Little Boy Lost by Vada M. Wolter & Joseph A. Zapalac

Letter From Publisher

Dear Vada,

We are honored you have selected to return to Outskirts Press to publish your seventh book with us. I am pleased to report that your latest manuscript (LOST INNOCENCE) has been accepted for publication through Outskirts Press.  I want to be the first to congratulate you and welcome you back!

Before I begin to refresh your memory about some of the options and available services here at Outskirts Press, I want to give you my overall impression of your work: I always enjoy my review of your work.  Since I do believe I have had the pleasure of reviewing most all of your submissions now I am not sure what more I can say about your writing.  It is consistently good.  You have a certain style about your writing that cannot be matched.  You are very creative and always approach your plot with vivid description and detail regardless of the genre you write in.  Once again, your characterization and and your use of dialogue is excellent.  The dominant traits of your characters help to make them more intriguing thus allowing the reader to make a real connection with them.  This adds significantly to the power of your work. It is obvious that you have done a significant amount planning and preparation in crafting your work.  You have crafted another quality piece of writing.  Bravo!

Sincerely,
Lisa 

LITTLE BOY LOST:CHAPTER 3

S

eptember was a difficult month for Joe and the other men working of the derrick. They worked each day from when-you-can until when-you-can't, leaving little time for anything—except work.

Long, hot days in the grueling sun left Joe exhausted—but not too exhausted to try to learn about Martha. It seems he was asking the waitresses at the cafe, and she was doing the same thing, trying to learn about one another.

Martha’s curiosity about the tall, lanky boarder caused her to ask around. Juanita, after cleaning his room, told her that he traveled light and kept a neat room.

At noon, she asked Kathy about him and learned he was friendly and could eat a lot. She would just have to keep her eyes open and try to learn more as the days passed.

Martha gathered enough ingredients, one evening, to make a batch of cookies and waited up for Joe.

“Evening, you’ve been putting in long hours the past three weeks; how about a cookie before going to bed?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Taking a couple from the plate, he stood, to keep from getting grime on the sofa, and takes a bite.

“How’s the work going?”

“We’re almost finished building the derrick. Mmm this cookie tastes great…did you bake these?”

Martha blushed and gave a faint smile, “Yes; I hope you like them. I’ll wrap up some so you can put them in your lunch for tomorrow.” Maybe it’s true that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

“Sure, that would be great.”

Martha disappeared, returning with a small brown bag of cookies.

“Thanks,” he said as he took the bag from Martha. “Well, it’s getting late; I need to get cleaned up and to bed…morning comes early. Goodnight, Miss Daniels.”

“You can call me Martha. Goodnight, Mr. Clayton.”

“Call me Joe….” He moved up the stairs to his room, and from Martha’s sight. 

She walked to her room to prepare for bed, after putting up the plate of cookies. 

She envisions him standing in the shower all lathered with soap, as she drifts off to a peaceful sleep.

Joe left for the rig, before daybreak, with cookies in hand—without seeing Martha. 

Throughout the day, his thoughts kept returning to Martha, and how he wanted to ask her out. Enough of this being fearful…I’m going to ask her today, he thought.

Joe climbed in the truck after work and headed for the hotel for a bath and a chance to see Martha. He knew she’d be off work and hoped to get a chance to ask her out on a date.

Back in his room, he shed his filthy clothes, leaving a trail from the door to the bathroom. He stepped into the shower; the cool water ran over his head and down his masculine body. Grabbing the bar of soap, he scrubbed his wavy, blond hair then worked on his grimy body. The dust and sweat circled down the drain, making a slurping sound.

Stepping from the shower, he wrapped a freshly-laundered towel around his hips. His damp, blond hair curled at the nape of his neck. He selected a pair of khakis and a white shirt from the antique oak armoire. Shoving his socked feet into his brown shoes, he headed out the door in search of supper—and Martha.

Disappointment spread over Joe’s face as he descended the stairs and stepped foot in the decorated-for-fall-lobby.

He saw a yellow floral arrangement on the desk, and a snagged-tooth jack-o-lantern sitting on an end table. Martha, however, was nowhere in sight. He stepped outside into the cool October evening and walked down the block to grab something to eat.

Entering the bustling café, he didn’t see anyone he recognized. He took a small table to the back of the dining area, and his favorite waitress came to take his order. “Say, Caroline, what’s tonight’s special?”

“Meatloaf,” she said, with a smile. “It comes with buttered potatoes, green peas, and carrot slaw. The dessert for today is homemade coconut cream pie.”

“Mmm sounds great; I’ll have the special and a large glass of iced tea.” Before Caroline walked away, he inquired if the manager of the hotel ever ate at the café.

“Martha? Sure, she comes in occasionally. It’s about this time of day that she comes in for supper.”

As Caroline turned and walked to the kitchen to turn in the order, he noticed the varicose veins in her legs—proof of many hours, if not years, of being on her feet. 

Waitressing had to be a hard job, but there weren’t a lot of jobs for women.

