Welcome to my newsletter

I hope you find it interesting and informative—or at least fun. I’ll try to keep you dazzled with my writing brilliance (this is where everyone laughs).

The Big News

A Thousand Miles from Home coming September 24!

Sometimes the longest journey is the one that leads you back home.

The paperback and eBook are available for pre-order now!

PRE-ORDER HERE

Hi folks, that's me, Sam Parker, the main character in A Thousand Miles from Home, heading east, going to a place I hadn't been in a long time. What's the old saying, that home is where they have to take you in? No, it's not.

A Word from Sam Parker

It’s a pretty good story, if I say so myself. I could never have imagined being on that kind of journey. I’m lucky I did though because I found out things about myself that I never knew. There were a bunch of people I met on the way; some I wanted to be with and others I hoped I’d never see again. Check out the book. Join me on my journey. See you soon. Be well.

Sam.

Meet Marvin

This is Marvin, my writing assistant. Sometimes he’s helpful, often as a distraction. He listens when I babble about story ideas or characters. He didn’t do too well on his latest performance review, but he doesn’t care. Improving his work ethic is the new goal. (I have a feeling that’s not going to happen.)

Questions from readers

Where do you get your ideas?

I don’t have the slightest idea, pun intended.

It’s this odd confluence of memories, imagination, and observation that just happens. For me, ideas pop into my head when I’m driving and listening to music, or reading, or watching a TV show or movie. There’s something—a word, a sentence, a look one character gives another, some little thing that happened, which clicks something in my brain and the ideas start to flow. For example, I was in Washington, D.C., once and was walking on K Street behind a well-dressed man and woman. They each had a briefcase in one hand. And she had her free arm through his. They stopped at a street corner. She took her arm away, stood on her toes, and kissed him goodbye. He said that he would call her later. They both said I love you. He crossed the street, and she went into an office building. I’ve used pieces of that that in various stories.

Exclusive Serial Fiction

An original story by Ed Londergan

Every issue, I'll bring you another installment of a new comic story about Charlie Harris, his outrageous grandmother Liz, a neighborhood where everyone knows everybody's business, and a new job that's about to become much more complicated than Charlie ever imagined.

Part One

My name is Charlie Harris. I'm twenty-eight and have an apartment a mile from my folks. They don't understand why I have my own place when I could live at home for free with them and my grandmother and her little rat dog, who hates me. The feeling is mutual. Punting the nasty little beast through goalposts is a fantasy of mine. I'd never do it but hey, I can dream, can't I?

I didn't know Leo Moretti, the guy who died because he lived at the other end of the Village, the neighborhood I grew up in. A mix of people from Irish, Swedish, and Italian heritage, it was a couple of miles long, a main street with well-kept houses on tree-lined side streets, three churches, a market, a bakery, a drugstore, a park, and an elementary school. His death caused a commotion not because of who he was or what he'd done but because of how he died. When neither he nor his wife answered the phone, one of his many girlfriends went over and found him in the bathtub, a plugged in toaster oven between his legs. It was a shocking discovery that rattled the neighborhood. The wife was suspected, tried, and found guilty in the minds of the people in the Village within hours of him being discovered. The deceased's wife and I went to elementary and high school together. A pretty woman, she put up with his never-ending dalliances since she was carrying on a few of her own. Don't ask, don't tell was their marriage motto.

The calling hours were at O'Reilly Johnson Home for Funerals, the only funeral place in the Village. They'd been in business for a hundred years or more and handled every funeral of every person who had died in the neighborhood. My great-grandparents, grandfather, and other relatives were buried from there. Their unofficial motto was that they put the fun back in funerals. Unlike other funeral homes, they put out refreshments, usually coffee, tea, water, cookies, and mini cupcakes, for the attendees since they were always packed and the wait to get to the casket could be an hour or more. One of the funeral guys served the people in ever present line snaking out the door. Going to a funeral was entertainment, one of the best in the Village, a proper social occasion. No one would miss a funeral. I thought they should get a band.

I was interested in Mr. Moretti's funeral because there should be plenty of women at the funeral. The word was that he slept with every woman in the area except my mother and possibly my grandmother. My grandmother had a wild side, so I was unsure of her somewhat checkered background. When I asked about Mr. Moretti, she smiled mishceviously and then denied everything.

