Author Ronald Joseph Kule

March 2017“Internationally published author, biographer and ghostwriter of non-fiction and novels” sounds fancy, but I’m simply a professional author with a mission to write entertaining, uplifting stories for reader enjoyment.

People tell me that I write well: “[Kule] creates emotional stories… he paints pictures with his words.” Well, I write what I see in front of me, adding imagination where it will improve the story.

Growing up in a cramped house, competing for personal space among seven brothers and sisters, two parents, at least one good hunting dog (most times), and a score of kids living on our block, I learned how to hold my ground, at times from a perch 30 feet up my favorite tree in the woods behind our house.

Born in Bogota, Colombia, descended from Polish-immigrant coal miner and blue-blooded, Colombian-Chilean parentage, I came to appreciate ethnic values and cultural differences by observing directly the disparate social classes and living conditions of Colombia, Peru, Chile, and 48 contiguous American states and Hawaii.

My heritage paint-brushed a wanderlust onto my life-canvas: I’ve spent time in 35 countries and performed keynote-speaker engagements in 17. I laugh often and can experience a panorama of emotions just for fun, although I prefer to make other people smile, laugh and generally feel happier for having met me, or my written works.

If you curl up with one of my books and find yourself breathless, provoked, inspired, changed and feeling like you just undertook an important journey, which left you more than satisfied, my job as the author will have been a success.

Currently, home is Clearwater, Florida, but my passport yearns for more nation-stamps, and my bags can be packed on a moment’s notice!

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“As good as his work is, behind Ron Kule’s prodigious work-ethic lies a heart that beats for others to whom he can give service, expecting in return only the time-honored values of honesty, tolerance, and demonstrated competence. His keen insights into what motivates and inspires people to want to do better has made a difference in my life. Not one to rest on his laurels, he would rather effect positive changes in those close to him, and the world, no matter the personal consequences. These qualities tell us that here is a man of intense personal integrity.”

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  • Ronald Joseph Kule is an internationally published author of non-fiction and fiction books, also a ghostwriter for numerous clients. For details contact: KuleBooksLLC@gmail.com
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Five Stars Review for RUINED BY MURDER ADDICTED TO LOVE

FIVE-STAR REVIEW from another satisfied reader on Amazon!

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

Format: Paperback

“I loved the way this story played out. Sort of a romance, sort of a murder mystery, sort of a search for and finding of oneself. This book by author Ronald Joseph Kule kept me turning the pages wanting to know how it all would resolve. I recommend it!”
© 2015 by KuleBooksLLC. All Rights Reserved.

ROMANTIC/SUSPENSE NOVEL: RUINED BY MURDER ADDICTED TO LOVE

RUINED BY MURDER ADDICTED TO LOVE

Synopsis

By

Ronald Joseph Kule

Buy an author-inscribed soft-cover copyCarlos Almarón is about to pop the question.  Instead, he is dumped, pushing him into a confused and nearly fatal tailspin.  Devastated, smoldering in the ruins of his loss, he yearns to know why he has once again lost at love.

Only with the help of a sympathetic friend and her late husband’s marriage journal and romance novels does he begin to understand how to recover, and what are the keys true love and real romance.

Almarón’s adventurous research takes him back to the era of knighthood and courtly love, dredging up old memories.  His daydreams and nightmares forcibly recount his pubescent trials with sexual awakening and sophomoric escapades with the opposite sex, while awakening deeply embedded thoughts about ethics, relationships, and a jumbled mix of emotions he cannot easily escape.

***

Carmela Ariana, Almarón’s lifelong, platonic friend weathers a far different gauntlet of sexual and romantic hardships arguably more difficult than his.

A victim of fatherly abuse, she rebounds through several partners, including a connection she has kept secret from Almarón: her intimate relationship with her beautiful, college roommate Emily Logano, a Mafioso’s daughter… also Almarón’s would-be fiancée!

Emily’s murder – known only to Carmela at first – is the catalyst that brings the two friends together under difficult circumstances.

In the wake of these events, Almarón and Ariana seek answers about life and love, but for different reasons.  Working together, they uncover not only what happened the night his plan for marriage spun to a jarring halt and how and why Emily lost her life, but also a portal that brings Cupid to each of them… when and where they least expect love.

