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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 |
| I signed up to be part of a four-day Book Lover’s Book Fair two years ago. I had no idea what I was doing then. I have no clue what I’m doing now. I’ve missed my self-imposed deadlines. I won’t have a new book to highlight. I can’t quite figure out how to stand out in a crowd of authors that do these book fair deals one-hundred-weekends of the year. Then there are the classes I’ve been attending at every writer’s conference and seminar with titles in the form of lists. Lists of everything that a writer should not do, or they’ll die a dozen poorly plotted deaths before they’ve gotten out of bed—not to mention whey they’re at book fairs. The endless, negative lists that mean well but confirm every deadly fear you’ve ever had as a writer/author/artist/dream weaver/scribble monkey. Because, you, my friend, are doing it WRONG! Lists! They’re the worst. For example . . . Seven Mistakes Authors Make Before They Pee In The Morning Twelve Horrible Book Covers Authors Should Reject Before Anyone Sees Them, Including You! Thirty Biggest Writing Goofs That Scream, ‘Silly Amateur Writer Person Trying to Write Some Good Word Stuff Very Okay!’ Twenty Secret Things Every Reader Wants, But You’re Not Stuffing In That Story! Ninety-Nine Ways To Make A Cardboard Character HOT Enough To Catch Cardboard on Fire! Sometimes, I’m not only afraid to think outside the box, but I’m afraid that the box has already swallowed me and is now digesting me in its sleep. But I swim on: typing, backspacing, re-typing, printing, experimenting, trying, retrying, and thinking, “Take your lists and go fold a box.” So, off to the book fair conference I go. It’s going to be a fact-finding mission if nothing else. I might dress up as a survivalist and hand out chunks of hard tack with a list, Top Ten Ways To Eat Hard Tack, as an introduction to Prepper Fiction. How’s that for thinking outside the box? Linda (Listing to the Right) Zern |
| I dislike the musical “Wicked.” Really. Really. I know. I know. I’m the only one. But to me, the message that society made her wicked because she was a weird color and smart is so blah, blah, blah. Everyone else did this to me, so I’m going to go steal my sister’s boyfriend—blah, blah, blah. I’ll show them wicked. Blah. Blah. Blah. Cue the spectacular production number and the flying monkeys. Listen up! I grew up in a house with a drinker, and drinking made him turn green—metaphorically speaking—and when he turned green he was wicked. I’m pretty sure that he had a million reasons to turn green. Blah. Blah. Blah. In the end, it doesn’t matter because the results were the same. Misery begets pain and pain begets hurt and hurt becomes misery, and yes everyone IS a hypocrite and round and round you go until someone drops a house on you. But you know what you get when everyone feels they have an excuse for why they can’t, won’t, don’t choose the right (and I mean right as in ***righteous or better, a better way to live) you get a world where you have to chain up your neighborhoods and password your life. If there is no “right” way to live and be happy then be prepared. Be prepared for people to feel justified in trying to steal your income tax return—three times. Be prepared for people to order a thousand dollar television in your husband’s name, have it delivered to your house, and then charge you for it. The television went back. Get ready for the endless passwords that you will not be able to remember but have to have to keep trillions of greedy hackers from stealing your special little numbers. Don’t be shocked when folks attempt to use your husband’s credit card to buy leopard skin boots—size infant. Be prepared for wicked—self-righteous wicked. According to all the studies and research and musicals, I should be green and wicked and drunk. But I’m not. I found a better way. I chose a better way. There is a better way. I don’t feel strong. I feel stubborn. And anyone can be stubborn. Linda (Designated Driver) Zern ***NOTE: I know. I know. The word righteous has become synonymous with the concept of self-righteousness which is bad, but that’s not what the word means. Righteous means choosing a better way despite society or jealousy of your beautiful, ditzy sister. It doesn’t mean getting even. |
| Miscellaneous Excuses Used Randomly It's been a bit of time since I've gathered my thoughts, posted my opining, and laughed at everything. What?? I've been busy. I finished a one hundred thousand word novel, mowed a lot of grass, pressure washed the barn once or twice and began to grow out my gray hair. Like I said, I've been busy. But here's a few random bits to tide us all over: Spoke at my first writer's conference last weekend and met some enthusiastic readers, writers, and Indian Chiefs. Had some fun eavesdropping. NOTE: If you are a writer you know the importance of hanging upside down from the eaves to be able to overhear real people trying to talk to each other. I met a fellow Indie writer who was excited to tell me that he publishes Kindle stories and that his UK fans are the BEST. Another excited writer overheard the discussion