That's the title of the third anthology book that I have stories in. It's just been released and can be purchased online at Amazon.com. My friend, Brenda Elsagher, is the writer/humorist/editor who compiled this book and I have to admit that it's great. She has successfully collected some great stories for BPB.
And as is typical of my dear friend...along with a box of books and a thank you note....she sent me my very own bed pan! Love ya' Brenda!!!!!
BED PAN BANTER....Amazon.com

Yup, that's the title of the newest anthology book I'm in. No, I didn't pick it. And now that it's out I can see why Rosally Saltzman, the editor, chose it. The title looks gorgeous on the cover of the book.
Rosally is a beautiful lady with a kind and generous heart. She teaches writing online. I took one of her courses a few years ago and wrote the story of my Isaeli tour guide, George Horesh.
Rosally remembered me and my story and asked me to submit it. A lot of very fond memories came to mind when I reread the story. I left part of my heart and soul in Israel on that visit.
Anyway, enough sentimentality. The book can be purchased online at Amazon. I do hope you purchase a copy and then tell me what you think. Shalom!

Anthology: The Beauty of the Story
also available at Amazon.com

Well folks, it actually happened. I am a published author in an actual book instead of just newspapers and magazines! AND....drum roll....I got paid! The name of the book is called Chicken soup for the Soul: Empty Nesters. If you see it in a store, do buy a copy. Thanks.

I don't know exactly how it happened, but I've been asked to write a play. I tried to explain to the woman who asked me to do this that I had absolutely no idea how to go about about writing a play.
"There is a special skill for this, Kate," I said nervously. "I'd have to use a format I've never even seen. I really think you ought to find someone else."
"But you are the one with the idea. It's going to be amazing and awesome! I think you'd even be nominated for a Pullitzer!"
Pullitzer? Did she say Pullitzer?
You know when you're young and idealistic, full of hopes and dreams? My dream was to be a famous writer and earn a Pullitzer for my poignant writing that would change the world.
"No, Kate," I replied firmly. "It's too hard for an old lady like me to do. You know that old saying: you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Well, I'm feeling mighty old, right now."
Kate laughed. "Oh you silly bee! Of course you can do it. It's easier than writing all of those short stories and novels you do."
Well, two pots of tea and three scones later, my friend convinced me to write a play. I spent the entire afternoon putting the first scene on paper and felt brave enough to show it to my daughter, Miriam, the actress.
She fell on the floor laughing.
I didn't know that indentations were a no-no, that instructions for the actors had to be in italics and surrounded by square brackets, that each character's name had to be in bold print. etc. etc. etc.
It only took my daughter an hour to correct my formatting. We were both grateful that I had only managed to write ten pages double-spaced. But the key thing was that we both laughed a lot while she taught me. It was a blast, actually.
But she did give me a compliment...
"You know, Mom, this is actually really good. It's creepy. You should finish it."
Creepy? Did she say creepy?! Does creepy get you a Pullitzer?

Hi gang, A slightly different version of this story is coming out in May of 2009 in a book called Bedpan Banter. Hope you like it. Pam

