Halloween Was More Fun In The Dangerous Days

 Unless you’re one of those people of questionable sanity who likes cold weather, October has little to offer Hoosiers except autumn colors and Halloween. By the end of the month the leaves have started to fall and the days are criminally short. This gives me a feeling of bleakness and dread that …

Come to think of it, bleakness and dread are very Halloweenie.

But no matter how you feel about the weather (it stinks), Halloween is the beginning of snack season. Through Thanksgiving and Christmas and on to Valentine’s Day, we get to pack on a nice layer of fat against the cold.

It doesn’t really help. But what the heck, any excuse for chocolate.

These days I’m expected to turn on my porch light and give candy to other people, but I’d rather hide in the dark and let the dog scare off anyone who approaches. There’s a cocoa shortage, people—chocolate charity begins at home.

But when I was younger, Halloween was one of the highlights of the year. In elementary school we’d spend October making decorations of ghosts, witches, and of course pumpkins with scary faces.

I wonder if that’s allowed, these days? They’ve probably banned that kind of stuff from public schools, along with cardboard pilgrims and anything Christmas. I liked the pilgrims, although even then I knew they’d be toast without Squanto and his corn crop. Not that they had any toast.

I'm not saying Emily and I haven't occasionally had fun with Halloween. Or was this taken at the end of our last camping trip?

Where was I? Oh yeah—candy. My family didn’t exactly hand out candy like candy. Back then treats were, well, a treat. But on one glorious night we could collect enough to keep us going until Thanksgiving.

It wasn’t seen as a dangerous holiday, at the time. (This would be in the 70s. No, wait. Let’s change that to the 80s. Yeah, the 80s.) On the contrary, this was the night when it was quite literally okay to take candy from strangers.

Our dad would load us into the back of his El Camino for a trip to the store, where we would find highly flammable costumes and masks that rendered us mostly blind, then—

Oh, the El Camino? Well, it’s kind of a half car, half pickup truck. We didn’t worry about belting into the too-small front, because there were no seat belts.

Anyway, we waited until it got pitch dark and then hit the streets, methodically knocking on every door. Sometimes we’d get apples, which was not exactly a jump for joy moment. Packaged candy was okay, but the really nice people would make things from scratch, like those wonderful popcorn balls or caramel apples—which beat plain apples hands down.

The only glitch I remember is when we reached the home of a deaf old fellow who had no idea it was Halloween. He was probably the guy who later invented the idea of only trick or treating at homes with porch lights on. Or, maybe he was hoarding his chocolate.

Wait ... I'm now the old guy.

Just as our parents passed out the last of their candy, we got home with more candy. It was important to eat the homemade stuff, like caramel apples and popcorn balls, first. If you weren’t too much of a glutton, you could string the rest along for weeks.

The times were so much less dangerous.

Some of you might be horrified by this. Some might smile at the exaggeration, then be horrified to discover it wasn’t an exaggeration: That’s the way it happened for some of us in the small towns of the mid-70s—I mean, 80s. This was a time when, if we did something stupid like walk in the middle of the street, our parents would get three phone calls and be standing at the front door by the time we made it home. When everyone knows everyone else, it’s not as dangerous as it sounds on paper.

We did know about the dangers, as shown in the very first short story I ever had published, in the late … 80s. It was about a hungry vampire who drinks his own blood after biting down on a razor blade inside a Halloween apple. If anyone still has that old copy of the Central Noble High School Cat Tracks, you’ll find the story to be very, very bad.

Just the same, the worst thing we ever experienced was a tummy ache.

Remember: Every time you buy a book, a ghost gets his wings rest.

http://markrhunter.com/ https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

9/11 Survivor Tree Dedication

 After the 9/11 terrorist attacks a severely damaged, but still alive, pear tree was found in the remains of the World Trade Center complex. The tree was rehabilitated and returned to the site, a symbol of resilience, survival, and rebirth.

Later seedlings were produced from that tree. The Albion Fire Department had one of those young offshoots planted near the firehouse, and dedicated it on September 11, 2021, the 20th anniversary of the attacks.

Standing by the tree and its memorial stone are two of the Albion Fire Department's oldest members, Phil Jacob and Bob Brownell, who according to rumor still miss taking care of the fire horses.

A good turnout.

The memorial stone.

AFD Fire Chief Bob Amber.

The tree is on the right, with the stone covered by Phil Jacob's turnout coat before its unveiling. To the left is the AFD Fire Bell, which dates to 1887. Oh, and a fire hydrant.

