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 |  It's who we are. It's what we stare at in the middle of the night. It's a bug zapper. |
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My friends, When we were young and newly hatched—also young and in love—my husband and I lived with our four young children on the Space Coast of Florida. The massive propulsion of rocket and shuttle launches from Cape Kennedy often rocked the windows and doors of our little love cottage. We were always properly respectful and impressed by the reach of mankind’s achievements. It was a point of pride to stop whatever we were doing (dishes, dinner, dancing, sleeping, fist fighting, etc.) to watch the eastern horizon—hands on hearts, tears in eyes—as the United States of America raced into the frontier of space. One deep, dark morning (about 2:00 am) I shook my husband awake to watch yet another triumph of human advancement. “Get up,” I mumbled to Sherwood, “the shuttle’s going up. We gotta’ watch.” Sherwood moaned, “The garbage is out all ready. Let me die.” He did not open his eyes. “Come on. We should watch. Night launches are amazing.” He dragged himself upright and clung to the window ledge behind our bed. We knelt, with our chins braced on the ledge, our bleary eyes fixed on a blazing light in the eastern sky. We watched. The light did not appear to move. We stared some more. The light remain fixed. We struggled to focus. The light blazed away. We waited for the light to fade into the blackness of space. It did not. We watched and watched and watched. The light stubbornly refused to move. At last, collapsing back into my pillow I said, “Honey, go back to sleep.” Sounding confused, miffed, and a little whiney Sherwood asked, “Why?” “Because for the last eight to ten minutes we’ve been staring at our next door neighbor’s bug zapper.” He went back to sleep. And I lived to worship at the altar of space exploration another day. This story pretty much sums up who we are, and how we got this way—excessive staring at bug zappers. And this is my blog, a space-age way of recording one’s thoughts, ideas, embarrassments, and foibles for the entire known world. Once upon a time, I would have made this record on papyrus, rolled it up, stuffed it into a ceramic jar, and asked to have the whole thing buried with me in my sarcophagus. I still might. Disclaimer: Some of the stuff you will read here is true. Some of it is not. Some of it is the result of wishful thinking. Some of it is the result of too much thinking, and some of it is the result of too little thinking. But all of it will be written with joy and laughter, because the alternative is despair and weeping, and isn’t there more than enough of that stuff out there? Thank you for your support, Linda (Zippity the Zapped) Zern |
| Born in Florida, raised on sunshine and bug spray, I read every cereal box I could find and every book I could get my hands on, and when other people's books ran out, I started writing my own: The Pocket Fairies of Middleburg, The Long-Promised Song, ZippityZern's Uncommon Nonsense, MOONCALF (a finalist for the Space Coast Writers' Guild DON ARGO AWARD) BEYOND THE STRANDLINE (Book I); Following the Strandline (Book II); Ebook short story prequels: "Puppies", "Darby's Chickens", "Storm"; (COMING SOON) The Gryphon's Glade, a fantasy. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| My youngest son, Adam, just turned thirty-three; so doing the math, that makes me seventy times seventy. Or is that how many times he has to forgive me? Well, whatever. Adam is my philosopher king. He’s the kid who is happy to give me less than five stars on my various full-length novels. The Amazon.com gods worry that our children or family will be overly positive when it comes to leaving reviews on their website, so they forbid such. I never have to worry about that. He’s also the child that likes to engage me in a plethora of idea related debates. Then he films our discussions. And then he posts these interactions on line. I’m not sure how I feel about this. He never lets me put on makeup or change my shirt, and I’ve usually just finished cooking Sunday dinner for a mob of beggars so there may or may not be gravy stains on my clothing. The only light he provides is an electric GE camping lantern, if he can find it. So, half the time I look like I’ve smeared gravy in the bags under my eyes. And there’s never any rehearsal. It’s just shoot from my gravy stained hip. That I’m okay with. The next debate he’s scheduled is titled, The Value of Reading Fiction, and on this topic, we’re probably going to be in sync. Fiction makes everything clearer. For example: Thomas Tryon, a horror writer in the 1970’s wrote a truly cautionary tale called Harvest Home. In it, he detailed a remote northern town whose corn cult required human sacrifice and a fertility ceremony. I read it and made notes: never move north, never become a corn farmer, and never, ever peak at the secret “corn making” ceremony if you want to keep your tongue and your eyes. Sure, it’s fiction, but you never can tell. Stephen King wrote a book about vampires before the vampires got sexy. My husband worked nights at the time, slept days, and I never saw him conscious when the sun was out. Never. I read Salem’s Lot and learned how to recognize a vampire when I saw one. It’s not a coincidence that the town where vampires were crawling all over the town dump was somewhere up north, probably next to the corn cult creeps. And who, after reading Pat Frank’s Alas Babylon, doesn’t understand the importance of storing up salt against a nuclear attack from Russia. I’m ready. Every work of fiction provides dry runs for life. What would you do if? What would you think when? How would you cope after? Where do you go during? When we read books, we walk into worlds that don’t exist and face monsters that can’t be true, but at the end of every imaginary journey is the possibility that we will discover some small gem of truth that will aid us on our way in the real world above the fiction. Linda (Ready For My Close Up) Zern |
