Grape Nehi

When I was a child visiting grandparents in southwest Georgia, we were spoiled rotten. Our visits were short and many years apart, because my dad was stationed overseas quite a bit. But we always had a wonderful time with the grands, climbing the backyard pecan tree into the treehouse made just for us. My grandmother rigged a basket with a rope and would keep us content with ripe peaches and Coca Colas, both provisions wet and cold. When the sun got too hot, we’d descend to rummage around in the old wooden shed, filled with treasures like a German made marionette theater and its dusty, tangled marionettes.

Today, I sat on our back deck, the humidity in abeyance for a few hours, reading. Suddenly, I had to have a grape Nehi. My Georgia grandfather would stop at a filling station when he had us kids in the car, and find the big metal cooler that invariably was part of the decor. Fishing out grape Nehis from the icy depths, he’d pop the tops and pass them around. I can still remember the juicy sweetness, the unexpected tang, of that first taste of a new flavor.

I got my Nehi. Sipping it in the shade, I was back in Georgia, a kid again, reading chewed and yellowed Little Colonel books hauled out of that magic shed on another summer afternoon. . .

Heat Domes and Elmer Kelton

As I’ve said many times, the South in the summer is trying, to say the least. The summer has, so far, been soaked in sweat, humidity, and torrential rains. Very odd. I try to weed the garden, but it’s a losing battle. The weeds thrive in this weather, and they aren’t about to give up to the likes of little ole me.

The third mystery in our cozy series is giving us fits. For some reason, we just can’t seem to finish it. My normal modus operandi when this happens is to let the story sit and come back to it with fresh eyes. Isn’t working this time around, I’m afraid. And maybe that’s the clue - fear. Fear the book isn’t going to be good. Fear that the characters are getting lost in the complicated mystery. Fear, plain and simple. False Evidence Appearing Real - that’s all fear is. Gotta face it down. My co-author and I are entirely capable of doing it.

I’m reading a book that’s a compilation of short stories written by Elmer Kelton for various magazines, many in the 1950s. How I love Kelton’s books! The man could write! I met him once, and he was an unassuming, mild-mannered rancher with a nice smile. He lived what he wrote. I particularly enjoy reading the short romance stories he wrote. The man knew horses, cattle, and women, that’s for sure.

Now back to work on Mystery #3….

And the rains came . . .

Remember the rains in June? Well, we ain’t seen nuttin’ yet. Not only have we had daily deluges, we have had spectacular and dog-shaking thunder and lightning. Our poor dear 14 year old dog has developed a phobia about both, and believe me, she’s inconsolable. We tried some doggie CBD oil, but it just gave her the munchies. Finally, called the vet who prescribed drugs. We hate to do it, but she’s a quivering mass of fear with every clap of thunder. I wish I could help her without chemicals, but it seems it’s her only relief.

The ants are abandoning the flooded yard and taking up quarters inside with us. The roof leaked and we had to find a repair person who could come pronto. Today was the day! My beloved She Shed flooded, and we had to haul everything into the garage to try to dry it out. My Beloved is digging a trench and has devised a plan to keep the flood from inside my workshop. Here’s hoping it works! I must admit, I’m feeling a bit like we should look up plans for an ark. I wonder if Noah would have taken the hint if God hadn’t told him outright to get to work. The way it’s going, I’m pretty sure we will need to do something.

Read a most original book, translated from the Japanese. “Before the Coffee Gets Cold” is about a hundred year old cafe where one seat will transport the sitter into the past. The only trick is, you have to wait for the seat’s permanent occupant, a ghost, to leave to grab your chance to be served a cup of hot coffee. Admittance to the past can’t last too long - you must drink the coffee before it gets cold - and the future can never be changed. If you don’t drink in time, you become a ghost. More books exist in the series, so I’m going to check them out.

Yoga class today means early to bed for me. I’m exhausted after every session. Poor little ole me, right? And bless the people of Texas, who have suffered enough and more. Man and nature seems to have gone crazy.

Dresden Rose

This “heat dome” covering the East Coast like a lid on top of microwaved bacon has been less than fun. The humidity is so thick, I feel as if I need to grow gills. Running around to the grocery store etc. is just torture. I know, it’s nothing compared to the searing heat of an African drought, so I need to stop complaining. First world problems, eh?

As during the pandemic when we were stuck at home, I decided to tackle those projects, rooms, drawers, and filing cabinets that I’d ignored for far too long. One of them involves facing my china addiction. No, not the country. Plates, cups, saucers, luncheon plates, serving platters, you name it, I have it all in nine different sets. Before you laugh yourself silly, some of it was inherited. A lot of it is one pattern I started collecting when I was just 20 years old and have added to over the years. Other patterns were inherited or gifted to me.

I’m still in love with my grandmother’s Dresden rose china. It’s gorgeous. Hand painted with a melange of flowers, gold rimmed, it’s from two different makers, Schumann and Meissen. She bought it in the early 1920s in Germany, and it has survived over one hundred years because she, and my mom, treated it like the works of art that it is. I think I have used it once. Part of me tells me to let it go, but the stronger me says that’s just not going to happen. Every time I pull it out of its storage boxes, I feel thrilled at such practical and stunning beauty. I think I have to give up weeding out the china boxes. It feels a bit like deciding which child is going to be kicked out of the family.

On to the next project . . . .

Another old memory ---

I was a strange teenager. I read voraciously, rode horses every day after school, and loved archaeology. Living in Turkey gave me a wonderful unadorned picture of the life of an archaeologist, which I ultimately discarded because it meant being hot and filthy most of the time. I didn’t mind being horse-dirty. The scent of horse sweat made me happy. I told you, I was a strange child.

I was not boy-crazy, like most of the Turkish teenagers I knew. Sixteen year old Turkish girls, with their long silken black hair and incredible sense of style, were kind to me, but we inhabited other worlds. My Irish skin freckled, my hair bleached light in the summer sun, and I preferred jodhpurs and boots to miniskirts and heels. I loved horses more than I could any boy. One Turkish girl, Saide, glided through our teen years with a grace I could never achieve.