Joe sat alone—tapping his fingers on the table and watching other patrons. He noticed the catsup-drenched-fries couple laughing as they sat at a table over in the corner. He hated eating alone and wondered if he should have gone with his co-workers. They planned to check out the café that served great chili.

His heart skipped a beat at the beautiful sight of Martha as she walked through the café door. Her rose-print dress on a white background accentuated her slender figure, and her smile, friendly. Today must be my lucky day; now is my chance to ask her out.

“Evening,” he said, as he stood and gave her a warm smile, towering over her a good seven inches. “I know this is really bold of me, but would you mind joining me? I hate eating alone, and the other guys are eating elsewhere.” He held his breath, hoping she would join him.

She stood silent, contemplating. She wanted to go out with him, but didn’t want to seem too anxious.

“Come on, I promise to behave,” he said, giving her a wink and an innocent, broad grin.

Martha studied him for a while, deciding. Seconds ticked by. Joe stood quietly under her scrutiny while Martha thought. We are in a public place, and we both had to eat anyway; besides, he seems like a nice person, and I really want to date him.

“Okay,” she said, as Joe pulled out the chair for her to sit down. He pushed her chair up to the table and returned to the seat across from her.

Caroline approached the table ready to take Martha’s order. “I’m glad you came in; it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. What can I get you tonight?”

Before Martha had a chance to reply, Joe said, “Supper is on me tonight—order anything you’d like. I’d like to repay you for directing me to this café. The food is reasonably priced, and their homemade desserts are excellent. Tonight’s dessert is coconut cream pie, my favorite.”

“That’s very nice of you, but I’m sure you could have found this café on your own.” She giggled, exposing her dimples, and then placed her order for the meatloaf special.

“Maybe so, but I’m glad you are here tonight. I’ve wanted to ask you something. I know we hardly know one another, but I’d love for the chance to get to know you better. Are you dating anyone?” His heart nearly stopped beating, fearing the absolute worst.

Lowering her head as if embarrassed, she replied shyly, “No…no one. With having to do so much work on the farm, dating was rare. Since I got this job, I’ve been too busy training for the manager's position.

A sigh of relief passed his lips, and he relaxed a bit. “Uh…would you like to go out with me this Saturday? We could have supper together and then possibly go to the picture show—or to a dance?”

Martha's heart beat rapidly...she smiled, giving him hope that she might say yes—which she did.

Days slowly passed for Joe, before the big weekend and his date with Martha on Saturday. It was supper at the Corner Cafe and then the dance. She really liked Joe and had a great time—even if he stepped on her toes a few times.

After the evening was over and time to return, he parked his car behind the hotel. They stepped out and walked to her door, located around the corner from the hotel lobby's desk. As much as he wanted to kiss her goodnight, he dared not on the first date. He hoped it would come later.

“Good night, Martha,” he was almost certain that she could hear his heart pounding in his chest.

“Good night, Joe; I had a wonderful time.” She unlocked the door and walked inside her room. She leaned against the closed door, a smile on her full lips.

Continued another time...

Vada

Funny how you go along in life thinking everything is as it should be. THEN, you see a face in the crowd and those funny, familiar, forgotten feelings are stirred within your heart.

CHAPTER TWO: LITTLE BOY LOST

J

oe had enjoyed his supper the night before and decided to check out the morning menu.  He knew a hard workday was ahead, so starting with a large breakfast was foremost on his mind.

The café was almost vacant—only three other customers—so he sat close to the door.

A middle-aged, slightly-overweight day shift waitress came to wait on him. Placing a cup before him and pouring coffee, she handed him a menu, “Good morning, beautiful day we’re having.”

“Beautiful, but it looks like it might be a hot one. Thanks for the coffee. Give me a minute or two—Kathy,” glancing at her name tag and then her cherub face.

“I’ll come back in a few minutes…take your time.”

Joe listened to the chatter of the others sitting around him, as he studied his menu. Two customers—obviously farmers—were drinking coffee and talking about their crops; the third person sat alone, reading. Joe's thoughts turn of his own parents and how they worked hard on their farm. They had help from all of his six still-living-at-home siblings.

Seeing the waitress approaching, he selected something to eat. He selected a large country breakfast of ham, eggs, buttermilk biscuits, and gravy. Several cups of strong coffee washed down his meal before going to the new job. Leaving a small tip, Joe walked to the hotel, arriving in time to catch a ride with his boss.

“Ready for work?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” said Joe, as he belched loudly and climbed in the truck.

“I’ve had a crew to lay the rig's foundation. Today you, Bill, and the crew will start building the wooden derrick.”

“We’re sure going to have a hot day for it,” Joe wiped his shirt sleeve across his forehead. “Working as a roughneck is a hard, dangerous job, but the pay’s good.”

The temperature rose to the mid-eighties by mid-morning and by one o'clock had soared to one hundred degrees. Many believed it to be a typical Texas August day; however, the drought made it worse.

Joe removed his hard hat and raked his fingers through his blond hair, now plastered with his perspiration, and cursed the heat.

