Authors event steeped in history

 If you missed the recent author showcase near Wurtland, Ky. , here's a great article all about it. (You'll see my good friend Cat Shaffer quoted.)


Authors event steeped in history: By FRANK LEWIS PDT Staff Writer When you step inside the historic McConnell House in Wurtland, Ky., on “Meet the Authors” weekend, it is a step back in time to the years of the Civ...

So how far done are you?

Once again, it's the time of year when the big question becomes, "Have you finished your Christmas shopping yet?"
Hate me if you will, but I had nearly all my done by Thanksgiving. I am definitely not a Black Friday person; while others were chasing bargains at 4 a.m. I was snuggled down in my bed, enjoying my sojourn in Dreamland. While some were battling to grab that low-priced electronic gizmo, I was putting up my tree and unpacking my Christmas village.
I am a traditionalist. I like my lots of bright lights, tons of glittery stuff and a total transformation of my house into Christmas central – which would be much easier without my feline and canine companions.
Tabby, my gray Siamese-mix cat, and Maggie, my big old Sheltie, think I'm doing it all for them. They watch in anticipation as the boxes empty and the tabletops fill.
I used to worry about my Christmas village being endangered by the grandgirls in their younger years. I never dreamed that someday, I'd be chasing critters from in front of the foot-tall city hall.
My village, which has expanded every year, has a city component, a farm component (much like the Coulter farm in my Cat Shaffer historical suspense 'Bittersweet') and a small town component. The sheer volume of buildings makes it difficult to put in one place, but this year I thought I had it made.
Arranging the 1960s sewing machine cabinet, a small folding table I use for book signings, a TV tray and a bookshelf, I managed to get enough area. The grandgirls unpacked it all and set it up, leaving the various trees, people and statuary for me to handle.
I must admit, it looked pretty good when I was done.
And not so good when Maggie and Tabby were done.
Light-footed and certain she is entitled to go wherever she wants, Tabby has taken to stepping from the church pew that sits along one wall onto the sewing machine cabinet and picking her way through the village so she can hop on a high place to survey the world.
This does not please Maggie.
I know when Tabby's rambling because Maggie barks. And barks. Runs to find me and then rushes back, barking all the way.
She doesn't seem to realize that she's no angel, either. A while back, when Maggie discovered she knew how to pull binder clips apart with her teeth, I entered into an agreement: I'll trade her a puppy biscuit or some other treat for the forbidden thing she has in her mouth.
Last night, it was one of the little brushy evergreen trees from the "farm." The night before, it was one of the people from the small town display. I suspect that if she could figure how to get it, she'd pull the Royal Opera House off the table and drag it my way.
I suppose I should be more upset, but I look at it this way: As long as they remain intrigued by the village, my decorated tree, basket of scented pine cones and that mountain of presents may remain intact until Christmas morning.

Happy shopping!


Cammie

Okay, call me old-fashioned ...

... but I still like those old-fashioned foods, the kind the cafeteria cooks prepared back in the dark ages of my elementary school years. Forget wraps and sliders; these ladies in their bibbed aprons and hairnets rolled out comfort foods day after day.
Among my favorites was creamed rice with a rich topping of brown sugar. My mother never made it; neither did either of my grandmothers, so I relied on the school to feed my addiction.
Another food I've loved since childhood is tapioca pudding. My children, who don't share my affection for it, call it fish eye pudding, because of the translucent tapioca.
Don't care; not gonna stop me.
When I'm sick or down in the dumps, it's at the top of foods I long for. I'm also quite partial to cream of wheat when I'm ill, another food my children regard as coming directly from the pantry of Satan.
The kid in me is quite happy to feast on fish sticks and tater tots when I'm home alone and lazy. Stick 'em in the oven, transfer them to a paper plate and I'm good to go. My tummy's full and there are no dishes to wash except one cookie sheet.
I know some people celebrate with champagne or fine chocolates, but I much prefer those Chessman cookies from Pepperidge Farms to do the trick. In fact, I ate a whole package of them a week or so ago.
Upon completing the manuscript for Blood Oath, the last of my Shadow Ancient vampire series, I ate half the package with a very cold mug of milk.
And when I got my first print copies of Out of the Shadows, the first of the Shadow Ancients series, I ate the rest of them, this time with a cup of coffee flavored with hazelnut creamer.
All this talk about food is making me hungry. So if you'll pardon me, I'm off to the store to find myself a box of fish sticks and a bucket of tapioca pudding.

 Coming soon: Blood Oath, book four in the Shadow Ancient series
from Resplendence Publishing

Who, me, scared?

