To our Dear Family, Friends, & Random People Following this Blog,

I send my profound apologies for not blogging our annual holiday newsletter in 2021, but you simply won’t believe what happened to us! As you remember, we moved back to Maine in 2020, and due to a lottery windfall we were able to purchase an island featuring a workIng sardine factory.

Believe me, you cannot imagine our excitement to finally begin all over again in the marvelous state where, much like Patrick Dempsey, I’d spent such an idyllic childhood. The hubster would be a fisherman, and I’d handle the canning operation solo for a few months … you know … just until we were turning a profit and could hire more employees. 

That is not what happened at all! You would have thought, (and you would have been wrong) the realtor might have mentioned that the last sardine cannery in Maine closed in 2010, as well as those pesky little Atlantic herring fishing regulations. (No wonder why we got such a deal on the island)!

Anyway, we were minding our own business struggling to make a go of the sardine factory when one day, in an effort to stave off the aging process, the hubster took a hike around the island. He met “three nice men” who for a tidy sum wanted him to ferry them and their things to the mainland now and again. “Great,” I thought. “Finally some money.” Sure, it was a little suspicious when these excursions had to occur in the dead of night, but let’s face it. People be weird, right? (Who thinks drug smuggling right off the bat)?

Well, once the DEA seized the island and arrested us, we knew we had a problem. Of course, the hubster cut a deal with the prosecution, and we were put into witness protection until the trial could begin. And just let me say for the record, witness protection IS NOT the way it is glamorized in the movies. Nope. Not. At. All.

The government stashed us in a teeny-weeny one room cabin in the Maine Allagash with no running water and an outhouse! Lord have mercy! It was like living in the eighteen hundreds. We might as well have been living in a cave. No electricity, no phone, no wifi, no television, no radio, no washing machine, and no dryer. (Not to mention the candles and woodsmoke wreaked havoc on my asthma). However, the government did give us an axe and some seeds to grow our own food. Oh, and some chickens which had to live indoors with us, as the chicken coop just wasn’t secure from the large night prowling animals there.

No siree! The Allagash in Maine is no place for the faint of heart. Snow up the wazoo (think higher than the normal wazoo) in the winter, and in the spring and summer the mosquitoes alone are big enough to carry you away, never mind the bear! It was torture, but on the upside (you know me, people, always finding the silver lining)! I became an expert with a slingshot and was the bane of the squirrel population’s existence around the cabin. 

Fortunately for us, the drug smugglers were not a bigtime operation, nor were they the brightest crayons in the box. Mo, Larry, and Curly, as we liked to call them) blew themselves up in a tragic accident in the prison laundry. According to the U.S. Marshalls, Mo, Larry, and Curly had no living relatives, and no drug smuggling connections who’d even begin to care about the hubster or me, so we could return to our civilian life. Except not to the island. The island is still in the hands of the government. I’m pretty sure we don’t own it anymore either.

Again, on the bright side, we didn’t die. We were gone so long though, two of our children thought we’d been abducted by aliens, (See Goodbye 2019. You Were a Stinker Holiday Newsletter) and the youngest thought we’d run off to South America again for another Kaca Daca tribe adventure. (See Holiday Newsletter 2020). You can’t imagine how excited they were to learn we were back! They’ve even promised to try and go back to their yearly telephone calls to tell us about their lives!!

I won’t bore you with the details of just exactly what it took just to survive up there in the Allagash, but rest assured I’m back to writing the third book in the Rafe Ryder series, Rafe Ryder and the Mystery of the Moonstone. If you’d like to help the hubster and me get back on our feet again, consider buying Rafe Ryder and the Well of Wisdom, and Rafe Ryder and the Brushstroke of Time. Anything is appreciated when you’re practically destitute, especially those Amazon and Goodreads reviews!

So … we made it through 2021 and 2022, and I feel sure our lives are finally back on track now. (Hey, I have water, sewer, and food I don’t have to kill, skin, or grow. I’m a happy girl)! Now that you know we still exist, do drop us a line.