 

Phil Jacob again, because he deserves two pictures, along with a very cool (you can tell by the sunglasses) local author.

 

 

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 

It's a rough, rough draft when we get serious

Now that I've finished the final draft of my new novel and handed it over to Emily to edit, I had to go back and figure out why I started working on it in the first place.

Ordinarily, when I finish writing a novel I like to have it finished--as good and polished as I can get it, before I move on to a new project. I also want to have it in circulation: submitted to literary agents and/or publishers, depending on the way I'm going.

That's where I have Fire On Mist Creek, Beowulf: In Harm's Way, and We Love Trouble, searching for attention in the cold, cruel world.  Smoke Showing is our upcoming non-fiction book, and it doesn't count because it was waiting for Emily's contribution when her work schedule lightened up in the fall. (Then I put her to work editing something else, so never mind.)

(I came up with all these titles; can you tell?)

So, four books I should be either self-publishing or submitting for traditionally publication. Then there's The Source Emerald, which Emily sent me notes on, and as a result now waits for another look. (The book, not Emily.) Add to that our already-published books, which are begging for some promotion and publicity time.

So when I finished the rough draft of "Found Dog Antique Fire Truck Romance Story" (still blocked on a title), it suddenly occurred to me: Why did I start a new book in the first place?

There's an antique fire truck in it. Specifically, one of these.

 

When I realized I started it in early spring, I remembered why.

My brother passed away at the end of January, and I started the new story about two months later, when the weather was still wintry-crappy. That was why I did it: depression. I don't mind editing or polishing a story, and I don't hate submitting, and I pretend I don't hate promotion ... but it's the writing, the actually telling of the story, that I love. So, to battle feeling down, I started work on a new book in April.

 

Yes, there is a Jeffrey in the new book ... kind of. There is not a Mark.

 

As long as I was doing that, I told my wife, I would also use the new story to work through my grief over Jeff's death. My wife asked me if that was a good idea and I told her something along the lines of, "I know what I'm doing.".

Notice how people who say that so often don't?

Now that the "final" draft is done, it's a pretty good story, although it needed more editing than usual. However, it's not the story I had in mind.

You see, I write in several genres, and one of them is romance. Now, there's nothing wrong with a guy writing romance, although it isn't common. However, all mine so far have been romantic comedies. That's what I like to read (and watch), so that's what I like to write. This was going to be one, too.

 Should have known better.

Hey, sometimes even dogs get depressed.

 

Oh, it still has humorous parts, but let's take a look at some of the subjects covered in the novel: cancer; family loss; puppy mills; animal cruelty; winter depression (seasonal affected disorder); and the stages of grief.

This was supposed to cheer me up?

The final story isn't as dark as that makes it sound, but it certainly couldn't be described with the word "comedy". So, here goes a dive into another sub-genre. How many am I up to, now? In addition to those there's humor, young adult, science fiction, mystery, history, and ... well, I guess The Source Emerald is urban fantasy, given that it has magic being used in modern society. If I had a publicist, they'd be horrified.

But what the heck ... writing's still my thing, and I still love it--even when it's therapeutic.

Genres? Yeah, we got genres.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

Getting a Leg Up On Knee Surgery

Well, it's been four days since Emily had knee surgery, I think ... I don't know, I haven't slept since then.

We thought we'd have about four weeks from the time everything was confirmed until the operation, so I made plans to get certain things done in a certain amount of time. Then they had a cancellation, and suddenly we had five days.

Now that I think about it, maybe it was for the best that I didn't have a lot of time to think about it.

Emily had to have her ACL rebuilt. That's in the knee--I'd been telling everyone the ACLU was damaged, which caused some confusion. It turns out the ACL is actually the anterior cruciate ligament, and aren't we glad they shortened that? She also had a tear in the meniscus, which is also in the knee and not something you have with gravy.

We don't know for sure how she damaged her knee. Yes, it's possible all the hopping on and off horses at her job is connected, but sometimes it's the smallest thing. I once pulled a back muscle while hopping over a puddle, not that I'll ever admit it.

 The surgery team got her all fixed up, held us there until we surrendered a major credit card (buy our books!), then sent us home--the same day. They scheduled physical therapy to start two days later, which seemed like a terrible idea and afterward still seems like a terrible idea.

The out-patient thing sounded great. Who wants to be in the hospital longer than they have to? Of course, it also means someone at home had to do the stuff hospital staffs used to do, and why is everyone looking at me?

