Blog

January 2026

How It All Started

Welcome to (drum roll, please), my inaugural personal blog!

Personal? Wait a sec. Shouldn’t an author and poet write about, well…writing, poetry, and other literary genres and issues? Yes, but not exclusively.

Under the umbrella of searching authors’ websites and blogs, the common theme seemed to be how to structure a blog with an eye toward SEO, driving people to your site. I understand that, but what about the author? Who is the person behind the words? The likes, dislikes, and life experiences. What motivates someone to compile short stories, poems, and novels? Is it a career path? Side income? Or, as Stephen King puts it in his book, On Writing, “I have written because it fulfilled me. Maybe it paid off the mortgage on the house and got the kids through college, but those things were on the side—I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever.”

Let me tell you upfront, I’m in the “do it for the buzz” group. But I wasn’t at first.

No doubt you’ve heard the term “black swan” moment, which is a metaphor for a major life-changing event…be it for better or worse. For my family and me, it was Sunday, June 21, 1998...and it was for the worse. That evening, the Geneva police came to our door informing us that the oldest of our three children, Thomas, a senior at Eastern Illinois University, had taken his own life.

Enter the black swan.

Following that horrendous day, the soul-crushing sorrow and pain in the ensuing days, months, and years defy description. My purpose is not to chronicle the details surrounding Tom’s death and the aftermath. Suffice to say that my family survived—survivors of suicide, a title I wish on no one.

After the loss of a loved one, from whatever cause, the ensuing healing process is unique to each of us. Counselors in the field define it as “grief work.” Believe me, it’s work…hard, exhausting, mental, and physical work. There’s no set time that it ends; you’ll know it when it does. For me, writing poems became part of my healing process. My grief poured out in rhymes that were raw, undisciplined, and spiritual. I didn’t search for them. At any time during the day or night, the words found me, as if they were already there, waiting for the moment to be part of my grief work, my healing. I didn’t fight them. Like tears, I let them flow. My poems helped. They still do.

I don’t know exactly when, but several years later, I began to expand my “grief” poetry to write about whatever came to mind. The “buzz” crept into me. I found joy in writing. I needed those fleeting moments of joy in the years following Tom’s death. Twenty-one years of writing poems culminated in my first poetry book, Things That Come To Mind, published in 2020. Over the next five years, two more poetry books and my first fictional tome, a collection of ten short stories, followed. (More about them in future blogs.)

I often wonder if writing would be part of my life if Tom were here. I don’t know. What I do know is that writing has connected me to some great people and places I may never have met or known about otherwise. When I write, my soul is in a good, comforting place. When that happens, perhaps his soul is, too. At least I like to think it is. However, I would give it all up to have him back.

Tom

Leave a comment at:

tbonine.books@gmail.com

February 2026

The Serenity of No Gates

While preparing to write my next book, I came across an observation that struck me. Vanishing Breed, by William Allard, is a small coffee-table book that explores the story of the modern American cowboy through striking photography and the stories behind each image. In his Preface, Allard tells of an old cowboy who spoke of the Montana range when it had “…fewer fences and gates to slow a man down…” Contemplating that, Allard wrote: “There seem to be gates in our lives that we never get open. But if we’re lucky, we have a place, each of us, that is special. Others may see that place differently, of course. They can change it, and they probably will; they can even take it away. But if we love it deeply enough, there is a part of it in us to the end.”

Gates and fences are two things cowboys deal with every day. Metaphorically, regardless of our station in life, we all do. However, there are those special places, unique to each of us, that never require a gate to enter. They are embedded in our souls—places to return to, if only for an instant, for solace and comfort.

Much of my poetry and short stories emanates from my special place: my uncle’s and grandfather’s small cattle ranch outside of Bayfield, CO. In fact, it has served as a gate-free time portal for my love of genealogy and history. My forty years of researching my family lineage began by sitting with my grandmother, looking at old black-and-white polaroids of Bonines and Davies (my grandmother’s family), dating back to the late 1800s. Expanding the ancestral lasso, I roped my mother’s family into my research as well. My special place opened doors to multiple “sub-places” that I otherwise would never have known or used in my writing.

In my short story book, Rocking Chair Tales, eight of the ten stories exist because of the ranch and frontier culture that surrounded not just me and my immediate family, but all my ancestors from England, France, Scotland, and Germany who crossed the Atlantic Ocean to an unknown land and future, searching for a better life and a place with no gates.

