Springing into World War II

Since my earliest days as an author, I have had a strong interest in World War II. In The Mine, my first novel, I sent Joel Smith, my protagonist, back to 1941 Seattle, where he confronted a peacetime draft. In Mercer Street, the Peterson ladies saw New Jersey on the eve of the war. In Indian Paintbrush, the Carsons, my time travelers, experienced the homefront in Arizona in 1943 and 1944.

In Hannah's Moon, The Refuge, and Duties and Dreams, I put characters in harm's way. Ron Rasmussen survived the sinking of the USS Indianapolis. Jordan and Jeremy Lane witnessed Pearl Harbor. Emilie Perot, a French resistance fighter, battled the Nazis.

In The Time Spring, I do even more. I throw my protagonists into the fight in the biggest way possible. I make them a part of history.

Like in Class of '59 and the Stone Shed books, two young men form the foundation of my latest novel. They bring a modern perspective to a historical period they knew only through books and movies.

In May 2026, Nick Robinson and Zach Taylor, recent University of Florida graduates, discover the magic of a local spring that can send swimmers through the ages. Along with Kayla McIntire, Zach's fiancée, they get a glimpse of Florida's primitive and sometimes scary past.

Then an ill-advised trip separates the trio. Nick and Zach find themselves in 1943, without a way back. Within weeks, they enlist in the U.S. Army Air Forces and jump into the world of World War II. Kayla, a college senior, finds herself in a spot in 2026. Like Douglas and Donna Maclean in the Stone Shed series, she cleans up a mess left by two time travelers as she searches for ways to bring them back.

If these themes sound familiar, they should. In The Time Spring, I borrow from several of my favorite novels, including The Fountain, The Patriots, and Duties and Dreams. I take the best ingredients from my first twenty-six novels and incorporate them into my twenty-seventh.

That said, The Time Spring does break new ground. Unlike earlier works, which focus on soldiers, sailors, and even civilians on the homefront, it celebrates airmen, specifically the crews who served aboard B-24 Liberators in the U.S. Army's Eighth Air Force.

It also gives readers a glimpse of Norfolk, England, which hosted thousands of American airmen during the war. It views 1944 and 1945 through the eyes of combatants and those who supported them.

The Time Spring is my second-longest book at 146,000 words and my first stand-alone novel since Hannah's Moon. It goes on sale today as a Kindle book at Amazon.com and its many affliate sites.

Duties and Dreams in audio

Duties and Dreams, my twenty-third audiobook, is now live on Amazon, Audible, and Apple Books! Many thanks to Chicago voice artist Roberto Scarlato, who has narrated the last eight books. Listeners interested in a free review copy of this and other audiobooks can email or message me for an Audible code.

Springing forward with No. 27

The first draft is done. Thanks to a late push in August, The Time Spring, my twenty-seventh novel, is now in the editing phase.

Set in Florida and England in the 1940s and 2020s, the book will tell the tale of Nick Robinson and Zach Taylor, two inquisitive college graduates who find themselves trapped in the age of World War II.

At 146,000 words, the work is my second-longest. It is also my first standalone novel since Hannah's Moon and the first that will not be a part of a series. I hope to publish the finished book in November.

Returning to a favorite place

The experience was different this time. Instead of researching a book on a college campus, I toured a town. I enjoyed Boulder, Colorado, as a tourist on his wedding anniversary and not an author on a deadline.

For those who did not see my May 2019 post, Boulder is one of my favorite towns. Like Wallace, Idaho; Virginia City, Nevada; and Coronado, California, it is the kind of quirky community I like visiting over and over again, the kind that makes a great setting for a novel.

Seven years ago, I visited Boulder alone and spent much of my time visiting the University of Colorado, its library, and Greek Row, settings in Caitlin's Song, the fourth novel in the Carson Chronicles series. I took a good look at a college town while school was still in session. This time, I traveled to Boulder with my wife Cheryl and Oregon friends Mike and Cathy Hundley when most of the students were gone. We explored the mountain community's vibrant downtown and abundant natural splendors in a less hectic environment.

