Wild About Books is about reading good books and sharing how they impact your life.
If you would like to “follow” this blog, then look on the right-hand side of this page, below recent comments, enter your email address, and click Follow. Followers will receive an email whenever a new post is published.
I vividly remember sitting by a campfire at an unused outfitter camp at Moose Creek on the Selway River. There were four of us: Heidi, Jenn, Ranger Ronnie, and me.
Ranger Ronnie, a retired nurse from Friday Harbor, Washington, and now a volunteer ranger at a remote wilderness forest service station, is sipping red wine from an old jelly jar. It is the longest day of the year, and the sun is still visible through the trees. The air is warm. We swap stories as we eat our rehydrated dinners. Ranger Ronnie finishes her wine and is about to go back to her cabin when she looks at me, shakes her head, and says, “Lisa. Your hair.”
I smile and take the compliment. My hair is amazing. It is thick. The color of dirty dish water. I’ve slept in my tent the last three nights, worn a hat all day and have not showered in four days. My shortish shag cut is going in every direction. Heidi has long hair which is pulled back and braided. Jenn has thinning hair and always has it covered with a hat or a buff. My hair looks like I just blew it dry in a convertible going 70 miles an hour down a dirt road, then used tree sap to keep it in place. I’m wearing a thin pair of long pants and a long sleeve shirt, both are full of burn holes from campfire sparks. I have on my camp shoes which look like homemade sandals, as if I took a piece of rubber, with strategically placed holes and threaded para-cord through the holes to strap onto my feet.
I was backpacking for six days and had not thought about my hair or my outfit (besides the functionality of it). I had not seen a mirror. My night time facial routine was to wash my face with my self-knitted hemp wash cloth and hot water then apply some jojoba oil. This is my happy place. I am me. There are no algorithms telling me how to be improved. There are no commercials telling me that happiness is a well made up, fashionably dressed woman who is getting a puppy for Christmas and watching her good looking man who gets a new GMC truck for Christmas. I have left that world for the silence of the non-judgemental trees.
Last week, before leaving Montana to attend my dad’s funeral in North Carolina I had a panic thought. What will I wear? Brett later asks me “what will you wear?” Heidi ask me, after I have returned, “What did you wear?”
My dad just died. I’m going to travel 2500 miles to attend his funeral. I’m trying to come up with what I will say at his funeral. And I’m upstairs trying on random ass outfits in front of the only full length mirror in the house.
The day my dad dies, I commit to going to the funeral. I did not make it for his final days and I realize I cannot go with my hair looking like this. My hair was fine until this moment. He died on a Wednesday. Since Brooke, my hair stylist, had her baby, she only cuts hair on Wednesdays. I texted her. She’s full, how about next Wednesday. I don’t know if I’ll be here next Wednesday. PS: Side note, not only is Brooke a hair stylist and a permanent makeup artist, she knows Ranger Ronnie, as Brooke also works for a local outfitter in the hunting camp I stayed at, which is a secret, don’t tell anyone about staying at the hunting camp. And, just to be clear, Brooke is not styling hair and tattooing eyebrows at hunting camp. I digress. Brooke texts me back. I can cut your hair if you show up with it wet and leave with it wet. Perfect.
My sister has spent the day at my dad’s hospital room bedside literally watching him die. And I am driving to Hamilton with my hair wrapped up in a towel so it doesn’t dry before I get to Brooke’s. Because, all of a sudden, a trip back to North Carolina has me concerned about how I look. Why?
The funeral was on Day of the Dead. I have a t-shirt I bought in La Paz, Mexico with a skull on it. I could wear that. I asked Scyntya if I could borrow her day of the dead outfit. She excitedly replied, “I have three!” I had to tell her I was just kidding. I asked Hannah what she was wearing. “Red pants, black shirt. I asked Meg what she was wearing. “A pant suit she wears for work trips and boots. I told her going to dad’s funeral dressed like Hilary Clinton was genius.
What did I wear? A hand me down skirt from Juli, she has the best hand me downs, an REI sleeveless plaid shirt that I found at a thrift store years ago, my Bedrock River sandals with Vibram soles and my bright red sports bra from Tush and Bush that I bought in Friday Harbor, Washington. Ranger Ronnie had never heard of Tush and Bush.
The day of the funeral my outfit was wrinkled, I questioned my shoe choice and asked Meg and Hannah if I should wear my red and yellow high top Coco Gauff signature New Balance shoes in children’s size as they are half the price of adults and still fit my feet. When I’m in Montana, I never seek out opinions on my shoe choices. I stuck with the sandals. Luckily there was no indecisiveness on makeup as I do not own any and would not know what to do with it if I did. I felt like I did not belong. This is how I always feel in North Carolina and why I live in Montana.
We show up at the Kernersville Presbyterian Church and proceed to the holding room where the family gathers out of sight from the others until the service starts. Meg and I cheat when we see our cousins come in the front door of the church and have go get hugs and hellos. Back to the holding room where the outfits are church appropriate, the make-up is artistically applied, the smell of cleanliness prevails and I look like I should be teeing off at a public golf course with a six pack of Bud Light.
The holding room is very full due to the fact that my dad has two families, his blood family and his family. We all know about each other, but this is the first time we’ve all been in the same room together. We file into the church and take our seats at the front. It seems odd to be sitting in the pews reserved for the family and not know half of the people with whom you are sitting. The framed picture of dad’s family was placed in front of us in case the blood family was confused. Once the service starts, I don’t think twice about my outfit or wish I had my baseball hat. By the time it is over I’m covered in 14 month-old grandson Roan’s hand mashed banana anyway, which I wear with pride and joy. And to be clear, Meg doesn’t look like Hilary Clinton at all.