| If I say, “I love goats. Goats be fun,” are these statements opinions or facts? Or are these statements a combination of both opinion and fact? Or are these declarations the ravings of the madwoman of Kissimmee Park Road? First, for our discussion, let’s examine the difference between opinion and fact. An opinion is a belief or judgment that is NOT based on measurable evidence, and a fact is provable in a color-coded graph. Can it be proved that I, in fact, do love goats? I own goats. I take care of goats. I talk of goats. I talk to goats. I preach of goats, and I post pictures of goats in public places, next to thousands of kitten and puppy pictures . It is arguable that I do love goats by a measurable rubric. Now, lets examine the statement, “Goats be fun.” This can be refuted and often is by my son-in-law. He finds farm animals a curiosity, at best, and, at worst, an abomination. Of course, he was born in Bountiful, Utah where all the children and goats are above average. The statement “Goats be fun,” is an opinion. Many people find farm animals a smelly bother or a confusing chore or a strain on the delicate balance of an entire planet. Farm animals poop and fart. This is a measurable fact. My Muslim neighbor finds goats tasty, and I can prove it. Buck goats smell rank when they’re in “love.” (If you need proof, come on over sometime during the mating season.) Girl goats find boy goat stink irresistible. Truth. An invitation. Also True. Boy goats pee on their own faces. True. It’s horrifying when boy goats drink their own pee. Opinion. Goats have the cutest babies on earth. Opinion. If someone else refutes the ‘cutest baby goat claim’ by saying, “Hedgehogs have the cutest babies ever, and you’re a disgusting, offensive idiot for claiming otherwise,” then you’ve got yourself a debate. Opinions, which are not facts but feelings about facts, lend to debate. Debates are the mother’s milk of free speech and protected by law in our country. When someone accuses you of being a disgusting, offensive idiot, then it’s opinion. It’s very difficult to demonstrate a level of idiocy on a flip chart. Or is it? Let me think about that. Summation: Freedom is hard. Free speech is challenging. Feelings are not facts. Statistics can make fact-finding tricky because of the innate biases and prejudices of the fact-finding team coloring those pie pieces on those charts. I love debate. Fact. And I can show you on a bar chart demonstrating why that’s absolutely true. Linda (Hold Your Horses) Zern |
| Friday was a beautiful day in our neighborhood. The weather sang. The day sparkled. The grandchildren ran wild. I called off science club in light of the beauty of the great outdoors and said, “Run free, little birds, run free.” And off they went to do what children do. And what did they do? They engineered a new game. They dug a hole in the sand hill. They propped up a piece of plywood with hunks of scrap lumber. They aimed and angled the plywood at the hole. They located a bowling ball. They took turns sitting in the hole. They lugged the bowling ball to the apex of the inclined plane and let it fly at the guy sitting in the hole, legs spread wide. The object of the game? To jump out of the hole before the bowling ball smashed into your genitalia. The name of the game? Bust Your Balls. I gave them homeschool credit for the proper use of an inclined plane, engineering a free-standing structure, a scientific demonstration of gravity, a sound understanding of anatomy, and cooperative gameplay. My hairdresser once expressed concern about her son when he refused to come inside to make a reindeer ornament out of a paper plate because he and his buddy were too busy outside chopping something with an ax. She wanted to know if I thought he’d become an ax murderer. I said only if you make him come inside to make a reindeer ornament out of a paper plate. Boys. They need bowling balls and plywood and dirt and outside and the vague possibility of crushed nuts. Linda (Don’t Come Crying to Me) Zern |
