My Dad and Airplanes

 Author's Note: I wrote this eight years ago, on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of my father's death. Like his memory, it has withstood the test of time. I have slightly updated it for today, December 11, 2020, the 18th anniversary of his death. Read the original here.

  

Roger L. Miller as a boy, early 1920s.

My Dad and Airplanes

by G. Wayne Miller

I live near an airport. Depending on wind direction and other variables, planes sometimes pass directly over my house as they climb into the sky. If I’m outside, I always look up, marveling at the wonder of flight. I’ve witnessed many amazing developments -- the end of the Cold War, the advent of the digital world, for example -- but except perhaps for space travel, which of course is rooted at Kitty Hawk, none can compare.

I also always think of my father, Roger L. Miller, who died 18 years ago today.

Dad was a boy on May 20, 1927, when Charles Lindbergh took off in a single-engine plane from a field near New York City. Thirty-three-and-a-half hours later, he landed in Paris. That boy from a small Massachusetts town who became my father was astounded, like people all over the world. Lindbergh’s pioneering Atlantic crossing inspired him to get into aviation, and he wanted to do big things, maybe captain a plane or even head an airline. But the Great Depression, which forced him from college, diminished that dream. He drove a school bus to pay for trade school, where he became an airplane mechanic, which was his job as a wartime Navy enlisted man and during his entire civilian career. On this modest salary, he and my mother raised a family, sacrificing material things they surely desired.

My father was a smart and gentle man, not prone to harsh judgment, fond of a joke, a lover of newspapers and gardening and birds, chickadees especially. He was robust until a stroke in his 80s sent him to a nursing home, but I never heard him complain during those final, decrepit years. The last time I saw him conscious, he was reading his beloved Boston Globe, his old reading glasses uneven on his nose, from a hospital bed. The morning sun was shining through the window and for a moment, I held the unrealistic hope that he would make it through this latest distress. He died four days later, quietly, I am told. I was not there.

Like others who have lost loved ones, there are conversations I never had with my Dad that I probably should have. But near the end, we did say we loved each other, which was rare (he was, after all, a Yankee). I smoothed his brow and kissed him goodbye.

So on this 18th anniversary, I have no deep regrets. But I do have two impossible wishes.

My first is that Dad could have heard my eulogy, which I began writing that morning by his hospital bed. It spoke of quiet wisdom he imparted to his children, and of the respect and affection family and others held for him. In his modest way, he would have liked to hear it, I bet, for such praise was scarce when he was alive. But that is not how the story goes. We die and leave only memories, a strictly one-way experience. 

My second wish would be to tell Dad how his only son has fared in the last 18 years. I know he would have empathy for some bad times I went through and be proud that I made it. He would be happy that I found a woman I love, Yolanda, my wife now for four years and my best friend for more than a decade: someone, like him, who loves gardening and birds. He would be pleased that my three wonderful children, Rachel, Katy and Cal, are making their way in the world; and that he now has three great-granddaughters, Bella, Livvie and Viv, wonderful girls all. In his humble way, he would be honored to know how frequently I, my sister Mary Lynne and my children remember and miss him. He would be saddened to learn that my other sister, his younger daughter, Lynda, died in 2015. But that is not how the story goes, either. We send thoughts to the dead, but the experience is one-way. We treasure photographs, but they do not speak.

Lately, I have been poring through boxes of black-and-white prints handed down from Dad’s side of my family. I am lucky to have them, more so that they were taken in the pre-digital age -- for I can touch them, as the people captured in them surely themselves did so long ago. I can imagine what they might say, if in fact they could speak.

Some of the scenes are unfamiliar to me: sailboats on a bay, a stream in winter, a couple posing on a hill, the woman dressed in fur-trimmed coat. But I recognize the house, which my grandfather, for whom I am named, built with his farmer’s hands; the coal stove that still heated the kitchen when I visited as a child; the birdhouses and flower gardens, which my sweet grandmother lovingly tended. I recognize my father, my uncle and my aunts, just children then in the 1920s. I peer at Dad in these portraits (he seems always to be smiling!), and the resemblance to photos of me at that age is startling, though I suppose it should not be.

A plane will fly over my house today, I am certain. When it does, I will go outside and think of young Dad, amazed that someone had taken the controls of an airplane in America and stepped out in France. A boy with a smile, his life all ahead of him.

My dad, second from top, with two of his sisters and his brother.

John Lennon joins Jack Nicholson in a fictionalized appearance in Blue Hill! Read this excerpt.

 

 Along with several fictional characters, starting with the narrator, "Blue Hill" features some real-life people -- Jack Nicholson, for example, albeit in fictionalized form. 

And now, enter John Lennon (and Yoko and Sean). As with much of the novel, this scene is woven into the larger story of narrator/protagonist Mark Gray and first love Sally Martin.

To learn more about the book, which published on October 6 - and to order in audio, Kindle or paper formats - visit http://www.gwaynemiller.com/books.htm

By senior year, I was pretty damn cocky.

I’d directed six films, and one had been favorably reviewed in The Village Voice and another praised in a wrap-up of student artists in The New York Times. I’d been contacted by a couple of New York ad firms regarding employment after graduation, but I’d told them to take a hike. I was an artist—so said The Times—not a corporate suit. Bud was heading to L.A. and I was going with him and Sally was going, too…or so she believed.

I can’t pinpoint when I became derisive of the woman for whom I’d sold the only thing of material value my mother had left me.

I suspect it was after September, when I declined to live with her, using some pathetically lame argument about space and freedom, and I know for certain it was before she got knocked up. My guess is late October. I was running the first annual NYU Jack Nicholson film fest and on this particular night we’d screened Cuckoo’s Nest for a sellout audience of 300, including John Lennon—John Lennon!—who’d arrived, unannounced, with Yoko and Sean.

During the discussion period, which I moderated, Sally raised her hand and said: “If Chief could talk all that time, why’d he wait so long to say something?”

Utter silence in the auditorium.