I have another book to send my dad, “I Disagree, Winning Arguments without Losing Friends” by Fox News Show Host Jessica Tarlov. But, again, too late. I’ve never seen the show, but I’m sure my dad has. I do like the book though.
The book I’m recommending today is……oh man…. this is so bad, I just reread ANOTHER Wild About Books Book and I’m going to re-recommend it! AHGGGG. Are you fucking kidding me? No…..I’m not kidding you or me. I am me. I wear what I fucking want and do my hair with a baseball hat!!! And I am re-recommending a book. I just finished and recommend “The Shadow of the Wind” by Carlos Ruiz Zafon. This book will ruin you for ever reading any other books. It is that good. The writing is superb, the story line finely woven, the characters are real and you feel the coldness of the place in your bones, you are there in the cold fog of dusk.
More great adventures and book recommendations can be found at Wild About Books.
I want to start with the book recommendation first. I’m afraid the rest of this writing will be a big rant, and you can just skip it and go read the book “Deacon King Kong” by James McBride.
I was first introduced to James McBride’s writing when he was the keynote speaker at the Greensboro Bound Literary Festival in the spring of 2024. I was in Greensboro, but chose to attend my grandson’s birthday party instead. His last book (James McBride, not Bridger Honey),was “The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store”. So of course, I read it. It was good. I enjoyed the story and recommend the book.
As I was perusing the Montana state interlibrary website for our next book club read, I found another James McBride book, “The Good Lord Bird”. I ordered the kit to be sent to Darby. Did I like this one……..well……I did notice that several people in my ‘open to the public’ book club returned the book early instead of at our planned meeting. I started the book at the beach. It was not a beach book. I got to page 100 and decided to stop, and for the first time, not finish my book club book, that I picked out, and a book club that I head up. Ugh.
The next day, I kept reading. The writing was good, the premise of the book is great, it’s historical fiction, one of my favorites, but it just went on and on and on with Civil War battles and details and would drag along with not much progress. I finished. I still don’t recommend it, but I did like it.
And next, I had found a James McBride book in a free library box on the street and had grabbed it and added it to my stack at home. Brett read it, liked it and said I should read it. So, after finishing “The Good Lord Bird”, I started “Deacon King Kong”.
It takes place in 1969, in the projects in New York City. I started this book on my river trip. I had to read a whole page and a half of the beginning of the book to my river crew. I read the same page and a half to my book club. The writing is incredible, the story line astounding, and the characters are as real and genuine as your next door neighbor. I highly recommend “Deacon King Kong.”
Next paragraph. Donald Trump gave me $500 this week and a letter. He told me in the letter that there was a surplus of affordable care act money. He wanted people whose subsidies were taken away to get a one time $500 refund. He said that Joe Biden took away the subsidies. Wait. What? I think I will write Mr. Trump a thank you note and explain to him that it is my understanding his administration took away the subsidies. The 6% refund, based on my annual expenditure of affordable health insurance for 2026, is generous, but now I question your system. How do you have excess? I know……me, personally, I do not go to the doctor. The annual $10,600 deductible is not in my budget. I spent $8400 per year for insurance I can’t use. So you don’t actually spend any money on me. I think maybe I should get more back.
Next paragraph. How many fiber internet companies do I need on my rural dirt road outside of Darby, Montana? The companies just keep coming, tearing up my road, installing ugly green plastic pods, installing orange tubing underground, move rocks and roll them down the mountain. And they are ALWAYS going backwards in their trucks. The entire summer was filled with the constant noise of a backup beeper, all day long. I have high speed internet. Sometimes it isn’t great, but mostly I can watch You Tube videos, stream Hulu and follow my daughter on Instagram, just not all at the same time. Word on the street, literally, is that there was a lot of federal government money to get high speed fiber to rural areas. The two best parts of this story is that I already have high speed internet and the second is that in order to get the new and better stuff to my house I have to pay to have it come down my quarter mile driveway. Then pay for the monthly service. HAHAHAHA. But I’m paying for affordable health insurance. Also, Brett is going to end up plowing those ugly green plastic pods right off of their stands in the next big snow storm.
Next paragraph. The people running for political office must be the scum of the earth. The political commercials tell me every time I turn on the tv how horrible these people are. Running for public office is not about budgets, jobs, cost of living, health care. It is not even about abortions or guns anymore. Apparently, these horrible people want to have drag queen shows for children. Really. No joke. That’s what they said on the commercial. And this is what they are focusing on; spending donator money on. They are also very concerned about a person transitioning to another sex playing sports with their daughters. Not worried about their sons, just the daughters. These are the issues that voters are concerned with? Is this a problem somewhere? Am I not up on worldly events due to my rural internet?
Next paragraph: Sunshine Protection Act. HAHAHA. I think this is a bigger misnomer than Daylight Savings Time. You can not save daylight and you can not protect sunshine. You get what you get. Noon is when the sun is directly overhead. The end. Days are longer in the summer period, and not because you changed the time in March.
Next paragraph. Who talks in a library? I’ll tell you. The librarian and the lonely old guy. They are having an in-depth discussion about welding. For an hour. It’s a library. Read about it.
