An Excerpt from LOVE'S GIFT

 Love's Gift is now available with Kindle Unlimited! Go to Amazon and read the reviews. Then enjoy this excerpt. 

    

    As they wandered along the path through the garden, they came upon a bench beneath an arbor.
Pink roses climbed up the wooden framework, forming a shady haven from the hot sun overhead.
    "If you don’t mind, I would like to sit for a while," William said.

    "The sun is quite intense today.‛ Amaranth sat on the opposite site of the bench.
    "Why didn’t you like the escargot at lunch?" William asked. "It is a delicacy and quite delicious."
    "It was like eating rubber." Amaranth admitted. "The garlic butter sauce was very tasty, but it would be
nicer served on noodles."
    "Noodles are ordinary."
    Amaranth thought she heard a touch of arrogance in his tone. "I like them very much."
    You seemed to like the pudding more than anything." William noted.

    "I adore pudding." Amaranth clasped her hands together and drew in a great breath. "I helped Mrs.

Devine make pudding many times, and I never let the pudding burn on the bottom of the pot."
    "A very specific talent, I’m sure."
    Amaranth frowned. Was he being sarcastic? But due to the tilt of his chin and his exasperated sigh, he
was undoubtedly bored. "Have you ever cooked anything?"
    He turned his head and frowned at her. "My grandfather and I pan fried the fish we caught."
    She nodded. "I am glad to know you haven’t always been waited on."
    He gave her a fierce glare.
    "Frying fish is different from making pudding." She explained. "It takes a great deal of care to be sure
the pudding doesn’t burn on the bottom of the pot. Patience is needed for you must stir the pudding as it
thickens."
    "And you have that kind of patience." He lifted one eyebrow in speculation.
    "For pudding, yes." Amaranth’s stomach remained quite full after that meal. Perhaps she overindulged. She put a hand on her stomach. Maybe she would not need to eat for several days.
     "You do seem to possess in infinite amount of persistence in typing my mother’s endless letters." He
crossed his arms and leaned back as a cooling breeze rustled the leaves surrounding them in the arbor.
    "Typing is not difficult for me." She remained proficient in avoiding errors, an important distinction
when it came to skill. However, in life, when she let her emotions and dreams get in the way, she made
mistakes. Like picking the hydrangea and longing to put her feet into the ocean. Regrets assailed her. She
hated making mistakes.
    "Is there anything you find challenging?" he asked.
    Amaranth’s pulse sped up. Had he read her mind? She couldn’t tell him about her emotions and foolish
ideas. She swallowed hard. 

    "I am tempted to eat all of Mrs. Herpin’s cookies." That was true enough.
    William let out a hearty laugh. "What? And not slip a few to Tulip?"
    Amaranth’s heart lifted hearing the joy in his voice. "I most certainly would share some with Tulip.
After all, our friendship is based on Mrs. Herpin’s cookies."
    "What is our friendship based on?" he asked.
    Amaranth froze for several seconds before she stuttered. "Y-You’re the son of my employer."
    "That sounds rather dull." He twisted up one side of his mouth.
    "It…it is true though." Momentary panic washed through her, and she twisted her hands. All the sweet
residue of pudding in her mouth turned sour. "We can’t be friends after all."
    "Yes, best to keep things cut and dry." He stood. "We should be getting back soon." He went off in
search of his mother.
    Amaranth stayed in the arbor. A cold chill gripped her when William walked away, and it wasn’t due to
the shady interior. She didn’t want to make William mad, but he acted as if he were. She didn’t think he
liked her much at all. Sometimes, he seemed kind and concerned, but often his moods were mercurial. Also, it bothered her that he wouldn’t forgive his father as he should.
    Sister Felicia would have been very upset with his attitude on that score.

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How Did I Become a Writer?

 When I tell people my father was a journalist, they automatically assume that's why I'm a writer. That is most likely half the truth. Dad wrote articles for the Jersey Journal for forty years. He was very much concerned about libel and slander. Current events were part of every dinner table discussion when I was growing up. Dad loved to talk politics. 