Those who have visited Boulder know it offers a delightful mix of educational, cultural, and natural attractions. These include the university, the Pearl Street Mall, the Boulder Farmers Market, the Colorado Chataqua, and nearby hiking trails, which provide access to the stunning Front Range. As one who has lived in the Las Vegas Valley for the past nine years, I loved the opportunity to explore a scenic natural area that featured ... trees! Colorado is a hiker's paradise.

Needless to say, I also enjoyed spending time with Mike and Cathy, who have become traveling buddies over the past dozen years, joining us on trips to Myrtle Beach (SC), Virginia City (NV), Imperial Beach (CA), and Ogunquit (ME). On this latest journey, they helped Cheryl and me celebrate our 40th anniversary. As fellow "seniors," they understand of the importance of travel in what many retirees call the "Go" years.

Amid all this travel, work continues on my next book. I expect to finish a first draft of The Time Spring by the end of September.

Photographs: The dining hall at the Colorado Chataqua. The Enchanted Mesa trail. Pearl Street pedestrian mall in Boulder.

The wonder of Hawaii

I admit the biggest draw was my granddaughter. No place, not even one as stunningly beautiful as Hawaii, can compete with a 19-month-old walking, talking bundle of energy who wants you to read Go, Dog. Go! every ten minutes. That said, Hawaii — specifically Oahu — was a close second. As a vacation spot, it met my expectations and even exceeded them in some respects. It served as a splendid retreat for someone who plans to do more traveling in his "golden" years.

With my wife, Cheryl, I visited our son Matthew, daughter-in-law Mikayla, and granddaughter Sarah this summer and experienced an island I had only seen from afar. As I did, I saw many venues I had heard about and even written about but never actually visited.

As many of my readers know, I set The Refuge, my nineteenth novel, in Hawaii. I built an entire story, in fact, around a string of towns on the Windward side of Oahu, a part of the state I got to know well.

On my vacation, I visited Laie, where the Lanes, my protagonists, sought refuge from their enemies. On the North Shore, I saw where Japanese fighters first entered U.S. airspace on their way to Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. Later, I saw Makapu'u Beach, where my time travelers beamed themselves to 1963. I even stopped at a grocery store in Kahuku that resembled the one used in Chapter 65.

Needless to say, Oahu is a different place now than it was during World War II. It is mostly a big city wrapped around an island that looks like it was chiseled from volcanic rock, which, of course, it was. It is a delightful blend of natural and man-made treasures that still draws nearly six million tourists each year.

Though we saw the big attractions, like the USS Arizona Memorial and the Nuʻuanu Pali Lookout, we also saw smaller ones, the kind travel sites often overlook. On July 3, we sampled authentic Chinese cuisine in a hole-in-the-wall diner in Honolulu. The next day, we celebrated America's 250th birthday at a spirited community parade in Kailua.

With the addition of Hawaii, I have now visited 48 of the 50 states. Only North Dakota and Alaska remain on my shrinking bucket list. I hope to see them in the next few years, the ones retirement experts identify as the "Go Years." In the meantime, I will appreciate the latest stop on my travel journey, a place that can never get too many raves.

Photographs: North Beach, Kailua (Cheryl Heldt); July 4 parade, Kailua; "Granddog" Maggie (Michelle Miller); USS Arizona Memorial (Cheryl Heldt); Southeast Oahu from the Nuʻuanu Pali Lookout.

America at 250

I was 14 when the USA turned 200. Mired in the adolescent no man's land between the eighth and ninth grades, I was a boy focused more on baseball, fishing, and girls than the larger world around me.

Even so, I paid attention to the bicentennial. Like many others in the spring and summer of 1976, I found it impossible to ignore the hype, the commercialism, and the unabashed patriotism of the time.

