“A funny thing happened on the way to…” by Delsora Lowe

Funny is a word that can be interpreted in many ways.

Using Second Definition

About an hour after I arrived at work in the alumni office of a prestigious secondary school in the middle of Washington, D.C., my alma mater and my employer, my friend and classmate working as an executive assistant to a senior law partner downtown, called. “Did you hear?” She went on to relate the story of the first plane hitting the first tower in NYC. We couldn’t imagine how air traffic controllers and pilots could miss the warnings of a huge tower looming in the path of the airplane.

The morning quickly unfolded. Hearing about the second tower. Running downstairs to the main office to watch T.V. Hearing a plane just hit the pentagon, where my co-worker’s husband worked. Luckily, he was on the opposite side, but a father of an alumni wasn’t so lucky. Then within hours, streams of people walked from downtown three miles away past my office, on a warm September, blue-skied, perfect early fall day, trying to get home with no public transportation running. 

My view of the cathedral – looking at the long side on the left of the photo.

My building sat on top of a hill, on the third floor of an old stone mansion. My office window faced the towers of the Washington National Cathedral and the flight path from the national airport where planes took off every few minutes, from across the river in Virginia. I never realized until the planes started flying again, that the visual from my window looked as though the planes were headed directly toward the cathedral towers. After 9/11, I had to turn my computer away from my precious view to avoid the sudden lurch in my stomach every few minutes—every time a plane traversed that air space—and looked like it was headed into the towers. In actuality it was an optical illusion of planes many miles away as they flew away from the city up the Potomac River toward unknown destinations. 

My office in Zartman House, under the chimney on the right, with dormer on right roof,

and another window looking out the side toward Cathedral.

That day, the school lost a parent of an alumni in the Pentagon. My co-worker lost a friend in one of the towers, whose wedding he was to take part two weeks later. Another co-worker’s daughter-in-law would have been on the subway getting off that stop at that exact time, if she hadn’t had a dentist appointment that made her late for work. Another co-worker, driving to work near the Pentagon saw the flames when the plane hit. The mother of my friend who had called earlier, saw the plane hit the Pentagon as she watched from her apartment window. A co-worker of my friend knew a flight attendant on that plane. The fire department blocks from my home were first to respond to the Pentagon. All these connections to the tragedy, out of only nine people in my department.

I tell you this, not to bring you down, but to put in perspective my feelings at suddenly being in a job that had no meaning. And in which in a matter of hours, I was two degrees away from tragedy that hit so many people that day. A job where I brought people (our alumni) together to have class reunions and gather in cities around the country for alumni parties with people who had one thing in common—they went to the same school.

I wasn’t a paramedic or a police officer or a firefighter or a soldier or an ER doctor. 

I was ONLY a party planner. I was an intermediary who brought people of common interests together.

That is until I began hearing from our alumni, letting the school and others know their friends were all right, and tracking down those we hadn’t heard from. Bringing people together in joy that their classmates were fine and had made it through a collective ordeal. And bringing those same people together to mourn. And later, celebrating my classmate (yes, I am proud of my class) by bestowing a distinguished alumni award, for the man we later learned had held together the economy of our country that first week, by being a lone person who stayed in harm’s way near the capital, even when they thought a plane might be headed toward the center of D.C. I might add, that in a few weeks I will be at this same person’s home to celebrate the 50^th reunion of my class. And yes, this quiet, mild-mannered unsung hero, he is still our hero.
 
Now to the funny part.
 
As in definition number two: difficult to explain or understand.Through all that, I questioned everything I did. Part of my escape was to start writing. My first completed manuscript is lost somewhere, under a bed maybe. Poems I wrote got wiped out in a computer fix. But the feeling I got from using my imagination to weave stories, grew. I may not be a paramedic or in any of those other saving and protecting careers, but my gift to you, is to give you a place in which to escape to a world of make-believe. The world of happily-ever-afters, where hurts can be cured with the love of a special person.