Next paragraph. My spork. I own a long handled, titanium, spork. This is a backpacking essential. And sometimes, a hiking essential. Heidi and I will go for a day hike and still pack our backpacking stoves, fuel, food, mug, tea, chair and spork.
Let’s breakdown the spork. Long handled, this is so you can dig out your rehydrated-eat-in-the-bag meal. Some of the bags are deep and the long handle keeps you from having to insert your hands into the food bag and getting food on your hands. Titanium, this is to make it light. Ounces make pounds as they say. Spork, this is so you have a fork and spoon in one, also saving on weight, so you don’t have to take a fork and a spoon. It is an important tool not to be lost. I’ve lost mine twice now. Not really lost, as I can specifically see exactly where it was left once I realize I do not have it. The first time I lost it was on a through hike on the Selway River. We had camped at Horse Creek, got up early to beat the heat, hiked 14 miles, set up camp at Moose Creek and my spork was not where it was supposed to be . In my mind, I could see it still laying in the crook of an old rotting log. I had to borrow a spork after the spork owner had finished their meal. How embarrassing. The second time I lost my spork was on a day hike. If Heidi and I can’t get out for a backpacking trip, we will day hike. We will sit by a water fall or high mountain lake, soak up the sun, and enjoy the wilderness with a hot meal and a cup of tea. Once again, I got home, no spork. In my mind, I could picture it sitting in the dirt waiting to be placed in my bag. Two days later, Heidi and Shannon went back to Gem Lake, found my long-handled titanium spork and returned it to me. Spork rescuers, those are the kind of friends I have.
Next Paragraph: Digital coupons. Fuck me. First you want my phone number every time I purchase something in your store, now I have to have my phone, I have to down load your app, “clip” your coupon, then find it while checking out. Can I just get these grapes on sale without all the technology involved.
Last Paragraph: The five remembrances. I just learned these. Seems apropos this month. (My mom wanted to name me Apro Poe.)
The Buddha taught his followers to recite the Five Remembrances every day:
I am of the nature to grow old.
There is no way to escape growing old.
I am of the nature to have ill health.
There is no way to escape ill health.
I am of the nature to die.
There is no way to escape death.
All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change.
There is no way to escape being separated from them.
My actions are my only true belongings.
I cannot escape the consequences of my actions.
My actions are the ground upon which I stand.
If we look at the Five Remembrances only as ominous warnings of what is to come, they will serve only to create more suffering. Our practice is to smile to them, to look deeply and shine the light of mindfulness in order to transform our fear of old age, sickness, death, being separated from people and things we love, and to see the nature of our actions.
Our parents teach us, whether they want to or not, how we want to be. We take away some things we don’t want to be, but we also take away attributes we do want to emulate. We unknowingly pass along these attributes as well. And this becomes our parents’ legacy.
I started writing this blog in 2014. The blog started out as a way to share and comment on good books that I have read. It then turned into a blog about my daily adventures. My adventures range from taking 12 high school students backpacking in the Grand Canyon to getting my hair colored at the Electric Beach and Hair Studio in downtown Darby, Montana. It soon became apparent to me that my biggest fan, follower and reader of my blog was my dad.
Mine and Daddy’s communication has always lacked any consistency. We could go months or more with no contact. When we did talk or see each other, it was the best. He was easy to be around, and fun to talk to, but he didn’t KNOW me. My blog turned into, without any other reader knowing this, a one sided conversation with my dad. I wrote the blog so my dad would know who I was. It was my connection to a man with whom I so badly wanted to connect.
But why? He’d pissed me off so badly, for so many reasons, for so many years, to all of my family, annually bandaging my wounds with a cheesy birthday card and a fifty dollar check.
I wrote a particular blog post about dealing with a co-worker/friend who was complaining about paying for every Darby kid’s braces, meaning, he made money and the Darby kids got braces through socialized medicine. The blog is titled “Thanks for the Braces”. I thanked my co-worker/friend for the braces and the shoulder surgery, because, yes, he was describing my own kids who are now contributing members of society and happily paying into the system that takes care of others. Daddy felt the need to comment via an email to me about this particular blog.
In his email he said; “Hi Lisa, Your latest blog affected me deeply. I felt compelled to write you a letter which I have attached and to send you a prayer, which is also attached. Your blog shows me that you have both courage and wisdom. Thanks for sharing those with all of us. It makes me want to do a better job of loving my neighbor. Love Dad.
I will paraphrase his attached letter.
“Lisa, I love your blogs and this one is especially thought provoking. My favorite part is where you listened to your friend while he vented and threw his feelings about his being a victim all over you. You showed empathy for your friend and thereby saved the friendship.”
The blog continues, stating that I could not run for office in Montana and listing my “labels” that would prevent me from getting many votes. In my dad’s response letter he also listed his “labels”, which were directly opposite of my labels. For example; republican vs democrat and Christian vs atheist, etc, etc.
After listing his labels he said: “Here’s the thing. None of that matters. You and I can still love each other because we both know that I will listen to you and that you will listen to me and I have gratitude every day that we have that kind of relationship. I am proud of you, I love you, and I am grateful that you are in my life.”
The feeling is mutual, which is why our relationship has continued to exist through the years.
I wrote a blog about my dad called “Cat’s in the Cradle.” Feel free to click on the link to read it.
My dad had two favorite blog posts. One was about me, Zach and Hannah going to his church called, “The Bible Story” He shared it with the minister of his church who then read it at his annual Presbyterian preacher conference in Oklahoma. Dad’s other favorite was the one about his mother, my grandmother called, “Mamaw.”
My friend Linda, recently gifted me the book, “Star Spangled Jesus” by April Ajoy, an evangelical Christian who writes about Christian Nationalism taking over Christianity. It’s a great book and I highly recommend it. I marked mine up, underlining passages, making notes in the margins and sent it to my dad. He read it and called me twice to discuss. I have another book to send him “Separation of Church and Hate”, but now it is too late. He died this week. Who will I write this blog for now?
If the day you are born is your birthday, is the day you die your deathday?
Do we have a cake?
Do we count? First deathday, second deathday, etc.
What is the protocol?
I think most people, except for those who are really close, forget the actual date. When did Brett’s mom die? Neither of us could tell you. We got a card from hospice a year later, and that was our hint. I think the more traumatic, the more you acknowledge the day.
Let’s sign up for a gravel bike ride. It’s on August 2nd. Perfect. That will be the protocol.
Last summer, after my third grandchild was born, I started running again. A lot was going on when he was born, and I was not sleeping very well due to lack of physical activity. My days were spent with four-year old Olive before and after her brother was born with an emergency cesarean. I couldn’t hike or go biking, so I downloaded a running app and went back to running.
It’s been a minute.
In the past, running did not work out so well with migraines. Ever since I retired, my migraines are almost non-existent. I had been a runner when my kids were little. I could leave for 30 minutes while they watched “Reading Rainbow,” and they would never even know I’d been gone. Now, once again, I can leave, get my heart rate up, and the fact that I am gone barely even registers to everyone else.
The running felt good. I signed up for “Robert’s Run” in Hamilton. Hannah, Olive, and Henry signed up too. We met on Friday night for the packet pickup. It was already a party at the pickup. I was happy to expose Olive to this good energy that focused on moving. We all drove from the packet pick up back to my house and attached our race numbers onto our new shirts with safety pins. We sorted and traded all the swag in our bags. We ate a pasta meal, set out our clothes, and set our alarms for race day, August 2nd.
My phone rang before the alarm went off. It was almost 6 a.m. In a millisecond, I saw it was Heidi; she never calls, always texts, especially at 6 a.m. (Still in the millisecond) I answered the call, but did not speak. I immediately knew something was wrong. My first thought was something had happened to one of her dogs. (Millisecond is over). I don’t know what I said; I’m pretty sure it wasn’t “hello” or “Heidi Ho neighbor!” I think I said “what”.
“Scott is dead,” she managed to get out. “On my way…” and I hung up.
The multitasking that took place after I hung up was heroic. Sweatshirt on while walking; sweatpants on while walking. Brett is following me, trying to get information and wake up at the same time. I had no information, just one fact and one mission. No bra, no hat, no food, no tea, no teeth brushing, not even a morning pee. I hit the garage door open button. Hannah’s car was in the way. I hit the other button and jumped into the truck. Sped off as fast as I could, aware enough that this is a high-traffic time for the deer. I passed an ambulance going the other direction on Highway 93 and assumed they had Scott. There were two sheriff cars in the driveway. I ran inside. They directed me to the bedroom. Scott was not in the ambulance. He was on the floor with Heidi and their two dogs, waiting for the coroner. Deathday.
We signed up for a gravel bike race. Me. Heidi. August 2, 2026. We’ve been training for the past two and a half months.
Not together, hahahahhahaaa.
Ok. Sort of training together, but not really. We talk about it together. Sometimes we ride the same ride, and she gives me a 90-minute head start. We ride through the North Fork of Rye Creek ghetto together. I’ve mentioned in a previous blog that my goal is to beat Heidi to the finish line. I’m riding the 46-mile loop with 4100 feet of climbing. She is riding the 82-mile loop with over 6000 feet of climbing.
Things are coming together well. I’ve been indecisive about which bike to ride. The full-suspension mountain bike or the gravel bike (which is basically a road bike with wider tires). I’ve had them both tuned up, and I’ve added new pedals to the mountain bike. I added a new stem to the gravel bike. I removed the fenders and front rack from the gravel bike. And then……Jen emailed me and asked if I wanted to ride her hardtail. Sure. Why not? A hardtail is a mountain bike with only front suspension (no rear suspension).
This bike is so light. It has to be half the weight of both of my bikes. I rode it to the Deer Mountain Lookout, a 36-mile out-and-back ride. I shaved 25 minutes off my previous ride. You can totally lock out the front suspension on the climb and then unlock it for the downhill. The gearing is off, and the clip-in pedals are a different style than I’m used to (I’m using Jen’s shoes as well), and the saddle is very uncomfortable.
After the first ride on the light bike, I changed out the saddle. On the next ride, the gearing got wrecked up, I couldn’t release my shoes from the click in pedals, I was going uphill, came to a stop and fell over in the rocks. When I got home I changed the pedals and wore my own shoes. My whole right arm and leg are bruised. Brett tuned up the gearing and tightened the loose bottom bracket. I added air to the tires, lubed the chain and all is good.
My training over the last two and a half months have added up to 593 miles of biking and 50,839 feet of climbing. The weather changed a lot in that time frame. My last big ride, I was up at 4:30 a.m. and riding before 6:00 just to beat the heat. The smoke from neighboring states has rolled in making the air quality less than ideal. There are several local fire starts to keep an eye on as well. I won’t even know if the race is a go until 6:00 that morning when they check the air quality. If the air quality index is 150 or above, they will cancel the race entirely. The weather is supposed to drop twenty degrees on Sunday, the day of the race. The lightening that came through on Thursday night has started multiple unknown (at this time) fires. I could spend that day evacuating my house instead of racing my bicycle on dirt roads in the mountains.
My anxiety is high this time of year. My house is in the forest. There is a pump in the irrigation ditch that runs through our property. The pump is connected to fire hose that connects to a giant sprinkler. The camper is hooked up to the plow truck and ready to pull out at a moments notice. If we are evacuated, we’d still have a “home.”
There are no guarantees.
Two and a half months of training and there might not even be a bike race. Houses burn down. People die. You fall off your bike. This is what we call life. You adjust. Get back on your bike. Maybe you start a fun run and name it after your son who was hit by a car; “Robert’s Run”. Maybe you make a trail in the forest and name it after your son who was killed on a motorcycle ride; “The Ben White Trail”. Maybe after a night of no sleep you cancel all your clients for the day, ride your bike to the end of the road and text friends, thanking them for their support.
August 2, 2026, 5:26 a.m: My alarm went off at 5, no phone calls. It is 53 degrees at my house, the air quality index is 93. My water bottles are full. I’m hoping my pb&j fits in the pocket of my shirt otherwise I’ll eat it in the starting gate. The fires blew up yesterday in the 100 degree heat and high winds. The winds were relentless most of the night last night. We will see what life brings today. August 2nd.
You know that we are not “saving” daylight, right? This is a misnomer. The light is the same amount; time is man-made. We are all clear on this. The middle of the day is still when the sun is directly overhead, whether you call it 12:00 noon or 1:00 or 5:00.
On Sunday, November 1, 2026, there will be slightly less sunlight than on Saturday, October 31, 2026, not because we went from Daylight Saving Time to Standard Time, but because the days get shorter due to the revolution of the Earth around the Sun on that day of the year.
I say change our schedules. Work 7:00 am to 4:00 pm if you want more light so you can get in 9 holes before going home. Or, if you like morning sunlight, work 9:00 to 6:00. We act as if the parameters we have set are set in stone. Let’s make some adjustments.
I’ve never celebrated Daylight Saving Time. It’s against my religion.
The House just passed a bill to have permanent Daylight Saving Time. What about Arizona and Hawaii? They don’t participate in the time change.
Let’s not have a time change twice a year, but let’s keep the time consistent with the sun. When a sundial says it is noon, it is noon.
This is all a perception problem. Getting up at 5:00 am sounds too early, so we change 5:00 am to be 6:00 am, and now it sounds acceptable. What the fuck??!! Truly a mind fuck in the making. Still, nobody has enough time in the day or enough sleep at night. Making Daylight Saving Time permanent is not going to fix these problems.
I had a co-worker who would get his monthly paycheck as a physical check (not direct deposit), would hold on to it for a week, and then deposit it into his bank account, making it only three weeks until he got paid again. This made him feel like he could make it to the next payday. This was how he budgeted. Self-induced mind fuckery.
This is what we are dealing with.
My biggest complaint about this whole thing: THIS is what we find important right now? People can’t afford gas, health insurance, or food. And what about the food? Should we figure out the explosive diarrhea conundrum? What about the wildfires? Climate crisis? The federal government is passing bills about a one-hour time change
Sundial. Go with the science. Feel free to comment with your thoughts.
If you want to read more great blog posts with adventures, book recommendations, and a few rants, click here: Wild About Books.
If you want to buy my recently self-published novel, click here, Lucida Sans.
If you want to purchase my first book, click here: Montana Wild Woman.
If you don’t want your kids to go to the bus stop in the dark or try to put them to bed with it still light out, call your congressman.
You do you. Hike your own hike.
I feel like there are different levels of artists. Someone who paints or draws can be at multiple levels of talent, yet still be at a show and sell their art. The better the artist, the bigger the show. An author, on the other hand, feels like there is only one level, the top. Where a painter can love their work and display it in their home, you must dive into a book to actually know what is in it. A person must take a leap of faith with a book. If the author is self-published, with no editor, agent, and not even trained or schooled in writing, what right do they have to print their work and call it a book, much less sell it for money?
That’s where I am.
Again.
Impostor. (Not the syndrome, for real life.)
Well, it’s out there. Mistakes and all.
I love the book. I wrote it eight years ago. I gave it to some family and friends for help. Some of them returned it with notes and suggestions. I went through it again and adjusted it with their ideas. My good friend proofread it for me. I don’t want to say her name because I probably should have had her proofread it again, but I didn’t because I’m done and I want to ride my bike instead, or pick up the other novel I started writing and get that one going.
I love the book, and I also love all of the characters in the book. There are a lot of them.
The genre is Literary Fiction.
“Literary fiction is a category of novels that prioritizes depth, character psychology, and artistic prose over a fast-paced plot. Rather than focusing on external action or world-building, it serves as a profound exploration of the human condition, inviting readers to reflect on complex social, political, or philosophical themes.”
This is also my favorite genre to read. Makes sense.
I wrote the book during a time in my life when sleep was harder to come by. I would listen to NPR or BBC news and write at three in the morning. I wrote the whole thing in notebooks, four of them total. I had no plan, just wrote. I didn’t even go back and read any of it until I transcribed it onto the computer.
The book takes place in the 90s-ish, in North Carolina-ish, before there was much technology-ish. The book has a lot going on. Religion, gun violence, racism, and more. It seems just as prevalent today as it did eight years ago.
