Guest Post: Kimberly M. Miller and Her Latest Release FORGIVING TESS

Way back in October 2017, I read Picking Daisy, a debut novel by Kimberly M. Miller. I loved it and wrote a review, which you can read on Goodreads. It was a charming tale, full of heart and compassion. 

As it turns out, Kimberly M. Miller has written another romance and I am honored to have her as a guest on my blog today. She is a writing and film professor by day, author by night. She enjoys watching movies, making jewelry, and creating fun stories for her readers. Currently, Kimberly has two published novels, Picking Daisy and Forgiving Tess, but she looks forward to bringing more romance your way soon!

She's offered us all a treat today--an excerpt from Forgiving Tess. The book already has many wonderful reviews. So sit back, relax, and enjoy.

Excerpt from Forgiving Tess

The doors squeaked open and Tess Carson stepped outside where a wave of heat hit hard, making her want to dive back into the air-conditioned safety of the bus. She wondered whether her skin was melting as sweat trickled down her arm and dripped onto the pavement with a sizzle.

Tess was annoyed at everything and yet trying desperately not to be. The trouble was that her life, the humidity, the stiff-backed bus seats, and especially Uncle Stu—who’d dragged her along on this mission trip—seemed bent on reminding her of all that continued to war against her. It was the first time she’d been away from Maple Ridge in nearly two years. She wasn’t sure she was ready. Not that she was given a choice. Uncle Stu made sure she was coming along, otherwise, he promised he wouldn’t bail her out again.

And she believed him.

“Come on, let’s get settled.” Uncle Stu walked by, his backpack shouldered on one side of his body. He wasn’t a tall man, but his presence made up for it. He was kind, firm, and lately the only person remaining who was willing to give his niece another chance.

Tess drew a deep breath, certain her hair was rapidly turning to thick and unruly frizz in the humidity. As if she cared what anyone thought of her appearance anymore.

“I still don’t get why you hate me,” Tess muttered as she tugged her backpack higher on her shoulder. While she didn’t care that she’d left a majority of her minimal wardrobe at home, it did bother her that this pit stop after graduation from nursing school meant she was forced to wait even longer to begin applying for work that would take her away from trouble and into the rest of her life.

It was a move she needed desperately.

“That’s not how you change, mouthy,” Uncle Stu said, using his nickname for her—one, he insisted, she deserved.

Humph. Tess never cared much for Uncle Stu’s wisdom, no matter how right he always was.

“I can change without frying to death.”

Stu glanced at the group of people from his church who volunteered to go from Pennsylvania to the small town near Cocoa Beach to help build a youth center for their sister church there. Tess slowly followed him toward the bunkhouse.

“You aren’t going to fry to death,” he muttered. “And I’d stop complaining. Nearly everyone else took time from work-some of them vacation time that they could be spending laying on a beach instead of working near one.”

Tess searched her uncle’s deep brown eyes and nodded. Everyone else danced around the subject instead of getting to it, but not Stu. He told Tess the truth and refused to hold back even when it was hard.

Maybe that was why she trusted him.

“You’re right. I’m working on it. Scouts honor.”

Stu nodded and reached out to give her a big hug. “Love you, kid. Come on.” He started walking toward the large building in front of them. They’d arrived at a church complex that was a neighbor to the church in Cocoa Beach where they were going to be helping rebuild a youth center that was badly damaged by a tropical storm. A neighboring church offered to allow the use of its activities building to feed the workers, who would sleep in bunkhouses around back. Since it was only a short walk to where they’d be working, it was a great set up.

Tess followed her uncle until she realized she’d left a bag in the cargo hold of the bus. “I’ll catch up,” she said. “I forgot the extra Bibles.”

Stu nodded and kept going as Tess turned and ran back to the bus where several members of the team were divvying up their luggage. She hung back, waiting for a chance to grab her bag. She wasn’t likely to make friends with many of the people on the trip, which was better anyway. Tess had burned a lot of bridges in the last few years, and making amends was difficult. Besides, if she didn’t make friends, there would be no problem keeping them.

“Need a hand?” a deep voice asked behind her. Tess turned and found herself facing a broad chest. She raised her eyes and was stunned to find the familiar blue eyes of her childhood friend Joshua Thorne, a man she hadn’t seen in over twelve years.

What was he doing here?

Tess was certain her heart stopped beating and her knees went weak. She drew a breath in an effort to find strength.

Inwardly she groaned. Those sweet dimples were even sweeter now.

Josh lived next door to Tess and her family for seven years of their childhood, and he’d been best friends with Tess’s brother, Brody. The boys played on softball and basketball teams together—and of course a little football too, while Tess, who was five years younger, trailed after them trying to keep up. But the friendship was so much more. They’d hung out together. And if there’s anything to be said about kids, the real learning and bonding takes place in those moments when you’re doing nothing. That’s when you’re doing everything.

In a flash, Tess remembered that his birthday was August tenth, he loved her grandmother’s blueberry muffins, and he hated when Tess taunted him about his terrible pitching record from his sophomore year. All in all, not bad for not having dreamt of him in so long.

