Friday, March 29, 2013


 By Author Roy Murry

It took me many years to learn the concept of Forgiveness and how to use it.  Now at the age of sixty five, I enjoy the pleasure of making it part of my daily life.  I feel that I will not die, as we all will someday, with any baggage that non-use of the power of Forgiveness seems to fester in one’s subconscious.

Many religions believe in the power of Forgiveness.  Being a Gnostic believing in Self-realization, I have found, as Ralph Waldo Emerson noted in Self-Reliance, that a person of faith must believe in their own thoughts first over all others.

So when I use the Lord’s Prayer of Forgiveness a number of times a day, I’m relieving myself of holding in my mind whatever stupid act came my way at the moment.  It could have been an act against me or some stupid thing I did.

This could have been a minor act like a person telling me something erroneous or calling me a name.  I forgive them immediately – the thought of the act is gone.  Or like a major act against me that changed my life, like my divorce which was one sided.  It took a while, but when forgiveness kicked in my life changed for the better.

When little things happen in the day: a person almost hits your car because their driving while on their cell phone; a bartender puts too much water in your whisky; someone lies to you; a customer is a pain; or when a person on the telephone puts you on hold for it seems like twenty minutes, forgive them for they do not know what they’re doing or something outside your control has happened.

That forgiveness will lower your blood pressure and make you feel better.  The event will disappear and so will any short lived bad feelings you had in your subconscious.

The use of constantly forgiving another and oneself will alleviate you of all the sleepless nights and all the pills one takes to get a good night’s rest.  So when the boss says he needs you an extra hour after your normal day when you must do something else important to you.  Do it with a smile and Forgive him for being an ass.

You’ll sleep better.

Author R. Murry:

Father and grandfather, Green Beret Operation & Intelligence Specialist in the Vietnam War, Bronze Star recipient for Meritorious Achievement, BSA Degree from Bentley College, 1974, minor in English, president ofPDE, the Honorary Journalism Society, editor-in-chief of the Yearbook, twenty five years in the Caribbean Hospitality Industry, and presently: semi-retired.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013


By Jude Urbanski

“Can he stay for a month?”

I heard the plea in my nephew’s voice as he asked whether his father, my oldest brother, could visit for a month. My nephew lives on the East coast and his father on the West coast.

A bubbly gulp rose in my throat. A month was a long time. To say nothing of deadlines I had to keep and meetings expecting my attendance. Could I do it? I knew my nephew wouldn’t ask, if it wasn’t important.  I also knew I might be in this position sometime in my life.  My husband and I had just recently mused ‘who would be there for us,’ but with the question, knew our children would be.

“Yes.” There was no other response. I practically felt his relief through the phone wires. He was concerned and caring.

“I’m worried about Dad. He needs to get away from….”  

My nephew went on to detail several significant and serious reasons my brother needed to get away from his present environment for a while.  Life had become hard for my brother, who practiced denial well and thought he was still 50 or 60. He had already buried a wife and two daughters.

I agreed to his visit, all the while aware this was a brother I had spent precious little time around. He’s the beginning of our huge family and I’m almost the end. He could be my father as far as age. He left to join the Navy for World War II when I born. He served all over the world, retired from the Navy, turned artist with his God-given skills, and until a year or so ago, still fit into his uniform, marched in parades and went into school to tell kids about WWII. 

I have always held him in high esteem.

But could I take care of him well for a month? I questioned this more after expected family assistance did not materialize. The month, while not easy, unfolded with a cousins’ reunion more precious than money could buy, an Ohio WWII luncheon in which my brother ended up the key note speaker, a southern trip to the land of his birth where he received a hero’s welcome.

I got to know my brother as I’d never known him before and realize this will probably be the last time I see him. He left yesterday for his son’s home in Maryland. What the next step will be I don’t know, but I do know God had a plan for my brother’s visit and his visit to my household specifically.

