Why I Like to Review Books

 After my divorce, when I moved to Victoria Texas, I happened to meet the op-ed editor at the local newspaper. He was speaking at an organization meeting and a friend introduced me to him. As a nice friend will do, she told him something about me, namely that I had had (at that time) four novels published by Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, a publishing house with a great reputation throughout the publishing world. He asked me if I ever did book reviews, and I answered not really, just some reader remarks on Amazon pages. He then asked, "Would you like to? It doesn't pay much but we need another reviewer." And so I said yes. He then invited me to come to his office at the newspaper, have my picture taken, and look over the books that were stacked on a shelf there waiting to be reviewed. He told me that once I had reviewed a book, I could keep the book, sell the book, or give it to the library. Gee whiz! What a great proposition for a nutty book person like me.

I don't remember the first book I reviewed, but I had decided that I wouldn't give scathing reviews to any book. If I hated it enough to give a decimating review I would simply take the book back to the editor's bookshelf and let the other reviewer have a go. My thinking on this is that my job was to give readers (a diminishing group of people, right?) a reason TO read a book not an excuse not to read one. That's not to say that I gave all glowing reviews. I didn't. But to trash a book, I decided, wouldn't do anybody any good. I reviewed for this newspaper until a new editor took the helm, one who did away with the book page in the Sunday edition, or began using boilerplate reviews lifed from other sources. So, in all, I reviewed for a little over two years. I was sad to see it end. I liked going into the newspaper office to pick up my books. It made me feel a little bit like Clark Kent, all those busy reporters at their computer screen. And no, I did not get wealthy. In fact, my writing has never made me wealthy. I had a bit of a run with my first novel, but it wasn't like having an oil well in my backyard or anything. 

Since then, I have reviewed books on a more serious scale for Amazon, although I have never made it to their recognized Top Reviewer status. And now, I am reviewing books for Reedsy Discover, an online review page. I have only done one review so far, and am on my second one. The way they do it is they send you a list of books that have been submitted for reviews, and you get to select the ones that seem interesting to you. They let you have three at a time. These are supposed to be pre-reviews meaning prior to the publish date of the books in question. They like to be one of the first post-production review sites after a book launches. This means when you pick up a book from their list of available books, you get a deadline along with it. I don't like deadlines much, so I chose books that have a longer than normal deadline, although I find myself feeling sorry for those that are approaching deadline and haven't had a reviewer chose them yet. So this week I picked up one of those and am madly reading to try to complete the book and the review by June 2, which is just around the corner. Why do I do these things to myself???

But as a writer I know that book reviews can really help a book fly. I'm not sure that the old traditional way of submitting to all the newspapers in the country works anymore. So many papers have deleted their book review sections. If you're lucky enough to get one in the New York Times, well great, because they have a vital and energetic book section, as do some of the other big players. But everybody is vying for those reviews and they're not so easy to get. It's probably difficult to decipher how book reviews translate to book sales. I know I have seen books touted as Best Sellers that later end up on remainder tables at Dollar General, so there seems to be a lot of falsehood in the book selling business period. And it is the one industry where returns are acceptable at any time for any reason in any amount. If a book store orders 30 books because they're having an author event, and they only sell ten copies, they can return the other 20 and reverse the shipping charges. It was an old mis-belief that if the author signed all the other copies for the store to sell as "signed copies" those books would not be returned, but that turns out to be just another wife's tale. I have seen returns go back to the publisher with the author's signature on the inside page anyway. 

It's a dicey business, and all the cards are stacked in the favor of everybody else besides the writer, which seems strange to people who don't know this, because without the writer actually writing the damned book there wouldn't be anything for anybody to sell in the first place. But alas, the trouble is publishers are overwhelmed with manuscripts coming at them from all direction. This is why few will take an unsolicited, or unagented, manuscript in the first place. And even still there are thousands that end up waiting to be read by some underling "reader" and hopefully passed on up the chain to an actual editor. The odds are against us all. And anybody who thinks they can write a novel because they learned to parse a sentence in language class in 5th grade—well, there's a little bit more to it than that. However if you're serious about it, keep writing. After you've written a couple of million words, you might get lucky. Off the subject of reviews, but felt it needed to be said—again. I'm sure I'm repeating myself by now.

Onward....