And he’d once entered her dreams every single night.

Tess’s mouth opened but she was unable to form any words. Instead she stared up at him stupidly, thinking that he’d gotten even more handsome since he left—when he was eighteen and heading to college and she was mourning the loss of the boy she was certain would one day be her husband. He’d been a cocky boy, followed by a gaggle of giggling girls who were certain he was in love with them all. It made Tess so jealous that she’d gotten into more trouble than she wanted to remember ruining his dates as only smitten teenaged girl could.

Tess worked to say something, cursing herself that the words still refused to emerge. Surely Uncle Stu knewabout this. Why hadn’t he warned her?

“Um, hi…” she said weakly.

“I’m guessing Stu didn’t tell you this is my church?” Josh asked with a smile. Tess shook her head. Why did it appear as if he’d walked straight off a movie set? She swallowed hard, now wishing her hair didn’t looklike she’d taken a bath with her toaster.

“He… didn’t mention it,” she said softly. Josh nodded as Tess turned to grab her bag, glad for the distraction. Her childish love for him was the stuff embarrassment was made of— complete with foolish homemade gifts and ridiculous gestures. Surely he remembered it all as well as she did. Her stomach tied itself in knots as image after image of her pranks played in her mind. It was pointless to hope he’d forgotten.

Reluctantly, Tess turned back to find he was still smiling. “You lookgreat,” he said, eyes twinkling.

So, he was a liar. At least he wasn’t completely perfect. There was some solace in that.

Tess shook her head. Had he grown after he left for college? Staring up at him was giving her a painful neck cramp. 

“Your dimples lookgreat too,” she said, cursing herself when Josh laughed. She blew a stray piece of hair from her eyes and continued, hoping he would quickly be distracted by something. Maybe a flash hurricane would make something fall on her. “What…? I mean, you go to church here?”

“Kind of. I’m the youth pastor.”

Tess’s stomach sank. Another score for him, another strike for her. “Youth pastor? Wow. Congratulations, that’s… impressive,” she said awkwardly. “Um… yeah. So, I better go. I’m sure I’ll catch you later.”

Find it at Prism Book Group, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other book distributors.

Guest Author: Carol James and THE WAITING

My guest today is Carol James, a Pelican Book Group author. She writes inspirational fiction and lives in a small town outside of Atlanta, Georgia with her husband, Jim, and a perky Jack Russell "Terrorist," Zoe.

Having always loved intriguing stories with happy endings, she was moved to begin writing to encourage others as she'd been encouraged by the works of other authors of inspirational fiction.

Carol enjoys spending time with her husband, children, and grandchildren, traveling with friends, and serving in the production department at her church. And, most days in the late hours of the night or the wee hours of the morning, she can be found bringing her newest novel to life. You can find her on the Internet at the links below:

www.carol-james.com

Facebook.com/CarolJamesAuthor

https://www.instagram.com/caroljamesauthor

https://twitter.com/CarolJamesAuth

Now for a real treat! You can read an excerpt from Carol's newest book, THE WAITING! Enjoy. 😊

As a gust of wind blew rain into the small cave, Katherine shivered again, and Sam turned his back to the doorway in the rock to shelter her from the cold. He held her close, and while habit told her to pull away, she refused to obey as the old Katherine would have done. Instead, she placed her head back on his shoulder, and he began slowly swaying back and forth as if they were dancing. Stepping out of the boat meant taking risks she’d never taken before. And yet something about him felt safe.

“Hey.” Barely audible above the splatting of the rain against the river rocks, his whisper warmed her hair.

In response, she turned her face up toward his. They were eyelashes apart.

“Whatcha thinking?”

How close you are.“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” His eyes probed hers until he had to be able to read her thoughts. “I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.”

How close you are. And how much I like it. “Nothing…really."

“Sorry, but I’m not buying.” He gently rested his forehead against hers. “Let me see if I can pick up some telepathic communications here. Look into my eyes.”

She was floating in the ocean, the sunlight sparkling on the gentle, cerulean waves. Kiss me. “Sam, I—”

“Quiet, please. I need total silence to ensure accurate results.” As she continued to stare into the

blue pools, tiny lines crinkled at the outer edges, and he drew his head away. “I got it.”

“You have, have you?‛ For some ridiculous reason her voice quivered.

“Yes. You have a question you want to ask me.”

“Oh, I do? And what would that be?”

“You’re wondering why I haven’t tried to kiss you.”

Her face was on fire as she moved away. There’s no way he could have possibly known her thoughts.

“And you think it might be because I’m not attracted to you.” He entwined his fingers with hers

and then raised their clasped hands to draw her back to him. “But you’re wrong.”

The rain had slowed to a gentle sprinkle as the storm marched on downstream. In minutes, the two of them would exit the cave, and these moments of forced intimacy would be gone as quickly as they had come. She needed to take advantage of the little time they had left. “Why haven’t you then? Every other man I’ve ever dated would have at least tried by now.”

“I’m not every other man.”

He was right about that.

