May, 2015:


Charlton Heston, James Baldwin, Marlon Brando -- in D.C. March

Charlton Heston, James Baldwin, Marlon Brando — in D.C. March

Fifty years goes by in a flash. When you’re young, you don’t think that far ahead, or at least I didn’t. I lived my life day by day and was usually up for adventure. I’ve lived in California since 1965, and 50 years ago this state was only an exciting possibility because Disneyland was here. I had no idea when I was in the midst of very famous movie stars and other notables during the March on Washington that I would end up in California within two years. In the years I’ve been writing this blog, I’ve realized how fortunate I was to be in the midst of this remarkable time in history.

The March was scheduled for Saturday, August 28, 1963, and several of my bosses from Washington National Airport’s Operations department would be on duty. Many celebrities involved in the March would be landing at Butler Aviation, the private terminal of the airport (which is now Reagan Airport). The fellows I worked for asked if I wanted to see movie stars, and I jumped at the chance to blend in with the celebrities, and I invited my good friend Harriet. In the early 60s, especially around Washington, women got dressed up for events and even shopping; it was a more formal time and T-shirts and jeans were not appropriate attire. Harriet and I knew exactly what to wear—high heels, stockings, and a dress. I don’t know if we wore hats; usually hats were for church.

California, where most of the famous folks were coming from, had been declared the home of “fruits and nuts.” As an Easterner, I was ignorant about almost everything but the term “Hollywood” and knowing somewhere out there was the magical Disneyland. Harriet and I probably took along our white gloves, which were the ultimate extra touch when dressed up. I recall my three-inch-high beige heels, but I don’t remember the dress I wore. It was probably a sheath of some kind that looked business-like.

Harriet and I were very excited about the day, but had no idea what to expect as we climbed the stairs to the second floor lounge at the Butler Aviation terminal. It was full of people milling around, most of them casually dressed. I gawked as I saw a fully bearded Paul Newman, fresh from filming the comedy, What a Way to Go; he played an obsessed painter married to Shirley MacLaine. In the middle of the room was the handsome Sidney Poitier talking to Dianne Carroll.

One wall of the lounge was almost entirely glass and looked out upon the airfield. I walked toward the window to see if any planes with more stars would be landing. As I stood there in my heels, I felt tall and imposing—about 5’10” in my “spikes.” Two diminutive black men walked over and stood on either side of me, neither of them taller than my breasts. On one side was the multi-talented actor-singer Sammy Davis, Jr.; on the other was renowned author James Baldwin. I tried to act nonchalant as they talked. I was probably too nervous to eavesdrop.

Not long afterward, someone announced a private plane from Southern California was landing and would soon be taxiing to the Butler Aviation gate. All of us were encouraged to go downstairs and outside to greet them. Harriet and I followed along and wondered who the new arrivals would be. While we were waiting, I overheard some cynic say, “Here come more of the fruits and nuts of Hollywood.”

Within minutes a small passenger plane taxied toward us, engine still roaring. I put my hands over my ears and looked up into the smiling face of Moses himself—Charlton Heston. “Loud, isn’t it?” he intoned with that unmistakable, powerful voice. I beamed at him and nodded my head.

As he turned away, Harriet leaned in. “Can you believe that was Charlton Heston?” She was grinning with excitement.

The plane’s engines quit and the door opened. Men and women began to descend the stairs and I noticed how differently they were dressed—tanned women were wearing loose clothing with flashy jewelry; men were in white shoes and colorful shirts. Out the airplane door sauntered someone I knew from television: handsome James Garner. Photographers and reporters were there to cover the story and the dark-haired Garner didn’t disappoint. Right away he waved and played to the crowd, starting some fascinating repartee I no longer remember. But I couldn’t forget his charming easy smile.

A few years later when I moved to California and became part of that laid-back lifestyle and sunny climate, I would remember my historical hint of things to come, courtesy of Dr. Martin Luther King. And I saw an older James Garner in person at a shopping center: he was asleep in an overstuffed chair, probably waiting for his wife.


“How’d you like to see some movie stars?” a retired Navy pilot asked me on a summer day in 1963, shortly before Martin Luther King’s March on Washington event. It was the summer before my senior year of college, and I was working for Operations at what was then Washington National Airport on the Potomac River in the District of Columbia.