Do you have a special place seared into your being, free of gates and fences? If so, embrace it. See it as it was when you first saw it and lived with it. It’s a cherished reminder of a moment when the unexpected happened—a gate in your world opened, a gate to a place that would never be closed again.

Tom

March 2026

Let's Shake On It

Growing up, I would not describe my Dad as an oracle of life-coaching advice. Mostly, the advice he passed on to me was through his demeanor, not words. His polite manners, courteousness, don’t quit—follow through, and an effort to get along were laudable characteristics to emulate. But one piece of advice he did tell me, in no uncertain terms, was, (and I paraphrase):

When you shake a man’s hand, you always look him in the eye and give him a firm grip. That tells him something about you. If nothing else, a sense of respect, sincerity, and being a man of your word can be immediately conveyed. In turn, his grip and mannerisms will tell you something about him.

For some reason, that stuck with me, was applied, and proven true throughout my life.

Handshaking is nothing new to us humans. According to History Retraced, it’s been around since ancient Greece. Historians speculate that an extended open right hand, devoid of a weapon, evoked an overture of peace with strangers or a former adversary. Over the centuries, it became a powerful symbol of love, bonding, acceptance, respect, and friendship. The physical touching that’s evident via numerous variations of handshaking throughout human history is “rooted in real-world examples of people building identity through touch.”

My guess is, most of us give no thought to what I contend is the cultural degrading of the handshake into a ritual pro forma gesture; a minor enhancement of greeting another person. It’s my opinion that the handshake’s true meaning borders on sacred—one that carries the same importance as giving a person your word. Perhaps in modern times, we use it too flippantly, like saying “Hello” and then adding “How are you doing?” In passive greetings, do we honestly care about hearing how someone is really doing? Do they want to tell you about their aches, pains, and life issues? I doubt it.

In five of the ten short stories in Rocking Chair Tales, that importance I speak of above is used eight times; that’s no accident. It is meant to tell the reader something about that character’s foundational self and the trust, love, and respect he has for certain people. It’s a part of what defines the character’s future actions as the story unfolds.

Storytelling can take many forms. In both my narrative poetry and short stories, I try to bring forth some old-fashioned honesty and virtue in my main characters that I find lacking in today’s culture. Whether it’s Marshal Sean McChesney and his gunfighter brother, Ethan, bridging their fifteen-years apart in the story Chosen Trails, or, Earl Palmer, a cowboy who’s badly injured, and trusts his young nephew, Jamie, to ride down the mountain for help, in Jamie’s Ride…the handshakes between them all transcends words, and speaks to their unspoken bonds of family, love, and the trust that's been forged between them.

The handshake: a seemingly simple gesture, brought forth centuries ago, that carries with it part of the essence of human contact. Dad, thanks for the advice.

Tom

April 2026

Thoughts on April

When I think of April, beginnings and endings come to mind.

In my second poetry book, The Chalk Art Collection, a quote I wrote that precedes the poem “Thresholds”, coincidentally, touches on what I consider April’s quandary.

“Life had crossed into death,

And death had crossed into life.

Each pursued its appointed end.

Janus, ever diligent, took notice of both.”

A few days ago, I awakened at 4:30 in the morning with my brain battling the contradictions that April brings. The outcome of said conflict was that April, like the Roman god Janus, also “takes notice of both.”

Much is written about the necessity, even value, of the bad events in life, without which the good would be difficult to recognize and define. There’s a strange, but vital balance between the two: beginnings and endings, the bad and the good.

Our country’s April history includes: the first battle of the American Revelution, the first shots of our Civil War at Fort Sumter, the nightmare of Shiloh, President Lincoln’s assassination, Martin Luther King, Jr’s murder, the Oklahoma City bombing, twelve students murdered at Columbine High School in Colorado, weather related deaths and destruction from Spring storms, and so much more, but too long to list here.

For those thinking that the peak time for suicides is the Christmas holiday season, it’s not—April is. During my six years on the board of Suicide Prevention Services of America, I learned from the staff counselors that during the Christmas season, in the cold, dark loneliness of Winter, those who are in crisis often don’t have the energy to move on their thoughts.