The WaitingPurchase links: 

Pelican Book Group: https://pbgrp.link/WaitingCJ

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07MQC2C1W

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1130121870?ean=9781522301240

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-waiting-11

Writing Is Fun

That's me (with longer, darker hair) in 2002 with my first published book, Sea Of Hope, and the award I received for it. I believed that winning that award would send my book sales soaring.

That didn't happen. First of all, the company that published the book was small and focused mainly on ebooks. They were wonderful people and I enjoyed working for them, but back in 2002 few people knew about ebooks. The concept was completely foreign to the majority of readers. The second problem was promoting the book. I contacted newspapers and did get a few interviews, but social media wasn't then what it is today. Paying for advertising wasn't feasible since I wasn't making much of a profit. In fact, I made very little money at all.

Seventeen years later, I'm still writing. I have seventeen books available for sale (click HERE to see a list). Book #18 is in the process of being published and I'm close to finishing book #19. I'm still not making much money, despite the fact everyone knows what ebooks are now. Most of my sales come from readers buying books for their Kindles.

I love writing. Editing is tough at times, but I even enjoy that part of the process.

Promoting is a chore. Writing is a delight.

I'm always surprised when people ask me, "Are you still writing?"

I smile, say yes, and hand them a postcard or bookmark of my latest book.

How could I stop writing? It's too much fun.

Hope

I took the photo above one evening as I stood in the marsh. The sun was going down--early as it does in the wintertime--and soon the light would be swallowed by the long hours of gloom.

I am often hit with the fact that life has its bleak moments and dark seasons, but I trust that hope is always on the horizon. Hope is an antidote against the uncertainty of our world. Many times it takes courage to continue onward--along with a heaping dose of faith because sad and bad things happen to all of us. I had breast cancer, but I'm still here. However, many dear family members and friends are no longer on the journey with me. Still, I have hope because I believe in the promises of Christ.

Always look for the light in the darkness.

Winter Reads

Every summer there's a lot of attention given to Beach Reads--books deemed perfect for reading while baking under the sun in a beach chair. What about Winter Reads--books that are enjoyed while sipping hot chocolate, bundled up in an afghan in the overstuffed chair by the fireplace?

I've written two books where the action occurs during the cold of winter. The Company You Keep begins in January with plenty of snow.

The snow had crusted two days ago when sleet had
covered everything with an icy glaze. With slippers on her
feet, she broke through the hard coating and sank into the
soft snow beneath.

The sharp sting of the frozen crystals on her skin did not
stop her from scrambling after the disappearing spirit. She
caught a glimpse of the lantern’s glow waiting by the
gnarled maple at the edge of the woods. Fear prickled
along her neck, but an odd compulsion propelled her
forward.

The light dipped, swayed, and moved on into the woods
until the gleam became feeble and indistinct. By the time
Jennifer leaned against the twisted trunk of the old maple,
the light had disappeared altogether, and she did not have
the strength to go further. Her own battery lantern
flickered and went dark.

Her lungs hurt as she panted in the cutting air. The
wind had swept the snow away from the base of the tree
and she sat on one of the tree’s bulging roots while a wave
of desolation washed over her. Surprisingly, as suddenly
as it began, the bitter chill in her soul ended. The opening
to the portal must have closed.

She shivered violently. In the stillness, clouds of vapor
from her breath trailed high in the air. She found she
couldn’t stop shaking. She knew she should keep moving,
but wracked by the dreadful trembling, she remained
huddled at the foot of the ancient tree.

Are you cold yet? You probably will be if you read the book. The snow hangs around through most of the book.

However, if you'd like to be not only cold but wet, here's a scene from Sea Of Hope, which starts off with a nor'easter.

She glared out over the crashing waves with her lips pressed tightly together and realized how numb and heavy her heart felt, as though it had been weighted down with lead sinkers. Alone with her grief for the first time since her father's death, she relished the blast of the gale. It pumped some of its power into her thin frame and woke her from a weeklong nightmare.

"How could you do this to me, Dad?" she cried out over the howl of the storm. "You made a promise to me." But the tempest tore her words away and the only answer to her question was the shrill scream of the wind and a shower of salty spray that stung her eyes.

Sheets of rain pelted her and the pier shuddered as the waves slammed into it, but Doria stood her ground. With a Nor'easter battering the New Jersey coastline, conditions on the pier were hazardous, however what she intended to do would only take a moment.

Then there's my Young Adult Historical/Paranormal, Outside Blessings. Set along the New Jersey coastline in January of 1896.  

Neema faced the howling wind as waves lashed against the rock jetty, sending icy spray high into the air. Because the surfmen from the lifesaving station had found her sister’s ice-covered body wedged between the huge granite boulders, she had decided to search for clues there.  

Over the past two weeks, she had painstakingly hunted in all the crevices in the massive stones, bit by bit, day by day. She refused to give up. If she did not find anything in the jetty to bolster her case, she would sift through every grain of sand around it.

Taking great care, she walked along the slippery, ice-covered rocks. The tide had gone out so there was less chance she would be drenched with a cascade of salt water. If she returned soaked to the skin, Mrs. Kelleher, the housekeeper at the Courts’ cottage, would have a conniption. Worse, Mr. Court might fire her—despite her skill with a needle. 