He walked to the 1933 Ford pickup, the only shade available, and sat on the running board. Opening the burlap-wrapped water-jug sitting in the shade, he poured some water in a tin cup. The water that splashed onto the dry, heat-cracked thirsty ground vanished quickly, leaving no trace.

Drinking hastily, some water trickled from the sides of the tin cup onto his muscular chest, cooling it. He couldn’t wait for quitting time; he had in mind to ask Martha for a date for the weekend. He just hoped she wasn’t seeing someone.

“Joe, stop loafing and get back to work,” yelled his boss.

“Yes, Mr. Reed.” Joe put his hard hat on, and returned to work…and the scorching heat.

JOE & VADA

LITTLE BOY LOST: Chapter One

I

t had been an intense training, during which time Martha turned twenty, making her the hotel’s youngest manager.

“Juanita,” said the hotel’s new manager of three weeks, “we are expecting the oil rig crew today. Would you and the other girls make sure the rooms are ready?”

“Yes, Miss Daniels,” the pleasantly-plump maid of Mexican descent continued with her dusting. Juanita wore a white uniform, and a hairnet kept her dark curly hair in place. With a twinkle in her dark-brown eyes, she went in search of the other girls.

The hotel lobby was decorated in overstuffed couches and chairs from the late 1800s, when the Mexican cowboys moved cattle to the nearest railroad. Pictures and animal heads hung on the walls that were reminiscent of Texas. Behind the registration desk, stood Martha.

Martha was happy with her position as manager and even happier to be off the farm. She spent her young life working in the field—not to mention helping with her younger siblings and chores around the house. It was just what families did.

She now helped her family differently by sending part of her earnings to them. She knew how difficult it was to make a living as a sharecropper. Long hours working on a sharecropper's farm, hoping for good weather and crops, left one exhausted and discouraged. One of the benefits of her manager position was free room and board. This allowed her to send money to her parents and to save a little for herself.

Hearing the front door open, she looked up to see a tall, lanky young man walking in her direction. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties and well built. “Welcome to the Prairie Hotel. Judging from your physique you must be part of the oil rig crew that we are expecting.”

“Thanks,” said the six-foot-three young man, as he smiled at Martha. She’s sure cute; I wonder if she’s seeing someone, he thought.

“My name’s Joe—Joe Clayton. You were correct; I am with the oil rig crew. Mr. Reed has reserved some rooms for his men.” He ran his fingers through his hair and smiled.

“Clayton. That name sounds vaguely familiar. Are you from around this area?” Martha took in his blue eyes, wavy-blond hair, and dimpled smile. Please say yes.

“My folks own a thirty-acre farm about twenty miles outside of town. I live with them to help out on the farm when I’m not on a job. Mr. Reed likes for his crew to stay close when working a rig; it saves travel time, and if we run into a problem, it’s best to be in the same hotel.”

She checked the register, running her index finger down the page. “Room 218, second floor, first door on the right at the top of the stairs,” she said, as she handed him the key.

Their hands touched as he reached for the key. She jerked her hand back, wondering if he, too, felt the jolt of electricity between them. His face didn’t show it. Perhaps she imagined it.

Taking the key, Joe grabbed his bag and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Martha couldn't help but stare at his firm backside as he walked away—and smiled. “We hope your stay will be a pleasant one.”

Standing in front of room 218, he put the key in the lock and turned it. The door opened to a room like most hotel rooms, small but adequate. The white two-inched fringed cotton bedspread on the double bed brought a feeling of home. An antique ash dresser, with attached mirror, was large enough for his scanty belongings. Opening the two-door armoire, he placed his bag inside, hanging his shirts on the hangers. He then dropped in the brown leather chair sitting near the double screened-windows which faced the street.

His mind drifted to the girl behind the registration desk. He imagined what it would be like taking her out to eat, to a picture show, or… What was he thinking, he had just met her; he shook his head. Most likely, she would already have a steady beau.

Looking at the wind-up clock on the dresser, he saw it was 5:45 p.m.; supper time was approaching. Joe’s stomach rumbled, confirming his hunger and need for food. He slanted the dresser's mirror up to check his appearance before going to supper. Satisfied with his mirrored-image, he heads to the lobby where he sees the hotel manager.

“Excuse me, Miss—can you tell me where a guy can grab a decent meal around here?”

“Sure, if you take a left as you exit the hotel, go down one block, and you’ll see it on the left. It’s a white building with four screened-windows in the front and a bus station next door. I like the country atmosphere; the prices are reasonable, and the food is quite delicious. The Corner Café’s sign is above the door; you can't miss it.

He followed Martha’s directions to the nearby Corner Cafe. The tiny, clean, café had square tables. Each covered with red-checkered cloths; in the center sat a napkin holder and salt and pepper shakers. The café had a relaxed small-town feeling about it, which Joe appreciated. Noticing an empty table in the back, he walked across the wooden floor and sat down.

A petite, red-haired waitress with emerald eyes brought him a menu. “Welcome to the Corner Café,” she said, handing him the menu and giving him a broad smile. 