***

Almarón’s and Ariana’s journey to love is a microcosm of anyone’s uncharted pathway from childhood through puberty to sexually active adulthood and the sanctity of real romance, true love and marriage.

Ruined by Murder Addicted to Love is a rollicking, thought-provoking and emotional roller-coaster ride, and a five-star read for both women and men!

© 2015 by Ronald Joseph Kule and KuleBooks LLC. All Rights Reserved.

Also available online as a Kindle edition on Amazon.com

Kindle edition on Amazon

Three Ways to Win at Sports and Living

 the thought never crossed my mind…

… that is, until the day someone asked me about the three ways to win in sports and living.

One Sunny Afternoon…

Up to that sunny afternoon when I was in high school, I just did whatever I did without questioning how I did it. As a young tyke I lay in my crib and waited for my body to get older and larger. In my first grade-school years, I tried out for school musicals, because they seemed like something fun to do.  That I somehow won the lead roles every time was, to me, something that just happened out of my control. I never wondered why. On my first-ever football team, I got the positions that I liked playing, including “roving linebacker” (a.k.a., Monster Man) on defense and quarterback on offense. From the first position I outwitted opposing QB’s; from the latter I outwitted deep safeties with accurate passes to outstretched fingers flying past them. And therein lay my forthcoming trouble: my unerring accuracy. I could even throw left-handed more strikes than balls from Little League Baseball mounds than most of my young peers. I never gave it a thought or wondered WHY… until that fateful afternoon and question. “What was the question?” you ask. Simply this: “How come you can throw touchdowns so accurately?” I recall that it was a friend who asked me, but I cannot remember his name. A lot has changed over the years I’ve aged, including recalling certain details, like the names of my high-school chums and teammates. Sorry about that, boys.

bristol high football field

Bristol High’s gridiron

I remember that I was suited up before a game in Bristol, PA. I was tossing the ball back and forth with a teammate to warm up my arm. My helmet was on the ground, and the hot sun and gentle breeze in the air warmed the top of my head. The heat tingled through my flat-top, crew-cut hair. My first quick response to the question was, “Well, I just see the fingertips, that’s all.” That didn’t satisfy my inquirer. “Yeah, but… what do you mean you ‘see’ their fingertips?” I didn’t tell him what I looked at in my mind’s eye right then, but I was sure looking at a mental picture of my last receiving touchdown player’s fingertips! In fact, that was all I saw: just his fingertips! “I dunno. I just see the fingers and I throw the ball to them,” I said. My inquisitor shook his head, turned and walked away, muttering to himself, “There’s got to be more than that to it.” The matter wasn’t over for me by a long shot. He had opened up a question that now required an answer from within. He did not know it then, but he had changed my life forever. Sitting down on the bleachers, I re-ran my last few touchdown throws past my closed eyes. In every instance, all I saw were the fingers. Close up. More curious, I realized that all I remembered were the hands and fingertips — no peripherals of the rest of the playing field, the stands on either sides of the gridiron, the school building behind the home side, the railroad tracks and US Highway One beyond them on the visitor’s side. There were no goalposts. Only outstretched hands and fingertips, and my thrown football landing in the open palms. All close ups. I had never wondered about this and I had never thought about these things before. Now I was curious: how can this be? Why only the fingertips and why so close-up?

Average Build

fingertip catch As players go I was not above average, meaning I was only six feet tall, weighed about 176 pounds. Lanky, yet able to take a hit — or dish them out as mentioned before. I was also aware that I was fast mentally. I knew I could outwit opponents and throw footballs accurately. I called my plays that kept the other teams off-balance. I already knew all of this, but I didn’t really know WHY I was so accurate.