Bicentennial clothes, coins, buttons, posters, and other collectibles filled the shelves in stores. Patriotic public service announcements competed with patriotic advertisements on the airwaves. [No one had cable then. Trust me.] Politicians of all stripes rushed to microphones to embrace the red, white, and blue. Nearly everyone caught the Spirit of '76.

On July 4 itself, millions watched 200 ships from 30 nations, including 16 tall ships, sail into New York Harbor. Later, they attended picnics, baseball games, and fireworks displays. Even in the wake of Vietnam and Watergate, they celebrated the nation's birthday with cheer.

Things feel different this time. Though people can still find pomp and patriotism in the usual places, they cannot do so as quickly or easily as they could fifty years ago. America at 250 is a different country.

The United States today seems less a united nation than a large collection of warring tribes — each with its own interests, identities, and often divisive agendas. It is a place where unity in public life, in the culture, and on social media is increasingly rare. It is a far cry from the country of July 4, 1976, or even the one of a generation ago.

Many saw this coming. John Adams warned that republics collapse when public virtue declines. Thomas Paine worried that tyranny, complacency, and abandonment of natural rights could unravel the American experiment. George Washington feared factionalism. Ben Franklin told a citizen outside the Constitutional Convention, "You have a republic, if you can keep it." Frenchman Alexis de Tocqueville, an admirer of the United States, said that democracy contained the seeds of its own decay. Even before the Civil War, he saw problems.

As a student of history and an author who recently published a trilogy on the American Revolution, I care about civics, our social fabric, and the traditions and laws that used to bind us. Like many Americans, I wonder if the next 250 years will be better than the last 250. Like de Tocqueville and our Founding Fathers, I see the challenges.

But I also see the promise. I see it when communities come together for a cause or defend the rights of others. I see it when people speak civilly in public forums, engage in civic duties, and honor our flag and our anthem at sporting events. [If you are looking for an inspiring anthem singing, here is a good one.] Even in our difficult times, I see evidence that Americans still want their noble experiment to succeed.

I saw it up close this summer when I visited the USS Arizona and other memorials at Pearl Harbor. I witnessed the kind of reverence and love of country that one cannot manufacture or sell in a store.

I have even seen it among foreign visitors. One highlight of watching the World Cup has been watching soccer fans from around the world embrace our culture and hospitality. Scots sang "Sweet Caroline" at a Boston Red Sox baseball game. Japanese fans savored barbecue in Texas. Others discovered Buc-ee's, football rituals, oversized trucks, road trips, and American abundance and ingenuity. They found much to like in a country that is often maligned, even (sadly) by its own citizens.

Many today believe that America's best days have come and gone. They see a nation and even a people in decline. I do not. I believe our problems are mere potholes on a road to a better place. On this July 4, I am more optimistic than pessimistic about the future.

I don't anticipate being around for the tricentennial. I would need some wonder drugs and perhaps divine intervention to make it to 2076, so I will instead celebrate today. Like a person who appreciates what is and not simply what can be, I will raise a glass to my wonderful country.

Here's to you, America. If you are not perfect, you are still worthwhile. You are the place that has given me liberty, opportunity, and perspective for more than sixty-four years. May you live long and prosper.

Postcards from the Edge

They are the Rodney Dangerfields of the collectible world. Whether compelling or plain, they rarely get respect. They prompt smiles and laughs but usually little else. They carry short, fleeting messages.

Even so, I love them. Postcards are more than art, history, and geography rolled into one. They are candid snapshots of life and society, pictures often sprinkled with poignancy and humor.

Though I have collected postcards since college, I have only collected them seriously since January, when I paused my novel writing and resumed several hobbies. As with other collectibles I wrote about in March, I began looking at them with a sharper eye.

I started with a core collection of postcards from the 1980s to the 2020s. Most were souvenirs sent by relatives and friends from places like California, Florida, Colorado, and even England and New Zealand. They were pleasant messages from people who were having better vacations than I was.

