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.