Frank Talaber

He was born in Beaverlodge, Alberta, where the claim to fame is a fox with flashing eyes in the only pub, yeah, big place, that’s why his family left when he was knee high to a grasshopper and moved to Edmonton, Alberta. Eventually he got tired of ten months of winter and two of bad slush and moved to Chilliwack, BC. Great place, Cedar trees, can cut the grass nine months of the year and, oh, he says it does snow here once or twice. Just enough to have to find out what happened to the bloody snow shovel and have to use it. GRRR.
He’s spent most of his life either fixing cars or managing automotive shops at fifty-six is found to be blessed now with two children (okay, he had them earlier and they’ve grown up and began living on their own), two loopy cats and a bonkers-mad English wife. His insatiable zest for life, the environment, and the little muses that keep twigging on his pencil won’t let his writing pad stay blank.
He’s had several short stories published, short-listed in contests over the years and a few automotive articles published in RV magazines. This will be his third novel published.
When asked once, “where does this creativity spring from?” He answered, “It’s the Gypsy blood from my mother’s Hungarian ancestry.”
Literary madness that drives his wife crazy when he leaves their bed in the middle of the night to pound out some sort of prosaic induced brilliance. “Here we go again, the next War and Peace, Aka 21st century,” she moans, only to realize it’s either gibberish or there’s no lead in his pencil and he’s scribbled on sixteen blank pages in the dark.
He can usually be found puttering around the yard of their heritage home, talking inanely to the squirrels or wondering how one can plant a dozen flower seeds and get five thousand weeds. Known to getting up early in the morning to write, when it’s just the pencil, his imagination and the raccoons that pass by looking for handouts. Bloody bandits, they are. Okay the crows, blue jays and the damn never ending weeds can also be annoying. Good think he makes his own wine, damn good sh*t, most people comment, before falling over with ear to ear grins.