Then she fell in love with a teenaged boy, Turkish and handsome, as romantic as she. They ran off together. They soon discovered life was hard without wealthy parents to cushion the fall, and reluctantly, they returned to their respective nests. Saide’s mother was, to put it mildly, distraught. She asked if I could visit Saide and try to cheer her up, for she refused to even come downstairs to eat with her family.

Saide was pregnant, hugely so. I was, I admit, shocked as only a teenaged girl can be when life isn’t like it should be in books. Our last meeting was awkward. The only person she wanted to see was the father of her child. I was a very poor substitute.

The baby was born a few weeks later, I was told. Saide died in childbirth. I have thought of her often over these long years,and wished I had told her I admired her bravery in the face of family disapproval, to put it mildly.

And the rains came....

When I was a child, we lived on the island of Okinawa, now part of Japan. Our house was made of cinder block, and windows circled the whole place. Lush vegetation surrounded it and in the back, behind a wire fence, were Okinawan tombs, cut into the hillside. Outside, the tombs, stone structures pretended to be entries to homes, the tombs that held an ancestors’ bones. My bedroom windows oversaw them and the family rituals they required. Families would picnic outside the tombs on holidays, and cleaning the bones housed inside was a tradition.

As an elementary child, I had a vivid imagination and was, by third grade, writing short stories and illustrating them. But the nightmares the tombs caused were beyond my ability to process them into words on paper. I can still remember shivering in fear after waking myself up after one of them. Okinawa had a violent history. We children were warned to keep away from any bombs or ordinance we might find while playing outside. They were a regular occurrence. I envisioned the bodies of native people, blown sky-high by a US grenade, filling the backyard tombs. As I said, I was a child with a vivid imagination.

Today, as I drove slowly through an avalanche of rain that reminded me of the typhoons that regularly whipped through Okinawa, I was transported back to that tiny island. All the memories from sixy-five years ago came rushing back. Even though I was safe in my big American SUV, I felt the flickers of those nightmares threatening to return. Their shadow has clung to me throughout the day.

Been a while!

Life - you know the drill. After the election in November, I kinda checked out. Hunkered down. Cried a lot. Was general pain the in the patooty. But I’m back. The garden needs me.

Plus, I’ve been tryiug to figure out what I should be hoarding for when the tariffs hit. Turns out, after my foray to my local hardware store, it’s light bulbs. Lordy, they cost more than eggs! I can’t stand dim lamps and dark rooms, so I have to bite the bullet and stock up. Don’t ask how much we had to plunk down.

I’ve been reading all sorts of new books. Essays, short story collections, thirty-year-old Anne Tyler novels. (She seems to be obsessed with older women leaving their families. Usually with good reason.) Russ Gay has a delightful little book of essayettes, as he calls them. He wrote one a day, usually a page and a half. I found all but one of them to be insightful, truthful, and/or charming. I’ve resolved to try the same deal - so far I’ve done one. About artichokes. Who was the first brave person to try to eat one? While I love them, I don’t think I’d have been brave or hungry enough, to be the guinea pig. And without mayonnaise or melted butter, yuck.

I promise to be better involved with this blog. Maybe it’ll turn into my form of essayette.

Halloween 2024

Here it is - my annual story for the season. Hope you like it.

Halloween 2024

Before the Floods

            Tree. Free. Me. Tree. Free. Me. Tree. Free. Me. Tree. Free. Me. Tree. Free. Me.

The words floated, they pounded, they jabbed, they sank into my brain as I tossed and turned in bed. My nice, comfortable, too expensive bed. In my very nice house, a mansion really. At a very settled time in my life. Minimal drama. Maximum (for me) relief. Lots to be grateful for. The agonizing was long over. I’d made my decision, now I was going to live with it.

Yep. I was living the life I’d worked so hard to have. A life that was safe now from the turmoil of the world outside of my own little kingdom. I’d made my peace with what I’d done. I couldn’t save them all, so I chose to save none. Now was not the time to throw the proverbial monkey wrench into the works, as my life could be dubbed.

            Why would trees need to be freed? Illogical, and the result of all the bad news that tried to taint my decision to survive. To continue for humanity’s sake. To live to build again, when the world would need me the most. No way I could save the world, so I’d save myself.

            I got up, fetched a water glass, sipped, staring out the bedroom window at the woods bordering the mowed-and-unnaturally-green chemically-saturated grass of the backyard. For late August, the weather was surprisingly cool, and I had to choose between putting on my pajama top or shutting the windows. I chose pajamas. Glanced around my bedroom. Checked out the antique clock on the wall, couldn’t read it by moonlight. Never could, but I always tried on bright nights like this. Checked my phone. It was working, which meant satellites were still circling Earth. Mass destruction was in the distance, I hoped. Two in the a.m. Of course it was. My mind decided I’d had enough rest and needed to get back to work. My survival depended on it. My plans to finish fortifying my beloved mansion. But not this second, I told myself, feeling unsettled by the three words haunting my sleep.

            Sighing, I started to climb back into bed when the words floated through my brain again. And again. I don’t like being hounded by dreams. In fact, I hate it. Giving up, I turned on my bedside lamp and added an afghan to the top sheet. Maybe if I read a few pages, sipped more water, warmed up, I could get back to sleep. Picking up the book I had put down just two hours earlier, I opened to the next page I’d marked. A worn-out, page-tattered copy of an old Dick Francis novel, I had practically memorized its lines. Which was the point. No thought process needed. Just the reassurance of an ethical, fearless, and honest hero. Happy ending. Bad guys get their just comeuppance. Was I the hero or the villain in my own story, I wondered.

            This time the words appeared on the yellowed pages of the paperback. In 20 point Times New Roman. A ticker tape of three repeating words. Rubbing my eyes, I decided I was assuredly not crazy, just work-exhausted. I build. Big buildings. Buildings that dominate the skyline. Buildings that unmistakably say I am here and I will stay with you forever. The same sort of message given off by the pyramids and the Teton mountains. Long after I am gone, the buildings I created will survive. Whenever humanity regains its sanity, that is, I will be remembered.  I’d put the same passion and expertise into creating my safe place, this house that was my refuge.