Jude Urbanski, pen name for Judy Martin Urban, writes women’s fiction with inspirational romance. She loves to weave stories about strong characters spinning tragedy into triumph with God’s help. She is published in fiction and nonfiction. She is a member of ACFW and National League of American Pen Women.
Her latest book Nurtured in Purple, is book two in The Chronicles of Chanute Crossing and is published by Desert Breeze Publishing (

Find Jude at:

Monday, March 25, 2013


Lillian Duncan

When we’re young (meaning twenties, thirties, and maybe even your forties), we all dream of that day! You know the day—retirement day! We dream of doing nothing but our favorite past times—reading on a veranda sipping a cold drink—lemonade if you will.

That’s our dream until reality sets in!

Sure I still plan on doing some of that lemonade-sipping reading on my veranda. OK—it’s really a deck but I can pretend it’s a veranda if I want. But the truth is all play and no work makes me a very bored and boring person!
And who wants that?
Not me! And hopefully not you either!!
So what then shall we do?
It’s time for ACT TWO.
ACT TWO is different for each of us. But make no mistake there needs to be an ACT TWO for each us as we retire from our daily jobs. Studies show that a lot of people die within six months of retirement.
And sadly, I’ve known people that fell right into those statistics.
We work all our lives so we can enjoy our retirement but when we get there, it may not be quite as fulfilling as we’d dreamed of.
Why would that be?
I believe we all need to have a purpose in life, no matter what age we are. When that purpose disappears so does our reason for living. And that’s not a good thing!
That’s why we need ACT TWO.
ACT TWO gives us a new purpose in life or better yet purposes!
Be creative when developing ACT TWO. It should include leisure activities if that’s something you enjoy, but it should include activities that are meaningful and useful to yourself and/or to others as well.
My ACT TWO includes developing and growing my writing career as a mystery/suspense writer, but that’s not all it includes. Just a few weeks ago, I gave away my good set of china that I’ve owned for more than forty years!

Why? So, I can do what I’ve wanted to do for years, but never did.  I’m going to buy a new set of dishes—one piece at a time. My way. I plan to buy depression glass—all pink but all different pieces. 

How fun does that sound?

I can’t wait to get started and, by the way, I plan to use it as my daily set of dishes as well! What’s the point of saving it for a special dinner? Every day’s special!
My ACT TWO includes other activities as well, but I want to hear about your plans now. What’s on your agenda for ACT TWO?

Lillian Duncan is a multi-published author. Her most recent releases include, The Christmas Stalking, Deception, and PursuedBetrayed will be released in 2013. She writes the types of books she likes to read—fast-paced suspense with a touch of romance.
To learn more about Lillian and her books, you may visit her at or her blog, Tiaras & Tennis Shoes at  She also has a devotional blog at


Friday, March 22, 2013

Maybe Not So Clever

By Chuck Petterson

Okay Geezers, this is just for you. If you were born after 1950 you probably won’t understand.

When I was a youngster growing up in Minnesota, the famous Florida attractions were Cypress Gardens and Silver Springs. Orlando wasn’t anything more than a sleepy town surrounded by swamp. Another famous stop near Miami was (is) Parrott Jungle.

Yes, there are many others, but this isn’t a travelogue.  My point is that the stars of our youth have long faded. I was slow to appreciate this fact of life when I gave title to my novel, Polar Bear in Parrot Jungle. The title was to imply something completely in the wrong setting, which is the basis for the story.

I visited Parrot Jungle in the mid-70s with my wife during a work-vacation trip. I had heard about this attraction when I was a child, and I figured at least every adult from Boston to Miami also knew of it. Not the case.

I did not consider how few people are well traveled enough to have even been in a neighboring state. I failed to appreciate how many people think “Disney” is a separate country, not part of one of the 50 states.

My reference turned out to be of no significance to anyone I have talked to, even my snowbird friends. For sure the cover art doesn’t help any, but that was kind of constrained by having to avoid using an actual picture of Parrot Jungle.

The lesson I have learned is that subtle and clever has to be approached carefully when thinking about a book title.  YOU may understand the connection, but don’t count on ANYONE else, not a single soul in the English-speaking world, to make the connection.