But then, there are those beautiful Spring days in April that all of us have come to cherish. After a long, cold winter, how great it is to see the first crocus and daffodils bloom, or feel the excitement of baseball’s opening day. I’m a life-long Cubs fan…I trust you understand. The religious solemnity and importance of Easter, along with the joyful traditions of family gatherings, the Easter Bunny, colored eggs, and Easter Lilies, are cherished moments and memories. The noisy sounds of nature's creatures dashing about in a primal ritual of renewal and rebirth.

According to history.com, April’s origins are from the Latin “Aprilis,” which may be related to “aperire,” meaning “to open.” Another possibility is the Etruscan word Apru, which is for the Greek goddess of love, beauty, and fertility, Aphrodite. Essentially, April’s ties to rebirth and renewal have endured through the centuries, carried forward from its roots in ancient civilizations to modern day.

When Winter ends and Spring begins, it's the little things in our lives, easily overlooked, that balance the bad with the good. Those little things change with age. Once it was riding a new bike, seeing which team picked me for Little League or Legion baseball, getting a yes when asking a girl to the prom, or seeing the girl for the first time (April 4, 1972), whom I would end up marrying.

Nowadays, what excites me is seeing the first hummingbirds returning to their feeder hanging outside our kitchen window, or the leaves bursting out in the woods behind our house, enclosing us in our own “green wall.” Watching the grandkids in their plays, athletics, music, and other activities, and hearing our children tell us of the ups and downs of their daily routines. Having conversations with friends and extended family members who hold a special place in my life. Cuddling with our two dogs and looking at my wife in surreal amazement at having been together for nearly fifty-three years.

Beginnings and endings, rebirth and renewal. They have been, and will remain, April’s promise. It’s up to us to find and live with the balance.

Allow me to leave you with the following short limerick from my first book, Things That Come To Mind, appropriately titled:

APRIL

Bloom forth the crocus ever bright,

And tulip flowers of yellow light.

They could last longer, but for the habits,

Of hungry little bunny rabbits.

Tom

May 2026

...And believe me, it's significant!

I've been hooked on genealogy since my senior year in college. Over the years, with the advent of the internet (read Ancestry, Family Search, etc.) and more free time in retirement, the study of my ancestors is running perilously close to an addiction, albeit a healthy one. Two years ago, I was considering writing a multi-volume series on my family history to give as a gift to...my family, of course. However, after contemplating the fact that many of my ancestral lines have been traced back to the early 800s, I decided it was too daunting a task. Before reaching that conclusion, though, I wrote a preface for the project. Considering the importance that my genealogical records play in my writing, for my May blog, I've posted said preface below. Who knows, I might change my mind someday on writing that family history...someday...maybe.

I love history. Always have. I imagine that there is some ancestral gene that has been passed down through the ages and landed smack-dab in the middle of my DNA, which formed the basis for my love of exploring times past.

It was in the fourth grade when I began to devour written-for-kids biographies of famous figures in American history. Those books had the person's name on the front cover, encircled with a yellow swirly type circle. I read them all: inventors, frontiersmen, presidents, military figures, and more. Moving upward through grade school, junior high, and high school, I struggled and sweated through math and science classes. But my annual guaranteed aces and GPA savers were in English class and American and World history...especially American history.

Suburbia was my home, Hinsdale, IL, about 20 miles west of Chicago. I’m the middle offspring of William Thomas Bonine and Lois Irene Gauweiler. Mom was a Chicago gal from the southside around 95th St. and Ashland Ave. Dad, however, was from a world that might as well have been as far away as Mars. Last address after World War II was Hickman, NM. Don't rush to the iPhone map to find it. It ain't there. But you will find it listed under ghost towns of Catron County, New Mexico.

Mom and Dad met at the University of New Mexico. Mom was all set to attend Michigan State, but at the last minute changed her mind and chose UNM. Dad was from a cowboy family. Following his heroic stint in the Army Air Forces during the war, he considered his options, and as he once told me, "I didn't want to spend the rest of my life looking at the sorrier end of a herd of cows." So, courtesy of the GI Bill, off he went to UNM, earning a degree in civil engineering. The rest, as they say, is history. It is also my history.

Begging your indulgence, the preceding paragraphs served as a preface within a preface to the summer of my sophomore year of high school.