Book reviews are tricky creatures. Authors want them. Writers need them. Artists hunt high and low for the wily beasts through patches of tangled feedback trees. I am an Indie author of eight books (plus or minus, depending on how you count the short story collections). I write across genre lines. I write for love, for dreams, for kicks, for readers. I write for reviews. Good reviews are the sticks we use to build our rickety storage units of approval. The bad ones are sticks we use to beat our confidence over the head. We send words out and hope for some to come back. Reviews. I’m hoping to review more this year, but I’m looking at the mother of all writing dilemmas: telling the truth, keeping the faith, guarding the gate without sending people into fractured confidence comas. And I think I’ve figured it out. I'm going to review books under cover of anonymity. No titles. No authors. Just the words and what works and what does not work. But not stars. Not a star rating. Three stars. Five Stars. Nope. Snacks. I want a snack rating. One snack bag of Fritos if I can make it through the first five pages. Five snack bags when I hit fifty pages, and I haven't run into one of the big three: telling not showing, obnoxious grammatical roadblocks, or characters made of cardboard. Halfway and I salute you with a full-size bag of Fritos. And if I get to the end of all the lines, all the way to the great big resolution at the end, I'm making a toast, with lemonade, my favorite. 1 snack bag = five pages 5 snack bags = fifty pages (this is my elementary school teacher's standard if I'm not in love with it by fifty . . .) Halfway = full-size bag of Fritos If it goes off the rails before the end = party sized bag The big finish = lemonade toast Disclaimer: Please be advised that I have never picked up a book and not wanted to adore it. NEVER. EVER. I want to be transported. I want to be swept up and away and farther than that. I want the author to step quietly to the back of the room to watch me being transported. I want to love every book I read. ALWAYS. Linda (The Unknown Reviewer) Zern |
| CHAPTER 1 The words of the scribe to the world beyond the I-4 corridor—The lament of the wolf pack—Aric and Lauren doth travel far unto the north; Silas rejoices much—The Stank boys go forth and hunteth rats; they testify of much destruction; their claims find much disputation—Zoe and Emma lead in the wilderness—The Zerns bring about much righteousness; and the good word of Christmas goes forth. 1 But a certain woman, even a scribe named Linda, with Sherwood her husband bought a new possession even a kitchen for their Saint Cloud abode after a flood did follow the repair of their washer of dishes, which did gush forth to destroy the floor. To be followed by a fire that dideth begin in the disposal of garbage, and the fireman did come also offering to shut the power off. 2 And so the kitchen did get gutted straightway. And the new kitchen did commence to become mighty like unto a magazine image, and Linda did rejoice in her pot rack, which did hang with many pots. 3 And by the hands of the grandchildren were many signs and wonders wrought among the tribe: (and they were all with one accord while bringing forth much wonderment.) On Sunday last, one of the youngest of the tribe did stand up in her pew, at the church of our choice, and she did throw her head back and did howl forth the howl of a baby wolf cub, while her mother dideth speak much from the pulpit, 4 Saying Ow,Ow,Owhoooooo. For of a truth Ever Jane (age 2) did continue to send up her howl, bringing forth much laughter from the body of believers. 5 This know also that the Texas Zerns, even Aric and Lauren and Silas did travel northward to a land of much snow, to live and work in the heart of Ohio, and Silas did delight in the falling of frozen water. 6 And the boys, both known as the Stahle boys and the Stank boys, after their father did wear a name tag with his name spelled falsely—Stank—these selfsame boys began to hunt the rats in the chicken coop at YaYa’s, reporting glowing red eyes and the sneakiest of sneaking rats, and there was much excitement but little success. 7 And Zoe and Emma went forth unto Young Women and Conner did become mighty in reading. Fulfilling that which he did prophesy when he sayeth, It is my destiny to read. 8 Likewise, I say unto you that the Texas Lorance’s doth swim much and flip about in gymnastics, both Reagan and Hero, while their brother and sister grow in wisdom and stature and sauciness. 9 I meditate upon these things and count myself blessed beyond ability to measure for it is ever a joy to know that thy children walk in righteous ways and are tender to their children and their spouses. Nevertheless, our tribe did sit much about the bonfire and did play a game about werewolves and did howl much like wolves, perhaps it being the very way in which Ever Jane did learn her fine wolf cub interpretation, saying, ow ow owhooooooo! And a Merry Christmas too. |
| George Orwell’s book of the same title is a great book, a satire. Some call it an allegory. It’s not about animals. It’s possible this blog post isn’t about animals either. The world has gone wild for animals, just check out Facebook. Goats scamper about in pajamas. Gerbils wear hats. Ducks waddle about while wearing bandanas. And cats . . . don’t get me started on cats. Every human emotion known to man can be demonstrated on the faces of the legions of cats that populate social media. I know. I’ve seen them. Happy cats. Sad cats. Mad cats. Grumpy cats. Well, you’ve seen it. My husband and I live with animals, the kind that lives in coops and barns and pastures and not on Facebook. Wild animals haunt the wetlands and bogs that border . . . well . . . basically the entire state. The wild animals don’t wear clothes. I include this for informational purposes. Wild animals eat farm