"Desolation Row": by Kay Kendall

Stairway Press
258 pages
Format:  Kindle, Paperback, Audible

About the Book:

The Cold War was the background theme of my childhood. An intercontinental ballistic missile was housed in a silo on the outskirts of my hometown.

The Vietnam War made my life’s course swerve, even though I didn’t fight.

In my debut mystery, “Desolation Row”, I treat that era as long-gone history, inspired by my favorite suspense stories set during World Wars I and II.

Oh yes, and my heroine, Austin Starr, turns into an amateur sleuth, motivated by reading too many Nancy Drew tales. After all, someone has to get her young husband, David Starr, released from jail.

The time—1968. The place—Toronto, Canada, where the Mounties are sure David murdered a US Senator’s son.

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Reviews:

"A brutal murder, a young woman fighting to prove her husband's innocence--DESOLATION ROW hooked me on page one. Author Kay Kendall knows how to burrow into your heart." ~~Author Norb Vonnegut

“A smart mystery … The clever structure, remarkable dialog, and subplots result in a wholly satisfying read. Packs a considerable punch. … Readers will look forward to seeing more of Kendall, with her formidable intellect, tart sense of humor, and resolute sense of justice. Unexpectedly magnificent. The author has written a story that engages you in the characters first and the mystery is the subplot.” ~MaryAnn Koopman

“The author is to be commended on two fronts. First, she's told a very absorbing story, and second, she's told it very well. When thinking about her writing style, the word "fluid" comes to mind. And, I can think of no better compliment to any writer!” ~Howard R.

“Desolation Row is a winner. The reader feels empathy for this displaced Texan struggling with the Canadian way of life while supporting her desire to try-out some CIA-investigative skills. Fast moving. And great characters. Enjoy!” ~Judi

“The book was very well written with likeable characters including a fast paced plot. It really gave off the air of living in those times when America was at war with itself. I highly recommend this book and look forward to reading more from this author!” ~Deb Krenzer

“I'm not a huge mystery fan, but this one caught and held my attention from the beginning…” ~G. Miller

“From the first page to the last, Kendall proves herself adept at weaving sinister suspense, painting backdrops so realistic you can feel the chill of Canadian winds and smell the cloying aroma of marijuana, and keeping all of Austin's sleuthing techniques within the realms of plausibility…” ~Christina Hamlett

“My husband and I both read this book at the same time. When either of us would put the Kindle down, the other one would grab it. We had continueing discussions over "who dunnit" going back and forth between several of the characters as new clues and story line twists were added.” ~Amy Rosson

“Captivating from the beginning! I loved it!” ~Carolyn Beall

Kay Kendall

About the Author

Kay Kendall grew up in the bucolic Flint Hills of Kansas but dreamt of returning to her father’s ancestral home of Texas and also of becoming a latter-day Nancy Drew or John le Carré.

Instead, higher education and circumstance led her down a long and winding road (footnote, the Beatles) to graduate studies in history at Harvard, to Canada, international corporate communications, work in Russia, and finally, finally, her beloved Texas.

In the spring of 2013, assisted by Stairway Press, she leapt in the direction of Nancy Drew and le Carré with publication of her debut historical mystery, “Desolation Row”.

Now Kay is writing her second Austin Starr mystery, “Rainy Day Women”, at her Texas home shared with her husband Bruce, Wills, their cavalier King Charles spaniel, plus five house rabbits. Her next aspiration is to become an author able to say she “lives part-time in the Cotswolds,” an anglophile’s version of her upbringing.

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“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Morels: Tis The Season

Photo credit: Chris Matherly

There’s just something about morels that drives people to madness.

That’s according to Chris Matherly, a self-described “morel obsessive,” who we spoke to when he was midway through a four-month-long hunt, chasing the hard-to-find mushroom from Georgia to Washington State.

Matherly left his Kennesaw, Georgia home in late March; he won’t return until early July, at the tail end of the morel growing season.