As an aside, I have banged my head against the virtual wall to come up with another title.  I am sure my ego is fighting with my creativity, preventing a brilliant idea from coming to mind. I would happily retitle and buy new cover art, if I weren’t so clever.

Charles (Chuck) Petterson lives with his wife of 43 years in rural Harrison County, Iowa. Following graduation from Roosevelt High School in Minneapolis, Minnesota, Chuck enlisted in the Navy. He spent seven and a half years at sea with the Atlantic Submarine Force after two years of training as a nuclear plant operator. He worked for Westinghouse Electric Corporation as a nuclear instructor and field engineer for 18 years. Since 1991 Chuck has been an independent technical writer specializing in proprietary documents for electric utilities and industrial thermal facilities.

Chuck’s creative outlets include playing saxophone in a variety of community concert bands and dance bands. His writing efforts include contributions to a variety of hobby interest publications.  Polar Bear in Parrot Jungle is the first novel length story offered to the public.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Hiss of Death


I think it was FDR who said, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." While I'm clearly not qualified to second-guess a man of Mr. Roosevelt's stature and wisdom, I beg to differ. While fear is indeed a powerful force, there are a couple of glaring omissions in that famous statement and if it were up to me, I'd amend it to read, "We have nothing to fear but fear itself--and of course, big hairy spiders and slimy, good-for-nothing snakes.

Low down, good-for-nothing snake.
There. Doesn't that make a lot more sense? 

Up to this point, I've handled spiders in much the same way as most other women do. I leave their demise (the crueler, the quicker, the better) to someone who is larger than me--and immeasurably taller, heavier and wearing bigger spider-thumpin' boots than his victim. As a child, I turned to my father; at home, I leave it to my son-in-law; elsewhere, it's any man who's handy at the moment. I wouldn't care if the President was busy delivering a State of the Union address--if I found a spider anywhere within a three-mile radius and he was the only man in the vicinity, it would be up to him to kill it.  And I mean right then. The sooner, the better. No thinking about it, no emergency Cabinet sessions, no stalling for the appropriate moment, no quibbling over the definition of the word "kill."  Now. 
My preferred method (and the one I always suggest to my hired gun) is to first drown the spider with an entire spray can of toxic chemical, stomp it into an unrecognizable goo, then grind the goo into the ground/floor/cement, and follow up with final flushing down the toilet. If it were up to me, I'd add firepower, flames and explosive devices to the routine, but none of the men I've depended on over the years to do my dirty work would allow it. Wimps.
Snakes, unfortunately, are a different story. You don't often spray a snake to death, stomping them to smithereens is a bit too messy, and flushing them down the toilet is just not an option. In addition, snakes are sneaky, slimy and shiftless. In short, snakes are the enemy.
Well, I have met the enemy--and his name is Sam. He's an extraordinarily ugly little guy and lives in our gardening shed, along with some equally disgusting spiders, I'm sure. As if having the devil's playmate (and his henchmen) living in my back yard weren't bad enough, I have reason to believe the little demon's stalking me. I feel his beady eyes watching me whenever I venture outside the back door. He is, as my Dad would say, nothing but a lowdown, rotten snake-in-the-grass.
I'm not sure what kind of snake Sam is. I've never gotten close enough to look. Frankly, it wouldn't matter to me if he were St. Snake of Assisi--I'd still detest him. For a brief time this spring, I entertained a faint hope that he'd moved to Timbuktu or Siberia--or better yet, just plain died. But, oh no. Not Sam. He just grew longer and fatter and sneakier and slimier over the winter months. He also acquired a family and occasionally, his son (dubbed... what else? "Son of Sam") comes out to sun himself with his creepy dad. I'm sure he's being taught everything Sam, Sr. knows about the fine art of stalking. I shudder to think of it.
I must admit that the snake species hasn't had many good role models over the years. None, in fact. The first and most notorious of those role models brought eternal sin to mankind and our relationship with the serpent kingdom has gone downhill ever since. There are no fairy tales starring adorable snakes, you won't ever find one (thank goodness) tucked into a stocking come Christmas morning, and you seldom see a baby nursery decorated in a spiffy pastel "fang and rattler" theme. Still, a lot of God's creatures grow up with no moral guidance or parental support and you don't find them dangling from tree limbs enticing humans into a life of sin. No, the snake, by nature, is a morally depraved creature and as such, deserves our scorn.
But summer is over and, hopefully, the cold, hard winter will take its toll on Sam and his brood. I guess I'll find out next spring. In the meantime, I can still feel his little devil eyes boring into me as he watches my every move. Recently, I ran across a snakeskin--a grotesque reminder of his nasty intentions. The message was clear. I could almost hear his obscene little hiss: "I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm still stalking you. And now.... I'm naked."