“What can I get you to drink?”

“I’ll have a large glass of iced tea, please.” She disappeared, only to return with the iced tea and ready to take his order.

“The chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, and southern green beans sounds good. I'll also have a big slice of homemade apple pie,” he told the waitress, handing her the menu.

This seemed to be the favorite spot for the townspeople—young and old. A seasoned couple sat by the windows, enjoying apple pie and coffee. The gentleman wore khaki trousers with suspenders and a blue shirt. His slight balding gray hair, he combed neatly and parted on the left side. The woman dressed in a delicate pink outfit, silver hair, and blue eyes sat across from her mate. It touched Joe's heart seeing the couple holding each other’s wrinkled-with-age hands.

Joe noticed one teenage couple, sitting to his left, eating burgers and feeding each other catsup-drenched fries.

The perky brown-haired girl, dressed in a dark-blue print skirt and a matching short-sleeved blouse was around sixteen. She giggled, as she wiped a smudge of catsup from her date's mouth on her napkin.

The curly, sandy-haired boy, about eighteen years of age, dressed in khaki trousers and a plaid shirt—smiled.

Joe thought about the job ahead of him as he sipped his iced tea…and of the hotel manager. She must have suggested the same café to the other crew members because three of them were headed his way.

He motioned to them, “Bill, you guys come join me; I hate eating alone.” They walked over to Joe’s table and pulling out the ladder-back chairs, sat down.

Making her way back to Joe’s table, the waitress asked, “What can I get you boys tonight? Our special is chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, southern green beans, and homemade apple pie.”

“We’ll take three specials and put it on my ticket,” said Bill. He was a stout man, a bit older than Joe, dark-hair and eyes, square-jawed, and a born leader.  

LITTLE BOY LOST EVALUATION

LITTLE BOY LOST EVALUATION

BY PUBLISHER

 

Words can't express the joy I felt when I opened an email from Lisa C. from Outskirts Press and read her evaluation of our manuscript.

What you have submitted for publication involves a wonderfully planned out plot with excellent characterization. This story was a great read that kept my attention from the first page.

 

You have a terrific writing style. I can tell that you have done much planning and preparation in crafting your work – especially the way you have thought out the characters and movement that happens in the story. This is not an easy feat.

 

Your prose is very nicely written with details that capture the reader. I found myself really connected with your characters and what was going on. It is easy to have too much going on too soon – not in your case.

 

Your plot is slow and methodical and you use your dialogue to move the plot along. Your characters are lifelike and I love it when I leave a story feeling like I know them. You have a realistic plot and to me that makes for an enjoyable story. Characterization is one of the most important elements of any successful story. You did not rush or force anything.

 

Your manuscript is a nicely developed story that really did read like a movie in my mind. I can picture your setting – your characters. You have crafted a quality piece of writing.

Writing Partners
Vada & Joe

Little Boy Lost

BOOK ONE HAS BEEN SUBMITTED TO OUR PUBLISHER AFTER MANY HOURS OF WORKING ON OUR TRILOGY

LONG ROAD HOME SERIES BOOK ONE - LITTLE BOY LOST

PROLOGUE

Martha pushed back her bonnet and wiped the perspiration from her brow, using the hem of her faded cotton dress. She leaned on the hoe as she stood in the cotton field and closed her big blue eyes. Dark strands of sweat-dampened hair clung to her slender sun-kissed neck. Working during the Great Depression on the sharecropper's farm in the Texas heat left her breathless. All anyone could look forward to as a sharecropper was a difficult life with limited comfort.

In early spring, Poppa hooked his cultivator behind his old mule, Jenny, and prepared the soil. It was something that had to be done if he was to have a cotton crop that year. After planting the seeds, came the thinning of the plants and removing any weeds—around May or June. Later, in the summer's hottest months came harvesting the cotton.

Martha, her father, two brothers, and three sisters worked alongside the migratory workers on the black-land farm. Martha, two months shy of turning twenty, had a plan for leaving the farm. She heard on the radio the small town's hotel was hiring, and she had applied for the position.

She pulled her sunbonnet back in place and continued chopping in the field...until she heard her father.

"OK, kids, let's pack up; Momma will be waiting supper on us." Supper was modest, to say the least, but all were thankful for what they had. There were always fresh vegetables, cornbread, and some kind of meat...usually one of the chickens from the barnyard.

Martha and her sisters cleared the table and did the dishes once supper was over. Homes didn't have indoor plumbing. Water carried in from the outside pump and heated over the stove in a kettle provided hot water.

“Martha, this came for you,” Momma Daniels said, handing her an envelope.

Excitement struck to her core, when she saw the return address—Prairie Hotel. It was from the hotel where she’d applied for a job. Could this be the answer to her prayers? Was she finally going to get off the farm and away from her parents constant bickering and arguing?