Because they’re elusive, “there’s something about the morel mushroom that just drives people crazy,” Matherly explained. “They get addicted.”

Even among the curious-looking oddballs of the mushroom kingdom, the morel sticks out. With its tall, honeycombed cap, it has the look of a Martian roe sac. Its unique appearance is both a blessing and a curse: There’s little chance of confusing a morel with any other mushroom (including a poisonous one), but its shape and coloring blend effortlessly into its forest-floor surroundings, making it difficult to spot.

Once located, however, the morel is a treat. “The flavor of them is just so unique, kind of nutty and earthy,” Matherly mused.

Among its fans are the hordes who follow Matherly into the woods at each stop along his morel-chasing route. Over the course of his trip, Matherly will host at least 10 guided morel hunts, each with a group of up to 30 fervid mushroom hunters. 

Matherly organizes the trips through his website, Morel Mushroom Hunting Club, which he started in 1999 and which boasts roughly 1,500 members. He says he’s booked solid through the fall. (During the year, Matherly hosts up to 50 foraging trips for other mushrooms and herbs.)

Morels can be found all over the United States, and each region’s season typically lasts for three or four weeks. The warmer the area, the earlier its morel season begins, Matherly explained. In Georgia, the first morels spring up in late February. By April, morels are beginning to sprout up the East coast, all the way up to Vermont. In May, they’re in northern Michigan, Oregon, and Washington.

All told, morels can be found somewhere in America right through the end of August. If you’re interested in finding some of your own, do your research and check Matherly’s Mushroom Report, which compiles morel sightings all over the country. (Right now, Ohioans, you’re in luck!)

Morels generally like to grow in the shady earth near the roots of trees, Matherly said. The type of tree depends on the region: In the flood plains of the Southeast, morels grow under ash trees. In the Midwest, they’re often found under dying elms. In the Pacific Northwest, morels favor firs, and in Kentucky and Tennessee, tulip poplar trees. And on and on.

And what exactly is a morel? “The mushroom that we pick is the fruiting body of an organism that grows underground,” he expounded. Morels “have a symbiotic relationship with certain trees… they get nutrients from the roots, and the mushroom’s root system gives trees extra moisture during droughts.”

Despite these subtle differences, all morels boast that tell-tale honeycomb cap and an earthy flavor. ”I never get tired of them, and I never get tired of hunting them,” Matherly said wistfully. “By August, I know that’s one of the last morels of the year. I start getting depressed. I’ve got to get back home to reality.”

Many morel-enthusiast websites (of which there are many) swear that the only way to properly enjoy morels is to sauté them in butter.

And whether you’re foraging your own morels or purchasing them at your neighborhood farmer’s market, take care to savor the season—morels will be gone before you know it.

[Article by Rachel Tepper, Associate Food Editor]

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

A Nurse's Story

It was approximately 8:30 a.m. on a busy morning when an elderly gentleman in his eighties arrived to have stitches removed from his thumb.

He told me kindly that he was in a hurry, because he had an appointment at 9:00 a.m.

I took his vital signs and asked him to please wait there in the room for one of the doctors.

I knew it was going to take more than an hour before someone would to able to attend to him. After I saw him check his watch anxiously for the time, I decided I would evaluate his wound, since I was not busy with another patient.

On examination, I saw that the wound was well healed. So, I spoke to one of the doctors to get the supplies I would need to remove his sutures and redress the wound.

We began to engage in a conversation while I was taking care of his wound. I asked him if he had another doctor’s appointment later, since he was in such a hurry.

The gentleman told me no.  He said that he needed to go to the nursing home to have breakfast with his wife. When I asked about her health, he told me that she had been in the nursing home for a while.  She was a victim of Alzheimer’s Disease.

I probed further and asked if he thought she would be upset if he was slightly late. He replied that she no longer knew who he was.  With his head down, he whispered softly that she had not been able to recognize him for the last five years.

Intrigued, I asked him, “And you still go every morning, even though she doesn’t know who you are?”