Deborah Dee Harper (formerly from Michigan, Kentucky, Alaska, Mississippi, back to Alaska, and now Tennessee) still hates snakes and spiders. She's the mother to three, grandmother to six, and lives with her oldest daughter and her husband and their 18-month-old daughter (Molly), three cats, a black lab, a rabbit, and eight hermit crabs. Deborah writes inspirational and humorous Christian fiction for both children and adults. Her children's adventure book, Laramie on the Lam, was recently published and she just signed a three-book contract for an adult Christian fiction series. The first book, Misstep, will be published soon.
She can be reached at or She'd love to hear from you!

Monday, March 18, 2013

Stringing Pearls, Sipping Tea, Peppermints and Jungle Gardenia

By JoAnn Durgin

As much as writing fiction is a driving passion at this stage of my life, I adore the opportunity to occasionally write about my “real life.”

Of course, many of my experiences have eventually found their way into a book. As such, I believe they lend a certain depth of realism that resonates with the reader. Both good and bad, bittersweet or joyous, my unique memories have shaped me into the woman I am today. I’d like to share with you some memories of my Granny, my Dad’s mother. I am independent like Granny. My daughter, Chelsea, resembles her physically and I can see my grandmother in my daughter’s smile. Granny taught me to be strong in the face of adversity and follow my dreams. I like to think I inherited some of her creativity and sense of humor, as well as her positivity and optimism.

When I was three, my parents divorced—a still rather uncommon event at that time. As she tells it, my mom was tired of my Dad’s “ridiculous dreams,” including his elaborate plans to build a bomb shelter in the midst of the Cuban Missile Crisis and his proclivity to chain smoke cigarettes. In some ways, I’m not sure he knew how to be a father. But in the quiet ways, he showed us he loved us by building things with his hands, including an elaborate dollhouse for me, complete with working electricity and chandeliers hand-beaded by Granny.

After they divorced, Daddy picked up my older brother and me on alternate weekends and he’d take us to visit Granny (with whom he lived at the time) a few miles away. She lived in an old but well-maintained two-story white house on Utica Pike, a narrow, two-lane road and homes with long, gravel driveways and sweeping front yards dotted with large weeping willow and gorgeous mimosa trees. We’d bake apple pies with fruit we picked in the backyard, string pearls, sip iced tea on the screened-in summer porch. My brother and I played with some of the same toys that belonged to my dad and his two brothers—antique toy soldiers probably worth a small fortune today. We listened to her stories of our grandfather’s and father’s respective stints in the Army and heard many a tale about the great flood of ’37 (the “big one” that destroyed their favorite puppet show theatre). Stories of when the Ohio River froze over and they could slip and slide from Indiana to Kentucky. Tales of the Happy Hunting Grounds, her term for Heaven. Granny smelled of peppermints and Jungle Gardenia. She wore handknitted dresses she made with her increasingly arthritic hands. And she had a stole made from a real fox—head included—that scared us to death.

Some of my sweetest memories are sitting in her front yard, cheering on the Belle of Louisville steamboat as it raced Cincinnati’s Delta Queen on the Ohio River in late April, a week or two before the Kentucky Derby each year. When I was seven, Granny took me to the National Doll Club Convention, held in Louisville that year. I’ll admit I was embarrassed to be dressed up like a doll. Even had a write-up in the local newspaper, “Living Doll Attends Doll Show” featuring a photo of me in the dress she made and my doll with a matching outfit. I’ll never forget the pride in Granny’s voice as she introduced me to her doll club collector friends and bragged about how talented and special I was. She believed in me, and I’ll never forget that.