And my gift on 9/11 and days and weeks to follow, was to bring people together, to connect them with friends, and to reassure them. To write their human-interest stories for the alumni magazine. It made me realize in the little spec of my world, that I had a talent to connect people and tell their stories. And that in this moment of history, that was important.

I no longer write non-fiction for alumni magazines. But that year marked the beginning of my fiction-writing journey. And for that I am personally grateful, as the writing saved me, made me strong enough to bring people together for fun and learning experiences, and understand that the small part I (and all writers) contribute to the world is important.

DELSORA LOWE

~ cottages to cabins ~ keep the home fires burning ~
 
Delsora Lowe writes small town sweet romances and contemporary westerns from the mountains of Colorado to the shores of Maine.

Author of the Starlight Grille series, Serenity Harbor Maine novellas, and the Cowboys of Mineral Springs series, Lowe has also authored short romances for Woman’s World magazine.

New Release - Blurb: The Prince’s Son 

A first meet, royalty and the nanny romance between a self-exiled prince with a royal chip on his shoulders and the local rancher's daughter who rails against any man who tries to tell her what to do. When she tries to tell the prince how to raise his son, tempers flare and sparks fly.

Ari Orula, a prince with a royal chip on his shoulders, has sworn off women.
Carla Peters, the rancher's daughter, has big dreams and it doesn't include listening to her dad, big brothers, or the new prince in town.
When the prince finds himself in dire straits and must find a nanny pronto, the last person he wants is his son's know-it-all ski teacher who insinuates he has a lot to learn about fatherhood.
The money the prince offers Carla for two weeks as a nanny will put a big dent in the cost of renovations for her new school, her life's dream. Does she dare risk working for the rancher her brothers think is trying to destroy their livelihood?
Despite best laid plans, two people at odds are brought together to rescue a child. At risk of alienating her family, Carla accepts the position. At risk of melting his stone-cold heart, Ari hires the rancher's daughter.
Will the sparks that fly torch Carla's dreams and inflame Ari's resolve, or ignite an everlasting love?

READ ME LINKS:

Amazon E-book link:https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07PZD3FNC/ref=sr_1_2?crid=32PO3EI3KDLQI&keywords=delsora+lowe&qid=1553611414&s=digital-text&sprefix=dels%2Cdigital-text%2C196&sr=1-2-catcorr  

Amazon Print Book Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1091276862?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860

Books2read link, (includes Barnes and Noble and iBooks): books2read.com/u/b6xzr6

Social Media Links:

Author website: www.delsoralowe.com

Author FaceBook page: fb.me/delsoraloweauthor

Amazon Author page: https://www.amazon.com/Delsora-Lowe/e/B01M61OM39/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

Books2Read Author page: https://www.books2read.com/ap/8GWm98/Delsora-Lowe

BookBub Author Page: 
https://www.bookbub.com/authors/delsora-lowe-93c6987f-129d-483d-9f5a-abe603876518

Goodreads Author Page: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16045986.Delsora_Lowe 

Photo Credits:

Google Dictionary Definition of Funny:https://www.google.com/search?source=hp&ei=GaFIXOmbE82m_Qan0IjIBg&q=definition+funny&oq=definition+funny&gs_l=psy-ab.1.0.0j0i22i30l9.1737.6628..8852...1.0..1.411.3121.0j14j3j0j1......0....1..gws-wiz.....6..35i39j0i131j0i22i10i30._gTJ2m4HwHY

National Cathedral:  https://www.yelp.com/biz/washington-national-cathedral-washington

https://www.google.com/search?q=free+photos+of+washington+cathedral&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=KmJNT7Ax-Y0vkM%253A%252CVHfJH91BkT7QFM%252C_&vet=1&usg=AI4_-kQc0SRYD86XEnTwtFcC88kfbQ_UuQ&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwibh7P37bbhAhWrmuAKHUVCBpEQ9QEwBXoECAkQDg#imgrc=KmJNT7Ax-Y0vkM:

Sidwell Friends School Zartman House:
https://www.weathermaster-window.com/portfolio/sidwell-friends-zartman-house/

Heroes and Heartbreak

by Madelle Morgan

 As I do every year on September 11, I think about true life heroes.