I was the only female among six retired Navy and Air Force officers, all former pilots, and our offices were on the field level of the airport. Even though the men had done their twenty years in the service and were drawing their retirement pay, they were only in their forties. They had opted to keep working by getting a government job, which kept them in the same place for a change.

The fellows in Operations, who were all cocky and full of charm and humor, would make sure takeoffs and landings were going smoothly. They were in charge of monitoring aborted flight departures or problems with arrivals because of engine trouble or whatever else might go wrong and did. Potential mishaps, depending upon the severity, were labeled either “Standby at the station” if it was mild—as with a plane coming in with less than all engines operating—or “Standby on the field” if it looked more serious—faulty landing gear, for instance. These competent but seemingly relaxed men were privy to what was going on around the airport in general.

As a lowly clerk-typist, GS-3, I was responsible for answering phones and typing whatever documents needed typing—monthly reports of the flights in and out of the airport, for instance. Our oak-paneled offices were nicely appointed and were historic, having been used by Franklin D. Roosevelt during his long presidency, and on our wall there was a photo of him sitting in this office. I enjoyed the job because my flirtatious but well-mannered bosses were fun to work for; there was never a dull moment if they were around. I was their built-in audience and they let me in on their little jokes. One of the them, who resembled old-time movie actor Robert Taylor, would request that I bring him his coffee just like his women—“hot, dark and sweet.” A former Navy pilot, whose crewcut was getting sparse on top, claimed his hair was guilty of mutiny—they were all deserting the ship.

I was only dimly aware of the growing civil rights movement, which was beginning to heat up at that time. I attended William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia, and we had no African-American students. Although integration within Virginia schools was mandatory, it had yet to become widespread. In 1963 Viet Nam action consisted of American military “advisors” and was very much an unknown factor; it was August 1964 before the US began a substantial military build-up, which escalated into a war.

Washington National Airport was a hub of activity in those casual days before extensive security checks and terrorism. Getting on and off planes was easy; no one cared what a traveler had in his luggage. If my bosses, who seldom stayed around the office except to have coffee or tell me a joke, spotted anyone famous in the airport, they’d tell me, especially if there was time for me to go sneak a peek. Renowned Spanish painter, Salvador Dali, with his distinctive long curling mustache, was once spotted in time for me to look him over. One of my bosses was very excited when he caught sight of NBC television news anchor Chet Huntley, who had probably flown on the Eastern Airlines Shuttle—their gate was close to our office. I enjoyed my peek at the handsome, bushy brown-haired Huntley, who was based in New York City; his co-anchor, David Brinkley reported from Washington. Their famous Huntley-Brinkley Report was a highly popular news program of that day and broadcast from 1956 to 1970, when Huntley retired.

None of these celebrities compared to the mix of stars who were coming for the March on Washington, a massive protest for jobs and civil rights headed by Dr. Martin Luther King and his supporters. Since then I’ve learned much about that milestone and about King’s famous “I Have a Dream” speech. At that time, all I knew was that King’s celebrity supporters would all be gathering at the private aviation terminal, not far from the main terminal. My bosses didn’t know who would be there, but they’d be delighted to drive me and a friend to the Butler Aviation Terminal. We just had to act like we belonged there.

Me-WNA-'63Summer clerk-typist – Washington National Airport (now Reagan) Operations Office. Check out all the old office equipment–no computers!


As a writer-editor, I am naturally interested in books, blogs, magazines, and newspapers and in those creative folks who write for these treasures of communication.

I met my good friend Barbara Petty, author of the new book What Has Mother Done? back in 2001.We were enthusiastic members of a women’s metaphysical group exploring ideas about the nature of life. The women were unique in their professions and backgrounds; one of them had written for the old Carol Burnett TV show.

Barbara Petty

Barbara Petty

I discovered that Barbara was a published writer of three psychological suspense books, and was an active member of a monthly mystery readers’ group, which she encouraged me to join. It was a new journey for me since I had read very few mysteries. During the ensuing years, I was privileged to hear details from Barbara’s creative mind as she developed a mystery series featuring her character, Thea Browne, a former investigative reporter who becomes an amateur sleuth.

What Has Mother Done? is the first book in the series and was recently published as an e-book by Amazon Encore (a publishing arm of “I think my biggest inspiration was Sue Grafton and her alphabet series, starting with A is for Alibi. Those were my favorite kinds of books—where I could start out reading the first book in a series and follow the growth of the detective—especially if the protagonist was a woman,” Barbara said.