Bud rolled his eyes and The Voice’s film critic looked pained and if Lennon hadn’t been fussing over his son, I bet he would have had some sharp-tongued barb.

I did not let on that I knew Sally.

“Thank you, Miss,” I said, “now would anyone care to pick up on Professor Pagliano’s observations on Nurse Ratched as a metaphor for neo-capitalist authoritarianism?”

Lennon did, and his remarks were printed in the next edition of The Village Voice, along with a photo of me handing him the mic.

Later that evening, alone with Sally, I said: “If you have to be so stupid, can you at least not do it in public?”

“Why was that stupid?” Sally said.

“Oh my God,” I said, with blustering intellectual indignation, “now you want me to explain your stupidity. It’s like the Bunuel subtitles again.”

`Well, I hate subtitles,” Sally said. “If I want to read, I’ll get a book.”

She had a point, a good one in fact, but I didn’t see it then. There was a lot I didn’t see then.

If I hadn’t gone home that Christmas, I suppose our relationship would have been over, finally, by year’s end. But I did go home, and Sally did too, and Christmas Eve found us together and it was like the calendar had been turned back.

I told Sally I loved her and somehow we’d make things work and we should consider tonight a fresh start—all the sweet talk a twenty-one-year-old guy who hasn’t been laid in a month can muster. We made love that night, and every night for the remainder of the holidays, and we went back to New York together, and several weeks later, when Doris Wong began strongly hinting that my day was soon to come, I told Sally it was over—this time, for good.

She didn’t plead.

She didn’t ask for explanations and she didn’t call or come by, and when two weeks had passed and Doris hadn’t moved past hinting, I called her.

She didn’t want to talk over the phone.

“Meet me at Rockefeller Center,” she said, and hung up.

The funny thing was, the second I saw Sally, I wanted to kiss her.

Go figure—I can’t wait for her to be out of my life and once she is, all I can think is I want to kiss her. Kiss her and take her clothes off and spend a week in bed with her. Like Yoko and John, except no peace-in, but sex non-stop.

I swear, no one had ever looked better: her lips redder than I remembered, her hair so long and silky and brown, her skin so rosy. I mean, she was like Barbara Hershey, another actress I had a thing for then. And I did kiss her—this clumsy thing involving contact with her cheek. We exchanged pleasantries and then we skated and after, as we drank hot chocolates, she told me she was two months pregnant. Given how we’d spent the holiday – together virtually 24/7 – there was no shred of doubt about paternity.

More "Blue Hill: posts:

-- On a return to a hometown, a reunion with a first love.

 On the run from the law and deep into his journey into the past, Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," returns to his home town, where he meets Sally Martin, his high-school girlfriend and first love. A long-buried secret will soon be revealed.

READ THIS EXCERPT:

 https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/we-both-cracked-up-at-that-and-laughter.html

 

-- Reviews for “Blue Hill” are coming in and they are favorable!The reviews for my latest book, "Blue Hill," a novel that is a profound departure from my other (mostly horror, mystery and sci-fi) fiction are looking good! I will post more as they arrived.
READ REVIEWS: 
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/reviews-for-blue-hill-are-coming-in-and.html

-- Fenway Park on August 18, 1967: Tony Conigliaro struck by pitch.
Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is a young Red Sox fan when slugger Tony Conigliaro is beaned by a pitch during the Sox "Dream Team" of 1967. The pitch changed the real-life Tony C. -- and had a profound impact on the fictional protagonist of my new novel.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/fenway-park-on-august-18-1967-tony.html

-- The possibility of reconciliation, and an outrageous climb in a Maine Nor'easter.
Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is the son of a now-retired Episcopal priest and '60s social activist. Their relationship has been difficult since Gray's childhood, but there is always the possibility of reconciliation. Maybe it will occur when Gray, now one of America's Most Wanted criminals, visits his elderly father, who lives in Blue Hill, Gray's hometown, and proposes an outrageous climb of a favorite mountain... in a raging Nor'easter. Read the excerpt here.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/mark-gray-protagonist-of-blue-hill-is.html

-- Quite a cast of characters.
Along with several fictional characters, starting with the narrator, "Blue Hill" features some real-life people -- Jack Nicholson, for example, albeit in fictionalized form.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/quite-cast-of-characters-another.html

-- Fenway Park.
Baseball is a central theme of my new novel, "Blue Hill," a departure from my other fiction, which has been solidly in the mystery, horror and sci-fi genres.
READ THE EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/blue-hill-excerpt-from-chapter-four.html

-- Listen to the books!
Listen to a clip from the audio version of “Blue Hill” Blue Hill and also some of my other books, including “Thunder Rise,” King of Hearts,” and “The Work of Human Hands.”
LISTEN: 
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/09/listen-to-books.html

Updated on Nov. 14, 2020: Reviews for Blue Hill keep coming in and they are raves!

The reviews for my latest book, "Blue Hill," a novel that is a profound departure from my other (mostly horror, mystery and sci-fi) fiction are looking good! I will post more as they arrive.

To learn more about the book and to order in audio, Kindle, paper or Apple formats, visit http://www.gwaynemiller.com/books.htm

"Imagine having it all, when suddenly everything changes…. Set in the late 1990s, G. Wayne Miller’s latest page turner, ‘Blue Hill’, is a gripping tale wrapped in nostalgia ultimately revealing what matters most in this life.

-- Brendan Kirby, co-host of WPRI/12/CBS' popular program, The Rhode Show. WATCH the interview. 

                                                                          *****

"Versatile writer G. Wayne Miller returns with his newest book, a captivating thriller, 'Blue Hill.' "

-- John Busbee, The Culture Buzz, KFMG 98.9 FM, Des Moines, Iowa.

                                                                            *****

“A bold and bracing tale that challenges our perspective and sensibility, as it confronts us with the fact that reality is a relative term...

“While the setup is pure Harlan Coben or Joe Finder, the execution is more akin to Tom Wolfe’s farcical approach in ‘The Bonfire of the Vanities.’ At times, that leads to rapid shifts in tone — from potential thriller to a kind of parody — which works, thanks to Miller’s elegant command of his story.”