            The towers I built will be my legacy. I have no family, no children, no relatives left alive. So when I built this mansion on eight acres of forest, I saw it as my offspring. Unlike my superstructures, I injected every corner of this dwelling with my taste, my personality, my flights of fancy. While distinctly modern, it’s filled with antiques I collected from all over the world. My bed is one of my favorites – a four-poster that once held the likes of British kings and queens. I had created a museum of sorts, for future generations to admire, to study, to mimic. For those lucky few who would make it through the coming mass destruction.

            It was going to happen. I knew it as surely as I knew my own name. Noah Holbrook.

            But now, those three damned words were scrolling across the underside of the tester, refusing to let me alone. Tree. Free. Me.

            “Screw it.” Now I was talking aloud. Really smart, I told myself. Throwing aside the covers, I slid my feet to the Persian carpet once more and felt around for my slippers. This called for a drink. Heading downstairs, I hesitated before hitting the button that opened the wall of windows facing the backyard. The moonlight was having an odd effect on me tonight, one I attributed to overwork and overtiredness. I wanted to bathe in its silvery essence. I needed its cold glow on my skin. Before I could strip naked and run around that expensive grass like a crazy man, I hustled myself to the mini-bar in the kitchen and reached for the first bottle. With no idea what I’d grabbed, I added a Waterford tumbler and hauled it and the bottle to the room that opened up to the yard with another touch of a button. Sliding glass disappeared into the side walls as if by magic, an effect that tickled my fancy. Normally. Not now, however. Sinking into my leather recliner, I propped the liquor on my knee and studied my yard before I took a swallow. Before I realized what was happening, the Waterford slipped from my other hand and smashed to smithereens on the marble floor.

            The trees. They’d moved closer to the house. I swear it’s true. Dark, hulking oaks, frothy maples, mundane pines, they all had crept to within a few feet of the patio outside the sliding doors. No mistake about it. I could feel their encroaching energy, their shimmering leaves just waiting to fall at my feet. I took a swig from the bottle, barely registering the taste of the bourbon. I had to be dreaming. Had to be.

            But I felt the heft of the bourbon in my hand. Heard the crunch of broken crystal beneath my slippers as I rose to my feet. I’m a man of power, of authority, of wealth, I told myself. I don’t hallucinate. I face the facts without fear. Before giving myself a chance to think about it, I strode onto the patio, the night-cooled slates beneath my feet soaking dampness through my slippers. Shaking the bourbon bottle at the trees, I thought I’d give them hell. A real talking-to. Wait until I find out who masterminded this little scenario, I yelled at the forest. He’ll get pink-slipped so hard, he won’t be able to find his balls.

            A small dogwood, scrawny and almost leaf-bare, shook its branches at me. Clearly, I was being reprimanded by a junior partner of the forest. Before I could tell it to take its sorry self back to where it had come from, it spoke. “Tree. Free. Me.” At least I thought it spoke, although the words may have been echoing in my brain alone.

            “All of you have the same problem? Well, look at it from my viewpoint. I’m not nuts. So you aren’t here. Don’t care what you say. Tree-free-me, hellfire and damnation. This is a nightmare for the ages, and I’ll wake up just fine. Like always.”

            As I stood there shaking the bottle of bourbon at my nightmare, the trees moved in unison. Roots and all. Lifting the slates, they came to within feet of where I stood. I smelled their greenness, their loamy detritus, and worst of all, felt the rough bark of the branches that reached for me, stroking my head, my face, my shoulders. The bourbon hit the ground, adding to the pungent odors swirling in the moonlight. I couldn’t have cried for help if the fate of humanity depended on it. Shaking, I tried to beat their branches away from me, but they were stronger than I.

            They were pulling me into their forest. Into the deepest, darkest place where no moonshine would ever reach. Helpless to resist, I couldn’t keep my balance and fell, landing on my face on the ground they’d chewed up around me. Dirt filled my nostrils, my mouth, my ears. Yet still I heard those three words. Tree. Free. Me.

            “Alright!” I tried to scream. Soil flew from my mouth. “You win! I’ll do it!”

            Everything stopped. The trees. The sounds. The world. The trees had won. They’d done what my conscience couldn’t. What I’d been begged to do. What I’d told myself was impossible, so why try? Standing, I smoothed down my rumpled pajamas and wiped what I could of the dirt on my face. I spit soil from my throat.

            “You may come in,” I croaked. “Be my guests.”

            Wood cracked, it screeched, it split with a force that equaled that of a thousand bombs. People emerged, all colors, all sizes, all nationalities, squeezing from the interior of the multitude of trees. Blinking, hands outstretched, they gathered around me, touched me tentatively, all silent.

            “I’ve been waiting for you,” I said, realizing it was true. I’d been kidding myself that I could maintain my lifestyle for my own survival. “The ark is ready.”

            Now I knew how the original Noah must have felt. Compelled to build and build and build some more. Opening the door in the hull to whoever and whatever showed up. My mansion, my stocked pantry, my many rooms, awaited what the trees had brought me. When the end came, we would be safe. Safe until a dove brought us the branch of an olive tree, and we could emerge into a world forever changed.

            My legacy would not be my superstructures, after all.

Out West

We’ve been back about a month now from a long trip across Wyoming, into North Dakota. Started in Jackson Hole at the airport, where we passed under an arch made of antlers to our waiting ride to Jackson Lodge. I must admit, the Tetons made me want to stare at them for hours. I’m not the climbing-mountains kind of girl, but they pulled me in, and if I’d had the ability, equipment, stamina, or time, I’d have tried. At least a little bit.

We tootled down the Snake River in a raft for about ten miles, loving the beautiful day and all the soaring eagles and whatnot. I won’t go into every detail, but I found the landscape both foreign and familiar simultaneously. Wide open spaces, rugged mountains, burned hillsides with lodgepole pines poking up like black pins holding everything together - and I was back in Eastern Turkey. If we’d been driving on Roman roads I’d have been right at home. Yellowstone may as well have been Mars. Small towns, Native Americans everywhere, speaking their own language, and I was in my element. Mt. Rushmore and the Crazy Horse monument ended our trip, and while I was pleased to see them for myself, I had moments of “why do this to a lovely mountain?” When I learned that the sculptor of the Crazy Horse site had five boys and five girls who worked with him or their mother from the age of five. I wondered what kind of childhood they could have had, sacrificed to their father’s compulsion.

