And so it is. Many people are on their way back to work. Others are headed for school. Etcetera.
Philly fans are rejoicing at the dominate Super Bowl win. Chiefs fans are disillusioned and sad or angry, depending.
Monday comes with all the usual sighs, energy, or lack thereof.
How's Monday for you?
Father, every day you give us is a gift. Thank you is never enough. Please help me to make mine honor you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful.
. . .
Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.
Colossians 4: 2 and 6 (NIV)
For those who get the weekends off from their jobs, have a great Friday. For those who need the chance to relax after a hectic week however spent, enjoy your weekend. For those who elevate Fridays as the opportunity to somehow celebrate, be safe and laugh a lot.
Father, we thank you for each day of our weeks and lives. They aren't always what we hoped they would be, but in you, we know you have our backs. There is no better place to be than in your care, under your love. Thank you for saving me from myself. Apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Always fun to remember. My second summertime visit to The Flying Horseshoe Ranch in Teanaway Valley, Washington. My BFF and I were able to go for two weeks that summer. That's me with Minnie Ha Ha. Some of the best times of my young life.
Father, thank you for giving me a love for horses. The love of horses and writing stayed with me. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
The beauty of winter. The Lord's majestic designs.
Father, your creation of beauty is magnificent. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Frank Sinatra in his crooner mode. Here's to going way back to some of the great ones.
Thank you, Lord, for all those singers you've given us. May each one realize from whom their talent was given. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
From my novel . . . in a love song.
Two
Early June in this small eastern Washington town and the evening was still a bit warm. He inhaled the fresh night air, enjoying the hint of sage smell. Hands in his pressed Levis pockets, his self-shined boots took him back the way he came from his new home, a second floor furnished studio apartment in a glorified boarding house where he was grateful to pay the extra for the private bath in his room.
“Evenin’, Mr. Rivers.” Round in stature with silky silver hair that hung nearly to her waist when it wasn’t pulled away from her face in a tight and tidy bun, Eva Johnson identified him without looking up from her entryway desk she seemed to man 24 hours a day, although he knew she didn’t.
“Mrs. Johnson. You’re up late,” he replied, headed for the stairs.
“Uh huh. Sweet dreams, Mr. Rivers.” She glanced up after him, and he smiled at her.
He unlocked the door and knew it was going to be a long night of tossing and turning. The woman at the bar had taken up residence in his mind’s eye and other places he couldn’t deny. He cussed in frustration.
Seated on the bed he tugged hard on his boots, removed his socks, and rested his elbows on his knees staring at the floor and his bare feet. Thirty-five years come and gone so quickly. And remained unchanged. That rambling man approach to life hadn’t netted him much other than a good bank account because if there was one constant in his life, it was work. He always worked. Somewhere. Everywhere. He kept working.
He could’ve flirted with her, he supposed. Demonstrated his interest. Maybe even brought her home with him or went with her. But he thought not. Although he’d never quite understood them, he’d been with enough women to discern a few things about them. Most every one of them wanted some kind of respect but not near as much as they wanted some kind of love. This gal most likely had some guy like himself lay the big line about lovin’ her and then at some point walked out, leavin’ her in tears, feeling used and embarrassed but still in love enough to cry. He’d played that game enough times to know the results, although he’d never quite been able to write “I love you” into the script, and received no pleasure in the hurt he caused while knowing without a doubt it was time to move on.
And every time he couldn’t help but wonder what this thing called love really felt like.
He’d been fond of a few of the women in his life going back to his first real girlfriend in his high school years. Sandi Benton, the cheerleader without a big head on her shoulders, sweet and kind, and built like a woman. They’d been friends as kids, but she moved away in the fifth grade. By the time they were reunited as sophomores at the same high school, he wasn’t a kid anymore in so many ways.
He lay back on the double bed, his head resting in his hands. He wanted a cigarette, and he hadn’t smoked for probably five years with any consistency, but he kept a pack in his Jeep for times like this, debating whether or not to go get it out of the glove box. The welcome flow of nicotine might slow and subdue his other cravings, relax him enough to get some sleep.
Pulling himself up, he moved to the tiny open closet to retrieve his tennis shoes, jamming them on his feet without socks. Grabbing his keys, he slipped out of his room and tried to tread quietly down the stairs.
“Not sleepy, Mr. Rivers?”
