After the December Rain

Since the snow of a few days back, the weather has been haze and drizzle -- gray and misty and cold. Then on Tuesday night there was a downpour that reminded us what a blessing shelter is. It raged and beat against the window panes, set up a tattoo on the metal roof, and generally sounded like Noah's flood had come again.

We feared that the road would be washed away but when morning dawned, there were only two inches in the rain gauge and, though branches that are usually mere trickles were roaring, the road was intact.

After all this time with no sun to speak of, it was a bit of a thrill just to see good strong shadows. . .

. . . and to see the river birch decked briefly in a million fairy lights.

Romance ... and Baby Makes Three

So, I'm at the recycling center emptying my recyclable paper and there on top of all the newspapers and junk mail are a bunch of new-looking paperbacks -- with this guy on top. Latigo, a renegade Apache, could only bring the widowed Rose Colby more grief . . .

Never mind that I'd just given a box of books to the library -- the painful result of trying to de-accession some of my book collection. Never mind that genre romance is NOT something I read. I couldn't stop myself from scooping up several of these abandoned novels.

Whar surprised me though was not so much Latigo, the half-breed hunk in APACHE FIRE who yearns for acceptance, family, and love, but these other two books-- from Harlequin's Born in the USA series. (The subtitle of the series is 'Love, marriage, and the pursuit of family!' (Notice the pacifier on the back cover.)

What's going on here?

BITTERSWEET SACRIFICE: A young widow, pregnant with a stranger's child. She's agreed to act a a surrogate mother for an unknown man who really, really wants a child. She does this in order to pay for the operation her adorable little son needs. But then he realizes she can't give up the baby.

Would you believe that near the end of this pregnancy she meets and falls in love with Zade (hunky, wealthy) who is incredibly turned on by her gravid charms. (I mean, REALLY turned on.) Plus he really likes her little boy. And son-of-a-gun, would you believe that he turns out to be the father of the child she's carrying?

LATE BLOOMER is about an forty-year old spinster in a small Alabama town who encounters (hunky) Ben McKenzie (also wealthy) who is on the run with his daughter, trying to get her away from an abusive stepfather. Not only do sparks fly and matters get pretty steamy between the (very attractive) spinster who buys a whole new wardrobe of sexy lingerie, but the hunky, wealthy Ben is the salvation of the dying little town, bringing a recycled paper plant to revive the economy.

I'm kind of fascinated by this phenomenon.

And I wonder which fantasy appeals to which women . . . and why.

Now for Christmas. . .

This sculpture group fiddles and picks and sashays year round in front of the Asheville Civic Center. When I was in there last Friday, they were already decked out for Christmas.

I'm wondering what lively tune they're playing. I'm going to be in need of some peppy music. As of last night, I was in the closing chapters of my proof reading. Now for the Christmas preparations -- cooking, cleaning (roust those dogs off the sofas,) wrap and mail packages, pull out holiday decor . . . aye, law, let the revels commence!

Still Reading . . .

Sunday, and I'm still reading the page proofs . . . and still really pleased with how good it sounds to me.



















More of the same -- cold outside, the dogs and cats and I clustered round the fireplace inside.
William and Miss Susie Hutchins . . .

. . . Ali Ali, Maggie, and Jack relaxing . . . they're really good at it . . .

Molly keeping an eye on things . . . and Ali Ali and Otis being snug -- another perfect December day.

First Snow

We woke Saturday morning to drifting snow. And as the day went on, so did the snow.

Fortunately, there was no need for the dash to the grocery for bread and milk and diapers that so many folks in this county seem to perform as a reflex in response to the first flakes.

There was one thing to do -- walk barefoot in the first snow to ensure health all year. Eddie tells me he's safe.

And now so am I.

(I don't always walk so spraddle-foot; that was me being ultra-cautious on a slick surface, not wanting to be healthy but with broken bones.)

It was a perfect day to sit by the fire with our five dogs, as well as Justin and Claui's two who were dropped off for doggy day care.

And I had the page proofs of The Day of Small Things which arrived late Friday! I have to read through all 400 plus pages very, very carefully in search of typos and other errors.

I've been away from Day and so deep in Under the Skin that it's almost like reading someone else's book.

And, though I'm only a third of the way through it right now, I've got to say that I'm glad it was I who wrote it.

Seriously, I've almost made myself cry a couple of times (not an easy thing to do.)

I'm looking forward to the rest of it -- I hope it's as good!

A Grave Mistake

...or, The Plot Thickens

A few posts back, I spoke of finding what I thought might be the doll house grave Nancy had told me -- the grave of the Cantrell child who wandered off and froze to death up on Straddle Top Mountain.

Then I got an email from Phyllis who said: " My husband called Jeter Cantrell, and he said that he did have a little sister who wandered away from home at age three and froze to death. He thinks this would have been in 1925 or '26. And she is buried in Walnut.

However, he remembers there being a dollhouse and doll on the grave of a little McDevitt girl, who was buried "above the road on the bank." He thinks her name might have been Ruby, and that she had a twin sister named Reba. I'm not sure if he meant they both died young or not. He said their father's name was Regan."

Aha!

So I passed this on to Nancy, who said: "Oh, my goodness! I know Reba McDevitt (if it's the same one) - she married Fred Rector (my cousin) and I was friends with their daughter. . . . I can still see that little doll house sitting up there on the bank. I vaguely remember looking in the windows of it and seeing dolls - one sitting in a little chair.

I don't remember hearing the story of twins and neither do my sister or brother but that doesn't mean much. "

To straighten out this confusion, yesterday Nancy very kindly came out to Walnut to show me where she remembered the doll house being.