However, my mother was more of a storyteller than Dad. In fact, everyone in her family could spin ordinary events into something far more interesting with outrageous embellishments. Their delivery had me hanging on every word.

The photo above shows my maternal grandparents and their bridal party. My grandparents are in the center of this photo. I am not sure about the other people in the picture. I assume most of them are my grandmother's siblings but I can't pick out who is who. Though I'm guessing that's Aunt Honey on the right. 

Grandma was the oldest child in her family and had many younger siblings. Grandma came to this country at the age of three, in 1903, with her parents. 

My grandparents had seven children of their own, two daughters and five brothers. My mom was the second oldest--and had an anecdote for everything. My grandma could spin a fine yarn, too. In fact, ALL of grandma's seven children had a knack for making any incident seem like a grand adventure.

I spent a lot of time listening to all of them--and enjoying their tales. So, when it comes to influence in wrting, I give them quite a bit of credit. 

Last week, my oldest daughter sent an article to me about children’s imaginary friends. She thought I still had imaginary friends. The truth is that I don’t have imaginary friends. I have a lifetime of stories handed to me by all my entertaining relatives. I’m just writing them down with several embellishments to make them more fascinating, of course.

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Dirt Is Fun

This photo was taken in 1956, my mother made a note of that on the back of the photo. Our family had not been living in Cliffwood Beach for long at that point. The house still had simple plywood siding. That's me on the left, my brother, my sister, and my mother whose hair is still red. 😊 Treasure Lake is below us and beyond the lake is Raritan Bay. On a clean day, it was easy to see NYC directly across the bay. Growing up in Cliffwood Beach was delightful. 

I am poking in the dirt in the photograph. Dirt is great for kids. We played in the dirt all the time. We made houses in the dirt with sticks. We made our own little towns in the dirt. We dug in the dirt and made holes to play golf. We didn't have golf clubs, we just pushed the ball with a stick and made our own game. 

Imagination is a wonderful thing. Toys are not a necessary item for children. Dirt and sticks work, too. 

When I was teaching, I was surprised to find that some parents didn't want their children to play in the sandbox. As a result, at the age of four, some children in my class were afraid to get their fingers dirty, which I thought was very sad. Those children already lost a part of the key to their own ingenuity. 

Dirt is a good thing. You can grow things in it You can find worms in it and worms are nice creatures who help us. I used to give a lesson on worms in the classroom. Some of the parents were horrified so I stopped.😟

My sister in the photograph went to Cook College and got a Masters in Horticulture. I think she was inspired by the dirt in our yard. We had a lovely childhood. 

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Another New Graphic for LOVE'S GIFT!

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Stunning Book Video for LOVE'S GIFT!

A book trailer for Love's Gift. Available today! Get it for $3 at the publisher's website: https://pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=68_38_54_57&products_id=1678

LOVE'S GIFT Available On March 8th!

 LOVE'S GIFT will be available at all major ebook distributors on March 8th. The reviews are coming in and they are great! You can read them at Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/213577166-love-s-gift

This is an inspirational historical romance set in 1903. Here are some of the places you can find it:

Amazon
Barnes&Noble
Kobo
Apple

Don't miss out on this one. 

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Print the Photos of Your Life

Since I was very young in this photo, I do not remember riding in this stroller, but I look happy, probably because I'm in the front seat. 😁 My brother is behind me looking a bit bewildered. My brother and I were born one year and ten days apart. So, for most of my young life I had a companion, when our younger sisters were born many years later, we always referred to them as "the kids" as if we were infinitely wiser and more knowledgeable. 

I had a happy childhood. Unfortunately, I remember the sad and scary parts much more vividly than the ordinary, everyday joys, which is why I am truly grateful I have the old photographs. No photographs exist of the sad and scary parts of my life, though they are embedded in my memory. Looking at the images of happy times helps to remind me of the many blessings I enjoyed over my lifetime. I survived the unhappy events. 