On this day seventeen years ago, one of the worst tragedies of the twenty-first century unfolded.

The sacrifices of so many courageous men and women on that terrible day are not forgotten. We owe them gratitude that we can only repay by striving to live up to their high standard of selflessness and courage.

The Oxford dictionary defines “hero” as:

1. A person who is admired for their courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.

2. The chief male character in a book, play, or film, who is typically identified with good qualities, and with whom the reader is expected to sympathize.

The first definition relates to a person in real life. The second relates to the fictional hero in a novel. A romance author is in a unique position to merge the two definitions of hero in her characters.

Fictional Heroes as Role Models

We authors can give our fictional characters courage and other noble qualities, thereby reinforcing in stories the high standard of behavior to which we can all aspire.

Our fictional heroes are often flawed and wounded, just like real people. In our stories, love heals the wounded hero. The romance describes the hero’s path to healing and happiness. Romance novels thus resonate with and inspire many readers, giving hope that they too can similarly deserve and achieve healing and happiness.

Real Life Heroes

We all have heroes in our lives. Members of the military, first responders—firefighters, emergency medical teams, police officers—and others in service to the rest of us are heroes. In fact I dedicated my most recent novel to them. (The dog in that book is a hero too!)

But heroes have many other professions and roles in our lives. Heroes come in all sizes, ages, shapes and genders:

• Caregivers.
• Teachers who guide us to be our best selves.
• Scientists who discover cures for deadly diseases.
• Volunteers in our communities.
• People who stand up to bullies.
• People who devote their lives and resources to helping the less fortunate, animals, or other good causes.

You can add to this partial list the heroes in your life.

Each person can step forward and make a difference.

In fact, every ordinary person who makes the world a better place is a hero. A person doesn’t have to win the admiration of thousands in order to be a hero. Unsung heroes may never win awards or be officially recognized for their efforts. It does not diminish their personal achievements.

Please take a moment to honor the heroes who gave their lives on September 11, 2001 while attempting to save others.

Madelle

Connect with Madelle on her website | Facebook | Twitter | Pinterest | Goodreads | Wattpad

Madelle writes romance set in Canada. Find all her books on Amazon.com. 

Isle of Skye by Courtney Pierce

September 28, 2015:

This month the country paused to remember the fourteenth anniversary of 9/11. I’d like to share a short story that kept the tragic event in perspective for me. After all, the seeds of strife yield flowers of determination and hope for the future. While the disaster challenged our view of the world, it also highlighted the good in people, brought strangers together from other cultures, and reminded us that freedom closes the distance between continents. My husband and I took a trip overseas in the midst of the chaos. To overcome our fear, we refused to change our plans. As Jodie Foster insisted in the movie Contact, we were “Okay to go.”

ISLE OF SKYE

The bridge from Inverness ushered us to the Isle of Skye. Scotland is a magical place. My husband Wayne and I took this trip in the fall of 2001, with the debris of the Twin Towers still smoking in New York. We welcomed a two-week break from the ugly realities of modern life: no television, no newspapers, e-mail, cell phones, or the relentless attempts of the media to fuel our sense of terror. Thank God we couldn’t get a signal.

Few places on earth existed where nothing had changed for a thousand years, and this island off the Scottish coast was one of them. Ancient wars and bloody battles had scarred the land, remnant mounds of which could still be seen, but those old wounds continued to strengthen the resolve of its people to be better, live better, and open their arms to strangers. A violent history had created a uniquely peaceful culture.

Every turn of the road offered an inspiring view of jagged emerald hills surrounded by white-capped water, the color of indigo ink. Our heads swiveled beyond what our jet-lagged neck muscles allowed.