I kept them in part because I did not know what to do with them. Like a lot of people, I assumed they might someday have sentimental value, if nothing else.

My collection grew exponentially when my wife, Cheryl, gave me cards that been sent to her grandfather as a boy in Iowa between 1900 and 1920, a period considered the golden age of postcards. Though a few were plain, most were not. They bore beautiful illustrations and touching messages from a different time.

From that point on, I jumped into the hobby with a passion. I began collecting postcards not only from people I knew but also total strangers who lived and died long before I was born. I gathered them as artifacts from decades I studied, heard about, and even wrote about.

As a collector, I like postcards over coins, stamps, and baseball cards because they bring so much to the table. Many bear artwork as compelling as those in any museum. Portraying a variety of themes, fashions, and social circumstances, they evoke distant eras, forgotten voices, and the quiet poetry of everyday life. They remind us of the beauty of oil paintings, watercolors, and even sketches.

Other postcards remind us of our history. In big ways and small, they anchor our collective memory in a single moment. They pique interest in places and events in ways that other media cannot. Among my recent acquisitions alone are postcards from Coney Island, Ellis Island, and seven world's fairs, including Chicago (1893), St. Louis (1904), Portland (1905), Seattle (1909 and 1962), New York (1939), and Spokane (1974).

I wrote about the Chicago (The Fair), Portland (The Fountain) and New York (Mercer Street) fairs in my novels, so getting my hands on souvenirs from these notable expositions was a treat. I hope to add more exhibits in that postcard sub-collection in the years to come.

Of course, the historical value of a postcard is not limited to the image on front or the subject matter. There is also the postal handiwork on the back side to consider. Serious collectors seek not only postcards that are old and rare but also ones that have distinctive stamps and postmarks — the collectible’s DNA.

By examining both, collectors can usually pinpoint a mailing date even when the full postmark is not legible or listed. While researching the age of a postcard portraying a Gibson Girl "fishing" for men, I learned that it was mailed from Hales, New York, in December 1908, just weeks before its post office shut down.

Collectors also care about the physical properties of postcards, such as their composition, print quality, and texture. They seek everything from the lithographs imported from Germany in the early 1900s to embossed cards to the linen products of the 1930s to 1950s. They pursue paper artifacts that are as compelling as the images they bear.

Then there are the messages on the postcards. Usually handwritten, sometimes typed, the short narratives provide a sometimes personal glimpse into the lives of ordinary people. On occasion, they also foreshadow things to come, including monumental events that shaped world history.

The best example in my collection is a typewritten message from a woman named Maude to relatives in Illinois. On the postcard of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Honolulu, Maude wrote, "Things are humming over here with war preparations." The card was postmarked on July 2, 1941 — five months before the attack on Pearl Harbor and America's entry into World War II.

As with my other collections, I expect to expand my postcard compilation — as my limited budget allows. Unlike serious investors who spend thousands of dollars on rare historical treasures, I won't spend more than a few bucks even on a postcard I really like.

I'm okay with that. For me, the upside of collecting postcards is owning another kind of history — the ordinary, everyday kind that is recorded every time someone puts a message in the mail.

Filling the holes in a plot

Plot holes are the bane of every novelist. Sometimes large, sometimes small, they are things that keep writers up at night and drive them bats on the eve of publication. They are problems that hide in plain sight.

If authors are lucky, they or their editorial assistants will spot them in a novel's formative stages. If they are not, they will hear about them from readers after the opportunity to fix them has come and gone.

As the writer of time-travel novels, I must be particularly vigilant about inconsistencies in the narrative. I must keep track not only of universally accepted facts and circumstances but also of ones I create.

The night before I published The Fire, I planned to celebrate the novel's release by hosting a dinner for my editor. Instead, I spent a good part of the evening fixing a plot hole. With his help, I took care of a matter that should have been addressed weeks, if not months, earlier.

