Elaine Faber

DOES GOD LOVE CATS? YES, HE DOES!

I love my cat, Truffie. She has added joy to my life for 16 years! Every day, she brings a smile to my face and makes me laugh. She loves me unconditionally even when I’m grumpy or had a bad day. She even loves me when I tease her and tickle her back foot!

When Truffie was very young, one day, she stopped eating. She lost weight. I’d taken her to the vet twice. My credit card charges was over $600. The vet scratched his head. “All the lab tests and x-rays are normal. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. Maybe we could−”

“No,” I said. “I can’t afford to spend any more money. Not if we don’t even know what’s wrong.”

Truffie was sick for five days. If something didn’t change soon, I thought she would die. She still wouldn’t eat. She wouldn’t drink water. She had a fever. None of her prescribed medications had helped.

I worried and wondered. Does God even care if Truffie is sick? We know He cares about our health and our finances and foreign affairs and the troops in faraway places. But does God really care if my cat is sick? Does He have time to hear my prayers, considering His busy schedule healing folks, protecting our loved ones, and trying to make our politicians get along? You see, I’ve prayed about all those things for a while, but what about Truffie’s fever? Does He really care? Do I dare pray for God to heal her and expect a miracle?

I asked my pastor, “Do you think God answers our prayers when our animals are sick?” My pastor described a certain day at the Catholic Church, where people bring their animals to be blessed, but he couldn’t think of a verse in the Bible that specifically deals with God healing cats.

I opened the Bible to search for anything to suggest that God cared and would answer our prayers when are animals are sick. I found the following:

(Matthew 10:20 NIV)' 'Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your FATHER’S care.’ Humm… Sparrows? Cats? Not quite the same, but if He loves sparrows, maybe He loves cats, too.

We’re all familiar with God’s blessings and promises. God gives us everything we need. Our home. Our loved ones. A job...–well, most of us have a job, or we had one, before the company downsized and now some of us have unemployment. But not many of us are going hungry, so even in our adversity, God supplies our needs. But that didn’t answer my question. Could I really expect Him to hear my prayers for Truffie? I moved on, reading more about prayer and faith.

(Matthew 7:7 NIV) 'Ask and it will be given to you.” Really? Just asking? Was that the key?

(Matthew 17:20 NIV)' 'For truly I say to you. If you have faith like a grain of mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there’ and it will move and nothing will be impossible. That sounded promising.

(Matthew 7:11 NIV)' And lastly… 'How much more will the Father in Heaven give good gifts to those (his children) who ask Him.’ Now, we were getting somewhere. Perhaps it was a matter of prayer with faith, not the specifics of what we pray for. What did I have to lose?

So, I prayed for Truffie. “Lord, you know how much I love her. You know how it would grieve me to lose her. I’m calling on Your promise, 'Ask and it will be given…'. I place this little cat in Your loving hands, Lord, and ask You to heal her and raise her up again. I’m asking because You’ve promised if I have faith…”

Now, I’m not going to tell you that a bright light surrounded the house or that Heaven opened and God’s voice rang out, “Truffie. Rise up and walk,” but the next day, Truffie started to eat. Her mood brightened. She purred. She was on her way. She would recover! And she did!

I know that God cares for our cats and dogs and rabbits and horses and all our pets. Not because there’s a verse in the Bible that specifically says so, but because we love them and He loves us enough to want our joy to be complete. He promises that if we ask and have faith, we can move mulberry trees into the sea, or move mountains from here to there, or maybe it’s all about teaching us to take all our cares to the Lord, no matter how big or small. And many times, according to his will, our prayers are answered.

Truffie is living proof.

God gave me the victory. God answered my prayer, and yes, I’m convinced.

God loves cats.

BLACK CAT AND THE ACCIDENTAL ANGEL

After finding the lost cats, Black Cat and Angel, a newspaper ad was posted. A lady responded, believing Angel to be her lost cat. (Narrated by Black Cat as he faces the loss of his ladylove.)

The crunch of tires announced the arrival of Angel’s owner.

Mrs. Stubblefield wore a pink tee shirt with Miss Boop-kins scrawled across the front. She carried a pink cat carrier with lace around the door and a red bow on top. “Miss Boop-kins” was emblazoned on the side in script that matched Mrs. Stubblefield's tee shirt. Cynthia sat on the floor and pulled Angel and all the babies into her lap, as if to say, “You’ll only take them over my cold dead body.”

