Let me tell you a story.

A devoted father takes his four children out for a pontoon boat cruise on one of Florida’s wild and scenic rivers. The oldest son is nearly twelve. The youngest is only 18 months.

The trip is lovely, but somewhat uneventful, so he lets the oldest pilot the boat. Then the father, who grew up with Florida wildlife, sees a large alligator near the riverbank, which is dense with foliage and Spanish moss hanging from ancient trees. He tells the oldest son to cut the engine and drift toward the bank so they can get a closer look at the gator.

All’s well and good until they near the bank and the lone daughter yells “hornet’s nest” and points to a tree, directly in the path of the pontoon boat’s canopy. The canopy and the nest are destined to collide in seconds.

The father is faced with a terrible decision. In the water somewhere nearby is a twelve foot alligator. Seconds away in an inevitable collision with a basketball sized hornet’s nest, visually swarming with life. What should he do to protect his children? Should they jump into the water to escape the inevitable attack by the hornets, or should they stay in the boat to avoid the alligator?

What would you do? (more…)

With Hurricane Sandy and the Frankenstorm coming to many of you, I wanted something quick and entertaining today, just in case you still have power wherever you are.  Author M.J. Rose had the following on her Facebook Page, and I decided it fit the bill.  She says a friend forwarded it to her, so, for now, the author has to be anonymous.  If I discover who wrote it (or if you do) please tell me so I can add it here.  In the meantime smile, and if you’re in Sandy’s path, stay safe.

After I retired, my wife insisted that I accompany her on her trips to Wal Mart. Unfortunately, like most men, I found shopping boring and preferred to get in and get out. Equally unfortunate, my wife is like most women – she loves to browse. Yesterday my dear wife received the following letter from the local Wal Mart:

Dear Mrs . Spencer,

Over the past six months, your husband has caused quite a commotion in our store. We cannot tolerate this behavior and have been forced to ban both of you from the store.

Our complaints against your husband, Mr. Spencer, are listed below and are documented by our video surveillance cameras:

1. June 15: He took 24 boxes of condoms (size small) and randomly put them in other people’s carts when they weren’t looking.

2. July 2: Set all the alarm clocks in Housewares to go off at 5-minute intervals.

3. July 7: He made a trail of tomato juice on the floor leading to the women’s restroom.

4. July 19: Walked up to an employee and told her in an official voice, “Code 3 in Housewares. Get on it right away.” This caused the employee to leave her assigned station and receive a reprimand from her Supervisor that in turn resulted with a union grievance, causing management to lose time and costing the company money. We don’t have a Code 3.

5. August 4: Went to the Service Desk and tried to put a bag of M&Ms on layaway.

6. August 14: Moved a ‘CAUTION – WET FLOOR’ sign to a carpeted area.

7. August 15: Set up a tent in the camping department and told the children shoppers he’d invite them in if they would bring pillows and blankets from the bedding department, to which twenty children obliged.

8. August 23: When a clerk asked if they could help him he began crying and EMTs were called.

9. September 4: Looked right into the security camera and used it as a mirror while he picked his nose.

10. September 10: While handling guns in the hunting department, he asked the clerk where the antidepressants were.

11. October 3: Darted around the store suspiciously while loudly humming the ‘Mission Impossible’ theme.

12. October 6: In the auto department, he practiced his ‘Madonna look’ using different sizes of funnels.

13. October 18: Hid in a clothing rack and when people browsed through, yelled “PICK ME! PICK ME!”

14. October 22: When an announcement came over the loud speaker, he assumed a fetal position and screamed, “OH NO! IT’S THOSE VOICES AGAIN!”

15. Took a box of condoms to the checkout clerk and asked, “Where is the fitting room?”

And last, but not least:

16. October 23: Went into a fitting room, shut the door, waited awhile, and then yelled very loudly, “Hey! There’s no toilet paper in here.” One of the clerks passed out.

Thanks, MJ!

I’ll confess, I rarely find time to read the newspaper.  This shames me to admit it, so I’ll quickly add that I do read stories online every day.  On my iGoogle homepage, I get the highlights from the New York Times, the Washington Post,  The Huffington Post Blog Feed, BBC, and Time Magazine.  However when I take the time to actually read the Washington Post section by section, I’m always amazed at what I find on those pages that scanning online headlines didn’t give me.

