Book Dedications

To my sister, Dr. Soma Mohammed Mohammed Baroud. I write your name in full, because that is how it appeared on the white body bag that held your remains soon after the bomb was dropped. Dedications A random assortment of book dedications. In Memory of all the Indigenous Children in Unmarked Graves To my wife and daughter—returned from the Camp of the Dead For my son, Sacha Ambrose Warhaft, January 1985–October 1988 ‘my little ear of wheat, winnowed and reaped unripe’ (Greek lament) This book is dedicated to our ancestral grandmothers, who braided seeds in their hair before being forced to board transatlantic slave ships, believing against the odds in a future of sovereignty on land. For those who supported me through the SOC years; Al Hancock, Linda Merchant, Eric Jones, Larry Doucette, Anna Spychalla, Aaron Burns, Archie Price, Nate Marks, Mike Tillman, Nancy Sorensen, Dale Woolheater and of course my good friend Scott McCoy. Thank you! For those that inspire me always; my dearest wife Monica, and my precious jewels Jonathan, Aaron & Maija. I love you! This book is dedicated to my son; Nicholas Gregory Jarpey December 19, 1995 – January 28, 2014 A son, a brother and friend to all with a bright smile and quick joke to light up someone’s day. I love you and miss you with all my heart. Rest in peace buddy. To my father, who will not be mentioned in the world history books, though he is written in the heart of God as His beloved child: Michael Moussa Chacour from Biram in Galilee, refugee in his own country and one who speaks the language of patience, forgiveness and love. And to my brothers and sisters, the Jews who died in Dachau; and their brothers and sisters, the Palestinians who died in Tel-azzaatar, Sabra and Shatila refugee camps. Dedicated to the peace protestors that were slaughtered in Ankara on Saturday 10th of October 2015… To Diana, my other love affair, who learned to share this one Rachel Louise Terveen (1985–1999) My beloved daughter, my little lamb … He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart. —ISAIAH 40:11 This book is dedicated to Stephen Bantu Biko, who was violently killed by an overt system of racist exploitation in South Africa, and to the black people who are being slowly stifled by its subtlety in Britain. for Georg Schmidt husband to the lovely Sibylle, sire of The Mighty Nicolas the first (and finest) translator of my books into German You went out on your shield a warrior to the end I expected nothing less And I’ll see you soon enough, old friend To Mira and Salomé My cannonballs and unicorns And to Alf Who is the whole of the moon I dedicate this story to my deceased mother, who helped and encouraged me in my search for a good education and to my beautiful, beloved wife, Teresa, who, despite her long struggles with Parkinson’s disease, has been my inspiration in whatever I have been able to accomplish in life. My only regret is that, due to her lost cognitive skills because of her advanced dementia, she will not be able to read or understand the significance of this dedication. for Isaiah Antone, Roy Wilson, Jesse Debo, and Frank Winnie because they burned that fucker down and also and always and forever for CBRM and RVBM and Jessica To you, the woman who swears unbreakable oaths, has an outfit for every occasion (including committing crime), and will turn the blood of those who wrong you into delicious cocktails with tiny umbrellas made from their skin. May you be seen and admired for the goddess you are. To my Lord Jesus. Despite reports to the contrary, You have shown me You have a sense of humor. Dedicated to the kind of friends a man finds only at the end of world - bound not by blood, but by fire, fear, and the quiet courage of standing together when everything else falls apart. For the children who never outgrew the dark—and for the monsters who kept them company. To them all who could smell, see, sing and savour What am I If not a dramatis personae What are you If not theatrics of your existence What are they If not a quantum of enacted emotions What are we If not the actors in intertwined arenas What is cosmos If not an eternal drama of cosmic energies What is world If not an enigmatic melodrama of living and dying Loving and crying, fragmenting and unifying Being ignorant and blissfully enjoying To the Jailbird who introduced me to Bukowski's novel Post Office in Brixton Prison Library, London 1998 Charles Bukowski, Outsider Literature, and the Beat Movement by Paul Clements To every woman who has ever been told she has to earn the crown she’s already wearing; you don’t need to wait for permission to use it. For my mama and grandmothers, in honour of their blood that flows through me, beating, for me to remember the song of Water. for Olya Petrakova who has led the marches, cleared the roads and been my co-conspirator in a curiouser and curiouser life For all the women who have desperately been missing themselves. Welcome home. “I looked in temples, churches, and mosques. But I found the Divine within my heart.” RUMI For John Turecki, Sami-Ukrainian