The Powder River Valley came to life, as I remembered all the research I’d done for my westerns. The Johnson County War narrowed down to one bullet-hole scarred barn, and I met a retired cutting horse named Misty that I’d have traded everything I have to bring her home. Such intelligence. Such grace. A horse among horses.

Escaping the oppressive humidity of Virginia is good for the soul and body every now and then. We loved Wyoming. But home is still where I belong. I missed our dog. I missed our cat, and most of all, I missed our family. Home feels good.

Summer, Cats, Gardenias etc.

The dog days of August are here early. June has been, to use an appropriate cliche, a scorcher. I’m keeping the oven off as much as possible, preferring the grill or microwave, or even just sandwiches, to standing in a hot kitchen feeding the troops. I remember one hot summer in Ohio when my mom decided she was going to make cherry jam since the cherry trees in the yard had a bumper crop. The kitchen almost steamed with heat and humidity as she put up preserves. I think I lasted about ten minutes helping her pit the fruit. I was all of about six or seven years old, so I can be forgiven my fickleness. I don’t remember eating the jam, just how hot the kitchen became that summer.

We have inherited an older cat from a church friend, and Barney, a tiny gray sweetie with a white moustache and paws, has already made herself at home. She’s tolerating the dog, who ignores her with great tact, and giving her favors to one member of the family, who is wildly happy to have a cat sleeping with her. I should give a medal to the dog, who accepts whatever living creature we bring home with great equanimity.

The best part of this heat and humidity is the gardenia and pikake bushes. The back yard smells like heaven, sweet and widespread. I’m going to be bereft when they stop blooming.

The writing suffers from a daily urge to play in the garden, do some weeding, and dredge up old, moldly pie cones from the mulch. But I’ll get there.

Ghosts

Sometimes, I feel surrounded by ghosts. I know, I know. Creepy. But not really.

What I mean is, some characters in older books show up unexpectedly. I’ll be stumbling down the aisles in the grocery store, and I’m not thinking about what kind of cereal the crew would like, but Henry in the Tal Jefferson books. I’m still stuck on whether or not to kill him off, even though I know book 4 needs him to die. I just can’t kill him. I’d cry too hard to write the scene. He’s right beside me as I have this internal argument, nodding when I say he has to live. As a result, I buy the healthy granola no one will eat and blame it on Henry.

Mythmaker, Elizabeth McFarland, can appear out of the blue. I wonder what she’s been up to in the years since her last appearance in the series. Is she still happy? Does she still long for the plains way of life?

Real life, real people are not adverse to giving these ghosts a place in my life. My Beloved never balks when I bring up a character from a book and talk about him/her as if they’re in the room with us. He understands. They’re real to me.

Ghosts. I live with them every day.

Short Story -Five Sisters

I wrote this story as an intro to the character Ruella McQuaid, heroine of one of my fav feminist western romances, star of The Girl and the Gunslinger. Hope you enjoy, but fair warning - some bits are pretty brutal.

Five Sisters

            The season was almost too late for crossing into the Territories, but Mark McQuaid was built of sturdier stuff than most immigrants to this West of the United States. Winters in Scotland were naught to fear, and nothing could be more harrowing than a snowstorm in the highlands. He knew his hearty Scottish sheep would welcome the cold, which he fervently hoped would descend soon.

            Crossing the ocean with the few sheep he hoped to use to start his empire had been nothing short of a bother, so he had welcomed the travel across the rough land with his stocked wagon and substantial oxen. A Scotsman knew oxen, he was proud of saying, and he’d bought well. The sheep soon gained their land legs, and the wide expanse of unsettled land told him he’d made a wise choice. Of course, he’d never have left the highlands if his wife hadn’t died, young and so pretty his heart still ached at the memory of her sweet face. With neither child nor reason to stay, his four surviving sisters all married and scattered long ago, he’d sold the homestead and packed up what belongings he’d need, the spinning wheel and carder the women in his family had used for generations, and bought his ticket for America.

            All this passed through his mind as he checked his map and compass again, estimating the remaining time he’d spend on the trail. The wind picked up, the sheep lifted their heads to sniff, and he shivered just a hair under the woolen shirt his sisters had made for him for his wedding. He’d thought it would be a good luck gesture to wear it on this new adventure. But he’d been warned before he left the last town where he’d stocked up on supplies that he was getting into Indian raiding season, with the moon growing brighter and the horses feeling frisky.

            The few Indians he’d met so far had seemed more sad than bloodthirsty. Sure, he wasn’t going to let his guard down, but he wasn’t going to delay claiming his land until next Spring, either. All the wagon trains had departed weeks earlier, so he’d had no choice but to go it alone. All in all, he thought he’d made the right choice. He could forge his own pace and path, and his sheep wouldn’t bother anyone else. He knew most farmers and cattlemen in this country disliked the creatures, but that didn’t bother him. He’d show them how to raise sheep the right way, so the grass didn’t die because of overgrazing. Once he had firm contracts to supply meat to the railroads to feed the men laying the tracks, he’d branch out into other endeavors. Like selling cleaned wool for spinning into cloth. His highland sheep possessed the warmest wool of all, and there was no reason he couldn’t show these Westerners how many ways they could use it.

            Just as he had about decided to stop for the night, whistling for the dogs to pull the sheep closer to the wagon so he could set up the temporary corral he’d designed and built to keep them close, he saw something tan flapping in the distance. Using his long view glass, he adjusted the eye piece until he saw a wagon with its cover torn loose. No horse, no oxen, no one moving came to his vision, despite the long hard look he gave the situation. Something was wrong, and aye, he knew instantly he’d have to find out what.

            Setting up the corral and ordering the dogs to keep the sheep within its confines, he decided he’d walk to the abandoned wagon. If he didn’t come back, the sheep would eventually break free and scatter, but the oxen would have to wait to be rescued if he didn’t unhitch them, so he did. They, too, he tied loosely to their stakes, knowing if they were hungry enough, they’d work themselves loose. Pulling the rifle from its hiding place under the wagon seat, he propped it over his shoulder and began the long march to heaven-knew-what.