I sat beside Angel and growled, fighting the urge to take out anyone who came too close. I was willing to fight for my family until the breath left my body… but I knew I couldn’t. I had to put up a front for Angel and Cynthia’s sake. A bloody 'cat- fight to the death' wouldn’t make Angel’s leaving any easier on anyone.

I froze, facing the moment I dreaded. Mrs. Stubblefield set the cat carrier on the floor and crossed the room, her face wreathed in smiles. Angel looked up and their eyes met. Mrs. Stubblefield burst into tears. Tears of joy, I guessed.

It was too much. I tried to be brave, but I couldn’t hold it together any longer.  I’m not proud of myself, but I ran straight out the door and over to the woodpile. Misery filled my heart. Waves of suicidal thoughts one minute, and homicidal thoughts the next, raged within my breast and I didn’t know who I should kill first; myself or Mrs. Stubblefield.

I heard Cynthia shriek. I guess she was throwing a fit in spite of her promise to be good and let Angel go back to her owner.

She was on the porch, calling. “Black Cat. Come quick. Here kitty, kitty. I have something important to tell you.”

Yeah, right. ...As if I needed a lecture on civility while I watched Mrs. Stubblefield pop Angel into the ridiculous whore wagon. I started to run away through the vineyard. I stopped. At least I owe Angel a decent good-bye. A broken, defeated soul, I slunk so low across the yard, pine needles stuck to my belly fur and dropped to the floor as I crossed the porch.

Inside, I found Mrs. Stubblefield on the rug with Cynthia, giggling and cooing over the kittens.

What’s going on here? Too much jocularity for such a somber occasion.

“Oh, there you are, Black Cat," Cynthia said. Angel isn’t Mrs. Stubblefield's after all, but she wants to take the cream kitten home with her. Isn’t that wonderful?”

At that moment, a beam of sunshine streamed through the window casting a glow across Angel’s face. I swear I heard a chorus of angels singing, Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Mrs. Stubblefield stroked the cream baby. “I think I’ll call you… Miss Bubble-kins… Yes, that’s what I’ll call you.”

I shuddered. That I should live to see a daughter of mine go through life called Miss Bubble-kins… but the kitten wound her toes in and out and mouthed an appreciative silent mew, which apparently meant she approved. I guess any lady who would wear a tee shirt with her cat’s name spread across her boobs can’t be all bad. It looked as if… Miss Bubble-kins… would go to a good home with a besotted owner, which, is the goal of any father cat.

On the one hand, Miss Bubble-kins had only started to drink from a bowl the day before. On the other hand, Mrs. Stubblefield would likely move heaven and earth to see that … Miss Bubble-kins… got enough to eat even if it meant feeding her with a bottle. We all kissed the baby good-bye and wished her good luck.

That afternoon, Daddy took Cynthia to the vineyard, and Angel and I snuggled on the blanket with Rambo and Mittens.

“I know she’s going to a good home, but I’m a little sad to see her go so young. I thought I’d have more time to teach her more cat things,” Angel said.

“That’s how things ought to be. You give them life, teach them right from wrong, and kiss them good-bye. That’s what a mother cat does. You don’t have any regrets, do you?”

Angel sighed. “I do regret naming her Miss Bubble-kins.” Her mouth twitched.

I rolled over, put my feet in the air and laughed. “And I do regret calling her cat carrier a whore wagon.”

Angel glared at me. “You didn’t!”

“I did, but I have to admit, when they put her into that pink thing with the lace around the door and the red ribbon, she did look kind of cute, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but she looked awfully little in there.”

“I’m betting she was in Mrs. Stubblefield’s lap before she turned the corner.”

“Yes, I’ll bet you’re right.” Then, Angel put her paws around the other two kittens and dragged them a little closer to her heart. I think she had a little tear in her eye. Or could it be that I was looking through my own tears? It’s hard to say.

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An author must consider all aspects of writing a book to be successful. In many ways, our lives have similarities to the elements of a novel.

COVER

When a potential buyer is in the bookstore shopping for a book, the first thing he notices is the cover. If the cover appeals, he picks it up. It must have a snappy, good-looking book cover. The color must be-- bright and eye-catching with an interesting title and intriguing pic suggesting the story line. It must have Large easily read words and a fairly simple design that will look good in a thumb print on Amazon. The buyer flips it over to read a summary of the story. Does the plot sound intriguing?  A novel can have the best story in the world but if it has a poorly designed cover it may not get sold.

Similarly, the way we present ourselves to the world is as important as the book cover. How we dress, our hair style, how we put on make-up when we go out in public is like OUR book cover. As soon as we walk through a door, people form an instant impression about us. It may not be fair, but it’s true. People judge our appearance and make an instant decision. Do they want to know us better or not? If, we are carelessly dressed, wearing wrinkled clothing, or unclean hair (ladies) it creates a poor impression. We may be the most likable person in the world, but appearance can create the wrong impression.