“Thanks, Momma.” Looking at Helen, she said, “Take my place for a while.” She wiped her hands on a flour-sack dishtowel and reached for the envelope. Martha rushed onto the front porch of the wood-frame home, letting the screen-door slam behind her. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she read the letter, repeatedly. She folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope, and walked inside the house.

“What is it Martha?”

“Mr. Lewinsky, the hotel owner, wants me to start working in three weeks, June 1, as assistant manager. After two months of intense training, I will be the hotel manager.”

Martha worked hard on the sharecropper’s farm even though she hated the hard work and dreamed of leaving. Wanting more from life, she found it after the town’s local hotel hired her—she met Joe.

Vada & Joe
Writing Partners

Some Days are Diamonds-- Some Days are Lumps

Hi, everyone:

Some days are like diamonds and some days are like lumps of coal. September 17 was a "lumpy" day for my friend and writing partner, Joseph Zapalac. Some of you may not know, but in 2002 he was diagnosed with leukemia. He had treatments with good results. He's been in remission for ten years!

 

...that is until Monday, September 17 when his oncologist discovered some "lumps" in his neck.That's just the beginning! He went September 19 for a cat scan and is awaiting to hear what the doctor has to say. He does know that he will be having to take chemo treatments...he just doesn't know when they will begin...or for how long.

 

This, I'm sure, will have an affect on our daily scheduled meetings, work, and possibly our writing career. We plan to take things easy when necessary, but the work will continue; it's for the best.

 

Presently, we have the first book of our trilogy written and are feverishly working on the other two. Long Road Home Series is inspired by a true story. Plans are to start publication early 2013.

 

Thanks to everyone for their support and prayers. We (as writing partners) hope you and your family are doing well.

WORKING ON SERIES

Things have been quiet at the Writing Partners blog for several reasons.  I have a problem with remembering the password for my blogs so it's hard to sign in. No excuse...but it's my reason. Also, I've been very busy writing. Yes, that's what I do. WRITE.

We presently are working on a series and book one is completed. We are now working on a second and third book with options for more. It's been a project full of twists and turns all fed with emotion. We look forward to getting it published.

LONG ROAD HOME series is the story of a pain-fully shy, poverty-stricken country boy. Johnny is emotionally and verbally abused and lied to by those he loves the most. As a confused, fearful, and lonely boy he felt that something was missing in his life. Leaving the only world Johnny had ever known gave him an empty feeling. This nagging lonliness caused him to travel down many roads searching for what was missing--love, happiness, and home.

The working covers are interesting and capture the eye. I'll not reveal the covers or the book titles at this time...but stay tuned to learn more.

Writing Partners
Vada & Joe

Value Statements

Hello to everyone. It's been a while since my last posting. There are no excuses. However, we do have a reason. We have been working on our latest project: a novel. This novel, is book one of a series.

In the near future, we will be sharing more informtion and excerpts from the book. We hope our followers will continue to be patient and look forward to our finished product.

In the meantime, you might want to consider our other books which are available from amazon. In reading each book you will...

Reflections: Memories Past

• learn to appreciate the rural life
• reflect on your own childhood memories
• escape into a more simpler life

Ribbon and Roses

• feel relaxed and warmhearted
• contritbute to the homeless and hurting with your purchase

Rockin' Chair Cowboys

• enjoy heartwarming stories that will soothe the soul
• whet your appetite with declicous recipes
• escape into a collection of memorable moments

Treasured Memories

• enjoy well-rounded and emotionally satisfying stories
• consider various perspectives
• find a beneficial source of entertainment

The Caregiver's Story

• find comfort and closure in your own challenges
• understand that we can't change the circumstances; we can change our attitude
• find helpful hints in caring for an aging parent

Until the next time...

Vada and Joe

Love, Faith and the Fifties: Treasured Memories Published by Outskirts Press | PRLog

Love, Faith and the Fifties: Treasured Memories Published by Outskirts Press PRLog

Thank you for clicking on the link above to learn all about the release of our latest book:
TREASURED MEMORIES: A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES.

The following is a review by Rebecca Johnson
one of Amazon's Top 50 Reviewers...

Now that it is getting colder it is fun to snuggle up in bed with a good book. Vada M. Wolter and Joseph A. Zapalac always write books that warm the heart. In this short story collection they have found stories that bring a tear to your eyes and also make you laugh. Many different authors are featured in this book so it gives you a lot of different perspectives to consider. Some of the stories are about living in the Great Depression and include tales of working on farms and going on hay rides. I really loved the story about the coconut cream pie and the visit with God that included root beer and Twinkies. While this is mostly a book of stories there are also some jokes, poems and prayers. This book is mostly positive but there are a few stories of war, betrayal and divorce. I feel that having sad and happy stories makes this a well-rounded collection that is emotionally satisfying.

~The Rebecca Review

OUR BOOKS

The following is my attempt to make a short video advertising us as authors and our books. I am pleased to say that all the covers, with the exception of The Caregiver's Story are my work as photographer and cover designer.

Our books are available at Amazon.com.

