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Hubble shows visions of our amazing universe

Hubble shows visions of our amazing universe

What is reality? Does the view from the  Hubble telescope define the reality of our universe? It looks quite unfathomable to me. On the subject of the mystical, did a psychic predict I’d write my book, MELAYNIE’S MASQUERADE? And then there’s Bob Dylan, recent winner of the Nobel Prize in literature. He doesn’t know where his ideas for his popular folk songs came from. He was quoted as saying they were “almost magically written.”
I believe the creative process is a mystical/magical one. Many times I wonder where the ideas come from, both for myself and other writers. Common advice for writers: Write about what you know. But you don’t always know what you know until you sit in front of a computer or a pad of paper. Or take a walk, go for a swim or perhaps even clean your home.

I’ve noticed that when I’m the process of editing books, I’m open to connections/coincidences/synchronicity, call it what you want. I was editing a book, The Religion of Money—a light-hearted history of economics by Frederick—and was reading over the story of the De Medici family of Florence, Italy. The book mentioned Giovanni De Medici, and not two seconds later my favorite classical music station was announcing the opera “Don Giovanni” was scheduled in L.A.

I could be watching TV in the background and have a magazine I’m browsing. I’ll read about a certain subject and have it verbalized in some manner on a TV show immediately after, or vice versa. My daughter and I are very close and keep in touch by phone and Email. I might be thinking about her and the phone rings. From what I’ve heard, that’s quite ordinary for many of us. We have had several occasions when we meet on a Saturday that we are wearing the same color shirt.

My mother passed on 42 years ago. That morning I was reading a biography of Thomas Jefferson (coincidentally an alum of my college: William & Mary), and had just read about the death of Jefferson’s wife Martha, Sally Hemings older half-sister. I was absorbing that sad history when my dad called to say my mother had died during a kidney dialysis treatment. I’ve always felt the reading helped me deal with her death just a little better. Jefferson, my mother and I are all Virginia natives.

Books dealing with metaphysical subjects are a definite attraction for me, and I’m lucky to have edited several of them. High Holy Adventure by R. Alan Fuller is a true story about his mystical experiences with shamans, spirits and mediums, especially in the Andes. Euphoria Zone by Alan Lee Breslow weaves innovative healing techniques into his spiritual adventure. Patt Sendejas wrote Letting Go to Create a Magical Life, which discusses life’s synchronicities and invisible messages. Working with all three authors was enlightening and exciting.

In the mid ’80s I had a psychic reading with a woman named Terry, who was supposed to be quite knowledgeable in her field. I wanted to know if I was going to write a book. I figured it might be a story about my divorce, which had recently happened. Terry said her spiritual “guides” had told her I would write something about voyages. She didn’t know what that meant, she told me; perhaps it had to do with my “voyage” through life.

I forgot about the reading until the late ’90s when I was finishing up my novel. It was, indeed, about a voyage. My heroine, Melaynie, masquerading as a captain’s boy, was sailing with Drake to the Caribbean in the 16th century!

And then there’s Karen, my intuitively psychic friend with lots of talents. But that’s another story.


My daughter, Heidi, tapped into her hidden art talents just a few years ago. I’ve been continually amazed at the variety of styles and subject matter she’s produced; each of her artworks are imaginative and colorful. She keeps producing and I’m sharing a few. I love them all and want more of them on my walls…I must admit, I’m prejudiced! I’ve got five paintings so far and joked that I now have the Heidi Giraud Art Gallery Annex. The watercolor below was her most recent creation. It’s a new challenge for her — working with acrylic is much easier. I love this one – it has such a delicate touch and the colors are magnificent.

Pensive Woman, a watercolor

PENSIVE WOMAN, a watercolor

Wanting to spread the word about her talents, I asked her to write something about herself and she did: “The past few years I’ve felt that I needed/wanted to do something creative. I don’t recall having a desire to paint when I was a child, but believe it must have been there in my soul. When I was kicked out of high school, I was sent to continuation high school. I decided to take an art class and the first painting I did was a watercolor, all freehand, no tracing. I fell in love with it, but wasn’t settled enough in my life to do more than one more watercolor.”

