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Tricia Spencer
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Tricia's
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Tips, The Server's Guide To Bringing Home The Bacon - The Customer Speaks to Every Waiter, Waitress and Restaurant Manager in America - Make More Money!



 Best Nonfiction Book Award Winner
  Southwest Writers International Manuscript Competition






Tips... is the perfect accessory for every restaurant uniform. Featuring the results of a national survey of restaurant patrons, this book is the only restaurant industry self-help resource ever written from the customer's point of view. Listening to the customer produces enhanced customer satisfaction, better tips for servers, and ultimately, an increase in the restaurant's bottom line. Tips... helps servers, and restaurants, make more money.

"Very entertaining and informative. A must read for all servers!"
Lori James, Professional Food Server
MRS. KNOTT'S CHICKEN DINNER RESTAURANT, KNOTT'S BERRY FARM

"Offers professional servers, or those just passing through on their way to another career, plenty of helpful hints to increase gratuities. With a common sense approach and plenty of anecdotal evidence from a customer perspective, Tricia Spencer invites the reader to test her theories and put them into daily practice. The book features a lively narrative that's easy to read and entertaining to boot."
Ellen Koteff, Executive Editor
NATION'S RESTAURANT NEWS

"Tips is full of useful, insightful information presented in an inviting and easy-to-digest format. Servers who follow Ms. Spencer's advice will undoubtedly increase their sense of professionalism, improve their performance, and increase their tips."
Jennifer Kramer Williams, Editor
RESTAURANT MARKETING MAGAZINE

"This book is a strong key to achieving superior service, making more money, and realizing better long-term relations with restaurant guests. The valuable content makes any manager's training task easier and more effective. I give this book the highest recommendation. It's an amazing tool for the food service industry."
Guillermo Castillo, Restaurant General Manager
T.B. SCOTT'S FOOD & DRINK




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  This is a Roy Rogers and Dale Evans book like no other! It's the tribute story of two American heroes as told via letters and essays from fans, family and friends. The book includes nearly 300 photographs, most of which have never before been seen, as well as original art, poetry and songs. It is published by West Quest, an organization devoted to preserving the heritage and spirit of the American West, and sales of the book benefit Roy and Dale's charity, The Happy Trails Children's Foundation.



"As television and radio took the stage, there were many embracing a past to make their stardom. The Touch of Roy and Dale: The Impact and Influence of Roy Rogers, The King of the Cowboys, and Dale Evans, The Queen of the West, As Only Their Fans Could Tell It, is a fan gathering surrounding these western stars of the mid-twentieth century, creating firm memories of the period.  Offering a personal collection of thoughts and nostalgia, there are new photo and other media spread throughout.  Fans of the legacy of the western should embrace The Touch of Roy and Dalevery much recommended."
Midwest Book Review


"Tricia Spencer's inspired book invites you to laugh and cry and feel the love just as my parents did when they actually received the mountains of cards and letters from their family of fans. You will also get to read the thoughts and memories of friends and family members. I know you will enjoy getting to know the fans of the King of the Cowboys and the Queen of the West, or as I and my siblings knew them...Mom and Dad. God bless the fans."
Roy "Dusty" Rogers, Jr.


"There are many ways to measure people's fame and success, but the most foolproof method is to measure how they touched the lives of others. Roy Rogers and Dale Evans were second to none when measured by the levels of love and loyalty from their fans. Tricia Spencer has tapped right into that wellspring of appreciation with this book. We truly see not just what kind of performers Roy and Dale were, but also what kind of people they were, and it's all presented through the words of their fans."
Greg Bell, Old Time Radio Expert and National Host of "When Radio Was" & Sirius XM's Channel 82 "Radio Classics"

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both books are available in paperback and ebook
The Touch of Roy and Dale (Volumes I and II) can also be ordered at:
WestQuest.org     Oldies.com     RoyRogers.com         HappyTrails.org       OutWestmktg.com

and in Nashville, look for them at the Country Music Hall of Fame Museum Gift Shop!

(both Roy & Dale books are also available from other fine purveyors)
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 Spirit Prayers For Joyful Living - A Gentle Path to Spiritual Well-Being




There is a great deal of discourse and stress in the average human's life.  