-- Providence Journal, November 1, 2020. Read the full review online: 

                                                                            *****

"Blue Hill” is a story of seduction by a time and a technology, a painful story of narcissism, compromise, and redemption. G. Wayne Miller helps us to see ourselves as we are, not as who we want to be, and to see a time (1997) and a culture for what it was. In this hard-to-put-down novel, G. Wayne Miller helps us understand who we become – and even better, who we might be if we take the time to think, look at ourselves in the mirror, and remember what matters.

 -- Michael Fine, podcaster and best-selling author of “Abundance,” “Health Care Revolt” and, due in November 2020, “The Bull and Other Stories.”

                                                                              *****

A great read.

-- Bill Reynolds, author of "Fall River Dreams: A Team's Quest for Glory, A Town's Search for Its Soul"

                                                                              *****

The highly creative and motivated forty-two-year-old Mark Gray yearns for something new even though he is a celebrated gamer with a loving wife and child. He feels his life has gotten quite repetitive and mundane, which leads him to a fling gone wrong with a beautiful female fan and an embarrassing fall from grace. Gray, the rich and successful family man, becomes a fugitive on the run from an attempted murder and felony assault charge. Will Gray prove his innocence before everybody, including his beloved wife and child, completely turns on him? G. Wayne Miller brings us Blue Hill, a riveting story set in 1997 about a man's journey through the fondest and most painful memories of his past and the secrets he discovers as he flees from the law.

 

My first thought after reading Blue Hill was: "I love this book!" G. Wayne Miller's story has opened the door to other enticing titles by him that I would definitely love to read. Blue Hill is simply beautiful! The first-person point of view is brilliantly executed, giving readers a close and personal look into the story. I felt the emotions of the protagonist as if I was experiencing these myself. The attention to detail and meticulousness displayed in the portrayal of the characters makes the novel so realistic and captivating. Wayne Miller mixes a laugh-out-loud funny tale with a deep and serious narrative, and the result is a book that will capture your emotions and leave a lasting, distinctive impression.

 

-- Foluso Falaye, Readers' Favorite

                                                                                  *****

In Blue Hill, You Can Go Home Again.

Reviewed in the United States on October 11, 2020

Verified Purchase

Everyone makes mistakes. Some of us make really big mistakes sometimes because we believe our own headlines. In the book Blue Hill by G. Wayne Miller, Mark Gray makes one of those big mistakes and finds that what matters most in our short lives is how we deal with repairing the damage we've caused and reconciling the battle between good and evil that lurks in each of us.

While this novel was largely written in the late 90s, it reads fresh and vital. And who won't like a book that takes us back to floppy discs, AOL, chat rooms, big, bulky cell phones and even the 1967 Boston Red Sox with a special emphasis on the great Tony Conigliaro.

I give Blue Hill a hearty recommendation. It's a great read that I couldn't put down.

-- Dante, Amazon reviewer

                                                                   *****

More Blue Hill: posts:

-- On a return to a hometown, a reunion with a first love.

 On the run from the law and deep into his journey into the past, Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," returns to his home town, where he meets Sally Martin, his high-school girlfriend and first love. A long-buried secret will soon be revealed.

READ THIS EXCERPT:

 https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/we-both-cracked-up-at-that-and-laughter.html

 

-- Fenway Park on August 18, 1967: Tony Conigliaro struck by pitch.

Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is a young Red Sox fan when slugger Tony Conigliaro is beaned by a pitch during the Sox "Dream Team" of 1967. The pitch changed the real-life Tony C. -- and had a profound impact on the fictional protagonist of my new novel.

READ THIS EXCERPT:

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/fenway-park-on-august-18-1967-tony.html

 

-- The possibility of reconciliation, and an outrageous climb in a Maine Nor'easter.

Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is the son of a now-retired Episcopal priest and '60s social activist. Their relationship has been difficult since Gray's childhood, but there is always the possibility of reconciliation. Maybe it will occur when Gray, now one of America's Most Wanted criminals, visits his elderly father, who lives in Blue Hill, Gray's hometown, and proposes an outrageous climb of a favorite mountain... in a raging Nor'easter. Read the excerpt here.

READ THIS EXCERPT:

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/mark-gray-protagonist-of-blue-hill-is.html

 

-- Quite a cast of characters.

 Along with several fictional characters, starting with the narrator, "Blue Hill" features some real-life people -- Jack Nicholson, for example, albeit in fictionalized form.

READ THIS EXCERPT:

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/quite-cast-of-characters-another.html

 

-- Fenway Park.

Baseball is a central theme of my new novel, "Blue Hill," a departure from my other fiction, which has been solidly in the mystery, horror and sci-fi genres.

READ THE EXCERPT:

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/blue-hill-excerpt-from-chapter-four.html

 

-- Listen to the books!

Listen to a clip from the audio version of “Blue Hill” Blue Hill and also some of my other books, including “Thunder Rise,” King of Hearts,” and “The Work of Human Hands.”

LISTEN: 

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/09/listen-to-books.html

 

 

On a return to a hometown, a reunion with a first love

 

On the run from the law and deep into his journey into the past, Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," returns to his home town, where he meets Sally Martin, his high-school girlfriend and first love. A long-buried secret will soon be revealed.

To learn more about the book, which published on October 6 - and to order in audio, Kindle or paper formats - visit http://www.gwaynemiller.com/books.htm

We both cracked up at that, and the laughter opened something, because our conversation was suddenly animated. I heard details of Sally’s divorce from a small-town cop who was a decent enough dad but couldn’t keep his hands off other women. I talked about Ruth and Timmy, albeit without details of his paternity, and I took a gratifying shot at old Syd. Sally told of bumping into my dad now and again; of her job in a nursing home, low-paying but rewarding helping others like that, she said; of our first-grade teacher, Miss Biddle, who’d died last winter; of Jane Rogers, who’d married at 19 and was now, could you believe it, a grandmother.

I told Sally of how I’d always hoped to move back here, or at least have a summer place. It was not the complete truth, but somehow it was the right thing to say.