Some folks say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I believe what doesn't kill you enables you to be more compassionate and empathetic. However, I am firmly convinced there is a caveat for learning to be compassionate and empathetic since some folks go through hard times and become meaner and filled with hate. But my parents were wonderful role models, and despite the troubles they had, they always helped others. They always believed in equality and the dignity of all people. 

Life isn't always easy. But there are always some good parts. My advice is to take pictures of the happy times and even the ordinary events. Print the pictures, or make them into books. Save the memories to remind yourself that sometimes life is wonderful. 

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The Keeper's Secret Book Trailer!

 This is so awesome! It doesn't take long to watch and it will give you an idea of what the book is about--just like a movie trailer. The book has many positive reviews. So enjoy this mini movie. 

You can find the book at: 

Amazon
Barnes&Noble
Kobo
Pelican Book Group

Online Interview!

     Less than a month from now I will have an online interview at the Wayne Public Library on March 3rd at 7 PM. I have no idea what questions the librarian will ask, but I’ll do my best to answer them, though talking about writing and my books is always fun. I am looking forward to this and I hope some of you can watch.

     So, save the date! 

   

Excerpt from THE KEEPER'S SECRET

I've visited many lighthouses, both here in NJ and elsewhere. Symbolically, lighthouses are a beacon of hope but until the advent of GPS, they were important navigational aids. In 1789, our Congress approved the Lighthouse Act, which was the first public works program in our country. 

When I wrote THE KEEPER'S SECRET, I intended for the lighthouse to be that symbolic beacon of hope for the hero and heroine. Below is a short excerpt from Chapter 7.

    Evie set the tray on a small table and poured the tea. After handing one mug to Bryce, she settled into the swing beside him.

    He rocked gently back and forth. "I’ll go slow so we won’t spill the tea," he reassured her.

    She closed her eyes, welcoming the warmth of the mug in her hands. The swing swayed rhythmically with the slight tap of Bryce’s feet. She sipped her tea, listened to the night sounds of the quiet street and tingled in awareness of the man beside her.

    "I’ll toss out some ideas." The rumble of his deep bass vibrated through her body.

    She assumed she would hear one of Bryce’s lectures. He harangued her on a regular basis during that last year of high school. A pang of regret pierced her. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t turn her from her wild ways.

    "Does the Lord test people?" he asked. "And if He does, am I getting an F?"

    Feeling uncertain and inadequate when it came to issues of faith, Evie wished Jessica hadn’t gone to sleep. "Life isn’t like school."

    "All right, let’s say it’s based on the point system and I’m getting close to the maximum number."

    "No. The Lord doesn’t hand out parking and speeding tickets. He doesn’t take away your license."

    "He puts you in everlasting pain."

    Evie winced. She’d questioned Jessica on almost that identical point. At least she knew the response to that one. "He loves you. He made you and wants you to spend eternity with Him. He’ll forgive you. He’ll never abandon you."

    "What if you lose your faith in Him?"

    "Because of your father?"

    "Not just my father." He put his feet down and stopped the swing. He lowered his head. "There’s more to it."

    She waited, but in the tense silence he didn’t seem to want to lay his soul bare. That might be a good thing because she didn’t know how she would handle it. Perhaps the tension of his job weighed on him.

    "Everyone doubts," she said after a few moments. "You must simply go on trusting the Lord and praying."

    "That doesn’t work." A touch of sorrow welled in his deep brown eyes as he leaned back, sliding one hand along the top edge of the swing. Warmth radiated off his skin, just inches from hers. "I thought, since I was a Christian, the Lord would make things easier for me. He hasn’t."

    "Sometimes the Lord has other plans. Better plans," Evie stumbled through an explanation.

    "I haven’t read the Bible in a long time, but last night I went through the Beatitudes. It didn’t help. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers’...I thought that’s what I was...but I’m not...not by any stretch of the imagination."