Childhood Memories

Looking back over my childhood, I next recalled, in a matter of seconds, a few instances which displayed this accuracy. There was the time that a bully hit me in the jaw, and I didn’t flinch. I did, however, express my anger eye-to-eye, focused like a power drill, and that caused him to turn on a dime and run away screaming in fear. Then, too, there was the time my older brother nagged me too long and too much, and I felled him with one, very accurate and forceful blow to his solar plexus. (Later, after witnessing a bullfight in Colombia, I likened my drop-over, brotherly “kill” to the accuracy of the matador who passed his sword so cleanly into one bull’s spinal cord that the heaving animal’s body went airborne instantly and fell over right on the spot. Motionless, he dropped at his killer’s feet. The matador was awarded an ear and a tail that day, and I remember thinking that someone should award me for dropping my brother similarly… at least, in spirit. My most memorable hit, however, which probably amazed me more than my siblings and friends present at the time, involved another bully in the neighborhood where we grew up. Behind our house a patch of trees and swamp-like ground that we dubbed “The Woods” was our playground. When Mom told us kids to go outside and play, she admonished us to “got play in ‘The Woods’ but not too far so I can call you for dinner.” We, therefore, spent most of our summertime days in The Woods. My day of astounding accuracy also took place in those woods. The group of us were walking near the stream that ran the length of the wooded area. Suddenly, a stone came out of nowhere and hit one of us, not me. My sister started crying, and my brother wanted to rush the kid who was trying to hide behind a tree trunk about 40 yards away. With my target in sight — did I mention there was a “Y” split in the tree trunk, about waist high? — I yelled at my brother as I stooped to pick up the nearest rock I could find, “Don’t worry, Chris, I’ll take care of this!” The stone I found was rounded and flat – the kind that was perfect for skipping on a calm pond’s glass-like water surface at least 13 times before it sank – and it fit into the natural curve between my left forefinger and my thumb as if it were designed precisely for this moment. I leaned back and came forward like a pitcher on the mound and, with one swift sweep of my arm, let the hard missile fly toward the tree and the body standing and watching us from inside the Y. My throw met its target squarely in the center of his forehead between the two trunks on either side. He cried out in pain and ran away. While my siblings and friends cheered the event I stood in silence, utterly amazed at what I had done. The odds were against anyone making that shot, but I had done it with pure intention. To this day, that throw remains one of the most triumphant moments of my childhood.

Back to Reality

Sitting on the Bristol High stadium bleacher, this is what I remembered and looked at, thinking in the back of my mind that maybe there was something unusual about my accuracy, after all. “How come you can throw touchdowns so well?” the kid had asked me. “Because I see the fingertips,” I had answered.  WHY had I said that?

BANG… And Then It Hit Me!

Then it hit me! I saw fingertips alright, but they were always CLOSE UPS! Even the guy’s body, his face in the Y of the tree, was vividly recorded in my mind as a CLOSE UP! How could that be? I asked myself. And the answer astounded me: I was out of my body in every instance, seeing my targets up close and throwing to the location of my intended targets! Suddenly, the rest also made sense to me. Why I hit that kid in the face: I was throwing to get even for the defense of my family members, and NOTHING would stop me. Why I threw out Little League batters: I threw to a catcher’s mitt which was large and right in front of me. I wanted to strike batters out. Why I felled my brother and scared off a bully: my attention was focused as sharply as a laser beam. And why I could “see” my receivers’ fingertips over the outstretched arms and hands of menacing defensive players taller and larger than I: I was THERE at the location of my intended target… every time! And I had three common factors that helped me:

  1. my FOCUS.
  2. my PURPOSE
  3. my INTENTION

I had been out of my body. And, given that realization, from that moment forward I have been aware that not only am I, but everyone else, is not a body. I am a spiritual being operating a body, just like the rest of us. And, upon further study, I’ve found out that I’m not alone in that conviction.

“You don’t have a soul. You ARE a soul. You have a body.” — C. S. Lewis, author of The Chronicles of Narnia.

spiritual beings

“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” — Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, French Jesuit priest and mystic philosopher.

Like I said, I had never thought about it before. The thought never crossed my mind.

© 2014 by Ronald Joseph Kule and KuleBooks LLC. All Rights Reserved.

 

Brazil’s Epic Loss: A Lesson For Entrepreneurs

The following is a blog posted by a friend, Edwin Dearborn.

Brazil’s Epic Loss: A Lesson For Entrepreneurs

If you follow the World Cup, you just witnessed the most epic loss ever between Brazil and Germany. It serves as a lesson to any entrepreneur. Home field advantage, supportive fans and tons of emotion did not bring home the win.