  Prayer and contemplation help to lift the heavy weight of uncertainty and worry for anyone and everyone. Spirit Prayers is all-inclusive, bridging the divide between the practices of specific religions. There is no reference in the prose or the prayers to any specific deity, and the Spirit Prayers path to a greater sense of joy in daily life can be followed by anyone, regardless of religious affiliation or lack of it. The prayers are simply a gentle helping hand on the journey to self-improvement and peace of mind. 

Spririt Prayers For Joyful Living is a Kindle exclusive, available to any Kindle application for only 99 cents. 


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"Empty Shoes"  
- Short Story Winner - Scribes Valley Publishing

          Empty Shoes appears in The Road to Elsewhere by Scribes Valley Publishing.  Empty Shoes is the story of one elderly woman's strength and spirit and the decisions she makes when faced with the hardest choice of her long life. by Scribes Valley Publishing.   Empty Shoes is the story of one elderly woman's strength and spirit and the decisions she makes when faced with the hardest choice of her long life. 


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"Noses, Toes and Elbows"  

- Short Story Finalist - Scribes Valley Publishing

          In They Do Exist! from Scribes Valley Publishing, you will find Noses, Toes and Elbows, the story of a budding ballerina's brush with crime. Her embrace of ballet proves far more valuable than just the art of the dance for fifteen-year-old Shaney.  
  "Deviled Eggs"  

- Short Story Finalist - Paul B. Duquette Memorial Short Science Fiction Contest, CrossQuarter Publishing
&
Top 1% Finalist - L. Ron Hubbard's Writers Of The Future Science Fiction Competition

          In CrossTime - Volume 1,  from CrossQuarter Publishing, take a trip like none other with the sci-fi/fantasy short story, Deviled Eggs. What if the devil had his own website and a penchant for spicing up Hell? The devil's quest to spruce up Hell with some real brainiacs sends Edward and Simon on the ride of their lives - way down below.  
My Newly Released 
Wedding Book is in Book Stores Now!

 It's a HUGE new 544-page book for brides and grooms!



Coming Soon!
Brave Destiny:  The Dragon's Bride 
- a period romance



      

          Appropriately nicknamed the March Tornado, lady Angelica Evelyne March fearlessly whips and whirls through life with all the spirited energy of her usually destructive namesake. 

          Nathan has his own nickname, Dragon, and it fits him as perfectly as the unusual tattoos on his ankles. Bastard-born and living life on the edge as a privateer who carries a letter of marque from mad King George himself, he has a total disdain for land, society in general, and specifically, its insipid women.

        He fights his own demons, but despite the internal battles raging like wildfire in his gut, Nathan isn't strong enough to resist the magnetic pull of the beautiful woman with the face of an angel, the calculating nerve of a general, and the glorious laugh of ten people.

        From the London docks to a tropical pirate-infested cove, Evelyne and Nathan spar and love and dream and fight, learning of themselves and each other. His "little general" teaches him the value of trust and forgiveness and his own self-worth. He teaches her that by accepting responsibility for her actions, adventure does not have to come at a costly price. And as they unravel mysteries, battle the enemy, spur those around them to love and live, and expose long-buried secrets held by the king himself, Nathan and Evelyne embrace their brave destiny and learn of the rich blessing that is unconditional love.

Short Stories That Tickle...

A cornucopia of Tricia Spencer short stories that may include:
"Empty Shoes" 


- The top winner in the 2008 Scribes Valley Publishing Short Story Competition



          Today I am as gray as the sky, and its not just my advanced years, mind you, nor the thin white fluff of what used to be a thick mane of honey blonde hair. Its not even the translucent parchment paper skin that now wraps my insides in a way-too-delicate cocoon. No, its deeper than all that. My life of spirited involvement and adventure now feels like the waxy blob of a burned up candle, golden memories snuffed to nothingness by the bleak, irreversible grayness that has settled over my heart. And this trip to the park isnt helping like I wished it would. It has always helped before.