I knew how horrifying the recent swath of tornadoes were for people in Alabama and beyond, but reading this story put a human face on that disaster for me.  Two families, connected by the excesses of Mother Nature, one in Alabama, one in Tennessee.  The Tennessee family finds a pay stub brought to their home by the winds, the Alabama family, to whom it belonged, is contacted.  The Tennessee family, which has so little in the way of resources, finds it cannot let go of what’s happened to these strangers so far away.  The story’s about the best within us, and the way we sometimes reach out in the most personal of ways.  I was mesmerized and happy to be human.  Read it.  You will be, as well. 

Then there’s the atheist who’s planning to capitalize on the Rapture (coming to a town near you on May 21st) by signing contracts with those religious folk  who believe they will be among the  ”raptured” and are worried about the pets they’ll leave behind.  Said atheist, Bart Centre, promises that for a fee paid up front (because hard cash will likely be scarce in the Great Beyond) his caregivers, who must be atheists themselves–lest they be raptured too–will  find homes for the pets when the owners disappear in a flash. 

And no, I am not making this up.

And here’s a little snippet from an article about sunscreen protection.  “She (refers to Olga Naidenko, a senior scientist at Environmental Working Group) adds that since the Food and Drug Administration has yet to finalize sunscreen regulations (a process underway since 1978), manufacturers are not required to show that their products work or to substantiate claims about them.”  1978?  Somebody’s joking, right?  In 33 years they can’t finalize sunscreen regulations?  Who knew even the government could be that inefficient?

I spoke about my writing career yesterday and as always, I was asked where my ideas come from.   One morning with my favorite newspaper is all it takes, folks.  And I haven’t even mentioned the obituaries. . .  Stay tuned.

I’ll be away from home for the next two weeks, but I’ll continue to blog.  Next Friday I’ll tell you what a week of brainstorming with fellow writers, this time in Cleveland, OH, has taught me about the book in progress and writing in general.  At least, that’s the plan.

On a separate note?  Don’t forget to send a pie recipe, story, reminiscence, etc. to enter the Great Pie Giveaway.  More details on my contest page or here.

Today I’m on my way to Hamburg, Germany, where I’ll be doing publicity for my German TV movies, plus spending time with my German publisher, CORA Verlag.  I wrote this blog in preparation, but I’ll catch you up on my trip next Friday.  Meantime enjoy.

Let me tell you about my secret addiction.  Nothing illegal, mind you, not even shameful.   I’m hopelessly attached to the Merriam-Webster online game of the day.  Along with a cup of coffee, a half-hour walk with beagle Nemo, my daily email from my good friend Casey Daniels, a bowl of my husband’s muesli and a peek at my Facebook page, I have to play whatever Merriam-Webster cooked up for me that day before I can hunker down and write.

The M-W site has a cycle of five different games, and while we wait for the day’s game to load, we can peruse the site’s Top Ten Lists, their Trend Watch (did you know Charlie Sheen popularized the word “charlatan?”) or their Word Well Used.  Since writers love words, this pause in my day is a good one.

Recently the Top Ten List has been “Ten Rare and Amusing Insults.”  Always on a search for oaths my characters can mutter that will not get me in trouble with the Four-Letter-Word-Police–who are alive and well and happy to tell me how disappointed they are in my occasional lapse–I paged through, looking for new possibilities.

What springs to mind when you read “cockalorum?”  And yes, several things, but this is a G-rated blog.  For our purposes today a cockalorum is a boastful, strutting little fellow, like my rooster here.  I’d say Brownie Kefauver, in my Ministry is Murder series might deserve this one.  Level your finger and shout:  “You, cockalorum, you!”  Bring anybody to mind?  Do you know anybody in your immediate life who fits the cockalorum bill?  I’ve filed the word away, although something tells me I’ll have to write fantasy or at least medieval historicals to use it.  The word hails from an obsolete Dutch verb, and until I have an obsolete Dutchman strutting through my novel, cockalorum‘s probably going to stay on the shelf.