Promised Recap of River Cruise on the Rhine

 The worst part about travel to Europe is getting there. Airline travel is not what it used to be, even 25 years ago. You're crammed into the smallest space possible. There isn't even room anymore for my carry-on and my purse, which I have been sliding under the seat in front of me for all my adult life. My carry-on had to go in the overhead, and that left barely enough room for my purse. We were on United. I didn't know I would be wishing for that itty bit of leg-room when we got on the return flight eight days later.

But....Amsterdam. As we flew in I saw all the canals, but at that time, didn't know what they were for; I would soon learn. My first impression was that it was so flat and feature-less it reminded me of my hometown, Corpus Christi, and the surrounding wetlands there. We found the boys in the Amsterdam airport, and we caught our shuttle to the ship. Boat is really a more correct description, or even barge. They call them longships so I guess I will too. This was our second Viking cruise so we knew what to expect. The rooms are small but adequate. We had a balcony this time, which we used once.

The boys had booked us a reservation to a famous tulip farm and we barely had time to shovel some food into our mouths before our Uber arrived. The drive there was chaotic and traffic-bound, but we made it just in time for our reservation. What we all had forgotten about was that it was Good Friday. The place was absolutely packed with humanity. Soon forgotten, however, when we laid eyes on the spectacular tulips gardens that awaited us. We had to have been there at the peak time. It was almost overwhelming is was so fabulous. 

When we got back to the ship our rooms were ready so we had showers and got dressed for dinner. Two two best things about a Viking River Cruise are the food and the service. The staff onboard these ships are outstanding, as is the food. The third best thing is these ships only hold 125 people roughly, so there are no long lines for anything, no sitting in crowded places with strangers. We grabbed a table for four and that table was ours for the duration. 

The next day I finally learned what all those canals are about, and how carefully the Dutch people manage their water, since they live below sea level, it is a necessity. We drove through a polder, visited a cheese factory, and saw some centuries old windmills. Our guide was fantastic, funny, and really made the excursion memorable. 

The Netherlands turned out to be one of the highlights, as was Cologne, Germany where we had a fantastic Kölsch lunch of pork knuckle and potatoes. Another highlight was Strasbourg, France seeing the storks in their trees, walking through the old town with all the half-timbered building. I had been there before, and liked it even better this second time. A last real highlight was a drive through the Black Forest to the cuckoo clock factory, watching a glass blower at work, and a demonstration of how to make a Black Forest cake. All super fun and all great memories. 

We got sick, both Wayne and I, but it was allergies. Europe was in bloom and a crisp wind was blowing. The Viking staff tested us daily for Covid so we knew we were safe. We love the Viking cruises, but hate the travel days equally. The trip home was murderous, Lufthansa packed us in even tighter than United had, the only saving grace was Lufthansa serves better food. If we weren't such cheap-skates we would have sprung for Business Class seats, or at least Economy Plus. I'll remember it for future trips.

Onward...

It's All About That Book, 'Bout That Book

So my first review came over the weekend. It's in Reedsy Discovery, an online book review site and man, it's a really good review. I'm psyched up about it. For eight days we were in Europe (more about that later), and the book was far from my mind, or anyway, it was in deep background. Home last Friday. We had a petsitter, and she had to drag in the boxes of books that came while we were gone. I had told her, via text, to open one and sure enough, THE BOOK was inside. She was so excited, I told her to take one. It looks great. I'm happy. And tomorrow is the official pub date. So since I'm being all egotistical, here's the review:

 

Reedsy Discovery ™

Discover something new to read

_____________________________________________________

For Love and Glory

By Cindy Bonner

 

Must read 🏆

A beautiful tale of purpose, courage and love that transcends time periods and generations.

Cindy Bonner’s For Love and Glory follows Lange DeLony, a young man who loves to fly. He avoids his problems as he searches futilely for purpose and happiness. After a tragic loss, Lange is even more determined to escape his painful reality and decides to join the Royal Air Force during WWII in a fight that isn’t even his own. Along his journey he meets ferry pilot Mackie MacLeod, and discovers more about himself and how to truly find what is missing in his life.

 

 

The characters are so real and seem to explode off of the pages. Lange especially shows tremendous change as the readers see him thrive on his strengths and battle with his weaknesses. What is interesting to note is that so many different characters affected by the same war have such varied attitudes, desires and motivations. This makes the reading very intriguing as the reader watches each storyline and sees how each character makes choices and deals with the consequences afterwards. 