            He’d heard tales, of course. Stories about the atrocities committed by the natives against the encroaching white men. Honestly, he couldn’t blame them. As a Scotsman, he still hated the presence of the English on Scottish land. The battle cries of Culloden would never be forgotten. Still, he’d be cautious in his approach – he’d been warned that the Indians were particularly good at traps. Having set some himself, he knew a bit about keeping out of them.

            The canvas cover wasn’t just loosed from its tie-downs. The fabric had been shredded, the wagon itself covered with arrows and some bullet holes. Running his hand along the wagon’s sides, he felt how loose the boards were and wondered if it was the result of a roll-over or just bad craftsmanship. He knew he was procrastinating. Whatever was in the wagon bed, it was attracting the carrion birds circling above, so it must have been a recent kill. The hairs along his arms curled, and the tingle down the back of his neck had him holding his breath as he shouldered the rifle. He only hoped whatever was in the wagon was already dead, so he didn’t have to fire a mercy bullet. Putting down a suffering animal was one thing, a human being, another.

            The red-haired woman lay prone, her nightgown rucked up, her swollen belly cut open. She must have been very pregnant. The man curled at her feet had lost the top of his head to a scalp knife and his throat to the same thing. The blood dripping through the bottom of the wagon made a faint splash as it struck the ground. Bile swirled in the back of his throat, and he had to fight the vomit that wanted to come up. He’d seen plenty of death, being raised on a farm. But nothing like this. He would never forget the woman’s face, the blankness in her eyes, her slack mouth silenced in mid-scream.

            Crossing himself, Mark added a few curses to the short prayer he muttered for their poor souls. He’d have to make camp so he could bury the couple, and here he was, right in the open where he was a target should the Indians decide to make a return foray.

            “Hellfire and damnation,” he almost shouted. But there was no avoiding it, he’d have to move his team and sheep closer. At least he had the dogs for a warning.

            He was turning to retrieve his wagon when he heard a soft cry, like a tiny kitten. Wouldn’t it be like these dead souls to have a cat instead of a dog to give the hue and cry when danger lurked?

            “Here, kitty, kitty,” he crooned, loathe to leave any living thing that had survived this brutal killing. He didn’t want to think about what had happened to the baby. It had probably ended up as dead as its parents, hopefully, quickly.

            “Come out, kitty,” he soothed. “I won’t let the sheep eat ya.” Kneeling, he peeked under the wagon, hoping to un-see the dripping blood but knowing it was impossible.

            The next sound froze him in place.

            “Mama,” came the soft cry. “Mama.”

            Holy mother of God, Mark prayed, let me be hearing things. This couldn’t be. Squinting, he pulled his hat from his head so he could wiggle farther under the wagon. “Anyone here?”

            He hoped he received no reply. “Anyone? Child, are ya hurt?”

            “Mama!” came the cry again, this time stronger. Reaching under the wagon bed, Mark inched his fingers around the area. The latch wasn’t far from the edge. A wooden peg, it slid into the bed until it was almost flush. A good way to hide valuables. Working it loose with his fingernails, he hit his head as the bottom dropped out with a child following after. A small, red-headed child with a white, tear-streaked face and a blood-soaked dress, she lay on the ground, so still he thought she must have died after her last breath calling for her mother.

            “Wee one,” he tried to sound gentle but the words came out as a growl. He knew how to handle a young child, his baby sister had been born when he was thirteen. “Child, do ya live?”

            Her eyes fluttered open, her mouth gasped for air, and she let loose with a wail that would have awakened the dead. “Mama! Want mama!”

            Scooping her into his arms, he gave up all noble ideas of burying the dead and reading from his Bible over them. He had to get out of there, and fast. If the Indians were anywhere close by, they’d hear her screams from this dreadful place to kingdom come.

            “Hush!” he whispered in her ear, running as fast as he could for his wagon. His oxen weren’t swift, and there was no way he could outrun men on horses. But he could kill a few if he could get this child inside the wagon and quiet. Of course, he knew better. No toddler would stay quiet when she absolutely had to. He figured she’d been scared into silence by her parents’ screams, until he’d spoken aloud. Speed was his only recourse.

            Wrapping her in a quilt made by one of his five sisters, he settled her quickly in a corner of the wagon. Her big blue eyes followed his every move. He saw her throat working as she tried to swallow. From the look of the tears soaking her face and the top of her dress, she’d cried enough to wring every last drop of liquid out of her body.

            “Here,” he offered his canteen, holding it to her baby lips. “Drink.”

            She took a tiny bit, spit it out, and proceeded to wail as if he were hitting her.

            “Dogs!” He hadn’t time for this. She’d die if he couldn’t get them to safety. “Dogs, alert!” he commanded.

            Leaving the child, he dismantled the corral, grabbed the youngest ewes and tossed them into the wagon with the girl. Snapping the reins and the long whip he didn’t like to use, he roused the oxen to lumber faster than they preferred. He wasn’t a man who hurried things, and they’d gotten accustomed to his fair and easy ways. Disliking this new driver, they snorted and stomped, but they picked up the pace.

            Far, too far, in the distance, Mark’s refuge beckoned. The mountains. He’d have a fair fight if he could reach the mountains. Having done it all his life, he understood how to use terrain to his advantage. The enemy was new, its ways brutal and incomprehensible to him, but he’d keep this child alive as long as he had breath in his body. With red hair like her mother’s, the little girl was born to be a fighter. That, he respected. Besides, his youngest sister, Ella, had had the same red hair.

            God had placed him here, at this place and at this time, to keep the child safe. Many years had passed since he was responsible for more than the barley crop and his sheep. Even his sisters didn’t need him any longer. Glancing in the wagon, he saw her face, wrapped in the quilt, marred with tears and dirt, slack in sleep.

            Yes, he’d keep her. He’d raise her. He’d be her da. With five sisters, he knew a bit about raising a young girl child. As twilight fell and he had to stop the wagon, he was already planning on naming her Ella. Maybe Ruella, to keep her distinct from his sister. Ru because she might come to rue the day she was born.

            Ella had. Not this Ella, though. If God had set her in his path, surely, He would guide her on a steady and worthy life. He figured he had about fifteen years to make sure.