As soon as she came to the point where she had stopped the day before, she knelt down. She had placed a sturdy piece of driftwood into a crevice to mark the spot. She pulled out the wood and slid her thinly gloved hand into the space. Searching all around the huge gray stone, she found nothing of importance other than bits of shells, splinters of wood, and seaweed. She crept to the next stone and repeated the process.

From out in the water, she heard a sharp bark.

“Go away, Seamus!” she called back. Seamus annoyed her. He had wanted to mate with her the past two seasons, but she refused him—as had all the Selkie females. He was obnoxious to every one of them. Since he failed to attract a mate, he had been banished to the bachelors’ island. She avoided him much as she would a shark.

He barked again in a more strident manner. This time he sounded much closer.

She pulled her hand out of the crevice and glared at him. His nearness unsettled her. He sat on a low, flat rock not ten feet from her, bobbing his head up and down. She turned away, refusing to communicate with him. His unwelcome distraction hampered her progress.

She glanced toward the east where the sun rose above the horizon. Soon the whole household would be up and she would be missed. Clamping her teeth together, she plunged her hand into another frigid crevice. She had only a quarter of an hour at best and she must not waste it even though her fingers were numb with the cold and she shivered uncontrollably.

Seamus continued barking, but she kept at her task. As she finished sliding her fingers around one boulder, she went on to the next. This would have to be the last one for today, and she would be forced to run all the way back to the cottage to make it in time.
The bell in the church tower tolled the hour. She wanted to cry, for she must leave and she had gained nothing toward finding an answer for Lila’s death. Gathering up her courage, she set her chin defiantly. She would not be defeated. She stood, turned, and cautiously stepped along the boulders to make her way back to the beach.

In the golden beams of the morning, she caught the glint of something inside a crevice only three feet from Seamus. Had he seen it, too? Is that why he had been so insistent? Or was it a trick?She grabbed her sturdy piece of driftwood, intending to shove him away if he came close to her. Keeping one eye on Seamus, she bent down. He barked, growled, and lowered his head.

“If you bite me, I will clobber you with this stick,” she threatened. Then in one swift movement, she scooped up the bright bauble.

Her heart thundered as she opened her hand and stared at it. It was Lila’s silver heart locket— the one Gustave had given to her on her birthday. Lila’s initials were engraved on the surface, so there could be no doubt.

She trembled as emotion swamped her like a giant wave. With knees too weak to hold her, she sank upon the hard, cold granite. Her chest tightened as she realized she sat in perhaps the very spot where her sister had met her doom.

She tried to open the tiny clasp with her frozen fingers, but she could not. A small sob escaped her lips.

Seamus inched closer, but she was too distraught to care.

“What are you doing there? Can’t you see the sign? Don’t climb on the rocks.” A deep voice shouted at her. “Seals bite! Get away so I can get rid of that creature!”

Neema’s heart quailed when she saw the man holding a pistol not twenty feet from her. Beside him stood a giant, hairy dog, the lifesaving station’s St. Bernard.

Panic gripped her. “Don’t shoot!”

“Move away from the seal.” The man aimed the gun at Seamus. “Those beasts can crush shells with their teeth.”

“Put that gun away!” she shouted.

Seamus wriggled away and slid into the water.

The man and the dog clambered up onto the rock wall.

“Are you crazy?” he shouted at her.

“What if you missed him and shot me?” Neema fired back.

“You should have listened to me.” The insignia on his uniform marked him as one of the surfmen of the lifesaving station.

“That seal didn’t hurt me.” She gave him her fiercest glare and managed to get to her feetthough her knees still quaked. The surfman’s rugged face would have been pleasing but for the livid scar across his cheek which went all the way to his chin. She stared at it and wondered if it went further down along his neck, but she could not tell for a thick scarf lay wrapped around his throat.

“Seals attack without warning.”

“Only when they feel threatened,” she retorted. Her hands clenched into tight fists.

Keep your ereader charged just in case the power goes out. Bundle up, stay warm, sip hot drinks, and download a good book. There's no better way to enjoy winter!

Judge Not

Photo by Leroy_Skalstad

The photograph above reminded me of one of my uncles, a veteran of World War II. After the war, he became an alcoholic. My mother, his sister, claimed he never drank alcohol until after the war. I don't know what my uncle saw during his time in the service, but I do believe that he could have used some psychiatric help. He didn't get it and continued to drink to excess. Eventually, his wife divorced him. 

He spent time on the street, but he knew where to go when things got bad. He'd come out to New Jersey and stay with my parents for a while and dry out. He was a pleasant man when sober and quite adept at fixing things. He helped my parents with several DIY projects around the house, but after a while he'd leave and nobody would hear from him until he decided he needed help again. 

Toward the end of his life, he stayed with my grandmother most of the time. He passed away very soon after she died. 

I know how difficult it is for veterans to get help. I know my uncle went to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, but obviously that didn't solve his problem. He had a sad life consumed for the most part by his addiction. Nevertheless, my parents always welcomed him. He wasn't completely without aid.

