well as our finances.

For waywardness kills the simple, and the complacency of fools destroys them; but those who listen to me will be secure and will live at ease, without dread of disaster.

Proverbs 1:32, 33

The house of the wicked is destroyed, but the tent of the upright flourishes.  There is a way that seems right to a person, but it’s end is a way to death.

Proverbs14:11, 12

For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God.  For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption.  When we cry, “Abba! Father!’ it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God.

Romans8:14-16

For the Lord God is a sun and shield; he bestows favor and honor.  No good thing does the Lord withhold from those who walk uprightly.

Psalm 84:11

…but as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.

Joshua 24:15

Today is the day that the citizens of the United States of America will elect a new president.  We’ve heard a lot about the candidates, but how much do we know about former presidents?  Answers to the questions will be found at the end of the post.

1. Who was the nation’s tallest president?
2. Who was the shortest?
3. Which one had the biggest feet?
4. Which was the youngest elected president?
5. Which president was the youngest to take office?
6. Who was the oldest elected president?
7. Who was the longest-lived?
8. Who spent the longest time in office?
9. Who spent the shortest time in office?
10. Who was the first president born in a log cabin?
11. Who was the first president born in a hospital?
12. Who was the first president assassinated?
13. Who was the last president assassinated?
14. Who was the first president impeached?
15. Who was the first to attend a major league baseball game?
16. Which one first spoke on radio?
17. Which one first appeared on television?
18. Who was the first to preside over 50 states?
19. Who was the first to appoint a woman to his cabinet?
20. Which one appointed the first African American to his cabinet?
21. Who was the only president to serve two nonconsecutive terms?
22. Who was the only president to resign?
23. Who was the only president to serve both as vice president and president without being elected to either office?
24. Who was our bachelor president?
25. Which president got married while in office?

Answers

1. Abraham Lincoln at 6 feet, 4 inches
2. James Madison at 5 feet, 4 inches
3. Warren Harding wore size 14 shoes.
4. John F. Kennedy at age 43
5. Theodore Roosevelt at age 42
6. Ronald Reagan at age 69
7. Gerald Ford at 93 years, 166 days
8. Franklin D. Roosevelt 12 years
9. William Henry Harrison 32 days
10. Andrew Jackson
11. Jimmy Carter
12. Abraham Lincoln
13. John F Kennedy
14. Andrew Johnson
15. Benjamin Harrison
16. Warren G Harding
17. Franklin D Roosevelt
18. Dwight D Eisenhower
19. Franklin D Roosevelt (Frances Perkins)
20. Lyndon B Johnson (Robert C Weaver)
21. Grover Cleveland
22. Richard Nixon
23. Gerald Ford
24. James Buchanan
25. There were two, Grover Cleveland and Woodrow Wilson

This quiz  was based on an article, “50 Fascinating Facts About Presidents,” by Richard Lederer, which appeared in the July-August issue of the AARP Bulletin.

What a guy!  We’ve been working jobs on opposite sides of the state for about seven weeks now.  With the economy down in our neck of the woods, it was rough for him to find a job that paid enough to pay all his bills.  It wasn’t an easy decision, but mutually, we decided that he was going to have to go back to his job at a hospital on the other side of the state until he could get a better grip on the finances.  Now that the economy nationwide is taking a nosedive, I’m glad he’s at a job that both pays well and that he likes.  That’s a good combination.  Of course, the downside is that we once again have a commuter relationship. 

Saturday night when I came home from work, I went to the mailbox before dragging into the house.  Included amongst all the miscellaneous campaign ads, bills and other junk mail I discovered a large greeting card envelope addressed in Consumer Man’s handwriting.  I had forgotten that I had a birthday coming up in a couple days. 

Now, receiving a card from Consumer Man is a rather momentous occasion.  I’ve probably received less that a half dozen cards from him in the 15 years of our relationship.  He just doesn’t think cards are all that important.  He comes from a different cultural background than mine, so that’s just one of our differences that I’ve come to accept.  I didn’t say I was crazy about it.  Just that I’ve learned to accept it.  My side of the family had the opposite outlook.  I know I’ve spent many hours over the years looking at cards, trying to find the words that were just right for the recipient. 

That’s why a card in the mail from Consumer Man lifted my spirits so much Saturday night.  It’s a beautiful card.  Both the words and the lovely flowers adorning the front.  It said just the right things.  It said all that I hoped was hidden in Consumer Man’s heart.  We’re not even close to being newlyweds, but when the words are right, the heart still soars.  Thank you, Consumer Man.  I love you, too.

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book’s FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

and the book:

Blessed Are the Meddlers

NavPress Publishing Group (August 15, 2008)

Christa Ann Banister lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, with her husband, Will. They love to play Scrabble and throw darts on a map, dreaming about exotic travel locations. In addition to writing fiction, Christa is happily employed as a freelance writer for her many, many clients.

Visit the author’s website.