  1. blu-2                                                                               BLU
    “My artistic yearnings inspired me to use a lot of color when I decorated various apartments of mine over the years. Then I took another art class for a few months, and that planted the seed that grew into a satisfying habit of painting. I have always been attracted to the shapes you can create, not to mention the colors you can use in abstract. My favorite colors are bright blues, reds, oranges and greens. There are no rules in abstract painting, you can create whatever you want, probably why I enjoy it so much. Abstract painting opens your mind to all sorts of interpretations. I feel it’s a perfect expression of life. Just when you think you know what is is, you look deeper into the painting with your mind and soul and see something totally different. (Note from Victoria: Heidi and I went to the Getty Museum a few years ago to see Jackson Pollock’s “Mural”–painted in 1943 and said to be an iconic abstract painting of the 20th century. It was huge and full of images that both of us imagined: from horses and ducks to faces. I’m delighted we saw it with our own eyes; a photo of this painting does it no justice.)

roaring                                                                           ROARING
Heidi says,” My inspirations can come from anything. I can walk down a street in downtown Los Angeles, or see the sun’s rays flicker upon the Pacific Ocean and get my ideas from that. My emotions also play a part in my creations.”


Art Arrowsmith is a fellow student who attended Wheelus Air Force Base High School in Tripoli, Libya at the same time I did. He was Class of 1957 and I was due to graduate in 1960; we knew each other but weren’t friends. I got to know Art just a few years ago when he began reading my blogs about our time in Libya. An adventurous creative fellow, Art has done some writing, watercolor art and drawing. He’s a multi-talented fellow and a very adventurous one, having lived in countless places over the years. He shared a true story of his from his time living at Wheelus, MOONLIGHT MADNESS,  a while back and I  published it on my blog in August 2014. Check it out. I split it into two parts.

His latest reflections, called OLD AGE THOUGHTS, fit right in with my recent thoughts. All my longtime friends and I are growing older, but what’s the alternative? I am waiting today on my first grandchild’s arrival — Ella Julie Ann Giraud, in Dallas Texas. I’m a bit late in having the grandmother experience, but I know I’m going to cherish it and have some memories like those Art writes about below.


Days dissolve and weeks blur. Months are short lived milestones, while years bump up against one another and disappear before they can be savored, as we travel life’s ever shortening road. Time has essentially become irrelevant. Children have disappeared into adults and rivers are slowly changing their courses. Familiar landscapes, buildings and downtown venues are reshaped, somehow different, populated by strangers with strange customs and costumes. Friends are gone, lost or forgotten and missed. Loneliness is no longer just another word: it’s here.

If one catches an aged soul unawares in the autumn of their life, a long ago memory will be seen drifting through their eyes.

My hands are weaker but my faith is stronger. Reflection on past seasons and places cements certainty that many blessings were bestowed on myself and my family. Some were obvious but most not discovered until much later when their fruit blossomed. Even today I’m still realizing how protected we’ve been.

Camp fires blazing and hot dogs simmering. Checkered tablecloths on picnic tables and barbecues cooking. Children exploring their world wearing personalized helmets, peddling through the park on designer bikes, giggling and laughing, sharing their minor and major discoveries with one another and equally with strangers. We’re camping in these gloriously colorful early crisp autumn days, as the work-a-day world is left ever farther behind and we slowly adapt to and savor the long-looked-forward-to-retirement years. Our family has grown; both daughters and their families are out on their own. Now our grandchildren and great grandchildren are an integral and blessed part of our twilight years.

Art Arrowsmith’s class photo from Wheelus High; a recent watercolor of his, and a detailed drawing he did of a Porsche.