By this time, Daddy had remarried and, for various reasons, there was a period of time when we didn’t see him—or Granny—as much. Before I knew it, I’d graduated from high school and then college and moved to Dallas, independent and ready to greet the world and make my mark. I saw Granny every time I came home for the holidays and she was spunky and active as ever although she’d finally moved into a retirement center. She was born for a place like that. When she started painting in her 70s or thereabouts, she called herself a “Grandma Moses wannabe.” Granny lived the type of life all of us would wish—rich and full with laughter, faith, family and friends. She had a heart attack at 82, and the Lord kept her around long enough to gather her three boys beside her to tell them she loved them before she made the leap into the Happy Hunting Grounds and onto the next adventure.

Yes, Granny had a very strong influence on the woman I am today, the mother I am today and yes, the writer I am today. If you’ve read my debut novel, Awakening, you might recognize my heroine Lexa’s grandmother, Nana, down to the details of stringing pearls and sipping tea on the summer porch. And yes, even a mention of the Happy Hunting Grounds. She taught me that—with the Lord’s help—I could do whatever I wanted. Dream big. And so I did.

I trust you have a “Granny” in your life, whether in cherished memories or beside you to hold your hand and help you see the best in people and life’s situations, both good and bad.

Sleep well, Granny. I love you dearly, and I’ll see you again one day.
Blessings, friends. Matthew 5:16

JoAnn lives with her husband, Jim, and three children in her native southern (stress that part) Indiana. She's a full-time estate administration paralegal by day and contemporary Christian romance author by night. Daydreams, the fourth in her popular Lewis Legacy Series, just released from Torn Veil Books. Meet Me Under the Mistletoe, a Christmas novella from Pelican Group/White Rose Publishers, released in late 2012, as well as Please, a short fiction piece in I Choose You, an anthology of love stories released in late 2012 from Oak Tara Publishers. She'd love to hear from you via her website at or on Facebook at her Author JoAnn Durgin page.
Note: This was originally published on Christine Lindsay's blog on March 4, 2013.

Friday, March 15, 2013


By Carol Howell

Did you know Moses was 80 when God called him to talk to Pharaoh about freeing the Israelites?   

Moses was an old dude, for sure.  

Then God decided to give Moses a break, and He arranged for Aaron to come along and help Moses.  Guess what?  Aaron was 83!  Now I’m not so sure I would consider an 83 year old man to be much of a helper, but we all know God has a sense of humor.

Our pastor used this passage of scripture in Exodus as the text for his sermon this week. 

 Being someone who works with senior citizens every day, and someone who writes about senior citizens in both blog and book format, this little tidbit of information on Moses and Aaron caught my attention.

I think it is one of the ways God reminds us to recognize the benefit senior citizens have in our lives.  

We are often quick to disregard their stories or ideas.  We seem to forget they have knowledge beyond anything we have experienced.  We ignore their education, both formal and informal.

God decided to call on the wisdom Moses had gained in his 80 years on Earth, and He enhanced that wisdom with Aaron and his talents garnered through 83 years of being alive.  If God looks this way on the senior citizens, shouldn’t we?  Hope that gives you Something To Ponder.

Carol Howell is a Certified Dementia Specialist and Music Therapy Coach.  Her book - If My Body Is A Temple, Why Am I Eating Doughnuts? - is available for e-readers at and .  She is currently taking orders for her soon to be released book - Let's Talk Dementia ...With A Splash of Humor.   Contact her at or read more at   

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Mrs. Nash-Finch

Charles A. Petterson

Forget what Dickens wrote. It was the worst of times. Dr. Kelly went south for the winter and Ed Kenton got bailed out by a niece who thinks he has some money. (You have to love Ed for maintaining that illusion!) Sure, Tom Bradley was still around but there are very few card games one can enjoy two handed except cribbage and Tom is a bridge snob, so screw him. Tom and I partner for bridge, but that means having to play with two women.  You can guess what that means.