warrior, body-and-soul man, who has suffered and yet still loves the world. In memory of Ricky Byrdsong, Former head basketball coach at Northwestern University, Our friend and brother— Murdered by a white supremacist While walking with his children near his home, July Fourth weekend, 1999 To hidden unities and overdue reunions. To all the luminiferous echoes interacting with us, whether we recognize them or not. For those who refuse the comfort of ignorance. For those who ask why, even when the world tells them not to. You are the light in this new dark age. For the ones who have used your magic to lift, protect, and illuminate everybody else… rest is our new resistance. Rest & shine, my loves. Rest & shine. To my children, I never cared to change the world around me until it was yours, too. I love you. To my wife, Deborah, a continuous acoustic source of song and laughter, wisdom and understanding. Diagnostic Ultrasound Imaging: Inside Out by Thomas L. Szabo Dedicated to Homer Ainsworth, Joe Albritton, and Waller King Three young men went to Korea Two came home One survived To Mom and Dad, who I wish I could have shared this with. To Aja, the most honest, resilient, and patient person I have ever met. I love you. To my daughter, Mirren. Daddy loves you. To Darcy, Katie, Amy and Rachel, with all my love. And lest you think that makes me a terrible womanizer, think again. They are my granddaughters. To Bobette Eckland, who did not run me down in her Oldsmobile station wagon the day we met in 1973 For the girls who whispered their names into the dark, and for the silence that whispered back louder. To those who never came back, to those who did, and to those who kept the home fires burning D-Day by Tom Douglas To every black activist, marcher, and protester whose name didn’t go down in history. To my wife Eleni, without whom I would have been eaten by wolves long ago. To STEVEN PRCHAL May 20, 1950–April 17, 2015, who coined the word bugwatching and was a mentor to so many; and to ERIN STARKEY March 21, 2003–September 5, 2019, whose light shined entirely too briefly. For my two wives, Jim and Jeff To all those children whose stories were buried. Your truths are seeds seeking the light. To Dagon, for the dolphins, that they may be spared further slaughter by man. Da cael ynys mor mawr. (It is good to find an island in an ocean.) Cyrys ar Yale (Welsh bard) The Red Book of Talgarth (A.D. 1400). (Dagon was the main god of the Philistines, and later of the Phoenicians. He was represented with the upper part of a man and the tail of a dolphin.) AKA by Tristan Jones For my surprise brothers Richard and Roger. We followed the breadcrumbs home. And for Bill, who was lost in the woods. To Janice, my wife and fox hole buddy and our daughter Kelly whom we never knew To my one and only inspiration, Brian Franklin MacDonald, who is, and will always be, younger than me, and prettier, and better in bed. And has better taste in home decor, amongst all other things. And he wore it better, too, whatever it was. He is just a better human being. Amen. And for the rest of my family, too. For Thérèse, my gracious one, who dances among the stars For all my disappeared trans sisters and brothers For little Gabrielle, who didn’t think she would live past sixteen For Jeremiah A. Wright Fearless prophet, fiery preacher, unapologetically black scholar, unashamedly Christian witness for justice, and above all, beloved older brother and friend. What shoulders to stand on! With great admiration and deep gratitude. To anyone who has ever felt uncomfortable in their body and wanted to crawl out of their skin, you’re beautiful just the way you are. (It’s okay if you don’t believe me. I’ll believe enough for the both of us.) To those who round up half-star reviews. I wish you a lifetime supply of forehead kisses and orgasms. For every woman who learned how to survive in rooms that could not hold her. For every heart that kept building while breaking. And for those who are choosing, at last, to live beyond the glass. For my Lloyd Webber glove puppet, my Jean Valjean teddy and my Miss Saigon blow-up doll Constant companions who always listen, never talk back, and let me drink as much as I want One book more! Another book, another destiny! Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Going to the Theatre (But Were Too Sloshed to Ask, Dear) by West End Producer This book would not have been possible without the inspiration of those strong people around me, those who have survived terrible illnesses, and those who were taken by them. To my Nana, who left this world before she wanted to because of uterine cancer; to my Grandma, who didn’t know her breast cancer had metastasized when she went home; to my stepmother, Gloria, who sits imprisoned by Alzheimer’s disease; and to our precious Aubrey, who, even though her light shines now in a mansion with many rooms, will always stay young and bright in the hearts of her family. FOR BRUCE AND DOROTHY Your cryptic words planted long ago became an intriguing map: “You’re inside a box, Molly, and the