 I pride myself on being an independent, self-reliant woman who relishes the advantages of living alone. I can eat ice cream for dinner with no one frowning at me. If I feel like spending an hour in the bathtub, I can. No one argues over what to watch on TV and there's no one to complain that the Sunday paper's still on the couch on Thursday.
But there are times when another human companion would be great. I live with a dog, an oversized Sheltie, and a Siamese cat disguised as a sleek gray tabby. We have our familiar routines, and are quite content with one another,
It's thunderstorm season in eastern Kentucky, and we've had more than our share so far. One dark and gloomy night, I sat at the computer working away on "Blood Oath," the next in my vampire Shadow Ancient series, to the sound of rain smashing against the windows and roof and thunder rolling in.
Maggie, my Sheltie, is a big baby. She was huddled beneath my desk, in semi-panic mode, while the cat snoozed on top of my printer.
When Maggie began offering up small whines, I decided continuing to write was useless. Giving up, I went to my bedroom, grabbed my nightgown and went off to take a shower; Maggie stationed herself on the other side of the bathroom door.
She jumped on the bed, watching me with anxious eyes as I went into the sizeable closet in my bedroom to select clothes for the next day. I swear she heaved a sigh of relief when I finally finished my pre-bed routines and slid under the covers. As soon as I was settled, Maggie wiggled as tight against me as she could, and off to sleep we went.
Well, I did anyway. The next thing I knew, Maggie was pawing at my arm, trying to wake me up. A firm "Go to sleep," which usually settles her down, didn't work. She was determined to keep me awake.
Eyes still closed, I realized the storm had passed over.
"Thanks for telling me," I muttered as I settled back down.
Maggie pawed me again, adding an urgent whine and then a bark.
"Oh, no," I scolded, "I am not taking you out."
And then I heard The Noise.
No wonder Maggie wanted me awake. This wasn't the sound of tiny mice feet in the wall or a branch at the window. The sound made me think of those scary stories of chopped off hands seeking vengence or zombies scraping against the door.
Now my eyes were wide open, and my heart kicking into overdrive as Maggie jumped off the bed and headed for the closet door.
In broad daylight, I know there is no boogie man or monsters in the closet. In the dead of night, however, the possibility seems chilling real.
Snapping on my bedside lamp, I gathered all my courage, slid out from under the covers and, holding a figurine from the bedside table, I put a cautious hand on the metal doorknob, slowly turned it and opened the door.
And screamed when something ran out across my bare feet.
Maggie, determined to save me, went on the offensive, her nose under the bed, barking at the thing that came from the closet.
I hung back, wishing I'd gotten a better look. A sewer rat couldn't get into my second-floor closet – could it? Maybe it was one of those possums that get into our trash cans from time to time. Or some mutant creature that's been living in the walls of my 1930s house and finally broke free.
With one last victorious bark, Maggie flushed the creature out from under the bed:
An ears-flattened, really ticked-off tabby cat who'd been stuck in the closet for three hours.

                                              The ferocious cat hunter aka Maggie

My name's not Earl

I'm a big fan of the show "My Name is Earl," which (alas) is only shown in reruns now. I love the cast, the snappy dialogue, the quirky plots and most of all, The List.
The premise of the show is that Earl, a scam artist and general ne'er do well, wins the lottery and has a revelation: Karma wants him to make up for all the bad things he did. Well, my name's not Earl, but in case karma comes looking for me, I need to confess.
When I was in second grade, I stole a 2-cent piece of bubble gum from the little restaurant uptown in what passed as a business district in my tiny hometown of 450 souls.
Whew. I feel better with off my chest. But unlike Earl, I can't make up for my bad thing. The restaurant is long ago closed, its owners gone to that great diner in the sky. And, yes, I suppose every kid swipes something at one time or another,
One of mine once tried to take a toothbrush from a drugstore. Luckily, this was another small town and they called me. The Kid was crying and fearful when I got there, but that was the end of Kiddo's shoplifting career.
My late husband told me a little story about how he took an orange from the grocery store when his family went shopping. When his father spotted the orange, he dragged Hubby back and made him apologize. That, he said later, was one of the most embarrassing moments of his life.
Me, I had to learn the lessons on my own. The weight of my guilt was heavy as I sat in Sunday School, staring at the poster of the 10 Commandments and that biggie, Thou Shall Not Steal. And yes, I hid that little piece of the past as I warned my kids of the wages of sinning by stealing.
You know, I feel much better since I've confessed. And in the spirit of Earl, I believe I'll make my amends in the right way. I'm going to buy a huge box of bubble gum and add it to my monthly donation to the local food bank.
And then I can move on to making up for all those other stupid things I've done in life.

Maybe they're looking for me!

In the last week or so, there's been a flurry of UFO sightings in our little section of Kentucky, with folks weighing in pro and con. The local newspaper has fueled the fuss with a couple of stories and a photo from an iPad taken of a supposed UFO through a car window.
I'm one of those people who spent the appropriate period of mourning the demise of "The X-Files," and still long for another, perfect show like that to come along. (Yes, please feel free to comment with your personal favorite X-Files episode. I'd love to know!)
A few weeks ago, I sat down with a 16-year-old to watch the 25th-anniversary edition of one of my favorite films of all time, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind." Much to my relief, she liked it so well she told people what a great film it was.
I was raised by parents who had copies of Fate magazine on their bedside table, and I still remember the summer night at the drive-in theater (yes, I'm that old) when my sister and I were certain we saw a UFO hovering over our small town.
So it was that I was called to make a pilgrimage to Roswell, New Mexico, a few years ago while visiting a friend. And, of course, I came back with the usual tourist photos. Here's one:

And then here's my photographic proof that despite what the government tell us, Area 51 does exist. (Please keep in mind that this was the period in which the alien sensors in my head thought I'd look better as a blond. That device has now gone dormant and I'm back to my familiar long, dark hair.)