A nicely dressed, clean appearance, cheery smile, and pleasant demeanor creates a good first impression.

Editor

A writer needs an editor to review a manuscript to find spelling errors, poor punctuation, poorly written sentences or scenes that don’t make sense. He inspires the author to dig deeper, to help the reader experience the story better. She points out these errors in a gentle constructive manner. The author then makes the changes to create a better story.

My editor helps me find the writing errors in my manuscript, but mostly, she suggests changes to move my book from a story to a journey, so the reader becomes one with the main character, able to leave their world for a few hours and experience the adventure the book presents.

In our relationships and business, we need a life editor. This is a ‘best friend,’ brave enough to point out our faults, to tell us 'There's spinach in our teeth'. She may suggest we join a gym and lose weight, stop acting like a fool at parties, or point out that we’re spending too much money on frivolous things. No one wants to hear these things, but our 'editor' wants us to succeed.  When I heed my editor’s advice, it always makes my novel better. When we listen to our ‘life editor,’ we can become better friends, parents, or siblings.

Supporting Characters

Besides the main characters, a good novel has supporting characters. These are the friends and relatives, or even the main character's pets they will interact with. Often, they drive the conflict in the story or help provide the solution.

In my first book, Black Cat’s Legacy, Dorian, the lovely hometown detective, helps Kimberlee solve her father’s murder. She also tries to steal Kimberlee's boyfriend, adding conflict and a sassy complication to a romance that otherwise would go off without a hitch. 

We also need supporting characters in our lives. These are our friends, neighbors, sisters. They are your ‘tribe’ or group that support you in times of trouble or sickness. They help you celebrate in times of joy, like birthdays and weddings. They perform an important role in our lives. They add companionship, or angst, or drama to your life. They make your life interesting. Without them we’d be like the guy on the island, talking to his beach ball.

PLOT or Storyline

The plot is what happens in the novel. Is the story about a hard-boiled detective, bringing the killer to justice, or is it a romance with the boy next door going off to war? In my Cozy Cat mystery novels, mysteries abound in a small town, on a Texas horse ranch, and in Nevada City. Even in Austria! The location differs, but the characters, in my case, Kimberlee and Brett drive the storyline while Thumper, the cat’s, ancestors’ memories help Kimberlee either solve a crime or avoid a cat-astrophe.

A novel with a good plot draws you into the story and takes you willingly along an adventure while the main character solves a crime or finds the solution to a certain situation. In a good book, the writer makes you feel you are experiencing things as they happen in the story, both good and bad. You’ll laugh or cry, get scared or surprised as the hero experiences the events throughout the story. At the end of the book, you wish there was another 100 pages because these characters have become your friends, and you want to spend more time with them. That’s when you look for the sequel.

Your experience, your situation in life is the plot of your personal story. Each one of us has a different life story.  Your adventures are varied. You’ve raised children, had varied careers, served in the military and probably experienced unbelievable hardship, raised families during the depression, overcome illness or experienced memorable circumstances. The combined experiences of the folks in this room could fill a library.

Conflict

A good novel must have conflict, or it isn’t worth reading. The girl next story must have a rival for her boyfriend. The CIA agent must have a villain to pursue. The puppy must be lost. All these examples create conflict; or something that prevents the main character from easily fulfilling the storyline goal in less than 300 pages. If the CIA agent catches the villain on page one, where is the adventure? If the girl’s boyfriend doesn’t flirt with her best friend, where is the romance? If the puppy isn’t lost, he’s just a puppy.

In Black Cat’s Legacy, Kimberlee tries to solve her father’s murder, but someone doesn’t want her to find the killer.

In Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer, Grandmother’s attorney plans to kill her before she changes her will and disinherits the false charity organization he created to embezzle her money. Of course, Thumper, the cat, has to help keep Grandmother alive.

In Black Cat and the Accidental Angel, Thumper, now called Black Cat, is left behind at the scene of an accident and has lost his memory. He must try to find his way home.

Do we live without conflict in our lives? It seems like one thing after another comes along to give us grief.  None of us has lived without some degree of trouble, whether in the form of lost loved ones, teenagers, business reverses, a home burglary, an unexpected illness, a sick pet, or a missed opportunity. Each of us could make a list of ten conflicts we have overcome and probably 3-4  over the past year.

