Watch out!  I turned my back for one minute, and there in the hallway it stood, with eyes popping out like golf balls, huge iris one could not look in to, for if you do, then you will be drawn in to the tunnels of netherworld, and it is guaranteed that never will you find your way out.   But it is flipping around everywhere, for it knows what is in store — The end of whomever it may catch.

It is quiet in the winter time when the solstice comes on, but then before you turn around; One notices that it has left pin pricks on your arms, tasted your skin and blood to see if it wants you that badly that it will begin to stalk you and endeavor to catch your breath, sucking it in like a wild mustang, aand you are moving, moving at warp speeed, trying to find a hiding place.  “Go to the room of the north wind, cries a servant of the living;” “No, hide under the stairway in the room where a staircase left just enough room to sit down, ”  and  hide from the Thwarps, someone you do not know;  You do not want to know them, but you knew the got away from it.

It is breathing down my neck, trying to grab my robe, for disrobed;  I will not get away, and you catch it’s scent, not bad considering that it is already primed to be pulled and plucked apart, its truffle like scent reminding you of a day in France long ago, and you think what an illusion you must be having that it smells like the truffle you tast now and again and crave more than the pigs with snouts that are trained to find me.

I went to the dark room, but an ocean breeze cautioned; “You must be as free as am I,” for it is hanging on, so I run to the west toward the cold pacific where I shall become warm inside a whale riding over the mountains and seas of the, “Down Under,”  so I catch my breath, but as I am swallowed, I feel the hand, still faintly warm, rough, worn, and it has my ankle, and the whale wishes to move on to redwood country tonight.  Swallow, I say, and I will play your bones like a master’s piano class, but there is the tug; It is still right behind me.  I need for you all to help, but how do I know if you speak to the raw earth and to the waters;  Where next; What must I do, for it is dark inside the whale, and I only brought one dryed old banana to eat, and with some skill, I can take a sip from its water spout.

The hours will tell, and only tomorrow will I let you know how the story ends — Chasing me, chasing you, still longing for a throne and a crown.  Dream, think, and help me find my way out of the dark; Tomorrow?

“I must find the first bloom of, Pink Honeysuckle,” and there will be a message, for me – Barbara Everett Heintz, author of another kind of, ‘Pinkhoneysuckle,” but now I am resting inside of a whale.

What old acquaintance shall I forget this year?  That I have to forget anyone seems dreadful somehow, and yet much of my life has depended on removing people into another place and another time, and I am dumbfounded that, especially the men who appeared to have such interest in me a long time ago, then I know that my life could have been so much easier..  Tell me now Ye Baby Boomers and loves of long ago, for I have taken this question  over many experiences, marriage, children and all of those things most of us wound up doing, for I need to know if young men just loved a while and went away to the girls they left behind and act as their partners lambs on their wedding days, now a long time ago — Or did they just have such a great run in the 60s and 70s trusting women were educated and practicing birth control that it was all right for lovers to mean nothing.

Did these boys, and some — Well off men simply make check marks in black books, for example, and if they thought a relationship was going to become serioux, then were there Xs instead of stars for however long it lasted, and did anyone ever clue a lot of you in to the idea, that especially in Washington, D. C., you were as disposable as a May shower when the nights were becoming long.  I was wondering what ever became of a boy I knew in Washington not long ago, and he was among the first people who sort of confessed that he had involved himself with me, because I looked so young, inexperienced and afraid, and then the last time I would ever see him — With him on one drug or another, probably hooked up with a guy by then, for drugs seemed to bring him into much experimenting, but his last words to me were that he loved me!  One day earlier, had he said that, I would have thought of turning my life around, and I would hear that he was playing street drunk and hippie after a year or so went by, but was it all just lame speak and what guys felt like they needed to say then.

I wanted to know if his life had been happy, and when he had come back to the real world, for most of them did — That is, unless he went fully gay after his introduction to the guy thing and of all thing, a jerk who was a guard at The Tomb Of The Unknown Soldier was the mate.  It seems that being stoned got him through his shifts, and I felt like showing this guy the wrong end of my southern foot for his coy admission as to how he did not blink — being stoned!  But I told a special friend that I was thinking of seeing if I could make this contact, and she said; “Why?”