 

 

The language and writing style are as varied as the characters. At times the words are witty as seen by, ‘“Excuse her. She’s not used to being polite.”’ On other occasions they are thought-provoking: “It is not necessary to be a hearing person to know when anger has won.” Action scenes are written with sharp, short sentences which create that intense, adrenaline filled feeling: “His legs trembled. Heart hammered in his ears.” Bonner’s constant language and style changes keep the readers locked in and make the storytelling more impactful.

 

 

For Love and Glory explores themes related to Identity and Purpose. Readers should be able to relate to the characters who are trying to find themselves in the midst of chaos and war. In this way, the plot goes beyond a Historical Fiction set in the 1940s and hones in on the truth about humanity despite the age or time period - there’s a need to be accepted, to be loved and discover what makes one thrive in the world in which one lives.

 

 

The story has lots of information and facts which may elude some readers and cause them to be lost at times. But Bonner does a great job in maintaining the authenticity of the time which makes the story so realistic. Readers who enjoy Historical Fiction or stories about love, war and purpose, should definitely read this book.

 

REVIEWED BY

Renee Padmore

 

 

Published on April 26, 2022

110000 words

Contains mild explicit content 

___________________________

Onward....

 

 

The Last Time I Saw France

In the late 1990s I made two back-to-back trips to France. This was before the Euro when the US dollar was 7 to 1 over the French Franc and trips to that country were relatively inexpensive for Americans. I absolutely fell in love with France. Both trips were, ostensibly, research for my novel RIGHT FROM WRONG, which came out in 1999 and deals, in part, with the First World War. At least a third of it takes place in France, but there was an awful lot of sightseeing, eating, and most of all wine-drinking that had little to nothing to do with the novel. When I got back home after the second trip, I figured my France days were over, so many other places to see and explore, and in the ensuing 20+ years, I have done that. But here I am, sitting at my desk writing this, and I am days away from seeing France one more time. And I couldn't be happier.

This time it will be combined with a couple of other countries, those that have banks and bridges along and across the Rhine River. We went on a river cruise of the Danube before the Pandemic, and had this trip scheduled to take place in August 2020. Well, we all know what happened. Everything got canceled in 2020 but we are going now. I hope we are in a Covid window here, and it will be as good of an experience as the last river cruise. The cruise line is requiring passengers to be totally vaccinated, and there will be regular testing throughout the trip. But ... France ... again. And probably finally this time. 

I've been to most of the stops on the Alsatian border of the Rhine, but there's always something missed. What I remember is ancient castles, medieval castles, the big unruly nests of storks on platforms high over the houses. I remember the Vosges Mountains in the distance, and that the Ill river conjoins with the Rhine at Strasbourg somewhere near the European Parliament building. There's an unfinished cathedral there in Strasbourg, with a missing spire, and inside the cathedral, a huge astronomical clock with hundreds of moving parts. I stood and watched that clock for most of an hour. I remember the half-timbered architecture and the good sauerkraut and sausages I had there. 

And then there's Colmar, another half-timbered city, La Petit Venice, because of the houses that sit right on the Lauch River which runs throughout the old town. Riesling and Pinot Blanc and Gewurtztraminer (pronounced "Girls Are Meaner"), and an effervescent wine with the word Alsace in its name. I remember walking through the streets with all the lovely windows dressed by the merchants: knotted loaves of crusty bread, and sweet cakes with cream toppings and fruit slices arranged perfectly on top. French people appreciate the beauty of their country and their pride in it shows in the care they take to make everything beautiful. I'm so happy to be able to spend a few days there again. I wish my French hadn't got so rusty, but I'm sure we'll be with French-speakers so I shouldn't have to worry. 

We will also be floating through The Netherlands, Germany, and ending in Switzerland, but I left a piece of my heart in France in the 1990s. Maybe I will find it again next week. 

En avant ...

A Long Long Wait

It has been 22 years since I had a new book launch. I've done a lot of writing during those years. I've had an agent, well, two agents actually, who have worked with me, one I found and one who found me. I've written book reviews, lots of them, for newspapers and for Amazon. I've written a screenplay that's being passed around, and I've kept this blog (granted not as much in recent years) since 2009, but that kind of writing doesn't count much to readers. It's book they want. And it's books I want too. 