Why is there conflict in our lives? Do we deserve the grief we experience? Maybe. Maybe not. There’s a reason why we have these troubles. Like that lost puppy or the CIA agent mentioned above, where would 'our story' be without conflict? If everything went totally right every day, we’d cease to appreciate anything because it would just be expected. We could never experience joy if we had nothing to compare to it. We have to experience pain to know joy. We must experience and overcome problems to appreciate success. Just like conflict in a good book to keep the reader intrigued, we need conflict in our lives. Can you see how a little bit of grief is good for us?

Beginning—Middle--End 

A good book has a beginning that makes you want to read it, a middle that holds your attention, and an end that satisfies. An author writes the story with these concepts in mind. The beginning must have a mystery revealed or a romantic situation that jumps from page one with an event that convinces you to travel this journey with the main character. If it doesn’t hook you in the first five pages, you’re likely to lay the book down and stop reading.

By the middle of the book, the characters should have identified the plot line problems and be well on his way in a struggle to overcome the obstacles, but events MUST continue to go from bad to worse, implying an unsurmountable problem that can’t possibly have a happy ending.

By the end of the book, the author must tie up all the loose strings, solve all the puzzles and bring the story to a conclusion. It may not always be a happy end, but it must satisfy the reader. Did you ever read a 300 page book and have the main character die on the last page? What a waste. All these hours you’ve spent with this character, rooted for him, wept for him, laughed with him and the author kills him off on page 300? You want to heave the book against the wall! Are you likely to buy another book by that author?

What about our lives? How can we compare the beginning, middle and end of 'the story' of our lives?

We start out as babies and then become children. We played, got educated, we grew. Some of us had a good childhood, others had situations that weren’t so good and sometimes these experiences continue to affect us as adults. We all carry things from childhood, good and bad.

During our middle years, most of us married, raised children, and had a work career. Some of us divorced or overcame tragedies. Events we experienced in our childhood, may affect how we reacted to these life events.

Many of us are approaching life closer to the end. These times may be affected by events from our middle years. For instance, our finances could be limited, or not, by investments, savings, or other life choices. Whether we are still married or are widows or widowers, whether we live alone, or with our children. Whether our health is good or less than optimal due to heredity or previous life choices.

An author must consider how to bring her novel to a satisfying conclusion. Many of us are beginning to arrange matters that will affect an appropriate conclusion to our lives. Our thoughts may turn to mending personal fences, writing wills, or visiting relative and friends we haven’t seen for years. Whether we realize this consciously or unconsciously, actions in our senior years move us toward a satisfying end to our life story.

Satisfying conclusions

A novel must have a satisfying end. The hero gets the girl, the killer is revealed and brought to justice, the interplanetary monster is vanquished, the puppy finds a home. The challenge for the writer is to keep creating stories that satisfy and keep the reader wanting more.

As we all reach the last quarter in our life, our goal turns to how to experience a satisfying end. Are you satisfied with all you’ve done or are there still things you’ve always wanted to do? Have you accomplished all you hoped to accomplish? Or do you still have unfulfilled dreams?

If you haven’t yet reached that satisfying conclusion where you can say, 'I’m happy with everything I’ve done', I encourage you to think about the things you’ve dreamed of. It’s never too late to follow your dream.

What better time than now?

I have 13 published novels and have published short stories in 22 anthologies. I have also written over 20 articles on writing, some of them published here on this website, and others published in Writer’s newsletters and on-line blog posts.,

The Crash

I recently had a major computer crash and lost everything… pictures, email, address book, documents… I had backed up my stories and manuscripts and some writing articles on flash drives and thought that was sufficient, but didn’t consider backing up emails, address book or pictures or all articles.

Restoring the Information

We purchased a new computer and began the process to retrieve my lost material.

I retrieved my stories and some articles from the flash drives and actually found a few email contacts on them as well. The ideas below pertain mostly to retrieving pictures, email addresses and written articles that were lost. Perhaps one will be helpful to someone who has suffered a similar loss.

Ideas to Restore Lost Material

1. If you have saved material on a flash drive, carefully evaluate and download that information into your repaired or new computer. Be sure to establish a ‘back-up’ plan to prevent a repeat disaster, i.e. In the Cloud or other location.
2. If you have a website, check all content to see if anything you previously published pertains to lost material you might want to down load to current computer. Many websites also have pictures on top of your article. If you put a personal picture on that article, you can capture it and return a copy to your new “pictures” file.
3. Check any online location where you established an email directory to download information to friends and family. I found a number of emails on Jackie Lawson Greeting Cards location. You might want to research Facebook or Instagram. Perhaps there is a way to retrieve previously posted photos you might want to retrieve.
4. Most people have I-phones that hold a zillion pictures (which I don’t) that can be recaptured into your computer.
5. Contact any newsletter or blog post where you may have submitted material. They may still have copies in their files that could be sent back to you.
6. Post a note on your Facebook or Instagram page, explain the issue and request friends send you their emails and phone numbers.