Hannah

Hannah was one hundred and six years old, tiny in stature, frail as a sparrow, and toothless. She was a proud woman and she held her head high with nobility the likes of which I had never seen, not even in Queen Elizabeth. She was in hospital for a small stroke she’d had on an Easter Sunday.
That was forty years ago. I remember her as if it were yesterday.
“I was the first one in my family to have an education,” Hannah told me. “I became a teacher. Could never teach in a white school, though. Had to wait until I moved here to Canada.”
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Born and raised in Georgia I was, during the American Civil War. My ma and pa and me were slaves until that war ended. I was seven years old at the time.” “Wow, you lived through that war?” I said while placing a cup of tea in front of her. Hannah loved afternoon tea with Peak Freen cookies, the vanilla ones with strawberry jam centres.
“I surely did, child. None of my brothers survived, but I never knew them well. They had been sold to a farmer down the road when I was still a baby.”
“What do you remember about that time, Hannah?”
Hannah shrugged her shoulders. “Nothin’ much other than bein’ hungry.” She smiled. “But I do remember one day in particular. The day I met President Abraham Lincoln.”
I plopped down in the chair next to her. “You met Abraham Lincoln? What was he like?”
“Oh, my. Well, he was a very tall man. Thin but broad shoulders. Kinda ugly, actually, and he had bad teeth. But there was somethin’ wonderful about him. He had kind eyes. You could tell from just lookin’ at him that he was a wise man.”
She took a sip of tea. “I didn’t talk to him long, maybe a minute or two. But I’ll never forget what he said to me. He said, ‘Be proud, child. Always be proud of who you are and where your family came from. There’s no shame in having been a slave. But you’re free, now, and it’s your responsibility as a free person to do good in the world.’ I believed him.”
She looked down at her hands. “I told all of my students what President Lincoln said that day and I made them promise to be responsible free people and to do good. And I believe they all did. Except for that Randy Smith. He was a no-goodnik from the get go, that boy was. It didn’t surprise me a bit when he was charged with murder.”
“I’m shocked you remember what Mr. Lincoln said to you, Hannah,” I said, trying not to laugh at her little outburst of annoyance at Randy Smith. “I don’t remember anything anyone said to me when I was seven.”
“But you never met President Lincoln, child. Like I said, there was somethin’ about him.”
She winked. “Besides, I had a permanent mark to remember him by.”
“What?”
She held up her right hand. It was completely white from the skin disease, Vitiligo. “This hand. It’s the one he shook. And right after he shook it, the darn thing turned white as snow. I swear it was a sign from the Lord above to never forget President Lincoln’s words. And with a powerful sign like that I was goin’ to remember those words for the rest of my days.”

Hannah died a few weeks later. She’d had a massive stroke while sleeping – no pain or suffering. I attended her funeral and paid my respects. Hundreds of people were there from all walks of life: lawyers, doctors, policemen – even a clown in a costume covered in bows and obnoxiously large buttons and tulips.
Her youngest son was seventy-four and gave her eulogy. It seemed that Hannah had really taken those words of Mr. Lincoln’s seriously. She had been a modest woman, known by everyone for her kindness and volunteer work. Her son remembered her pecan pie and her keen sense of humour.
For years Hannah had held reading classes at her church for anyone of any colour who could not read and they were well attended.
She and her former student, the clown, went to local hospitals and read to sick children.
Hannah was also heavily involved with the Civil Rights movement in the Southern States. That came as no surprise to me. Her son remembered his mama going south nearly every school break where she taught older African-American people how to read and write so they would be able to vote. He was glad that Hannah had lived long enough to see that day arrive.
I was a student nurse when I took care of Hannah, but I have never forgotten her. Though I did not develop Vitiligo, I too have remembered Mr. Lincoln’s words and have passed them on to many people, including my own children.
And every now and then an image flashes before me – Hannah and Abraham Lincoln having tea together, sharing Peak Freen cookies, the vanilla ones with strawberry jam centres, smiling.

This is a variation of a short story of mine that was accepted for a Chicken Soup book that will be coming out soon. Hope you like it. Pam