Excited to experience the solitude up close, we pulled the rental car to a vista point. Ancient stones harvested from history lined the curved edge, making it a perfect spot to take in the landscape. On a jetty over the water, we gazed at Eilean Donan Castle, a 13^th century gem weathered by Celtic wars too numerous to count. Hollywood had romanticized the site, including in one film with Sean Connery. The original castle had been built by Alexander II as a defense against the Vikings. So another story goes, the owner was chief of the Matheson clan and had acquired his wealth and fame from his ability to communicate with birds. A living, breathing fairy tale. An earthy aroma of peat moss filled the air.

“Can’t you imagine Maid Marian waving to Robin from up there?” I said to Wayne, and pointed to the tower dotted with small slits, only wide enough to shoot an arrow.

“Like a storybook with a whole new meaning,” he said, "especially now."

We went quiet. Our voices sounded sacrilegious in such a reverent place. Sheep grazed on the rocky hills across the water, tended by a man with a walking stick and a bell. The delicate jingle skipped over the ripples of waves through sun-laced mist. We absorbed the history and breathed.

A curious vibration rumbled in my core. I grasped Wayne’s hand. He sensed it too; he tightened his fingers around mine. The air squeezed with an unexplained tension. I turned, wide-eyed, toward a steady roll of thunder that gained volume by the second. My heart knocked against my ribs. Something was happening.

Out of nowhere, three F-15 fighter jets shot in front of us in close formation, not more than thirty feet above the water. The planes soared straight up through the mist and disappeared. A deafening roar chased their trajectory and dissipated into the clouds. I didn’t even have time to cover my ears before the world went silent again.

“NATO jets,” Wayne said.

My eardrums tingled with a steady hum. “Has war been declared while we’ve been standing here?” 

Wayne pulled me to the car. “Let’s go into town and find out what’s going on.”

I slammed the door as Wayne revved the engine. Unable to eke out a word between us, we hugged the curves of the road toward the harbor. We skidded to a stop on the gravel in front of an inlet of bobbing fishing boats and a quaint waterfront restaurant. The hand-painted sign said, McCray’s. We’d get our news the old-fashioned way: words from the sea delivered to the mouth.

As the only customers, we fidgeted and took in the no-frills decor of the restaurant. A stocky, ruddy-faced woman of about fifty emerged from the kitchen and approached the table. Her cheeks were riddled with spidery veins from years of battering, frigid wind. I wanted her on my side if we were going to war. Behind her, two fishermen in yellow rubber boots clomped through the front door, each holding a plastic bin of flapping tails. Neither appeared worried about anything but fish.

“Be a jiff,” the server said, offering us no menus. “Dinner’s a-comin’ in.”

I cleared my throat and tried to act nonchalant, but my knees still knocked. “I have to ask. What were those jets we saw fifteen minutes ago over the loch? Has something happened?”

“Aye. Maneuvers, dear. The world, such as it ’tis.”

“We were terrified.”

“Och . . . No more than a motorized shield and sword.” She winked and headed back to the kitchen.

Courtney Pierce is a fiction writer living in Oregon with her husband of thirty-six years and bossy cat. She writes for baby boomers. Her novels are filled with heart, humor, and mystery. Courtney has studied craft and storytelling at the Attic Institute and has completed the Hawthorne Fellows Program for writing and publishing. She is also a board member of the Northwest Independent Writers Association and is active with Willamette Writers, Pacific Northwest Writers Association, and Sisters in Crime.

Colorful characters come alive in The Executrix, Courtney's first installment of the hilarious Dushane Sisters Trilogy. When three middle-age sisters find a manuscript for a murder mystery in their mother's safe, sibling blood will need to be thicker than baggage to find out if the story is fiction.  

Visit Courtney's website at www.courtney-pierce.com. Her books can be purchased at Windtree Press, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo Books, and at several independent bookstores in the Portland area.