He smiled as he patted my hand and said, “No, she doesn’t know me, but I still know who she is.”

I had goose bumps, as I thought to myself, “That is the kind of love I want in my life.”

True love is neither physical, nor romantic. True love is an acceptance of all that is, has been, will be ... and will never be.

[Author Unknown]


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

A Child and a Mirror

Have you ever watched a toddler in front of a mirror?  It kinda' reminds me of my cat, Sidney, when he sees a sunbeam.  He just can't resist it.

Sidney can be running full-tilt through the living room and the minute he steps into a sunbeam, Wham!  It's like someone shot him.  He drops down, washes his face, stretches, gets all comfy and falls asleep -- in the sunbeam.

Now, if you want to keep a toddler entertained for more than a few minutes, stand him (or her) in front of a full-length mirror.  Be sure to have your camera ready, because you're in for some fun.  I tried it with my grandson while I was babysitting and it was priceless.

His first glance at the mirror was a little like he was making a new friend.  There was the tentative first look at the 'other child'.  Then he gave him a shy smile.  When the smile was returned, and feeling a little bolder, he went for the basic wave, which also was returned.

Next, he turned his back and peeked over his shoulder.  When the new friend copied him, he smiled again, and bravely stuck out his tongue.  Then, a kiss.

Once the 'introduction period' was over, he made a whole bunch of "can you do this?" moves.  Each was copied, (of course), which brought even more complicated face-pulling and body contortions.  It didn't take long before the two were 'best friends'.

From then on, it got sillier and sillier: somersaults, jumping up and down, rolling this way and that, lifting the shirt to compare belly buttons, and well, you'll just have to trust me.  Try it and see for yourself.

For me, the icing on the cake was the infectious laughter.  I'm happy to report the experiment was successful and all captured on film.

Now, I think my next project to watch in the mirror will be Robert, while he's shaving ...

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

A Box for Goodwill

A Box for Goodwill

As a friend, I had come to help

yet one more time

and I watched as she set 

the cardboard box on the floor.

It was labeled for Goodwill, 

penned in large block letters.

From deep in the closet, 

she brought out an old blue suit.

It had faded over the years, 

but I saw in her eyes

the memories still had not.

Softly, she smoothed the sleeves 

that dangled flat and empty.

Then she stroked the slack trousers

on the smooth wooden hanger.

Gently, she brushed 

the dust from the collar and lapel, 

and then I heard her sigh.

Her resolve had melted away.

Again we talked and remembered.

We spoke of long ago, 

how the sleeves encircled her

in warm secure hugs, 

and the trousers had covered 

lean muscular legs, 

legs slightly bowed, 

legs that loved to dance, 

and what she missed the most

--the heart that beat below

the lapel of the old blue suit, 

the heart that beat with love for her.

For over forty years, 

the suit had stood sentinel, 

loyally guarding both her

and those memories, 

and I watched as she carefully

replaced the suit and closed

the closet door.

Through quiet tears

she asked once more

how all of that could ever fit

in a box for Goodwill. 

[From CJ's Book, "Anatomy of a Poet"]

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Reviews:

"I have only recently become aware of this author and her work and am amazed not only with the diversity in her writings but also the resiliency she has exhibited over her lifetime. One fine author and a magnificent lady. I highly recommend this book with its compilation of meaningful and thought provoking poetry.~Tom C.

"I would recommend this book to all lovers of poetry and, especially, to those who think they are not."
~Mrs. C. I. Campbell

"Heck is very sensual, very honest, and writes in a very lucid manner. I find in myself [with most poetry] an impatience, "Oh for crying out loud, just say it," leading to lassitude and eventual cerebral failure. Not so with this work, her raw emotions and sensuality had my attention. I believe this is the only poetry book that I ever finished." ~Henry Le Nav

"In the pages of this book, you will find powerful, thought-provoking, sensual , and beautifully written poetry from the heart." ~Susan L. Parkins