 "Deviled Eggs" 


- Top 1% Finalist L Ron Hubbard's Writer's of the Future Competition &
- Short Story Finalist - Paul B. Duquette Memorial Short Science Fiction Contest, CrossQuarter Publishing

           August 21, 1999. 

          Black slime, red haze, and bubbling beads of sweat the size of Lake Erie pouring from their skin - just a typical first day in Hell for Edward and Simon. Unfortunately, they weren't dead.

          "Where are we?"

          "Where are we? God almighty, Simon, it aint Disneyland. Something happened. We're. . .we're in Hell!?"

          "Hell! What? How. . . why. . .?"

          Edward frowned at the hot ebony muck sucking at his feet. "I really wish I had that string of answers," he muttered as he hopped from foot to foot only to have the blistering goo string from his heels like licorice taffy, then recoil with the boing of an axle spring. "I didnt even know we were dead."

         Simon howled. Being in Hell was bad enough. Remembering that death was required to get there seemed a whole lot worse. Slowly, his lips disappeared between his teeth. . . .




 "Miracle Man" 


- A winner in the Cloak & Dagger Mystery Competition judged by renowned mytery author, Jeremiah Healy, aka Terry Devane.

          "You have thirty seconds. Finish it!"

          The ominous threat made her fingers fumble and her heart nearly pulverize her lungs as Annie bent over the gruesome task. Was it her blood or his smearing itself into a grotesque silhouette of George Washington's profile? DNA be damned. Everyone's blood looked the same when it spilled. She couldn't tell.

          Frantic now, she was certain the little mantel clock brutally tick-tocking in her brain with the resonance of an eight-hundred pound metronome, was belching out the seconds in double-time.

         She willed her fingers to fly, and after nearly an hour of painstaking effort, she at last tied off the final stitch and reached for the scissors. Cutting the inappropriate sewing thread she'd been forced to use had been her only intent, but the owner of the broad hand that clamped onto her wrist must have thought otherwise. With the scissors suspended mid-air, Annie lifted her gaze to the man controlling her arm. 





 "Noses, Toes and Elbows" 


- Short Story Finalist - Scribes Valley Publishing

          "Five, six, seven, eight..."

          Shaney sighed and pirouetted to the music for the hundredth or so time in the long afternoon session. But this was no joyfully inspired Swan Lake. Her feet hurt; her back screamed, and Jake, not tights and tutus, consumed her thoughts. At fifteen, ballet class no longer held the attraction it used to. Boys did that now, at least one boy, one very hot boy, and Shaney was anxious to escape the class and scoot off to the local Starbucks to meet him for a little sweetened coffee and a lot of sweet snuggles.

         "Noses, girls, I need to see those noses."

         Six heads dutifully tilted upward, their noses navigating slightly toward the fluorescents hanging from the ceiling. Ideally, the nose point would give their necks that requisite long-line elegance of the graceful swan, but as her nose elevated, Shaneys thoughts were anything but graceful. Forget swan on a lake. She was thinking swan on a spit. Stuffed and skewered over a licking flame was what the fowl deserved, she mused, for lately she had begun to blame the poor creature for everything. No matter what they danced to, they always had to be swans. Arch this. Glide that. It was really starting to prick her nerves. She was getting equally annoyed with the next stock verbiage she knew would be tumbling out of Miss Gayle's mouth. Her teacher was nothing if not predictable.

        "Toes, ladies. Toes to the floor, heels out the door. . . ."





"Pillow Talk"


-  Monthly Theme Winner and Editor's Choice Winner - fictionwritersplatform.net

          Well, the fat lady has sung. Im dead. Deader than a doornail. Im not yet pushing up daisies, but thats only because no one has gotten around to burying me.

          I certainly didn't see this coming when I got out of bed last Saturday. But I guess thats just how it is. You make plans, you think ahead, you go for the brass ring, then some ditzy blonde in a Hummer forgets where the brake pedal is and your new, perfectly awesome Mustang is a mangled, tangled piece of pop art, not to mention that you wake up dead.