I'm doing--eh--okay, as a nurse. At least I did once we got her up the steps and inside the house, which required the help of two police officers, one friend, and a husband with a bad back. The friend then prepared a meal for Emily, who hadn't eaten in many hours, and me, who had no excuse.

A few other details of the week:

We did stock up on foods I could prepare (e.g., with instructions of five lines or less). My areas of cooking expertise include homemade popcorn; egg sandwiches; and microwaves. She has, thus far, not starved.

Thigh-high stockings can be sexy. Compression stockings are not. Now that I've helped put a pair on, I understand why pantyhose are going out of style.

It took only a few times of lecturing the dog and then having to shove him out of the way before he realized the appearance of a four-legged Emily means he needs to go lay on his bed until we pass.

 

On a related note, he likes to check up on his humans, and having them sleep in two different rooms drove him crazy. He finally settled on laying in one room, by the doorway to the other.

Our biggest challenge was utilizing the bathroom. Our house was built without plumbing, and eventually someone carved a corner out of the kitchen to make a bathroom. You can literally stand in the middle of it and touch three walls--four, if you lean over the bathtub. The door opens inward, and with it open it's impossible for someone with crutches to get inside at all, let alone reach the toilet.

So I removed the door.

Not as impressive as it sounds--I learned in basic firefighting class how to take a door off its hinges. The dog was very confused, but I didn't think anything of it until the first time I had to go to the bathroom. I felt like I was sitting in a porta-potty with no door on it.

So, that's how our week has gone. The physical therapist/torturer seems to think Emily's doing well, and now that the spinal block has worn off she's getting around. I just changed the dressing, which took five minutes, and helped her get the compression stockings on, which took two hours. We're recovering from that, then I'm going to cook her a great meal. Oh, wait--we're out of frozen pizza.

Well, then ... an okay meal.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 

Surgical scheduling Sucks

Emily is having surgery on her knee tomorrow—an ACL rebuild, which is outpatient these days. So if you see less of us—or more of us— in the next week or so, it’s surgery, recovery, and rehab, which will involve a lot of staying home. We thought we had a month or so to get ready for this, but they had a cancellation, and we ended up with less than a week’s notice.

Turns out we had a LOT to do to get ready.

The Fox Den: Is bacon flavored coffee next?

 I don't eat a lot of scones. But when a new coffee shop here in Albion came out with something called a bacon cheddar scone ... well, there are always exceptions.

The Fox Den. There's a great view from there, which you can see reflected in the window.

The Fox Den is in the old Black Building (which is green), at the main intersection in Albion. (The building gets a mention in our books Images of America: Albion and Noble County and Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights.) It used to be the Noble Art Gallery, which I was disappointed to see go because I hate to see any Albion business go, and also because they were one of the few brick and mortar places where you could find my books for sale. Also, the art was cool. And they had scrapbooks of old Albion newspapers that were fascinating to poke through.

I was really disappointed.

But on the other hand, no one in that storefront has, to my knowledge, offered bacon cheddar anything, at least since John and Mid's Restaurant was there forty or so years ago.

There is still art there: Here's a fox! In the den.

I know what you're thinking: So, how was the scone? Fair question. But before I forget, Emily and I did encounter something there I found exciting.

That's right: books! Hey, we all get excitement our own way. Sadly, none of them were my books, but don't you need something to read, for long mornings (or afternoons) sitting and sipping? Not sipping scones, that would be silly, but coffee shops quite often serve beverages.

Oh, and more food than just scones, too. It's worth checking out if you happen to be near Albion, or going through Albion, or anchoring your hot air balloon on the courthouse.

See, it's a fox! Relaxing in its den. With scones.

Oh, yeah, I almost forgot: The bacon cheddar scones are spectacular, and by that I mean really good. We got ours to go, which isn't the preferred way to do it, but hopefully we'll get a chance to hibernate up there a little longer, next time.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

The Newsletter Travels to the Past, and Hoosiers Are Still Hysterical

 It was ten years ago this summer when my first novel, Storm Chaser, was published. Almost exactly a year before that I received the publishing offer, an event I envisioned as going very differently than it did. I told that story in our latest newsletter:

https://mailchi.mp/200abd2041ac/ten-years-published

Don't forget to subscribe, and in return I'll try to be entertaining. And no, I don't sell my e-mail list to anyone, although I suppose the NSA already has it.