answer on how to get out is written on the outside of the box.” Twenty years, 500 miles, a million poppies later, I finally get it. To the man who taught me loyalty is bad intel. You were right. Now you’re dead. To perceive freely… Through tempest… Violence un-cast… With courageous doubt… A tilted self… Dedicated to those who walk tilted. To Grandma, every time. And to all the girls who wear masks the world created—I hope you find the people who love the you behind them. My beloved in all things coexplorer of the dark and the light walking with me hand in hand through the heart of every shadowland our shared being my anchor and sky our remaining days all bonus time Bringing Your Shadow Out of the Dark by Robert Augustus Masters For Bertle Daniel Hansen, Jr. 1922–2005 I should have written faster. for Alexander Jutkowitz, who signed my tenth-grade yearbook: Keep up the poetry… just don't read it to me anymore. To the architects of memory — the forgotten scribes, shattered empires, and silent libraries buried beneath the dust. May their echoes remind us that even when stone crumbles and kings are forgotten, words endure. To the readers who know boogeymen aren’t real, but who also wouldn’t mind having the monster in their bed. For All Those Who Kick Ass, Take Names And Read Books To Jessica Patch You challenge me to think bigger, to think deeper, and to take these stories beyond where they would ever go without you on the other side of my text messages. And, you know, because the only way to rescue someone from a wood chipper is to use a Star-Lord. For those who step into the space between heartbeats, Who bend the world toward mercy and ask nothing in return. For the ones who watch from shadows, ancient and unseen, Who carry the weight of centuries and still choose to return. For the women who love without knowing the cost, Who see the invisible and stay when staying means everything. For the children who carry threads the weave cannot touch, Whose defiance becomes the light that guides us home. And for the almosts—those suspended moments Where lives hang in balance and everything can change— May we always have someone willing to step inside, And may love be the thread that holds us when we fade. To Boulder’s majestic and tranquil location that captivated my attention decades ago. To my husband, Ira, who agreed that a midlife decision to relocate back to Colorado was worth the gamble. Without this major upheaval in our family’s lives, and his support, decades later, while he was enduring treatment for glioblastoma, an incurable brain cancer, this book would not have been possible. 100 Things to Do in Boulder Before You Die by Sandy Bornstein To Ioulia— whose life with mine is its own answer to the question of why anything exists at all. And to M. V. Nery— whose gift was not of things, but of the beginning. For all who still dream, even when the world forgets how. For the ones who carry silence like a wound and turn it into song. And for every imperfect soul who believes that being human is enough. Dedicated to you, dear reader. Fathoms Is the sea to me, the nature of Nature Is not jail Is almost June now and twice as opulent in my kitchen of kitchens, water kettle always over the flame for when you arrive How we will explode the library like a summer dandelion Is water, our body. Fathoms of jubilated rain Is not death Is my owl, and yours stringing night-times awake, over the multi-colored sky Is the form of Rain, my name for you the slosh of your voyage beginning For the women whose labor built the digital age, yet were never written into its code. For the caregivers, cashiers, and clerks— the invisible architects of our economies, whose hands held us together while algorithms pulled them apart. For Maria in São Paulo's favelas, Elena in California's care homes, Sarah in Silicon Valley's cubicles— and the millions whose names we'll never know, but whose resistance rewrites the future. This book is yours. Dedicated to my husband, Horace Pope, a victim of Florida’s justice and penal system. To the memory of Mick Jailler A good friend who showed in life a level of bravery and tenacity that few could match. He also tried very hard, yet failed, to hide his generosity. Dr. Seric Cusick, the E.R. physician who sewed my face back together. Thank you! to a wily coyote and a pumpkin on the gill For my salsa Soren Coventry Sweet who teaches me every day this: truth is not a possession you wield but a life you yield. For John, Laura, and Melissa, in memory of their mother, my sister Lisa.—CM In memory of my mother, Dr. Henrietta T. Dabney, and her devoted employee, Carol Daniel. Carol perished unexpectedly on a dark, rainy road in rural Virginia making her way home from a correctional facility where she was visiting her long-incarcerated son.—TM To my wife, Victoria, not only for her patience while I worked on this novel, but also for arranging for me to obtain a large collection of bound National Geographic Magazines, which I singlehandedly had to remove from a treacherous basement at great personal peril, but were of value in solidifying the determination to create this project. For Feiga Maler 1919 – 1942 who died in the Kraków Ghetto For Laura ‘You may shoot me with your words, you may cut me with your eyes, you may kill me with your hatefulness. But still, like air, I rise.’ – Maya Angelou To the twenty-five women this year who have already lost their lives at the hands of a man who once said they loved them. We see you; we grieve you and we will never forget you. Breaking Free: A bright new voice in rural romance, perfect for readers of Rachael Johns, Alissa Callen and Stella Quinn. by Renae Black This book is dedicated to Black women in the African Diaspora who survived the brutality of slavery with dignity and continue to survive the threats of postcolonialism; to our mothers, whose lives are lessons we are still learning; to the memories of Zora Neale Hurston, Audre Lorde, and Barbara Christian—beacons of Black feminist light; to the memories of my dear student Jennifer Drayton and my Belizean friend and co-collaborator Fabiana (Ida) Westby; to ourselves, for continuing the rebellious legacy of Black women; and to our daughters and sons, who we pray will make a better day. Black Feminist Anthropology, 25th Anniversary Edition by Irma McClaurin To Dave: Who works his chef magic every day in the kitchen! To Sammy: I know you love giving me gifts, but the combo of a dead lizard and a centipede was a bit too generous. To Storm: Who is the most awesome book dragon in the world and who works her magic designing great covers! For my wife, who was also confused why Confederate vampires were always the heroes. For the dead . . . and a few of the living, luminous with madness To Kossi Efoui This book is dedicated to anyone travelling to the tropical paradise Bali. Be careful. It could be a holiday you never forget. Even one ecstasy pill could cost you tens of thousands of dollars and a stint in the hellhole Hotel Kerobokan. To Brooke, Carter, and Caden thanks for loving me through my uncertainty. To the Restless Ones never exchange your hopes and dreams for the illusion of certainty today. To my darling daughter, Madelyn Elizabeth. You made me a mother—no matter what anyone else says. Your very brief life brought me such joy. Because of you I am a better, happier, more compassionate person. Every day in every way I strive to make you proud of me. I look forward to holding you in my arms again—until then, I will hold you in my heart. To my disabled comrades: We get to be heroes too. To Karen & To Nina, Gigi, and Bianca May they grow up in a world without genocide This book is dedicated with love to the memory of Haven, Jordan and Elijah Halstead, who should have grown up to read about their grandfather, but who never will. To the girls who fuck the villains. Open your mouth wide and take it like a good girl. Translated with the encouragement of, and in memory of, D. Angel Fernández SCA (2 October 1942 – 13 June 2009) Pilgrim, remember him especially at the albergues of Azofra, Santibáñez de Valdeiglesias, Hospital de Orbigo, Foncebadón, El Acebo, Ponferrada and La Faba, all of which he guided into existence without ever seeking thanks or recognition, in the true spirit of the Camino. Every Pilgrim's Guide to Walking to Santiago de Compostela by Muller Dedicated to the memory of Sam and Bessie Gruder, my grandparents, for the lives they lived and of Hillel and Akiba Stone, my sons, for the lives they could have lived. To Debbie, for saving my life For Jon, who gave me the name Smith and the charge to live a life of substance. For Sally, who gave me the name L'Ecuyer and the proof that tragedy cannot limit a life's value. And for Norma, who gave me the name Vivienne and revealed the meaning of geek love at the beautiful, irrational end of Pi. For S who emptied the night of witches and dogs and B who filled it with glow-worms and stars. To all my enemies: I could not have done it without you. To Zoë Ayala and Noah Pelayo, the only lasting products I have ever shipped. Lastly, to Rachel Caïdor. Lo prometido es deuda. For Milo Ventimiglia’s wife. For the record, you guys weren’t married yet when I set your husband up on a blind date with Laila. Still . . . sorry about that. We cool? to my father, former sailor to my brother, former soldier to my mother, woman warrior; and to my great-, great-, great-grandfather, a former slave who fought for his freedom and for ours For the little brown girl with the focused eyes, float easy, I’ve got you. To the voices in your head. You’ve had your say. Now zip it. This book is dedicated to my beloved daughters Micaela (March 28-August 27, 2003), taken from my arms by SIDS but forever cradled in my heart, and Maya Lang, my “big girl” who keeps me going every day. Friends in the Middle East taught me about the importance of honor and reconciliation in their lives. My children challenge me to live each moment honorably, in search of peaceful reconciliation within. For my little wildflowers who remind me every day that courage wears pigtails, asks too many questions, and believes in magic. May you always know