So you tell me. Do UFOs exist, or are we all being fooled by the government's weather balloons and secret experimental aircraft?


Cammie

P.S. I understand that the aliens grabbed up some Kindles while they were visiting here. Like them, you can also read my Shadow Ancient series from Resplendence Publishing on your e-reader. They especially enjoyed "Hell's Belle," available from Amazon, Fictionwise and other e-book retailers.
 

Oh, come on, Mama Nature!

Although I write about vampires and others things that roam the dark hours, I am definitely NOT a child of the night. I adore sunlight and heat; my idea of a perfect summer day is basking in the sun on some white-sand beach with a sexy cabana boy bringing me drinks.

So I assume that Mother Nature hates me. Otherwise, why in the world would she continue to submit me to gray day after gray day?

I can handle the rain. I can handle the snow. I can even handle those days when rain turns into ice which then becomes fat flakes of snow. What I can't handle is week after week of that with nothing brightening the world but street lights.

Our local weather man explained that it's not really a bad winter, it's because we so many warm and sunny days late into the fall. Well, that's nice, but it doesn't make me feel any better. What would make me feel better is our local weather man announcing that tomorrow's temperature will be 70 degrees and we better put on some sunscreen.

A few weeks ago, I seriously considered escaping to the south, to visit my niece in Louisana. I haven't seen her for a couple of years, and not seen her new baby at all. She says her door is open and I'm sure I could find a motel somewhere close, since she lives in a city.

I'm glad I didn't jump in the car and start down the Interstate, because about the time I decided to leave all this behind, the south was slammed with a winter freeze and snow. In fact, one day it was warmer in Alaska than Florida said, yes, my local weather man.

I know I could find comfort on the warm beaches of Hawaii, which would be perfect since I don't have to have a passport to go there. But with all the vivid description of the new airport screenings, I'm a little hesitant to fly right now. Not that I mind a good pat down now and again, but I prefer from someone I love and not a stranger with latex gloves.

So I guess that leaves me with two choices: endure or bribe Mother Nature.

Do you think she'd take Old Man Winter for a little fling if I got them a classy suite in Vegas?

Bagels and bologna

Yesterday marked the third anniversary of Dear Hubby's death. He fought stage 4 melanoma for 10 months and died peacefully at home, with those he loved around him.

In some ways, it seems like forever. Incredibly supportive of my writing, he died before my first book was published. I like to think that he's looking down from a cloud somewhere, nodding his head and saying, "About time,  babe."

In other ways, it seems like yesterday. Every so often I come across a piece of his clothing in the closet, and there are times I roll over in the night and pat his side of the bed, forgetting he isn't there.

Since he's not here to read this, I can confess that I have a thing for bad boy heroes and, yeah, he was kinda the impiration. He was, after all, the ultimate bad boy when I met him. Being young, impressionable and in love, I loved to hear his stories of derring-do -- street racing and fist fights mostly. And yes, like my heroines, I helped tame him a little. He was a great husband, a wonderful father and a dependable friend.

Darling Hubby never met a stranger. He held court on our front porch, chatting with everyone who walked by. It wasn't unusual for me to come home and find the neighbors sitting on the wide porch rail while Hubby sat in his favorite porch chair smoking his pipe,.

My kids have always joked that they never starved when I went out of town. Their dad had a limited cooking repertoire -- eggs, fried potatoes, hamburgers and bologna sandwiches -- but he always made plenty of it.

Last night, my critique group  met at a local coffee shop, so I ordered a bagel in honor of Hubby, who loved their cinnamon-raisin variety. And tomorrow, to commemorate Hubby's lasting influence on our lives, the kids and I are having lunch together after church.

The menu?

Bologna on white bread with mustard and thick slices of onion and potato salad, his very favorite.

Where did the decade go?

My wise grandmother warned me once that the older you get, the faster time goes. I understand now, since it seems like only yesterday I was greeting 2010 and now here we are, in the second decade of the 21st century.
I suppose I ought to make some resolutions. But we all know, don't we, that I'll never keep them. I fear I'm too impulsive for long-term change.
I am not, however, without discipline. That's good, since I have two books to finish for publication this year. The first is Blood Oath, the fourth in my Shadow Ancient series. I love my vampires, I really do, but I'm moving in a different direction with Claimed.
That one, which will come out in the second half of 2011, includes our mysterious Guardian Protective Services, better known as the agency. But the heroine is half-Valkerie, on the run with a jaded free agent for Guardian who connects himself to her with an ancient Sumarian binding spell.
2010 was a great year for me as a writer, but it was also pretty good personally. Despite last year's lack of resolutions, I managed to lose a little weight, I've whittled down my debts and managed to clean out a good chunk of the basement.
All in all, a pretty good year ... and I'm waiting in anticipation to see what the new year begins.