    "You’re trying to be a peacemaker. That’s what counts." Evie’s throat ached. In doing his job, he’d put her in jail. She swallowed hard, but though her eyes grew misty, she must be brave. "The whole point of the Beatitudes is that the Lord promises a great reward in heaven, even if we have a tough time here on earth." Evie wished Bryce took his problem to Pastor Strauss. The pastor knew so much more about being a Christian than she ever would. "The Lord never promised that everything would be easy, but He did promise to be with us, each one of us, all the time."

    "The Lord does not send replies," Bryce muttered.

    "He does, but you have to listen."

    "I’ve dealt with people who claim to hear the Lord. They are always mentally unstable."

    Evie’s courage failed her.

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You can find  THE KEEPER'S SECRET at all the major ebook distributors. 

Amazon
Barnes&Noble
Kobo
Pelican Book Group

Traveling A Cappella

     This is a very old photo of my siblings and I. I am the tall one with the striped shirt. My brother made a very awesome buggy out of scrap lumber, a discarded Christmas display, rope, and old wheels. The engine was environmentally friendly, but it had limits. It worked best going downhill. 😊
     The buggy was just for fun. For genuine transportation, my family used a Rambler station wagon, which is on the right in the photo. My father used that car to get to work and back everyday. We also went to the grocery store, the doctor, and into town. For us in those days, the town was Keyport, which wasn't a big town but it had a bakery, a Chinese restaurant, and a 5 & 10 cent store, Newberry's, which was our favorite store. 

     When Dad took a vacation, we piled into the Rambler and took a long trip out to visit my grandparents in western Pennsylvania and then went into Ohio to see my aunt and cousins. 

     The station wagon did not have air conditioning. My hair became impossibly tangled in the wind whipping through the windows. The car had an AM radio and it was difficult to pull in signals when driving through the mountains. Most often we sang our way to my grandparents' house. My mother led the singing. She liked to sing. Since she was in Marines during World War II, we always started off with the Marine's Hymn. They we sang the rest of the military songs, The Army Goes Rolling Along, as so forth. I always get teary-eyed when I hear those songs now. 

     Mom sang popular songs from her youth in the 1920s and the 1930s, too. I grew up knowing a lot of old songs. 

     One summer, I took accordion lessons. My parents rented a small twelve bass accordion and for ten weeks, they paid for me to learn music. When we went out to Pennsylvania that summer, the accordion went with us. I sat all the way in the back of the car with the luggage and played the accordion. That year, we all had accompaniment for our singing.

     The accordion lessons didn't last past the ten weeks. After that, the accordion school insisted my parents had to buy a huge 120 bass accordion for me. It was very expensive and also very heavy. My parents could not afford it. Also, my father took one look at the accordion and did not believe skinny little me could ever manage it. 

     So the next trip out to Pennsylvania was again a cappella, which was fine. We sang all of Mom's favorites and learned them by heart. 

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Health Care in the Old Days

      That’s my brother in front with the airplane and the cowboy boots. I’m right behind him with similar cowboy boots. This photo was taken in Jersey City—before we moved to Cliffwood Beach. It was also taken before my brother, at the age of 5,  jumped off the porch one day imitating Superman. He didn't fly. He broke his arm. My family had hospital insurance, so the broken arm was fixed. However, back in the old days, the only health insurance we had was for a visit to the hospital. Any visits to the doctor for illnesses or well check-ups were not covered. 

     The pediatrician who cared for me and my siblings charged $3 for an office visit and $5 for a house visit. Once I heard him compliment our family by calling us "God-fearing" people. As I child, I wasn't quite sure about that term but I knew we had to behave ourselves. 

     The pediatrician was a good diagnostician, too. When one of our neighbor's daughters became very ill, my mom told the family to take the child to our pediatrician. He knew what the problem was. While the young girl went through a long recovery, she did get better. Of course, Mom made cream puffs for the family so I'm sure that cheered them up. At least, a bit. 

