Anthology 2014

FOREWARD

––––––––

The success of the Covington Writers Group during its first year is due in part to the encouragement and support we’ve received from others. Without it, this anthology would not have been a reality. The members would like to express their heartfelt thanks to the following:

●  Family and friends, for allowing us to spend some of our time away from them while we write, share our work at group meetings and grow as writers. Their love and sacrifices mean the world to us as we strive for success.

●  John Graham and the Covington staff of the Kenton County Public Library, for providing our meeting place on the first and third Saturday mornings each month, where we meet and share our stories and writing ideas in a comfortable, state-of-the-art facility. 

●  The staff at Zola’s Pub and Grill in MainStrasse Village, for providing us with their spacious second floor dining area on the second and fourth Saturday evenings each month so we can socialize and critique stories in a friendly environment.

Jo Ann Bachman

––––––––

Writing opens us to exciting worlds of intrigue, opportunity, and transformation.

––––––––

About the Author

––––––––

Jo Ann Bachman has lived in Kentucky her whole life. She has earned a BS in Applied Sociology and Anthropology from NKU and a Masters of Accountancy from NKU and an MBA from Xavier University. Currently, she works as an accountant and equal employment opportunity counselor. Three things that she really enjoys in life are volunteering, teaching, and writing. She has a passion for people and learning their story. This poem was written in honor of both of her parents, passing a few months apart from each other in the past year.

In Life We Learn

––––––––

In birth, we greet life

In life, we greet the world

In the world, we learn to live

In living, we learn to give

In giving, we learn to love

In loving, we learn to care

In caring, we learn to share

In sharing, we learn to grow

In growing, we learn to be

In being, we learn to transform

In transforming, we learn to die

In death, we greet new life

Scott Beasley

––––––––

Covington Writers Group members are my friends and mentors. They push me to be at my creative best.

––––––––

About the Author

––––––––

Scott Beasley was born in 1964 in Fairfax, Virginia. He lived for forty years in Miami, Florida and moved to Northern Kentucky in 2014, where he currently live. The majority of Scott’s family still lives in the Greater Cincinnati area, making the move all the more relevant. His mother and stepfather still travel to Florida to his childhood home in the winter. He has a passion for the arts and is supportive whenever possible to the people and institutions that keep the arts moving forward. Scott is a Certified Public Accountant by trade and has been since 1990. He is certified in Ohio, Kentucky, and Florida. He graduated from the School of Business at the University of Miami in Coral Gables, Florida in 1987. He has a history of volunteer work in the South Florida region and seeks the same in his new home. Particularly high on his list are animal causes. Scott is currently editing his memoir, expected to be published in the spring of 2015.

Yoda

––––––––

What do you think of when you hear the word Yoda? Most would say that it is that now legendary George Lucas character from the movie series, Star Wars. There is at least one more character I know that bears this name. It’s my dog. I named him so because of his resemblance to the Lucas character – small stature, large ears, and incredible intelligence. Yoda would be the name he would respond to for a lifetime, no matter where he might reside.

I approached Miami-Dade Florida Animal Control in 2005 on a mission. I wanted a dog; the need for homes for dogs was great. One of these fur balls was meant for me. I made one circuit through the pound, searching every cage for magic to appear. It wasn’t that there were no dogs that warmed the heart. It’s just that, like the human love of your life that hopefully strikes once in your life, I just felt no spark that moved my soul.

So I made another circuit looking closely into every cage. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Wait, what’s this? I knew his story right away. I had seen it before. His brown and white face was full of personality and his wild, wagging tail demanded that I remove him from the cage and take him home with me. I knew I hadn’t seen him on the first go-round. I saw him outside in the waiting area being dropped off. Who could have abandoned such an animal? I knew in an instant that he was meant to be mine. It was Monday and I would pick him up Thursday, complete with microchip, neutering and shots.

Dr. George Bailey, who would become his regular veterinarian, proclaimed him to be about 9 months old and a mix of Papillon, an old world breed along with others. Dr. Bailey hadn’t skipped a beat from when I had worked for him over 20 years previous. He was as engaging as ever, showering Yoda with affection. He grabbed poor Yoda by his ears and shook in earnest. Yoda was amused by the attention and Dr. Bailey seemed to enjoy it too.