THE BICYCLE MAN

It was a wintry Christmas morning. A young pajama-clad boy stood in the doorway of his dilapidated wood-framed home, watching a heavily-clad man walking up the sidewalk. His face lit up and a smile spread on his face at seeing what the man had in his hands. “Mommy, Mommy, its Santa Claus,” he exclaimed.

***

I completed my tour in the military in 1965. As destiny would have it, I landed in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, working for a major oil company. Within months, my job relocated me to White Bear Lake, Minnesota, a small community just outside St. Paul.

I quickly adjusted to the move. With sheer persistence from a friend, I joined the local Knights of Columbus—a Christian organization.

"Joe, we are having a meeting of the KC tonight. Would you like to come along with me?" I can't the number of times I heard this from my good friend, Jerry.

One night I had reached my limit. “Jerry,” I said, “What are the Knights of Columbus all about anyway? Why should I join?”

"The KC helps families obtain economic security and stability through its life insurance, annuity and long-term care programs. It also contributes time and energy worldwide to service in communities. I think you'd like being part of this."

It stirred me when he said service to communities. Yes, I wanted to share faith, hope, and charity by being part of something that helped the community. "Alright, Jerry, I'll accept your invitation and joining the Knights of Columbus."

I worked whole-heartily in the KC but felt the organization needed publicity. Word had gotten out that I was a writer—a poet to be exact. The members felt I would be valuable as Council Activity Director, reporting activities and promoting membership.

The most heartwarming part of being a member of this organization was carrying on the tradition of providing toys for the needy children at Christmas.

I grew up the adopted son of a sharecropper, and times were tough. I've memories of the cotton stalk Christmas tree, we had when I was a young lad, so I've always understood hardships. Therefore, as I rose through the ranks, I became active collecting toys for the needy children.

The fire department felt that junk was being donated. This presented a crisis. Therefore, I volunteered to take charge of donations and placed an article in the local newspaper, requesting donations of tricycles and usable toys to be brought to a vacant school.

The article stated tricycles, but bicycles were being donated as well.  Soon I had so many bicycles that I became known as The Bicycle Man. Many of the bikes were in need of repair, so I brought them to my garage. Before long, I had fifteen to twenty bikes in my garage.

Knowing I needed help, I prayed. James, a sixteen-year-old son of a KC member answered the call. This invaluable young Christian man worked to get the bikes repaired in time for Christmas delivery.

It was a wintry Christmas morning when I loaded my Chevy with bicycles for needy children and drove to an older neighborhood. I parked my car, took out a bicycle, and began walking up the uneven and cracked sidewalk.

A young pajama-clad boy stood in the glass-paned doorway of his dilapidated wood-framed home, watching this heavily-clad man walking up the sidewalk. His face lit up and a smile spread on his face at seeing what this man had in his hands. “Mommy, Mommy, its Santa Claus,” he exclaimed.

Only once in a lifetime this could have happened that I could feel the smile on the young boys face. It was my most memorable experience and one I'll never forget.

"Thank you, Santa Claus." Tears of joy filled the mother's eyes.

Once again, my job transferred me, so this was my last year to serve in the Knights of Columbus.  In spring, and my time to leave, the headmaster of the council had an appreciation social for me, following mass.

During a time of enjoying refreshments, I spotted a friend. "Jerry, I can never thank you enough for talking me into joining the KC. It's been a pleasure."

"Joe, the pleasure was mine. Just seeing how you had a heart for the needy and worked hard at making their Christmas special--it warmed my heart. I'm going to miss you." Interrupted by the headmaster, our conversation ended.

"Joe, will you come up here for a minute?"

Setting my punch and cookie aside, I made my way to the front and stood near the headmaster. To my great surprise, he presented me with a plaque engraved The Bicycle Man.

“Thank you Bicycle Man for your heart-felt service in our organization and for being a shining example of what the Christian faith is about.”

Tears filled my eyes and emotion filled my throat. "Thank you. It's been an honor to serve in this wonderful organization. I'm happy for the good I've done and pleased to wear the title The Bicycle Man."

(Treasured Memories www.outskirtspress.com/treasuredmemories)

Joseph A. Zapalac, Author

THE SMILE

The feeling of Christmas is in the air. People are shopping for those special gifts for everyone on their list. At least one hundred booths are lined up, displaying various items.

A young woman enters the craft show, wearing a shimmering as-if-dusted-with-stardust white dress and a holly-wreath pin on her left shoulder.

Just inside the entrance is a table that catches her eye with it's display of five attractive books. She does a double take as if she recognizes the man sitting behind the table, but says nothing.

Sitting center stage on three metal display frames are Treasured Memories, Rockin Chair Cowboys, and The Caregiver's Story. On each side, Reflections and Ribbons and Roses, the two poetry/prose books lay. Balancing out the table is promotional material, consisting of business cards, bookmarkers, flyers and a few other speciality items.

As she glances at the table and starts to pass, he says, "Merry Christmas," and hands her a bookmarker. As their eyes meet he thinks to himself...she looks very familiar. She reminds me of someone...but this woman is much younger.