Meanwhile, since then we've (Emily is invaluable) had ten more works published. One of them is Hoosier Hysterical: How the West Became the Midwest Without Moving At All. I'm highlighting it because today it appears on the Fussy Librarian website, which you'll find at https://www.thefussylibrarian.com/

 You can get it at the same price on the website or Amazon (it's illustrated and everything!) at just $2.99 as an e-book and $10.00 in paperback. You could even hand me the cash and I'll hand you a book--I won't tell.

It's a little silly, but I like to see how many I can sell in a short period of time. I have a theory that if you sell two books on Amazon within an hour, you'll end up in the top ten, and selling ten in that time gives you the ability to brag about being a best seller. Nobody really understands their algorithm, so why not?

If you choose to accept that experiment, the link is here:

https://www.amazon.com/Hoosier-Hysterical-became-midwist-without-ebook/dp/B01H7YJNFE

Or, as usual, you can buy it direct from us here:

http://www.markrhunter.com/

 It's well know, of course, that Hoosier Hysterical is among the top ten humorous Indiana history and trivia books ever written, so far this decade. And to prove it, below the obligatory cover posting is a new excerpt from the book, one which I assume is quite funny. Although as I write this I haven't picked it out, yet, so I could be wrong.

INDIANA FACTS:

“He’s Our President! No, He’s Ours!”

Three states can lay claim to Abraham Lincoln. You could say he was born in Kentucky, grew up in Indiana, and did all his adult stuff as an Illinois resident.

Well, you can say it if you want—who am I to stop you? It’s a free country, partially thanks to Abe.

A lot of the stuff you hear about Abe Lincoln is, surprisingly, true. His family got to America in 1637, and Thomas Lincoln’s father, the original Abraham, moved his family to Kentucky in 1782. So it took them almost 150 years to reach the Bluegrass State and produce little Abe, but hey—travel took longer back then.

Unfortunately, four years after they arrived Grandpa Abe Lincoln was killed by American Indians, because, after all, he stepped on their proverbial lawn. But Thomas grew up, married Nancy Hanks, and bought a farm near Hodgenville. Hodgenville is south of Louisville along the Lincoln Parkway, although it’s safe to assume the highway didn’t exist at the time.

Just like in the stories, Abraham Lincoln was born in a one-room log cabin, and later attended school in a log schoolhouse. They laid a lot of logs back then.

In 1816—the same year Indiana became a state—the Lincoln family crossed the Ohio River and settled in Indiana. Abe was six, so we Hoosiers can claim some of his formative years.

And formative they were. At age seven he shot a wild turkey, which upset him so much he never hunted again. It was February, after all, and with no way to keep the turkey until next Thanksgiving, it was wasted.

The next year he got kicked in the head by a horse, and for a time everyone thought he was dead. Personally, that would have put me back on to shooting animals. That same year his mother did die, permanently, from a medical condition called milk sickness.

Like Lincoln, milk sickness was uniquely American—this is the only continent it happened on. It came when cows ate a plant called white snakeroot, and wouldn’t you think the name alone would keep the cows away from it? That’s why learning to read is so important. Today milk sickness is almost unheard of, so we use fast cars to control the population.

Lincoln didn’t attend school much, but he developed a love for reading and would borrow books whenever he could. This was because they had no electricity for his PlayStation. You can’t power a videogame console with candles, but you can sure as heck read by them.

He also got to travel a bit, something many people never did. In 1828 he helped crew a flatboat down the Mississippi, and got his first taste of slavery when he saw a slave auction in progress. During the same trip seven black men tried to rob the flatboat, which could be called ironic. After he fought them off Lincoln didn’t hold a grudge.

Then, in 1830, the Lincoln family moved 200 miles, into Illinois. Abraham Lincoln was never heard from again.

Okay, not really. In fact, that same year Lincoln made his first speech, which urged navigation improvements on the Sangamon River, near Decatur. Over the next several years he read, enlisted in the military, read, ran a business into the ground, read, became a postmaster, got elected to the state legislature, and realized he’d read so much he could start studying law.

So it all worked out pretty well for him.

Okay, there were bumps along the way. He had bouts of depression, lost an election, was unlucky in love, and almost got into a sword duel. All because he left Indiana, so let that be a lesson to you.

In 1900 Lincoln’s son, Todd, gave $1,000 to take care of his grandmother’s Indiana grave. Spencer County officials gave another $800, and bought 16 acres around the gravesite. That place is now the Lincoln Boyhood National Memorial. I understand there’s also a monument for Abe in Washington.