animals. It’s a natural fact. And everything eats our chickens, so, into the coop our chickens go, every night, for their own protection, and so we don’t have to bury the bloody, gory remains in the morning. Free range means free to be eaten by eagles, hawks, feral cats, coyotes, bobcats, possums, raccoons, and the neighbor’s dog. Most of our chickens coop themselves. At night, they wander back into the safety of a roomy, re-enforced, hardware cloth draped impregnable chicken fortress. Yesterday, one of the hens forgot where she lived. My husband went after her, determined to save her clucking life. She began to squawk, loudly. A rowdy rooster hearing the hen’s distress ran out to take advantage, and when I say, “take advantage” I mean he thought he was going to get lucky. For the Facebook crowd, roosters are equal opportunity sex fiends. One rooster holds a hen down and his buddies, hearing her shriek, come running to take their turn. I am not kidding, and it’s not a video you’re going to see on social media. It’s the wild kingdom . . . The hen starts squawking. The rooster comes running, jumps on the goofy hen and proceeds to fulfill the measure of his creation. (IM me if you don’t know what this means.) My husband, taking advantage of the distraction, picked up both chickens, now wildly mating their brains out, and carries them to the coop. That rooster never took a breath as he floated through the air in the arms of my poor husband. Lust made that rooster blind, deaf, and dumb. I fell down, laughing. And this is how “animals” behave. They eat. They drink. They look for opportunities to be merry. And tomorrow they will do it all over again until the neighbor’s dog gets them. |
| The saddest part of the end of hurricane season is the cessation of the use of the word hunker. What a fabulous word and society only cracks it out and dusts it off when a soul-crushing, city-destroying hurricane is on its way. That's unfortunate. Very few words stand up to the word hunker in both multiple uses and varied meanings. I've told the story before of the 'possum we found after it had crawled, crept, snuck into our garage only to stuff itself into the underside of a grandkid's riding toy. The 'possum was waiting for night to fall so it could stumble over to the cat's food and stuff itself stupid. Our daughter, a thousand months pregnant, claimed that she'd seen the 'possum wobble into the garage and disappear into the bottom of the Happy Tots Pedal Truck. We didn't believe her. We thought she was drunk on pregnancy hormones. She wasn't. When my husband tipped over the riding toy, a mammal with approximately ten-thousand teeth, snarled its howdy-do. That toothy beast had hunkered down inside that riding toy. We poked the toy. We shook it. We rolled it over and over. That 'possum didn't budge. Finally, we had to turn the hose on it to pry it out of there. Soaked, miffed, and wildly uncomfortable the 'possum shuffled off to hunker down under the garden bridge, and that, Dear Readers, is a fine, fine example of what it means to hunker. When hurricanes threaten, the word hunker flies around like a kid on a pedal mobile. Get food, water, batteries, and some food for the cat because life, as you know it, will be like someone with a giant garden hose trying to pry you out of your safe place. The power will fail. Inside will be hotter than outside. Your air will cease to be conditioned. Day will turn to night. You will feel threatened, frightened, and annoyed but hang on tight unless you have a bridge you can scurry off to hunker under for a bit. Love the word. We should use it for more stuff than killer storms: Life is hard, but I think I'll hunker down and give it my best. Hunker down and keep the faith. Hunkering down, I refused to be offended. They tried to shake me out of my faith and hope and charity, but I hunkered down. You can't make me quit because I'm hunkered down like a 'possum stuffed under a garden bridge. Move along; I'm hunkering down. Or I'm getting ready for the next swirling monster of wind and rain so that I can hunker down when the storm howls. Let's keep the hunkering going. That's all I'm saying. Linda (Playing 'Possum) Zern |
| Attention: Fire Ant Advisory - Threat Level, Magenta Fire ants, for non-Floridians, are an imported insect species here. The word fire is not used arbitrarily. Fire ants are mean. They bite. They sting. Their mean stinging bites leave volcanic bumps that turn into pussy sores on your ankles that look a tad gross when you're wearing high heels and toenail polish. It’s a condition commonly referred to as fire ant ankle. Fire ants were imported from Hades, just south of the river Styx, on that boat piloted by the dog with the three heads, or maybe it was a river in the Amazon via a boat piloted by an anaconda. It’s possible fire ants arrived in a potted plant from Costa No Where-O. Actually, there is a rumor out there that fire ants were brought to the United States by the Department of Defense to be used as a top-secret weapon of mean-spirited destruction against the former Soviet Union, but they escaped. Now they live in my yard—the ants not the Soviets. The way our family sees it, we only have two options; we take the fight to the fire ants or attempt appeasement. That's it. Those are the choices. We've tried appeasement. We sent a