What Has Mother Done_B Petty Cover Final (2)

Circumstances, such as Barbara’s own mother growing older, gave her some of the initial ideas for this book. “I also remembered that the mother of a friend had Alzheimer’s. She told me her mother would sometimes become violent and attack her husband, which piqued my interest,” Barbara said. An episode of Law and Order gave her another idea. The pathologist in the show told the detectives a victim had not only fallen from a great height but had been pushed, because there were two chest-high marks on his body. “I put those two incidents together and came up with the situation in my book,” Barbara explained. “My protagonist’s mother, who has Alzheimer’s, is accused by the local police of shoving her husband off a cliff in an Alzheimer’s rage. My protagonist doesn’t believe her mother is capable of such an act, but does believe that her stepfather had made a lot of enemies in local politics, and she sets out to prove the police wrong.”

Writing and creativity run in the family. Barbara’s husband worked on super hero comics, Ironman and Batman, for instance. And she worked with him on scripts for animated TV shows, including Transformers and G.I. Joe. Barbara did her own scripts for My Little Pony and Jem and the Holograms.

As exciting as it was for her working in the entertainment industry, fiction, especially a mystery series, is Barbara’s first love. Check out her new book at: What Has Mother Done? by Barbara Petty




Here’s more of Hazel Dobson’s delightful recounting of her British tour of Libya’s archaeological sites back in 1999. Hazel found me through the Internet when she was looking for information on the Tripoli of mid-20th century. Hazel’s father was in the British Army and the family lived in a villa on the Lungomare, the boulevard that ran along the edge of the harbor in those days. I lived close-by in Tripoli’s Garden City at the same time. I didn’t meet Hazel, at least I don’t think so, but she knew a cute British fellow, Chris Green, who was a special friend of mine. We were all young teenagers then.

The first “chapter” was on my blog this past Sunday. The tour group had stopped at the Hotel Waha in Ghadames. Hazel continues her story:

Ghadames was exactly as I remembered: a wonderful old underground town with small pockets of open air spaces and courtyards, one of them still contains the mulberry tree I remember from childhood. Ghadaffi   had decided to build a new development of flats, and the whole population was moved out into more modern accommodations, which was great for the residents as the underground town was in a bad state of repair and was being restored as a tourist attraction.   One of the restored houses was furnished with Berber-decorated rooms and access to the roof terraces where the females would sit in the evenings calling across to their friends. These roof terraces “belonged” to the women. According to tradition, once a female reached a certain age or became married that is where she remained, very seldom did she descend to ground level, a tradition still observed in many Muslim countries.

Decorated room in Ghadames

Having dinner in a decorated room in Ghadames


After our conducted tour around the old city with its old walls and the famous water clock, we drove out to the desert dunes to join a group of “Bedu” for mint tea, climbed the dunes and watched the sun go down. That evening we returned to the underground city and were served a traditional couscous accompanied by Libyan music in one of the decorated Berber rooms. We were shown and encouraged to dress up in typical Bedouin bridal attire, an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. (a photo of Hazel in bridal attire was in Sunday’s blog.)

The evening ended with more songs. Going back to the hotel in the balmy desert night, it was incredible how bright the stars were against the ink black sky. In the UK, we are so overloaded with light pollution it is no longer the norm to see the Milky Way in the sky. I was sad to leave that lovely place with its palm trees and small oasis. The next day we were en route to Garian, a town in the hills of the Jebel Nefusa where we were to stay another night. We stopped at a small place called Jadu where once again, we experienced Libyan hospitality. Lunch was under the shade of trees and our hosts entertained us with dancing and singing Libyan love songs. It was an interlude of spontaneous laughter and pleasure, and true Libyan hospitality. We made a further stop at Tormisa to take in the views across the Jebel from a fortified clifftop village and then on into Garian.


View of the road through Jebel Nafusa

View of the road through Jebel Nafusa


Garian was an old Italian settlement with some beautiful architecture, all a bit run down but still with the trappings of past grandeur. Arriving just before dusk was probably not the best time as it would have been good to do a bit of exploring, however we discovered that there would be enough surprises in the hotel to keep us amused!