Product Details:

List Price: $ 12.99
Paperback: 265 pages
Publisher: NavPress Publishing Group (August 15, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1600061788
ISBN-13: 978-1600061783

This is a delightful book.  Yes, it’s chick lit and I loved it. It is a sequel to Around the World in 80 Dates.  I’m hoping Christa will bring back Sydney for more books. 

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

It’s like that book I read in the 9th grade that said “’tis a far

better thing doing stuff for other people.”

— Cher Horowitz (Alicia Silverstone) in Clueless, 1995

People tell me I’m a modern-day Emma.

Of course, I’ve never worn a corset (thank goodness) or particularly cared for taking tea with those cute little cucumber sandwiches. I’m actually more like the Emma that Alicia Silverstone played in Clueless: a relatively well-dressed, modern girl with a sunny disposition and a weakness for wanting to help make people happy — especially in love.

Now that I am happily hitched, I take it as my solemn duty to make sure all my girlfriends are paired up too. After all, when I was hopelessly single, there were times when I could’ve used a major relationship intervention. So that’s where I come in. I’m like eHarmony without the pesky questionnaire and quarterly payments. Or that persistent aunt who’s always trying to fix you up with, oh, her tennis instructor. And unlike either of the aforementioned, I offer the personal insight of a trusted friend.

Who can argue with that?

My most recent adventures in matchmaking started a couple of months after I married the love of my life, Gavin, and officially became Mrs. Sydney Williams (née Alexander). I was sipping strawberry shortcake smoothies with my friend Jane after our weekly Pilates class. New to the Twin Cities after accepting a job as an on-air reporter at KARE-11, Jane and I had bonded immediately. Not only do we both work in journalism (I’m a full-time freelance writer and aspiring novelist), but we also

attend the same church and share a mutual dislike for Pilates,

despite its obvious benefits.

On the surface, Jane is one of those enviable women who seems to have everything going for her. She has flawless skin that glows without a single drop of Clinique, and her silky blonde hair is cut in an effortlessly chic, Victoria Beckham (aka Posh Spice) bob. Her workout clothes are even impeccably selected, black-and-white Juicy Couture sweats with robin’s egg blue accents that bring out the unusual color of her eyes. Despite her exquisite taste in, well, just about everything, Jane hasn’t been as lucky in love. And with my past experience of having gone on every bad date imaginable before meeting Gavin — unfortunate stories to which Jane could relate all too well — I desperately wanted to help. So after her initial uneasiness about yet another blind date, I set her up with Weston, the lone single guy in my hubby’s touring band.

From what I could tell, Weston seemed normal enough. Sure, he only owned three T-shirts that he wore in a predictable rotation (the Police reunion tour shirt always came first, then his vintage Led Zeppelin, followed by a fading, slightly torn Foo Fighters tank top circa 1997). Another red flag was the winsome flakiness that often goes hand in hand with his choice of occupation. But what Weston did have going for him was a great deal of charm, a killer smile, and enviable chops as a drummer. In fact, Gavin says he’s one of the best that he’s ever worked with — and trust me, Gavin is particular about his drummers, very particular. Unfortunately Weston wasn’t nearly as adept at keeping time with his own life. He was always running at least twenty minutes late. But as far as truly heinous flaws go (i.e., the crucial deal breakers that Jane and I agreed upon, including long stretches of unemployment, bad manners, extreme commitment phobia, issues with cleanliness, severe

Mommy attachment, or a surplus of chest hair), Weston was in

the clear. Or so we thought.

“At first everything was going reasonably well,” Jane said as we settled in at Jamba Juice the morning after her disastrous date. “He was twenty minutes late and wearing the Led Zeppelin T-shirt just like you predicted, but I planned for that. What I didn’t plan for was when he asked if I’d like to see his feet. He kept insisting they were really, really cute.”

“What? He wanted to show you his feet?” I asked, feeling slightly nauseated. Feet aren’t exactly my favorite body feature — especially guys’ feet, which tend to be far more unkempt. In my opinion, a good pedicure could benefit anyone, especially a nonmetrosexual male.

“We were eating guac and chips. I nearly lost my appetite,” Jane said. “I said no at least three times, and he took off his socks and shoes anyway — right there in the restaurant! Apparently he’s rather proud of his hairy hobbit feet.”

“Ewww,” I said. “That’s disgusting.”

“You’re telling me,” Jane said with the dramatic tone she typically uses in her news clips. “It only went downhill from there. He started talking about his pets.”

“Really?” I asked curiously. “But I thought you loved animals.”

“Well, I do,” Jane began. “But apparently not the way Weston does. He has five dogs and three cats, and they all sleep in the same bed as him.”

“Gross!” I said, wondering how in the world Gavin hadn’t picked up on Weston’s peculiar lifestyle. I mean, it’s great that Weston is responsible enough to take care of eight pets and play the occasional out-of-town show. But he’s definitely headed toward wacko zookeeper territory, not exactly an aphrodisiac.