your power. For the gods who whispered stories worth retelling, thank you. For every woman who has ever been told she was too much, not enough, or better off silent—this is for you. You are the storm and the bloom. And for anyone who’s hidden their truth in the dark—may you rise, crown yourself in ash, and speak. For Helen, who introduced me to a certain building For Heath, who speaks more easily than anyone I know And for those wild departed souls who danced awhile and then no more To my family, who has always supported and loved me, even when I decided to write about blow jobs for a living. And to my husband, who changed everything. For every woman who has laced her keys between her knuckles as she's walked to her car. I see you. For the risk-taking misfits who are brave enough to write fight songs on company letterhead To the memory of my younger brother who died at the age of twenty-one, trying to save his besieged comrades. Between Parent and Child: Revised and Updated by Dr. Haim G. Ginott I was going to dedicate this book to my husband, but seeing as how he doesn’t know and must never, ever find out that it exists, I decided to dedicate it to you, my dear sweet reader, instead. To Margaret Pennington Swanson teller of stories, advocate, water-hearted matriarch, the One Who First Shared the Magic of the Inland Sea with me Things We Found When the Water Went Down by Tegan Nia Swanson To the 58,220 Soldiers, Marines, Sailors and Airmen who never had a chance to write a book about this. DR. AL SCHMIDT who, like Socrates, loves awkward questions To Mum, This one is for you. With thanks for everything, especially the gift of sarcasm and for always finding sun-cream phalluses funny. I love you The Maya Barton Thrillers Books One to Three by Kate Bendelow For the Six Million, whose stories can never be shared, and for Sabina —P.P. For Hendla Gomolinska and Chaya Lau, two strong, independent women who paved the way —H.R.W. For Chubbs, my soul dog, my guardian, my anchor through the darkest storms. And for the ones who came after: Emma, Fernando, Alejandro, and Zelda— you brought light, laughter, and healing to places I thought would stay broken. This book carries pieces of each of you in every story, every memory, every heartbeat. To every parent raising children far from home. For the sleepless nights, the silent tears, the laughter in small kitchens, and the stubborn hope that refuses to die. This is your story too. To all who have faced trials with trembling hearts and unwavering faith— May you find comfort in knowing that nothing is wasted in God's hands. And to my Savior, who weaves beauty from brokenness— This work is Yours. To my darling sprogs, Precious and Jordan. And to my mother, Anne, who died much too young. To my two great-grandmothers, Ada Hilton, famed for her wedding cakes, and Gertrude Hill, remembered for her fine pies and a tea kettle forever boiling on the fire. The Yellow Cat in memory of Eileen Wilton The yellow cat who floats outside your window closed against such things enters without opening anything it’s late and moonless on both sides of the glass he is from a long line an alchemical cat yellow as a flame as the rattle of stars on a black plate his father was large and green a lion satisfied with the sun you’re half awake the room now lit your mind a silhouette. for Hope and Alacoque, a story without elephants For all the marvelous people in my classrooms over the years, especially two young lesbians—Chen, full of fear and trepidation about her future, and Aya, full of joy and aspirations. Sexual Identities in English Language Education by Cynthia D. Nelson To my Father, Prof. Domenico Mitolo, brilliant physicist and mathematician. He lived heroically, and he still does in my heart. For everyone who wrote to me after reading At the Water’s Edge. We are not alone. In memory of my wonderful and godly mother Hélène Joseph (January 3, 1947 — May 31, 2019). You went home too soon to be with Jesus, your Lord and Savior. May we love like you; may we show compassion and empathy toward people like you; may we show hospitality and care to the poor and strangers like you; may we be virtuous, faithful, and reconcilable like you; and may we walk in godliness and the fear of the Lord and be peacemaker like you. We love you, manmi cherie. To my wife and my love, forever and ever, Amen For Mom and Dad, if you could only see me now To Faith, forever my youngest — My Faith My hope My love Bible KidVentures Old Testament Stories by Focus on the Family To My Family Roseanne, George and Ramzi A tender heaven in a heartless world For Jan Dearest friend, trusted confidant, word ninja, sounding board and wine enabler. For all these reasons and so many, many more, I am so blessed you are a part of my life. For the King of Hlidskjalf, Odin, the Ancient One. To the memory of MAJOR JAIPAL SINGH Rebel from the British Colonial Army Patriot, Guerrilla Fighter and Outstanding Communist Revolutionary To all who strive for peace and freedom, whistleblowers like Julian Assange and Edward Snowden, who open our eyes to