Much love to you all, and Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Diwali, Happy Kwanzaa, or whatever else you celebrate!

Sincerely,

L. L.

     The study door floated open, and my eyes caught sight of the kitchen light flickering ominously over a cupboard door which opened and closed itself every few seconds. If this happened in anybody else’s house, I would advise a prompt exorcism, but I had no ghastly ghostly problems here. No. I knew exactly who was behind this skullduggery. 

     Heaving a heavy sigh, I pushed myself from my desk chair, and sauntered into the kitchen. I snapped the light off and held the cupboard door shut for a full minute before turning to go back to my study.

     At that moment, the cupboard door flung itself open, and a ceramic mug pitched out of the cupboard at my head. I managed to dodge it, but my adrenaline had been triggered, and my heart beat wildly in my chest. “This must stop now!” I bellowed.

     “Ooooooh, poor Karen, it’s always disturbing when the mugs turn violent, isn’t it?” replied Bizness, my cat. His voice positively dripped with sarcasm.

     “What is your problem, cat?”

     “My problem? My problem is that you left me alone all day and practically all last night. It’s like I’m not even here.”

     “Well, to be fair, you are actually invisible … soooo there’s that,” I said, kicking myself once again for getting an invisible cat during the height of the pandemic in 2020.

     “Where were you, Karen? You can tell me. I won’t be mad.”

     I stooped to sweep the pieces of the broken mug into a dustpan. “You will be mad. You’re always mad when I go places without you.” 

     “Yet you continue to do it.”

     “Yet I continue to do it,” I said agreeably, tossing the broken mug pieces into the garbage. “If you really must know, we went to Searsport to visit the Penobscot Marine Museum—”

     “Ugh, boring.”

     “And then we went out to dinner at the Homeport Inn and Tavern with my sister and her husband.”

     “Less boring, continue.”

     “I’ll show you pictures if you promise you’ll leave me alone to write afterwards.”

     “What choice do I have? You have me by the balls, Karen. Life is so tedious here.”

     “Cat,” I said in a warning tone.

     “That’s not my name.”

     “Yeah, well … if you ever get my name right, I’ll get your name right,” I said.

     “I promise, Karen,” the Cat said, faking a childish high-pitched mocking voice.

     I got out my phone and pulled up the photographs I’d taken the previous night. “Okay, this is the Captain John P. Nichols house. The story goes like this. John went to sea by age eleven, captained his own ship by age twenty-one, and having made his fortune, retired back home to Searsport by the age of forty-seven to this mansion he had built for himself and his family in 1865,” I said showing the cat the first two pictures and going on to the next one.

“Look, the house is crowned with this elaborate cupola. I was in awe.”

“Hmmmm. Yes, well … small things do amuse you, Karen, dear.”

      “We drove around to the back of the Inn where the Homeport Tavern is located. There we met the new owners and operators Arnaud and Allison Lessard and all the fabulous wait staff and chef, Kip Dixon.

     “We relaxed in the English pub-styled bar area while we waited to be seated for dinner. This is my brother-in-law who claims “he never takes a bad picture.”

“Jury is out on that one, Karen. I’ll need more pictures to verify that. He does have a lovely handbag.”

“The handbag belongs to his wife.”

“Whatever you say, Karen. Whatever you say. Go on with your story.”

    “We got there early and had a glass of wine. The whole tavern experience was laid-back and welcoming. I loved every minute of it. Then we went into the black and gold dining room for dinner.”

“Black and gold? Bold choice.”

“It was simple, yet elegant at the same time. I am not one given to rave reviews of food experiences, but I must make an exception for the Homeport Tavern & Inn. The food was amazing, and I heard they now have live music most nights, which is great because it would be ashamed not to have music with that grand piano sitting in the corner. And last, but not least, here’s what we had to eat.”

     “How about this, Karen? I’ll leave you alone for the day if you promise to take me the next time you go.”

     “You already promised you’d leave me alone if I showed you pictures.”