“Yeah, and he told me precisely where each animal sleeps. Boo Boo, his calico cat, sleeps right by his head just like a human. His golden retriever, Pesto, lies next to Rosemary, his cocker spaniel, at the foot of his bed. And Nacho — ”

“Nacho?” I asked quizzically.

“Yeah, Nacho, is another one of his dogs,” she said matter of-factly. “Bottom line: I can’t deal with that many pets.” “So did the night get any better?” I asked sympathetically. I mean, how much worse could it get?

“A little. But only because I told him I needed to head home and feed my fish,” Jane added with her trademark cackle. For the record: Jane’s laugh is an interesting cross between Chandler’s ex, Janice, from Friends and Cameron Diaz’s California girl giggle that can be heard in any number of her movies. It’s loud and distinct, but somehow Jane manages to make it endearing.

“Oooooh, that’s cold!” I replied. “Guess you won’t be seeing him again.”

“Well, he still asked for my number,” Jane said. “Can you believe that? He didn’t sense that things weren’t going well.” “That’s unfortunate.” I sighed. “Well, at least we can cross Weston off your list of potential boyfriends.”

“Yeah.” She sighed back. “Who else can you set me up with, Syd?”

And that’s the funny thing about matchmaking. No matter how terrible a job I’ve done in the past, my friends (and even a few of my clients) just keep coming back for more. It’s practically my second job, even though my success rate is highly suspect, probably in the neighborhood of, oh, one for forty. It’s a good thing I’m not matchmaking on commission or I’d be poor — really poor.

Just when I thought I’d be taking an extended break from setting up my girlfriends with their most recent Mr. Wrong, one of them would quickly remind me of my greatest success as Cupid: the day I introduced my friend Rain to Stinky Nate, who is now her husband.

At first blush, it probably seems a little rude to call someone, let alone a friend, Stinky Nate. But Nate, a barista at my favorite downtown Minneapolis coffee shop, Moose & Sadie’s, is stinky and couldn’t care less. Much like Matthew McConaughey, he prefers the au naturel approach to personal hygiene. Basically, Nate’s the guy who’d make any environmental activist’s attempts to go green seem paltry in comparison. Nate showers only on special occasions (thank goodness he did on his wedding day, one of his few nonstinky moments) and doesn’t wear cologne — or even deodorant for that matter. Inspired by the way cats, his calico in particular, clean up by licking themselves, he’s been in constant pursuit of a more feline-like way to keep himself fresh.

He hasn’t succeeded, though, which makes him smell less than desirable. Especially in the sweat-soaked summer months, which were rapidly approaching.

But I knew Rain, a strict vegetarian who sews her own smock tops and only wears jewelry woven from hemp, would find someone like Stinky Nate simply irresistible. Of course, Rain maintained she wasn’t looking for love. Whenever I’d suggest a setup, she’d remind me that she was a feminist who was more than happy to spend the majority of her free time in the company of her two favorite musicians, Billy Joel and Helen “I Am Woman” Reddy. She needed a man like a fish needs a bicycle, she said.

So I did it the old-fashioned way: I slyly introduced them when Rain and I met at Moose & Sadie’s for breakfast before church one Sunday morning.

I’m pretty sure it was love at first sight, even though I’m not naturally inclined to believe in that sort of thing. Nonetheless, Rain and Nate totally hit it off and went out two days later (so much for swearing off men, huh?). And from the first wheat germ smoothie, their chemistry was palpable. Nate proposed a couple of years later (with an engagement ring made from hemp, natch), even though Rain had vowed she’d never marry.

Now that the stinky/hippie couple is married — and happily so — I’ll admit that I can’t help but feel pleased whenever I see them together. Same goes for my best friend, Kristin, and her current beau, Justin. Even though I went out with Justin first (and trust me, it’s far less complicated in hindsight than it sounds), I encouraged Kristin to be patient with Justin when he was having trouble making up his mind early on, and it’s paid off big-time. They’re not only sublimely happy, but they’re talking about getting engaged soon. Thinking about Kristin getting engaged makes me think of how much I miss her. Ever since she accepted a teaching job in Duluth, which is a little more than two hours away, I hardly ever see her, save for the occasional weekend visit.

Despite my successes and the ever-growing number of singles in my social circle, it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m destined for the soul mate–finding business, no matter how many of my girlfriends try to convince me that it’s my gift. But in the name of love, I’ll always give it my best shot.

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book’s FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

and the book:

The Shack

Windblown Media; 1st edition (July 1, 2008)

Wm. Paul Young was born a Canadian and raised among a Stone Age tribe by his missionary parents in the highlands of former New Guinea. He suffered great loss as a child and young adult and now enjoys the “wastefulness of grace” with his family in the Pacific Northwest.

Visit the author’s website.

The author will be on the Blog Talk Radio show on on November 4th at 2PM ET. Come and listen!

Product Details:

List Price: $ 14.99
Paperback: 256 pages
Publisher: Windblown Media; 1st edition (July 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0964729237
ISBN-13: 978-0964729230

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER: