The Best Christmas

By KevaD

In November 1960, John F. Kennedy won the presidential election. On Christmas morning that year, I woke and ran to the living room to discover my Christmas gifts consisted of a copy of P.T. 109 by John F. Kennedy (Mom had a serious crush on the man), and a Schwinn Jaguar bicycle with double baskets on the rear fender. Black with gleaming chrome, that bike was kind of like dreaming about a Volkswagen Beetle and finding a Lamborghini parked in the driveway.

We were neither rich nor poor. Like most folks, the budget was tight, and though I was in grade school, I understood that new clothes had to last until the approach of the next school year and its accompanying department store sales. Shoes had to be kept polished to help make them last. If I got in a fight and tore my shirt, Mom’s tongue lashing hurt a lot more than any fist. And, I had to stand there while she mended the damage.

The Jaguar, as I called it, was a major purchase. Its presence meant something had been sacrificed so I could have my first, and last, new bike. The baskets represented my future business endeavor. I could now get a paper route, edging out boys who would have to carry those heavy canvas bags. I could offer faster service, resulting in less time spent working, and bigger tips.

The one thing that wasn’t under the tree, or anywhere in the rented house, was Dad, the man who paid the bills. Mom held the home together, maintaining a sense of stability each time we got transferred to a new town, introducing me to new teachers, locating just the right church. Each of my parents had a role to fill, a job to do. Dad’s job meant he wasn’t home—a lot.

He worked for the railroad. His job title was Traveling Engineer, today’s business term equivalent to a district manager. Dad had a large area he was responsible for. Every train, whether operating or down for repairs, was his responsibility.  The NTSB didn’t exist in those days, and it fell to Dad to respond to accident sites, determine the cause of the crash, oversee the clean-up and repairs, and get everything back to normal and operational. If repairmen threw up their hands and claimed an engine couldn’t be fixed, Dad would show up and get it running again. I remember how now and then Mom would get a call from a station foreman announcing that Dad had telegraphed he was on a train that would be passing through the area. We’d quick jump in the car, drive like crazy to some rural crossing (Mom had all the crossing locations memorized), and wave as the train sped past, Dad leaning out a window so we wouldn’t miss him.

And that’s where he was that Christmas, on the job somewhere in South Dakota.

He didn’t get to see my shock and amazement at the prized gift parked next to the tree. But what he did get to see two days later was me on that bike for the first time. Even though the streets had been cleared of snow, I delayed the inaugural ride. He got to see my smile, and I got to see his. Dad’s smile and approval: best belated Christmas gift ever.

By the way, I still have the Jaguar  J

Happy Holidays!

David Kentner

Check out Dave's books at Decadent Publishing!

Where is Freewill, Wyoming?

Buy Kantu's Heart HERE

By KevaD

There’s intrinsic beauty in the artistry required to create a community like Freewill, Wyoming. First, the person behind the scenes has to paint a vivid picture of the town’s geographic location on the edge of mountains and still within a stone’s throw of pastures capable of supporting horse and cattle ranches. Next come the foundation businesses that provide the residents with common ground and meeting places; a small town friendly ambiance a reader can return to time and again and feel like the reader is coming home to a familiar setting. Finally, every town has its memorable characters who hang out on the corner, in the café, or on the park bench in front of the drug store, and always have a wave or a bit of gossip to share. Politicians remain in office until the next election. The family who built the bank still owns it. The restaurant’s menu hasn’t had a new entrée in years. The schedule of community events designed to pull in tourists is available for all to review.

However, each one of those concrete elements must afford contributing authors the freedom to explore their own imaginations and implant new characters, plots, and appropriate locales. In other words, the town of Freewill must be firm enough to maintain consistency, and yet liquid enough to mold to the visiting author’s vision. Change without change.

And somehow, the folks behind the scenes of Western Escape have provided authors just such a canvas on which to introduce new characters who are old friends or relatives, sometimes mysterious strangers who set tongues wagging, and storylines that are fresh and unchained within what could be a monotonous cage for imagination if not handled properly. This affords readers stories that aren’t canned replays of previous books. New authors mean new blood and a new way of viewing the town and its inhabitants within each offering.

The Western Escape line isn’t trite nor expected. Each book is an original take on an established community, its surroundings and history. So, freshen your drink, kick off your shoes, put your feet up, and get ready for some fun, exciting, often sexy, and never repetitive storytelling.

We hope you enjoy your stay here in Freewill. Oh! Be sure to tip the waitress. She has an attitude. 

Kantu's Heart

by KevaD

When Sandra Harn drove her minivan in to Freewill, Wyoming, she had no idea her life would depend on the skills of a cave-dwelling warrior who died fifty thousand years ago. After all, she just came for the rummage sale.

EXCERPT:

A brass bell jingled. The significance wasn’t lost on me. I understood it had been hung above the door as a gesture, a modicum of reality I could relate to, cling to, in whatever was about to happen. In the entryway, the maître d’s wooden stand, barren of the requisite book listing the evening’s reservations had been festooned with but a solitary note taped to the edge.

Seat Yourself

I thought the message apropos for the event, considering I had no idea why I had been invited or what the activities would entail.

The building was small, a café, an after theater gathering point in its original purpose. After multiple transformations over the decades including bridal shop, hardware store, and ladies’ apparel, the front room had once more returned to a quaint bistro setting of four tables strategically placed so no patron was either assaulted nor too far removed from the subtle flames in the brick fireplace. Were there more tables on another night? I didn’t know.

At the first table rested three chairs, in front of which sat three nondescript plates. The drinking vessels caught my interest. The taller one, a manly brown, had a crack running the length, the pink water glass possessed a lacy gentleness. The third was plastic, the caricature of Davy Crockett faded where what little paint yet remained.

I moved on to the next table with its four different colored plates and three chairs. It took a moment before I noticed the additional dishes under two of the platters. The colors seemed to convey meaning beyond the obvious, and I didn’t understand, so I moved on.

The third table was empty. Not a single adornment except for four seats, each with a shirt draped over the back; a white hospital smock, an army blouse, a badged police uniform, and the last, a burgundy pullover monogrammed Auctioneer.

In the corner, furthest removed from the entrance, sat a table for one, the chair wedged between the walls’ intersection. The plate and glass had been pushed aside, secondary elements to the paper and pencil holding their rightful positions.

I eased into the chair and surveyed the tables positioned between me and the door.

To reach this corner point I had passed my turbulent and innocent youth, the fractured life of my father, the softness and patience of my mother. Traveling on, my children had grown, gathering their own families in need of their support, the dinner plates our unity, the colors our individuality. The empty space, the untimely death of their mother, forever with them, yet not. My careers held substance, still, at the end of the day, sat by themselves, memories, and little more.

I picked up the pencil and stared at the blank sheet of paper, keeping in mind my seat in the corner, looking forward to the doorway of a new adventure and back on my life at the same time. The impact, the meaning of my reason for being in the café, placed a hand on my shoulder. I began to write the final chapter, knowing whatever words formed, whatever stories I would tell, would be because of those three tables, the lives and loves, the gains and losses, the smiles and tears.

Authors are frequently asked where their inspiration comes from. My answer can be found in one deceptively simple and excitingly complex word. Life.

My first book with Decadent Publishing was released June 13^th. Kantu’s Heart, part of the Western Escape line, is a time travel romance peppered with suspense. I hope you’ll check it out and then journey with me as I meet more characters demanding their stories be told.

Buy Kantu's Heart HERE

Just Saying Hello….

by KevaD

COMING SOON!

Well….

This is my first blog post with Decadent Publishing. The problem? What to write, obviously.

I’m KevaD, also known as David Kentner, one of Decadent’s newer authors signed to the Western Escape line. My contribution titled Kantu’s Heart is currently scheduled for release in June. So, it’s kind of early to talk about a caveman warrior who time travels to contemporary Freewill, WY, in search of his one true love, his heart Sanda, and exact revenge on the man who murdered her in Kantu’s time.

My wife hasn’t told me to move out yet, despite the many hours a day I sit huddled over the keyboard, or how when she left me a note she needed a bottle of chanel, I drove to the Mississippi River and filled three for her in the mistaken belief she’d misspelled the word. Our dog loves me when he has a burr stuck in his fur. The tuxedo cat tolerates me, mostly because I’m the one who feeds her.

Bethenny Frankel is someone I could be friends with. This is the worst season of American Idol. Cold pizza is an acceptable breakfast food. So is chocolate cake in a bowl with milk. I admit to wondering on occasion who first decided to convince women in 1915 to shave their armpits (the assault on leg hair came later) - I can’t persuade my wife to do anything.

My Grandma Tripp couldn’t get a job, so she built a river resort of six cabins with her own two hands and no help (yes, she really did), operated it until she had reservations filled for three years ahead, then sold it and entered into the business of buying and selling small neighborhood apartment buildings so she always had someone else paying for her home. She also went through five husbands - she didn’t cotton much to people telling her what to do. Grandma Tripp taught me to fish, which berries are edible and which ones will make someone you don’t like so sick they’d prefer death, how to identify venomous snakes and spiders, knew how to hold a grudge longer than anyone I’ve ever met, kept the basement filled with can goods for the next Great Depression she swore would come, and could make tea out of just about anything. She also handmade the most delicious butter noodles I’ve ever tasted, and refused to pass down the recipe. On a whim, she started one of the first mail order collectable stamp businesses in the country, sold franchises, and when the IRS caught wind of her growing enterprise, she told them all to go to hell and never sold another stamp. When she died, we had a dozen 3ft x 3ft boxes of postage stamps to dispose of. Try filling even one box that size with stamps.

I was the one who had to sit next to her bed and explain that if she didn’t have a certain operation, she would die. She’d grown old, weak, and very tired. She told me to go fishing and not worry about it. She passed away a few days later, leaving her body to a university so they could study the arthritis that had crippled her.

Grandma Tripp was a trip. I miss her and think of our brief time together whenever I head out on the river.

Thanks for reading, and I hope we get a chance to chat again.