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following titles are currently available:
A
Way Out
Brook J. Gillespie |
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Category:
Mystery fiction
Descriptive keywords: murder, espionage, crime,
international intrigue, suspense, action, para-military
drama
Format: Hardcover, 408 pages
Publisher: Xlibris Corporation
© 2000
Price: $25.00
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About
Looking Up at the Great Depression
Perhaps it was being 4'9" and wearing a man's size
10 shoe in ninth grade coupled with growing up in a very
diverse city neighborhood that persuaded George L. Andersen
that it was pointless to be one of the crowd. Eventually
he grew up to his feet, but never really into the notion
that it was necessary to fit in. A self-styled conservative,
(don't look for parallels with others you may classify this
way) George offers his first book for public consideration.
Looking Up at the Great Depression is a positive and
refreshing view of life and its lessons, set during and
after the Depression, primarily in Philadelphia. While autobiographical
in nature, these stories are as enjoyable to read as adventure
fiction -- lots of fun, some suspense, many misadventures.
All does end well, with plenty of food for thought.
The points of view and "lessons learned" are insightful
without being overbearing. Readers of most ages* and all
stripes will enjoy this book.
This does not mean there aren't strong opinions put forth:
there are. While that usually spells controversy, Andersen's
way of gently spinning a lesson around the tale gives us
stories to enjoy at whatever depth we like even as we question,
re-affirm, or argue with our own values, ideas, or notions.
The perfect blend of curling up with a good book and exercising
those cranial synapses that are sometimes mistaken for cobwebs.
Older readers can expect a warm dose of nostalgia. Younger
readers will find, in the same words, a window to understanding
the past and those who lived it. All will find ways to bridge
the present with that past.
*Probably
most suited to those 12 and over.
Excerpt
from Looking Up at the Great Depression
We were a lucky family back then - because my father didn't
lose his job until the middle of the "Great
Depression". I didn't think of those times as "Depression"
then; actually, not until much later, and specifically at
his funeral. My early memories were all of the good old
days variety.
Surely, you remember the good old days!
Bread was really bread! Close your eyes; can't you
smell that marvelous Jewish rye even now? Traveling by trolley,
we could run up and down in the aisle and spin around on
the spare conductor's seat in the rear. Try that in your
compact car! In our crowded neighborhood, we kids had hundreds
of games available. Most were based on chalk, bottlecaps,
broomsticks, balls and imagination; and the nearby school
had a three story high fire escape that was a marvelous
Jungle Gym. Most doors were left unlocked, and few fears
were of our fellows. What a good time and place to be a
child!
I was reminded of the bread at my father's funeral. Some
of his friends were recalling the old days during the Depression,
a time when I was a child. They asked, "George, do
you remember the Friday night suppers at your house on Hancock
Street?" Of course I did! Many of my parents' friends
came and we had sandwiches. My favorite was hard crust rye
with spiced beef. That was the important part of my memory
but not of theirs. They further asked, "Did you know
that for many of us, it was the best meal of the week; and
that those suppers were your parents' way of sharing?"
No, that I hadn't known.
In truth, the best thing about the old days is that our
forgiving forgetter has filtered our memories to create
a picture, that while true, is not complete.
To read more, click here.
About
The Author
George L. Andersen was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
The oldest son of a Norwegian immigrant father and first
generation American mother, he experienced the phenomenon
of the American Dream firsthand. The Great Depression had
begun before his earliest memories, and was simply the way
life was.
After serving in the Navy and attending college, George
pursued a career in engineering, while various companies
pursued him. The result was a series of successful business
and partnering ventures alternating with periods of working
for others. Through it all, he and his wife Joan raised
two children and a number of dogs.
George's interests have included model building, gardening,
fine woodworking, singing, writing, and community and church
involvement. He and Joan live in New Hampshire with their
Irish Wolfhound McTavish and St. Bernard Brandy.
About
A Way Out
Ex-Navy SEAL John Thompson hears car tires crunching across
his gravel driveway. It contains a sheriff and his deputy.