I had worked for Dr. Bailey as a veterinary technician in a high school program and through my second year of college; I did just about everything at the Bird Road Animal Hospital, where he was part-owner. I took classes in a pre-vet track during my first year at the University of Miami in Coral Gables, Florida, but I was destined to take a different road academically. I did, however, work at Bird Road and one other veterinary hospital totaling all of my college years and I count those as the greatest years of my life. 

Dr. Bailey, I might add, saved Yoda’s life at least twice due to errors on my part. Dr. Bailey, I know I am but one of countless dog owners that want to see you promoted to dog heaven, on God’s schedule of course.

When I moved up to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, which is in Broward County, I depended on Yoda’s companionship even more. My mental health was deteriorating, I was usually broke, and the neighborhood was going to the dogs. The walls thundered at night with liquored-up couples crashing about. A disgruntled ex-tenant vandalized the electrical room and left us without power overnight. I made a second move within Broward County mostly because I decided that Yoda was in danger from a couple of pit bulls next door. When they killed two other dogs right out in front of my building, I deemed it was time to take action. The area had great dog parks and for that reason only I hated to leave, but safety first. 

Recently, things took a turn for the worse and I was hospitalized.  I could no longer take care of myself and Yoda. My mother and stepfather cared for Yoda for six months until the time when that spark struck again and it was love at first sight for Hayley, my stepfather’s granddaughter. She and her family adopted Yoda. I lost my best friend, in addition to my health. I was devastated. That was my dog! 

Well, of course time heals all wounds. Today, Yoda is a ten-year old puppy. The dog park has never been big enough. He finds his way out of the most microscopic holes in the fence, from there into traffic. Panic simply understates how I feel in these situations. In addition, he works himself into a frenzy chasing squirrels and there is no shortage of squirrels, not in his past home in Florida or in his current home in Kentucky. 

I am here in Park Hills and Yoda is in Lexington. Even though he has a new family, I get to see him every month and a half on average for a few days each time. He is loved by so many, so much, that I am just happy he will be taken care of so well.

The Eagle Has Landed

––––––––

Multitudes may revel at big-time spectator sports such as baseball, basketball and football. Many, however, are married to the gentlemen’s game of golf. My stepfather, Dave, is one of them. This is the story of a high-water mark in Dave’s golfing life.

In September, 2014 in Northern Kentucky at a golf course named Pioneer, Dave stepped up to the first tee. He selected a driver out of his faithful bag, and stretched, making small talk with his companions. The four of them had seen this hole and this course before. They played together every Friday; Pioneer was only one of their haunts.

Dave focused upon the target as never before –the flag 243 yards in the distance. Peering out from under his Titleist headgear, Dave had a feeling about this day. The hole was 243 yards as the crow flies; however, the valley between the tee and the hole dipped at least 50 to 60 yards, making the total distance more like 300 yards. It was a par 4 and was rated the seventh most difficult on the 18-hole course. Dave has a hindered right arm and cannot generate a full backswing, but what he lacks in distance he makes up for in accuracy, and he does get a rocket off on occasion. He stepped up between the grey markers on the tee that determine the distance to the hole, planted his feet, took a few practice swings and let it rip!  It was a winner –a high, arcing burner down the middle about 180 yards. A zinger on the first hole was just what was needed to set the mood.

Dave jumped into the golf cart with his life-long friend Gene and drove in anticipation down the hill. As expected, all three of his buddies had driven the ball shorter than him and therefore they all hit first. Now, it was Dave’s turn. Would that crazy-perfect follow-up shot materialize? 

Dave stood over the ball, brushed aside a leaf and took his stance. He could not see the hole, as he was in the valley. Three seconds later the ball flew. Dave’s expression fell. It was headed straight at the hole but too long. 

Gene disagreed. I think it stayed on, remarked Gene. 

Dave again assumed the driver’s position on the cart, but with dampened enthusiasm. It just wasn’t