I’m sure there are other ways to relocate lost material, but these are the few that have worked for me. I’m still working on it. Good luck. If you have any other ideas, feel free to share.

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While the ‘tiger of war’ rages across the Pacific during WWII, eccentric, elderly Agnes Odboddy’s patriotic duties are interrupted when she finds a rat-filled shoebox on her porch, her home is trashed, and she becomes the prime suspect in the Wilkey’s Market burglary.

A traveling carnival with a live tiger joins the parishioners’ Harvest Fair at The First Church of the Evening Star and Everlasting Light. When counterfeit bills turn up at the carnival, and the war bond money goes missing, Agnes’s attempts to restore her reputation and locate the money lead her into harm’s way. Then she stumbles upon a friend’s betrayal and discovers even more about carnival life and tigers than she ever bargained for.

Join Agnes Odboddy on her hysterical romp through pumpkins, war bonds, counterfeit money, and tigers. Filled with laughter and suspense, you will enjoy a bit home life during WWII and a bit of history along the way.

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Let’s pretend for a Subscribeminute, you’re an author seeking to unlock the secret of how to write a successful cozy mystery novel. After analysis of numerous cozy mysteries, a certain template emerges.

Your heroine must be a beautiful, blonde female, about 30 years old, recently divorced with, or without child. She must have a dog or a cat. The pet doesn’t have to solve crimes, but it helps...

Her sweetheart, (who resists a committed relationship) is somehow connected to an inept law enforcement agency, which provides access to information usually withheld from the public.

She must have a quirky sidekick, to balk at her every good intention.

She also needs an unusual profession or hobby. The best ones have already been snagged by multiple popular mystery writers. These include bookstore owners, catering services, travel agents, writers, detectives, caterers, librarians, etc.

For any hope of a successful series, our heroine needs a career or hobby that hasn’t been done to death, but gives her access to numerous nefarious criminal activities. In the end she must succumb to her own ego, use terrible judgment to expose the adversary, and at the last moment, preferably be rescued from surefire death by her boyfriend or her dog.

So, let’s see if Mrs. Odboddy and the Conniving Candidate fits the template for a successful cozy mystery.

Agnes Odboddy is an elderly, retired, WWI undercover agent, now fighting WWII from the home front. She has a cross-eyed Siamese cat and sponsors a displaced carnival tiger; though in Conniving Candidate, neither is called upon to rescue her from a death-defying situation.

She is engaged to a retired FBI agent, and her good friend is inept Chief Waddlemucker, Newbury's Police Department. By virtue of her determination to bring all Nazi spies or conspiracies to heel, the unusual job or hobby category works. The need for a quirky sidekick is covered by her granddaughter, Katherine, who lives with her and works as a beautician at the Curls to Dye For Beauty Salon and moonlights at the Whistlemeyer Mortuary doing hair and makeup for the ‘dearly departed.’

In this fifth Mrs. Odboddy mystery/adventure, Mrs. Odboddy and the Conniving Candidate, whimsical and unpredictable Mrs. Odboddy runs for a vacant Newbury City Council seat. Her political opponent is a scoundrel who will stop at nothing to discourage her from continuing the campaign. Multiple issues arise that would convince any normal person to ‘thrown in the towel,’ but not Agnes.

In the intriguing subplot, Katherine’s ex-fiancé, having left her at the altar the previous year, returns, to declare his undying love. When he helps overcome multiple problems, how can Katherine kick him to the curb?

Of course, there is a death-defying final scene, when Agnes attempts to put an end to the skullduggery that challenges her campaign and threatens her family.

So, for a successful cozy mystery, I think it works! What do you think?

Black Cat and the Accidental Angel

An excerpt from a novel by Elaine Faber

What on earth? Thumper lifted his head to peer through the wires of the carrier. For as far as his eyes could see–nothing but the tops of apple trees. Where are we? Last time he’d looked, the car was on the freeway, somewhere between San Francisco and Fern Lake. Headed home.

“Owh. You’re stepping on my tail.” Noe-Noe twisted her fetching feline head and glared. “When can I get out of this wretched carrier?”