What Germany brought to the game was a system based on precision. They executed an effective system, a plan. Germany did not primarily rely on hopeful visions or positive feelings, which is common with entrepreneurs, but with a well-drilled system that was executed with precision.

The number of business failures, which some experts cite as over 50% within their first 2 years, is because most businesses launch with lots of enthusiasm and hopes and that’s about it. But very few arrive to the game with business processes and policies that are proven to deliver results, even when applied in a hostile environment that wants you to lose.

Precision Trumps Emotion

Now matter how “psyched up” you get, eventually you will need to develop systems and patterns that overcome barriers, the competition, as well as your own limitations. Business processes and successful policies, uniformly enforced, will always trump and team that is completely excited and committed.

While enthusiasm and commitment are an absolute must, these will wane and become lost when you encounter a series of challenges. Systems, known and enforced programs, effective policies, and clearly delineated business process, will always win the day. This is how enthusiasm and commitment can continue to grow.

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I love helping small business build successful teams. Follow me @edwindearborn

Short Story and Tall Tales from International Author

LEAVIN’ THE LIGHTS ON FOR YA

Why should I care anymore?

People have come and gone in and out of my life, and I’m still here, bidin’ my time, growin’ a little older day by day, watchin’ the grasses grow.

In my time the turnin’ of leaves on the trees and the four seasons that come and go, just like the people who visit me, have taught me patience. All good things sooner or later come to pass with patience, I’m sure of that.

Yep, I’m still here watchin’ the same ol’ sun rise and set; watchin’ right along with the mule deer, the moose, the snakes, the groundhogs and the antelope with their large, pointed racks.

snow mountains sunset

Watchin’ and listenin’ and tellin’ my story to anyone that’ll listen — that’s my mission in my old age.

People from all kind of different places been visitin’ me over the years.  They come for whatever reasons, but I don’t question their motives. I just bend an ear and learn, when I can understand the language that they’re speakin.’ My notion about it is a simple one: they arrived, so they must have had good reason to end up here. I reckon they’re entitled to their privacy.  That’s all there is to it; I don’t need to be noseyin’ around in their business.

The elders, the bent-over ones, seek solace within me as they wait to die. The other day, when I asked how he was, one of them replied, “I’m still here” as he shrugged before he drifted off into a nap.  The young ones seek… well, you know what the young ones are after. They come here lookin’ for maximum connection, if you catch my drift.

Most everybody, one way or another, just wants to carve out a little private time away for themselves, and usually I let ‘em have it from the git’go. Other times, I’ll peek inside their heads and then show ’em where to find the best place to lie down, or where’s the best view… and then mind my own beeswax by lookin’ the other way — no sense my addin’ my two-cent’s worth.  Just let ’em do what they’re gonna to do, with or without me, is my policy.

I keep my trap shut about it, too.

I know some of them young couples in a few years are gonna return after they cobble together a family… mark my words. I’ve seen that happen more than once or twice. Probably ’cause it’s nice and quiet here, a peaceful sorta place.

tracks-trails GTNP

Anyhow, people can recharge their batteries around me. I don’t intrude, and they don’t bother me…. kinda like it that way.

I’ve heard a lot of their dreams, too. People alone often talk to themselves and not just a few of  ’em do it aloud. Maybe they sense I can keep a secret. I like to think that they know that, but only a rare few ever ask me about my hidden desires.  People are funny like that.  They’ll talk about their interests as long as they think someone will listen but they don’t often stop and ask me about mine.  I’d tell ‘em, if they’d just ask.

I suppose I shouldn’t wonder why they should.  To them, I’m probably just a tall glass of water with nothin’ to say.  If only they knew what stories I could relate as they sit in front of my fireplace giving off warmth while they stare at the dancing embers!

