Troy smiled. His smile looked like the shark's smile
on some cartoon.

In these books you may discover . . .not the kind of lesson you receive in school, but the kind you get when the torrents of history, and a current of love, get a hold of you.

Read Smoke ,the novel published in 2014. . .
on Kindle
or in book print from Amazon

Smoke takes place in Europe, in 1937. Here's a sample of the story: In chapter 12 of "Smoke", the young American, Philip Morrow, is on a night train in France, traveling from Perpignan on the Mediterranean coast, up to Strasbourg, by the German border. In the middle of a long night he overhears a conversation between two nearby passengers, one a Russian and the other a Frenchman:

But Pierre Geras held his poker face. He had questions of his own. "What has happened to Zinovyev and Kamenev?" Now the Frenchman's riposte came forth, with spunk.

"You know, comrade. Why do you ask such questions? This is for the Party to decide."

"Ha!" Pierre, surprised at himself, looked around. His feigned amusement was unexpectedly loud.

Philip was napping, of course, a fly on the wall. No matter. Two men were talking three seats ahead. That's all. Still, his ears were tuned on their frequency, for some reason he could not surmise, dialed in like the RGD radio to BBC that Nathan had shown him back in London. But he could not understand; the night was dim, and the speech was French. The rumble of the wheels beneath their feet was a hypnotic cover of gray noise, a small subterfuge rattle beneath the narrowly careening railway of a vast, disjointing Continental rift. He could not comprehend the words of the two men, but the subdued urgency of their tone was vibrant, like the air before a thunderstorm.

"The Party. . ." continued Pierre. "The Party of uncle Joe? No longer the party of revolution. The party of Stalin. Where three were . . .now there is one!" Pierre's voice had morphed to a hoarse whisper. "And Bukharin? What of Nikolai? Where does the purging stop?"

Here's an exchange of ideas that takes place in chapter 20 of Glass half-Full:

"The ink of the scholar is holier than the blood of the martyr," said Shapur. "The jihadists do not represent true Islam."

"Well, where are they getting their theology of violence from?" asked Morris.

"Every religion has its extremists--fanatics on both ends--who become so zealous for their own view of holy writ that they think they're doing god a favor by killing others who are not as pure as they. Look at Catholics and Protestants in northern Ireland, or Sunnis and Shiites in Iraq. But, true religion doesn't shed blood in order to make its point." As he finished his discourse, Shapur looked up at Kaneesha, who had just walked up to their table.

Having overheard their discussion, she tossed in her two cents worth. "In my religion, the holy blood was shed once and for all at Calvary. And there is no longer any need to be fighting about such things."

"I do wish, Kaneesha, that that event had settled the issue," remarked Morris. "Apparently, though, it didn't settle the issue, because people are still fighting about these things."

"Yeah, well, anyway...what are you guys having for dinner tonight?"

The two men ordered food.

Catch a glimpse into chapter 6 of Glass half-Full, when Marcus and Bridgit spend their first day together walking on the Mall in Washington:

They walked up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

When they reached the top, Bridget was gazing, like most everyone else who ascends here, with rapt interest at the seated statue. But Marcus, holding Bridget's hand, gently prodded her to keep moving, slowly to the left, through the myriad of ambling visitors.

They came to an inner sanctum. Carved on the white marble wall in front of them were the words of the slain President's Gettysburg address. Marcus stopped, taking in the enormity of it, both physically and philosophically. He was looking at the speech intently. Bridget was looking at him. After a few moments: "Isn't that amazing?"

"Yes." She could see that he was thinking hard about something. The great chamber echoed a murmur of humankind.

"Supreme irony." The longing of a nation's soul reverberated through the memorial... in the soundings of children, the whisperings of passersby. Deep within Marcus' soul, something sacred was stirring, and she could see it coming forth.

"'The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but can never forget what they did here.'" He was reading aloud Lincoln's words on the white wall.

But for the echoes of a million people who had passed through this place, there was silence. After a moment, Bridget responded. ". . .and yet, there it is carved on the wall, for all to see: 'the world will little note what we say here...'"

"Right, Bridget. Isn't it amazing?"

Suddenly, amid the noise was a loud shouting.

From chapter 8 of Glass half-Full, Hilda is telling some friends in her restaurant about an expericence she had in Germany.

"Hitler and his thugs tried to take advantage of the situation; they launched a coup d'etat, called a putsch in German. But it failed, and they ended up getting arrested. The event has been named the beer hall putsch of 1923. Well, I was reading about these police officers who were killed by the Nazis that night. And I was reading in my guide book some information about the incident. I kept hearing this beautiful music, really spirited music. We walked in the direction of the music. We turned a corner...and there they were, five musicians playing five instruments: clarinet, violin, accordion, cello, a drummer. I could tell they were Jewish right away. I considered their courage: to stand there at the Odeonsplatz where the Nazis had made their first move to try and take over the world, and declare, with their music, that Jewish people, along with their music, were alive and well in the 21st century. They inspired me. We must have listened to them for an hour...the Bridge Ensemble."