But there are people who have no place to go when things go bad.  If you saw the man above on the street what would you think of him? Would you think he was a lazy bum, a drunkard, or someone using street drugs? Would you believe he doesn't deserve any help because his situation is his own fault? What if he was a veteran? Or a man who lost his home in the last hurricane? Or the victim of a fire? 

Would that change your opinion of him? Would you be willing to give him aid then?

What if he was Mexican? Or Muslim? 

Most of us are quick to judge others, making assumptions based solely on their appearance. But everyone is a child of God. He knows their hearts and loves them. God is aware of their circumstances and their brokenness. 

The Bible labels drunkenness as a sin but it is prudent to count alcoholism as disease. Getting rid of an addiction is difficult and it cannot be done without assistance.

My parents never gave up on my uncle. They did not condemn him, but there wasn't a drop of alcohol in my parents' home when my uncle was there. And he knew it. However, he had a warm place to sleep and healthy food to eat. He knew someone cared. They offered him hope and a chance at wellness--at least for a little while. 💗

Looking Back at 2018

I'm praying for a peaceful 2019 for everyone. For me, 2018 was a vast improvement over 2017. While our oldest daughter's wedding was celebrated in 2017 and that was a joyous occasion, I had radiation treatments in the beginning of that year, which seemed to drain every ounce of energy I possessed. This year I added an app to my phone to prod me into making an effort to improve my physical stamina. I think it helped. However, this year hubby and I spent a lot of time in the hospital with my mother-in-law. I am ever grateful for the ability to crochet because I did a lot of it while waiting in the ER beside my mother-in-law's gurney or while visiting her in her hospital room or in rehab. At ninety-seven years old, my mother-in-law must be made of strong stuff.

Hubby and I didn't go on any grand vacations, but we did visit my northern sister and that was fun. We also went on a wide variety of day trips suggested by Daughter #2 as well. As far as writing goes, I reissued Sea of Hope and the publisher at Pelican Book Group gave Daddy Wanted a new cover. Patriot's Courage is still in the process of being published. It has gone through one edit, but there will be more. I have been working on a contemporary romance in the meantime.

I put together photos from my journey through 2018. It's seven minutes long even though I left some photos out. 😆 So if you've got seven minutes you can browse through the exciting life of an author.

Christmas Magic

"Christmas Magic" was a winner in the 1992 holiday story contest sponsored by the Asbury Park Press. There are no cellphones in this story because at the time I wrote it few people owned cellphones. The story is actually based on an a real incident--but that happened during the summertime, not at Christmas. Still, if the little white-haired woman wasn't Mrs. Claus, she was certainly an angel in disguise. 💕💕


Beverly kneaded the satiny dough. With its pungent bits of candied citrus, this bread was destined to grace some elderly person's table for tomorrow's Christmas dinner.

Lucy, Beverly's 7-year-old, patted her own little mound of dough. "Why couldn't we go to a party like Daddy and Mark?"

"Daddy's office always has a party every Christmas Eve and Mark wanted to get together with his friends. They'll be home all day tomorrow." Beverly nestled each loaf tenderly inside the bread pans. "And I promised to make this bread."

A pout formed on Lucy's lips as she pummeled her dough. "I want to go someplace! This is boring!"
Beverly frowned as the phone rang. But Lucy scrambled off into the family room. She came back several minutes later smiling proudly.

"Mrs. Roper is sick. I told her it would be easy for us to carry a hundred loaves of bread with our minivan."

Beverly groaned. It would take 45 minutes to drive to the distribution center. One way. She glanced around. The tree, centered in the front window, twinkled merrily. All the presents had been wrapped and placed under the tree.

"Next time, ask me first." Beverly sighed.

Lucy's mood did not improve despite the heavenly aroma of 100 loaves of fresh baked bread in the car. She didn't even want to listen to her favorite tape of Christmas carols.

"Robert told everyone in the class yesterday that there is no Santa Claus."

A pang squeezed Beverly's heart as she drove. The nerve of that rotten Robert.

"Miss Jensen took Robert out of the room and talked to him. She was very angry."

"Did he apologize after that?"

"Oh sure. But then when we went outside on the playground he told us we were all a bunch of babies."

Beverly thought of the cookies and milk beside the fireplace. Did they have to lose the magic?

"What did you say to that?" Beverly's throat felt tight.

"I told him to stop." Lucy tilted up her chin. "I told him he should be ashamed of himself. He made Sara and Jessica cry. And anyway, he believes in Dracula."

But Beverly was afraid to ask Lucy if she still believed in Santa. So she didn't.

The car seemed to have a black cloud in it on the way home. Even the comforting smell of bread hadn't lingered on when all those loaves left. The country road had few streetlights, too. When the car's engine suddenly stopped, Beverly had a moment of panic before she saw a liquor store just ahead.

The minivan had just enough power to coast into the parking lot.

Beverly tried starting it again but it refused to kick over.

"Hey, lady. Sounds like you forgot to put gas in it." One of the liquor store's customers commented as Beverly got out of the car. Another fellow snickered in agreement.