I would do it again, with less drama, in later books. In the American Journey, Carson Chronicles, and Second Chance series, I labored for weeks to work out the particulars of time portals that were, for all practical purposes, smoke and mirrors. Though time travel is fantasy, it is fantasy that has to make sense. In some cases, entry and exit times in portals had to be worked out to the exact minute.

Despite my best efforts, I haven't always gotten it right. In Class of '59, I left behind a plot hole, or at least a serious omission, that I chose not to fix. When Donna Ryan traveled from 1959 to 2017 to permanently rejoin her sons, she left Charlotte, the beloved family cat, behind.

I thought of the many close calls this week as I put out another fire, a plot hole in my current work in progress. By going through my first sixteen chapters, line by line, I was able to eliminate a potentially serious problem, in this case another time portal issue.

For that reason and others, I have taken a slower, more deliberate approach in producing this novel. I have attempted to address issues when I see them and not put them off for another day.

As for the book itself, it is coming along. I still expect to publish The Time Spring, my twenty-seventh novel, in December.

Thanks a million

Sometime this morning, an unknown reader made my day. Responding no doubt to the Book Bub and Fussy Librarian promotions running today, he or she downloaded an American Journey book on Amazon.com. In doing so, they completed my one millionth sale.

I am honored and humbled to say the least. When I published my first novel, The Mine, more than fourteen years ago, I did not expect to sell more than one hundred copies. Like other authors going the independent route, I quickly learned that selling a book to strangers in a competitive marketplace is much more difficult than writing one.

But I also learned that hard work pays off. I discovered that anything is possible with perseverance, imagination, and assistance from bloggers, beta readers, and others who believe in the power of a story.

I don't plan to go for two million sales. I would need a public relations firm, a dedicated sales team, eight to ten more books, and the energy of a younger man to even come close. Even so, I will keep writing and marketing books. I am already ten chapters into The Time Spring, my latest work in progress and my first stand-alone novel in more than a decade. I will do what I can to get it out by the end of the year.

In the meantime, I will take moments like this to appreciate the thousands of readers and listeners who have purchased or borrowed my books since 2012. Because of you, I reached a bucket-list milestone that once seemed impossible. For that, I am profoundly thankful.

Review: Masters of the Air

When preparing a novel, I like to read books and watch programs that give me a glimpse of the people, places, and times I'm writing about. I find the easiest way to understand another world is to escape to that world, if only for a few hours. This past week, I did it again.

For nine episodes, I watched Masters of the Air, an Apple TV Plus production that the BBC calls "a big old-fashioned war drama, glossed up with dazzling special effects and stocked with some of today's hottest young actors." I immersed myself in a different age.

For those who have not seen the series, Masters is part drama, part history, and part spectacle. It is exactly what one would expect from Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks, who produced the series along with Gary Goetzman of Playtone fame. It is a gritty offering that takes chances and pushes boundaries, as I suggested in a review of historical works in May 2024. It is what television should strive to be.

Though the series features countless characters, it focuses on Maj. Gale "Buck" Cleven, Maj. John "Bucky" Egan, and Lt. Harry Crosby, three American airmen who are capably portrayed by Austin Butler, Callum Turner, and Anthony Boyle, respectively. The men are part of the Eighth Air Force's Bloody Hundredth, a Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress heavy bomber unit stationed in England during World War II.

Based on the book by Donald L. Miller, Masters is the 2024 companion piece to Band of Brothers (2001) and The Pacific (2010), two sweeping series I also enjoyed. Along with the earlier works, it offers viewers a gripping, if not always accurate, portrayal of history's worst conflict.

Though I liked the big picture, I liked the little stories, too, such as Crosby's dalliance with Sandra Westgate, a saucy British spy played by Bel Powley, and the heroics of the Tuskegee Airmen, who lend a big hand to the Allied effort in Episode 8. Each of the subplots added texture and substance to a massive entertainment undertaking.