“You’re wearing Old Spice,” Sally said when we reached a lull.

It was almost dark now.

“Is it too strong?”

“No. I’m just surprised you remembered.”

“I remember a lot.”

“So do I.”

I looked seaward, at waves that had turned Blue Hill Bay angry. Further out, the unprotected ocean would be treacherous. On nights like this, my father always offered a prayer for mariners; when she was alive, Mom always joined in. Her grandfather, the guy who’d bought Blue Hill’s blueberry fields from a Native American for a dollar, had been lost at sea on a night like this. His body had never been recovered, which meant no funeral or grave to ever visit.

“Can I ask you something?” Sally said.

“Anything you want.”

“Why’d you call?”

I’d been expecting that question. I still didn’t have the answer.

“I found the ring,” I explained, “going through your letters.”

I dug into my pocket and offered it to Sally, but she wouldn’t take it.

Suddenly, the circumstances of our last encounter were with us—heavy and low, and nasty, like the clouds.

You stupid fuck, I thought. What possessed you to do that?

“I want you to have it,” I said, struggling.

“Why?”

“Because it’s yours.”

“Was mine.”

“Please?”

Sally took the ring, but she wouldn’t wear it. Rather, she slipped it into her pocket.

“Things didn’t turn out like we planned, did they?” I said, and that sentence sounds monumentally stupid now, but then—then, it seemed profound.

“They never do,” Sally said. “The older you get, you learn that. And when you do, you reach a place of peace.”

A place of peace.

How I envied her, this girl who’d become this woman.

We left the beach and climbed quite some distance, to the top of a granite ledge bordered by pines. The wind was stronger here and I wished I had gloves and hat, as Sally did.

“Do you remember this ledge?” I said.

“Of course.”

“We used to fish off here when the tide was high. What were we in—fourth grade?”

“Something like that.”

“Mom was always afraid we’d fall.”

“Mothers are like that. I remember the time you told me about sharks that could crawl out of the ocean. I really believed you, for a while.”

“I think that was the beginning of my infantile practical jokes.”

“I wouldn’t call them infantile,” Sally said. “Sophomoric, maybe.”

We laughed.

“I have other memories of here,” I said.

“One stronger than the rest,” Sally said.

“Graduation night.”

“It seems like a million years ago.”

“Maybe it was,” I said. “Maybe everything went into a time warp and here we are, back again.”

I know—that sounds stupider than my last stupid comment. But if Sally took it that way, she didn’t let on.

Moving closer to her, I smelled Shalimar perfume, always her favorite; in one of those inexplicably weird coincidences, it was Ruth’s, too. I thought I also smelled whiskey, but I couldn’t be sure.

I wanted to kiss Sally and feel the swell of her breasts. I wanted it to be summer, and sunrise, over a flat blue sea.

“We better go,” Sally said, “before it’s completely dark.”

She squeezed my hand, fleetingly.

“You’re right,” I said.

“We wouldn’t want to get stranded here. Not with a storm coming on.”

“No,” I said, “not with a storm coming on.”

We walked in silence until we got to our cars.

“Well,” I said, “I guess this is it.”

“Where do you go now?” Sally asked.

“Maybe my father’s,” I said. “Maybe the Blue Hill Inn. I’m not sure I’m quite ready for Dad yet.”

“But you will see him before he goes.”

That seemed important to her.

“Of course,” I said.

“Since you don’t have plans,” Sally said, “would you like to have dinner?”

“I’d love to,” I said, too eagerly.

“I’ll even cook,” Sally said.

It had been an old joke, how she had trouble boiling water.

“You don’t have to go to that bother,” I said.

“I want to. Just don’t expect any of that gourmet stuff you get at home.”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “We live on macaroni and cheese. It’s Timmy’s favorite.

“Then maybe I have a chance.”

“What about your kids?”

“They’re with their father,” Sally said, “until tomorrow night.”

“You’re sure it wouldn’t be a bother?” I said.

“Do you think I would have asked if it was? Take your car. You can follow me.”

 More "Blue Hill: posts:

-- Reviews for “Blue Hill” are coming in and they are favorable!The reviews for my latest book, "Blue Hill," a novel that is a profound departure from my other (mostly horror, mystery and sci-fi) fiction are looking good! I will post more as they arrived.
READ REVIEWS:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/reviews-for-blue-hill-are-coming-in-and.html

-- Fenway Park on August 18, 1967: Tony Conigliaro struck by pitch.
Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is a young Red Sox fan when slugger Tony Conigliaro is beaned by a pitch during the Sox "Dream Team" of 1967. The pitch changed the real-life Tony C. -- and had a profound impact on the fictional protagonist of my new novel.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/fenway-park-on-august-18-1967-tony.html

-- The possibility of reconciliation, and an outrageous climb in a Maine Nor'easter.
Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is the son of a now-retired Episcopal priest and '60s social activist. Their relationship has been difficult since Gray's childhood, but there is always the possibility of reconciliation. Maybe it will occur when Gray, now one of America's Most Wanted criminals, visits his elderly father, who lives in Blue Hill, Gray's hometown, and proposes an outrageous climb of a favorite mountain... in a raging Nor'easter. Read the excerpt here.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/mark-gray-protagonist-of-blue-hill-is.html

-- Quite a cast of characters.
Along with several fictional characters, starting with the narrator, "Blue Hill" features some real-life people -- Jack Nicholson, for example, albeit in fictionalized form.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/quite-cast-of-characters-another.html

-- Fenway Park.
Baseball is a central theme of my new novel, "Blue Hill," a departure from my other fiction, which has been solidly in the mystery, horror and sci-fi genres.
READ THE EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/blue-hill-excerpt-from-chapter-four.html

-- Listen to the books!
Listen to a clip from the audio version of “Blue Hill” Blue Hill and also some of my other books, including “Thunder Rise,” King of Hearts,” and “The Work of Human Hands.”
LISTEN:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/09/listen-to-books.html

 

Fenway Park on August 18, 1967: Tony Conigliaro struck by pitch.

Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is a young Red Sox fan when slugger Tony Conigliaro is beaned by a pitch during the Sox "Dream Team" of 1967. The pitch changed the real-life Tony C. -- and had a profound impact on the fictional protagonist of my new novel.

To learn more about the book, which published on October 6 - and to order in audio, Kindle or paper formats - visit http://www.gwaynemiller.com/books.htm

I close my eyes and I can see the sun setting over Fenway, can feel my hand inside my glove, a Wilson that Mom gave me for my ninth birthday. I hear Dad, happy for the first time since Mom took sick, explaining with uncharacteristic enthusiasm why the bleachers are the statistically proven best place to catch a Tony Conigliaro home run because of how he pulls the ball—nothing, of course, about how the bleachers are all we can afford. I didn’t come to that realization until much later.

“Today’s the day, Mark,” he said, “I feel it.”

I said: “Does He feel it, too?”

And Dad saying impishly: “Who—the Big Guy?”

This was Dad at his wickedest—you knew he’d be good for an extra Coke, a day like this.

“Yeah, the Big Guy,” I said.

“Oh, yes, He feels it, too,” Dad said. “I can tell, because we’ve been doing a lot of talking lately.”

Talk was what Dad called prayer, when explaining it to little kids.

Even if you’re only marginally into baseball, you know where this one goes.

Jack Hamilton was pitching for the California Angels when Tony C. came to bat. I had Dad’s binoculars and I followed Conigliaro as he left the warmup circle. The first ball was a strike. Conigliaro fouled the second off behind first base. The next pitch, a fast ball, caught Conigliaro in the left cheekbone. I heard it—I swear I did, three hundred and seventy-nine feet away—a sound like a hammer on wood.

Tony C. fell.

Fenway Park on August 18, 1967.

The crowd went silent, and Fenway Park suddenly seemed frighteningly huge, and then the woman next to me began to cry.

She was a woman like Lisa: pretty, ponytailed, dressed in cut-offs and a tee shirt with Tony C.’s number. I remember having stared at her breasts when she wasn’t looking—how I saw Dad sneaking a look, too. I remember her telling me how she went every weekend to the club where Tony C. hung out. I remember the smell of the baby oil she rubbed onto her arms and legs, tanned to bronze, like Bridget Bardot, whose picture I’d secretly cut from a Look magazine from the library. I was a boy, discovering, awkwardly like all of us, sexuality.

I remembered all that and could not but wonder, sitting there at Fenway now with my own son more than thirty years later, where she was now and did she still feel good enough about herself to tan or did she heed the emerging warnings about skin cancer, and was she a grandmother—and did she have even the faintest memory of the boy sitting next to her that day.

I didn’t cry, at first.

I knew that any second, Tony C. would get up, brush himself off and take first base, and the next time he faced Hamilton, he would send his darn beanball all the way to Kenmore Square. Yaz would knock one out, too, and maybe George Scott also for good measure, and that would teach the Angels a thing or two about messing with the man.

But Tony C. didn’t get up.

He lay in the dirt, motionless, as men in white rushed out with a stretcher.

I started to cry then. Dad talked soothingly and held my hand, and when I didn’t stop, he led me out to Landsdowne Street. I didn’t know, of course, that he’d already decided I would never play baseball again, or that the tumor inside Mom would kill her before New Year’s Day.

More "Blue Hill: posts:

-- Reviews for “Blue Hill” are coming in and they are favorable!The reviews for my latest book, "Blue Hill," a novel that is a profound departure from my other (mostly horror, mystery and sci-fi) fiction are looking good! I will post more as they arrived.
READ REVIEWS: 
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/reviews-for-blue-hill-are-coming-in-and.html

-- On a return to a hometown, a reunion with a first love. 
On the run from the law and deep into his journey into the past, Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," returns to his home town, where he meets Sally Martin, his high-school girlfriend and first love. A long-buried secret will soon be revealed.
READ THE EXCERPT:
http://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/we-both-cracked-up-at-that-and-laughter.html

-- Fenway Park on August 18, 1967: Tony Conigliaro struck by pitch.
Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is a young Red Sox fan when slugger Tony Conigliaro is beaned by a pitch during the Sox "Dream Team" of 1967. The pitch changed the real-life Tony C. -- and had a profound impact on the fictional protagonist of my new novel.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/fenway-park-on-august-18-1967-tony.html


-- The possibility of reconciliation, and an outrageous climb in a Maine Nor'easter.
Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is the son of a now-retired Episcopal priest and '60s social activist. Their relationship has been difficult since Gray's childhood, but there is always the possibility of reconciliation. Maybe it will occur when Gray, now one of America's Most Wanted criminals, visits his elderly father, who lives in Blue Hill, Gray's hometown, and proposes an outrageous climb of a favorite mountain... in a raging Nor'easter. Read the excerpt here.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/mark-gray-protagonist-of-blue-hill-is.html


-- Quite a cast of characters.
Along with several fictional characters, starting with the narrator, "Blue Hill" features some real-life people -- Jack Nicholson, for example, albeit in fictionalized form.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/quite-cast-of-characters-another.html


-- Fenway Park.
Baseball is a central theme of my new novel, "Blue Hill," a departure from my other fiction, which has been solidly in the mystery, horror and sci-fi genres.
READ THE EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/blue-hill-excerpt-from-chapter-four.html



-- Listen to the books!
Listen to a clip from the audio version of “Blue Hill” Blue Hill and also some of my other books, including “Thunder Rise,” King of Hearts,” and “The Work of Human Hands.”
LISTEN: 
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/09/listen-to-books.html

The possibility of reconciliation, and an outrageous climb in a Maine Nor'easter. An excerpt from "Blue Hill."

Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is the son of a now-retired Episcopal priest and '60s social activist. Their relationship has been difficult since Gray's childhood, but there is always the possibility of reconciliation. Maybe it will occur when Gray, now one of America's Most Wanted criminals, visits his elderly father, who lives in Blue Hill, Gray's hometown, and proposes an outrageous climb of a favorite mountain... in a raging Nor'easter. Read the excerpt here.