"I have a half a tank of gas." Beverly informed them through her clenched teeth. She would let her husband know that male chauvinism was alive and well.

Beverly called home and left a message on the machine. She left a message on her husband's answering machine at work. She left another message on her neighbor's answering machine.
She decided to try starting up the car again. Maybe she had flooded it.

"I'm cold," Lucy whined.

"At least it isn't snowing--yet." Beverly glanced up at the black sky.

A battered Toyota pulled up beside them and a white-haired woman got out.

"Having trouble?" she inquired as she tapped on the glass.

Beverly rolled down her window. The woman had to be less than 5 feet tall.

"It just died in the middle of the road and it won't start up again. And I have plenty of gas in the tank."

"Try starting it up again." The woman ducked under the hood as Beverly ground on the starter again.

"Keep going!" The woman called out.

Maybe Beverly would ruin the starter or the battery or some other vital organ, but right now she wanted to get home. So she turned the key and held her breath.

The engine caught.

Beverly's thanks seemed so inadequate.

The white-haired woman wiped her hands on an old cloth hanky. "Carburetor. Better get it checked."

For a long time as Beverly and Lucy continued homeward, they both listened attentively to the sound of the engine.

Finally Lucy said, "That was Mrs. Santa Claus."

Beverly smiled. The magic was still there. "I think you're right."

Cape Cod Cranberry Pie

This is a quick, easy treat. I bake it every Christmas (except for the one year when we did not have a working oven). It's delicious! While I enjoy it plain, ice cream or whipped cream on top is nice, too.

I originally discovered the recipe in my New York Times Heritage Cook Book, but the recipe can now be found easily online.

2 cups cranberries
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup chopped nuts
2 eggs
1 cup flour
1/2 cup melted butter
1/4 cup canola oil

1. Preheat oven to 325F.
2. Spread the cranberries in the bottom of a well-greased ten inch pie plate.
3. Sprinkle with one half cup of the sugar and the nuts.
4. Add the remaining sugar to the eggs, beating well. Beat in the flour, butter, and shortening. Pour over the cranberries.
5. Bake about 1 hour, or until crust is golden brown.

The pie goes fast--so you better make two of them. :^)

The Perfect Christmas or How to Deal With Holiday Stress

Doesn't that look like a perfect Christmas? I took that photo the Christmas after my mother died, which was a sad time. Unhappy and tragic things happen all year long, but during the holidays when we are all supposed to be jolly, grief can be especially painful.

I know part of the problem is stress. There's just too much to do this time of year and everyone feels compelled to jump in and get it all done. In addition to the usual tasks, there's decorating, purchasing gifts, extra parties to attend, and family gatherings that often create tension. Everyone strives to keep up but trying to do too much at one time is not healthy.

Over the years, I've learned to cut back. We really don't have to use the fancy dishes. We don't need to serve three desserts and five side dishes. We don't have to throw a grand party for all our friends.

Then there's the worrying. Hey folks, you are not supposed to worry. It won't change a thing. Jesus said so.

He said to [his] disciples, “Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life and what you will eat, or about your body and what you will wear. For life is more than food and the body more than clothing. Notice the ravens: they do not sow or reap; they have neither storehouse nor barn, yet God feeds them. How much more important are you than birds! Can any of you by worrying add a moment to your life-span? If even the smallest things are beyond your control, why are you anxious about the rest?" (Luke 12:22-26 NAB)

So stop worrying. Or at least, make a conscious attempt to do so.

This year on the day before Thanksgiving a wave of anxiety swept over me. I expected it. One very tragic memory often throws me off at some point during this season. My brother was in the Air Force when his plane crashed in 1973 right before Christmas. Each year since then, there will be a time when a pall settles on my heart. But I've learned how to get over it. Distraction can be a good thing. That day, I got out an old cookbook and baked two lovely loaves of bread. Simply the aroma of that bread rising in the oven was enough to lift my mood.

The next day, after I put the turkey in the oven, I got a call that my mother-in-law was being shipped off to the hospital with a suspected case of shingles. Hubby picked up our daughter at the train station and then they both went off to check in on his mother in the ER.

I stayed home, basted the turkey, sliced my beautiful bread (also ate some), and prepared the feast. My mother-in-law was settled into a hospital room and received excellent care. Hubby and our daughter came home in time to eat the dinner. Our other daughters and their spouses joined us and we had a pleasant time chatting. Everything worked out just fine.

If you're having a difficult time dealing with holiday stress, even the Mayo Clinic has advice for you. Read it at https://www.mayoclinic.org/healthy-lifestyle/stress-management/in-depth/stress/art-20047544

A Mystery for Christmas

My guest today is Anita Klumpers. Her latest book is part of Pelican Book Group's Christmas Extravaganza. You won't want to miss this holiday mystery. It will be on sale on Saturday, December 1, 2018. 

Dinah loves Christmas. She loves history, the old Wagner House, and the elderly women working to preserve its heritage. She loves almost everything except Mick Wagner, her childhood nemesis. 