Then there’s lickspittle.  I’ve heard that one, haven’t you?  The definition is pretty easy to come up with if you break it into two words.  Know any lickspittles?  Actually, now that I think about it, poor Brownie Kefauver (this is “Dump on Brownie” day) fits this one, as well.  When he’s not strutting he’s, well, licking spittle. 

Smellfungus was word number three, an excessive fault-finder.  I like this one for Brownie’s wife, Hazel, who, alas (this is a mystery series, remember) didn’t live past book three. 

Snollygoster was word number four.  Now that’s a word I could sink my teeth into.  “You wretched snollygoster, Bernie Madoff, you took my home, my income, and my little dog Blue, all because I trusted you with Granny’s millions!”  Of course Bernie Madoff is no joke and deserved a worse insult, but he fits the “unprincipled but shrewd,” definition like his hands fit his kidskin gloves.  Pettifogger, another word on the list, is similar, only it refers to lawyers.  Since I have three (lawyers, not pettifoggers)  in my immediate family, I will not comment further.

There are more words, and more lists at the Merriam Webster website.  If you love words, have fun with these.  Maybe I’ll meet you between “Ten Unusually Long and Interesting Words,” and “Ten Words with Remarkable Origins.”  Just don’t expect to see too many of these wonderful words used in my novels.  I’m not a ninnyhammer or a mumpsimus, but I do believe in clarity and brevity.  I don’t want you to read my work with a dictionary in hand.  Not even a Merriam-Webster.

One of the joys of living in Northern Virginia is experiencing the past.  So much American history was made right here, and no drive into the nation’s capital goes by without finding a building I’ve never noticed before, in which events that rocked the world took place.

When the National Park Service recently offered a chance to visit Arlington House, the former  home of Robert E. Lee–in what is now Arlington Cemetery–I jumped at the opportunity.  The event was a kick-off for the commemoration of the sesquicentennial of the Civil War, which will be observed over the next five years.  This particular event was a look at the presidential election of 1860, in which four candidates competed for office.  As part of the evening’s entertainment, we were to listen to four re-enactors stumping for “their” candidate, then vote, even those of us of the female persuasion, and those people of color among us, neither of which had any say in the real election.

We’re particularly interested in all things Lincoln at my house.  My husband’s family claims a relationship through a great-great-grandmother who was a cousin of Lincoln’s mother.  As these things go, the story is more fun than doing the actual geneaology would be.  But, of course, we went to cast our vote for Cousin Abe.

The evening was perfect, cool and clear, and the road leading up to Arlington House was softly illuminated by lanterns.  Our National Park Service guide was charming and well-informed, and the walk to the house was lovely with a moon shining brightly and the lights of the city below. As we were serenaded by a period brass band, our mission was to listen to supporters of each of the four candidates give stump speeches, complete with costumes and soap boxes, and decide for ourselves which man–of course they were all men–to vote for.  In a gesture of 21st century concilliation, even the women and people of color in the crowd were allowed to cast ballots.

That’s when the evening began to feel “real” to me.  Because even though 150 years have passed since the campaign leading up to Lincoln’s election (in which 60% of voters voted AGAINST him) listening to the various candidates’ supporters, I felt as if I were sitting in front of my own television set, watching the increasingly obnoxious ads in the Maryland governor’s race and local Virginia races too numerous to mention.

Without fail, in almost every one of these campaigns, past and present, the ads or speakers have twisted the facts about the other candidate’s record, refused to address the real issues facing the people they want to govern, avoided giving any actual information about their plans for our future or how they’ll go about accomplishing them.  They promise no new taxes, while also promising expensive solutions.  They point fingers, avoid answering questions and hope that buzz words will carry the day instead of logic.  Those with money  try to buy their way into our voting booths.

Lincoln’s campaigner was every bit as off key as the rest.   I wonder if, at the end of that particular speech, Lincoln would have stepped forward to say, “I’m Abraham Lincoln, and I approved this message.”

This is a serious time in our country’s history, and the following is not a partisan request. Whatever you do, whomever you vote for, together let’s “ignore” the ads and the speeches and the cute nicknames that tell us nothing we need to know when we go to the polls on Tuesday.  Let’s do our homework and vote with clear heads for the candidates who have been honest and taken a risk to tell us what they believe and really plan to do.   Maybe if we do, eventually, candidates will begin to do more of the same.