“I don’t care where Miriam lives, a $3000 phone bill for one month is ridiculous!” shouted my husband William, a prominent lawyer in our fair town.
I hated to admit it, but he had a point. Here was the problem. Our nineteen-year old daughter, the only other female in a house of towering testosterone, and the baby of the family, had been accepted at an acting school in Manhattan, New York. And although it was the dream of a lifetime for her, it was a nightmare for me. My baby, a sweet, sheltered girl from a small Canadian town, who possessed no common sense whatsoever, was going to live all by herself in Manhattan. We knew nobody that she could call if she ran into trouble. She was about to fly solo without a safety net in the biggest city in North America.
When we brought her to the big city to set up her apartment, we quickly discovered that getting her a phone was an impossibility. Being Canadian, we did not possess the golden ticket needed for such a thing, an American social security card. Nor could we get her hooked up to the internet for the same reason.
What was a desperate and frantic mother to do? It was one thing for her to move away for a year, I may have been able to cope with that. But to not be able to phone her, or worse, for Miriam to be unable to call me if she had an emergency? No, no, no! It was too much to ask of me. So, I upgraded my daughter’s Canadian cell phone plan. My blood pressure dropped dramatically when she dutifully called me every night while she returned to her apartment after class. I was still nervous about her safety, well okay, anxious . . . okay, okay, slightly hysterical every night, but I could cope if I heard her voice.
Slight glitch – roaming charges. Hence the $3000 bill. Who knew? A middle-aged, seriously technically challenged mother from Canada sure didn’t.
“There is no excuse for this!” bellowed my husband. “We can’t afford it.”
“But she’s a baby!” I wailed. “Just the other day they said on the news that girls are less likely to be mugged while walking if they are on a cell phone.”
It was a sound argument and it made my husband pause in his diatribe about the virtues of being thrifty. Who could argue about a daughter’s safety?
“That I understand,” said William in a thoroughly patient, yet thoroughly furious voice. “It’s the other forty hours. Who can even talk that long? How did she get any school work done?”
That’s the problem with being married to a good lawyer. They do know how to get their points across and win the argument.
“Give me a month,” I muttered. “We’ll work on it.”
Next month rolled by and my daughter was invited to a Manhattan grand opening of a movie. Of course she called her mother for advice on what dress to buy. It was a daughter’s duty to call on such an auspicious occasion! And then she had a bad cold. And then she met a boy. And then she saw Kevin Bacon in a restaurant.
Next month’s bill? A mere $1100. Close. “If you two do this again, I’m taking the cell phone away when she comes home for Christmas,” announced William.
November came and went. There was the flu and instructions on how to make chicken soup with matzoh balls, a Hallowe’en parade in Greenwich. American Thanksgiving and instructions on how to make a turkey was at least an hour. Come on! It was her first time making American turkey! Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade was another hour. Oh dear! Four Christmas parties, two Broadway shows, oh, and break up with first boyfriend, and gosh, we had to hear about the new boyfriend.
December? $745.
“That’s it, the phone goes,” said William in his most lawyer-like authoritative voice.
“But it’s my lifeline!” I cried. “You can’t expect me to only hear from her once a week, do you? A Jewish mother needs to talk to her children every day. It’s what we live for!”
William sighed. “All right. One more month,” he said.
Well, I am happy to announce that January’s phone bill was only marginally over the base price, but William is still not happy. He really is trying hard to understand why I need to hear from my daughter at least two or three times a week. I’ve explained that the phone calls are vital for my sanity. Much to my relief, I hear other mothers whose daughters have left the family nest have had the same problem with their phone bills. I also hear that as time moves on, the incredible ache in my heart and the pangs of missing my daughter fade and become tolerable. At least her room is clean, now.
Miriam’s roommate has since installed the internet in the apartment. I think of it as a belated Hannukah present from the dear Lord above. I just knew He wouldn’t let me down in my hour of need.
Will my phone bill ever be normal while Miriam lives in Manhattan? Doubtful. Truly doubtful.
Wait a minute . . .She just called to say she’s on her way to Connecticut with her newest boyfriend for dinner. Connecticut? It’s snowing there! Aaaagh! Call me when you get there!