I thought of calling my nephew in Minnesota to see if I could use his ice fishing house for a few weeks, but that would more than likely mean he would want to be there with me on a weekend, so I scuttled that idea.
I called Mike Darcy, but he said he was laid up with gout.

Most of my address book is crossed out. That’s the one thing they never tell you about outliving your classmates: none of your friends will be at your funeral.

I was not in a good mood to start with and it deteriorated from there as Marjory Bennett (William’s widow) came into the common area. Her voice can peel paint, even the real good stuff. “Peter, are you here for “Trip to Hollywood” trivia?”

I would have ignored her if she had stayed near the coffee pot, but she was walking toward me. “No, Marge, I only know one movie trivia item. I’m afraid I wouldn’t add much to the rollicking good time that is in store for you gals this afternoon. But I will admit our social director comes up with ingenious ways to keep us content.”

“Really Peter! There is no need for sarcasm. Miss Fletcher does an excellent job with activities. She is much better than that Jones girl we had in here last month.”

“If you say so. She didn’t schedule birthday party.”

“Maybe there isn’t one this month. Last month there were seven.”

“Yeah, well I’ll just sing happy birthday to myself next week.”

“Is that what you’re so crabby over? I can speak to her, if that will make you feel better.”

“She can make me feel better with a personal visit after taps tonight.”

“Peter! I swear you are disgusting. You are becoming more disagreeable every day.”

“Then leave me alone and you won’t be upset.”

“I never!”

“Yeah that squares with what Bill claimed.”

She had an astonished look on her face and for the first time in four years I knew her, was speechless. Flo Gustafson called as she entered the room and Marge turned to acknowledge her, ending our tête-à-tête.
The room steadily filled with women and I returned to my two-deck solitaire. A few minutes passed and our latest social coordinator, Miss Fletcher, an early twenties bubblehead with a master’s degree in playground management, entered the room and started the program.

She began with easy questions; who played Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind, who played Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz? I tried to block out the wild gaiety going on behind me by turning off my hearing aids, but a trio of screechy sopranos, one of them Marjory’s, were loud enough and in the frequency range where I still had a semblance of normal response that I could hear their answers.

Four losing attempts at solitaire passed and I noticed the fun behind me was losing some of its intensity. I was aware of Miss Social Director of the Month calling my name and I turned to acknowledge her, just out of courtesy.
“Mr. Dennison, would you care to join us? Do you have a favorite movie trivia question?”
I was trapped. All of the women were looking my way, and as intent as I was on staying out of the festivity I also was aware Cynthia Meadows was in the crowd and of all the women in the facility, I had a certain interest in Cynthia (not Cyndy, under any circumstance).

I smiled as I walked to the group of chairs set up in neat rows at the front of the room facing the piano, “I only have one trivia question, and I’m certain all of you ladies will just pounce on it, ‘who played Mrs. Nash-Finch?”

There was silence for a moment. It was a blessing, but I knew it wouldn’t last long. Marjory, predictably, was the first to screech, er, that is, speak, “What film?”

There was a sudden murmur of assent. As it died I offered, “Ladies, I’m disappointed, there are several to choose from. You remember Masterpiece Theater on Public TV?”

There was nodding and one of them offered a forceful reminder, “It’s still on!”

“Well, there were three shows with a Mrs. Nash-Finch character, ‘The Unpleasantness at the Bellona Club,’ ‘Our Mutual Friend’ and ‘Upstairs, Downstairs.’ Certainly you remember Upstairs, Downstairs.”

The crowd nodded in unison and chirped agreement randomly.

“And if I’m not mistaken, a couple of Dorothy Sayers episodes on ‘Mystery;’ ‘The Nine Tailors,’ and ‘Five Red Herrings’ come to mind. Two actresses played those parts. In fact, I don’t recall seeing any credits for one of the gals anywhere else, although she was popular on the boards, as they say.”