With grave faces, they inform Thompson that his brother
is dead, murdered in the Washington J.W. Marriott Hotel,
a few short blocks from the White House.
Filled with anger and disbelief, Thompson heads to Washington
to collect his brother's body. Upon his arrival, he learns
the Metro Police think the deceased is Bruce Johnson, a
DEA agent killed in the line of duty, and refers Thompson
to the DEA. All of Thompson's calls to the DEA go unanswered.
Putting his SEAL training to work, Thompson hunts for truth
and soon finds himself in Paris, Tallinn, Istanbul, Moscow
and Rome. But it is in the nation's capital that he finally
pulls all the pieces together and the truth is revealed.
Excerpt
from A Way Out
From
Chapter 13
John listened to the noises around him as he bobbed silently
in the cold, oily water off the Sadko's bow. Besides the
lapping water against the steel of the ship, a plane somewhere
off to the west, and the constant noises of machinery, nothing
broke the calm that hung over the Muuga Sadam grain facility.
It was 3:27 am.
John had started the evening by parking a small pickup truck
two miles east-northeast of the port. He had hiked down
the marshy coastline, carrying his diving equipment. After
hiding the equipment in the marsh along the Gulf of Finland,
he had made his way quietly to the rail yard where many
of the empty and filled grain cars rested. The rail yard
paralleled the marshy coast and was easy to approach. Its
offices were on the opposite side and were hidden by the
hundreds of resting rail cars. The railroad sidings nearest
the Gulf of Finland were filled with lines of grain cars.
John had hoped to get lucky, spot a modified grain car and
snap of few photos of it. As he had anticipated, he had
no such luck.
At 2:00 am he had entered the cold waters and swum to the
port's huge cement pier that jutted into the harbor. This
pier was connected to the immense grain elevators that dominated
the port's skyline.
As he had learned from his tour, arranged by the inspector,
earlier in the day, the main pier could handle two grain
ships at a time and was used for unloading. Ships were loaded
on smaller pier closer to the grain elevators. The port
could handle ships weighing up to 150,000 tons, which could
carry 120,000 tons of grain. It took ten days working twenty-four
hour shifts to empty a ship of that size. Each of the nine
holds contained 13,000 tons of grain. The unloading process
could fill three hundred railroad cars per twenty-four hours,
meaning that it took three thousand grain cars to empty
a ship. That was a lot of grain.
The Sadko was a much smaller ship, with the capacity to
hold 60,000 tons of grain. It contained six holds, each
twelve meters deep, and was a rusty wreck compared with
the other ship unloading its grain on the east side of the
pier. The Sadko floated on the west side.
The cold bit into his skin. It was time to move before he
developed hypothermia. Slowly he started the grueling crawl
up the rusty side of the ship, using a pair of climbing
suction cups he had found in a local store. They were well
used, but as he started skyward they held their own. The
rest of the equipment, donated by the generous sergeant,
consisted of a French-made Neoprene wetsuit, a CQC vest
with class III body armor, a flotation bladder, a Heckler
& Koch USP 9-millimeter semiautomatic pistol, and a
K-Bar assault knife. He also had two spare magazines. The
gun had surprised John. He had not asked for it, the sergeant
had simply given it to him. He wondered if the inspector
had approved the use of the gun or if the sergeant had just
assumed Jurgenson expected him to issue a pistol. No matter,
its presence was welcome.
To read more, click here.
About
the Author
Brook J. Gillespie grew up in Wilmington, Delaware. After
graduating from The Hotchkiss School, he briefly attended
the University of Richmond before entering the computer
industry. For the last 17 years, he has played a wide range
of roles in the industry, including a four-year term on
the Computer Systems Technical Advisory Committee (CSTAC),
a Presidential Committee that advises the President on international
trade issues as they relate to the strategic security concerns
of the United States and COCOM. Currently, he is a consultant
who designs and writes software for large, multinational
companies. This is his first novel.
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