Thumper shifted his weight. “Sorry, my precious. Won’t be long now.” The SUV hit another pothole, rocking the cat carrier on the back seat. It clunked against the passenger door.

He lifted his nose, sniffed and pulled back his ears. Dog! How long had it been since Dorian bathed Sam? Dog swirled through the car, stirred by the air conditioner. Would someone please crack a window? He could hear Sam panting, just behind the seat in his carrier. Probably drooling all over the luggage. Noe-Noe was right. This trip couldn’t be over soon enough. “We should be home in an hour, my sweet.”

His companion appeared less than impressed. “Owh! Move over. You’ve got your foot in my stomach.” Noe-Noe laid her head on the blanket and closed her eyes.

Poor thing. She’s exhausted. She certainly wasn’t the sweet kitty he’d fallen in love with in Texas, but then he couldn’t blame her for being cranky after five hours on the plane and another hour and a half hours on the road. Thumper scooted closer to the hard side wall on the carrier and tried to get comfortable.

Noe-Noe opened her eyes. “I had no idea it was so far to Fern Lake. I’ve changed my mind.” She stood and rocked with the swaying car. “Tell Brett to stop this car and let me out. I want to go home.”

Thumper turned toward Noe-Noe. Yowww! “You want to go home now? How do you think you’d get there? Fly? You’re a cat, not a bird!” As if he could tell Brett to stop the car, anyway. His person had never taken driving instruction from him before, not likely he’d start now.

“Maybe this was a mistake. Why did you make me come with you? ” Noe-Noe scrunched her ears and gave him a swat.

“Cut that out. What do you mean, I made you come? You begged me not to leave you behind. Lucky for you, Kimberlee brought you along. Now scoot over. You’re taking up three-quarters of the space.”

“Am not. Move your own fat black butt. You’re poking me. I’m already up against the wall…”

Thumper reached up to scratch his left ear. That blasted dog. I better not have a flea on me. Go back to sleep. It won’t be long now.”

Thumper peeked through the wire door. Outside, the tops of trees whizzed past on both sides of the road.

The screech of brakes and crunching metal filled the car. What the…? The SUV lurched. It careened. Swayed back and forth, flinging the back passenger door open.

Thumper pitched forward. His body collided against Noe-Noe as the carrier toppled from the car. It crashed onto the asphalt, and then plummeted end over end down the twenty-foot embankment. Metal grating against metal drowned out Noe-Noe’s shrieks. The world tipped upside down, then right side up. His world tilted and reeled as the carrier tumbled down, down past the wall of rocks. Noe-Noe?

Wham! His head whacked hard against the wall.

The carrier rocked to the side, and then lurched to a stop. The scent of rotten apples made his stomach turn. A fine mist of dust rose up and drifted in through the wire. He moaned and tried to lift his head. Everything went black.

To read more about Thumper and Noe Noe’s adventure, purchase the e-book Black Cat and the Accidental Angel     http://tinyurl.com/y4eohe5n (3.99)

As I child of the 1950’s, I remember how we I dressed as ghosts, hobos, cowboys or Cinderella at Halloween. Properly attired, we went trick or treating as soon as the sun went down. Invariably these trips were made alone or in groups of two or three, but without chaperones, since our parents stayed home to dole out the goodies to other trick-or-treaters.

We tromped through the neighborhood, knocking on doors. Our decorated brown paper bags were soon filled with cookies, cupcakes, oranges and often, homemade fudge or even a candy covered apple. Occasionally, we were invited inside to show our costumes to elderly family members.

I seem to recall the moon was always full, big and round and yellow with the benevolent Man in the Moon watching our travels.

Halloween these days? Kiddies may still be at the door, but there is a parent hovering on the sidewalk to keep predators and kidnappers at bay. Good-hearted grandmas no longer offer cookies, unwrapped candy, or cupcake treats. Any such treat would be suspected of Ricin poison or a razor blade hidden inside, or even Fentanyl. Children wouldn’t dare enter a neighbor’s house to show their costume to an aged parent, lest there be a depraved, perverted felon lurking in the hall closet.

Even the custom of trick or treating has come into displeasure and is often substituted with private school parties, church carnivals with tailgate trick or treating.

Now, you might think it odd that this article is about Halloween customs from yesteryear. My main subject is not the practices of Halloween. Instead, it’s about that pesky full moon I thought I remembered shining down every Halloween night as we trick or treated. Apparently, my memory is dwindling with old age.

How often is there a full moon on Halloween? Imagine my surprise when Google research reported that the moon is actually completely full October 31^st only four or five times each century! Whoa! Who knew?