“I changed my mind, so we’re changing terms.”

“You cannot go into the Homeport Tavern with us. I’m sure it violates the state health code.”

     “Who will ever know, Karen? Huh? Hello? I’m invisible.”

     “And just exactly how do I explain to people that I have an invisible cat with me?”

     “You don’t say anything, Karen. You get a table for two and say nothing. Besides if it should come out, anyone that knows you … knows how fleeting reality is for you.”

“That was extremely unkind,” I said, knowing full well the cat was making a valid point about my eccentricities.

     “Sorry,” the cat said, pretending to cough up a hairball. “Take me there next week, and I’ll stop pestering you.”

     “Okay, fine, but you can’t trip the wait staff and there is no breaking anything while we’re there.”

     “Deal!” said the cat. “Dismissed, Karen. You may now go back to your hole undisturbed for the rest of the day.”

     “It’s called a study. And leave the paragraph indentations on WordPress alone. You keep making me look inept.”

     “Whatev, Karen Whatev.”

     I heard the front door open and close, but I didn’t glance up from kneading the dough on my counter. I still had to make dinner, and I had a zoom meeting in an hour. It was going to be tight.

     “Karen?”

     “Not now, cat. I’m slammed”

     “What does that even mean?”

     “Busy. Super busy.”

     “This is important, Karen.”

     “Stop calling me Karen.”

     “Look. I need to tell you something and I don’t want you to freak out on me.” 

      Looking towards the cat’s voice, I scowled. “I don’t know how it is for other people, but when I’m told how I should or should not react, I usually feel obligated to snap like a rubber band. “

     “I think you need to sit down. Seriously. Do. Not. Flip. Out.”

     “Excuse Me,” I said, placing a hand on my hip. 

     “Okay. Now I am not following you, Karen. Was that an excuse me like a sarcastic excuuuuse me, excuse me like a question, or excuse me like a whoops I farted, my bad?”

     Retrieving some flour from a nearby container, I threw a bit more on my bread board. “None of the above,” I replied. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

     That cat heaved a dramatic sigh. “I can see you’re not going to let me break this to you gently, Karen, so I’ll just go ahead and say it. I just died. Did you hear me? I died!”

     “Great,” I said, not batting an eyelash while I continued kneading my dough. “So now you’re not only an invisible cat, but you’re an invisible ghost cat, and you’re haunting me?”

     “Don’t be a dolt, Karen. I’m a cat with nine lives. Although, I’m down two lives since last night, so I’ve only got seven left.”

     “You lost two lives in twenty-four hours?” I asked, incredulously. “What exactly have you been doing? Skydiving?”

     “Naw. It all started when I saw that other kitty cat creeping around the brook last night, so I walked down to extend my paw in friendship.”

      “I told you stay away from that cat.”

     “I don’t recall that, but I distinctly remember you telling me the cat’s name was Bob.”

     “I told you it was a Bobcat, and to stay away from it!”

     “Did you? Hmmm. Well … you should have said, ‘Bob has a great sense of smell and a nasty temper. You’ll make a tasty little snack for Bob.’”

     “Did I not tell you repeatedly, and on many occasions, that it was only safe to make friends with the kitties under my bed?”

     “Ugh! Speaking of that. What kind of slipshod show are you running under that bed, Karen? Although, presently I have no room to talk. It’s lucky for you I’m invisible, because there is a terrible mess out back around that brook now and another terrible mess down on Route1.”

     “Ewwww.”

     “You don’t know the half of it. Why did you not warn me about New York drivers?”

     “Please stop talking,” I pleaded. “This is not a discussion to be had when I’m baking bread and making supper.”

     I finished shaping my bread into two loaves and went to the cupboard for my loaf pans. When I returned, I found two tiny paw prints pressed into my dough.

     “Are you kidding me? Why did you do that? That is disgusting!”

     “Sorry, Karen. It’s a free country, so I retain the right to annoy, offend, and disgust you from time to time.”