At my core, I'm a novelist. I need that long form to create a believable world, and that time to bring characters to life. I will never be a mystery writer, or a horror writer, or anything that requires a heavy plot line. That just isn't my style. It isn't even the kind of books I read. I don't fit easily into a category. My novels are too literary to be genre romance, even though they are romantic. But they're not literary enough to be classified in that category either. They're historical, but not generic historical romance. They don't always had happy endings. Sometimes I like to write from the male point-of-view. A few times, the entire book has come from the male point-of-view. The main thing for me is it has to hold my interest. I figure if I can hold my own interest -- someone so easily distracted by life -- then maybe it will hold a reader's interest, too. 

Anyway, the point of this blog post is, my 22-year drought is about to end. I have a new book, my fifth one, finally coming out in just a few weeks. The official pub date is April 26. Here's the cover art. I have to admit, I'm pretty excited. I'll let you know when you can go buy a copy, because I just know you will want to do that, right? 

I started working on this novel in 2000, made two research trips to England, read a hundred-gazillion books on World War II. I sat in the cockpit of a Spitfire, and watched one fly in an airshow in Duxford where the Americans of the 8th Army Air Corps were stationed. I met the president of the Hurricane Fighter Pilots Association, who showed me all around the south of England to what remained of old airdromes. And I made friends with an American WWII fighter pilot, a real-life one, who flew and fought over the skies of Europe, a generous gentleman who gave me so much material it overwhelmed me. He opened his home to me after a single email, showed me his war chest full of souvenirs like his flight helmet and his bail-out kit, all still intact. We became real friends, phonecalls, lunches, library visits. He lived in San Antonio, it wasn't a far drive for me. I do so wish I could give Jack a copy of this book, but sadly he passed away a few years ago. I know he would recognize some of the good ideas he gave me. Our WWII heros are passing quickly. We have to cherish and honor them. They saved the world. (I believe the world is going to need saving once again. And soon.)

But back to the journey I traveled writing this book. In the middle of it, I got a divorce. My 34-year marriage, when it ended, stopped the writing. And then I met a new man, fell in love at age 54! and that stopped the writing, again. Who has time for writing when you're falling in love, learning about a new person, making trips together to places like to Ireland, and Montana, and Alaska? Oh, and did I mention getting a "day" job, which required, you guessed it, hours and hours on a computer. Last thing I wanted to do when I got home was sit in front of a computer for another few hours. In short, for the past -- let's say 15 years anyway -- I have been living my life, and mostly daydreaming about finishing this book. I even took to calling it The Endless Novel before I heard a line in an old WWII song and the real title finally came to me: 

"It's still the same old story, a fight FOR LOVE AND GLORY, a case of do or die, the world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by...."  

That's all. My big announcement. Next, comes the part I hate -- promotion. But that's a little bit of what this blog is all about, promoting. So I hope I haven't bored you to tears, or seemed too full of myself. It's more relief that it finally got done than beating my own drum. Now, let's see what happens with it. Keep. your fingers crossed for me!

Onward...

The Need for Stories

 I have been told I should get back to blogging, so here goes:

I've been thinking a lot lately about this whole business of reading, writing, yearning for stories and knowledge, and what drives it inside of us. Stories have been around since man came along. Our ancestors told stories through folklore and cave paintings. The need to hear and learn about other people, places, adventures is part of being human and having big brains. Our big brain is what separates us from other creatures on earth. Other animals have the capacity to learn. You can teach your dog to fetch or to do his business outside, but humans are unique in having stories in our brains that we retain, enjoy, repeat. (On another note: I would really love for my Sam-cat to tell me a story. The thought of that gives me a smile.) 

I found this need for story when I was a young child. I loved hearing my grandparents tell about their childhoods, or my parents tell about theirs, hearing Daddy's "war stories." Since I was a baby boomer, those war stories abounded in my childhood. I can't think of a single man in my orbit who had not taken part in some way in World War II, so it was still all around me, and I was curious for the details. 

Before I could read I pestered everybody in my house to read for me. My mother once told me I drove them crazy on car trips asking what every sign we passed said. Back then, people didn't expect children to learn to read before they started to school. I think I was probably ready to learn much earlier, but I didn't come from a scholarly family. They were Depression era, hardworking, public-school educated rule-followers. If the rules were that kids learned to read in first grade, then they weren't going to start any sooner, and kindergarten was something unheard of in my world. 

Two weeks before I started first grade, my mother sat me down to the kitchen table with a piece of paper and a pencil and taught me to write my name. She made me memorize our address and phone number, and the address and phone number of my grandparents, since they lived in the same city and could substitute in an emergency. I learned those lessons so well--TE5-0170 and TU2-6926, respectively--that there are still stamped in my brain, 60-plus years later. 