To learn more about the book, which published on October 6 - and to order in audio, Kindle or paper formats - visit http://www.gwaynemiller.com/books.htm

The real Mount Blue, near Blue Hill, Maine.

My eye traveled to Mom’s piano: an ancient Kimball upright that had been handed down from her grandmother. Mom always dreamed of owning a baby grand, but she never complained that circumstances did not allow her one. What she did was put a pickle jar on the mantel and squirrel away spare change, pennies and nickels, mostly, for her “Steinway Fund,” as she called it. She died before it was full. Dad used what was there to buy her tombstone.

We sat in silence then, for I don’t know how long. I finished my brandy and Dad his and he poured us another. We’d never shared a drink before, never mind two.

“Go on,” he urged, “it’ll fortify you.”

“For what?”

“For climbing Blue Hill.”

I thought he was kidding, or drunk.

But to my knowledge, Dad had never been drunk, and he wasn’t acting it now. He didn’t sound demented. He sounded resolute, as if he’d pondered this a long time.

And there was no mistaking his eyes. They were as steely as the day IRS agents led him out of Saint Luke’s in handcuffs while a photographer for the Bangor Daily News snapped away.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“No, I’m not,” he said.’

“It’s a blizzard out there.”

“City living’s spoiling you,” Dad said, smiling. “What this is is a good old Downeaster, no more, no less. Now, I intend to climb Blue Hill. If you won’t accompany me—well, I guess I’ll have no choice but to go it alone.”

We parked at the base of the mountain. Dad struggled leaving the car and I doubted he’d have been able to get out if I hadn’t helped him.

“This is worse than when we left the house,” I said as Dad got his balance.

“Maybe to a city slicker.”

“This is crazy.”

“You’ve more than made your point,” Dad said. “Now let’s go—the day’s getting away from us. Don’t lock your doors, I’m afraid the locks will freeze.”

We made respectable progress the first few hundred yards, a stretch that is gently sloped. Dad walked unassisted and the pines surrounding us broke the wind and the snow hadn’t drifted much, was only a smooth three or four inches deep. We nipped from a flask Dad had filled with his brandy and we were determined in our silence.

It was one-thirty on the kind of wintry afternoon when night is impatient to fall.

A bit further, we hit a deadfall.

Dad tried getting over it by himself, but it was too much—even he conceded that after a clumsy try that left him sputtering. I straddled the trunk and as Dad swung his body over, I bore his weight. He was thinner than I remembered and I thought, although it was probably only my imagination, that I could feel the brittleness of his bones.

“Damn arthritis,” he said, then added: “Don’t take that to mean I want to turn back. This is actually easier than I expected.”

A bit further still, we were on an open stretch of mountain. The wind had blown the snow deeper than two feet in places and knocked down pines. A ranger would have had trouble getting through.

“I don’t know, Dad,” I said.

“It gets easier past here,” he declared.

“How do you know?”

“The Big Guy told me,” Dad said.

I grinned, but he didn’t; he really meant it.

“Let’s take a five-minute breather,” he went on, “then give it all we’ve got. We’ll make the top by three.”

We took shelter behind a boulder. Dad drank from his flask.

I wanted to tell him that alcohol and sub-freezing temperatures were a deadly mix, but he’d had his fill of my observations so I didn’t. His face was flush, whether from effort or wind or both I could not tell, but I didn’t mention that, either. I didn’t tell him how worried I was that his gloves, and mine, were soaked. I listened to the wind and it sounded like the wildcats I always imagined awaited us on our family climbs more than three decades ago.

The snow was so heavy that I did not notice, until Dad was set to push off again, that just beyond this boulder was the path leading to Mom’s grandfather’s blueberry field.

I lost my grip bringing Dad over the last deadfall and he surely would have broken his hip if the drift hadn’t cushioned his fall. I said nothing and neither did Dad, but his face showed pain. He put his arm around my waist, and we hobbled on, under a canopy of pines that was strangely still and unblanketed with snow.

Ten minutes more, we reached the summit.

“After all I’ve given Him,” Dad said, “the Big Guy owed me.”

More "Blue Hill: posts:

-- Reviews for “Blue Hill” are coming in and they are favorable!The reviews for my latest book, "Blue Hill," a novel that is a profound departure from my other (mostly horror, mystery and sci-fi) fiction are looking good! I will post more as they arrived.
READ REVIEWS: 
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/reviews-for-blue-hill-are-coming-in-and.html

-- On a return to a hometown, a reunion with a first love. 
On the run from the law and deep into his journey into the past, Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," returns to his home town, where he meets Sally Martin, his high-school girlfriend and first love. A long-buried secret will soon be revealed.
READ THE EXCERPT:
http://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/we-both-cracked-up-at-that-and-laughter.html

-- Fenway Park on August 18, 1967: Tony Conigliaro struck by pitch.
Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is a young Red Sox fan when slugger Tony Conigliaro is beaned by a pitch during the Sox "Dream Team" of 1967. The pitch changed the real-life Tony C. -- and had a profound impact on the fictional protagonist of my new novel.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/fenway-park-on-august-18-1967-tony.html


-- The possibility of reconciliation, and an outrageous climb in a Maine Nor'easter.
Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is the son of a now-retired Episcopal priest and '60s social activist. Their relationship has been difficult since Gray's childhood, but there is always the possibility of reconciliation. Maybe it will occur when Gray, now one of America's Most Wanted criminals, visits his elderly father, who lives in Blue Hill, Gray's hometown, and proposes an outrageous climb of a favorite mountain... in a raging Nor'easter. Read the excerpt here.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/mark-gray-protagonist-of-blue-hill-is.html


-- Quite a cast of characters.
Along with several fictional characters, starting with the narrator, "Blue Hill" features some real-life people -- Jack Nicholson, for example, albeit in fictionalized form.
READ THIS EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/quite-cast-of-characters-another.html