I wish I could write a good “elevator pitch” for it, but I’m at a loss. Brett has been pushing me for a long time to get this novel finished. I credit him for this happening, as it has mostly been sitting in the closet.
I want to write like David James Duncan or Barbara Kingsolver. I don’t know how to get there. A jack of all trades, a master of none.
And before you berate me for the fact that you have to buy my book on Amazon, there is a reason Jeff Bezos is so fucking rich. His business is genius. And Kindle Direct Publishing is also genius. Yes, I’ll pay more in taxes just from my meager book sales than he pays ever, but I guess that’s why he has money, and I don’t. That’s where you can find my book. Amazon. Put Lisa Poe in the search bar. Both of my books will come up. Paperback or Kindle version. Sorry, no audible. I’ll read it to you if you need me to.
The book I’m recommending is “Lucida Sans” by Lisa Poe.
More great book recommendations and adventures can be found at Wild About Books.
I love being challenged. As you read from a previous blog, I’m being challenged to afford, keep, and pay for my “Affordable Care Act” catastrophic, high-deductible health insurance, as well as afford gas and groceries. I fear I have retired too soon.
This is why you have not heard from me in a while. I’ve been busy on my solution (and not substitute teaching, which I am awful at).
Solution. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
I started my own business. I’m going to write off lots of stuff, including my health insurance.
Lisa Poe LLC, Professional Organizer, licensed and insured. I did it all. It is legit. I registered my LLC with the state, bought liability insurance, supplied my tool kit, and bought a step ladder. I’ve had two clients so far. One is done and paid, the other is ongoing for now and prepaying. As of this writing, I’ve made $2,140 in revenue!
What is a professional organizer? I declutter your space. Drawers, closets, pantries, garages, storage units, bills and paperwork, craft rooms, etc. I give you space to relax, peace of mind, a fresh perspective, and a love for the space where you live. The projects you spend days procrastinating on, I complete in four hours. I give you respect for your emotional attachment, while at the same time helping you dispose of the clutter that nobody uses anymore. Whether you are downsizing, moving, or cleaning out a recently vacated space that you have inherited, I will show up with boxes, labels, and lots of trash bags. Downsizing is hard. I am also the emotional support and that little push you need to remove all that does not serve you anymore.
Oh dang? I like it. How’s that for a quick elevator pitch, to basically say, NOBODY WANTS YOUR SHIT.
I’m taking new clients. Ask about the New Client Promotional Rate. My headquarters is located in Darby, Montana, and I have satellite offices in Greensboro, North Carolina, and Patagonia, Arizona.
I’ve also been spending my time getting my novel finished. I wrote it eight years ago, and it’s been sitting in my closet waiting for a professional organizer to get rid of it. I’ve had it proofread, made the corrections, and will read through the draft one last time before self-publishing it for the Writer’s Day event in Darby on August 1st. “Lucida Sans” will be available this summer.
I’m also working on my greeting card business. Affordable, non-traditional greeting cards. Poe’s Tits Notes. Do you need a card for a lesbian wedding? A thank you card for a ride to your colonoscopy? A Baby Genitalia Reveal card? There will still be Birthday Cards and Mother’s Day cards, too, but not what you would find in a store. Unusual, slightly inappropriate, quirky. Oh wait…. that’s how people describe me! Send a little note with a Poe’s Tits Note.
I’ve been biking. I signed up for the Get Lost Gravel Bike Ride in Hamilton, Montana, for August 2nd (an anniversary day that will forever be burned into my psyche). I’m in over my head. Forty-seven miles and 4100 feet of elevation gain. I will have all day to do it, and my goal is to beat Heidi, who is doing the 82-mile ride with 6,100 feet of climbing. Yeah, in over my head, but I am training for it. Putting in the miles, climbing the climbs, soaking up the sun or rain or wind, all the weather, sometimes all the weather on the same ride. It is Montana, that’s what you get. I’m excited to participate in this basically in my backyard ride, and better than how I spent last August 2nd.
And….I’ve been reading. I have several books to recommend. Not just recommended reading, these are required reading.
“Star Spangled Jesus” by April Ajoy: Thanks to my favorite Jesus Freak, Linda, for gifting me a copy. I’ve underlined my favorite sections and plan on sending it to my other favorite Christian, my dad, for Father’s Day. Yeah, spoiler alert, daddy. Follow the author as she is raised an evangelical Christian, but starts questioning the turn of events as the Christian Nationalists create their own Jesus that bends to their self-imposed rules. An entertaining and educational read.
“The Correspondent” by Virginia Evans: This novel is told only by letters and emails to and from the protagonist, an elderly woman who lives on her own. This is a real treat to read.
“Yesteryear” by Caro Claire Burke: This is one of the best books I’ve ever read. Talk about weaving a bunch of story lines into a masterpiece. I could not put this book down. It got my attention right from the start, and I struggled to get anything else done besides reading this story. The book itself is like nothing I’ve ever read. I highly recommend “Yesteryear”. Let me know what you think.
More great adventures and book recommendations can be found at Wild About Books. You can also read about August 2, 2025, and about my health insurance.
I can’t stop talking about this book. In this short blog post, you are getting a more detailed report on “The Lost Journals of Sacajawea” by Debra Magpie Earling.
For the first time ever, I feel compelled to write an official review on Amazon for a book. This book is getting mixed reviews, and I want to set the reader straight as this book is not what it appears at first glance.
I give this book a strong 5 plus! Writing is an art, and this book is a masterpiece. Debra Magpie Earling is truly a literary genius.