He stammered, “Forgot somethin’ in the Jeep.”
“Uh huh.”
No one ever seemed able to jar his confidence. Not men of any age or women of any kind. But somehow Eva Johnson, proprietor and night owl, unsettled him with her few words and knowing looks from penetrating pretty hazel eyes. The first time he moseyed up the front steps of this huge old house with the massive wrap around porch sitting back off the cracked concrete road, he admired the lush green lawn and exorbitant foliage in the landscaped grounds surrounding it. Storybook material. When he turned the fancy glass doorknob and walked inside, Eva Johnson was standing in the lobby like she was expecting him.
“Don’t know how long you’re gonna stay, but it might be awhile? I have one room left with a bath in it. Cost ya more, but I figure you don’t mind what it costs.” She’d walked over to her desk then and handed him a map of the available rooms with the daily and monthly rates, placing a red X on the one with the private bathroom.
The lawn and flowers stopped at the back of the house where there was ample asphalt parking for guests who roomed there short or long term.
He stepped down the front steps and around the inlaid river rock walkway at the side of the massive house to the back where his old Wrangler with its oxidized paint displaying an unidentifiable color and 350,000 plus miles waited topless and of course unlocked in the farthest spot from the back door which was secured every night at 9 o’clock. He went directly to the passenger side, reached over to the glove box and grabbed his probably stale pack of Winstons, removing one and lighting it with a faded blue Bic lighter. Leaning against his rig, he smoked and breathed in the night air. The frogs and insects sang a busy melody while his eyes scanned the sky and found more stars than he’d seen in a lot of months and a moon almost full. The chill began to creep into the early morning hour and through the cotton of his western-cut baby blue shirt.
After taking his last drag, he made sure his tennis shoe ground the life of the cigarette to an absolute death. The scent of alfalfa reached his nose, and he took a deep whiff of one of his favorite smells. Without a hint he felt tears in his eyes and he swore in a whisper, using his sleeve to wipe his eyes. Closing the door of his Jeep, he walked swiftly back to the entrance of Eva’s Inn, figuring she’d still be there but hoping she wasn’t.
Only the low glow from a wall sconce remained in the lobby as he trudged up the stairs.
Father, amazing God, the Great I Am, thank you for stories, for the words to tell them. Thank you is never enough. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
For in Christ all the fullness of the Deity lives in bodily form, and you have been given fullness in Christ, who is the head over every power and authority.
Colossians 2:9 (NIV)
How about some Friday Five of my Favorite Things:
Dawn
The smell of alfalfa – fresh cut
Many Johnny Depp movies
Novels of course/writing mine
Spice Chai Tea – extra sweet
Just a few of my favorite things . . .
Father, you provide all good and perfect gifts. You've blessed me with so many. I can never thank you enough and apart from you, I can do nothing. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
Book 2 for me. Written as a fictional biography from both the omniscient and third person POV.
"Nicole Petrino-Salter allows the reader to witness the shaping of Joey Parr's soul. We are eyewitnesses to his journey from innocence to worldliness. From quiet invisibility to an uncomfortable fame, we participate in the unfolding of his life."
"Beautiful development of a troubled life. Joey is such a reflection of today's society. The Author took us into the soul of this child to adult, the pain, the fear, the emptiness, the joy the love and finally the meaning of life."
"A great look at a life that is messed up on the inside but looks like he has everything on the outside. Makes a Hollywood superstar into a relatable person."
"Make no doubt about it: this book is the story of Joey Parr. It begins with his childhood and progresses throughout his life and career, oftentimes reading like the most intense, gripping, and intriguing biography I had ever read. Joey's sense of emptiness and aloneness is evident from his childhood, and we watch as he grows up and tries to fill his emptiness. Sex. Drugs. The blues. It's his ability to sing the blues that jump-starts his Hollywood career. And that takes us from a story about Joey Parr, the kid, to Joey Parr, Hollywood superstar."
Thank you to all of those readers who truly "saw" the character Joey Parr. This author can't express the intense gratitude I feel for readers who've detailed their enjoyment of the book where I wrote my heart out in it to convey the depths of a character whose story I had to tell.
Father, I can never thank you enough for your gracious gifts to me, to allow me to write novels, to give me the inspiration, the characters, the words. All more than I could ever seek. Thank you is never enough. Please keep me writing, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.