        Did I say wake up? Well, thats a relative term at best, given my condition. But who knew there really is a sort of waking up thats a step beyond dead? Damn. Couldnt our brainiac scientists have figured this one out and given a body a heads up? Even the divinely devout don't seem to have a clue. Whats up with that? One would think as directly wired as they are they'd have the 411 about something this monumental. But then, it really is kind of out there, like a secret sci-fi society or something. Who could possibly know the afterlife would have you lingering around for the funeral festivities? Hows a guy walking around the earth, living the good life, minding his own business, supposed to prepare for the fact that he's about to wake up and have a conversation with himself inside a brass tacked coffin?








 "The Secret of Me, The Tree and The Beady-Eyed Whatever" 


- Monthly Theme Winner and Editor's Choice Winner - fictionwritersplatform.net

          I first learned the secret in the late fall of '32. I was a pig-tailed ten, going on twenty-five, or so I imagined, and I was peacock proud to be sitting at the adult table for the first time. I faced the bronzed, crackled turkey with wide eyes and wild eagerness. It was big and whole and downright regal looking, even if it did lack a head or feet. No bird like that had ever graced my table. My turkey had always come to me in miniscule slices, already gravied, sidled up to mashed potatoes and stuffing and the dreaded something green. There was always something green. Fortunately that disagreeable offering was never a problem since my big sister and I spent holiday gatherings consigned to the little frog table with the lily pad chairs. It was just the two of us, tucked in a corner, and the something green was easily hidden on table or chair for later secret disposal.

          But on my tenth Thanksgiving I felt grown. My sister had wailed loudly that, at fifteen, she was way too old to be relegated to the little kids' table, and because my mother knew I would have brought the house down around her ears if I was the only one languishing on a lily pad, she banished the frog altogether and squeezed me between my Aunt Rita and Uncle Martin in a space big enough for only half of me. With not enough real chairs to go around, not that one would have fit in that tiny space anyway, I found myself teetering atop a too-short kitchen stool, just about nose high to my plate, dodging the elbows routinely whizzing by in front of my face. But I didnt care. I was at the grown-up table.






"Lost and Found" 


- Editor's Choice Winner - fictionwritersplatform.net

          Wow! That was really great, Mom! Can we get ice cream now?

          It was Randy's first trip to the big city, and to his fresh eyes, New York was as grand as outer space. Clutching his autographed theater program in one hand and a shopping bag of Lion King souvenirs in the other, the Banesville, Illinois five-year-old could barely keep his feet on the cracked sidewalk. He whirled for one more look at the spectacular theater where he'd met Simba and Mufasa and Zazu, then focused once more on getting that double dip of Chunky Monkey onto a big brown waffle cone.

          "Mom, come on," he prodded.

         Randy's mom caught the crinkle of her sons cornflower blue eyes and knew he was winding down. Pointing to a sea of yellow taxis blurting impatient honks and jockeying for a scrap of pavement to call their own, she directed his attention to the street. "Okay, honey, watch for our limousine. Well be off in a jiff." 


         "Gee, the ice cream will melt away before our big car can get through all those yellow ones," Randy complained, frowning at the never-ending rows of creeping cars.

         Beth Reed smiled down on the capped head of her son, watching it bob like the hanging noggin of a rear window deck puppy. He was so exhausted, but he was fighting it, running on fumes. She changed plans.

        Okay, we wont wait. Want to take a cab, my man?"

       "Yeah!" Randys face brightened at the prospect of another new adventure. Cabs were cool. Banesville didnt have cabs. Banesville didnt even have a traffic light.






"Miss Galaxy"

          The sweat gurgling from Ben's every pore rendered him as slick as buttered corn. If his guard try to grab him, he was certain he would simply squirt through the creatures forked-talon grip like so much motor oil. Fear, Ben mused in the recesses of his panicked brain, was the great liquidator.



"DMV"

          "What you here for, dude?"

          "Eh?"

        The blue-haired teenager rolled his eyes and tried again, only louder, much louder.

        "WHAT YOU HERE FOR? DO YOU NEED HELP OR ANYTHING?"

         "Help? I'm waiting to get my drivers license, son, same as you. So why are you yelling at me? Go on now about your business. And get a haircut. What do you want with that girlie hair, boy?"