My grandmother's name is Elizabeth, and I called her Granny from the time I could talk until I was ten, when she told me to knock it off and call her Liz. That's my name, after all, she said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Her regular apparel is velour tracksuits from the 1980s, her favorite colors being purple and pink with a white stripe down the leg and white piping around the collar and cuffs. She had several of each and rotated colors. She wore her best for funerals—all black, no stripe or piping—which she kept for more formal occasions.

Even though there was the possibility of a catfight or two at the funeral from wronged women, it promised to be an interesting evening. Besides being unattached with no prospects for any female companionship on the horizon, I had nothing else to do. The evening promised at least a few possibilities.

Some of the women would be significantly older than me, but I don't discriminate based on age, religion, skin color, or pretty much anything else. My hoping to pick up a woman at a funeral should tell you everything you need to know. My mother and Liz told me I need a wife and are forever trying to fix me up with some woman. If I can't find a wife, they said, then I need a serious relationship with some woman, any woman. Their efforts were like a sports team drafting prospects.

I made the mistake of asking them if Mrs. Johnson and her daughter Gail would be there. Of course, my mother said. Gail would be good for you. She told me that Mrs. Young and her three daughters would be there. You remember Susie, right? She's always liked you. Susie was a bully who teased me for years while in school and then asked me to the senior prom only to ditch me. She and her friends laughed at me all night. I got drunk and tried to make out with a girl in my chemistry class. Neither one of us knew what we were doing. It was a horrible night, and now my mother wanted me to hang out with Susie. Nope, not going to happen.

I had car problems on the way to the funeral home and arrived later than I planned since I had to walk the last two miles. As usual, the line was out the door and around the corner. Luckily, it was a warm June night. The line was mostly women with a few men scattered in it, like a half teaspoon of pepper in a bowl of salt. At the end of the line was Maria, who worked at the Italian bakery. She had a pretty smile and smelled like lemon cake, one of my favorites. Her shoulder-length dark hair, warm brown eyes, kissable lips, and good figure caught my eye. I introduced myself and attempted to make small talk, telling her I loved her cannolis. She seemed polite, maybe even interested for a few minutes, but then it waned. I couldn't think of anything to ask her. My chances were slipping away, and I couldn't do anything about it. It would be another train wreck. Liz saved me. She saw me and hustled over, sensing I was failing at yet another attempt.

"Do you know," she asked me, "that Maria makes the best raspberry ricotta squares in the city? The girls at the bridge club and Taekwondo can't stop talking about how delicious they are. You have a gift," Liz said to her. Maria smiled at the compliment. I was a goner at the smile. A physical response began, and I shoved my hands in my pants pockets, hoping to hide my embarrassment. Maria waved at someone and left me. I couldn't blame her.

Liz and I ate red velvet mini cupcakes and drank coffee in white paper cups while the line wound inside and into the viewing room. After waiting twenty minutes, Liz handed me her cup and pushed her way to the front of the line, something she was known for. She is impatient and never wants to be last in anything. I was surprised she'd waited as long as she had. When I finally entered, I saw my mother visiting with some other women from the Village, two of whom were my former elementary and junior high teachers. Liz came back for her coffee.

"They did a nice job. He wasn't a good-looking man, but that Johnson is an artist. Looks like Leo's going to sit up and start talking."

Next issue: Charlie goes looking for a woman at a funeral and finds one he definitely wasn't expecting.

 From My Kitchen

I like to cook (and eat) and have a big pile of recipes I make. My baked mac and cheese has won praise but no awards since I’ve never entered it in any contests-yet. The Moroccan chicken recipe is one of my top ten, as is the Depression-era chocolate pudding, and the Mediterranean mezze platter. These are just some of the ones I’ll be sharing. Here’s a great summer recipe.

Avocado Chicken Salad

Two ripe avocados

Uncooked corn from the cob (trust me on this)

Shredded rotisserie chicken or chicken pieces

Two hard-boiled eggs

Open the avocados, scoop out the insides, and roughly chop into big bowl

Slice corn kernels off the cob. Add to bowl.

Roughly chop the eggs and add to the bowl.

Mix dressing of one tablespoon of olive oil, one tablespoon of lemon juice, and a half teaspoon of salt and one-quarter teaspoon of black pepper. Pour over ingredients. Stir well to combine. Eat.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this newsletter. I’ll be back with Sam and the rest of the characters from A Thousand Miles from Home, as well as folks from my other books, soon.

Stay safe and be well.