diplomatic representative out with a white flag to the ant’s main stronghold, an ant mound the size of a wading pool out by the oak tree. The cat volunteered. He carried that white flag of appeasement and civilized diplomatic moderation like a trooper. We were prepared to make concessions. We were prepared to leave small offerings of rice, soggy cereal, and grease on a flat rock, daily. We were prepared to sacrifice a virgin. We were prepared to live and let live, well . . . after the virgin sacrifice, of course. In exchange, the fire ants had to promise not to build outposts or forward operating bases under the walkways in the butterfly garden, or the crack in the front porch stoop. They also had to promise not to bite the granddaughter when she stomps in the middle of one of their mounds and then forgets to run away. (Her dad showed her how to stomp on anthills and then run away, but she's not two yet. Her timing is a little off, and she forgets the running away part.) It was a good offer made in civilized good faith. The fire ants took the cat hostage and ate the flag. An un-named, unknown, anonymous source confirmed (maybe) that the cat had been water boarded. Did I mention the cat came back without fur on his tail? The ants sent their counter offer back to us tied to the cat's bare-naked tail. The counter offer read: MOVE or DIE! Signed the Ants So now it's war. My mission in this conflict is to ride around the yard on a John Deere lawn tractor pouring down ant poison, out of a plastic Taco Bell cup, like napalm. We call it Operation "Kill the Ants with Twenty Dollar Bags of Poison," or "Boom-Boom." We are using the latest advances in fire ant eradication technology—fire ant killer granules—danger, danger, poison, poison. Take that you little terrorists. It's a poison that promises to kill the queen and the colony, to prevent further colonies, and to bring peace to the earth, but as far as I can tell the fire ants love the stuff. They collect it, tote it home, store it, and save it up for Cinco De Mayo, when they throw a party and get "real loco" while dancing the fire ant tango. News from the front could be better. So if you come to see us—stay alert! Report suspicious activities: abandoned boxes, packages, and moving bits of nothing. Try not to linger too long in open, unsecured locations outside the green zone. Keep your weapons locked and loaded. And, soldier, if you have to stomp on an enemy fort, do not forget to RUN AWAY! General Linda (Bombs Away) Zern |
| When I’m asked on an application about my profession, I always fill in the blank on the form with the words writer/author/illustrator and Dazzle Queen of the Universe. No one ever comments. I’m not sure anyone reads anything these days, especially applications. Even so, I still keep writing, because like it says on those forms I am a writer, and real writers write, regardless of what the universe is or is not reading. If I’m ever invited to discuss my creative process, I know exactly the kind of advice I’m going to share with other budding wordsmiths. 1) Ditch the Bra: Writing is a sedentary process, performed while sitting in a chair or, in my case, while lazing in bed. Either way, you’ll spend your day bent in half at the waist. I predict that at some point you will slip/slide into a much worse if not wretched posture, curving into the human bodies' version of a semicolon. And when the story gets cooking you may wind up hunched over the keyboard like a deflated balloon. Save yourself time, pain, and distraction and take your bra off before it cuts you in half. 2) Weed the Garden: Typing is stressful and repetitive. Fingers get tired, stiff, and lumpy. Pulling weeds is a low-cost exercise that strengthens typing fingers. It does not require specialized gym equipment or a personal trainer. Fresh, outside air will blow out all the silly adverbs and metaphors, and the weeding will build finger muscles. The corn will thank you. It’s a win-win. 3) Know Your Writing History: As far as I can tell the best place to write a book is in prison: there’s plenty of personal time, distractions are minimal, and the atmosphere is full of dramatic tension. Get arrested. Absolutely tons of books have been written in prison. If you behave, you may be allowed to work in the prison garden, pulling weeds. See above. 4) Exercise Your Butt: While in prison do a lot of squats and dolphin kicks. Otherwise, your butt is going to spread and start to resemble the front seat of a minivan from all that sitting and writing. And it’s going to feel like you have two cement blocks taped to your tailbone. Trust me on this. 5) Shop Quick: If you aren’t lucky enough to be in prison and have to write on a laptop in your bed make sure that you register on your favorite online shopping site so that you don’t have to waste time filling out a lot of applications, and you can buy stuff with one click. You’re going to shop; let’s be honest. Just shop quick, that’s all I’m saying. This post is a preliminary outline I’ve been working on for when I’m asked to speak at retirement homes and special school assemblies all over Osceola County. Of course, by then I’ll be filling out that blank line on the applications with the words, FAMOUS Dazzle Queen of the Universe. Linda (Dazzle Queen) Zern |
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