Blog Tour de Troops

Hanover Fist

Happy Memorial Day!

This weekend we're joining over 30 authors in Blog Tour de Troops, our way of thanking our troops for keeping our country safe and free.

If you're following the tour, you probably came from Louisa Bacio's blog. Her book "The Vampire, the Witch, and the Werewolf" takes place in my home town of New Orleans...a little steamier than Dime Store Novel, but it looks like a good read. If you haven't dropped by her blog, please do so.

The next stop on the tour is Tracy Bull's blog. Tracy is not only a writer, but an artist. Her literary book, Fragments, is getting great reviews. So be sure visit her after you've gotten to know us a little.

I'm Hanover Fist. The story of my rather unusual birth is told in "From the Gator's Mouth", the ebook we're giving away FREE to anyone who comments on this blog. We're also giving away one to a troop for each unique commenter. I think you'll like my godfather Swampy. At least one reader did. You can read her review at Kona's blog.

To celebrate Memorial Day and thank the troops who keep our land free, I'm going to tell a story about my friend Spooky Fox. Then I'm going to turn the blog over to the three beautiful women who share my adventures to express their gratitude in their own way.

First a little about my military service. I was drafted into the Navy in 1918. But, unlike the men I trained with, I never saw combat. You see, the smallpox vaccination made me sick. The military doctors had never see the likes of my illness and had too send me home. But that's another story for a later book.

Today I want to remember my good friend Spooky Fox. Spooky and I trained together before the smallpox fiasco. He was from Chicago and his parents had money – something to do with the railroads, I think. Spooky was a good guy...one of the best. He didn't look down his nose at anyone and was always willing to share his wealth. Well, before getting shipped out, we had to do a survival weekend. We were taken to a spot in the swamps and had to survive off the land. It wasn't a big deal for me. Swampy had taught me a lot about fishing and tracking, so I wasn't worried. But Spooky wasn't going to have any part of roughing it. He found out our drop point from an acquaintance who'd been through it before and arranged to have a five course meal flown in by crop plane. What a guy!

I contributed to our feast by calling on some nymph friends of mine. Spooky really hit it off with Sunshine. Of course, as far as he knew she was just a woman. She kept her claws well hidden.

Anyway, Spooky went on to serve in World War I, the War to End All Wars, and the Korean War that proved wars would never end. We kept in touch over the years until he went MIA in Korea. I like to think he met a nymph there to keep him warm until he grew old and died. But who's to say. All I know is that he did his part in keeping our country safe and free. Thank you, Spooky and thank you to all the service men and women.

Toledo Cats



As a healer, I'd like to thank our troops, not only for their service in times of war, but for the assistance they give during disasters, natural or otherwise. I sincerely hope reading "From the Gator's Mouth" will bring a smile to your lips and help ease your stress.




Regan Worth

I value my right to say and do as I please above all else. So, please continue to fight for my freedom. I might not give thanks often, but I do give it where it's due. So thank you, troops at home and abroad.

Mary O'Malley

As the daughter of a police officer, I was taught to value public service. I'd like to offer thanks, to all men and women in uniform. You protect us from dangers we can see and those we can't.

Please make sure to leave your email address with your comment. And remember, you will also be entered in a drawing for a Kindle.

Previous Stop                                         Next Stop:
Louisa Bacio's blog                               Tracy Bull's blog 

Remembering My Father

Mary O'Malley

This time of year is tough for me even all these years later. First comes Memorial Day when everyone is decorating graves and thinking about the dead. Then comes Father's Day and right on its tail, comes the day I lost my own father, Duncan O'Malley. It was 1925 and I was barely 20. In some ways I blamed myself for what happened...if I hadn't seen that damn mouse...if I hadn't gotten sick. I know now that there was more to it than that...forces at play that I couldn't control...that no one could control. But that's another story for another time. I'm not ready to tell it yet...not in May when June is lurking just around the bend. Instead I'm going to tell another story about my father, about the time I gave him a Gillette razor for his birthday.

Daddy had always shaved with a straight-edge razor and he prided himself on keeping his cheeks whisker free. I loved to feel his smooth face against mine. I had our artist create his portrait and I think he did him justice.

Duncan O'Malley

Anyway, when I was seven years old, I had a nightmare about Daddy shaving with his straight-edge razor. I still remember the nightmare as if I was there. Daddy was standing over the sink, shaving. His eyes were closed, which might sound strange, by that's the way Daddy shaved. With his eyes closed. As he ran the blade across his cheek, a white-gloved hand grabbed his wrist and pulled it down, slicing deep into his neck. The blood spurted out and spattered the mirror. The face that belonged to the hand smiled wide in the mirror – a lipstick painted smile in a clown-white face. Daddy collapsed to the floor and the clown's mouth opened to let out a loud guffaw. I saw a glint of gold – fangs, not teeth – and woke up screaming.

Mother ran into my room and held me as I sobbed out my story. It was her who suggested getting him the safety razor, so I saved up my allowance. I had the man at the drugstore tie it up in comic papers and tie a bow around it. I was so proud and knew Daddy would be happy. Well, he opened the package and made a show of being pleased. But the next time I watched him shave, I noticed he was still using his old straight edge. So I asked him, "Daddy, why don't you use the razor I bought you?"

"A razor's like an old friend, Mary," he said. "I'm not quite ready to part with this one yet. But I will use yours. I promise."

"Please, Daddy." The tears came even though I tried to hold them back. "I don't like that mean old straight edge."

Daddy stopped shaving and bent down comfort me. "Why not, Sweetie?"

The soapy scent of shaving cream rose off his face. I wanted to tell him about my nightmare, but it seemed so silly under the bright vanity lights. "I just don't," I finally answered.

"Okay, my Wary Mary. If it'll ease your mind, I'll put away my old friend for a time."

And he did – for one shave at least. But Daddy hated shaving with the safety razor. It didn't shave close enough and for the first time in a long, long time, he nicked himself. Not one nick, several. He came out of the bathroom, his face covered in tissue paper dots. "Whoever decided to call this bloody thing a safety razor needs a lesson in safety," he muttered.

Me and mother couldn't hold back our giggles. Daddy put that new Gillette back in its box and put it on a high closet shelf, grumbling the whole time. I found it up there after his funeral. The strange thing was, the blade was stained with blood – much more than would be caused by simple nicks. I always wondered whether that blade was used by someone else...for something.