But if they want to save the Wagner House and solve a mystery that's been hiding in the attic for almost eighty years, they'll have to join forces. And they have to do it quickly, before one of them dies trying.

Anita Klumpers is Midwest born and bred, except for a brief and exhilarating few years in Denver when she was small. She received a teaching degree sometime in the previous millennium and used it mostly to homeschool her three sons. These days Anita chases her grandchildren around, waving books at them and suggesting everyone cuddle up for a good story. 

            Good stories are her passion, especially if they are well-written, have a dose of humor, just a tickle of romance, and a decidedly non-gory mystery. On the other hand, she lists “Frankenstein” and “Fahrenheit 451” as two of her favorite books. Go figure.

            Creating skits was Anita’s first foray into writing. Always up for a challenge and a reason to postpone defrosting the freezer, she tried her hand at a full-length novel. It only took five years, but she did it!

            Daily (honestly) she marvels at how much she loves coffee and her husband; her family, friends and church. Even more, she is astonished at how much she is loved by her Lord and Savior. 

            Her blog is “The Tuesday Prude” (https://thetuesdayprude.com/https://thetuesdayprude.com/) and she’s had two books published by Pelican/Prism Books (“Winter Watch” and “Hounded.”)

“Christmas Passed” is due December 2018 and “Buttonholed” is contracted with Pelican/Prism Books.

Link to Christmas Passed

Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/Christmas-Passed-Holiday-Extravaganza-ebook/dp/B07JHXYGCC/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1541782568&sr=1-1&keywords=%22Christmas+Passed%22

Barnes and Noble:

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/christmas-passed-anita-klumpers/1129760586?ean=9781522398110

What Happened to Calm Political Discussions?

I called my uncle the other day--my last remaining uncle. In the photo above, he's the baby. My father is holding him on the back of the bicycle. My uncle misses my father--as do I. My uncle was bemoaning the fact that there are no calm political discussions anymore. My father was a Democrat. My uncle used to be a Democrat but is now a Republican. Nevertheless, he and my father could have a discussion when it came to politics. Since they were both brought up in Jersey City, politics was an important part of any conversation. Yet, even though they were on opposing sides, they never got mad at each other. They never yelled. They listened to each other and presented their views. There was no acrimony.

It is sad that our country has become so divided. With Thanksgiving just around the corner, I thought I'd pass around an article I found that might help some families deal with their differences. A political discussion can be calm if both parties abide by the rules of civility. Please read https://www.moneycrashers.com/civil-political-discussions-debates-friends-family/ for more information.

Defending the First Amendment

We live in a free country. The First Amendment of the United States Constitution guarantees Americans freedoms that many other countries do not have. Here, people can worship as they choose. They can speak freely. The government does not run the news sources. Americans are allowed to protest unjust laws.

We are very, very fortunate. However, it is important never to allow our freedoms to be cast off or to take them for granted. I learned early about the freedom of the press, because my father was a journalist. Dad spent his entire career in journalism except for a stint in the Air Force during World War II. By the time I learned to read I was aware of the dangers of liable and slander. I heard stories first hand of the drama of stopping the presses. I was aware of deadlines and the importance of punctuation. I visited the newspaper offices where my father worked and learned a great deal about putting a newspaper together. I had respect for the work my father and his colleagues did every day in getting the news out into the world.

The world has changed considerably since my father retired. Newspapers have lost circulation and many have gone under. Yet, we get the news faster than ever before. The news is available from many sources now--from the internet, from television, from Twitter, from self-proclaimed "experts" on blogs.

Often, the news is slanted toward one view or another. It is difficult to know who to trust. A graph is available online indicating the bias of the various news media outlets HERE. 

I am grateful that there is a free flow of information. Coaches cannot get away with mistreating the members of their teams. Policemen cannot get away with undue brutality. Priests cannot abuse young children.

New windows are open to the truth.

Below are some photos taken of my father in action back in the heyday of his journalism career. You can see him wielding his soft-leaded pencil while juggling a paper pad during interviews. Years later, tiny tape recorders replaced the pencil and pad, outdating the axiom: the pen is mightier than the sword.


Ray and a colleague from a rival paper at work in a room with bars on the window. It probably was in a police station.
Newsmen and a woman scribe from several metropolitan papers, including Ray on the left, take notes as the center of attention responds to questions on a now long forgotten subject.
Chief of detectives and uniformed officers protect back of unidentified man in crowd of unlookers and reporters. With the cops there, the gathering probably had something to do with unrest on the Hoboken waterfront.
Ray outside a police stable while researching a feature on mounted policemen.

In the Fifties, no respectful white collar worker would show up for work without a tie, ironed shirt, and a jacket. Ray was no different, as shown here.

Ray waiting on the deck of an ocean liner to interview some celebrity or newsmaker. Since the Holland-America Line docked in Hoboken, part of his job was to board the ships from overseas and talk to passengers chosen by the news editor.

Into the Zone

The moon slips out of the clouds as easily as I get into the zone, or as some people call it, the flow state. I credit my mother with showing me how it's done by her example. As an artist, she was able to ignore distractions, focus on her work, and had confidence in her ability.