The last time we had such a full Halloween moon was on October 31, 2020, and before that, in 2001(just six weeks after the 9/11 disaster... but that's another story for another day!) The next full Halloween moons are scheduled in 2039, 2058, 2077, and 2096. Now, if I knew a whit about the sun, moon and stars, rotation of the earth, planets or the galaxy, I could probably give you a reasonable explanation for such a rare occurrence, but since I don’t, you’ll have to do your own Google research to understand the why of it.

Children will celebrate Halloween this year differently than my childhood Halloweens. One more childhood memory bites the dust. One more pleasure our grandkids will never experience, like playing outside and not coming home until dark, or selling lemonade on the corner. These days, parents would be arrested for child endangerment for the former, and a City Seller’s Permit is required for the latter. And they say this is progress?

 (Multiple varieties of pumpkins have various names. Here are just a few.)   

“If I’ve told you once, Jack,” Papa Red Warty Thing said. “I’ve told you a dozen times not to stray so far. Look at you. You’re already at the end of your tendrils and into the road. When the tractor comes, you’ll be smashed flatter than a fritter!”

Turning toward his parents, Papa Red Warty Thing and Sweet Sugar Pie, unruly Harvest Jack huffed, “I’d rather be a fritter than bored to death, lying face up in the sun like my cousins, Baby Boo, Wee-be-Little, and Jack-be-Little. They never stray past the first twist in their vines.”

Harvest Jack’s pumpkin cousins gasped. Such disrespect! Such defiance! And with Halloween and Thanksgiving right around the corner. Unheard of in polite Cucurbita Pepo society! They turned away from the disobedient cultivar and buried their tendrils and stems beneath their prickly leaves.

“That child shall be the death of me yet,” Sweet Sugar Pie declared. “How does he ever expect to become a pumpkin pie acting like that? It’s your fault. Your ancestors never looked like the rest of us. They were always rebellious.”

Papa Red Warty Thing shivered. “If the lad doesn’t change his attitude, he’s likely to end up gutted, with an ugly smirk carved on his face.”

Sweet Sugar Pie waved her sticky leaves in dismay. “Don’t even think such a thing. My family has a proud history of becoming harvest pies for the past 72 generations. Grandma Sirius Star would roll over in her mulch if she heard of such a vulgar future for one of our clan. I know that some of the Rock Star and Howden crew across the field plan to be gutted and carved up. Some even look forward to lighted candles stuck where their innards used to be. That’s not the future I want for our boy.” A drop of morning dew trickled from her stem, down her rounded middle, and plopped into the dirt.

“Now. dear. Don’t carry on so. The season isn’t over yet. It’s just growing pains. I’m sure he’ll come to his senses when he matures a bit.”

Papa Red Warty Thing was wrong, for by now, Harvest Jack had wandered into the road and lay directly in the path of the giant tractor grinding its way down the road, swooping up all in its path, and dumping the unfortunate ones into a hopper to be carried off to an uncertain future. Sweet Sugar Pie shrieked, “It’s coming! Beware!”

Harvest Jack heard the engine and turned toward the sound. “Uh Oh!” The seeds in his belly shook in terror. Papa Red Warty Thing was right. He was about to be crunched into a fritter.

A raven swooped down and landed on his stem. “It serves you right for wandering into the road. Papa Red Warty Thing warned you.”

How he wished to be alongside little, white, cousin Baby-Boo, or little cousin Wee-be-Little’s tiny, orange body. Their future was assured. They would become cute little decorations, perched alongside a costumed vampire doll in the middle of a mantle, or maybe in a wheelbarrow surrounded by harvest leaves and acorns and a couple Rock Star or Howden’s. Even his distant cousin Lil’ Pumpkemon with his white body and orange stripes might end up on the front porch with his larger cousins.

Directly in the path of the tractor, Harvest Jack’s future was destined to be ground into pulp.

Suddenly, he heard guttural, humanoid sounds reverberating through his stem. Harvest Jack felt himself lifted and then felt the cool earth beneath his bottom. What happened? He was lying just inches from Papa Red Warty Thing and Sweet Sugar Pie. Somehow, he’d escaped the wheels of the tractor and was back in his own row of cultivar cousins. “Oh, Papa Red Warty Thing! You were right,” Harvest Jack cried. “I’ll never disobey again. I promise I’ll grow up and become a Harvest dinner pie, but…may I choose which kind of pie I want to be?”

“Of course you can, my dear,” Sweet Sugar Pie cooed, stretching her loving tendrils over her son. “Your great aunt was a pumpkin streusel pie with a gingersnap crust, and your great-grandfather was a pumpkin cheesecake.”