and with a lovely, lilting southern accent chimed in to declare, "Oh, you too. My husband is a crazy, wild fan of U. K." They tried talking around each other and to each other. I listened in fascination to the big, swirly mess of their attempts to communicate, because he was talking United Kingdom and she was saying University of Kentucky. To my knowledge, they never arrived on the same page. Random Conclusion: If it's that hard for two wordsmiths to communicate, what chance does the world have to figure stuff out? We gutted our kitchen . . . after the dishwasher motor burned out. Doesn't that sound frivolous and silly? I wish. The repair individual--not man, because who knows these days--put a new motor in our six-month-old dishwasher, neglecting to hook up the drain. I ran the dishwasher. It drained. It drained all the way to the baseboards. The floor started to float. We complained. The bosses paid for a new floor. We got uppity and thought, "Let's upgrade." The tile was fancy and cool, but it jacked up the dishwasher one-quarter inch so that it no longer fit in the wonky cabinet built by the original owner/builder. Time to tear out that cabinet which made all the other cabinets come tumbling down like dominoes (metaphorically speaking). Time to refinance the house, and rip the guts out of the nerve center of our home. Start over. Flip your lid. Remodel everything. Sure. Sure. What could go wrong? Random Conclusion: Live in the woods. Grandparenting is eighty percent fun and twenty percent worry. Parenting is twenty percent fun and eighty percent worry. As a grandparent I know that whatever weirdo thing those kids are going to do or are doing someday they're going to outgrow that goofiness—or not. Miscellaneous sentiment: Good luck, young parents, and God's speed. You're going to need it. I'll hold your coat while you worry. That's it for now. Like I said, "I'm busy trying to figure out if the tile guys are ever coming back since Home Depot finally found that last box of tile they shorted us." What could go wrong? Linda (Save the Date) Zern |
| Because we killed God and bulldozed Heaven, it’s impossible to get someone to repair the engine on my eleven-year old grandson’s go-cart. And that is no joke. Okay, okay. First things first. On the first day came the birthday go-cart: a great deal; on Craig’s list; needing a spark plug, and apparently, a total engine overhaul. When the groovy new but “gently used” go-cart showed signs of dead motor syndrome it was time to find someone with small engine savvy and a knack for saving the day. On the second day, it became the search for the holy grail of reputable go-cart repair. It’s not a huge job. The motor is small. The spark plug is one. The seats are low, and the fun is real. Phone calls commenced. On the third day-ish, it was discovered that no one is willing to work on go-carts and not because they’re hard or frustrating or tricky . . . They won’t work on them because no one wants the legal liability inherent in repairing a vehicle designed to give maximum thrills while flipping over when they hit slightly mounded gopher holes. Crazy times. I blame the ones that bulldozed Heaven. Without the promise of life after zits and middle age bulge and shingles and death (i.e. Heaven), people get weird about the here and the now. They want heavenly in a world where fire ants do the fire ant tango on babies. They want heaven in a world where dogs do bite, cats absolutely scratch, and the endings aren’t always happy. They want a place where nothing hurts, promises are kept, and everyone always does what they should. They want Heaven. And what do they get? Sued. Because when the world doesn’t turn out cotton candy swirly goodness, people sue and sue and sue—to get even, to get “fair,” to get what they “deserve.” Which makes it tough to find someone willing to take on the liability of working on a recreational vehicle built of pipe cleaners and bread ties. Sure. They’re out there, the ones who love the engines more than they fear the legal angels of lawful retribution. Sure. They live in storage sheds in strange off-grid communities ruled by real live super heroes with their own secret identities: Master Legend; Google it. Sherwood and Phillip found the go-cart repairman brushing his teeth in front of his storage shed in the hinterland of Orlando, who fixed the go-cart, who introduced them to another man, who is a super hero, patrolling the streets of greater Orlando on a motorized bicycle, ensuring truth, justice, and the American Way. Super heroes make the world righteous, and we love them for it. They’re not real, but don’t tell anyone, because they could get sued if the do-gooding goes awry. I blame the ones that bulldozed Heaven and then wanted heavenly returns on earthly dirt. Linda (Go-Go) Zern |