         "Its not girlie, old man, its punk."

         "Drunk?"

         "PUNK!"

         Amusement trickled through the other forty or so people vegetating in the same never-ending line as they snaked their way toward Window #1.  Entertainment.  That's what the DMV needed, and this pair just might be the ticket.  The teen was tricked out like every parent's worst nightmare, and the senior fellow had that older-than-dirt thing going on as he tottered there, his gnarled knuckles white from their death grip on the brass bill of his duck-themed cane.  They were oil and water, and they were definitely floor-show material.



"Black Ice"

           Beth cast a dour look at her ice-less tumbler and sighed. "There's nothing quite like the clink of ice in a frosty glass," she announced glumly to her empty kitchen. Ice, that poor man's music box, made any ordinary moment in time feel like a party.  

           She could use a party about now, even if it was only in her glass. Just this morning life had wound up its grotesquely muscled pitching arm and lobbed one hell of a curveball right between her eyes. Fired. "Quite the party downer," she muttered to herself, swishing the tepid tea about in the glass as if doing so would cause parts of it to suddenly freeze up and bang the sides.




"Keychains"

            It was just a craft  a simple little leather craft. Now thousands would die.

          Angie pressed herself against the wall of the portable toilet, willing her stuffy nose to drip quietly and not betray her position. Unfortunately, her panic seemed to propel the liquid out twice as fast, and she fought the irresistible urge to sniff the drips back up her nostrils. But then, what would a few drips matter if someone simply opened the stained plastic door? There was nowhere to hide in the four-foot-square unless she was willing to throw herself down the hole. She thought about it. She wouldn't fit. So, voila. He'd throw open the door and there she'd be. No doubt she'd give her executioner the shock of his life just before he recovered and dropped her where she stood. 



"Tourist Attraction"

          "Oh, no way. We are not making another alien pit stop."

         The frustrated newlywed lobbed a handful of peanuts at her husband of four whole days. It was bad enough they were on a road trip for their honeymoon instead of lounging half naked on a patch of hot sand sipping a tall one, but if she had to look at one more collection of authentic moon rocks at yet another seedy roadside tourist trap, she thought she just might blow a gasket.



"Rush Hour"

           Angie bullied her way through throngs of people. If she didn't get a cab in the absolute next minute she would miss the biggest deal of her life. For more than a year she'd worked this potential client, finally scoring a meeting with the powers-that-be. All she had to do was get there, dazzle them, then prepare to spend her big fat commission. Being late was not an option, but the clogged sidewalk begged to differ. 

          Reaching the curb where she could employ her Im-A-Big-Tipper wave that drew New York cabbies like fruit flies, proved exasperating. Street performers plied their trade in front of her office building and strangers snuggled up to other strangers in one giant intertwined, impenetrable pack like so many sardines, forcing her to weave and bob just to gain an inch of ground.  

          She had less than an hour to get across town, and at this time of day the traffic creep could torpedo her at any given turn. The tick of her watch sounded like final heartbeats as Angie spread her elbows and muscled through the last of the human obstacles. She wanted to flay herself for not leaving fifteen minutes earlier.



"Shamrock Magic"

             Megan's bloodcurdling scream shaved the seventh life from her cat and a few years off her own lonely existence.

          It cant be! she breathed, still trying to stuff her bludgeoned heart back into her chest. The shock of seeing her long dead boyfriend cavorting naked on purple sheets with a woman sporting breasts the size of Canada had spawned an emotional explosion.

          She thought shed punched the remote for CNN and was blindsided as the TV fired to life on a porn channel instead. In a split second, she saw it - that unmistakable shamrock-shaped birthmark Megan used to playfully pluck. There it was, right where she remembered it, on the left cheek of Ryan's gorgeous ass.

          A hideous executioner's hood hid the man's face, but neither the hood, nor ten lost years, could hide the truth. That plum-colored shamrock flexed and winked at Megan like a neon "Remember me?" sign. It was as telling as DNA.

        "YOU'RE NOT DEAD!" Megan squealed before her gut knotted with a sickening realization.

         You're. . . not. . . dead! 