He will have no memory of you.  The truth partially too was the getting even, for I know he thought this little pre-med student stopped, became a girl who sweeps hair in the local salon, and he would have gasped to know that I gave college 4 hard years more to equal six, and then throw in some honors, and a BSN with that.  I wanted him to know that I wrote, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” my book on Amazon that took him and anyone who cares to go there through the internal war of being a daughter of Appalachia, so without that his skinned little military brat butt could not have lived my life and come out whole in one piece.

To any one I ever had any kind of relationship with; Coming In Bulletin — From Barbara Ellen Everett Heintz, I never forgot a one of you, though I put some of you on the pages farthest back in my memory cells.  I never even forgot a jerk from Hawaii, another little rich boy who thought if he left his tongue in my throat long enough that it would eventually go to my toes, and he would get a one night stand.  Sweethearts, I did not care if his tongue photographed a laryngeal spasm, for I had no use for one night stands with anyone.  Only recently have I discovered that I was one of the least sexually active girls in high school, and only when I hit college and met the sweet talking Natchez, Mississippi man did I know what it really felt like having my heart race, for I believed that I was going to a child bride with an exemplary one love experience, but it happened that as I grew up a little more, then nothing was that simple, but my fear had kept me a shining example of purity than most girls who enter college at 17.

People say, “Don’t you just want to remember people as they were,” so do not ask a formr Hospice nurse that, because we know that life ends at the last breath, and the values and goals which you have reached up to that point and that point only are your destiny, for only then may a proper epitaph be writen and many of us will leave this place with the sweet oil of Chrism as something our children can touch with a handkerchief and take away the scent of death touched by the sweetest thought — That even that evening a new child could be born fragile, but live, and the same life giving Chrism may also be the touch they need to enter life.  I have shared so much with many of my elders — Joy and Marriage, their children, heart breaks that could not be mended, and each had some story of someone they knew.

Have we become so vain, so self approving that we forget how it felt to be loved, or is our pride so without quality that we just pretend life didn’t happen???  Trial runs are for sports and cars, not for the heart that loved,  and running from our past simply means that somewhere before; We lost a lot of our future.  We build the fences of illusion to close out that we were fragile, and we still are.  Aging just gives us more time to look back with the wisdom to know whose paths we would like to re-encounter,  after the firstt snow storm and winter/s solstice — After the April rains bring crocus carpets like my friend, Melanie, plants — On and on the cycles of all of our being.

Who forgets anyone whose arms have held them; or am I just vacuuous thinking that my memory is somehow is superior, or flawed, for it is less selective?  There is rain in San Francisco tonight, and we put this Christmas away this day.  I have such gratitude to my husband for packing it so early, but soon I wish to be well to be back in Cincinnati for a while, to talk with my friends again and to remember as I watch the barges and boats awaken for summer’s travels.  I will not forget this cold here, for old houses such as ours have no central heat.  I will not forget that the children came or that we sat at Terri and Allan’s table, and San Rafael Bay could not be seen from the Christmas table.  It is the way with me,, this frightened home girl that can remember so much about the little things, the special people, the ones who say they forget.  For this recurring theme of memory, I ask of you; Are people really so easy to forget, and if so;  Why did you bother with them, for it could be a chip of my soul, and strong spirits always return.  Blessings, and Happy New Year to esteemed friends of the world east to west and north to south. Barbara Everett Heintz, Author of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon, KDP, Kindle Ready, and Library rentals to Japan and many European neighbors…

I am working still with a seriously flawed computer, and I fear the truth is that I am at my wit’s end with endeavoring to write what appears to be some very important work, for since my interview with Barry Elva, our computer talk radio host who has a nice manner of giving us open time to speak about our work and our lives — What really seems important at times but which has taken on a solid back seat to what has gone gone on since I was able to enjoy an interview with Barry who is a sophisticated pleasant gentleman who would tell you that; Sometimes his interviews make a solid difference,  for he is popular, especially with the UK audience.

He has done interesting and fun work about his program and holds title to the writer of bathroom reading — All in good fun, but do not hesitate, if you are invited to go on the Barry Elva computer radio show.  I was scared to death and worked through laryngitis; So I lift my heart up with Thanks giving.  D. Steve; I got your note, but it was kicked out, so just accept thanks again from all who are involved in making, “Talk Radio,” on computer possible.

But since I got through a Gallbladder surgery my computer is taking a left on to Main Street, looking more like a frenzie, and when it is all wipped out; Then it is definitely a time for a really new model of some kind; I have had it.

