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

Hi gang,
As many of you well know, I have written several manuscripts. This is from one of my first ones. People who have read it tell me it's good. Being the perfectionist that I am, however, I'm still working on it. This is the first chapter......Let me know what you think!

Chapter One

“Help! Somebody help me! Please!” cried Sam.
Sam’s legs felt as if their bones had been removed; he could barely control them as he stumbled along the alley. His eyes bulged with terror and his breathing had become ragged bursts of ineffective wheezing.
”Why?” he sobbed when he tripped and fell. “Why, Abdul? I did everything you asked of me!”
Sam groaned when he heard the soft rustling sound in the alley. They were there. In the shadows. Waiting for his next move. And then they would stab him again.
A gentle rain began to fall. Sam got to his feet and ran further, this time into a street. “Help!” he shouted.
“Fire!” he screamed, hoping that might get someone’s attention. Still no one responded.
The wet, deserted street felt like the dank folds of a tomb waiting to enshroud him. No cars - no businessmen who were late coming home from work. No homeless people. Not even a rat.
“Shit!” he cried.
Sam staggered past the site of Ground Zero and headed for the piers of the Hudson River. People always milled around the main pier where freighters docked and unloaded their cargo. Maybe, if he could reach them, he’d be safe. Maybe -
Sam heard the flesh of his thighs tear open before he felt the pain. He screamed in agony.
“No!” he pleaded. “Not the Fedayeen way. Have mercy, Abdul! No torture!”
They continued their attack in silence. A blur of movement. Two knives stabbed into Sam’s body and ripped skin apart, then disappeared again. The wounds were not random. The attackers knew where to hit so that they caused the utmost pain and Sam could barely focus. This was a repeated sequence of events that left Sam’s body with more than a hundred bleeding wounds.
Sam continued to head for the piers where two freighters had docked and men unloaded them. He sighed with relief. Just a few more feet to safety. He just had to pick the right pier, the one where the boats were docked.
“Please, Allah,” he whispered. “Be merciful.”
Panic rose in Sam’s throat again when he passed the first dark, empty warehouse. “No!” he moaned. He was on the wrong pier. He wept like a baby when he reached the end and saw the water. No lights. No activity.
No one would witness his murder.
The busy, commercial pier stood nearly a hundred yards away. He could hear the whirring and grinding noises of machinery used for unloading ships.
Sam suddenly sank to his knees, his mouth opened wide in silent agony. They had stabbed him in the kidneys and then disappeared in the shadows again. He could no longer breathe.
Abdul Chafchak came out of the shadows and casually walked over to Sam. “It is nothing personal, Sam,” he said in a soft voice. “This Cell is too important. We can’t have any loose ends and you, my friend, talk too much. And you drink alcohol. We cannot trust you. But, I will be merciful, now.”
He slit Sam’s throat from one artery to the other and then rammed his blade into the mid-section until only the handle showed. Loud sucking noises from the ripped flesh reverberated in the night air. Abdul carved upwards. He only stopped when his blade stuck into the base of Sam’s sternum.
Tremors coursed through Sam’s body. Pink foam drizzled out of his mouth and he asphyxiated on his own blood.
One last breath.
Abdul looked upwards when he no longer felt a pulse on the man. “La, ilaha illa Allah, Muhammed rasouli Allah - None is good except Allah, Muhammed is the messenger of Allah. Allah is great for giving me this victory.”
Quahhaar Chafchak appeared at his brother’s side. With practised precision, he used his knife to slice the arms, legs, and neck wide open. He proceeded to cut open the stomach, bowels, and lungs so that gases could not form and keep the body buoyed in the river.
“Help me dump him into the water,” said Quahhaar. “Then we have to get rid of our clothes. They’re too bloody to clean.”
The two men stood and watched Sam’s body sink beneath the inky black water of the river. Abdul nudged his brother. “Look, the Statue of Liberty. It is beautiful at night.”
“Sam always said he loved looking at it,” said Quahhaar. “Now, he’ll be near it forever.”
The two men headed for their apartment located in the ghettos on Riverside Drive, a few blocks from New York’s piers. They cleaned up and then burned their bloody clothes in the alley behind their building.
“Good news,” said Quahhaar when they sat down to eat left over tabouli and pizza and watch the news on TV.
Abdul dropped his plate on the table. “This tastes like shit, not at all like our mother’s. Nobody knows how to cook in this country! What’s the news?”
“Ari Ben Yesher is in Toronto, Canada, helping the RCMP set up security for the Olympic games. He leaves for Israel on the El Al flight, tomorrow. Silverman and four of his men are with him. This is our chance to finally be rid of him. We’ll be heroes, Abdul!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hijacking the plane. I talked to Babu. They've known about Yesher coming to Canada for a while and have planned a Cell to kill Yesher and his men. They have asked me to lead the Cell. I am the only one capable of succeeding in this. I’ll them while we're flying over the ocean.
“Khalid and his boys have been working for the airport security for two years, now, and no one suspects them of being part of the Order. They've hidden bombs and guns on board the jet. And we were lucky - the Canadian scanners didn’t find them.”
“It seems that Allah is smiling down on us, Brother," said Abdul.
“I’ll go to Toronto, tonight, and personally run the attack. We can’t afford to miss this opportunity.”
“Are you sure of this, Quahhaar? You will become a shahid for our cause.”
“Yes, I am certain. We both know that our fate is to be shahids for Islam’s New Order. It is a noble death and my name will be honoured forever.”
“That’s if you succeed.”
“If I succeed?”
Abdul shrugged. “We are talking about Ari Ben Yesher. He has a very bad habit of surviving all of our attempts to kill him. And I don’t know how he figures out so many of our Cells against Israel. It’s like he has a sixth sense about us.”
Abdul gave his brother a worried look. “You might do better good by remaining alive, for now. Let Khalid take him out.”
“No. It can only be one of us, Abdul. We are the best of the remaining Fedayeen, and the only ones who can succeed.”
Abdul inhaled deeply and looked at his brother. Of course, he was right. Islam’s Fedayeen were the only ones trained well enough to take on Israelis like Yesher. “I will pray that this time you destroy him.”
“Do not worry, Abdul. The plan is solid. There are no mistakes. Not with me in charge. By this time tomorrow night, Ari Ben Yesher and his men will be dead.”
Abdul slowly nodded his head. “Inshe Allah.” He wiped tears from his eyes. “One last game of chess before you go? Maybe you will win and then be up by two games.”
Quahhaar nodded and finished eating his slice of pizza. “I wonder if they have chess boards in Paradise.”
“You’ll be too busy with those 72 virgins you think you’re going to meet.” Abdul put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You are my heart, my soul, Quahhaar. We have the same blood, the same mind. We live the same hell on earth. You are what made it bearable, my brother. How will I live without you if you do this?”
“You will live because you must continue the fight against the Israelis,” said Quahhaar. “We must be rid of all the Jews and take over Israel. It is written that we do this in the name of Allah. With Yesher gone, you will be able to win and then we will both celebrate.” He grinned. "In Paradise, surrounded by those virgins."

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.