our gradual descent into Orwellian dystopia; to those who push back against mainstream indoctrination and brainwashing; to those who promote disarmament for development and human dignity Dedicated to the memory of Matthew Shoalts November 25, 1991 – November 29, 2012 All things pass in the world, but never sorrow. —Algernon Charles Swinburne To my dad, Don Cummings, for always being my Plot Doctor. And to my editor, Katie Bignell, who deserves all the dedications in the world. And, while we’re at it, a raise. Balance Keepers, Book 3: The Traitor of Belltroll by Lindsay Cummings For my family: David, Dena, Tim, Arlene, Hannah, Emma, Nathan, Karen, Deb, Gabe, Clare, Jack, Chris, Ben, and Davey. For Aunt Millie, who faithfully read stories to all her nieces and nephews, and for Aunt Lynetta and Uncle John, who took us used book shopping. For Coley, whose favorite Spooky Story is “Chattanooga’s Ghost.” For all my relatives who are smart enough to live in the South: Liz, Rich, Steven, Dan, Kirsten, Anne, Nathaniel, Melinda, Elizabeth, and Hannah. for Lucy & Jack Flying swiftly past, For a child I last forever, For adults I’m gone too fast… To the Great Mother in the sea and land of my birth that nurtures my heart and the Divine Feminine spirits of my Lineage that illuminate my soul and to Her Holiness Sai Mai for her eternal love and for reminding me who I truly am Dharma Road is dedicated to cabdrivers and bodhisattvas everywhere. For the Dalit refugees from East Bengal, who lost everything due to Partition, and suffered immeasurably, due to no fault of their own. Family, like a lotus, may struggle to grow, pushing through murkiness before reaching the light and, then, blossom into unique beauty and strength. My patients who have allowed me the honor to share in their struggle through the murkiness of infertility and witness their growth. My husband, Barry, and our growing family: Laura, Brendan, Darlene and Luke Covington; and Michelle, Scott, Sean, Michaela and Liam Harmon. To educator Myles Horton, his wife, musician Zilphia Horton, children’s book author May Justus, and, of course, Eleanor Roosevelt These four people risked their lives for truth and justice. And to my editor, Peg Ross, a woman who hears the voices of all people For Ian Prometheus Yule, The Iron Treasurer To the memory of my son-in-love, Mr. David Todd Anderson (1966–2012), who had the audacity to believe that people whose humanity and dignity are systematically undermined by those who control and benefit mightily from unjust systems will overcome when they make up their minds to organize and take on the powers that be. He believed we can all be better than we are, but had an uncanny sense that we sometimes have to be pushed and prodded in this regard. In the best sense, and in the spirit of Martin Luther King Jr., David too was a man of ideas and ideals who had a deep faith in nonviolent direct action. To the young men who died on April 8, 1956, in Ribbon Creek Thomas Hardeman Donald Francis O'Shea Charles Francis Reilly Jerry Lamonte Thomas Leroy Thompson Norman Alfred Wood To mum and dad, For giving me fire and fury, and showing me when to use it. For the ones who fight when they need to For the team at Miblart and all other Ukrainians fighting for their lives and their country For the Ghost of Kyiv Ghosts never die For Patricia. My lone regret is that I didn’t find you sooner. Fighting Times is dedicated to my sons Eli and Noah, whose questions about my life, during the period I battled pancreatic cancer, inspired me to write this book. It is my deepest hope that they will continue to find their own ways to better society as they proceed along their lives’ paths. For Adi, this is our book. Thank you for being my muse. For Lennie & Scottie: Eat the rainbow. For all the flappers, dappers, bright young things and delightful old fogeys who supported my Kickstarter. Stay brilliant. To Jason … my beginning, my middle, my everlasting For the girls who didn’t make it to the silver screen and those who got nervous and drank one too many. For the girls whose necklines were too low and whose skirts were too high. For those who couldn’t bear sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring and those who just wanted to have fun. For the ones who went on the wrong date with the wrong boys. It’s random, it could have been any one of us. For Pat, who suggested to a bored nine-year-old me: “Why don’t you write a story?” To my son, Justin, who makes everything better, and to the men and women of the U.S. intelligence services, who pursue in shadow the most elusive commodity on earth—truth This Book is dedicated to my Parents, and to my Russian Literature Teacher – Elena Stepanovna Nikiforova. It’s been published in memory of my husband, who inspired me to publish my poetry. For Your Mind for Your Heart for Your Soul by Margarita Furer Maferefun Olofi Maferefun Oshun Maferefun gbogbo Orisha Maferefun gbogbo Egun This book is dedicated to all Angry-Ass men and women of the world. For Johnny Frisbie and the slate carvers at Topaz. For Norma and William