Sherwood’s horse, Charlie, made it to the nine-mile mark on the Osceola Sheriff’s Office fundraiser trail ride, and then he (the horse, not Sherwood) folded up like a camel on the side of the trail. Sherwood jumped off. It wasn’t very far to jump, he later reported. Possibly he was colicky (the horse, not Sherwood). He wasn’t. Possibly he was going lame. He wasn’t. Probably Charlie the Horse was tired and didn’t want to walk another step. It is quite likely that Charlie the Horse is smart, lazy, and thinking ahead. Sherwood brought him home early from the fund raiser, whereupon he (the horse, not Sherwood) ran out to his buddy (Tracker), frolicked, whinnied, and got back to the serious business of eating his weight in salad. Note to self: Try to outsmart the horse in 2017. I was supposed to be out riding with Sherwood and Charlie the Wonder Horse, but having contracted my traditional New Year’s viral snot head, I felt lousy and stayed home. At 3pm, when Sherwood’s horse was giving up his will to walk, I smelled smoke. I was already in bed and wrapped in a bathrobe, sans brassiere or eyebrows. I leaped to my feet, sniffing like a bloodhound. Smoke, burning rubber, and the odor of my own panic mixed about my head like gnats looking for a sweaty cowboy. Something was on fire. I checked outside to see if my neighbor was burning crazy crap. Nope. I screamed for my cell phone. It did not answer. I got lightheaded. I raced to find my phone. It was next to the bed, in its spot, charging—the sneaky bastard. Dialing 911 and struggling into my bra, I breathlessly reported a possible house fire. The ladder truck, fire chief, ambulance, and a cop roared into the yard ten minutes later. Facts: the garbage disposal tried to burn my house down; it was too hot to touch; there was a short in the wall switch; the fire fighters checked for heat signatures in the wall and turned off the power; they insisted I get an electrician. The boss fireman said, “Lady, this is exactly the kind of thing that burns down houses.” All the firemen were cute. I still had no eyebrows. Note to self: Start the kitchen remodel even if I have to take a sledge hammer to the garbage disposal myself. Two Sundays before these incidents, Sherwood tried to cut off the end of his thumb with a pocketknife, while trying to hack his way into a cinnamon candy cane. But that’s a story for another day—same year—but another day. Ahhhhh . . . 2017 . . . I’m worried already. Linda (Sniffle Gal) Zern |
| FYI: I haven’t felt represented by a president in the oval office since John F. Kennedy. There I’ve said it. It’s out there. Alienated, ignored, marginalized and discriminated against, that’s how I’ve felt for decades, and my feelings are bigger than the head of the Statue of Liberty and therefore really, really big—also important. Even my husband has been part of the problem. He looked at me the other day and said, “Hey! You have a lot of freckles. Have you always had that many freckles?” We’ve been married for almost forty years. Who’s he been looking at? “Yes, Dear. I have a lot of freckles, just like that actress that played Carrie in that horror movie where they made fun of the freckled girl and she crushed, stabbed, and burned them all to death with HER MIND.” Yeah. Her. The freckled chick. President Kennedy had freckles, red hair, and a permanent sunburn. He was my president. He made it okay to be a skinny white girl with freckles . . . but then the sixties happened and all the hippies got naked and tans without tan lines, and I was OUT. So for thirty years I’ve learned to live with the stigma of being really, really white except for the freckled bits. Sure, every once in a while the fashion industry throws up a billboard with somebody sporting some serious freckle action, but it’s a token tribute, probably to keep us from crushing, stabbing, and burning them to death with OUR MINDS. In the Middle Ages, spots, marks, moles, or birthmarks were proof that the devil had been making out with you in the middle of the night, and then they drowned you in a barrel. It’s a miracle any of us survived to pass on the genes that cause freckles. But here we are! Fact. No babies are born with freckles. It takes time and light to discover who the freckly ones are, and then it’s too late. By the time you figure it out they’re big enough to bite you if you don’t feed them. So, we’re here to stay. And President Kennedy made it possible to believe that even someone with freckles and a billionaire family can become president of the United States. Being a woman of freckles has made me sensitive to the endless slights about how blindingly white my legs are or how many freckles I’ve acquired over the years. It’s been a rough road overcoming the feeling that I might like to crush, stab, and burn a gymnasium full of bullies to death WITH MY MIND. But I’ve squashed that feeling like a slug in my garden because I’ve also learned that feelings are like blood: gushy, messy, and designed to stay inside. Linda (Dance With the Devil) Zern |