Following the tradition of Bonine males, beginning in seventh grade, I spent half of the next four summers working as a ranchhand for my Grandad (that's the way he spelled it) and my Uncle Earl on the Bonine ranch located about seven miles southeast of Bayfield, CO. It was a long way from Hickman, and an improvement. They actually had indoor plumbing. Translation: no more outhouse. To drop any preconceived visions you may have of our family's spread, we're not talking John Dutton's Yellowstone ranch (for the younger generation) or the Cartwrights' Ponderosa (for my generation). I'd say our ranch was a step above the ranches depicted in Ace Reid’s comic strip called “Cowpokes”. Yes, I know you're asking, "Who the hell is Ace Reid?" Well, that's why God invented internet searches. Take advantage of it.

It was the summer when I turned fifteen that I began to peruse through my grandparents' old photo albums. Those black and white polaroids grabbed hold of me and have never let go. "Well, the Bonines were from Missora," my grandmother, Nina Davies Bonine, would tell me. By the way, Nina was never called grandma; she was always called by her nickname, Big Mom, even though she wasn't big at all. Sitting together on the brown tweed fold-out couch bed in their living room (my bed when staying there), we'd turn the photo albums' pages as I listened to her tell me about the people or places in the pictures. Those quiet times with her were as if I were a passenger on some H.G. Wells time machine, a ride that I have yet to, and never will, get off of.

Fast forward to the year 2024. I am now surrounded by nearly 1,400 names from both sides of the family listed on a seemingly endless Ancestry family tree, along with numerous files of pictures, letters, and legal documents. The spirits, stories, and blood of countless French Huguenots, English lords and Scottish lairds, noblemen, knights, peasants, frontiersmen, and cowboys continuously drop in unannounced on occasion, just like all relatives tend to do.

I am surrounded by “my people”. I hear them through all those files, letters, pictures, and legal documents that I spoke of. It is time their story is told. It is time to speak of those who came before. It is time to follow their trail of homes, castles, cabins, and graves scattered like bread crumbs in the generational forest that leads me from where I am back to where I came from.

Tom

June - July 2026

Ready...Set...Start Reading!

Is there such a thing as Post-Traumatic English Class Disorder, or PTECD?

Nope. But I have to call my flashbacks to Junior High and High School English class something.

Poof! I’m back in 1964, and Mrs. Kissell is holding forth in second-period seventh-grade English at the Hinsdale (IL) Jr. High. She’s making a valiant effort to engage the class in the moral dilemmas facing the gunfighter Shane in the book of the same name. Over the course of the first semester, I think she realized her students weren’t grasping it. Shane is a great classic Western. In fact, I just read it for the first time since 1964, which is indicative of the negative impact she had on me and her approach to the book. Hey, you tried your best, Mrs. Kissell, but yours was a textbook case of introducing a book to kids way too early. In my opinion, the age-appropriate level for Shane begins in junior or senior year of high school. Middle schoolers are too young to grasp, feel, and enjoy what a good story Shane is.

Obviously, Mrs. Kissell’s goal wasn’t to turn students off to reading, but to enhance the joy of reading, be it a story or poem. Unfortunately, aside from two or three exceptions, my English and Literature teachers from grade school through college seemed to take turns trying to be the best at obliterating any love their students may have had for poetry, novels, and reading in general. The methodology they mistakenly used was to slice and dice a poem or book into a thousand pieces of made-up, silly, hidden meanings, to the point that any joy initially found in reading the piece was shattered. The result was a classroom of students who hated the thought of reading a poem…any poem. I would think that the groans from my classmates assigned to read some of the most famous books ever written must have told the instructor something; or, in humoring the cynic in me, perhaps getting tenure or a grant of some sort was the instructor’s true focus.

The poet, Billy Collins, writes in his poem Introduction to Poetry that educators force students to “tie the poem to a chair and torture a confession out of it.” The simple artistry and the joy of the poem are destroyed for the reader. It’s killed off. Be it a poem, novella, novel, or the introduction of literature too early, Collins’ salient words describe the educational crime of “readicide,” which I like better than my PTECD.

I first heard the term readicide (a play on the word homicide) in conversation with my sister, Lysle Catron, who knows something about reading and kids. For over thirty years, she was a reading disability specialist in Academic Language Therapy, working with middle-school students, many of whom were dyslexic. She told me that it comes from educator and author Kelly Gallagher and his book Readicide: How Schools Are Killing Reading and What You Can Do About It.