Art A





Some of My EditedBooks

For a time I called myself a Forest Guide, it was a way of explaining editing to new, usually first-time, authors. I would guide them through their forest of words, especially when they had gotten to that place where they couldn’t see the forest for the trees, as the old saying goes. Lately, I’m conceiving of myself as a midwife, who helps in the sometimes torturous process of giving birth. The birthing pains involved in creating a book and then sending it out into the world is a lot like having and raising a child. You’ll always feel attached, much like the author does. But you inevitably must let go of your book (child) to make its way in the world.m

Before I started editing books, I spent years writing and editing newspapers and magazines. Working with words—twisting them around, rearranging, deleting, finding a more concise, more understandable way of saying something was a wonderful challenge. I’ve always loved editing and the more I’ve done it, the faster and more accurate I’ve gotten. I was an early and avid reader, from Nancy Drew stories to fairy tales and then on to the gods and goddesses of ancient Athens and Rome. I remember accompanying my mother to libraries wherever our military family was stationed. I became an early enthusiast of historical fiction.

In high school and college, English (an outdated word for the subject) was my favorite subject. I majored in English in college but managed to take a variety of history courses, a never-ending passion that would lead me to writing Melaynie’s Masquerade when I got older. As a high school freshman, I became serious about writing and I wrote for the school newspaper. In college I continued my reporting for William and Mary’s “Flat Hat” newspaper and was delighted at one of the school reunions years later when I saw a couple of my articles in a scrapbook on display.

Journalism has been a great teacher. It requires precise, easily understood truthful writing to explain: who, what, when, where, how and why to a reader. And the information is provided in a descending order—the most important facts are given in the beginning. Books are usually not written that way, but a foundation in journalism has stood me in good stead for many years.

I’ve edited over 200 books in the past 17 years and each one has been a special journey. No matter how much I’d read of each book in advance, there were always surprises. A book develops a life of its own, which proves the baby analogy I mentioned in the beginning. Because many of my clients were “newbies” to the world of writing, I became a co-writer in many instances.

I have edited almost every genre of book from how to save for retirement to what a young man experiencing the singles scene learns about sexual success and failure. Needless to say, I’ve learned a great deal in the process since my clients have experienced amazing things in all areas of the world.

A few recent books include: Once Upon a Man (dating tips for the single woman) and a spiritual book Where is God by Deborah Pauli, Beyond Time by Carey Jones (simplifying some of the ideas in A Course in Miracles), The Gods Who Fell from African Skies by Dick Mawson (memoir of growing up and living in Rhodesia and South Africa), Parents Take Charge by Dr. Sandy Gluckman (alternative solutions for children with ADHD and the like),  A Nation of Refugees  (fictional story of a couple passionate about finding solutions for the worldwide problem of refugees) and Afterlife (spiritual-what happens when the body dies) by Tim Gurung, and Feng Shui for Career Women by Patt Sendejas. Most recently, I was editing a book about Hitler and Eva Braun, and I’m currently editing a biography about character actor Strother Martin.

For more information about my editing and writing check my website. www.victoria4edit.com



The world grows smaller every day with the Internet, satellites and other means of communication. After World War II, the US and other countries realized, like it or not, the world was connected, as English author John Donne said way back in a 1624 sermon: “No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main…”

Wars, ironically, have brought people together, and as the US became more powerful, we sent our military with many of their families all over the world. It was surprising when we discovered people in these various foreign countries knew something about America from our movies and even from our sports teams.

Pete Remmert, who lived in Tripoli from 1958-1962, told me a fascinating story about his encounter and a friendship with a Libyan boy while his family lived in a nice area near the beach, a bit west of the center of town. It’s nice to relate a positive story about the Middle East these days.