          Reeling, her jaw clenched. Ryan Evan Reed! How dare you not be dead!



"Finding Annie"

         With an ink-tipped finger pressed squarely to the pulse of all that is known or imagined, librarians are the undisputed guardians of dreams and adventures, keepers of the world's kaleidoscope of history. I love the heady aroma of fine writing that hits you when you first walk through the library doors. Okay, so writing doesn't really smell, but paper, binding glue and smooth leather covers do, and for me that's the sweet scent of Utopia. 



"Afloat"

            It's true.  It is absolutely possible for a body to be drenched to the bone and still be painfully dry. At least Ive learned something, and learning is good. It means I'm still alive.

          I'm so thirsty. How long have I bobbed here like a human cork trapped in a bottle? And now that I think of it, why doesn't a cork ever fall out? The opening is there. It could just slide right out of the bottle neck. But that doesn't ever happen. Corks remain nonsensically ensnared. Just like me. There are no fences or walls or ties, and yet I cannot escape. This soft aqua sea holds me captive, its curly waves and foamy white peaks as dominant as any iron shackles.  A cork's destiny will be one of dried-out uselessness. Its inevitable. What is my inevitable destiny?

          I saw her go. But she didn't see me. The spectacular Jupiter Princess, so full of laughter and pleasure, didn't even slow as she churned her way to paradise, her passengers oblivious to the fact they'd lost one of their own.

         Was it only two days ago that I stood weak-kneed at the altar, awash in sheer happiness? A wife for two whole days, and now...



"Dirty Dishes"

          "Oh, I swear the load gets bigger every day. Were a hit Erin! Woo Hoo!"

          Erin scowled over the top of a teetering stack of help-me letters piled eye-high on her desk. Sure, their column was just picked up by another half dozen newspapers, and ever more people were recognizing them from their tiny thumbnail pic next to their byline, but damn, suddenly what began as a lark was looking more and more like actual work.



"Artichoke Thumb"

          Upright black ants. The pallbearers, the mourners, even the minister and the gravediggers look like ebony insects trailing their way to the gravesite. Maybe they look so squiggly and small because I'm watching them through a wall of tears from a distant hillside. I don't know. I only know that Ill not be a black ant today. I'm not allowed.

          He was too young to die. Seventeen full years and just a patch of another is all he got. But thats what can happen to a young man struggling to find himself. He can stumble and die. 

          That was Artie's fate.



"Once Upon an Auction Moon"

           "Not again!"

          Kit screamed at the monitor as if ordering the computer to obey would actually make it happen. But even as she slammed the mouse to her desk, she knew she was flinging blame the wrong way. After all, it wasn't really the computer causing her frenzy. It was that lousy auction site. It was always that lousy auction site. 

          "98% up rate my fanny," she grumbled, desperately punching ENTER one more time. Yeah, like it would help. She knew it wouldn't, but that didn't stop her from pounding out her frustrations on the defenseless keyboard.

          Why did this always happen when she was trying to upload her auctions? It was a conspiracy. She just knew it. She remembered well the day it started. Another of the online auctions head honchos had given yet another "Ain't we grand?" media interview and offhandedly referred to Kit's kind of selling as "clutter". That decidedly unfortunate slip of the tongue had planted a jumbo seed of discontent on the site's lively message boards, and it galled and festered in Kits mind until the insult of it all spawned a full blown grump. 

          From that moment on, Beth's searing goal was to become the next Shania, Mariah, and Barbra, all rolled into one, just so she could buy the evil site and send its current powers-that-be to the unemployment line. Clutter. What a disagreeable shingle to hang on your home business. Kit wasn't one of the big boy sellers, but she worked hard and made a nice little income to tide her over until the Grammy's were begging for her attendance, which she ventured should be any day now. But until Sony or Virgin or some other kick-butt record company knocked on her door and discovered her, she needed the auction site, even if the irritating cyber gorilla apparently didn't need her, or worse, was actively trying to eliminate her. Kit increasingly saw the site as a fat, street-wise tabby while she was the defenseless field mouse. The behemoth seemed to employ a diabolical technical demolition team whose mission it was to taunt and terrify, toying with her before opening its jaws and biting off her head. Snap. She was history. And all because she was just "clutter" in the grinding auction machine. At least that was the self-serving conclusion Kit had fervently adopted. Rationale be damned.