Like Band of Brothers and The Pacific, Masters of the Air documents the trials of actual people, whose real-life resumes are compelling by themselves. It also gives viewers a thrilling, often sobering glimpse of the daily lives of genuine American heroes. For those reasons and more, I would recommend the series to anyone. Rating: 5/5.

Gearing up for No. 27

I admit I have taken my time. Unlike with past books, I have not rushed into my current work in progress like a music lover rushing into a concert venue. Instead, I have made the most of a long break.

The break is now over. With the creation of a still unfinished chapter summary, I have moved toward producing my twenty-seventh novel — and my first true stand-alone in more than a dozen years.

In my next book, two friends, recent college graduates, will stumble into the 1940s. After discovering a Florida spring that can send people through time, they will wander through the world of World War II.

Though the novel will borrow themes from earlier works, it will break some new ground. The two main protagonists, B-24 crewmen, will tell the tale of America's air war in Europe. A third character, a girlfriend, will assume the role of detective in 2026. Florida and England, minor settings in a few previous books, will get significant play.

Readers who like WWII, split time frames, difficult choices, and suspense will find much to like in this one. They will once again get a chance to ask "What would I do?" if put in similar circumstances.

I expect to finish my chapter outline in April and begin writing the book itself in May. I hope to publish the novel before Christmas.

Credit: The photo of Alexander Springs, Florida, is a public-domain image courtesy of the National Archives and Wikimedia Commons.

Review: The Madison

In The Madison, the latest series from producer Taylor Sheridan, two things are on display: grief and Madison County, Montana.

Grief unites and divides a wealthy New York City family after its patriarch, Preston Clyburn, played by Kurt Russell, dies with his brother on a day trip to a remote fishing site. Madison County brings out their best and worst qualities in the days following a tragic plane crash.

Michelle Pfeiffer stars as Stacy Clyburn, a society woman who manages two unruly daughters, two curious granddaughters, and a hapless son-in-law when they arrive in Montana to settle the dead men's affairs. As she does, she relives her happy marriage through flashbacks, current events, and a poignant journal her husband left behind.

The six-episode series, airing on Paramount Plus, shares many themes and settings with Yellowstone, 1883, and 1923, Sheridan's other acclaimed creations. Among other things, it gives viewers heavy doses of class divisions, family turmoil, and regret, something that hangs over the production like a dark cloud. It also gives them Montana.

As a former resident of the Treasure State, I enjoyed getting yet another glimpse of the mountains, valleys, and rivers that make up God's Country — or at least the part that lies south of Interstate 90. In The Madison, I saw a part of the state I had camped, fished, and explored several times. I particularly liked the segments set in the town of Ennis, where I took my family to Fourth of July parades in the early 2000s.

I liked other things, too, including the general storyline and the growth of characters who were not all that appealing at the start.

I cared less for the regional stereotypes. Nearly all of the New Yorkers were politically correct, potty-mouthed navel-gazers who could not see the forest among the many trees. Some of the Montanans they encountered were clueless hayseeds unfamiliar with even Peloton bikes. F-bombs and "ain'ts" punctuated an otherwise compelling script.

Even so, I enjoyed the series immensely. As with Sheridan's other creations, I found yet another reason not to give up on television in an age of meager offerings. I would recommend The Madison, which has been renewed for a second season, to any viewer in search of a gritty family drama and outstanding natural scenery. Rating: 4.5/5.

Review: The Wild Blue

For most of my life, I have considered George McGovern a historical footnote — the liberal senator who lost 49 states to Richard Nixon in the 1972 presidential election. But as I learned in The Wild Blue, a 2001 work by Stephen Ambrose, he was much more than that.

Among other things, I learned that McGovern, the peace candidate in 1972, was something of a bad ass in World War II. The South Dakotan flew 35 missions over Europe as the pilot of a B-24 Liberator, an aircraft that turned the tide in the campaign against Nazi Germany.