“I was eight years old in 1958. Before we acquired (Wheelus) base housing, we lived in Giorgimpopoli and occasionally when I walked alone in the streets of the neighborhood, I would run into a group of Libyan boys (a few years older than Pete was) who sometimes liked to play a little rough. One of these boys didn’t like the way his companions were giving me a hard time, and he pulled me aside and offered me, in very good English, a deal I couldn’t refuse. He told me that he collected American baseball cards, the rectangular ones that came in packs of bubblegum.”

Tripoli Street- a mix of old and new

Tripoli Street- a mix of old and new

For those old enough to remember, I looked up some of the stars of that era on baseball cards. Though I’m not a typical baseball fan, I still remember a few of them. Stars like Don Drysdale (I saw him play as a Los Angeles Dodger), Mickey Mantle (a Yankee great), Whitey Ford, John Roseboro, and Carl Yastrzemski, are a few examples.

Although he didn’t remember the boy’s name, Pete commented, “He was a couple of years older than me, of slender build and bald as an eagle. He wore typical Libyan clothing: white robes with a multicolored shawl-type wrap during the colder months. He usually wore a ‘beanie’ type maroon-colored cap but on occasion he would wear a fez. I was always impressed with his command of the English language and his knowledge of contemporary American baseball players was vastly superior to any of the American kids I knew. He also introduced me to those yummy dates that we pulled off the date palms and ate like candy.”

Pete continued, “I told him that I was only interested in the gum and that he was welcome to have the cards. From that moment on, he swore that he would be my personal bodyguard. Well, one afternoon he made good on his promise. A group of older kids decided to rough me up a bit, and my young friend immediately took off his cap, bent over at a ninety-degree angle and, like a battering ram, plowed into one of the kids. The boys scattered and never gave me any trouble again.”

A street in Old Town

A street in Old Town


September 11, 2001, as other world-shaking events, still seems like only yesterday. Perhaps because the media makes sure we don’t forget our 21st century Pearl Harbor. Today marks the 15th anniversary. Being suddenly attacked, as an individual or as a country, is a difficult trauma to face and overcome in life, and some never do adjust. “Where were you on 9/11?” is a more current version of, “Where were you when JFK was shot?” We all share the tragedy, whether it’s about one person or nearly 3,000. It’s inspiring and heartbreaking to read and hear the real stories and experiences from that fateful day. Today’s Los Angeles Times featured several touching stories, like how the children of those who died that fateful day are coping as they grow up. And an editorial about how our worries about future horrors didn’t materialize as we thought. A new World Trade Center opened with a museum and life in New York City is thriving.  Jeh Johnson, Department of Homeland Security said, “We are a remarkably resilient country in ways that we don’t always appreciate.”

My daughter, Heidi, and I were sharing an apartment in Sherman Oaks, California, that September Tuesday morning, which began in a typical fashion. Heidi was out for an invigorating walk before going to work for a downtown Los Angeles attorney service. At 7:30 a.m., I had spread my exercise mat in front of the TV and turned it on to watch Good Morning America before I had breakfast and started work editing a book. I was sitting on the floor, barely into the exercises, when I saw the footage on the planes striking both the north and south tower of the World Trade Center in Manhattan. It was so shocking I couldn’t absorb it; I was impatient to share the news with Heidi before I broke down completely. Human instinct propels us to turn to others.

World Trade Center before the disaster

World Trade Center before the disaster

A couple of days later, I wrote in my diary, “It was unfathomable to most of us—resembling an especially bad special effect from an action movie, but played hundreds of times over and over.”

That morning I was mesmerized and horrified as I listened and watched the news, which eventually grew to include the Pentagon disaster and the plane that went down in Pennsylvania. Heidi returned from her walk totally ignorant; it was still early and many neighbors were getting ready for work and school. As I filled her in, we watched the continuous replays and news. A good friend of hers soon called and advised her to stay home from work. At that time one of the hijacked planes was supposedly headed for LA—the one that crash landed in the field in Shanksville, thanks to passengers who fought back.

