You say you want a Revolution

I have long had a fascination with the American Revolution. When I was eight, I latched onto The Young Rebels, a one-hit-wonder television series that blended The Mod Squad with the War of Independence.

Later, in high school, I dove into the Kent Family Chronicles, an eight-book series by John Jakes that covers the nation's founding and formative years. I got another whiff of history as entertainment.

As an adult, I considered more serious works, like 1776 and John Adams by David McCullough, The Glorious Cause by Jeff Shaara, and Benjamin Franklin: An American Life by Walter Isaacson. More recently, I have binge-watched series like Turn: Washington's Spies, Franklin, The Revolution, and Outlander, set in part in the 1770s and 1780s.

So I did not need much prodding to dive into the era. The Patriots, the first book in the Stone Shed trilogy, is my first foray into the American Revolution. Set in Philadelphia in both the present and the past, the novel examines America's first year from the viewpoint of two time travelers.

When their grandfather dies in 2024, Noah (22) and Jake (15) Maclean inherit a house, a mysterious stone shed, and a family secret that dates to the 1740s. The brothers learn they are the keepers of a portal that can send human beings through time. From that point on, life for the orphans is more than a series of questions. It is an opportunity.

With a nervous uncle's blessing, Noah and Jake take a three-month "vacation" to 1776 and the world of Ben Franklin, John Adams, Peggy Shippen, the Continental Congress, and the Declaration of Independence. They see the United States as a fledgling infant.

Then the trip takes a turn. The brothers meet Abigail (20) and Rachel (14) Ward, the lovely, spirited daughters of a Philadelphia furniture maker, and a thrilling adventure becomes a transformative journey.

The Patriots evokes earlier novels. As in The Fire, a stone shed serves as a time portal. As in Class of '59, brothers from one era mingle with sisters from another. As in Hannah's Moon, an aunt and uncle in the present track relatives in the past. War, a theme in ten other works, serves as a backdrop that influences almost every decision.

Even so, this book blazes its own trail. It delves more into the human aspects of time travel than the scientific aspects. It explores the what ifs, the whys, and the how comes. It tests the heart, mind, and soul.

At 155,000 words, The Patriots, my twenty-fourth novel, is my largest and most ambitious work to date. Available in Kindle format, it goes on sale today at Amazon.com and its international marketplaces.

Remembering a family friend

It's never easy. As many people have observed over the years, losing a beloved pet is like losing a family member. You lose not only a companion but also part of yourself. We lost our cat, Charlotte, this week to an aggressive form of bone cancer. She went quickly on Sunday night after battling the illness for at least a few months.

Charlotte, for those who don't know, was an incredibly mellow and docile cat, one that would let even strangers pick her up every which way or give her long belly rubs. She was comfortable with people, dogs, and even change. Only vacuum cleaners got her attention.

She was a part of our family for fourteen years. During that time, she lived in five homes in three states and gave us enough memories to last a lifetime. In Alabama, where we let her run free, she once confronted an armadillo in our backyard and stood her ground. In 2015, in the same location, Charlotte climbed into the engine bay of my Nissan Frontier pickup and went for a seven-mile highway ride to the market. (She emerged shaken but unharmed from the harrowing experience.) In Nevada, she was a house cat and a never-ending source of amusement.

We noticed Charlotte's decline late this spring and took steps to accommodate it, but we merely prolonged the inevitable. As many pet owners know, old age is one thing, terminal illness is another.

In her last week, she ate little, drank little, and barely moved. And yet, she did her best to remind us that she was still around, still visible, and still a part of the family. On Saturday night, hours before she died, she did what she had done for years. Moving with a limp, she climbed two flights of stairs, entered my room as I worked, and plopped onto her side. She signaled her interest in getting one last belly rub.

I gave her the rub and, with my wife, Cheryl, gave her comfort the next evening when she finally passed away. Like so many others, I said goodbye to a pet that is now just a memory.