     For the most part, we didn't see the doctor unless we were quite sick. Three dollars doesn't sound like a lot nowadays, but it was a lot in the 1950s. (You can see a list of the cost of other items here.) Of course, salaries were far less back then, too)

     Mom always had clean rags and oatmeal poultices to cure cuts and scrapes. Most of the time my siblings and I had the usual childhood diseases. We also had our tonsils removed. On some occasions we needed antibiotics and then we had to see the doctor. But our pediatrician was a kind and understanding man. When my youngest sister developed pneumonia from the measles, he did not recommend the hospital for her since he knew it would be a traumatic experience for one so young. She was a sensitive child. The doctor had a nurse come to the house and care for my sister. I have no idea how much that cost. But my poor mother needed some sleep, so it actually helped the entire family.  

    That pediatrician was a real hero, in my point of view. Our family was very blessed to have such a wonderful doctor caring for us.

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In The Old Days

     There are people who believe the old days were the best. Since I am now 75, I look back at growing up in the 1950s and remember not everything was rosy in those days. Some aspects were positive, especially since it was a relatively peaceful time in the world, but there were still difficulties, especially for women.      

     My mother and father were married in 1947. My brother was born in 1948. A year and ten days later, I was born. My mother had Rh negative blood. My blood was Rh positive, so I’m lucky I’m here. Nowadays, there is an injection (RhoGAM) available to women who are Rh negative so that their antibodies do not attack the Rh positive baby in their womb. My mother gave birth to another little girl in 1952, but that baby died only a few days afterward. 

Polio was a terrible scourge at the time. At the age of three, I was suddenly unable to walk. My parents took me to the hospital where I was put into isolation, since the doctors thought I might have polio. Being in a large empty room, in a crib, is one of my first memories. Fortunately, whatever I had vanished with the aid of antibiotics. 

Mom gave birth to another girl in 1954. She was healthy. 

My brother and I started school and proceeded to be sick much of the time with measles, chicken pox, and other diseases. Fortunately, the polio vaccine became available and we were spared from getting that horrible disease.

Mom and Dad bought a very unfinished house. It was what they could afford on a journalist’s salary. It needed interior walls, insulation, and sheetrock to make it livable. Dad took my brother with him on weekends for assistance. My brother was seven, but he could hand Dad nails and such. We moved into the house in 1955. 

Mom became pregnant again. This time she started bleeding and the doctor feared she would lose the baby due to a miscarriage. My mother spent the rest of that pregnancy sitting down with her feet elevated. It was at that time my mom taught me to embroider and crochet. Mom was an artist and she liked being busy. She decided on a taking a mail order course to become an interior decorator. She finished the course. My youngest sister was born in 1958. 

By that time, I was eight years old and my poor mother was worn out. I was old enough to reach the knobs on the stove, to hang out the laundry on the line to dry, to change my sister’s diapers, and do a myriad of other household chores. 

Meanwhile, my maternal grandfather came for a visit and encouraged my father to dig out a basement under the house. That project lasted for many years. Obviously, my father still had a full time job at the newspaper, but on weekends he used a pick ax to dig through the solid clay under the house. Often, my brother helped Dad by taking wheelbarrows full of clay out of the basement and dumping it on the hill. I helped by bringing Dad large mugs of coffee. Sometimes, I played with the clay as did my sisters.

This division of labor worked quite well. Now and then my brother and I would get some time off to go on adventures. We considered our younger sisters “the kids.” My brother built a small go cart, which we called a buggy, from leftover nails, old baby carriage wheels, odd pieces of scrap lumber, and a rope. Most often, I was the engine, which I deemed quite unfair. My brother decided the solution was for both of us to ride our buggy down Cinder Hill, an unpaved street with a steep incline that went right to the edge of the bay. 

As we started to zip down the hill, a car came up the hill towards us. My brother made a sharp turn to the right. I was thrown into the gravel at the side and my brother landed underneath the buggy. We were scratched up but nothing was broken. However, that was the last time we went down Cinder Hill.

Did you grow up in the 1950s? What were some of your youthful experiences?