We arrived at about 5:30 p.m. at the Hotel RABTA. In the past, this had been a very reasonable hotel built during the Italian occupation. It could have been beautiful but probably not visited enough to ensure proper maintenance. Several interesting things occurred. First, one of the guests discovered the room cleaner in bed in his room, fast asleep. One of our group found a cleaner watching TV. In my own room I had a filthy bathroom and unmade beds. One quiet American professor finally blew his top when he discovered towels in his room full of holes, which obviously had been used. He ended up staying awake all night with the guest in the adjoining room, who had birds trapped in the air conditioning unit. Ala, our guide rushed around and had my room cleaned and inspected afterwards. It was fortunate that the Head of Tourism was staying there as well. Our Tour Manager, a very feisty lady, gave him a piece of her mind. He took it all in good humor for a Muslim male and, in spite of losing face he joined us and we all went off to see the troglodyte houses where some of the population still chooses to live. Dinner that evening was lamb, unfortunately we saw one beautifully washed and tied up when we arrived – I think that was our dinner!!

Watch for more of Hazel’s story in a couple of weeks on my blog – Words on My Mind.



Recently, I corresponded with a delightful Englishwoman, Hazel Dobson, who lived in Tripoli about the same time I did, in the 1950s. She contacted me after reading some of my Tripoli stories on this blog, WORDS ON MY MIND. She enthusiastically shared with me her story of visiting Libya’s archaeological sites in 1999. I am taking parts of her story, along with some photos, to share with my readers over the next couple of months.

Hazel models Bedouin style bridal wear

Hazel models Bedouin style bridal wear

It was by sheer chance that I picked up a magazine from the British Museum and found out that they were running a trip to the archaeological sites in Libya at the end of April, 1999. Libya is very dear to me having spent my childhood there in the ‘50s, living in the white city of Tripoli beside the Mediterranean Sea. It had a huge impact on me and the yearning to return did not materialize until that date even after years of travel with my husband to many other exotic places.

Hazel’s travel decision was last minute but luck was with her and she got a quick visa from the Libyan Embassy in London after writing her reason for going: “I wished to return to the place where I had spent the happiest childhood and wished to visit to visit those magnificent ancient cities of Leptis and Sabratha and the little town of Ghadames south of the Jebel Nefuza.”

We flew to Tunis for an overnight stop, met up with our guides and then departed for the border of Libya. We travelled by minibus to Nalut, stopping en route at a roadside café for drinks and a Panini-style sandwich. Unfortunately, with the food came the flies, hundreds of them descended on us, and we had to beat a hasty retreat to the bus. Nalut is famous for its ancient Citadel and Granaries and I was pleased to see that the small Italian- built hotel was still functioning, as it had been a regular stopover for my family. In those days (1950s) it was very simple with tiled floors and woven bed covers, a cool courtyard interior and comfy chairs. Sadly, it was now very rundown and dirty, with a shag-pile carpet, a jukebox in the corner and a very unsavory looking counter for coffee. I was glad that we were not stopping for long. How much I wanted to take it over and return it to its original state and open it up for visitors as Nulut still has a certain charm about it.

The next day it was on to Ghadames where we were to stay the night. The Hotel Waha in Ghadames was in transition: from a heap of sand to a few standing walls and a sort of roof, but the entrance sign, the Libyan attempt to encourage tourism, was up just in case we missed it!

The Hotel Waha in Ghadames

The Hotel Waha in Ghadames

I was allotted a cell-like room with a partly tiled floor. There was a separate shower, lavatory and washbasin in a “future” bathroom area all furnished with very expensive Italian porcelain and taps. The room had a small bed with a very good brand-new mattress and a bedside light and table. The sheets were also brand new and considering there was no glass in the window and no lock on the door, I slept remarkably well, despite the mass of copulating stag beetles in the corner of the room!

At breakfast we enjoyed swapping stories about the previous night. An American, who was a nutritionist, complained that there was a man outside her window all night, so I quickly assured her that it was probably a guard with no other intention than to protect her –at least I hope that was right. If anyone were looking for luxury rather than adventure, they would have failed miserably. One of the most disturbing things for me: not a mirror in the whole place! How can you survive without a mirror! Especially after a 14-hour journey.