Gallagher writes: “readicide is the systematic killing of the love of reading, often exacerbated by the inane, mind-numbing practices found in schools.”

Mr. Collins and Mr. Gallagher, I AGREE!

Collins’ poem was published in 1988, and Readicide in 2009, thirty-eight years and seventeen years after 1964! Each passing decade saw the relentless destruction of kids learning the joy of reading by the Borg-like educational industrial complex. (Not familiar with Borg? Very menacing. Check out the television show Star Trek: The Next Generation.)

On his website, Gallagher lists five core reasons for this:

- Valuing standardized testing over the development of lifelong readers

- Mandating breadth over depth in instruction

- Requiring students to read difficult texts without proper instructional support and

insisting that students focus on academic tests

- Ignoring the importance of developing recreational reading

- Losing sight of authentic instruction in the looming shadow of political pressures

The overwhelming number of sites from an internet search on this subject tells me…Houston, ah, strike that…America, we have a problem.

Which leads us to ask: how do we solve the problem, with “we” as the key word.

I do know the “we” does not include the educational bureaucrats at all levels that started and nurtured the problem. You know—the experts. I submit that the “we” are parents, teachers, grandparents, and authors.

Together, my aforementioned sister, Lysle Catron, and teacher, author, and historian, Patricia HarteNaus, have a combined sixty-plus years of teaching experience. Lysle taught in Belen, NM, and Naples, FL. Pat taught fourth and fifth grade in Glen Ellyn, IL. Their passion for reading was and is endless, and their students picked up on that.

Pat: “The question of reading books that capture the mind and emotions of a young reader in the educational system is complex. I truly believe that educators (then and especially now) have the responsibility to first develop in the child’s mind the desire to want to read by first creating the right environment in the classroom.”

Both agreed that a key component of that environment is reading aloud to students.

Lysle: “Listening comprehension comes before reading comprehension. If a kid has never heard the word, he or she will never say the word. When someone is reading to you, and if they’re reading right, the emotion comes out. Listening to that carries over to how you're reading it. Paying attention to sentence structure comes from listening. Reading is not a natural process; listening is. Humans are meant to listen. Writing is an artificial construct. Reading aloud to them expanded their vocabulary. Go back in your childhood and remember how you mispronounced a word, or didn’t know what it meant. Giving your kids more words is a benefit.”

Pat: “Children listen to the fluency, the pauses, and the excitement the educator has while reading the story. It can be so much fun all the way around for the reader and those who sit close and listen because some children were never read to by their parents at all. This method helped to develop not only their own fluency but understanding and questioning what they read…and the passion would follow.”

Then there’s addressing that pesky problem of what book is age-appropriate for your students. (I just flashed back to seventh grade again. Ouch!) Help me out here, teachers.

Pat: “Literacy and history were my passions, and my students knew and felt it in my daily lessons. I knew that the books we read in class were on target not only for their age, but for their emotional development. Books like Tuck Everlasting and A Long Walk to Water carried a message and were perfect for deep, incredible discussions. My class also knew I was writing books at the same time, which interested and engaged them on a deeper level from the start. I shared the process of how to story-tell from start to finish.”

When Lysle passed out copies of Hatchet to her seventh-grade class, they complained (you know, that class-wide groan I spoke of earlier), saying they already had read that in fifth grade. One student said it was about a kid who was in a plane crash and lived. She said, “Okay, but you haven’t really read it. You have no clue what this story is really about. The whole point is: how did he survive, and how did he change, and what was inside him that allowed him to do so? What were his choices that led to that? How do you survive bad situations when you have no control over them?” Each student had a copy of the book and followed along as she read aloud a chapter a day. The class discovered a whole new book they never knew existed.

I’d be remiss not to mention the “teaching for the (state) test” issue.

Pat said that a grade school teacher told her that there is no time to read in class because of the tests. Children interact only with their laptops. That left an opening for the rebel in both her and Lysle.

Pat: “I never, ever allowed that in my classroom. Was I supposed to? Oh, yes…but I closed my door, and together we went on a journey with stories and lessons that were not scripted.”

Lysle: “Having a principal that backed you when straying from the assigned curriculum was important. I was fortunate to have that for much of my teaching career.”