-- Fenway Park.
Baseball is a central theme of my new novel, "Blue Hill," a departure from my other fiction, which has been solidly in the mystery, horror and sci-fi genres.
READ THE EXCERPT:
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/blue-hill-excerpt-from-chapter-four.html



-- Listen to the books!
Listen to a clip from the audio version of “Blue Hill” Blue Hill and also some of my other books, including “Thunder Rise,” King of Hearts,” and “The Work of Human Hands.”
LISTEN: 
https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/09/listen-to-books.html

Quite a cast of characters: Another excerpt from "Blue Hill," my latest book, which publishes on Oct. 6

 Along with several fictional characters, starting with the narrator, "Blue Hill" features some real-life people -- Jack Nicholson, for example, albeit in fictionalized form. To learn more about the book, which publishes on October 6 - and to preorder in audio, Kindle or paper formats - visit http://www.gwaynemiller.com/books.htm

The crowd was hushed. You could see them glancing around, nervously, a case of mass suspicion. I looked at them looking and saw—my number-one fan, the tall skinny kid who’d wanted Ultra Bloodfest.

“It’s him!” he shouted, pointing at me.

“The crazy old guy!” his friend added.

“HE’S THE SOCIETY STALKER!”

The boys looked terrified. They looked like I was about to eat their livers, here in view of two hundred people—and then they ran, screaming as they ripped through the crowd.

In an instant, the place was bedlam. Kids shrieked as mothers tried to get them to safety. Elders fainted. And when I bolted, a blue-uniformed security guard decided it was his moment to become a hero. You know the type—a twenty-something high-school dropout entrusted with a loaded sidearm and carrying a boatload of attitude.

“Stop!” he shouted.

I plowed into the scattering crowd.

“Stop or I shoot!”

That only happens in movies, I thought.

I didn’t stop.

It didn’t happen only in movies: Our intrepid hero fired a warning shot over my head.

And then another, and another, until his magazine was empty.

The bullets must have hit a power line because bulbs blew and the ceiling started smoking and the mall went dark. Alarms were ringing and people were crying and screaming and Christ knows why, but the fire sprinklers were sprinkling—and I kept on going, past stores, down a stopped escalator, outdistancing the guard, across a promenade and into the enclosed walkway that connects Copley Place with the Prudential Center, which is next to the Sheraton, where I was staying.

I was being pursued.

Not by the guard—that slug had fallen by the wayside—but by a young man with a fancy camera. I never did learn if he was an off-duty news photographer, or an intrepid freelancer, or just some feckless passerby. Whoever, he wanted my picture. Wanted dozens of them! A paparazzi, of all things! And an athlete, to boot—a sinewy young man in Nikes who surely ran marathons! He was gaining quickly on me when, as impulsively as I’d done anything in that season of impulse, I stopped and dropped my trousers. Mooned him as he clicked away.

“Is that what you wanted?” I said.

Before he could answer, I snatched the camera from him, opened it and exposed the film. Then I threw his camera onto the floor. It shattered and the flash exploded.

I ran into the Prudential Center and ducked into an elevator.

The doors closed.

I was going down.

“Shit,” I said.

My room was on the twenty-third floor.

The elevator stopped at the parking garage. I was about to hit the button for my floor when I noticed a magnificent black ‘30s roadster. A distinctive-looking man dressed in a white three-piece suit and wearing a tan fedora was behind the wheel, smoking an unfiltered cigarette.

By God, it was Jack Nicholson! Driving the car he drove in Chinatown! He smiled when he saw me. Evidently, he’d been waiting for my arrival.

“Take a load off your feet, kid,” he said, opening the passenger door.

I got in.

“What happened to you?” he said, examining my face. “Don’t tell me the old liver’s giving out.”

The cream had created a tan in streaks, as was evident on inspection. Close on, the overall impression was jaundice.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Don’t I know,” Nicholson said. “I’ve been following you on TV.”

“Then you know why I couldn’t make the Knicks.”

“Disappointed as I was, I understood.”

I noticed Nicholson had a flask cradled between his legs.

“Johnnie Walker Red,” he said. “Good for what ails you.”

He offered me the bottle. I took a swig and thanked him.

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Cigarette?”

He opened a silver case and I took one. He lit it. I hadn’t had a cigarette since Venice Beach.

“I’m lucky I made it out of there alive,” I said, inhaling deeply.

It was a Camel. It tasted wonderful.

“Tough audience,” Nicholson agreed, “but aren’t they all? They love you when you’re up—and when you’re down, you might as well be wind from a duck’s ass.”

It was J.J. Gittes’ best line in Chinatown.

“Look how they crucified Roman Polanski,” Nicholson said.

“Or Randall Patrick McMurphy.”

“Exactly. All I can say, kid, is your story’d make a hell of a movie.”

“I suppose it would,” I said, modestly.

“Call it My Adult Life or Blue Hill or Deep Blue, something darkly ironic like that. Or 1997, if you want to capture the zeitgeist of the era and quite an era it is. You’d have the critics eating out of the palm of your hand.”

I said: “The only issue is: Would it be a comedy or a tragedy?”

“Neither,” Nicholson said. “It would be a farce. What a silly ass you’ve become, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

I was crestfallen.

My face must have given me away, because Nicholson added:

“You haven’t lost your sense of humor, have you, kid? That was a joke! As for tragedy or comedy, it would be both. You’re talking Hollywood. Nuance means nothing out there. Think Oscar. We’d go for the big lights and forget the rest.”

He took a long, loving swallow of Johnnie Walker.

“Only one person,” he said, “would do justice directing: Robert Altman.”

“Not me?”

“You’re too close to it, kid. Not that you don’t have what it takes, ‘cause you do. Your day will come.”

“Thanks.” I smiled.

“Know who’d have to play you?” Nicholson continued.

“Sure I do,” I said. “You.”

“A gentleman you are,” Nicholson said with that shit-eating grin I adored, “a casting agent you are not. I’m a little past that now, kid.”

“No, you’re not. You look the same as you did in Cuckoo’s Nest.”

