Bøger af Teresa Whitehawk

This small book is dedicated to all the animals in my life and the readers' lives that have generously given their unconditional love and made us less selfish creatures. Ursula lived to be 10 years old. I began drawing pictures of her when she was still a pup. Her sense of fun and humor kept me smiling even as I lived through troubled times. Ursula was born in a thundering rainstorm during the month of December on the back porch of a large old house in Southern California. Her mother had climbed up on the back porch, scratched at the door looking for the company of her humans, but no one was home, so Mother Dog sat down in front of the door on the WELCOME mat and went about the work of bringing five new puppies into the world. The pups were beautiful. Two were females, one white, one apricot colored, two males all black, and then there was Ursula. She was the last and smallest one to be born. The runt. She was all black, except for her snout, which was white with black freckles, and she had a white bib under her chin and three white feet. They were all Terrapoos, because Mother Dog was Terrier, and Father Dog was a Miniature Poodle. People came and scooped up those puppies and carried them away. All except Ursula. She was shy. She would run behind her mother and yap yap yap when anyone new approached them. I sat very still and pretty soon that little black ball of fur with white freckles on its nose started over to me, wiggling her tail and her whole back side. She did not bark. She came right up to me, but I didn't reach out my hand. I didn't want to startle her. She straddled over my foot and I started scratching her ears. Then she peed on my foot. I giggled. The people behind me laughed.Teresa chose to become an artist at age 5 and an author at age 10. While working toward those goals she birthed and raised five children, earned and English/writing degree, worked for the benefit of children through Indian Education and Child Protective services. She also became a participant in Native Ceremonies for the benefit of Native People and her mixed blood family. She is Mayan Indian, Polynesian and European.

The first four stories of the book were originally Ebooks on KDP published by Outlaws Publishing. Now a paperback is made available with one additional story, published by EagleBear Press.Bear Itaxsca was his name. A Crow Indian displaced by the War Between the States. He was tall, six feet two inches, and had just been released from service with the Union Army. He served the War out as a scout and fighter, and now he was flung back into a world where he had no tribe, no money, no way of making a living except by bounty hunting. The world was harsh for a Native, and only the Spanish hat, straight brimmed and black, shaded his dark eyes from the rising sun. He was thrust into a system, enslaved by it, taught the White Man's way of fighting and used it. He was taught to read, write, and figure. He was smart and tough. As a boy living within his tribe, he was a strong boy with fire in his eyes, proud and stern. Because of his strength and spirit he inherited his grandfather's medicine and was honored by his people. As a man he had chosen to leave his family to fight against slavery. He remembered the day he joined to fight the White Man's war. He was twenty and Army soldiers came to the village seeking those who would join the fight against slavery. He became impassioned because he had seen the slavers and their cruel stealing of his Native brothers enslaved to work for them and to die under a whip. His mother, disturbed by his leaving the tribe, turned her back on him but his father honored his choice. His survival in the civil war was because of his training both as a Native and as an American soldier. His experiences as a bounty hunter showed his great desire for justice for all people. He was highly knowledgeable of guns, their use and upkeep. He wore two Colt 36 caliber pistols and a .44 Navy Colt, stuck in the purple sash he wore around his waist, a Henry 45-70 in his saddle sheath. His long knife, a fourteen-inch Bowie, was in its sheath strapped to his leg, hidden in the well-cared for Calvary boots, another gift from the army. Come follow this handsome and amazing Native man as he helps to establish order in the western move of the Americas.

The memory is as clear as looking through glass, the smile on my father's face when he handed me the letter. "Congratulations," the letter read. "Your number was selected to serve in the military, selective service #128." Panic hit me. It was the height of the Viet Nam War and nine chances out of ten that is where I'd end up. My dad wanted to talk. "It ain't like you're committing suicide," he started. "Could turn out good for you," he continued. "You've got talents they will use." Then I realized he had no idea what was going on in the world. His war, World War II, was a just and complex war, with clear beginnings and ends. He had driven a wrecker and done truck maintenance and never fired a shot in anger for his whole five years. He did his duty as he was ordered and was thus rewarded. This war was different. I shuddered inside. I knew we were fighting for Oil and Money, not to mention National Military Pride. I had only one goal-to become a Rock and Roll star. I had graduated early. I played guitar well and was in various garage bands, but in reality, I wanted to be in the big time, a real rocking roller. I knew I had the audacity and determination to get there. Needless to say, this draft notice put a big hitch in my plans for Stardom. I felt my heart had fallen into my shoes. It looked like that was it. I had only nine days till my inevitable doom.