I am going to stop while I can and pray for the little children in Conneticutt, and for me; there would be no help, because those parents have something beyond any thing which I could possible survive, and God knew that of me.  How inane it must sound that, “I,” could not have survived, for as the funerals begin, the Christmas toys placed aside; As other children say, “Good buy,” to parents and teachers, and as a school simply disappears, an enviable school, the kind an inner city child could not dream of; Then Christmas, Hannukah, whatever one selebrates all disappear into the new year; How ca?n a parent send their child to school anywhere?  My honest response is that my kids could no no normal, for they would be about to experience Home Schooling.  We cannot live in a world to have our babies shot with assault weapons.  Maybe they have seen a school nurse at a time when a hen was going to lay her eggs, just like they were a little yok and mucoid core there for a while, and, “Look; they are now boys and girls.

I feel like a suffragette, and I want to go and to burn anything which bespeaks of kiddie porn.  I want to talk to these Mamas that put their sons and daughters in beauty contest and the like where they worth is measured by beauty, for to this day when I see the Ramsey child prancing on the stage, then all that I see are people begging for the wrong kind of attention from older people who go in for, “Booty Shanking,” and Barbie has boobs getting larger and bathing suits more scanty.

I have been that hurt little girl who lost her voice, because no one expected such behaviors back then, and I cannot imagine how much of a sacrifice some of these parents were making to send their daughters and sons all that it took to get those kids in the schools where little rich children went to with its flag and its colors, so merciful God — They came to you, but Evil has its way, does it not?  Who is kiddie porn for? And who buys magazines with pretty little nude children where it is called, “Art?”  We need some accounting in this universe that not just everything is all right. 

Is it a next door neighbor who buys from the farthest back in the book shelves?  You got one purchase from me, because I wanted to see what you were selling, and you know exactly what it is; Little children are hugging, and in perfect circumstances with a parent present — Hugs are one thing, but when does the frustrated teenager start looking at little girls with eyes that fill some other kind of hunger; And for little boys — The outward signs can be shown very early, and there are men who get off on all of this kind of thing.  Little Grace, Amazing Grace and Emily;  I pray to the Lord they can recover some of what he was watching, and what was happening when he came around little ones.  Just let us know something, Lord, “Oh please just let us know something of what was called his moments of, “Madness? and what turned him in to the harbinger of demons?

Boys mature less mentally and socially than girls in early high school, but then girls actually move past them in many regards; so suddenly a boy has gone from being a, “Dweeb,” or whatever unkind name is appropriate not, so please let us know something about his secrets.  I believe parents should begin making shopping a family affair, for who is helping your child with clothing and shoes?  I can tell you with the deepest of knowledge that if you have a little child; then someone other than you and your Lord have eyes which are wide open, and they are not always eyes of love; No, they are eyes with a plan.  One son, as it turned out, of my own had to be protected froma pastoral crowd who had to be then watching over their own little brothers and sisters.  Evil is out there, and one had a daughter pinned down to the hour and the day she would become 21.  It turns out that a maternal grandfather did not miss a generation of whom he plagued with his horrible and nasty hangs; So if you think your child is safe; A time will come when you love, but you will observe and find out that breaking a mother and a family is the worship of all of those who want to deny the passion of our Lord.  As we begin a new year, may we understand first that the time is coming when we will be the least fortunate of those to whom our daughters will turn.  Remember; someone was planning a long time ago.  “So Bless the little children and those who tried to save them, and My Mother, another year has almost come and gone.  I know why you could not be there for me, but worse; I know how horrible I made your life, the smart, “Know it all,”  and we will have some lovely days when this pain goes away.

God Bless all of you who have written me, and I will be back on line and answering when my computer bugs are set free.  Bless us, but leave us at the gate where we are saddened, and from there; we shall carry on.

Hello My Friends,

I have been requested by Mr. Barry Elva — A gentleman who now lives in Connecticutt to phone in as a guest on his radio show.  I gather that Mr. Elva’s heritage is from the U. K. and that he is especially popular on that side of the Pond, and from what I have read, his show is presented in good humor, “Like a friend and a cup of tea,” and that he is more know by his British audience, but somehow between, “The Mayflower,” and here he is living in America, does a weekly radio broadcast, and my book, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” somehow came up as one he would like to do a phone in show with me about my book, and that it will be available to EST zone persons at 11AM this very Saturday morning.