Origin and Etymology of the word FUN English dialect fun to hoax, perhaps alteration of Middle English fonnen, from fonne dupe, First Known Use: 1727 The holidays are over and our family had so much fun I may need a transfusion of sensible rubber garden shoes and straight-laced body shapers. There was fun food, fun games, fun conversations, fun traditions, fun gift giving, fun movie going, fun birthday-candle-blowing, and just for good measure fun wolf howling. It was a jolly good time and a ton of fun. Thank God it’s over. Fun is groovy, but I find it overrated at times. Fun starts out like a turn on that teacup ride at Disney. At first, it’s just a swirly good time, but by the end your neck is snapped back at a weird angle, and you’re praying for death. Swirly fun becomes a sucking whirlpool, dragging everyone down to the River Styx. And I know why. Fun used to mean, in the old un-fun days, hoax. “Okay, all you silly peasants wrapping a dead tree trunk with maypole ribbons, ain’t we having some fun now?” Sure, the peasants thought, beats digging through the muck all day. Their masters muttered, under their breath, “Fonne [meaning dupe].” And that’s how fun became the heart and soul of our modern world. Must have fun. Work equals muck. Anything muck related equals not fun. Dancing in circles around a dead tree trunk is better than muck lugging. Let’s dance. Or spin in a giant teacup until there’s vomit. Note: Fun is often circular in nature. The flaw in this thinking is that all that muck lugging kept the peasants in gruel and giant turkey legs. We’ve forgotten that. We’ve forgotten that growing gruel and giant turkeys is work, and it’s kind of important work because if there is anything in this world that should be considered without fun, it’s starving. It’s possible that fun has gotten a bit out of hand in our modern first world. Possible. More than peace, more than mercy, more than health, the young people that I know of pray to have fun. “Please [Lord] bless us to have fun.” No matter where they’re going, who they’re helping, or what they’re trying to accomplish. I wonder if our prayers aren’t better expressed, “Please, Lord, help us to learn, grow, develop, endure, empathize, understand, or move a lot of muck out of our lives.” Now don’t get me wrong. The holidays were a ton of fun. And I wouldn’t trade a single minute of fun for anything in the world. But let’s face it; it’s time to get back the muck lugging that keeps us all in giant turkey legs. Linda (Muck Witch) Zern |
Chapter 2 And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from the DMV that all the world should be about renewing their driver’s licenses, but mostly one Linda of Kissimmee Park. 2 (And this bureaucratic nonsense did vex Linda of Kissimmee Park.) 3 Yet she went to be renewed in her fifty-eighth year, only to see forth that her social security scrap of teensy paper was nowhere to be found, nay, not in all her bags and sacks and bundles and so her quest did begin to satisfy those that ‘rule by desks’ in the land of her birth in that selfsame year. 4 And Sherwood also went up to Kissimmee out of the city of Saint Cloud to keep his espoused wife from losing her mind (she being great with annoyance) in the obtaining of another scrap of teensy paper bearing record of her lineage and reality. 5 And while they were there, behold, it draweth nigh to Christmas and the time to speak forth of the many and great blessings that had come unto to the tribe of Zern in the year of the renewing of the license or the year of great vexation. 6 And the oldest of the tribe, one Aric of College Station and his wife, one Lauren of Saint Cloud, did bring forth their first born son and he was beloved of all. 7 And in this same year the family of Lorance did both pack their camels and asses and did travel over the land to Dallas of Texas and did bring forth their first born son and he was beloved of all. 8 And the tribe did grow great both in children and in tender mercies. And the children that were considered grand did number fourteen. And Zoe Baye did sing a solo at the community center; Conner grew strong in both reading and speaking; Emma read much and won second place in a contest of costumes at the place of books; Sadie and Kipling dideth go down into the waters of baptism; Zachary Jon grew in strength and grace to score many goals, Scout went from the nursery to primary, Leidy did walk and run, Reagan swam much and quickly, Hero rode forth on a horse without assistance, Ever Jane stood forth and walked, Gummy did try out his real name (Griffin), and both Silas and Boone delighted it the world and its adventures in their first year. 9 And their parents did plead for both patience and rest. 10 And Linda did make known the saying that when one is a parent, life is eighty percent worry and twenty percent fun, but when a grandparent those numbers being the opposite. It is eighty percent fun and twenty percent worry because of a sure knowledge that whatever weirdo thing those kids are doing they will some day outgrow—or not. 11 And so it was with us in the year of the great vexation. We did make merry but not unto death. And we did speak much of that which is deeply considered, finding the greatest happiness in both being together and eating much. Of our tribe it is said that verily even the infants speaketh forth their opinions. 12 And so we did make our way in both the lowlands of Florida and the great spaces of Texas to become mighty in both gratitude and love, for that which the Lord doth see fit to bless us with, now and forever. |