You know what, though? My heart is a patient listener.  I guess that’s why before and after every show they put up and take down their makeshift booths down on the avenue street-vendors keep comin’ back my way. (It’s not unusual in these parts that the avenue doubles as a venue on appointed weekends set for celebratin’ another new season). They return all charged up, anticipatin’ big sales and camaraderie — maybe just a little tomfoolery, too — among themselves and they come and see me – maybe for good luck, I guess – before the bargain-hunters swarm down on the town on Friday nights. Elated with their sales come Saturday night, the alcohol starts flowin’ and the dancin’ takes flight, and, before they know it, they’re wakin’ up hungover Sunday morning, tired and worn out by Sunday evenin’s pack up time.

street vendors

No matter why they come or how long they stay, it’s all the same to me: people are just plain interestin’… and I’m just a local fixture ’round here.

Don’t get me wrong, though, I’m well-cared-for. Well-meanin’ locals and sometimes total strangers come by from time to time and they work on sprucin’ up my spirits. They prune up my rough edges and paint a brighter future on my face, lest in neglect I turn out like some old neighborly, broke-down garage — all morose and weathered.

Gettin’ back to my clientele…

For the special ones, those that want to stay awhile and sit and listen, I spin a few of my best yarns. My favorites are the ones about the fly fishermen observed from my vantage point overlookin’ the lazy Buffalo River windin’ its way like a multi-hued ribbon east of the Grand Tetons. Like me, they can do the same thing for hours and never be bored. Their moments of high excitement might last a few seconds or,  at times, well over an hour, but their adventures are endlessly excitin’ to watch and even more excitin’ in the retellin’ when I see the faces of my audience light up.

I often mix up time frames to keep it interestin’ for them and for me; sometimes I reel it out like it’s at dusk, other times it’s at sunrise.  Speakin’ softly, almost in a whisper, I let ’em get the feel for the soft-casted fly sailing on the wind speed in the invisible breezes; or the sharp cuts of the air temperature rises and drops.  I like to get ’em sweatin’ and swattin’ at the bugs that aren’t even there, except in their imaginations. Oh boy, that’s so much FUN! Makin’ ‘em shiver and shake as they wait and watch for the next hatch to emerge off the water’s rippled surface is the appetizer before the entree of the catch — that gold-plated instant when the unseen quarry hits the unsuspectin’ imitation fly and flashes up out of the water, its wet rainbow of colors capturin’ a few glints off the sun. When my fish come, they come one right after the other in a flurry of rainbows, brownies and brookies… catch and release, catch and release, catch and release.  And my listeners get so excited that their enthusiasm rubs off on me, and we both end up enjoyin’ the tall tales that seem so real in the moment.  

Hooking a Finespotted Cutthroat Trout on the Snake

Sadly, every good tale must come to an end in this life. The fury subsides as quietly as begun… kinda like the way that the moon rises in the East after the sun passes beyond the western mountaintops.

I must say, though, the smiles on their satisfied faces give me good feelin’s that are reward enough for an Old Victorian relic like me. Even as they stand up, sweep the dust off their fannies and step off my stairs, they wish me good fortune ’til the next time we meet. For me, it doesn’t get any better than that.  Every time, they bring new light to the lingering life that’s left in me.

You can be sure I’ll keep my light on for them as long as I can. And I’ll keep my lights on for you, too. Hurry and come see me, ya hear?

Abandoned Victorian

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© 2013 by KuleBooks LLC. All Rights Reserved.

 

IF ONE WOULD BE A CHAMPION

IF ONE WOULD BE A CHAMPION

(100% Abandonment)

Lou MerlanoFootball coach, Louis Phillip “Lou” Merlano, in the late 1950’s was already a surviving, decorated member of the famous “Screaming Eagles” 101st Airborne Division. His group had made a significant difference in Operation Market Garden and the Battle of the Bulge in WW II.

Merlano learned how to play hurt and win—he survived the infamous D-Day invasion and returned home with three Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star pinned to his chest.

But which of us kids knew that then? We were just an average bunch of preteens wanting to play football for a diocese grade school in Levittown, Pennsylvania.

To tell you the truth, at first we played scared. But we left that fear on the practice field after Coach Merlano made us do “Blood Pit” so many times that we had no fear left by game time. Fear was a forgotten puddle of lung-emptying grunts, bloody gashes and hot, sweaty tears.Blood Pit rendered it into submission on dusty, no-name gridirons devoid of fans.Only the watchful eyes of Merlano and his coaches paid much attention to us in those dark hours of a tackling drill that was de rigueur in those years.