Because of all the uncertainties, downtown Los Angeles was literally shut down. The terrorists had hijacked planes flying to LA because they would have the highest amount of volatile jet fuel to act as a bomb. Airports around the country were soon shut down because of potential danger.

Suzi, a friend of Heidi’s who worked in the travel industry, had driven to work in Culver City and wondered why the 405 freeway was so empty until she heard the news on her car radio.

It was a strange quiet day of little traffic and no sounds of planes: very unusual because we lived fairly close to Bob Hope Airport in Burbank. Many of us felt lost, at loose ends. It was a time of getting in touch with friends and family and watching TV for more news and the scenes of horror over and over again. Shopping centers and businesses closed down all over LA. The scene, the mood, resembled a California earthquake disaster without the physical damage. In this case the damage was emotional.

In our immediate neighborhood of single-family homes, apartment buildings, a strip mall and a supermarket, most of the businesses stayed open. It was comforting for Heidi and I to walk the short distance to the little pizza parlor in the strip mall. People shared stories and observations with each other as we ordered Italian food and watched the small TV, playing nothing but World Trade Center news. It was a day full of tears and tissues.

Soon-to-open 9/11 Memorial

World Trade Center Memorial shortly before it opened to the public.

A year after the disaster, Una, a friend from Northern California, visited Manhattan and walked down to the site. “I was overwhelmed with grief at seeing the gaping hole, this open wound on the heart of America, still raw, so vulnerable. Walking by the small church next door, posters and photos of missing loved ones were still attached to the fence. It was a heart-wrenching sight to read each plea for help in finding a loved one. The wind whipped up, creating a dusty whirlwind of the ashes and dust in the hole. I wondered whose ashes were being resifted.”


My mother’s family, the Motley’s, was a large and loving one—what a privilege to be born into it! Living my first few years of childhood in their family home in Danville, Virginia, just after the U.S. entered WWII was a great start for my adventurous  life. I can see from old photos how loved I was by Mom’s parents, her five sisters and one brother. All of that joy came back to me recently after talking to my Cousins Jackie and Penny, who still live in the South. I cherish those times, especially now that my grandparents and all my aunts and uncle have departed this world. Thankfully, I have many cousins still around and lots of wonderful memories.

Motley siblings

Motley siblings on the front steps of the Danville, Virginia, Motley home.

I’ve posted a photo of the siblings, in order of age, on the steps of my grandparents’ spacious home on a corner lot in Danville. Years later, on the same steps in the 1950s, my dad took a photo of me and sister Tupper, cousin Jackie and Beth, a family friend, a photo I’ve also posted.

The photo poses the siblings from the oldest on the bottom to the youngest at the top. Inez was not the firstborn, baby Edwin had that honor, but tragedy struck when he was given the wrong prescription for an infection when he was nearly 9 months old. Grieving over her baby’s death, my grandmother, Bertha Jake, wanted more children and Inez came along 11 months later in 1906. She was probably the most serious of the siblings. Maybe it was due to her alcoholic husband, though she was blessed with a son and daughter who were both full of life, intelligence and humor. Her second husband years later, was a theater owner, not a good choice since he was pursued for tax evasion. Inez left this world in 1994.

Louise, on the second step, looks serious in this photo, but I know she had a fantastic sense of humor. She was born in 1908 and was married in 1933. She became a widow too early, but she enjoyed living with her daughter Nancy in Hampton, Virginia, in later years. I got to spend some time with them when I attended the College of William and Mary. I will always remember the laughing fit Louise and I had one evening over something really silly. Louise didn’t stick around very long and died in 1978.

Miriam, born in 1910, became a nurse and married a lawyer. I was told her husband Willie had a nervous breakdown and decided to give up law in favor of owning and running a motel on Daytona Beach, Fla. She had a son and daughter, still thriving. She lived past 90 and died in 2001. I have a fun memory of her as a senior affected by cold, even in hot Daytona Beach. She was wearing a sweatshirt and earmuffs and had taken her false teeth out when I visited one summer, a few years before she passed on.