Sheila Bender

One of the great perks of being a radio show host/writer is the people you meet. As I have mentioned before, I met a lot of wonderful and exciting people at the Erma Bombeck Convention this past April. (Going to great writers conferences is another perk.)
Meeting Sheila Bender was a privilege. I am pleased to announce that I just finished an interview with Sheila that will air May 22nd.
Sheila came from a family that believed women should have careers so they can support themselves if the need arises. She comes from my generation so the choices in careers were limited to nursing, teaching, and secretarial work. Unlike me, Sheila chose teaching and stayed a teacher until her kids were born. Her true passion, however, was writing.
After being home for a few years her need to write took over. It started with wanting to have just one poem published. Soon after it was one short story, then a memoir. Ten books later and whole lot of short stories and personal essays, Sheila now writes AND teaches the art of writing.
And she's really good at it. I went to her session at the EBC and learned so much in that short space of time. She even gave us an exercise to do in order to get the right side of our brain functioning.
In her books, Sheila gives you all sorts of tips on the craft of writing. She also has a website:http://writingitreal.com. There you will read about a writers conference in Port Townsend that she founded and runs. You will also learn about Sheila's online magazine, online writing courses that she teaches, and a slew of other valuable info for writers. She even has sample essays of her own.
If you are looking for writers conferences to go to this summer to try your hand at writing or to just hone your skills more, I highly recommend The writing it Real Conference. There are only 50 people allowed to go which means the one to one time will be awesome. For more information about registering go to the website or call Sheila personally at 1-3603857839.
I'm happy to announce that Sheila has graciously agreed to come on the show once a month to discuss books and critique several of them, showing us how the times we live in has changed the way we write. It's going to be great so listen in!

So, a week has passed since I attended the Erma Bombeck Convention and I still have not come down from that happy, happy cloud I landed on when I got to Dayton. It's like Nirvana for writers. Nearly everyone there is funny, including the staff at the Marriott. One of the best times I had was having lunch with Gord Kirkland and listening to him and the waitress banter back and forth.
Tim Bete lined up some fabulous speakers. If I had gotten nothing else from the conference listening to Garrison Keillor, Martha Bolton, Connie Schultz and Mike Peters would have more than paid for the conference. But there was so much more! I still haven't absorbed all that I've learned.
This is the second 'Erma' conference I have attended, and hopefully, it will not be my last. Erma's family are all there, friendly and warm as I always imagined Erma to have been. She must be so proud of them.
Am I a funnier writer because of these conferences? I don't know. Maybe not. I'm not inherently funny like Gord Kirkland, or Garrison Keillor where every word is hilarious.
But I certainly appreciate the art of humour a lot more.
I'm even beginning to appreciate that Jerry Steinfeld might be funny every now and then.

Writers are interesting folk. We sit around for hours at a time, feverishly typing and cranking out stories, editing them, sending them off to publishers and agents, then become basket cases while waiting for a reply. We are solitary sorts for the longest time and then all of a sudden we want, we need, no, we CRAVE meetings of like minded individuals...other writers. It's like the writer's battery runs low and suddenly needs a big jolt of energy.
That's what the Erma Bombeck Writers conference is for me. A huge jolt of energy surging through me, reviving every fibre of my being. I love it! From the moment you walk through the doors of the Marriott, the shift in energy vibes hits you.
And for the next four days your mind becomes a sponge, absorbing all of the details being thrown your way by experts in their field. And you laugh, oh boy do you laugh!
This year was no exception. Tim Bete did a fabulous job organizing the conference and guest speakers. Always, always you learn...just with a sense of humour.
This year was a banner year for speakers...Garrison Keillor, Connie Schultz and her 'lovely' husband, Sherrod Brown, Martha Bolton, and cartoonist Mike Peters.
I'll write more about these people and the conference. I'm just too tired.

Is it just me or does everyone hate Summaries of manuscripts as much as I do? They are the bane of my existence! I swear that there must be a million fabulous manuscripts out there that haven't been published because of the cursed S-U-M-M-A-R-Y! Nobody I know has any knowledge of how to write one.
I have written four manuscripts, now, and I have four very lousy summaries. How can they possibly expect me to summarize in one or two pages what took me four hundred pages to write in the first place?!
So, this Easter weekend, I have been determined to write an amazing summary for my manuscript, 'One Step at a Time.' I have two written, both horrible. I sent them to a writer friend in California for editing. He hated the first one, said the second was good not great. There was no emotion in it just a relaying of the story !@#$%%$#@#$%^! Excuse me? What is a summary if not the relaying of plot?
Apparently, a summary is supposed to be full of emotion and can catch the interest of the reader and make them CRAVE to go on and read the entire book. OY! I need a miracle. Or a darned good writer.
Back to my Summary. Maybe I'll get it right in a year or so.