"Thank you. What a lovely bookmarker," the young woman says.

"My very talented writing partner, makes them. She's also a photographer and is responsible for all the covers you see on these books...with the exception of this one. He points to The Caregiver's Story.

"Oh, my; she's very good." She picks up the book Ribbons and Roses with the cover of a rose, small picture frame, and potpourri...all resting on some lace fabric.

"Do you like poetry or prose?" He asked. She doesn't respond. Perhaps she didn't hear?  She slowly turns the pages of the book, letting her hand rest occasionally. A story titled "Red and Green Tissue Paper" catches her eye.

She begins reading silently to herself. Was it his imagination or does there seem to be a glow about her head...almost like a halo. It's only the lightening, he reasons to himself.

"Oh, this reminds me of the stories my grandmother told me of when she was a young girl, living with her parents in the country." A smile crept across her lips and her blue eyes had a sparkle in them. "How much is this book?"

"Sixteen dollars...or any two books for thirty, or any three for forty-three." She picks up several other display books and looks through them.

"I know my daughters would love these books of short stories and I would like this one," she said, holding out the book with the "tissue" story.

The excited booth operator, and author, is pleased to have made a sale. After collecting the forty-three dollars, he asks, "How would you like them autographed?"

"If you would be so kind to inscribe this one to Mary, the other to Annie. That would be wonderful."

Sitting at the table, the local author inscribs the two books and then reaches for the book in her hand. "What about that one?" He knows it is for the women standing in front of him; he just doesn't know her name.

"Helen. Make it to Helen," she says.

Hearing that name sends a tingle through his spine. He once knew a wonderfully sweet lady named Helen. She used to sit next to him in church. However, Helen was much older than this woman, and she no longer walked this planet...but streets of gold. She now breathed celestial air, and sang in a choir of angels.

With shaking hand, Joseph writes "To Helen...Your presence today blessed me. May joy fill your heart upon reading this book. Best Wishes, Joseph A. Zapalac"

The angelic lady turn to walk away when he picks up a ribbon rose from the table, "Wait. I want you to have this rose."

She turns and reaches her hand to take the pastel pink ribbon rose. She smiles. It's then that he notices...it's Helen's smile.

~Vada

A CHRISTMAS WRECK

HE HEALS THE BROKENHEARTED AND BINDS UP THEIR WOUNDS.

Psalm 147:3 NKJ

You may experience, as I do, Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). It is a type of depression that tends to occur (and recur) as the days grow shorter in the fall and winter. No matter how hard I try to overcome, I find myself sad at this time of year.

Yes, I know this is the season to remember the reason for the season--Jesus Christ.  I know that God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son as His Greatest Gift to mankind. I know this Gift was packaged in a tiny, innocent baby...swaddled in clothes and placed in a manger.

Yet, sadly enough, it is the season when many are discouraged, downhearted, and broken. Many can't face brokenness and depression. Many find it depressing to think of all the commercialism of the season, the buying of gifts for those on our lists with whom we have lost touch with, and the expense of it all.

I think of my paternal Grandmother, how she never bought me a gift at Christmas. She'd say, "Vada, it's not your birthday...it's Jesus' birthday." And that was that. 

I've tried carrying on her tradition of buying birthday gifts during the year for everyone...a gift for "their" special day. However, when Christmas rolls around, I find myself in the same dilemma...what to buy everyone. I suppose I got that from my Mama; she found great joy in giving gifts for every occasion.

With my mixed background of traditions, I'm a Christmas Wreck. However, I'm thankful that I can still appreciate the Christmas carols...and lean on God's Word.



Our Children Christmas 2010

Rhonda, *Crystal, *Gale, *Kurt, Scott, Dawn, *Sanee, and Katrina

*Step Children

~Vada for...

Vada and Joe

JOURNEY IN PHOTOS

In place of today's post, I worked on one of the pages. Journey in Photos takes you on our journey as writing partners and also shares some of my photography.

~Vada for...
Vada and Joe

THE RAILROAD STATION

The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 entering the United States in World War II. Young men and women from all over were going off to war, never knowing if they would come back...or not. Frightened out of their wits, they donned the uniform and fought to defend our country.

Ten days following the attack on Pearl Harbor, there was a train coming through a quaint town of 12,000 people. The word got out that it was this little town's own National Guard. [So] Some of the people got together and baked cookies and cakes and went to the train station to give to them.

When they got there with their cakes and cookies and look in in the train windows, it turned out it wasn't any of their guys. It was the Kansas National Guard.

They stood there wondering what to do with all the food they had brought until one woman said, "Well, I'm not taking my cookies home."

Ray Wilson, a drug store clerk, stepped up to the train and gave her cookies to one of the guys. Soon all the others began doing the same thing. It wasn't long afterward that the military started moving Army troops through this little town.

That drug store clerk organized some women and decided to meet the trains as they moved through Nebraska, carrying boys to war. Over the next four and one-half years, those women met every train, sometimes up to thirty-two trains a day.