Above her is Penn (formal name—Pendleton Koons Motley), the male of the female-dominated family. Penn found his mate, Dorothy, in high school and they were married in 1934, when he was only 19. Dorothy, an amazing and loving woman, might as well have been a Motley by blood since she was like a sister to all the other siblings. My cousin Penny, his daughter, always reminds me how much Penn loved his sisters. My sister and I visited Penn in Florida in 1997, and I can testify to his outrageous sense of humor! He didn’t depart until 2004 some years after his beloved Dorothy died of ALS.

Rosebud Peace Motley was an appropriate name for a baby born in December, just weeks after the WWI Armistice in November 1918. Rosie (her appropriate nickname) was like a substitute mother to me for many years, especially appreciated after my own mother died at age 51. She and my mother, Garnette, (on the step above Rosie – note: they both wore polka dots!) were best buddies to the end of my mom’s life. Rosie was volunteering her kidney to my mother suffering from kidney disease in the 1970s. Rosie was there to comfort my brother and my dad in Texas for the last few months of my mother’s life. Rosie and my mother were both married in 1942, but neither of those marriages lasted. Rosie keep up her spirits and was the last of the Motley siblings to pass away – in June 2007. During her last years, her daughter Jackie made sure she was loved and well taken care of. Rosie never lost her sense of humor.

Garnette, my mother, always had a sense of style—look at those two-tone shoes! She was named after her mother, Bertha, and the doctor who delivered her—Dr. Garnet. When my stepfather wanted to annoy my mother, he’d call her Little Bertha. After graduating from high school, Mom went to live with some relatives in Fayetteville, North Carolina, and got a job at the nearby Fort Bragg. She met a dashing Infantry Capt. Victor Hobson, a West Point graduate. Their attraction resulted in me. Victor did the right thing and married her not long before he was sent to Italy as part of the U.S. invasion. Their marriage was over at the end of the war, but my Uncle Penn and Aunt Dorothy had already introduced her to a handsome Lt. Darby Williams stationed at Ft Belvoir in the Army Corps of Engineers. My new dad took us both to Murnau, Germany, where he was part of the U.S. occupying troops from 1947-49.

My mother, Garnette, and her youngest sister, Anne, were the adventurers in the family. Mom married twice, both of them Army officers, and we traveled a good portion of the world. Anne married a professor who had his own plane and after teaching in Kansas, Japan and Alaska, they settled in Fairbanks. All the other siblings remained on the East Coast

Anne Motley, the youngest, was a fair-skinned redhead and born in 1926. One of her bosom buddies was Amy Lee (oldest sister Inez’s daughter). My grandmother gave birth to Anne one month before her own daughter, Inez, gave birth to Amy Lee. Aunt Anne and her niece Amy Lee grew up together. Anne was the only Motley sibling who got a college education. She died young of a brain tumor, only 58 in 1984. My mother was 51 in 1974.

Hope you enjoyed my trip down Memory Lane. Below: 1950s photo – L to R: Viki, Tupper, Beth and Jackie with dark hair.

Viki, Tup, Jackie, Beth - Danville





In anticipation of becoming a “Grandmother” for the first time, I’ve been thinking about my own relatives and what I’ll share with my new granddaughter. I have a preview excerpt from one of my Ebook stories offered on Amazon. Discovering the Victor in Victoria is the true tale of my search for my birth father. I was only a toddler when he went off to fight WWII in Italy. My parents divorced a few years later and both remarried. My mother liked Army officers, hence I had two career military men as fathers. They’d both gone to military colleges: my father was a West Point graduate; my stepfather graduated from the Citadel in South Carolina. At the end of their careers, my stepfather was a full Colonel and my natural father was a Brigadier General. Their lives weren’t easy and full of joy, but it was never boring.

Baby Viki when her daddy went off to war.