“Good! When I grow up, I want to be… Let me think! I know just the thing. I want to be a cherry pie!”

Sweet Sugar Pie glared at Papa Red Warty Thing and shook her sticky leaves in anger.

“What’s wrong,” Harvest Jack cried. “You said I could choose what kind of Harvest pie I wanted to be.”

“My dear, you can’t be a cherry pie, because you’re a pumpkin.” Papa Red Warty Thing patiently explained.

Sweet Sugar Pie screamed. “According to today’s social media, if the lad wants to be a cherry pie, then he can be a cherry pie! This is your fault, Papa Red Warty Thing. You’ve always been too lenient on the lad!”

In 1943, elderly sleuth, Agnes Odboddy, carries a 'package' to Pres. Roosevelt cross country by train, expecting Nazi spies to try and steal her package....

Agnes hurried down the train aisle before anyone else could beat her to the washroom. After brushing her teeth, washing her face, and smearing cold cream across her face, Agnes glanced into the mirror. She chuckled, noting that the cold cream made her face resemble a clown. Mid-chuckle, her smile faded. My purse! She’d left it in her berth, with the secret documents for President Roosevelt inside!

Agnes threw open the bathroom door and plunged down the aisle, cold cream still smeared over her face. What had she done? Oh, Lord above. Protect this idiot from her foolish ways.

The empty berth shrieked condemnation for her carelessness and neglect. Her purse was gone.

Oh, nooooo! Where was the porter who was supposed to be on guard, watching their belongings?

Agnes raced toward the far end of the car and found the porter, his head lolled to the side, his chair tipped back against the wall, sound asleep.

“Porter! Wake up!”

The young man jerked. The legs of his chair slammed to the floor. He jumped to his feet, his eyes blinking. “Yes, ma’am?” He touched his cap, his eyes wild, scanning from left to right. As he came to full wakefulness, he peered at Agnes, her cold-creamed face contorted in rage. His eyes looked like black marbles floating in pools of milk. He stepped back, his trembling hands outstretched. “I’s sorry. I won’t do it again!”

“Porter! Did you see someone getting into my berth? I’m the second one from the end.” Agnes pointed down the aisle.

The porter’s face turned several shades lighter. “No, ma’am. Sorry ma’am. I…I… I’m afraid I fell asleep.” He hung his head. “Are you going to tell my boss?” He lifted his head. “Is you a ghost?”

Agnes reached up and touched her cheek. “Oh, my goodness!” I didn’t even wash my face. No wonder I scared the living daylights out of him. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped at her cheeks. “I left the bathroom in such a hurry… But, then I discovered my purse missing from my berth!” Her heart raced as she uttered the dreadful words. And vanity clouded my good judgment! I’m such a fool.

His mouth trembled. Was he more concerned about her purse or getting caught sleeping on the job? “Missing? You’re sure you didn’t misplace it?” He hurried down the aisle toward her berth.

Agnes followed on his heels.

The porter yanked back Agnes’s curtain and glanced around her bed. Only the Bible lay on her pillow–.

The porter slid the suitcases from side to side and tossed the pillow to the other end of the bed. “Have you checked in your suitcase?”

“Don’t you think I’d remember if I put it in my suitcase?” Agnes huffed. What kind of an idiot does he think I am? On the other hand, what kind of an idiot was she to leave her purse sitting on the bed with secret documents inside and run around the train with cold cream smeared on her face? Chill bumps raced up her arms as the realization of the loss hit home. She had failed the President of the United States of America on the first day out the door. She blinked to hold back tears as the porter rifled through both of her suitcases.

“Can you describe it, ma’am? What was inside?”

Agnes shrugged. “It was black…um…well, never mind what it contained. It had my wallet and my money and…and…my train ticket and passport.” Tears trickled down her cheeks.

“I’ll question the passengers before report it to the conductor.” The porter’s face contorted again.

Weren’t they two of a kind? Both brought low by their own carelessness. “I’ll finish up in the washroom while you look.”

The porter nodded and hurried off, leaving Agnes to return to her interrupted ablutions.

Agnes washed the cold cream from her face and stared into the washroom mirror. The wrinkles in her forehead had deepened over the past few minutes and the sparkle that folks said she carried in her eyes seemed to have abandoned ship.

Agnes straightened her shoulders and forced a smile. She gave her hair a final pat and stepped out the washroom door, climbed into her bunk and pulled the curtain. She laid her head back on the pillow, clutched the Bible to her chest and began to pray.

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