Our guide Ala was a delightful, well-educated Libyan who had spent some years in England and had an excellent command of the language as well as an ability to see the funny side of life. He and Yussef, an archaeologist, accompanied us throughout the trip. Our driver was very professional and managed to get us down to Ghadames without a hitch. We were also accompanied by one of Ghadaffi’s “men,” obviously one of the “plants” to make sure we kept to the beaten track. He was quite surly and we were warned that he could understand everything we said. By the end of the trip he had become quite approachable and less isolated. Ala and Yussef, however, were completely fed up with him as he snored all night. In the end he was told to sleep somewhere else!

There’s much more to Hazel’s story and I will continue in small portions over the next weeks.





In the 1990s I got to mingle with a few celebrities on a couple of magazines I helped co-create, write and edit. One of them, Westlife Magazine, featured Bob Hope for our initial cover. Alas, Hope was recovering from prostate surgery . The closest I got to him for an interview was visiting Ward Grant, his longtime publicist in his Burbank office, which was an obvious testament to Hope’s many movies with its framed giant blowups of movie stills going back to the 1930s.

In the mid 1990s, Beverly Hills Country Club, a posh tennis club, decided they needed a magazine featuring their members. My boss was an enterprising Iranian who spoke English but was not fluent in writing English. For our first cover, I interviewed Barbara Eden in her home along Mulholland Drive. Delightful and personable, she wore a cropped top and low riding pants, showing off her still fabulous figure and revealing the belly button that had been blocked out on “I Dream of Jeannie,” her famous TV series. Yes, the cover was “photo-shopped.” I wrote over 90% of the material in the magazine and enjoyed all of it.

World-Class Magazine cover of Barbara Eden

World-Class Magazine cover of Barbara Eden

Appropriately for a sports club magazine, I did stories on members, Rafer Johnson, the Olympics decathlon champion from the 1960s, and 1940s tennis champion Jack Kramer, who had remained active in the sports world promoting tennis and then golf. My first tennis racket was a Jack Kramer and I told him so. Both of these athletes were gentlemen and easy to chat with.

The 90s included a few years of writing a weekly column, People and Places, and local play reviews for the Daily News, a major newspaper that still exists. I must have seen and reviewed about 200 plays, performed by a range of talent of all ages. I was a positive reviewer; it was essentially community theater and equity waiver. I recall a production of “Mr. Roberts,” starring Harry Belafonte’s son-in-law. The still very attractive Belafonte was there and I was thrilled to shake his hand as he told me he loved community theater. Although I was sorely tempted (Remember those famous lines: “Day O, day O?”), I did not hum any calypso songs!

One of my weekly columns focused on Jake Lloyd, a seven-year-old starring in his first movie, “Jingle All the Way,” with Arnold Swarzenegger (before he became the California Governator). Jake was charming, easy to interview, and full of a little boy’s energy. On the huge sound stage at 20th Century Fox, he led me up to a sort of catwalk on the upper levels of the living room set, where I could have an overview and see where the cameras and lights were positioned. They were filming the last scene of the movie that day. As filming is erratic and scenes are not filmed in order, the last scene of filming would be the actual first scene of the movie. Jake went on to play Anakin Skywalker in a Star Wars movie, “The Phantom Menace.”

I left journalism when I had the opportunity to take time off and concentrate on writing my adventure/romance novel, Melaynie’s Masquerade, which I self-published. My historical fiction novel and several shorter books are all available on Amazon.


My mama, as she would refer to herself in the Southern way, was a “pistol,” according to my dad, who called her “Pistol-packin’ mama;” the phrase is from an old country song. He was right: those were qualities an Army officer’s wife had to learn as she stood up for herself and her children (she raised three of us).

Garnette Motley Williams

Garnette Motley Williams

As the seventh of eight children, Mom had practiced being her own person early in life. When it’s Mother’s Day, I remember Mama and all the effort she put into making sure her kids had the best she could give. In retrospect, I can truly appreciate her creative efforts, which came right from her heart. It’s difficult to write this story without tears: Garnette Motley Williams died 41 years ago this month. She wasn’t quite 53. She didn’t go to college, but she knew a great deal about life and how to treat people with love and consideration. She let her heart dictate and then she went for it–whatever she chose to do– with enthusiasm and energy.


Mama on my Wedding Day--she made her dress.

Mama on my Wedding Day–she made her dress.