The crowd convened several impromptu breakout groups, and their attention was focused on my question. I overheard Sylvia Harris announce, “I know every word of every Peter Wimsey story and I can say for certain there was no Mrs. Nash-Finch in Five Red Herrings,” but her compatriots ignored her protest, because they always ignore her.

I slid out the side door un-noticed as the women cackled among themselves. Trivia, I thought with an imaginary condescending snort, what a waste. Toss in a dash of pretentiousness and they fall for it every time. Will they never learn to leave me alone and not insist on my participation? I guess that’s an unfair question, because there never seems to be a second experience for the social director du jour. The women never catch on my examples are all bogus.

I went to my small apartment and picked up the social schedule for the next month. There it was, the second Tuesday: Travel Trivia. I smiled to myself; more than enough time to come up with something plausible. 

Charles (Chuck) Petterson lives with his wife of 43 years in rural Harrison County, Iowa. Following graduation from Roosevelt High School in Minneapolis, Minnesota, Chuck enlisted in the Navy. He spent seven and a half years at sea with the Atlantic Submarine Force after two years of training as a nuclear plant operator. He worked for Westinghouse Electric Corporation as a nuclear instructor and field engineer for 18 years. Since 1991 Chuck has been an independent technical writer specializing in proprietary documents for electric utilities and industrial thermal facilities.

Chuck’s creative outlets include playing saxophone in a variety of community concert bands and dance bands. His writing efforts include contributions to a variety of hobby interest publications.  Polar Bear in Parrot Jungle is the first novel length story offered to the public.

Friday, March 8, 2013

Did Boo Boo Drink Yoohoo?

By H. Kirk Rainer

There is a purpose in continuing to pose questions around Jellystone Park’s favorite attraction. Let’s just say that I have a very valuable keepsake (sentimental value) that has somehow kept me on the crucial questions of these two, their comical capers and all else. true or not.  

Well, did Boo Boo drink Yoohoo?

Of course he did; after all, Yoohoo had already become a favorite chocolate drink (circa 1920s).  It would be very likely that these particular bad-news bears would have collected such favorites in the course of commandeering the pic-nica-baskets. 

And as legend has it, the experience was so exhilarating, that Yogi eventually had to let Yogi (Berra) in on this affection (or was confection?). 

Yoohoo hit a homerun with the baseball great, as the drink’s official Website describes:

The following years saw continued success for Yoo-hoo, especially through the efforts of Yogi Berra and his Yankee teammates who supported what was probably the most successful Yoo-hoo advertising campaign in the company's history. The slogans of "Me-hee for Yoo-hoo" and "The Drink of Champions" were certainly applicable through the representation of the product by the members of the World Champion Yankee teams of the 50s and 60s.

So Boo Boo not only drank Yoohoo, but endorsed it.

Yoohoo must have worshiped the day that these bears acquired a bottle-cap opener in their backwoods dealings; for without it, the marriage made in malt chocolate may have never happened. 

But as legends can be, the facts do get mired in myth: 

ý  Yogi Bear never actually contacted the Chicago Bears first
ý  Ranger Smith did not acquire free tickets to the World Series
ý  The color of Yoohoo and Boohoo (fur) is not related  

In this continuing line of questions, the next is:  Did the Bears drive a Bus?    

About H. Kirk Rainer
An engineer by profession, Kirk has embarked on a personal crusade aimed, at the least, to enable his own children to know that he still loves and cares for them.  To this purpose, he has gained much support and understanding from such organizations as:  American Coalition for Fathers and Children (; Alabama Family Rights Association (; Protect Fathers' Right (; National Father Initiative (; Institute for American Values (; and the Florida International University (FIU), "The State of Fatherhood" research.     
He has written three books (pertaining to marriage, family, and divorce):   
- A Once and Always Father (2009)
- A Father and Future Felon (2010)
- His Children are Far from Safety (2012)
More about his “crusade” and writing is available at the following Websites: 
- Facebook (“Kirk Rainer”)
- Youtube (“H. Kirk Rainer”)