Where to begin?

Where to begin? Whew! I've been away from this space for a few months. It feels great to be back!

But back to the question: where to begin?

You tell me. Choose your own adventure:

For exciting news, click here.

How you can help. Click here. 

Is this the beginning? Click here.

Or is this the beginning? Click here. 

Exciting News: My book, JUNKYARD PRINCESS, is about to take flight. She’s fully formed. Her wings are poised and with a little jump, she’ll be leaving the nest in Spring 2026 from Banana Pitch Press. For those who have been following along, you know that she began as a personal essay in graduate school many years ago, inspired by Jiffy Lube of all places. 

Twenty years ago, I found myself slumped in the driver’s seat of our red jeep (her name is Beth) and I waited my turn at Jiffy Lube. More specifically, I waited for a guy named Jim (his name was embroidered in blue on his work shirt), to get rolling on an oil change. He was not moving fast. I shifted in my seat trying to dodge the sun burning my eyes.  A deep discomfort took over my entire body. I wasn’t supposed to be there. No “reputable car person” goes to one of these oil change palaces of convenience. “Reputable car person.” Was that who I was? That sounded wrong, too. And with that label, I began to chase my identity, following a thread that I didn’t know needed to be pulled; a family history that I had never really questioned until my pen hit paper later that night in a memoir class at Portland State University. 

Over the years I would come back to my story many times, sometimes even here in this blog, tracing my family’s move from manicured Orange County to the California high desert in the 1980s. My dad had bought a junkyard one day after meeting a guy at the Pomona Swap Meet and the rest of us had to catch up with his dreams of a rusting empire. A big swing if there ever was one, but it was a different time—a not yet digital world that allowed wrenching as a means of social status and security. And for a while it was great fun offering a giant playground of vintage cars to climb and scavenge and a cast of characters straight out of a Tarantino movie. 

I would remember, write, and remember some more. Every draft inching toward new revelations. Time continued to tick on and yet the ending as penned never felt like the ending. The truth was I needed to let the clock run to collect not only the stories making up this early time period, but the aftermath. Patterns were forming and this effort was becoming more than entertaining literature—this was my life unfolding, rubbing up on my children and husband. Learning from memories and shared histories was now the big swing. Genuine stakes in the game. 

My dad died earlier this year. He used to say that he should write a book. He had lived a million different lives; a zillion different cantankerous iterations. We both knew he never would, but it was fun to entertain the idea---to let him think that anyone with a dollop of courage could write a story. With his death came the need to simply put down the pen and call it good for this particular life chapter. It’s enough. She’s beautiful and it's time to let her fly so that I can let go.

Would you like to help her fly?

If you know me, you know how I value independence. Some people call it stubbornness. I call it creative freedom. I’m honored to share that JUNKYARD PRINCESS is being published by indie press darling, Banana Pitch Press. And it truly is an honor to find a home of deep expertise, punk rockness, and commitment to craft.

I could use your help. Pre-orders make the world go around and we could use some additional support to finalize her publication and publicity tour. For more details, swing over here. Thank you in advance for your love and support. 

Is this the beginning? This is how it started so long ago in graduate school. A very rough, first Jiffy Lube draft: 

Jiffy Lube.  You drive up, aproned men and aggressive women chaperone you to the safe, sterile waiting room, where you watch your beloved car—in this case my Jeep, Beth—get fondled from the pit below.  A diagnostic box is hooked up.  That’s when the trouble begins.  The longer you wait, the more money it’s going to be.  The messenger from outside the safe, sterile waiting room knows your fear, preys on your anxiety, and shakes his head indicating that you may very well be the worst automobile owner of all time.  

This time, you, meaning me, and my Beth, who caused the Jiffy Lube attendants to laugh at my husband and me, not even behind our backs but right at us.  Her oil was clumpy, all fluids burnt and probably ready to ignite.  Needless to say, we left Jiffy Lube with a $400.00 dent in our pocketbooks and as the happy owners of a complimentary Rasheed Wallace lunch box.   

Shame and remorse.  I look at my husband, hoping that he will forget this incident before we visit my father in a couple of weeks.  Even as a thirty-year-old, married woman who just happens to be 1,000 miles away from my family, I know that I’m in big trouble if it got out that I went to Jiffy Lube.  Jiffy Lube is after all a place for pansies to take their cars.  And if you get gouged, you certainly got what you deserved.  

But the truth is, I am a pansy despite my past, the bravado that I displayed over the years.  You see, I once held the rank of car royalty.  I was a junkyard princess (similar to a mafia princess) and my father was the king of an empire that provided unlimited opportunities and also enormous humiliation.  

Or is this the beginning?

1983

My mom motioned us into the living room for what looked to be a serious discussion. I didn’t remember doing anything too bad during the day, but as I checked my little brother’s face for potential offense or guilt, I wondered if this was a trap for a run-in with the wooden spoon. Then my mom was looking at my dad and let her gaze rest there. Something was up—she usually didn’t make eye contact with Dad.  

Dad removed his glasses. The lenses were hefty, lightly coated with grease. His vision was so poor he rarely realized how dirty they were. He stabbed his eye with a thick finger in an attempt to remove the debris caught in the corner. His thin lips were slightly swollen, his face stubborn; he knew we were going to resist him about the subject of our meeting.

“I’ve decided to,” he stopped himself, glanced at Mom for the go-ahead and what I’d learn was feigned partnership. Mom didn’t give away much with her expression, just kept staring forward, unsmiling. “We’ve decided to buy a wrecking yard,” Dad finished.

A what? 

A wrecking yard? A junk yard? A big yard lined with rusty old cars and broken machinery and car parts and murderous dogs and who knows what else? Who decides to buy a wrecking yard? What kind of purchase is that? You can buy a car, a house, new shoes, but a wrecking yard? I looked over at my brother with those thoughts racing through my head but Ryan was only five and not very interested. After another beat Ryan left the room to play with his truck. But I was nine, old enough, unfortunately, to be left all alone with those people. My dad was giddy and I could tell my mom was putting on a good show, trying to look brave. The details continued. “It’s a reputable auto wrecking yard. We’ll sell car parts and antique cars. I’ve always wanted to own my own wrecking yard.”

Huh. A wrecking yard.

As career pursuits go, junkyard was not on my radar. I knew of the usual. Doctors, dentists, lawyers, teachers, scientists, and artists. Tried and true endeavors. Who did Harry Saunders think he was creating a new vocation category?

++++

Stories are funny that way. After all these years, I've learned that beginnings and endings are rarely fixed points and more closely resemble fractals shape shifting under scrutiny. There are many entrances and exits. You just have to look.

I can't wait for you to find out how this all unfolds!

And Harry, if you're paying attention from wherever you landed: we did it. And with courage.