Besides being the best wife, mother, sister, cousin and friend she could be, her primary talent was sewing. She tried her hand and/or the Singer sewing machine at almost everything stitchable: slipcovers and drapes, specialized window coverings (swag and jabot, Empire style sheer curtains), men’s shirts and ties, children’s clothing and almost any fashionable garment for women. When I was younger I had a Madame Alexander doll, about six inches tall, and she made tiny outfits for it. Her creations for me assured that I’d be stylish despite my dad’s thrifty habits. She kept the old Singer  humming; it came along with us to various Army posts, including Tripoli, Libya. During my teenage years in the Middle East, we found material, probably in an Italian shop, and set up our version of an assembly line to sew clothes for the two of us. Mom and I wore the same size and would pick out a pattern that was suitable for both of us, although we’d use material of different colors and patterns. We didn’t want to look like twins! I would cut out the pattern and sew the darts, for instance, and Mom would put in the zippers and work on anything difficult. I still remember the cotton 1950s style scoop-neck sundresses: hers had a black background with a lively print; mine was red. Those were the years of puffy crinoline underskirts, which girls had to starch and keep clean to keep their outer skirts sticking out. Mom came up with the unusual idea to use soft plastic chicken wire as an underskirt. It kept its shape longer and was easy to keep clean. As I remember, I didn’t wear it often because it was a little too unique, and I was wary that someone might discover it.

In later years, when I was in college, she made me some elegant party clothes: a spaghetti-strap basic black satin dress with a little short-sleeved jacket with a scalloped bottom that I wore to a college dance, and a sexy, form-fitting black wool sheath with a boat neck and long sleeves I wore to several parties. There were many more creations, but the only garment I still have is my wedding gown. I got married in Germany in the ‘60s while my parents were stationed in Frankfurt. My mother found the ideal satin and lace material, and the perfect net for a veil, and it looked divine. It even had a small train. The gown is stored in a box, without all the fancy acid-free tissue of today. Even though I wonder what shape it’s in, it’s comforting to know I still have it. The only garment Mom didn’t make for my wedding was Dad’s suit. Interestingly enough, the wedding dress design is somewhat similar to the one worn a few years ago by Princess Catherine of the United Kingdom.
Years later, Mom made my cousin Penny’s wedding gown and her bridesmaids’ dresses as well. After all the work on Penny’s gown, Mom ironed it, but the iron was too hot and lifted off some of the material on the front of the dress. Mom agonized, but Penny’s sense of humor and practicality wouldn’t let my mother fret. “I’m glad it’s you who did it and not me! It doesn’t matter because my flowers will cover it,” Penny declared. After the ceremony and a few glasses of champagne, Penny cared even less: it was a funny sorry to tell all her guests. I didn’t always appreciate Mom’s talents. Regrettably, especially in college, I envied the girls whose parents gave them money to buy clothes in a department store. It was only later that I figured out that my mama’s talented fingers created original attire for me, and they were sewn with all the love she could give. She created clothes for me that could never be bought.

Oh, my Mama Mia, I miss you so!


I love working with words—those that come from my own ideas to create a bi-weekly blog and those I use to create the books I’ve written. I’ve dubbed myself a Word Wizard since I have been blessed with a talent to edit others’ words into various formats. What an enlightening education editing has been for me over the past 30 plus years.

Helping an author craft his/her book is very satisfying and my authors benefit from my enthusiasm. One of my latest favorite projects was the spiritual Time’s Illusion, Miracles, Dreams & Finding My True Reality by Carey Jones. His inspiring book was recently published in paperback by Pauli Publishing House (PPH), owned by Debra Pauli, a longtime editing client of mine.

Time's Illusion Cover

Carey says in his foreword, “As a young man I learned a law of time, which contradicted my day-to-day experience of it. The discovery led me on a search, a search that would take most, if not all, of my future adult life…these questions led to a transformation in my thinking: an awakening that changed how I look at the world.”

In one of the chapters, Carey says, “Native Americans stress the importance of our interconnectedness to everything around us. In the Himalayan mountain regions, in places like India, Nepal and Tibet, a deeper spiritual search for the meaning of existence has been happening for millennia. Buddha lived 2600 years ago! But in the West, we have purposely separated ourselves from a deeper understanding of existence…technology has insulated us and separated us from the greater reality.”