Eventually, the Union Pacific Railroad gave that station to the women serving the men; they named it North Platte Canteen.

These young men on the trains had ten minutes to run into the canteen to grab hot coffee, donuts, a sandwich, or cookies. Then they'd get back on the train...many never to return.

Six million men and women came through that station over the course of the war. One guy said, "I graduated, enlisted, and rode three days and nights. The train stopped at a place called North Platte, Nebraska. I jumped off the train, and I saw girls who could be my sister. The women reminded me of my mom. They hugged us and gave us food. We got back on the train, scared out of our mind, but for ten minutes...that fear went away."

Sitting in a foxhole with bullets blazing and death all around, someone said, "Wouldn't it be great to be in North Platte for ten minutes?"

This eighteen-year old boy had tasted the food and felt the love and kindness of those young girls and women at the Union Pacific Railroad station...and for ten minutes, he felt loved...and safe.

A young woman wondered if her grandfather had gone through North Platte when he was in the military. She makes a visit to the home, and sitting in his room...she holds his hand, and said, "Grandpa, does the name North Platte, Nebraska mean anything to you?"

The ninety-year old man, who prior to the question sat staring out the window, wondering where time had gone...his thoughts are cloudy. He suffers from dementia, but her question, like a spark, brought him back.

"North Platte...you bet it does! They gave me coffee and donuts...and they shined my shoes. You bet I remember North Platte, Nebraska.

Just as quickly as the mind drifted to that place, it now was like a dying ember. For an instant he remembered, but now the memory fades into nothing.

You ask...what is it that many years after the war would bring a ninety-year old man out of dementia? It's when you are eighteen...and scared...and going to war...and someone loves you and is kind to you.

~Written by Vada M. Wolter, taken from our book "Treasured Memories" 

Thank you for reading our blog,

Vada and Joe

CHRISTMAS BELLS AND PETTICOATS

(From our book Treasured Memories)

Back in the late fifties, when I was in the seventh and eighth grades, all the girls would wear very full skirts and lots of petticoats…or crinolines. The heavy petticoats had to be held up with a tight stretchy belt. The skirts were so full that only one girl could get through the door at one time.

Two weeks before Christmas, all the girls would use safety pins to pin jingle bells to their many petticoats. If you didn’t have bells on your petticoats, there was always someone who had extra bells and pins to share with you.

When the class bell would ring, you couldn’t hear anything in the hallways…except bells. The teachers had to use whistles and blow very loudly if someone was misbehaving. I know the teachers were relieved when Christmas was over.

Lillie Cook

Lillie Cook, born and raised in Wharton County and the younger of two children. She is mother to five children, grandmother to seven, and great grandmother to five—four living. Her time is spent being caregiver for her husband.

RED AND GREEN TISSUE

A week before Christmas, Mother started cooking cakes, pies, and, of course, plenty of her cornbread dressing--cooked with the fattest hen.

Daddy and the older boys would butcher the finest hog...our mother usually supervised the sausage making. I can still hear her say, "It needs a little more sage!"

There was lots of ham, bacon, sausage, and lots of relatives and neighbors to share it with. The house was usually full of people from Christmas until after New Year's Day.

The perfect Christmas tree, which Daddy, the older children, and I (the youngest of eight) had walked for hours to find, stood in the old house with its top reaching the tall ceiling. (The time to go choose a Christmas tree is when it's very cold, sleeting, or perhaps snowing a little.)

The decorated three (a beautiful holly tree with red berries or perhaps a cedar tree) was decorated, for the most part. We used a little silver rope for icicles. The last thing to do was to tie big red apples in the tree. We decorated the tree as a family group. Though times were hard--my parents always managed a bushel basket of apples, one of oranges, and one of nuts.

Our stockings were usually hung near the old wood heater. And Santa without fail (nearly always) came through. And always, there in top of our stockings, we found our Christmas present from Santa wrapped in red and green tissue paper.

To this day, seeing red and green tissue paper or holly trees takes me back to those Christmases of long ago.

I remember a few times, our mother worried, "The creeks may rise, and Santa's reindeer won't be able to get across!" When that happened, once or twice, there was always an extra big gift of love and warm family feelings. Mother always say to that.

From the old family Bible, Coyet and Lillie McKey found encouragement and faith to raise eight children through some very hard times. Today the old family Bible (pages like parchment and badly worn) is put away (wrapped in red and green Christmas paper).

My parents and five of those eight children have gone on. But...I wonder, do they still come for Christmas at the old house with the tall ceiling, a warm fire, and beautiful holly trees with the red berries? Do they hear the laughter of small children and do they remember the red and green tissue paper?

I am thankful for loving parents, a good home life, and those red and green Christmas memories.

(Published in Ribbons and Roses)

Contributor: Elsie McKey Overstreet was raised in Lavaca Counjty near the Navidad River, the youngest of eight children. She Graduated head of her class in Vocational Nursing from Del Mar College in Corpus Christi, Texas...now retired. She is a mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. Her writing comes from a "burning in her heart" and she has a great love for animals.