We’re talking positive RESULTS here. Not the kind from the one-size-fits-all state tests. Rather, from one-on-one, a student or class at a time where the joys of reading a book are embraced; a joy that will stay with a student for the rest of their life. The only providers of establishing a solid reading foundation are the “we’s”, with devoted parents and teachers leading the way.

Lysle: “Almost every student who wrote me notes at the end of the year, or later in life, always mentioned the reading of novels in class out loud, and how that made them want to read.” RESULTS!

Pat: “I had to teach myself (teaching kids with dyslexia) when in fourth grade I had a dyslexic student. A sweet girl with demanding parents and an attorney who attended all our meetings to check on me to make sure she was successful. The girl was my student for two years, attended my Belden School Summer Writing camp for two years, and wrote a book that won the Betty Crocker Award for writing. The parents still send me a Christmas card every year. Back then, we, as teachers, were the ones who assigned moving stories that were appropriate for the students we taught…not the education system. They never had a handle on what the children needed. The teachers did…that is, if they cared.”

RESULTS! BIG TIME!

I already feel my PTECD abating. So, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to catch up on some reading.

Tom

Leave a comment at:

tbonine.books@gmail.com

August 2026

The Times That Tried Men's Souls

HAPPY 250th BIRTHDAY, AMERICA!!

I realize that 250 years is barely a blink of an eye in historical terms. But it's been one helluva of a blink, so far.

Catherine Drinker Bowen begins her book Miracle at Philadelphia with this excerpt:

"It appears to me, then, little short of a miracle, that the Delegates from so many different States (which you know are also different from each other), in their manners, circumstances, and prejudices, should unite forming a system of national Government, so little liable to well founded objections."

Washington to Lafayette, February 7 1788

In contemplating the years since the signing of our Declaration of Independence, I concur with Washington's assessment. In the context of world history, what preceded our country's independence and subsequent Constitution, which Washington is writing about in his letter, a miracle is indeed an apt description of our revolution's result.

When deep-diving into the Revolutionary era, you have to go beyond what you have been taught in school, if it's still taught at all. From my years of acquiring, reading, and studying hundreds of books and pamphlets on the Revolution, allow me to offer a list of books that I consider some of the best, but certainly not all, on those heated, bloody years that were laced with uncertainty, sacrifice, suffering, courage, and valor.

David Hackett Fischer: Paul Revere's Ride & Washington's Crossing

Catherine Dinker Bowen: Miracle at Philadelphia

A. J. Langguth: Patriots

Robert Ferris and Richard Morris: The Signers

David McCullough: 1776 & John Adams

Joseph P. Martin: Private Yankee Doodle

Thomas Fleming: Beat the Last Drum: Yorktown, Perils of Peace: 1781-1783, 1776 - Year of Illusion

Richard Ketchum: Any book he's written

Recommended historical narratives:

Gore Vidal: Burr

Thomas Fleming: Liberty Tavern

James A. Thom: Follow the River & Long Knife

Newt Gingrich: To Try Men's Souls

Jeff Shaara: The Glorious Cause & Rise to Rebellion

In honor of the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, it is appropriate to close this month's blog with the first stanza of Emerson's Concord Hymn, written in 1837:

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood

And fired the shot heard round the world.

Tom

September 2026

History: more than last year's trip to Dollywood

Recently, I received a text from a dear friend and fellow history traveler. She is in the midst of reading Twilight of Empire, the last book in Allen Eckert’s excellent five-book series The Winning of America. The book chronicles the 1832 Black Hawk War. In my opinion, his series is the best historical narratives I’ve read. If a time machine exists in print, Eckert’s books are it.

Her enthusiasm for the book was not a surprise, but the last line of her text was. In five words, she succinctly summed up not only Eckert’s book(s), but also what much of history is:

“Chilling, but so very interesting.”

Exactly! The dastardly evil, the exceedingly good, and the large gap between them that humans have and will continue to grapple with.

The opening line from Dickens’ classic A Tale of Two Cities comes to mind: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” It sums up the fact that we’ve proven ourselves to be both a chilling species and a great and interesting one.

That is our history. It’s who we are. The yin and yang of human existence: chilling and interesting.