"I just finished reading C.J.Heck's, book last night and enjoyed it very much. She definitely has a way with words, that will make you laugh and cry, and feel things deeply. She writes from her heart and soul, and her words will definitely make a lasting impression." ~Rebecca Carden

"Totally open and honestly expressed in a variety of poetic styles, each matched to her emotions of the moment. A damn good and honest work." ~John David Lionel Brooke

"I came away from reading this book, the first time, with a peace about my life and how I have lived it. I keep going back and rereading parts of it ... and then rereading the whole section. I better understand the lessons I have been taught and have more faith about the path I am following. A whole lot for a little book to accomplish." ~MaryAnn

"This book has the most amazing and true feelings I have read. She put into words what most of us are afraid to put in writing." ~Margie

"A truly wonderful read, that I recommend highly! You won't be disappointed." ~Joyce Bowling

"Here we have a collection of poems by a woman who writes from the heart ... The headline poem, `Anatomy of a Poet' fulfills the writerly code to go into scary places or don't go at all. "The poet, the woman, the me." completes the poem, throwing back the covers in a heated final exposure. Heck's reference in her signature poem is good advice for any aspiring poet: "swirling eddies, some without rhyme," often come across better than stylized word searching or stretching for rhyme ever could.

...`Anatomy of a Poet' may have been written by a children's book author, but it's poetry for grownups." ~Byron Edgington [Author of The Sky Behind Me: A Memoir of Flying & Life]

Spider Surprise in the New House

Story by Rachel DeBorde 

Maricopa, Arizona

We moved from the Pacific Northwest to Arizona in spring, just as the drywallers were finishing up our house. As I worked around them, I noticed something dark in a corner of the ceiling. When I asked the worker near it what it was, he squinted up and said, “It’s a wolf.”

I stared at the fist-size spot, picturing a large, wild canine. “A wolf?” I echoed. He smiled and explained, “A spider. A wolf spider.”

A wolf spider? The blood drained from my face.

His co-worker added, “We call ’em Arizona tarantulas.”

As if on cue, this wolf-spider-tarantula unfurled its eight long, furry legs and started skittering across the wall. I screamed, scooped up my toddler and made for the farthest corner.

Once I discovered I couldn’t pass through walls, I took long, deep breaths to calm down. Three concerned men stared at me. One softly asked, “Ma’am, are you OK?”

I squeaked, “Please, please, get rid of it! Take it outside!”

One of the men rolled over an enormous Shop-Vac and trained the hose on the monster spider. Nothing. The arachnid stayed put. We actually heard the motor chug. Finally—pop!—the spider disappeared down the nozzle. 

The gentleman operating it flipped the vacuum’s switch and, with a flourish, blew across the end of the hose, gunfighter-style. “All gone, ma’am. It’s dead now.”

I crept from my corner. “Are you absolutely sure?”

Proudly, he tapped the appliance and said, “This is an industrial Shop-Vac. No way it survived.”

With a deep breath, I pressed, “You’re positive? It’s really, definitely dead, right?”

“Blown to bits by the suction,” he assured me.

Another worker stepped forward to say, “Look, I’ll show you.” Unbuckling the lid, he said, “It’s nothing but mush now.” He flipped it wide open and confidently invited me to look inside. Before I could move, out bounced our hairy little friend.

Now it wasn’t just me screaming—I had three backup singers. Together the four of us belted out the loudest, girliest shrieks ever shrieked. Surely people heard us a mile away.

To their credit, the men instantly regained their composure. While I kept up the howling in my safe corner, they recaptured the beast and took it outside. When it comes to spider removal, it turns out my hungry chickens are more effective than the mightiest vacuum cleaner.

I gave my trio of heroes the rest of the day off, then took my child and a big glass of wine and lay down in complete humiliation. 

Eventually I would educate myself on all the local creepy-crawlies to avoid another spider surprise and thereafter give them a wide berth. After all, a spider that can take on a Shop-Vac and live to make three grown men sing soprano has my deepest respect.