Baby Viki when her daddy went off to war.

To check out my books on Amazon, go to: http://amazon.com/author/victoriagiraud

I was 21 when I discovered my birth father was stationed at the Pentagon. On a trip to Northern Virginia right before my last semester of college, I decided to look him up. In those days access to the Pentagon was easy; finding your way around, however, was challenging. (see my Book Cover of the Pentagon created by Hans Giraud, my son)

When the secretary ushered me into his office I wondered: Was this white-haired slender man truly my father? Did I even resemble him? Wasn’t he too old? My step-dad was scarcely gray. But this man’s hair was thick and wavy, similar to mine, and his slightly pug nose looked like mine. He looked at me inquisitively as I stood by his desk, my heart racing in my chest.

“Col. Hobson, I’m Viki Williams,” I introduced myself as he stood up with a smile. I noted he was taller than my dad. He maintained his outward composure, though I could detect the astonishment in his eyes. He knew who I was immediately. Calmly and politely, he told his adjutant to leave the office and close the door behind him. He then directed me to sit in the chair in front of his desk.

“Now, what can I do for you?” he asked hesitantly, still smiling at me, the bomb who had dropped into his life.

What thoughts were rushing through his mind? I wondered as I kept my cool, though I was quaking underneath. Tension and unease hung in the air. I quickly told him I was in my senior year of college and looking for careers, and I needed information for my CIA personnel form, such as where exactly was he born. As he gave me the information about his Alabama birth, we both relaxed a bit.

“I guess you think I’m about the worst man alive,” he offered with a hint of regret in his voice after we had finished the required questions.

“No, I don’t,” I replied evenly, too shy and uncertain to explain feelings I wasn’t even sure of. Even though Army officers weren’t known as “Disney” fathers, I had harbored no resentments through the years that I knew of. I was simply curious and reaching out for clues to my origins.

“I’ve thought about you a great deal all these years,” he added softly. “You look very much like your mother, except taller.”

Check out my book for more details on the real story. The book cover shows Victor holding Victoria as a baby.

Discovering the Victor in Victoria#1


My starring role as Louise

My starring role as Louise

Wheelus AFB in Tripoli, Libya, had a TV station back in the 1950s-1960s with some imported programs from the US and some local American talent from the base and in town. I was picked for a few moments of fleeting fame on American military TV long ago. Perhaps a few hundred people actually saw the program broadcast.

Since Hollywood didn’t come knocking on my door with a contract, I chose a writing career instead. No big script or book deals or a big budget movie, yet…alas. Although I did make some attempts to get my screenplay about Sir Francis Drake produced then ended up writing an historical fiction novel about him: MELAYNIE’S MASQUERADE.

My “starring” role on TV was to portray the fictional “Louise” while Joe, a talented pianist and airman played the song of that name. Maurice Chevalier, French actor and singer is known for singing the song at least 50 years ago. Two of the lines are:

Every little breeze seems to whisper Louise.

Birds in the trees seem to twitter Louise.

Joe (I can no longer remember his last name) had a half-hour TV program, which featured him playing piano. It was broadcast in the evening to every home with a TV set at Wheelus Air Force Base. I don’t remember if I even knew when or how often, but I did save the photos taken for the special occasion. My family had not brought a TV to Libya so Mom and Dad did not catch my debut.

Keeping his program unique was probably a challenge for Joe. One day he came up with the bright idea to play famous songs named for women: “Marie,” “Charmaine” and “Louise,” for instance, and have a girl in the background who represented each particular song.

He would play five songs. He already knew two Italian girls to feature, but he needed three more females to represent all the songs he had in mind. Apparently reasoning that the high school physical education program would provide him with the best choices, he came out to the Wheelus tennis courts one morning. The male mind is always intriguing! Maybe it was our grace hitting a tennis ball during physical education classes, or perhaps what our legs looked like in shorts that influenced his choices?