and Sierra, who read and talked about Frisbie and visited Topaz with me. For an archive like the waves of the sea. To my mother Athina The first ‘Antigone’ of my life Dedicated to my childhood friend Richard, who introduced me to Sabbath, then left the party too early. In memory of my father, Paddy O’Donohue, who worked stone so poetically, and my uncle Pete O’Donohue, who loved the mountains And my aunt Brigid In memory of John, Willie, Mary, and Ellie O’Donohue, who emigrated and now rest in American soil Anam Cara [Twenty-fifth Anniversary Edition] by John O'Donohue Dedicated to and in memory of René Zazzo, to whom I owe all my intellectual training as a researcher in child psychology. And particularly the 1983 book, Où en est la psychologie de l’enfant, for continuing the cycle in the hereafter. To Angela and Jesus, for their understanding and grace towards me in my unfinished state. This book is dedicated to the mission of creating a cancer-free revolution. Each word was written with the purpose of inspiring, educating, and equipping you with all you need to succeed. For my mother, who gave me wings to fly In honor of Sadako, who inspired hope with a single fold My mother, Susan, my daughters, Kumiko and Yukari, and their amazing mother, Etsuko. You love me for me, not who I pretend to be. David J. Hassel, S.J. and Helen C. Swift, S.N.D. de N. who deeply revered the relations of life This book is dedicated to Susan Johnson McAlister—the wind in my sails for 51 years. For my friends, who save me from the flying monkeys. To Martha Waldolem, my mother Martha Waldolem Moore “Teach me that true memories don’t wipe out, they are greater than the oblivion, … Even though you don’t remember, even though you forget, do not allow darkness to hide the unique truth: you exist because you are loved, you exist because you love them” Elvira Sastre For everybody who sees the ants. In memory of my parents who epitomized the encounter between Athens and Jerusalem — and conveyed its power to me To my parents, my husband and my conference roommates—for all the times your sleep was disrupted by my sleepwalking adventures. Feel free to “seize the day.” I’ve got the nights covered. For my Grandma Shirley Loving, fierce and a total badass to the bitter end. Confessions of an Imposter Room Mom by Courtney Henning Novak This volume is dedicated to clearing the air of the misperception that a fart is anything other than a normal physiologic process common to all humanity. Nature and natural processes should be universally accepted as one of the cherished principles of basic human rights. I am indebted to my loved ones, Nancy, Danielle, Jeremy, Courie, Lizzy & Indy who have offered their insights, suggestions, comments, and unwavering support throughout the long process of having this project finally come to pass. You will always be the mighty wind beneath my wings. To all the dirty girls who love taking knots (you know who you are). This one’s for you! For the misfits, the damaged, the dreamers. You belong. I dedicate this book to my daughter Grace, my greatest teacher and doctor. She provided the most profound experience of my life, which is also the most powerful healing medicine: unconditional love. To anyone who’s living life on their terms and playing by their own rules. Keep doing that shit. Makes the skin glow. To David G. Crockett, the man who taught me that “legal ethics” is not an oxymoron This book is dedicated to Terry Blake, a fellow depressive whose idea it was and whose help and support have been unstinting throughout. No company’s more hateful than your own You dodge and give yourself the slip; you seek In bed or in your cups from care to sneak In vain, the black dog follows you and hangs Close to your flying skirts with hungry fangs. (Horace, Roman poet) What will you do to keep away the black dog that worries you at home? (Samuel Johnson, poet, critic, lexicographer, writing to a friend in 1783) For everyone who still measures with conscience before convenience. Customer First, Front Line Second, KPI Last by Samuel L Calvin For those who still believe that land is more than profit, that memory is more than concrete, and that dignity cannot be bought. For the music my parents heard, and the music they did not And for Frank King This book is dedicated to the memory of Eric Ackermann, of whom his lifelong friend, Dr R. V. Jones, wrote in a letter to Peter Ackermann in February 1990: He was one of those who made the world tick, sometimes two or even three times as fast as it had ticked previously. I dedicate this book to my parents, Janet and John Dunlap. They found each other, raised my siblings and me while finding time to raise Cain in interesting times. Through their passions and between their love for politics and psychology, I caught the scent of the future. Dedicated to my brothers— John “LJ” Hackney Jr. a.k.a. The Laid Back Lover and Larry J. Lennix a.k.a. SMASH May you rest in power. To Bosnian women who have suffered horribly For Morris Glickstein, Grandfather of Speaking Circles, and the man who made this work