My first grade teacher, Miss Hopper, sat the class in small circles, handed out our primer, See Spot Run, and we learned slowly how to sound out the simple, LARGE print words on the pages. I adored that part of our classes. As far as I was concerned, I could have sat in that circle for the entire day. I couldn't wait to read that whole book to see what happened. I'm sure it was predictable. I didn't care. 

However, I didn't come from a family of readers. We had a set of World Book Encyclopedias and that was about it. Once Daddy went up in the attic and brought down a battered, water-stained children's picture book called Water Babies. He must have known it was up there and climbed up there to find it for me. I read that one book over and over, memorized it backwards and forwards. Mom set me up with a subscription to Highlights for Children. It came once a month, and within a day or two, I had read all the stories, worked all the dot-to-dot puzzles, and colored all the pictures of farm animals, etc. I loved my Highlights! I really think my accountant parents didn't know what to make of this child of theirs with the hunger for books. I'm pretty sure they would have better understand if I had been a math-whiz like they both were, but they did their best for me. The whole family did.

Twice a month, my brother walked me down to the end of the block to the church parking lot where the book mobile stopped. He helped me get my first library card there, and allowed me to check-out three books. He was five years older and thought he knew what was best for me. I thought he knew, too, so I followed his rule, but I was always ready for three more books within a couple of days. 

By third grade, the family was giving me Nancy Drew books every birthday and at Christmas. By the time I outgrew them, I had the whole set. And by the time I was through with all six years at my elementary school, I had read most of the books on the shelves in our tiny library room. By about 5th grade, I started to write my own stories, in a spiral-bound notebook I bought at the drug store. Oh, how I wish I still had all those early writings. Only one has survived--a romanticized version of Ponce De Leon. I was already writing historical fiction, even way back then. 

There is no point to this narrative, other than to come back around to the need people have for story, for the neatness a story gives--beginning, middle, end--to help us make sense of the world we live in, the people we encounter, to escape to places we may never go otherwise, to situations far afield of our own lives. And of course, to learn. The smartest people I know are readers. My dad probably never read an entire book, but he was always reading something, science journals, stock market reports, newspapers and all those magazines he subscribed to. His accountant mind required that he date-stamp the upper right corner of those magazines, and check off the articles in the Table of Contents as he finished them. 

When Dad was in his late 80s he was still learning. We had long backyard conversations over a beer maybe, or a glass of wine, while watching his dogs. We discussed astronomy, foreign wars, foreign places, politics, and the psychology of human nature. Often, he surprised me with his knowledge of current fads and trendy subjects. I remember he watched the entire royal wedding when William married Kate, and talked about it for days afterwards. Another story, understanding the world, and always striving for knowledge. I hope to do the same.

Onward...

Life Without Air-Conditioning

Last night our air-conditioner went out. It's August. Temperatures have been hovering around 97 degrees with 260% humidity. Of course, that's an exaggeration but it doesn't feel like one. We noticed about 9:30 it was getting hot in the house, and when we looked at the thermostat, it read 80 degrees. It was set for 75. By the time we went to bed, it was at 82 degrees and rising.

Lucky for us we installed six ceiling fans in this house when we first bought it. Every one of them was going on high. We thought about opening windows but the humidity ruled that idea out immediately. Instead, we laid on the bed underneath the whirling fan and tried to go to sleep without any cover on us at all. The moon is full right now and the light filtering in made the room glow. Neither of us could settle down enough to drift off, so we started reminiscing, about how neither of us grew up with air-conditioning in our houses. I seriously don't know how we stood it, except we were ignorant of it and unaccustomed to it. 

My childhood bedroom only had a single window, but my bed was shoved right up next to it. With the window open wide, and with the helicopter fan on a chair in the middle of the room, I stayed cool at night. But this was in Corpus Christi, so how could it have been all that cool? I must have been wet with dew every morning from the humidity coming off the Gulf of Mexico, but I don't remember that part. 

Our house was a modest, post-WWII house in a tacky-tacky neighborhood--block after block of houses built from one of three floorplans. My best friend, who lived kitty-cornered from us, had the same house as ours only turned around, a mirror image. For some reason, the architect who designed these houses thought it would be a great idea to put a planter box in between the kitchen and living room as a sort of room divider. I don't know of a single house in the neighborhood who kept that planter box. Daddy filled ours with concrete and mother arranged cushions on it in an attempt to make it into a bench, an uncomfortable one stuck off in an odd corner. For my brother, Ray, and I it became a great stage. Ray, who by age 10 was already an actor in his heart, choreographed complicated dance routines for the two of us. Many of them started with a launch off that concrete former planter box with high-kicks and leaps. It's a wonder we didn't break our necks. 