| My war was cold. I grew up waiting for the cold war to heat up. It never did. There were some tense moments when Castro invited the Russians to his island with their atomic bombs, and President Kennedy said, “Go home.” They went. In the meantime, I prepared for the cold war to go hot by hiding under my desk at school and every Saturday watching movies filled with mutants, fallout, and radiated wastelands. Those movies gave my bad dreams and ignited my imagination. My generation invented dystopian, futuristic, end-of-times storytelling. Godzilla wasn’t just a big lizard; he was also a metaphor for rampaging, worldwide destruction. Not to mention, he made a few bucks in the movies. I grew up thinking about fallout shelters and mutant monsters. And now I write “Prepper” fiction, among other genres. It’s a sub genre of fiction falling under science fiction but without the ray guns. It’s a category of action adventure with a futuristic theme but without the space aliens. It’s a kind of speculative writing but without the zombies. Humans are the zombies. Prepper fiction is a realistic, what-if, survival story. Pat Frank’s “Alas Babylon” written in the 1950’s, dealing with the aftermath of a nuclear war and set in Florida was a national best seller and is a classic example of the genre. Doomsday possibilities include: solar flares, EMP attacks, financial collapse, nuclear warfare, invasion, pandemic, ecological disasters, and the list goes on . . . Prepper fiction is an exercise in imagination. Prepper fiction can be frightening. Prepper fiction examines the collapse and re-formation of societal constructs. Prepper fiction deals with preparations for “doomsday” scenarios or the lack thereof . . . I’ve had people say to me that my books gave them bad dreams. At first, I was horrified and thought, “Oh no. What have I done?” But then, on future examination, I thought, after rubbing my hands together in glee, “Oh my! What have I done?!!” Prepper fiction is not your momma’s cotton candy romance, although romance in a doomsday setting can be much more intense and realistic than an average love story. Sex and pregnancy become a life and death theme without modern medicine. In a prepper novel, life becomes an exercise in imagination filled with “what if” questions. What if there’s no electric? What if I can’t refrigerate my food? What if I can’t buy gas? What if there’s no money? How would I find clean, drinking water? How do I stay clean? Preserve food? Stitch a wound? Set a bone? Pickle a cucumber? Keep bugs off? Have safe sex? Stay human and hopeful? Prepper fiction is action/adventure set in a realistic apocalyptic collapse of civilization that some people will be prepared for but most will not. It can be scary, intense, and upsetting. It can also get readers to think . . . and maybe, just maybe . . . prepare. Linda (Bunker Babe) Zern |
| People love horses in a parade and why not? They’re beautiful. They’re big. They’re mildly intimidating. They poop. They poop, a lot, which seems to shock and delight parade watchers. As a country girl I find the parade watcher’s shock and delight, shocking. When did society forget that animals do not use port-a-potties? Horses in parades pooping, redefines potty humor. Scooping poop behind a herd of horses is one step up from riding in the clown car at the circus. People love it. Ha. Ha. That horse just plopped a six-foot trail of masticated grass stuff and now you have to scoop it up. That’s hilarious. “It’s a crappy job, but somebody has to do it.” But why? Why is poop so darn, ‘stinking’ funny? We all do it, from the Queen of England to the hamster in the kid’s bedroom to the search and rescue horses in your community Veteran’s Day parade. It’s a biologic imperative or the biggest laugh at clown-college. I quit laughing at poop when I was nine. But I have a grown daughter (with five children) who still can’t not (yes, yes, a double negative) laugh at the idea of poop, the act of poop, or the cartoon depiction of poop. She’s a poop giggler. There’s a toy plastic pig that when you squeeze it, a plastic bubble of poop pops out of the pig’s bottom. She laughs—every single time. Squeeze. Laugh. Squeeze. Laugh. She’s a nine-year old boy. I don’t get it. Recently, my husband discovered that movie popcorn acts like radioactive poison on his internal plumbing. I can’t really go into details, but I will say that at one point after we’d arrived home from the movies and he’d retired to the room of rest, I thought my husband had died and his bowels had released. It had me wondering if the coroner had a one-eight hundred number. Later, he stuck his head out of the bathroom door and said, “Don’t come in here. No matter what.” He disappeared again. Popcorn? Who knew? Which brings us to dignity; there isn’t any. People telling you dignity is a God-given right forget that God designed the poop factor and the humor component associated with it. We come into this life in a haze of goo and go out of it in a pile of gick. Abandon dignity and start living. That’s my motto. If you need a jump-start, climb on board the poop wagon behind the mounted posse and scoop up a bucket full of road apples in front of dozens of strangers. It will make you laugh. It will surely bring you closer to the humble edge of self-deprecating humor. Linda (Scoop One, Drop Two) Zern |
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