            Mark McQuaid, middle aged sheep farmer from Scotland, a solitary man with few wants but big dreams, added one more item to his list and checked it off. This child gave him a reason to succeed. Someone to inherit what he was going to build for her future.

            Camp made, oatmeal cooking over the small flame, he fed the dogs and oxen, then shook the toddler awake. “Hungry?” he asked before he lifted her down to sit beside the fire.

            She grabbed the porridge bowl from his hands and dug in with both fists, eating so quickly she spilled half down the quilt. Laughing, he sent a silent prayer of gratitude to the heavens above. She’d live. One day, he’d tell her about her parents, but by then, she’d be more McQuaid than he was. He felt it in his bones.

            The dogs curled around her to sleep that night, sensing her need for both heat and protection. Leaning against a wheel, he cradled his rifle in his arms and listened in the blackness that was this strange and lonely land for an enemy he could not see. Stars crowded the sky as they did in the highlands. Glancing up, he wondered if this land would ever feel like home.

 Didn’t matter. For the third time in his life, he had someone else to protect, to live for, to succeed for. He hadn’t been able to save his sister or his wife, but by damned, he’d saved Ruella McQuaid.

Better late than never. . .

It’s been a while. . . .I won’t run through all the myriad and crazy reasons why. Just know that I’m back!

Skyler and I have been editing both cozy mysteries, which is taking us longer than usual because we’re such perfectionists. The third book should be in the works now, but it’s not happening until we get home from our two-week getaway. Even though the hands aren’t on the keyboard, I’ve been thinking about the hero’s journey for our librarian hero, Molly Bell. Cozies are, by definition, set in small spaces, small towns, with regular folk who must step up to the plate to solve whatever crime has occurred - be it a stolen bee hive or a body in the coffee shop’s walk-in freezer. Blood and gore are at a minimum. Language is clean. Sexy scenes stop at the door, if they even get that far. I must admit I was feeling caged in by the conventions, until I realized every character still has to have a hero’s journey, even in cozies. What will our brave and intrepid Molly Bell learn about herself, her town, her relationships? Will she bring that knowledge back to her everyday world, or will she keep her cards close to her chest? We have our trickster, our mentor(s), our boon companion, all of whom are quickly becoming some of my favorite characters. These may well become some of my favorite books when we’re finished with the series.

If you haven’t watched ASTRID on PBS Masterpiece, please do. It’s in French, but the subtitles aren’t bad. For a while there, Raphaelle said “merde” a lot, which was translated into “dammit” by the prudish translator, but now it’s given its true meaning in Season 3. Shit. LOL. On y va! The mysteries are original, Astrid’s journey an autistic woman into her much brighter future is wonderful, and her mentor/friend, the cop Raphaelle Coste, is the perfect person to help Astrid succeed.

Halloween 2023

Better late than never.

Nowhere to Run

(c)2023 Tracy Dunham

            Shay hadn’t left the apartment in months. No reason to. She’d stocked up on canned goods, spent every last dime she had on prepper food guaranteed to last fifty years, and stashed gallon jugs of water in every free corner of her small abode. She could barely walk from room to room. If anyone had prepared for the end of the world, it was Shay Woods.

            Other preppers had done the same, and before the Internet went down, they’d kept each other apprised of the latest grim news and any possible havens reachable before all the roads were demolished. Taking out bridges and dynamiting highways had been a noisy and effective deterrent to those who thought they could run away from the world’s self-destruction. Now, short wave radios were waning, power sources were worth all the gold in Ft. Knox, and she hadn’t heard another human voice in over thirty days. Good thing she was accustomed to her own company. Preferred it, in fact.

            In college, she’d been a futurist. Without the gift of clairvoyance  or even glib guesses, she’d been able to predict the horror coming down the world’s roads with alarming accuracy. She’d been labelled a freak, as one after another of her predictions became reality, but she didn’t mind, not really. She accepted her freak-dom with, if not joy, at least understanding. People were afraid of those who told the truth, especially when it was ugly and scary.

            Standing at the large French doors in her living room, Shay watched as the gray sun set, sinking below the few tall buildings still standing. Most had been blown to smithereens by the bombing that started with one small faction of ecoterrorists, which then escalated into major widespread destruction when outside nations decided to intervene. Like dominos, old alliances fell and it was soon every man, every country, every continent for itself.

            Shay had chosen this apartment building after studying its plans in the city’s planning office. Its construction was designed to withstand major earthquakes as well as devastating hurricanes. Even though she had to walk down twelve flights of stairs to get in and out of the place, when she still could, she never felt unsafe. When her building folded, she reasoned, so would the last of civilization. Maybe by then she would be ready to fold with it. She didn’t know what kept her going. One day, she reasoned with a calm clarity, she’d hit her personal wall.

            Sighing, she poured herself a small glass of water. She was rationing everything with precision, meaning water was only for consumption. She’d grown accustomed to her body odor and wearing clothes that smelled like old gym socks. She peed in a bucket and tossed the contents over her balcony whenever it rained silver streaks of pollution and ash that had replaced the cool showers of the past. Europeans had done the same with their chamber pots throughout the dark ages and into Shakespeare’s day. Why should she be squeamish?

When the last of the anemic sun disappeared, Shay stretched out on the floor of her balcony and waited for the night to come alive. This was the moment when she counted the humans she could see with her night vision binoculars, night crawlers she called them, who crept through the shadows, hunting for food and, when desperate enough, other humans to eat. By now, their numbers were tumbling. She knew herself to be safe, for she’d designed her own security system to keep intruders out. If, by chance, a crawler did breach her building, she’d designed an escape hatch. She never went to sleep without her survival backpack at hand. Still, no one had any clue she was still in the building. Soon though, she feared she’d be alone. Even a nightcrawler was, in some odd way, a comfort. Tonight, however, crawlers were scarce. Feeling even more alone, she decided to turn in early.