The cultural intrigues of pseudo-historians who revise, falsify, twist, and replace historical fact with imaginary history that satisfies their own ideological views, and judge history by our cultural norms, rather than those of the period being studied, must be rejected. It is a despicable insult and disservice to those who came before us, let alone to ourselves.

To truly know and understand history, one must look beyond the headline generalities. By that I mean going beyond the American History textbook assigned in junior year of high school. The prompts for doing so are not limited to books. They surround us if we remain open to see them.

For example, a prompt jumped out at me while I was driving on I-40 from Crossville to Knoxville here in Tennessee. I live on the Cumberland Plateau, 2,000 feet up, with another 1,000 feet added from mountains scattered around. It got me thinking: if my ancestors, who migrated from here to Missouri in the late 1830s, traveled by wagon, there were only a couple of roads crossing the plateau. Going up was one thing, but coming down the steep drop was another. How’d they do it? I thought it had to be one of those “worst of times” that Dickens wrote about.

An internet search revealed the diary of a family that made that trip. The author described how they had to cut down a large tree, cut off the branches, and cut the trunk into various lengths. They would attach a cut section to the back of the wagon to serve as a gravity brake.

Problem solved. Load up the kids, Honey, time to go.

Remember, we’re talking a muddy, rut-filled, glorified path for a road, not a four-lane interstate with a Buc-ee’s waiting at the bottom. The ride down had to be chilling; the solution interesting.

Eckert’s books detail life behind the historical headlines of the collision between two groups: the Eastern Indian tribes and the English/American colonists and settlers. While we know the outcome, the actual historical truth, like much of history, is indeed “chilling, but so very interesting.”

Tom

October 2026

Mr. & Mrs. Cranium bid you

Happy Halloween!!

I've always considered Halloween an afternoon and night set aside for kids, with adults (read: parents) relegated to supervisory, administrative, and safety monitor roles. If the weather was cold and rainy, add chauffeur to that job list. Some would also serve as party hosts for their kids' friends and classmates.

Over time, I would argue that our culture evolved (or devolved, depending on one's view) into adults hijacking the day for themselves. Just look at the ads and promotions of your local watering holes, restaurants, and hotels. They're not telling you to stay home and hand out candy to the kids. Nope, it's paaaarty time! Costumes, prizes, food, and drinks...lots of drinks.

In my poetry book, The Chalk Art Collection, I wrote narrative poems from what I saw in my grandniece's chalk drawings. When I looked at her illustration of two seemingly jovial skulls, the poem "Mr. & Mrs. Cranium" crept out of my cranium. In the "spirit" of the season, I submit said poem for my October blog. BOO!

The Craniums were known as a jovial couple

that laughed away all of life’s troubles,

which at times can be near impossible to do,

but did it, they did as their neighbors well knew.

On special occasions and holidays,

their Victorian home was on full display.

Banners, buntings, decors of all sorts,

the list was endless in what they’d import.

Parties and music with games, drinks, and food

kept the entire town in the happiest mood.

But the ultimate awe that had to be seen

was the Cranium’s house on Halloween.

Oh, what a sight on that scariest of nights

when their house was bathed in ghoulish fright.

Their wide-open door welcomed all inside

for candy and punch; throw your fears aside.

Pin the tail on the demon’s behind,

spark the electrodes of Frankenstein

were just some of the games that were played with glee

as the Craniums played host to what would be.

Each year, their stylish costumes the same,

elegant English Edwardian reigned,

topped by incredible skeleton skulls

as real as if their heads had been culled.

At first, the neighbors were just a bit wary,

admitting the Craniums were indeed a bit scary.

But, that is their way on Halloween,

and the Craniums knew… not all’s what it seemed.

They’d often discussed over glasses of wine

the one day a year when masks were fine

to wear all day and into the night

and hide who you are from normal sight.

The children were one thing, innocent and fun,

deserving of costumes and candy and gum.

The night was for them; they’re not to be touched,

but the adults of the town had become a bit much.

“Mind you, not all,” Mrs. Cranium said,

sipping her wine of scarlet red.

“We’ve managed to change some attitudes

to let kids be kids without adults to intrude.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Cranium heartily agreed.

“I trust there’ll be dividends from planting our seeds.

I noticed there’s some of what we’ve endeavored

attending our gathering unmasked forever.”

Despite all the work such a task entailed,

not all agreed, there’s adults who would fail.