I had never considered myself a talented tennis player, although I did improve over the years. I was still in the hitting-the-ball-too-high stage, and lucky to make it over the net. My legs, however, were shapely.

Joe picked me, Judy Jones, and Vicki Scola and we all agreed to face the cameras. I was supposed to be a French Louise and had to find a beret and a scarf since my portrayal was a variation of the famous French Apache dance (based on Parisian gang culture and named for the US Native American tribe). I’ve still got the now tattered beret and the orange scarf.

I don’t recall that we did much if any rehearsing since we simply had to sit or stand, as the case may be, and look sexy. When Joe played each song, the camera panned from his playing to the appropriate girl and the painted background scene behind each of us.

No lingering fears of cameras linger; I don’t think I was nervous. One of the young Italian girls apparently did get the jitters; her underarm perspiration shows on her pretty dress.

Was that my “15 minutes of fame?” Fame is so ephemeral.

Between the two Italian girls, I'm in beret and scarf. Judy and Vickie are on the right. Joe's at the piano, the star of the show.

Between the two Italian girls, I’m in beret and scarf. Judy and Vickie are on the right. Joe’s at the piano, the star of the show.



Mel book cover #1
What’s a girl going to do when she wants adventure in her life, and men have all the fun? Melaynie Morgan is an independent-minded young woman in Plymouth, England, but it’s the 16th century, and women are expected to dress elaborately and attend to womanly duties. Forget about doublets, swords and sailing ships.Melaynie refuses to let her conventional background deter her. She disguises herself as a captain’s boy and signs on with privateer Francis Drake to plunder Spanish treasure in the exotic Caribbean. In the chess game of Renaissance politics it’s an undeclared war of opposing religions, but Queen Elizabeth’s Protestant England and King Philip’s Catholic Spain are maintaining a guarded peace. Into that mix comes Plymouth’s Drake, waging his own private war with Spain.

Melaynie finds more than she bargained for during her year in the tropics serving Drake – from disease, death and danger to a romance with a Spaniard and a friendship with an ex-slave. She returns to England wiser but secretly pregnant. In volume 2, Melaynie’s daughter Joan grows up unaware of her true parentage until the Spanish Armada brings a bittersweet and surprising reunion. To order these books, go to Amazon: Victoria Giraud Books

An Army Brat in Libya Ebook cover

An Army Brat in Libya Ebook cover

An Army Brat in Libya is a memoir chronicling the adventures of living in Tripoli in the 1950s. World War II was over and the world could breathe again for a while. Libya was ruled by King Idris, and the US Military held sway at strategic Wheelus Air Force Base. Attending high school amidst sand and palm trees, camels and donkeys, in a small cosmopolitan city along the Mediterranean was about as unique and full of contrasts as an American teen could get in the mild 1950s.

American teenagers sported jeans while Libyan women were covered from head to foot. Americans brought their cars; most Libyans rode bicycles. Despite the differences, East and West cohabited peacefully for the most part. It’s a new century today, but the American military still has a presence in these exotic areas of the world.

Weird Dates and Strange Fates#1

Weird Dates and Strange Fates features two unusual but true short stories. Sandy’s blind date serves her brunch while wearing a French maid’s costume, a blond wig and 4-inch heels in A Single Girl’s Guide to Cross-Dressing. She’s even more puzzled when he changes to a G-string and a lacy negligee. In The Dark Side, Barbara meets her perfect man, but one day he disappears from his apartment, leaving a downloaded computer and all his business attire behind. She could hardly believe the secret he was hiding.

Pink Glasses

The divorcees in the chic Los Angeles bar/restaurant were attracted to Will’s spirited zaniness, which mixed well with his gentle nature. They had no idea what mental turmoil it masked. He was a Viet Nam vet, a Navy pilot, and far from rich. Will had to rent a room from one of his new friends, yet he bought a brand new Porsche and kept his old one. What was he concealing?

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