"Another Birthday"


          Sunlight sliced through the window to torture Janelle's eyelids. She squinted, rolled over and tried to ignore the daylight wake-up call. It didn't work. In spite of her determination to sleep the day away, her eyes cracked open and glared at the dust fairies dancing in the intrusive sunbeam above her head.

            Darn sun. She didnt want to see the sun today. Why couldn't the sky be gray? Why couldn't the weather be nasty and dour, like her life? Today was, horror of horrors, another birthday, another year forever lost with nothing to show for it. It was no day to celebrate. And it was certainly no day to be drenched in bright yellow, smiley-face sunshine.



"The Man In the Moon Blog"

          "Man, Im beat."

         William turned away from the wall of monitors, yawned and rubbed his eyes for the third time that hour. A glance at his watch reminded him it would be only a few minutes more before the midnight shift took over. The relief couldn't come too soon. Frustration had been playing him like a fiddle lately, and he needed a break from the calculations, extrapolations and endless string of just-slightly-off assumptions that were his stock and trade. If life really did exist out there, somewhere, he couldn't find it, and the failures burrowed into his hide like thorny foxtails.

          The whir of the security scan drew William's attention, and he turned to watch Christmas Morning walk through the door. Stephan was an okay guy, but he was green. He'd only been on the project for three years, and he was prone to excited outbursts at the least little bleep of space junk bumping into other space junk. William had dubbed the Harvard undergrad "Christmas Morning" the third time he'd caught Stephan dancing around the room after he'd discovered a particularly sparkly deep space flare followed by the inevitable, barely-there blip on the screen.

          "Hey, William, whats up? Man, did you see the moon tonight? It's like somebody waxed it. I've never seen it so bright. NASA put out any reports?"



"Double Dog Sure"

          "It's almost my time!"

          Red bubbled with eagerness as he waited to share his report.  He knew his recitation would be the best ever, and he was beside himself waiting for the teacher to call his name so that he could take center stage and deliver his masterpiece.  The ordinary orations of his peers could never compare to his own, and his still-developing nerve center had a long way to go in the patience department.  Red's tale was a whole universe of special, and he was confident that his narrative would be so monumental that his classmates would bump him in giddy excitement, and his teacher would heap praise upon his little self. 



and...




The Touch of Roy and Dale:  
The Impact and Influence of
Roy Rogers, The King of the Cowboys
and Dale Evans, The Queen of the West
As Only Their Fans Could Tell It


Editorial Review from Barnes & Noble. . .

Brides-to-be need help and Tricia Spencer's 1,001 Wedding Ideas provides it in enviable ways. In 14 chapters and 544 pages, this carefully planned resource takes the stress out of wedding planning with start-to-finish suggestions about the gnarly process. Every phase is covered: from wedding themes; rehearsal dinner; reception and ceremony locations; ceremony preparations; wedding party; the gown; food and drink; stationery; music; decorations; flowers; reception activities; and last minute problems and solutions. Think of it as a bridal life (and sanity) preserver.

The Touch of Roy and Dale, Volume II: Personally Told Stories of Lives Changed by Roy Rogers, The King of the Cowboys, and Dale Evans, The Queen of the West, CONTINUE


In the words of even more fans, friends and family, Volume II brings Roy's and Dale's legacy to life through extraordinary stories, original art, poetry, songs, and nearly 600 photographs.  The fun Trivia Quiz at the back of the book is a special "insider" look at tidbits from Roy's and Dale's life.  And as with the first volume of The Touch of Roy and Dale, a portion of the proceeds from Volume II benefits Roy's and Dale's charity, The Happy Trails Children's Foundation

"I highly recommend The Touch of Roy and Dale, Volume II, and you can't have this book unless you have The Touch of Roy and Dale, Volume I.  These are truly the best two books I've ever read about real-life people!

...Joy Hannabass, Reader's Favorite Book Reviews