Prospects of such were pushed aside;

they’d know soon enough just who would abide.

It was time. The stylish top hat Mr. Cranium wore,

he removed from his skull, which was just a bit sore.

“Would all the adults write your names down, please,

and we’ll draw from my hat the lucky three.”

Costume or not, all wrote their names down

and took to giggling little kid sounds

Would the Vincents of Hill St. be so kind,

take the children out back where there’s candy to find.”

“Mrs. Cranium, my dear, if I may indulge,

delve into my hat for names to divulge.”

Her velvet-gloved hand, long and thin,

rustled the paper slips deep within.

Out came the names of the lucky three,

which she called out to pathetic cries of “that’s me!”

All the past winners just smiled and stared;

none were in costume, not one would dare.

The hat stood empty from a wave of her arm,

“To the cellar, dear winners,” she said with charm.

“Dear husband, pray, please pick up your hat.”

Which he did, slammed the door, and never looked back.

Down four flights of stairs deep into the ground,

she commanded that lanterns be lit all around.

The winners, impressed how her magic was done,

now begged the question what was it they’ve won?

“Children, please sit!” she commanded, locking the door.

With a nod, chairs flew across the stone floor.

Mr. Cranium waved his hat this way and that

while the winners were frozen and sat where they’re at.

The couple glared at the frightened little band,

snickering, they both took their gloves off their hands.

Skeletal fingers raised on high, thus starts the winners’ session.

With a sneer, Mrs. Cranium asked, “Do we have your attention?”

"Why, you all look like you’ve lost all your fun, my dears,

and had it replaced with dread and fear.”

With her dark sunken eye sockets glowing flame red,

Mrs. Cranium growled, “Oh, be frightened, for we are truly quite dead.

A tornadic twirl and off flew their clothes

“We’re both real skeletons from our skulls to our toes!”

A rush of wind, a crash into the wall, their bones all scattered in piles,

up from the stack floats two skulls atop flames of demonic fire.

Terrified winners tried to scream, but fright held in their sounds

as children locked in a nightmare, tightly in mind held bound.

“Oh, how frightened all of you look. Don’t you like our tricks?

Dear wife, I quite honestly think they all really look a bit sick.”

“Indeed, they do,” quipped the crone, floating past each chair,

“now they see us for who we are, and ne’er a word to share.

Masks are all we wear all year, and you all seemed fine with that.

Now our little secret’s out, and it’s as scary as a rabid bat.”

Inches from one winning couple, both skulls now echoed forth,

“While we shed our masks, you put yours on every Halloween.

You preen and prance like you’re the kids! Oh, how very mean

to snatch away what’s meant for children, you narcissistic fiends.”

“Dearest wife, what have we morphed into on our special day?

While we party in our reality, our winners’ fun is taken away.”

Flying and bouncing about the cellar’s gray, damp, cold stone,

the skeletal matron of the house gave the winners each a bone.

“A femur for you. A wrist for you. The rest get hips and shins.

Recall this night and never forget, children, you all have been.

Our tricks are not pretend ones, they’re seared into your souls,

our treats the bones we gave you to remind you of your role.”

Spinning up into the air, the two skulls came to rest

on top of their bones, both confident of having done their best.

With horrified eyes, the winners stared in frozen fright

as the Craniums took care in snapping all their bones back in just right.

A bony finger pointed and wiggled, slipping the lock on the door.

Creaking, moaning hinges wailed, as Poe wrote, ”nevermore.”

Adorned once again in Edwardian splendor, following a gentle kiss,

releasing the terrified winners, their chairs flew back into mist.

“One moment, please. We do insist for your consideration

before your return above, please guard against temptation.

Do not forget what you’ve learned, what you won tonight.

If not our mask, we’ll drop…do pray you never see that sight.”

Emerging from the depths below, the winners cowered alone.

“The evening’s done. Collect your kids. Time to head on home.”

The children ran to their parents, the ones who won tonight.

A look in their eyes, and the Cranium’s nod, things had been set right.

After all had left, the Craniums were tired, feeling just a bit dour,

sipping wine in the quiet brought forth in the night’s late hour.

Grasping hands, she said, “You know what has struck us again.”

He sighed, “Indeed. Post fright syndrome. My dear, it just never ends.”

Tom