A hundred and fifty years have gone by since the election of 1860, but despite a flawed process, I think we made a good choice with Cousin Abe.  Now let’s wend our way through the garbage strewn trail of television lies, and do it again this year.

Our TiVo died.  Not without fanfare, and certainly not without warning.  For the past four months, in the  most interesting part of any program, the picture was nearly guaranteed to break up, the progress of the story halted as we rooted for TiVo to heal itself and continue until we discovered who had killed whom.  Foolishly I hoped that TiVo’s lapses were signs of a passing illness, best addressed by watching some of the many shows we had saved and freeing the hard drive for a little R&R.  But not to be.  Even the good folks at telephone support agreed that TiVo, who had served us so well for so many years, had succumbed for all time.

We have two televisions, an ancient big screen with the potential for high definition cable–once we figure out how to hook it up without TiVo as the mediator.  And a small (?) 27″ with minimal cable access.  Our evenings have changed drastically.  What, watch what’s actually ON?  I think not.  Or pull the big TV away from the wall and try to figure out how to get it working again?  Horrors!  (more…)

Some dilemmas are so easily resolved, but it takes creativity.  Recently when my publisher “gifted” me with multiple cartons of my upcoming re-releases, I raised my hands to the heavens and shrieked.  Ask my assistant, she was there.  There is simply no place to put more books.  I already have a gazillion cartons–including my lovely Quilt Along With Emilie Richards volumes–hidden all over my house.  In closets.  Under tables.  In piles alone my office wall.  Not an inch of storage space is left.  Not anywhere.

I don’t live in a shoe.  I have a large house, purchased when the last child of my four was still home.  My husband and I both need home offices, and we’re a clergy family so entertaining comes with the territory.  At the time, a house that fit all those needs was essential, and while not the best designed house in Virginia, it suited our needs.  Which means that in addition to those already mentioned logistics, the house needed gardeners willing to do a lot of work on the back yard.  Sold. (more…)

The subject of this blog?  Oddly enough, not the reviews for Fortunate Harbor.  Yes, the book’s out now, and yes there have been lots of reviews, the vast majority, I’m happy to say, good ones like this from Publishers Weekly: “A juicy, sprawling beach read with a suspenseful twist. . .”  Or this from Randall Radic at Basil and Spice online who called the book: “ . . . a how-to manual for guys about women.  How they think.  How they feel.  And why they act the way they do.” 

But an author defending unflattering reviews is a lot like a chef demanding a retraction from the restaurant critic who pointed out there was too much salt in the gumbo.  Fact is, opinions are opinions.  And these days, not only does everybody have them, everybody and anybody can put them online with the click of a computer mouse.   Since I’m a big fan of reviews–taken with a grain of that aforementioned salt–I say bravo.  But let’s be clear about what a review really is. (more…)

There I was on the telephone with my county treasurer’s office, holding in my hand the threatening letter they’d sent because my annual application for a business license had been two days late, and, according to their records, my 10% fine had not yet been paid.

I had paid it, of course, immediately after receiving the notice.  In fact, by the time I made the call, I’d paid the county a whale of a lot of money, which my bank had verified in a phone call.  Every person I spoke to had admitted that checks took days and sometimes weeks to post, and mine could well be somewhere between the vendor who collects them and county accounts. Still, the letter had gone out, regardless. 

I don’t want to rail about being forced to buy a license to sit in my pajamas and stare out the window–all too often a day’s work for a writer.  I won’t even shout that I pay the same percentage rate for my license to daydream as hotels and real estate agencies pay to do business, and more than shopping centers and restaurants.  Or even to point out that when they “threatened” to seize my property, I invited them to help themselves to all my pencil stubs, half-used legal pads, even my dog-eared thesaurus.  (My imagination?  No, I’m keeping that, thanks.)

The license snafu has ended for the year.  During phone call number six I was told my check had arrived at last, dated just as I’d told them, and all was forgiven.

Except, apparently it hasn’t been forgiven, since the episode is still on my mind.

(more…)

Even if you’re a smoker, you have to love this one.