Merlano taught football-playing skills to groups of kids, knowing they would grow to be young men and, later, fathers of their own children. His drills, as harsh as some of them were to experience, showed us how to win at life; how to succeed despite obstacles that one day would try our souls.

He trained us to play the only way that he knew how to survive: “with 100% abandonment.” “You must run, hit, catch balls and score touchdowns with 100% unreserved, unrestrained enthusiasm.” To which he added from time to time, “You hit the other guy with 100% abandonment, and he gets the recoil, you don’t.”

*******

Blood Pit was a deceptively simple, yet vicious tackling drill mechanism. Half of the team lined up to the coach’s right in front of, and perpendicular to, where he stood. The other half lined up to his left. An assistant coach stood opposite to the head coach. At the head coach’s whistle, the assistant coach threw a football to a player closest to him at the end of one of the two lines. The player who caught the ball was required to step (run) two to three steps to the middle of his end of the box formed by the two lines and the two coaches, and then turn and run toward the middle of the box. The player at the opposite end of the opposing line stepped (ran) two to three stepblood pit drills to the middle, turned and ran straight at the runner coming his way, cradling the football. The result was an intentional collision.

Sidestepping was not an option for either player. Loud, pad-on-pad crashes and rubber-mouth-guard squeals resounded with each hit as the other players watched and waited for their moment. 100% abandonment applied to Blood Pit, or you got hurt.

Amazingly, the mayhem could feel good when executed properly. Both tackled runner and his tackler, who had driven his shoulder pad into the runner’s midsection and then lifted and dropped him to the ground, returned to the end of the opposite line and shook off any residual butterflies and stars before they went again. Whoever hit better and faster… the recoil went forward into the other guy’s body.

Blood Pit, however, was a teaching method, which meant, of course, that inexperienced players often collided badly. Midsections became knees that jarred the helmets and heads of would-be tacklers. Leading with the head instead of getting it out of the way created painful impacts and injured or knocked-out players. Smelling salts, the coaches’ preferred remedy of choice back then, brought a player back to reality in a hurry—unfortunately, too often in time for a concussed player to run another round of Blood Pit in the same practice session.

We wouldn’t understand the physical consequences for decades.

The result? Some players departed as casualties of the game. Others in uniform learned quickly to tackle well, if only to avoid the pain and suffering of a prolonged learning curve. All players discovered how to tolerate pain—the better ones started to hit without reservation. Their craft—to adeptly stop opponents from gaining additional yardage and, at times, make them cough up the pigskin—required the patience of Job, considering the coach’s admonitions to “Never leave your feet too early,” and “keep your feet on the ground and keep them moving—drive through the guy.”

*******

As Merlano’s players we knew the incredible uplift and liberation of football. Once we mastered its ignominious collisions, we could savor the satisfaction that came from striking an oncoming locomotive (a fullback) at full speed, stopping it, and then lifting and dropping it right off its tracks. Superman’s elation at stopping speeding freight trains had to be similar.

For a well-executed tackle, the balm of words of praise from Merlano’s lips dissolved any lingering soreness. In the end, though, not Blood Pit but 100% abandonment dissipated our fears, corrected our sophomoric bravado and flat-lined our faults on the field and off. Merlano’s valuable lessons carried over to challenges found on the playing fields of daily living.

In games we played before cheering throngs, we annihilated most opposing teams no matter how big or fast they were. We hit hard, tackled hard and won our battles much in the same manner as Merlano and the Allied forces did against the Germans entrenched on Normandy’s beaches: with strategy, courage and 100% abandonment. We never asked how it was for the other guys—we already knew—and we relished every second of every 60-minute game on the gridiron.

At the high-school level most of us continued to play together on the same team. Under Coach Dick Bedesem, who compiled a 94-46-6 record in 13 seasons at Bishop Egan, winning five Catholic League championships and three Philadelphia city titles, we earned a reputation as a perennial powerhouse football club. The school had the trophies to show for it; we had our memories, and Lou Merlano quietly shared our pride and accomplishments both on and off the field.

The take-away? If one would be a champion, football and living are best played with 100% abandonment. 

© 2012 by Ronald Joseph Kule. All Rights Reserved.