And she pointed out Straddle Top Mountain, where the little girl died -- not a great picture, what with all the power lines but that area from the peak on the right to the peak half-hidden behind the trees on the left is where Nancy's family would have seen the lanterns moving as searchers looked for the little girl.

Nancy and I wandered through the grave yard and she pointed out markers of family and other folks she had known. I was paying special attention to the little lambs, wondering if one of these might mark the Cantrell child

Of course, they all tell sad stories -- like this one: "Budded on earth to bloom in heaven."

But though we found a few Cantrells, I never found a stone that fit the time and the description of the child.

So we went across the road for Nancy to show me where the doll house grave had been. And there was Ruby McDevitt, who died at the age of seven.

Nancy said that someone used to put new dolls in the doll house now and then. So now, I'd like to know more about Ruby and the story behind the doll house.

And I still wonder if that little broken-off stone back up in the far corner to the left of Ruby's grave, still might be that of the Cantrell child.

Nancy wants to know too and she's on the case.

The Time Traveler's Wife

I was half-way through page two when I found myself thinking, "I wish I'd written this book!"

Not because of the NYT Bestseller spot, not because of the movie deal, not because of the fame and fortune that has flowed Ms. Niffenegger's deserving way -- but just because I love the concept!

Friends have been recommending this book for a long time -- I think it came out in 2003. And the movie came on this September (I haven't seen it.)

But what a book! I adored the writing -- the adroit handling of an amazingly complex story. The voices alternate between Henry, involuntary time traveler who may be anywhen, just when he least expects it, and Clare, the artist with whom he falls in love -- over a very long period of time. The book is heart-breakingly romantic, bittersweet, funny, and beautiful by turns. Unforgettable, in fact.

I won't go on -- many of you have likely read the book or seen the movie. If you haven't, there's an excellent review HERE.

But this is just to say a very belated WOW!

Novels in the Making

I kind of hated to leave the warm house yesterday afternoon. The weather was perfect for the Canada geese at river -- not so much for driving.

But I soldiered on into Asheville, wipers slapping, defroster roaring, to be there for the final meeting of my fall fiction workshop. There were five separate first or second chapters awaiting the class's attention. Obviously I had no choice.

After a quick stop at Accent on Books to pick up another box of Christmas cards (I always forget how many friends we exchange cards with,) I called on my friend Josie to chat and have a cup of tea in our usual pre-class ritual. And while I was comfortably ensconced on her love seat, outside the window the sky began to clear and do wonderful things.

Speaking of wonderful things (note clever transition,) this has been an especially talented class. And wildly diverse in their choice of subject matter too. We've got women's fiction, alternative history (Revolutionary War,) cozy mystery, drug cartel thriller, paranormalish thriller, past life regression story, straight mystery, historical fiction (pirates Mary Read and Ann Bonney and the foppish Captain Jack Rackham, for whom someone in class came up with the term swishbuckler. Which cracked us all up. Then I found out, courtesy Mr. Google, that it's a known term and there's a movie of that name coming out soon. We thought we were so clever.)

Once again, the class has been fun. I feel privileged to share what little I know about this baffling business and hope that I help my students some and pray that I don't discourage them any.

Except for the money part -- I do always warn them that they better not quit their day jobs.

Frosting

In dreams, one might walk,
Wading through cool whipped cream clouds,
Toward the rising sun.

"Jack Frost has been here,"

My grandmother would tell me,
Pointing to the ground
Where elegant tracery
Picoteed the still green leaves.

Such fleeting beauty ...
Sun-kissed rime to crystal drops ...
Life is short ... yet still ...

Early Christmas Cheer

We generally wait till mid-December to put up our Christmas tree, giving ourselves a little more time to hang on to that mellow Thanksgiving tryptophan state of mind.


But one of our local characters always puts together a funky little holiday display, reminding me that it's time to make lists, address Christmas cards, plan upcoming festivities, and wrap and mail gifts . . .

And speaking of gifts ( WARNING! Blatant commercial plea follows) . . . what about introducing a friend to Elizabeth Goodweather? Easy on the budget, easy to wrap, easy to mail . . .

Of course you can find her on Amazon but over there to the right are links to three booksellers who can provide autographed (even personalized, if you wish) copies of the Elizabeth Goodweather Appalachian Mysteries.

If mysteries aren't your cup of tea, there are other books that would fill the void in someone's stocking -- I've mentioned some goodies in the past couple years.

As you've probably heard, booksellers and the publishing industry are having a tough time of it these days, along with so many other enterprises. Though we usually make most of our gifts (well, for the past few years, it's been John who's taken over that task, busying away in his wood shop,) I still spend some dollars at my local booksellers, picking out what I hope will be just the right book for certain friends and family.

Of course there are lots of troubled retailers -- and I wasn't one of the patriotic souls out there last Friday, spending to help put one of the big box businesses in the black.

Maybe book stores are redundant now -- with the Internet and E-books and such -- but to me, the independent bookstore is one of the last bastions of a truly civilized way of life. Here's a place where you can browse and find something more than the same few big names -- maybe you're looking for something regional, something quirky, something unexpected -- whatever your interest, you can count on booksellers who can help you. Booksellers who read their wares, booksellers who actually like books. . .

Imagine that!



I'll be signing (and buying) books in one such bastion this week. If you're in the Asheville area, stop by Malaprops on Friday the 4th, between 5 and 6. I'll be there, happy to sign and personalize for you. Or to point you to some good reads in which I have no financial interest.

Okay, commercial over.