We had a garage, which made us special. Many of the houses in our neighborhood only had driveways. Daddy and his next-in-line brother, Sid, built the garage together. The only thing they didn't do was pour the concrete foundation. After the mixer truck left, Daddy pressed my right foot into the edge of the cement and wrote the date with his index finger. My 4-year-old footprint must surely still be there.

Our garage was as big as our house. It was a two-car-plus boat garage with a grease pit so Daddy could work on our cars without lying on his back. There was a small shop at one end where he had his table saws. I used to hang out in that shop for hours when he worked. Now, I wish I had learned some of the things he knew, but at that time I just wanted to be wherever he was. He really was good with his hands, had taken classes in work working and mechanics at the local tech college. By profession, he was an accountant, the youngest of five to second-generation immigrants from Eastern Europe. All Dad's brothers could build and fix and take care of plumbing and the like. Most of my friends had dads who could do those things, too. It seemed to be something men were born knowing how to do, just like our moms all knew how to cook and sew and clean house. I didn't realize until I was grown that not all men are handy with their hands, just like not all women can wield a skillet or a needle-and-thread.

In the center of our garage, double doors opened onto a crescent shaped patio where we played hours of ping-pong, or sat in the Adirondack chairs Daddy built visiting with neighbors, friends, and family. Out in the yard was a playhouse Daddy also built, for my fifth birthday. It looked exactly like our real house, complete with the same asbestos siding and tan paint. My dog, Gaylie, and I had many tea parties inside that playhouse, although I do remember his tail knocking things off the little shelves built into the wall. I suppose someone since has dismantled the playhouse but it was still there when we moved. By then I was 12 and could barely crawl inside the door.

Back to my bedroom and that noisy, oscillating fan. It was a huge thing, full of oil and dust. It had two speeds--loud blast (and I mean BLAST) and so low it would almost stop oscillating. The blast speed was so forceful I could tie-down the corners of my top sheet and the wind from the fan would lift the sheet like a parachute. Me, my scottie dog stuffed animal named Scottie (how original!) and Lollipop, my purple poodle, would play under that sheet tent until Mom or Dad finally hollered at me to go to sleep. I was never allowed to handle the fan even to turn it off or on. A friend of my parents had a young son who stuck his hand inside the cage of a moving fan and had lost two fingers. 

My mother mostly lived in fear that my brother or I would do permanent damage to our bodies. There was a entire list of things we were not allowed to ever do, including climbing trees, horseback riding, and roller skating. Of course, we did all three of those things whenever the opportunity arose. I recall being really high up a backyard tree one day when Mother came home early from work. I stayed still and quiet, heart pounding. She didn't even notice Gaylie (who normally mauled anybody who came into the backyard with lots of hello hugs and kisses) sitting patiently at the base of the tree staring up at me in the limbs. As soon as Mom stepped inside the back door, I clambered down, much to Gaylie's delight. He was so happy to have me back on earth, he tore around the backyard in big wide zoomies.

We weren't poor but we weren't rich either. Since Mother worked (back then most mom's didn't) we had enough to go out to eat on Friday nights. We rotated between Piccadilly Cafeteria, Taco Village, Angelo's Pizza, and Whataburger. Occasionally, we got to go to Chung May's. It was a high-end (for the times and the place) linen-tablecloth Chinese food restaurant. Back then, we knew nothing about Chinese food so we always order the Cantonese Surprise Dinner for Four. It varied from trip to trip, but it was alway served in multiple courses with hot tea in a precious tiny porcelain pot. We felt fancy when we ate there. I always picked Chung May's for my birthday night dinner. Later, when I was in high school, one of the boys from the Asian family who owned Chung May's was our drum major. Since I was a majorette, I got to know him pretty well and had a big-time crush on him. All these years later, Chinese food is still my favorite, just a tad above Mexican and Pizza. Hmm. I guess we are what we come from after all.

Well, the air-conditioning man has just pulled up to the curb, thank God! Memories of days without a/c are fun but I'm glad they're just memories. I would rather belong to the good-old days of NOW with cold air blowing in every room.

Onward!