I started this book and struggled. Struggled to find meaning. Struggled with the clunky, non-structured, “abnormal” writing. I kept reading. This was a book club book. I read it as if it were an assignment. I had picked this book for the group. I had read and loved Earling’s book “Perma Red” and wanted to love this book too. I felt like I was reading a foreign language that was in English.
Around page sixty, things started to flow. I was getting into a rhythm. I stopped trying to decipher this language and let the words pour over me like a lazy river over rocks. Then the words took on a life of their own as they danced across the pages in a finely timed choreography. This book is so intelligent. Once I gave in to it, the book and I were one. Zen reading. I’d never experienced this before. Look what Debra Magpie Earling had done! She has given us an experience, a taste of the essence of not only being a native American woman, but time travel as well. I was part of the earth and all living creatures, not separate, no hierarchy.
I am so grateful for this experience. I read the last page and immediately started over. I wrote down my own dictionary of words to help me keep things straight. I tracked the characters and their relationship to Sacajawea. I paid attention to who was alive and who was in her life via spirit. The first sixty pages did not seem difficult now.
My literary bar has been raised. I was challenged and took that challenge head-on. Please give yourself the courage to keep reading and the grace to let the book enter your soul. Do not try to control this one; the book is in charge, let it happen.
When I turned sixty years old, I was able to retire from my job as business manager at Darby Public School. At sixty years old, you can collect the public employee’s retirement. This all worked for me because of the affordable care act market place insurance. I did not have to work to afford health insurance. I would qualify for a health insurance subsidy on the market place. For $260 per month, I had $9,000 deductible bronze-level health insurance. The end.
No, not the end. My health insurance for the exact same insurance in 2026 will now cost $1,160 per month. Do the math. The new monthly fee times 12 months, plus the annual deductible, means I would spend $22,920 to use my affordable health care insurance. Per year! HAHAHAHA! My public employee’s retirement is $21,600. Ok, let’s say I never use it. Then I would spend $13,920 per year for the possibility of maybe needing health insurance.
I canceled it.
But I’m sixty-one, healthy, but still, sixty-one. I should have health insurance. I don’t want to lose my house if I need major health care. In January 2026, I had no health insurance. There was still one more deadline to sign up for the year. I called my insurance agent, whom we use for the cars and house. He shut me down in two seconds. He had nothing better to offer. Bye.
I reached out to another retired, now self-employed friend, to see what he used. I called the woman’s number he gave me. The reviews for her insurance were horrible. You paid $500 a month, and then if you went to the doctor, they would give you $100. It seemed to be more of a supplemental addition to catastrophic. Plus, I had to qualify. Had to be healthy. They requested my records from my primary care provider. They were worried about my one prescription, a migraine abortive prescription that I take once or twice a month. I called and said forget it. This is too weird and not what I’m looking for.
I could get a job with insurance again.
I know that kids can be on their parents’ insurance until they are twenty-six years old. Too bad they don’t let retired sixty-year-olds on their adult kids’ insurance. That’s what I need. I’d pay them for it. Venmo.
There is one more level lower than bronze. Catastrophic. For only $700 a month, I could get a $10,600 deductible insurance that covers mostly nothing until you spend $10,600 per year on health care. Plus the premium. Do the math again. $700 times 12 equals $8,400 plus $10, 600 equals $19,000 out of pocket per year if I needed it. Better to use it at the first of the year, not the end of the year, as that would be another $10,600 in the new year.
Last year, I spent almost $1000 out of pocket on health care, but that’s only because I got a mammogram for the second time in my life, as a preventative measure, but they had to do another one because my breasts are dense. Normally, I would only spend $250 on medical, and that’s just to cover the labs for my annual check-up (this total is not counting eye exams, glasses, and teeth cleanings, as those are not considered health care but a privilege).
What could I cut out to make up the difference between my old health insurance cost of $260 to my new insurance cost of $700? I need an extra $440 per month just to be covered. I could have no eye exams, no new glasses, no teeth cleanings, no gym membership, no mammogram, but I don’t think it’s enough.
I wish health insurace was based on my heart rate, blood pressure, and labs instead of my age. I can bench 85 pounds; does that count for anything? I just biked 21 miles after lunch. I backpacked 55 miles in 5 days last year. Does this help me? Nope, I’m a statistic.
Here is a photo of my old, feeble friends backpacking in Glacier National Park. Maybe my insurance costs so much because I backpack in grizzly bear country and participate in multiple sports in which I wear a helmet: snowboarding, biking, and kayaking.
I signed up to be a substitute teacher at the school. I just need to work 7 days a month at $14.29 an hour to make up the difference and cover the summer months. I’m not very good at it. Let me know if you have any part-time work.
I just got back from Patagonia, Arizona, twenty miles from the Mexican border. I rode my bike towards Lochiel for thirty miles on a dirt road. The only traffic on the road was the border patrol trucks and giant oversized loads of equipment and steel for the wall. I see now why the subsidies had to be cut. There was a lot of taxpayer money going down that dirt road.
I’m reading an amazing book right now. “The Lost Journals of Sacajawea” by Debra Magpie Earling. She wrote “Perma Red”, a past recommendation on the Wild About Books blog. Lost Journals is a novel, told from Sacajawea’s point of view. It is a difficult book to get started on. The writing is not traditional. The author is transforming your brain to follow in a way of writing that makes you feel as if you are a Native American. It’s like learning a new language, but not. You wonder what the heck is going on. Keep reading. Your brain will catch up, and you’ll find yourself not only following along but unable to put the book down. It is horrific. A story of misogyny, power. control, greed. We know it well. Seems to be the American way.