Though Ambrose does not focus exclusively on McGovern, he gives the captain and his crew ample play. He tells the stories of several men who battled everything from enemy fighters to deadly flak in winning the war in Europe. In exacting detail, Ambrose paints the kind of picture that made him one of our most celebrated historians.

In The Wild Blue, we see McGovern not as a war hero or a man destined for greatness but rather as a shy pastor's son who joined the U.S. Army Air Forces to do his part in the fight against tyranny.

As he did in Band of Brothers and other works, Ambrose gives us the soldier as the everyman. He presents McGovern as a common man who rose to the challenge of uncommon times. In doing so, he makes the airmen and their experiences more compelling and real.

Though I am no stranger to Ambrose's works — I have read several and was a minor contributor to his son Hugh Ambrose's companion piece, The Pacific — I did not peruse The Wild Blue until recently. I picked up the book to learn more about the experiences of B-24 crews and begin a journey of discovery for my next novel, due later this year.

As a research tool, The Wild Blue had limited utility. In covering McGovern's crew, which flew missions from Italy, Ambrose did not tell me a lot about the crews that operated out of England, the primary setting of my book. Even so, he provided much. He gave me a clear idea of what it was like to serve as an airman in World War II.

The author also told me a lot about McGovern, who later served as a history professor, congressman, and senator and developed a reputation as a thoughtful statesman. (I had the privilege of meeting the then former senator after a lecture at my college, the University of Oregon, in December 1983 and found him friendly and engaging.)

I would recommend The Wild Blue to anyone interested in McGovern, B-24's, and the air campaigns of World War II. Rating: 4/5.

Confessions of a collector

Sometime in 1973, when I was 11, my grandfather, Andy Hoeme, gave me an 1883 Liberty Head nickel. Enamored by the "ancient" coin, minted when Chester Arthur was president, I tucked it away and vowed to get more like it. I loved the idea of owning a piece of the past.

I no longer have the nickel. I lost it somehow in the shuffle of youth, but I did not lose my passion for gathering tokens of times, places, and events. For more than fifty years, I have collected coins, stamps, buttons, passes, stickers, postcards, business cards, photographs, family records, coasters, receipts, menus, theater programs, and other memorabilia. If it can be put in a scrapbook, it is fair game.

Many of my holdings, like sports cards, event tickets, and autographs, are common collectibles. They are the kinds of things many hobbyists acquire. Other items are more unusual. Among my more "exotic" treasures are stamps from the Soviet Union, a D.C. transit pass, a matchbook cover from a bistro in Maine, a Ken Griffey Jr. bobblehead doll, a Glacier National Park pin, and a UK penny from 1936, when three kings sat on the British throne.

Many items are souvenirs of experiences. They include a ticket to a 1981 Rolling Stones concert, a program to a "Mary Poppins" performance in Montana, a ticket to the 2002 Fiesta Bowl, lift tickets to several ski resorts, and a day pass to Disneyland. I took my family to the park in 2005, its fiftieth year.

Though I have collected memorabilia for decades, I did not seriously examine or inventory my collection until January, shortly after I published my last novel and began a much-needed break from writing. Only then did I grasp what I had amassed over the years.

I no longer had a few boxes and notebooks of keepsakes, but rather several. I spent the next seven weeks inspecting, sorting, and arranging the currency, coins, and ephemera in my closets. As I did, I realized something profound. When people collect like I have for as long as I have, they do more than fill albums and scrapbooks. They preserve a bit of history. They gather the odds and ends of their lives.

Though all of my souvenirs, mementos, and collectibles are valuable, at least to me, some are particular noteworthy. These include several items that remind me of relatives, friends, and acquaintances who have passed away. Foremost in this group are signed cards and a long thank-you letter from Harmon Killebrew, a baseball legend who knew my mother, Mary Heldt, when they were youths in the small town of Payette, Idaho. (I met the slugger himself at an exhibition game in Tacoma, Washington, in 1974.) Killebrew wrote to my parents after they wished him well following a surgery in 1990. I inherited his thoughtful correspondence after my mom died four years ago this week.