From chapter 19, "Atrocities," of Glass half-Full

Marcus opened a can of turpentine. He tipped it slightly so that its upper contents would spill onto a rag that lay on the parking lot next to his car. With the rag partially soaked, he began rubbing on the driver's-side door. Someone had painted a black swastika on it while he was working late. His cell phone rang.

He opened it, looked at the mini-screen, saw "Grille," which stood for Jesse James Gang Grille. In the last few days, however, whenever he would see "Grille" displayed as the caller ID, it registered in his mind as "Girl," meaning Bridget, because she would often call from there.


"Marcus, have you heard about the explosion?"

"No, where?"

"At the Belmont Hotel, about 20 minutes ago."

In chapter 2 of King of Soul, the new novel, we find young Donnie and his neighborhood pals making the transition between cowboys/Indians and baseball. On a summer morning in 1963:

The next morning, on the other side of town, three sixth-grade cowboys were running through a big grassy back yard, aiming at each other with toy pistols, whoopin’ and hollerin’ at each other, imagining themselves to be like their heroes in the movies. On this twelfth day of June, summer vacation was still new enough to be a wild pleasure. The boys paused from their make- believe gunfight to sample the plum trees in Donnie’s back yard, but the plums were not yet ripe.

A few minutes later those holstered playthings were dropped on the lawn when Troy and his buddies from down the street showed up.

“Y’all come down to the lot for a game,” Troy yelled from the next yard over. Donnie, Mike and Joe watched Troy and three others as they traipsed through the neighbor’s yard along the backside of the chain-link fence. When they got into Donnie’s yard, Troy voiced his challenge again. “Us against you. Come on.”

“Four against three?” asked Donnie, as if it made any difference.

The point was—it’s time to play ball, y’all. The numbers didn’t matter, especially to Troy, because the score always somehow ended in his favor anyway. “There’ll be some other guys showing up, you know.” Troy responded, with confidence, as if he could make it happen. “You can have the next one who comes. Just like last week, we’ll have a bunch more guys before long, since school is out.” Troy had a fielder’s glove on his left hand. He was tossing the baseball into it, then retrieving the ball with his right and tossing it into the glove again, with an easy fluidity of motion that demonstrated, in the midst of his friendly provocation, his baseball agility. He was doing this little perpetual motion between hand and glove while keeping his eyes trained steadily on Donnie.

So how could he not? Donnie knew it was time for baseball, because Troy said so. Troy was leader of everybody on Meadowbrook Lane. And he actually had a point there. This make-believe with cowboys and Injuns was going by the wayside anyway. Donnie knew it, he just didn’t have any direction about it yet, but he knew that because Troy had issued the challenge, now was the time for something more intense, more real than cowboys, more real even than cops and robbers—baseball. Troy knew. He was always ahead of everybody else, except in school. He was, however, king of the playground, the recess time. He was king of the hill too, although they had not played that one for awhile. Donnie’s mama had said it was too rough a game when Troy was involved. Now Donnie was watching Troy’s face, while the bigger boy moved slowly toward him. Troy smiled. His smile looked like the shark’s smile on some cartoon.

“You ready?” he asked. “You can use my glove.” He paused from his ball toss mantra, lifted the mitt up as if for Donnie’s inspection.

“I got one.” Donnie replied.

“Go get it. What’r you waitin’ for?”

I’m waiting for you to get outta my face.

Troy turned and began his next maneuver, which would be exit. The other three fellows followed dutifully. And so Roy Rodgers, the Lone Ranger and Tonto fell by the wayside, like ole Western clips on the cutting room floor of a Hollywood backlot. Now it was time for the real world. Now it was time for, as Donnie’s friend Chris called it, hardball. Maybe Chris would show up. He was a pretty good player—a better player than Donnie, and a better captain. Donnie would make sure to get Chris on his team, if he showed up.

Now it was time for Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra to step up to the plate. And Donnie and Mike and Joe, and Chris and whoever else would show up. Jackie Robinson, Willie Mays and Hank Aaron. Play ball, y'all!

Copyright 2017 © Carey Rowland

Now that you've landed here, have a Listen to some vibes, songs of Rowland:

READ blog, no blahblah, current entry : "Carolina on my Mind"

Consider buying a good book today.

Glass half-Full,
Glass Chimera,
and Smoke
are all available for purchase on Amazon , and also at these independent bookstores:

in south Charlotte:

Park Road Books

in north Charlotte:

The Last Word

in Boone, NC:

Foggy Pine Books

Black Bear Books

in Charleston SC:

Blue Bicycle Books

in San Francisco:

Bird & Beckett Books

Alexander Books

in Tiburon, CA:

Corner Books

Or Amazon, purchase:

King of Soul


on your Kindle, $2.99

Glass half-Full

Glass half-Full on your Kindle, 99 cents

Glass Chimera

Glass Chimera on your Kindle, 99cents,

Langton, in England

Barnes & Noble


Listen to songs of Rowland:

    Quantities of 10 or more can be obtained at a price of $10 each, from the author.

    Carey Rowland writes where he lives with his wife of 37 years, Pat. They live in the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina. Their three grown young'uns, Micah, Kim and Katie, are long gone from the household and have moved onward to blaze trails of their own, here, there and yon. God only knows where all the Rowlands will go and what they will do.