But he didn’t. Off screen, up close, in the unforgiving fluorescent light of an underground garage, you could see gray roots and what probably were scars from plug transplants. I saw his eyes, the flesh around them especially, and I knew why he always went out in shades. Surgery may have ameliorated all those years in Hollywood, but it couldn’t erase them.

And if I’d had a time-travel machine, I would have seen the sad last chapter of his life, when he suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, his memories and long career achievements scrubbed from his mind, as if they had never happened.

“God bless you,” Nicholson said. “I was thinking more along the lines of Tom Hanks.”

“I’m flattered.”

“The big question is who’d do justice to Allison. I kind of have Julianne Moore in mind.”

“She’d be perfect,” I said. “Perfect! They even look alike.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You saw Lost World, I’m sure.”

“Three times.”

“Only thing wrong with that picture was Moore kept her clothes on. I ask you: What the hell would have been wrong with a little skin—say, one of those velociraptors ripping off her shirt just before she escapes into that building?”

“Nothing at all!” I said.

“I’m not talking sex—just give me a second or two of tit!” Nicholson said. “Use a body double if Moore’s not the type—but give me something to hang a fantasy on, for Chrissakes! Well, that’s Spielberg for you. Damn prude. Only skin he’s ever given us was in Schindler’s List, of all fucking flicks! What are your thoughts on who’d play Ruth?”

“Faye Dunaway?”

Nicholson looked over his sunglasses at me.

“Have you seen ole Faye lately?” he said. “I think Glenn Close is more what I have in mind.”

“Or Rene Russo."

“Better yet. Good middle-aged women are so hard to find.”

We were relating now. I could feel it. Destined for each other over the miles and the years, our souls had finally, irreversibly connected.

Nicholson took another hit of whiskey and checked his watch.

“Sorry to cut out on you,” he said, “but I’ve got a Celtics-Lakers game to catch. It’s not the same without Magic and Larry, but that’s life in the big city. Things change.”

“Not you, Jack.”

“Even me, Mark.”

He started the car.

“Take me with you?” I asked.

Nicholson was puzzled.

“To Boston Garden?”

“To anywhere.”

“I’m afraid you’re on your own now, my man. Just watch out for that Malloy: There’s something not quite right about him.”

“Everything’s so fucked-up,” I said. “I need help.”

“What you need,” Nicholson said, “is a golf club!”

He grinned, and then he was cackling, and before long he was wheezing, he was so amused with himself. Apparently, he still wasn’t over his freeway encounter.

“That’s not funny,” I said.

“Not funny? You really have lost your sense of humor. The shit you’re in, my friend, you need one. I wasn’t kidding about the golf club. They’re all bastards. Have a little fun at their expense. You’re good at that kind of stuff. I laughed myself silly at the Sermon put-on at the convention.”

I was stunned.

“You were there?” I said.

“Hell, yes,” Nicholson said. “Snuck in at the last minute and had to run out before you got your Wilbur—congratulations on that, by the way. I figured I’d see you at the Knicks. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go.”

“Please don’t,” I begged.

“Don’t make me do something I’ll regret,” Nicholson said. “We’ve been friends too long.” 

“We could go to the movies,” I said. “I’ll pay.”

Nicholson took off his sunglasses and our eyes met.

“You just don’t get it, do you, kid?” he said.

He was not a man to mess with now. I stepped out of his car and slowly closed the door. He put the transmission in gear and roared off.

Nicholson photo courtesy Kingkongphoto, www.celebrity-photos.com via wikipedia commons.

More "Blue Hill posts:

-- Reviews for “Blue Hill” are coming in and they are favorable!

The reviews for my latest book, "Blue Hill," a novel that is a profound departure from my other (mostly horror, mystery and sci-fi) fiction are looking good! I will post more as they arrived.

READ REVIEWS:

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/reviews-for-blue-hill-are-coming-in-and.html

 

-- On a return to a hometown, a reunion with a first love.

 On the run from the law and deep into his journey into the past, Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," returns to his home town, where he meets Sally Martin, his high-school girlfriend and first love. A long-buried secret will soon be revealed.

READ THIS EXCERPT:

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/we-both-cracked-up-at-that-and-laughter.html

 

 -- Fenway Park on August 18, 1967: Tony Conigliaro struck by pitch.

Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is a young Red Sox fan when slugger Tony Conigliaro is beaned by a pitch during the Sox "Dream Team" of 1967. The pitch changed the real-life Tony C. -- and had a profound impact on the fictional protagonist of my new novel.

READ THIS EXCERPT:

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/fenway-park-on-august-18-1967-tony.html

 

-- The possibility of reconciliation, and an outrageous climb in a Maine Nor'easter.

Mark Gray, the protagonist of "Blue Hill," is the son of a now-retired Episcopal priest and '60s social activist. Their relationship has been difficult since Gray's childhood, but there is always the possibility of reconciliation. Maybe it will occur when Gray, now one of America's Most Wanted criminals, visits his elderly father, who lives in Blue Hill, Gray's hometown, and proposes an outrageous climb of a favorite mountain... in a raging Nor'easter. Read the excerpt here.

READ THIS EXCERPT:

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/mark-gray-protagonist-of-blue-hill-is.html

 

-- Quite a cast of characters.

 Along with several fictional characters, starting with the narrator, "Blue Hill" features some real-life people -- Jack Nicholson, for example, albeit in fictionalized form.

READ THIS EXCERPT:

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/quite-cast-of-characters-another.html

 

-- Fenway Park.

Baseball is a central theme of my new novel, "Blue Hill," a departure from my other fiction, which has been solidly in the mystery, horror and sci-fi genres.

READ THE EXCERPT:

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/10/blue-hill-excerpt-from-chapter-four.html

 

-- Listen to the books!
Listen to a clip from the audio version of “Blue Hill” Blue Hill and also some of my other books, including “Thunder Rise,” King of Hearts,” and “The Work of Human Hands.”
LISTEN:

https://gwaynemiller.blogspot.com/2020/09/listen-to-books.html