From my father-in-law, I acquired foreign bills, stamps, and coins, including some from nations that no longer exist. Bert Fellows, who passed away in 2024, was a world traveler who rarely passed up an opportunity to collect and preserve the interesting and new.

Another item, a paper coaster from the Gibson House in Seattle, reminds me of a night on the town in 1982. Like two of the four fraternity brothers who drove up from Oregon on break to help me celebrate my twenty-first birthday, the gritty, eclectic bar is no longer around.

Some keepsakes are too big for a scrapbook. Take the U.S. flag I ordered for my father, James Heldt, when I worked in Washington, D.C. for a congressman. Workers hoisted the flag over the U.S. Capitol on June 22, 1984, folded it, boxed it, and mailed it to my dad. He kept it, in pristine condition, until he died last year. It is now back in my hands, waiting for the day I can again pass it along.

I will set collecting aside in the coming months. I have people to see, places to visit, and another novel to write, but I will not give up gathering and preserving memorabilia. As I have learned in five decades of collecting memories, once you start, you cannot stop.

Images: A ticket to the Rolling Stones concert in Seattle's Kingdome on October 14, 1981. Pete Rose's 1982 Topps player card. An Elvis Presley stamp from the early 1990s. (Note the price.) A 1948 British Half Crown. A vintage postcard from Waikiki Beach, Hawaii.

A nod to Valentine's Day

In the minds of many, time travel and romance go hand in hand. They are like the peanut butter and jelly of literature and cinema.

Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series, the gold standard of the genre, combines the two elements. So do Time and Again, Somewhere in Time, Timeline, and even 11/22/63, works written by men.

I have combined time travel and romance, to varying degrees, in each of my 26 books. Since publishing The Mine, my first novel, fourteen years ago this week, I have found it difficult to send a character through time without providing him or her with a suitable companion.

Even Silas Bain, my worst villain, finds romance. In The Refuge, he builds a relationship with Ellen Dale, a fetching heiress, when not causing mayhem in Hawaii in 1941. He displays his softer side.

I inject romance into my stories to make them more interesting and believable. When writing time travel, it is easy to portray characters as superheroes who defeat bad guys, conquer mountains, and change the world. It is more difficult to portray them as vulnerable human beings who simply want companionship or even a night on the town.

Then again, there lies the fun. If there is one thing I enjoy about writing time-travel romances, it is putting different fish in different ponds and watching them interact. It is creating scenes only possible in fiction.

In Indiana Belle, Cameron Coelho, a doctoral student from 2017, and Candice Bell, a society editor from 1925, visit the dystopian world of 2041. In Let Time Fly, Jake Maclean, a boy from 2024, dances with Rachel Ward, a girl from 1780, on American Bandstand in 1958. In Duties and Dreams, Paul Carpenter and Emilie Perot, old souls from different eras, are thrown together as young adults in 1918 France.

Like Joel Smith in The Mine, Kevin Johnson in The Fire, and characters in other books, they create a rich social life in worlds they were never supposed to see. They make the most of their circumstances.

Of course, many of my protagonists find more than dates and distractions on their travels. They find mates. More than twenty marry people they meet in the past. Others form serious attachments. All find at least a smidgen of romance as they traipse through time.

Expect my next protagonists, U.S. Army airmen, to do the same. Stationed in England in 1944 and 1945, they will no doubt find plenty to keep them occupied. I hope to tell their story by the end of the year.

In the meantime, I will continue to promote books that combine two of my favorite things. Happy Valentine's Day to one and all!

Image credit: Charles Dana Gibson's "The Greatest Game in the World — His Move" was first published in 1903. It is in the public domain.