Illustration by Kevin Rechin


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Fishin' with Grampa

"A child needs a grandparent, anybody's grandparent, to grow a little more securely into an unfamiliar world."  ~Charles and Ann Morse

I remember when my grandparents retired and moved to Florida. I was in the eighth grade. I also remember how Mama missed them when they moved.

We kids missed them too, but it wasn't quite the same as it was for Mama.  Now that I'm an adult and living so far from my own daughters and grandchildren, I can understand.

We were at grandma and grampa's all the time, when they lived in Ohio at Will's Creek, right next to the river. Sometimes, we'd sleep over, while Mama and Daddy went Christmas shopping, or just needed to get away for the weekend.

There were always so many things to do there, and Grampa and Grandma were so good at teaching us things that we hadn't done before.

Both of them worked in Coshocton. Every spring, the river overflowed its banks when the snow melted and ran down from the hills above. To solve the problem of getting home while the water was over the road, Grampa tied a rowboat to a tree on the far side. Then they rowed to the other side and walked the rest of the way up to the cottage.

That was always such an adventure.  I used to pretend I was an indian and the rowboat was a handmade birch canoe.  That same rowboat took us fishing on the river in the summertime.

Grampa would only take one or two of us at a time, because there was a right way and a wrong way to do everything with Grampa Shannon --  he taught us the right way to fish, too.

We learned first that we had to be real quiet, "so's you won't scare the fish away"; how to thread the worm onto the hook; how to safely hold the sunfish or bluegill to take it off the hook; and how to thread the large clasp through their gills and out the mouth, so we could keep the fish all tied together in the water just below the side of the boat. We also had to learn how to clean, scale and filet the fish when we got back to the cottage so Grandma could "cook 'em up".

Grandma always packed a picnic lunch to take with us, along with a plastic pitcher of lemonade, or iced tea. I remember staring at the icky worm-goo on my fingers and the fishy smell of my hands and wondering how in the world I was supposed to eat my sandwich. Well, there was a right way to clean up so you could eat, too.

Grampa said, "CJ, don't be such a crybaby." (Grampa was the only one to ever call me "CJ" back then). Anyway, Grampa showed me how to wash up for lunch when you're fishing in a rowboat out on the river.

"CJ, stick your hands over the side in the water there. Now rub 'em together ... see? They're clean. Now, eat your lunch."

... how I miss him now.

A Little Common Sense From an Old Cowboy

 by Michael Traveler

Your fences need to be horse-high, pig-tight and bull-strong.

Keep skunks and bankers at a distance.

Life is simpler when you plow around the stump.

A bumble bee is considerably faster than a John Deere tractor.

Words that soak into your ears are whispered… not yelled.

Meanness don’t jes’ happen overnight.

Forgive your enemies; it messes up their heads.

Do not corner something that you know is meaner than you.

It don’t take a very big person to carry a grudge.

You cannot unsay a cruel word.

Every path has a few puddles.

When you wallow with pigs, expect to get dirty.

The best sermons are lived, not preached.

Most of the stuff people worry about ain’t never gonna happen anyway.

Don’t judge folks by their relatives.

Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.

Live a good, honorable life… Then when you get older and think back, you’ll enjoy it a second time.

Don ‘t interfere with somethin’ that ain’t bothering you none.

Timing has a lot to do with the outcome of a Rain dance.

If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop diggin’.

Sometimes you get, and sometimes you get got.

The biggest troublemaker you’ll probably ever have to deal with, watches you from the mirror every mornin’.

Always drink upstream from the herd.

Good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from bad judgment.

Lettin’ the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier than puttin’ it back in.

If you get to thinkin’ you’re a person of some influence, try orderin’ somebody else’s dog around..

Live simply. Love generously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. Leave the rest to God.

Don’t pick a fight with an old man. If he is too old to fight, he’ll just kill you.

[Michael Traveler is the author of "Miracle Road" and "Postcards from the Backroads"].

To Buy or Read Excerpts from "Miracle Road"

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