I highly recommend “The Lost Journals of Sacajawea”, it is a challenge to read and for sure not a “beach book.”
More great adventures (or rants) and book recommendations can be found at Wild About Books.
Stay healthy.
I am a one on the enneagram, The Perfectionist, The Reformer, The Critic, The Idealist, The Follower of Rules. I tell you this upfront so you feel my trepidation on our last river trip on the main Salmon.
The trip was quickly thrown together at the end of July. Five of us, three boats, two dogs. The plan was to go after permit season, as obtaining a permit in the era of the World Wide Web proves to be virtually impossible.
In the end, we arrived at the put-in with four of us, two boats, and still, two dogs.
We rigged the boats on the ramp at Corn Creek, along with several other groups. The sound of electric pumps made it difficult to communicate with each other. We’d all done enough river trips to communicate non-verbally. The dogs sat in the safety of the truck and watched so they wouldn’t get run over by a boat trailer.
The boat ramp ranger came to check us in before we packed everything onto the boats. The boat ramp ranger checks that we have all the proper equipment for our seven-day river trip. A toilet system for packing out our poop, a strainer for straining the extraneous bits of food in the dirty dish water, a trash system, a fire pan (no open fires on the beaches), an ash can to haul out the ash from our fires, and a shovel to shovel the ash from the fire pan to the ash can. The five-foot boat ramp ranger sounded like she had a megaphone in her throat. Her voice projected over all of the noisy electric air pumps. Her rehearsed speech did not miss any detail. And that’s when she said it.
“You must pack out all of your ashes.”
Oh no, I thought. We’re all going to end up in federal prison. I wanted to confess that we were bringing ashes in, I wanted to raise my hand and say, “But wait……” I didn’t say anything. I was going to go on this river trip and break the rules.
We camped at Corn Creek, as our launch date was not until the following day. The mood was good, better than expected. Considering.
The morning of our launch, Heidi and I decided we would hike the first four miles on the Salmon River trail to Horse Creek. Brett and Shannon would finish rigging their boats and pick us up. Horse Creek would be where we would leave the ashes.
The morning went as planned. We beat Brett and Shannon to the pickup point and flagged them down at the small beach upstream of Horse Creek. Heidi grabbed the ashes off Shannon’s boat. The four of us walked solemnly to the confluence of Horse Creek and the Salmon River.
The fifth person who was supposed to come on the river was now in a tube. Ashes. Heidi uncapped the tube and let the ashes of her husband fall into the water. We watched Scott float down the river. His happy place.
The day before, we had also decided that we would meditate twice a day, for ten minutes, as a group. Each day’s meditation would have an intention. Surrender was the intention for today.
We watched Scott’s ashes float away, and Brett suggested we meditate here. We all agreed. As we got set and found a comfortable place among the river rock, a jet boat went by, creating waves that lapped up on the rocks. Towards the end of our meditation, another jet boat went by, more waves. We quietly got up. We all hugged each other, happy that the ash dump was done on the first day. That’s when Heidi yelled, “Shannon! Your boat!
There it went. A boat with no rower, floating down the Salmon River on its own. The jet boats’ wake had dislodged Shannon’s cataraft from its perch on the sandy beach.
“Scott never did like it when things got serious,” Heidi said as we ran across the rocks to see if the other boat was still on the beach. “He did this!” she hollered.
Shannon headed down the trail to see if he could catch the boat downriver. The rest of us and the dogs jumped into Brett’s boat and started rowing after Shannon’s boat. It was stuck just below us on a rock by a fast-flowing eddy on the opposite side of the river. Brett tried to bump it, but the current was too fast, and we quickly floated right on by. Just below the rock was a huge sandy beach. We were able to pull over. Brett walked over the huge boulders where Shannon’s boat was hidden from our sight. He managed to jump from the rock and into the boat. He struggled to free the boat from the massive current. Just as Heidi was headed up to check on him, he came around the back side of the massive boulder. Brett crossed the river to pick up Shannon then crossed again to the beach where Heidi, the dogs, and I waited.
The whole trip, I was reading the book “Living Untethered: Beyond the Human Predicament” by Michael Singer. A spiritual book. A follow-up to the book “The Untethered Soul”, more like a procedural sequel. I finished the book, and as planned, went right back to page one and started it again. This book is a bible to spirituality.
“One of the most amazing things you will ever realize is that the moment in front of you is not bothering you – you are bothering yourself about the moment in front of you. It’s not personal – you are making it personal.”
My takeaway: It has taken billions of years of serendipitous events to reach this moment. You are merely an observer. Don’t take it personally.
The author, Michael Singer, gives realistic examples and analogies. Watch yourself when you are driving. Do you tend to get upset at drivers that you have no control over? Let it go. Don’t let this event control you and your thoughts. You are merely an observer.
I often think about the morning of August 2nd. Sitting on the bedroom floor with Heidi, watching Scott, who had died in his sleep that night. Billions of years of serendipitous events had brought us to this moment. I am merely an observer.
I highly recommend the book “Living Untethered” by Michael Singer. Read it once to get the gist. Read it twice for it to absorb into your unconscious mind. I also highly recommend the healing powers of the river, close friends, and meditation.
More book recommendations and adventures can be found at Wild About Books.