These are two web sites which I can give to you:  www.blogtalkradio.comBarryEva , and this is another address for it, because I know that you would like to know me, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” The book which has been honored with two awards this summer:  Honorable Mention in The San Francisco Book Festival as well as a first place in my category in The Hollywood, California Book Festival, so if you look up my book on Amazon — “Pinkhoneysuckle,” by Barbara Everett Heintz, then you are going to notice that I have been given amazingly good reviews, and I did not mame nor threaten any of my reviewers for their kind opinions,  nor did I pay one of them to take the time to give these overwhelming thoughts about my book and my work which began with my intention to find some redemption, to inform Americans about how other Americans are treated through my life time and how life finds so many folks clustered in large swaths of the southern Appalachians, and all the way through the Patches or coal producing regions where people hide sorrows deep within themselves, and not of the shirt tails of Washington — where, when help comes, then more and more of our self sustaining and hopes to be an independent people have found us losing our best qualities which is survival for many families.

Another web address to check out is http.www.blogtalkradio.com/Across The Pond

I do not know what I am in for on this broadcast, but what I do know is that everyone writing Ebooks today needs to show gratitude to anyone who makes show, provides actual Book Festivals across The United States, and does the work to get book shows together — My friends, we are losing them, so we need to praise these people, to thank them, and to give them recognition that someone, anyone, is doing something for those of us who are making a serious effort to put out serious literature on our own.

My book is not just about me, but about the thousands if not at least a million plus agrarian families who would suffer through the southern diasphora, have their cotton and tobacco lots diminished to the point they could not grow enough to support a family no matter how hard we worked, so we lost our fathers, brothers, and neighbors who saw The Rust Belt Cities like Cincinnati, Chicago, Cleveland, and Detroit as the answer to try to hold on.  Men like my dad and young boys like my brother, Robert who did the prologue to my book literally went in to the ghettos of these cities, lived several to the room, and folks like my Dad would find a can of beans for supper or anything he could grab at a pick and pay kind of store what he could afford to eat.

I take you there, but I also take you to what it was like to endeavor to go to college, to find yourself ready to be imprisoned as a total nut case, because you finally told the truth about the constant beatings, a mother who was out of control with our father away, school mates who made fun of what we wore or the switch marks on our faces.  From there I walk you through a young woman’s life and become naked out of naiveness, just lucky to not be sent to, “A girl’s home,” where most girls would give over their babies, for pregnancy was considered against the will of our loving God, and one then became a new person called, “A Tramp.”

Girls like me experienced incest, but we could not tell how often or from whom, for the child was always, “A Liar,” and it was not news to me that we had suicidal girls in our community, some who took their lives, and they probably left no notes behind.  All the way in to my womanhood which took me to Washington, D.C.,  I leave nothing to the imagination, so this book is not for children and should have adult supervision through age 17 just like the movies.  What is going to become of it?y

Here and there we get notes from production companies, but it has been only a year since my book came on to the market, and I would not be able to begin promotion until this past early spring; So do I believe that it is movie material.  I want to make it clear that there are almost no movies done with a truthful glance in to the Appalachian, Bible Belt areas over the past 50 years, and my book would bring in an audience, for it makes something like, “Fried Green Tomatos,” look almost timidly approaching how very difficult women and children lived, and the words, “Daddy,” could, for the most part be the most terrifying experience of all.  My father was among the hardest men that I have ever known, though by the end of his life his children had made him among the proudest, and he was helped by his relationship with Churched people, for the price and pain in his heart and what made him so evil and bitter in younger years were part of a vicious cycle which, for some few, we have broken.

It is tragic that what I see as having my area of the country open up to outsiders for the poorest there is to teach all of the skills of self sustaining life styles once more, and bring the pilgrims home out of poverty given in to, for tired souls finally can, with hope, with an adequate income, and with a way of teaching the organic farming which we knew long before Alice Waters hit Berkeley, California; But what we say as canning, quilting, crafts, and chores, is longed for by those who want days out of the cities.  Join Barry Elva and Me, for we have some talking to do, and for a book receiving this much attention after one year should be speaking to some producers out in Hollywood, but I do not stop and will not until I find a way to bring attention to among the most treasured and beautiful areas of this country — The mountains and valleys along The Appalachian Trail.