both necessary and possible. FOR PAULA & CAROLYN Who helped us sing our song FOR RICHARD & PHYLLIS, BOB & KIM Who righted us when we were wrong FOR GEORGE Who makes his dad amazed at the way he really needs you For Roy Plomley, who has so long thrilled listeners with Desert Island Discs, and because I wrote the first few lines of this novel ‘off the cuff’ during my appearance on his programme. To those who envision dream worlds and use them to make this a better world Delphi, the Time Thief, and the Dream World by Michael A. Susko In memory of Bob Edwards (1925–2013), mentor, colleague, friend For Nick, the flower in my garden. This book is dedicated to my wife Linda, whose faith and love for everyone has always astounded me; to my mother Genevieve, who taught us the truth about right and wrong; and to my sister Nancy, who always had my back. This second book is again dedicated to my family who have never wavered in their support of me, and to the memory of Cara Hales who always saw the beauty in life such as a field of sunflowers in the Spring. Shine on, you beautiful diamond. For my agent, Jennifer Weltz, who helped bring Nils Shapiro to life and birthed my career as a novelist. Finally, after writing twelve books, I’ve had some much-needed alone time. Thank you. To Virginia Varden Newsome, beloved granddaughter whose gifts for leadership are a light to her generation… Becoming the Transformative Church by Kay Collier McLaughlin To my loving and supportive husband, Stephen Ott, and to our faithful canine writing companion, Minerva. To Trevor, the love of my life, all of my dreams started coming true the night I met you. For Bob… Thank you for being my hero for twenty-five years. To single parents, my admiration. You have the toughest job in the world. Douglas Arthur Lloyd 1940-2022 Jennifer Lynne "Winky" Lloyd 1940-2023 Suzan Eleanor "Sue" Hope 1967-2024 Aimee Nezhukumatathil wrote, “Flour on the floor makes my sandals slip and I tumble into your arms,” and that image sums us up quite nicely. This book, well, all the books, wouldn’t be here without your encouragement and support. All your dishwashing helped too. Thank you for making me laugh every single day. Thank you for being my best friend. You’re my favorite one. BIBI DALER KAUR Daughter of Bhai Randhir Singh who has been a noble Elder Sister to me all these years To all the dogs who fill our lives with love, warmth and loyalty...but especially to those occasional rapscallions who arrive on the scene to keep us on our toes and season our days with a ration of laughter. For everyone who's ever seen themself in Data. With special thanks to Brent Spiner and Hallie Todd (who played Lal) for bringing two of the most memorable and deeply human androids of all time to life for us. Arctic Fox Android: Chronicles of Tri-Galactic Trek by Mary E. Lowd To my first and best teacher, my mother Cynthia, a master teacher and an all-around great human being, and to all teachers everywhere, thank you for all you do to make this world a better place! To my romantic partner, Jason “Schizoid” Smith. Thank you for your loving encouragement of me and for allowing my star to shine alongside yours, albeit in a different medium. Your loving support has helped my professional focus. To the Smith and Kowatsch families, thank you for accepting me. To my late father, Michael Crawley, thank you for nurturing my writing talent and interest in computers when my age was in the single digits. To Ossington, Amelia, Indie, Insfjull, Luci, Annie Aurora, Etoile, Bronto, Leonard, and the rest of my animal family, thank you for the naps and cuddles. To all of my social media followers on BlueSky, LinkedIn, and Mastodon, thank you for reading what I write! My best friend, the man I call Hon, Sweetie, or Husband, Gary L. Crawford. And my brother, who believes in the project and helped make it possible, Karl Demarest Capsules of Hope: Survival Guide for Caregivers by Kat Crawford For Jackson, Luke, Morgan, and Elizabeth whose sweetness inspires us daily To Kristin … my person, my love, my gift from the universe To Ron Goldfarb: There is nothing better for a writer of books on off-beat subjects than an agent who loves to go fishing. To Tim, who is my moon and stars. Life has had it's ups and downs but I wouldn't change a thing. For Greg, who brings me glasses of red wine whenever I need them and supplies hugs on demand—the benchmarks of a romantic hero. :) To my nephew Nick and my new niece Kristen. May all your future Christmases together be merry! And especially to my great-nephew Luca—who celebrates his very first Christmas this month. I love all three of you! To everyone who still leaves milk & cookies for Santa… Merry Christmas! For those who have gone and those who will go Barbara Rose Haum (1962–2008) a gifted artist and a giving colleague For Loftin Harvey, who shared creative writing, compassion, and a safe harbor. For my dad, who raised three daughters and told them they could be anything they wanted to be. For my children, my grandchildren and their future children. For Your glory, Lord.