I paint and draw as well. I'm not afraid to put a pencil to the paper. I can study an image and work until I'm happy with my own depiction of a scene. If it's not to my liking, I can fix it. Or start over. But while I'm busy with my task, I am completely absorbed in it. It's a nice way to forget all the other clutter in my brain.

The same process occurs when I'm writing. I sit in my favorite chair, tune out the rest of the world, and type out the story in my head. I know it won't be perfect the first time around, but I have faith that eventually the plot will unfold and my characters will succeed in their happy ever after. Of course, it helps that I've done this a number of times. But way back in the summer of 1987 when I was determined to write the book that kept whirling around in my brain, I sat down at the dining room table with my old manual typewriter and zoned out until I had a stack of papers and a finished story.

Nowadays, typing is a lot quieter with the computer, but my process for writing is basically the same. Although, I sit in a comfy chair and not at the dining room table.

If I'm working on a more challenging crochet pattern, I find I slip into the zone, too. Keeping track of where I am and counting my stitches takes concentration!

I feel sorry for people who can't slip into the flow state, because it's a nice place to be. I know many folks get into the zone when they're involved in athletic pursuits such as running. Hubby gets into his zone with music. I found a blog with a whole list of possible activities that may contribute to this rewarding mental state. You can find that blog at https://www.dailyshoring.com/flow-activities/

I suggest you give it a try. It's worth it. 😀

Putting Our Hearts Into Our Books

That’s Carol Lee Mahler on the left. This was her first booksigning at the NJ Romance Writers’ Conference. She’s been a member of NJRW for many years, so this was an especially sweet conference for her because she was selling copies of her first published book. I bought one. 😀

I’m on the right, looking like a general with several pins from past conferences decorating my badge. I attended excellent workshops and listened to inspiring speeches by Virginia Kantra and Jane Porter. But I also had the opportunity to chat with several writing friends.

Writing is a very solitary task, but a writer doesn't have to suffer a lonely existence. Being part of a group of writers helps--a lot. As authors, we put our hearts into every book we write. We care about the characters we put in our books. We want them to have their happy ever after and we just can't be satisfied until they do.

And then we send our book children out into the world! 😘

At lunch, I won one of the raffle baskets. This one was put together by Judy Kentrus. In addition to her book, Tea in Time, the basket contained a lovely little teapot, a few varieties of tea, biscuits, shortbread, and Ghirardelli chocolate. Delicious!

I can't wait until the next conference!

Another good place to sketch...

I found the Social Security office to be a great place to sketch. Once, many years ago, I sat there with one of my daughters for three hours. I had brought a book along, but I doubted I would get a chance to read it--and I didn't. There were too many other distractions in the waiting room. It was fortunate I brought along my sketch book. The Social Security waiting room was just as good as the beach for sketching--nobody moved much at all.

My daughter and I chatted with a veteran who was trying to get disability payments so he could go to school. He needed a pen to fill out a form and he could not find a pen in the waiting room--so I gave him one I had gotten from one of my writer friends and I told him to keep it, but he didn't. So I really did not get the chance to advertise another romance writer. Still, it was interesting to hear someone else's life story. I can always use another character in one of my books.

Perhaps the Social Security office isn't as slow as it once was. Nowadays, people have the opportunity to complete many transactions online. Still, that day I had good company, interesting conversation, and some practice in quick sketches. It was a good day. 😊

Ocean Waves

I've always lived near the ocean. I love the smell of briny air--whether it's winter, spring, summer, or fall. I believe a walk on the beach is the antidote for many ills. "The vast majority of water on the Earth's surface, over 96 percent, is saline water in the oceans." (https://water.usgs.gov/edu/earthhowmuch.html) Of course, humans cannot drink ocean water, but the ocean provides fish, lobsters, clams, shrimp, mussels, and other delicacies humans enjoy.

I feel like I'm standing at the edge of the world when I'm at the beach. However, I would never want to live on the beach. I know the power of an angry ocean and the damage it can do. It is far, far better to live on high ground.

Since I'm a Jersey girl, water figures prominently in many of my books. I got the idea for Sea of Hope while walking on the beach one day. Heaven's Blue came about when my sister's job inspired me to write about a mosquito researcher. Irons in the Fire resulted from frequent rides in hubby's motorboat.  In Daddy Wanted, the heroine's hobby is surfing. I never tried surfing, but I've spend hours watching surfers catch waves--and when there's a storm coming I always go to the beach to watch the daredevil surfers brave the awesome power of the ocean.

Humans are supposed to care for the earth and the environment. It's a job given to us by God. We haven't done very well in obeying that command. The beaches in New Jersey are being swallowed up by the ocean. The storms are becoming more violent. The earth is warming, the ice caps are melting, and I worry that I might soon be living on oceanfront property. As much as I love a walk on the beach, I don't want the ocean at my door.

But I still find the beach a wonderful place to spend an afternoon. I can watch the gulls and the fishermen. I can pick up shells and marvel at their beauty. I can make up more stories to write. It's a great place to relax and simply be.