In a clear and understandable way, Carey writes about his quest for answers to metaphysical questions about the greater reality. Along the way he learned more about Einstein and his theory of relativity that explains time is elastic. Carey says, “Time is a paradox. Time can release as well as imprison. It is experienced differently by each and every one of us.”

He also explored the ideas in A Course in Miracles, which can be described as spiritual thought that teaches the way to love and peace. He points out that according to the ancient Chinese philosophical classic Tao Te Ching, “We are one with all things.”

Some of the chapter titles describe his themes aptly: Fear; Ego and Forgiveness; Living vs. Thinking; Guilt and Experience; Sickness and Health; Compression of Time; Truth, Mind Training & Revelation.

Time’s Illusion is Carey’s second book but far from his last. He began his writing career with Faraway Thunder, A Journey through Army Life & the Gulf War a few years ago. For more information about Carey Jones and his books, visit his website:

Carey Jones visiting Germany





Since I am always fascinated by history, a few years ago I saw Werner Herzog’s documentary, “The Cave of Forgotten Dreams,” about the Chauvet Cave in southern France. This remarkable cave is full of 30,000 year-old prehistoric drawings and bones of animals: lions, horses, rhinoceros, cave bears and wooly mammoths, among others. Protected by an ancient landslide, the cave was hidden until 1994 and is in pristine shape. Herzog was given special permission by the French minister of culture to film there. Ancient cave drawings in Southern France below:

Chauvet Horses

Chauvet Horses

Smithsonian Magazine had a long and informative article about the Chauvet Cave in April. The French, seeking to preserve the real Chauvet Cave, have built a duplicate three miles away, naming it the Caverne du Pont d’Arc (the name of a natural archway over the Ardeche River nearby). This new museum, which cost $62.5 million, was opened this April. It took 500 people about 10 years to create the new wonder. The French had learned a difficult lesson from the famous Lascaux Cave discovered in 1940 and opened to the public in 1948. From exposure to thousands of people, that wonderful cave with its amazing drawings was mostly destroyed by bacteria, algae and fungi.

Other than the incredibly beautiful and realistic drawings and the realization that humanity was capable of so much more than we’ve thought, I was intrigued by the observations voiced by Herzog and the French experts Herzog interviewed for his film. A French interviewee said ancient man felt differently about his/her world. As I interpreted, the mind was not of primary importance, emotion was. Mankind felt more connected to the world around him: to the animals, the earth and its features, birth and death. They were more naturally spiritual.

Herzog said that he and his crew, plus many of the scientists who studied the cave, sensed other presences when they visited the site. They felt as if they were being watched. I can easily imagine this cave is a sacred place of spirits.

Some of us are more spiritually aware than others. Perhaps some were born that way or have had experiences that have opened up their sensibilities. Perhaps certain cultures can make easier use of the third eye, as it is called in Hindu philosophy, which leads to the inner realms of higher consciousness. Millions of us have had inexplicable encounters, and I am always intrigued by them.

My friend Sally remembers an incident driving home to Los Angeles from San Diego late at night. She began to get very tired and sleepy. Instead of pulling over, she kept trying to keep herself alert. All of a sudden, she was frightened by a loud noise and flashing colorful lights. It jolted her wide awake. When she couldn’t figure out what had happened, she pulled over to check everything on her van. By the time she determined the van was fine, she was totally alert and got back in the car to finish the drive. She never forgot, and later concluded she had received spiritual help in keeping her safe.

My cousin Jackie’s husband Ray is a Vietnam vet who suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder and has battled his demons over the years. For help in this world, he sees a psychiatrist every three months and takes pills for depression every day. Despite the negatives, Ray’s life has been blessed with some unusual spiritual positives.

Ever since Ray almost died from an overdose of pain pills and alcohol in the 1980s and had an encounter with a deceased friend from his Vietnam days, he’s felt and seen spirits in his peripheral vision. When he walked into a bathroom in his home not long ago, he heard large wings flapping and felt wind in his face, despite the fact that the windows were all closed and there was no air conditioning running. “I suddenly had a very warm feeling of love in my chest,” Ray told me.

Ray feels spirits of people beside him, but if he turns to look, they disappear. “I hear voices but I can’t understand what they are saying. I hear a woman calling me at times, but I don’t recognize the voice.” He’s grown used to these unusual experiences over the years and appreciates them for the comfort they bring.

As Shakespeare wrote and Hamlet said to his friend, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

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