Back in her interior bedroom, windowless and therefore safe, she lit one of her dwindling supply of candles and pulled out a tattered paperback. She’d never read novels until she realized many science fiction books had, to her amazement, predicted much of what was happening in the world. Finally, she’d branched out into mysteries, thrillers, even romances. Her favorites were now cozy mysteries, where small, quaint towns served as the backdrop for not-too-violent murders, and charming townsfolk bantered and gossiped their way into finding the killer. Collecting the books from abandoned book stores and libraries had stopped, however, when it became too dangerous to leave her building.

She had many favorites, but the ones containing animals who helped solve the mystery, and others with recipes in the back that the characters cooked for their fictional friends, were top of the list. Tonight, she pulled out one of her very special paperbacks, Death in Danbury Hills. The rolling mountains of Piedmont, Virginia, was the setting for a literary mystery involving a descendant of Charles Dickens and a lost love letter. Shay loved imagining she worked in the library run by the principal character, Molly, and that she shared Molly’s grandmother’s Victorian house with her.

Keeping an eye on her candle, Shay was forced to blow it out before she’d finished half the book. By now, she could recite lines of dialogue, but she still liked re-reading it and putting herself into the scenes. Imagining herself in the story, she fell asleep with the opened book lying across her chest. Dreams came easily when she slipped into sleep reading. Normally, they gave her a sense of peace her world had destroyed in reality.

Tonight, her sleep and her world were shattered in one second.  Shay’s dream exploded into the present, and she was aware that her safe haven had been breached, and she was at extreme risk. Rolling off her bed, she grabbed for the shotgun she kept under it and aimed it at the bedroom door. Trying to control her breathing, she felt lightheaded and almost on the verge of fainting. She’d never fainted before, and she wasn’t about to do it now, she told herself sternly.

Sounds of rummaging came from the pantry where she’d stockpiled her most used food items, tuna, chicken, chick peas, and jam. Cries of “yes!” and “we’re in fat city now!” reached her through her locked bedroom door. If she didn’t move quickly to stop them, the nightcrawlers who’d breached her system would not only take all her supplies, they’d find her. And she wasn’t going to let that happen.

Strapping on her holster, she filled every pocket with ammo. Her night vision goggles rested on her head, and she made sure she had the shotgun loaded and ready. Most of the nightcrawlers carried semi-automatic weapons, but she’d observed that they were wildly inaccurate with them. She, however, never missed. Solid, old-fashioned shooting practice had served her well. She’d have to move her apartment after this, because she couldn’t stand the smell their decomposing bodies would make after she killed them. After all, she couldn’t very well dump them over the balcony, because the ground level nightcrawlers would grow curious about the person who killed one of their own and try to track her down.

They would find her. The proof was in her kitchen, crawlers chortling as they ransacked her hard-earned freedom.  She glanced at her backpack. She could run, hide. Glancing at her closet, she weighed her options. Push open the overhead hatch in the closet and pull herself into the tunnel she created, or stay and fight. Fighting was risky. There could be other crawlers in the building. Once her security had been breached,  other crawlers would follow this group. Still, she wanted to kill them. Plain and simple. They’d pay for destroying her peace, her haven. Her very means of survival.

The doorknob to her bedroom rattled. She’d installed security locks worthy of a top secret facility. They couldn’t open the door, but they could blow it to smithereens if they had the means.  She had to decide this very moment. Slip all the locks open and begin firing – or run for the escape hatch.

“Hey, let us in,” one of the crawlers shouted. “If you ain’t dead, we’ll show you a good time!” He sounded half drunk. Shay wondered where they’d found alcohol.

Too much time thinking, she told herself.  Get out of your head and act, she commanded. Turning to her bed, she grabbed the mystery she’d been reading and stuffed it in her survival backpack. Within seconds, she’d closed the closet door behind her, removed the panel in the ceiling, and tossed her weapon and backpack over her head. Leaping, she grabbed the edge of the hole and strong-armed her way up and into the darkness. Breathing hard, she slid the wooden panel back over the hole. She’d stay where she was until she was sure they’d gone away, then she’d inch her way through the air ducts to the ladder she’d found that rimmed the elevator shaft. It would take her to the building’s basement, and from there, she’d decide on her next steps. One thing was for sure, she would die before she allowed herself to become a nightcrawler, gnawing human bones from long-dead bodies. Her arms were shaking and her feet throbbed by the time she reached the bottom of the ladder.

The building’s maintenance crew had a small office in one corner of the cavernous basement. Otherwise, the basement was filled with chicken-wire enclosed cages used by residents to store their luggage, their Christmas ornaments, furniture they couldn’t bear to toss. She thought of holing up in the office, but if the crawlers got this far, that was the first place they’d look for her. Wandering up one aisle then down another, she decided to settle in a cage that held an enormous old armoire tucked in the back and several other huge, solid wood pieces of furniture from a hundred years ago, if not more. Nothing in the cage was useful to a crawler. Using her pocket knife, she popped the lock and made sure that when she replaced it, it would look as if it hadn’t been opened.

Her night vision goggles were giving her a headache. For the moment, she was safe. Opening the armoire, she decided it was big enough for her to lie down on the bottom. Draping her backpack over a wooden hanger, she pulled out her book and her water bottle. With her shotgun propped in the corner, she made sure her extra ammo was handy before she allowed herself to relax for a few seconds. Using a trick she’d invented when the world was exploding around her and she desperately needed to sleep, she mentally put herself in the fictional town of Danbury Hills. In her mind, she walked its sidewalks, scuffed the falling maple leaves, and stopped at the drugstore to buy a cup of tea, Earl Grey. Here, she was safe, the world was sane, and she had never seen a nightcrawler eating another human. All the tension and fear of the past half hour melted away, and Shay slept. And slept. And slept.

The nightcrawlers spent days breaking into every apartment. None of them held the treasures that Shay’s held, so they figured whoever lived in the apartment with all the food had to be around somewhere. After all, they had posted guards on all the entrances, so no one was getting in or out without their knowledge. When they got to the basement, they sliced through the chicken wire cages, finding nothing to eat or kill with, until they got bored with the whole thing.

Shay felt happy for the first time since the end of the world. She helped Molly solve the murder of a famous literary sleuth in the Rare Book Room of Danbury Hills’ lone library. She listened to Dani play the piano, and even gave lovelorn Sheriff Jim advice on how to woo librarian Molly. Shay had no burning desire to wake up. The nightcrawlers had done her a favor. She’d known she’d have to make a choice, and she did. She stayed in Danbury Hills.

Before Halloween....

I’ll post this year’s Halloween story as soon as I decide if I like it or not. Was severely tempted to write about “The Others” who appear to inhabit our house, but the tale cuts a little too close to the bone. We’ve come to accept The Others as fellow inhabitants, but I’m still not happy with their various ways of making us feel creepy. That said, it’s another story. I digress big time.

I’ve been involved in doll making recently. Took a class from the very talented Unicia Buster and fell in love with her stuffed dolls. I’ve taken her basics and added twists of my own, and now find it hard to hang onto them. I started out showing the first dolls, with different hairstyles, to friends one day at Olive Garden. A 2 yo little girl and her mother walked by, and the little girl, Lexi, had to have one. She chose the doll with bubble-gum and multi-colored curls, clutched it to her chest, and refused to look anywhere but at the doll. Lesson learned. The dolls now have crazy colored hair. I’ve given a boy doll to the 2 yo son of my daughter’s best friend, but her 5 yo had to have one too! A few have gone to the Children’s Hospital, and I’m currently finishing a batch more for them. I’m having a lot of fun.

My daughter and I are on Book 2 of our cozy mystery series set in a small town in Southwest Virginia. Hopefully, we’ll get another one finished before we start bringing them out. We’d like to have a book ready for each holiday or season. The adventures of Molly, the librarian, and her friend Dani, a music teacher and shop owner, are keeping us busy!

Summer ain't summer unless it's hotter than. . .

add your own adjective. Hades? Hot potatoes? All I can say is, it’s hot, hot, hot. I like to pretend I can take the heat, but I’m bluffing. It’s been h311 this summer in Virginia, and I, for one, have no intention of sitting on hot sand, umbrella or no umbrella. On one hand, my lack of desire to brave the elements has an up-side - I am getting more done in the office. The forsythia can stay leggy and wild until it gets below 80 degrees. And as for the garden weeds, have at it. They’ll be here in another month.

Patience is not one of my virtues, I am ashamed to admit. But now and then, I like to stop cold and assess what I have to admit is a plethora of nostalgia. On days like today, my grandmother’s front porch in SW Georgia was a cool oasis, with oscillating fans, high ceiling, a swing and bouncy metal chairs, tile floor, and a big pitcher of iced tea on the table for one and all to imbibe. Neighbor ladies would gather in the afternoon, bringing movie magazines discarded from the beauty shop, and sit around, sipping and gossiping about stars and neighbors alike. Their perfectly coiffed hair, sprayed to within an inch of its life, never budged. Summer dresses stayed perspiration free, as they wielded paper fans from their various churches. As a child, I was ignored, except for a request to fetch more lemon from the kitchen or extra cookies from the jar on the counter. I could listen for hours to their soft Southern accents, their lady-like laughter, and hope that one day I would be welcomed into the circle as a fully participating gossip.

It never happened. Those wonderful ladies passed away before I could get back to the porch. I’d been too busy “lawyering,” as my grandmother said, in a disapproving tone of voice. I’m sure I was the subject of some discussion on a hot summer afternoon, and at least I made it that far.

Tinker Mountain Writers Workshop

Finally home after two weeks on the road (or ocean, as the case may be). Spent last week at the TMWW at Hollins University, and while I wondered before I got there if I’d make a mistake, I hadn’t. Fabulous four days. Worked hard. Learned something new, which is always a delight. As an added bonus, the people in my workshop (advanced novel) were serious writers and keen insight. I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to advance their writing, since the array of offerings covers the gamut. The craft talks in the afternoon were worth the price of admission, alone.

Now on to rewrites! LOST GIRL will be cleaned up and ready to rock in two weeks! (she said optimistically.)

Living Dolls

I took a doll making class from the very talented and patient Unicia Buster, and was it ever fun! I’ve made dolls from fabric in the past, but not this way. Usually I make a yarn wig and sew it on, but these dolls require every stitch of hair to be hand sewn. Very labor intensive. The good news is, I’ve found a use for my fabric scraps, and when I say these dolls have wild clothes, I mean it. Their faces are painted on, not embroidered, and they each look very different, I think. So far I’ve made seven. Black curly hair, hair the color of confetti with sprinkles, red curls, brown twisty hair - I’m also using up my leftover yarn.

The most fun about the process is that I get to imagine who these dolls are and what has happened to them up to the day they arrived in my sewing room. Naming them requires trying on a few monikers, to feel out what fits. Naming my children was easier! Once they’re sewn, stuffed, painted, dressed, have extra nighties and knickers, I set out to find them a little child, preferable in the two-year-old range. While showing them to my writer friends one day at lunch, a lady came up and asked if she could buy one. Of course I told her I would be happy to give a doll to her, so she brought up her about 2 daughter (cute as a button and named Lexi), who grabbed the doll with the confetti hair and hung on for dear life. My day was complete.

The second doll went to a two-year-old daughter of an Afghan refugee. Heaven for me. Now I’m eagerly awaiting who will show up to claim the next doll. When all seven have gone to their next homes, I’ll make some more! Their stories are endless, and I’m eagerly awaiting what they’ll be.

Writing with Someone Else

When that someone else is someone you love, you worry that this is a Very Very Bad Idea. I am here to tell you, it isn’t! My beloved daughter and I have started (and are 43,000 words into) a cozy mystery that both amuses us and keeps us out of trouble.

We’re both Pantsers, I’m happy to report. Being pantsers means we spend a lot of time throwing ideas against the wall to see if they stick. If they do, and it means a rewrite in an earlier chapter, she makes a note of it, and we trudge onward. I do the typing because in the general scheme of things I’m a better speller, but she still catches me now and then. I type, she follows, adds phrases, words, and says things like “Mom, a twenty-something would never say that!” I believe her, being nowhere near twentysomething for a long time now.

The best part is, we’re amusing ourselves. We’ve even laughed out loud at dialogue coming out of our characters’ mouths. The best part is, we’re spending a couple of hours a day together, and that’s priceless. No matter where The Lethal Library ends up, we’ve had a ton of fun.