     “I feel sure that is not the intent of freedom.”

     “I disagee.”

      “Okay. I’ve had enough, and I know a way to stop all this.” With a devilish grin, I broke into the song my cat hated most. “Ding Dong bell. Pussy’s in the well. Who put him in? Little Johnny Flynn.”

     “You’re going to hell, Karen. Hell, I say! Please tell me you didn’t sing that horrible nursery rhyme to your children. If you did, you’re a despicable person, and your life is full of mistakes.”

     “So true, but making terrible mistakes seems to be how I learn best in life,” I said, lunging towards the cat’s voice, 

     “You’re the worst, Karen. By the way, the funerals are tomorrow. I hope by that time you can act more appropriately,” the cat bellowed as he scampered away. “I expect flowers.”

     “And I expect a headache,” I mumbled, crossing my arms and staring at the bread. There had to be a plausible way to explain the paw prints on the bread loaves to the hubster this evening.

At that moment the dog rounded the corner and I lifted him into my arms to examine his paws. “Purrrrrfect, Rupert. Much larger paws. How do you feel about covering some cat tracks,” I asked.

     “Don’t you dare, Karen!” the cat shouted from the other room. “Don’t you dare! Your bread is always hard as rocks and I was planning on using them as my tombstones.”

The weatherman had been right. A northwesterly wind did indeed turn gusty and usher in an unseasonably cold, wet, spring day. Rain poured down, occasionally splattering against the windows in sheets, driven by a wind that seemed intent on blowing my house to Oz.

     Fine, I thought. It’s time to tackle the To-Do list anyway.

     I’d been hunkered under my writing desk for a good fifteen minutes painting the legs of the desk when I heard a sudden loud thud on the front porch followed by a series of mysterious scratching on the metal storm door.

     Uh oh. That can’t be good.

     Balancing my paintbrush on the paint can, I crawled out from beneath the desk and flew to open the door. I expected to see a tree limb sprawled across my porch, but there was nothing there. Not even a wayward leaf.

     That’s bizarre.

     I went back to my study and settled back down under the desk to paint.

     “Hello, Karen.”

     My head struck the bottom of the desk as I startled. “Cat?” I whispered. “You’re supposed to be in—”

     “Massachusetts with your daughter and her cat. I’m aware. I still can’t believe you had the audacity to give me away. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? I’ve been gone a year and not once has your daughter, or her stupid cat, even acknowledged my existence.”

     “Well … in their defense, you are invisible.”

     “Don’t get snippy, Karen. I deserve a life where someone values and appreciates me. However, at this point I’ll settle for someone as mentally unstable as you. Because let’s face it, Karen. You’re cuckoo.”

     I shrugged. The cat had a valid point. Afterall, I was the one who thought it was a good idea to acquire an invisible cat when the Covid pandemic started. I hadn’t even batted an eyelash when the cat began speaking to me. No. The cat was right. I definitely was the one whose cornbread wasn’t quite cooked in the middle.

     “Do you realize you have not posted on your blog for the entire year I’ve been gone?”

     “So?”

     “Obviously, you’re depressed, Karen. Just look at what you’ve been reading. Really? A Crappy History of Rockland. Really?”

     I glanced at the newspaper I’d placed on the floor around the desk to catch any paint drips. “For your information it is a newspaper article about the early sewer system in Rockland, and it was fascinating,” I said in a defensive tone.

     “Karen, Karen, Karen. We used to discuss vocabulary words and current events. I’d spill the beans on your husband, and that thing that passes for a dog in your house, when they were acting out. You need me desperately, and have no fear, I shall answer your call.”

     “No. Nope,” I said, vigorously shaking my head back and forth. “I made no call.”

     “There is no need to grovel. I accept your apology, Karen. Ooooh. Look out the window. The tom turkeys are out there trying to impress the ladies,” said the cat in delight. “I know fun turkey facts! Did you know that the males can change the bare skin on their heads to a raging red hue when they are agitated or excited? Their heads are combination of white or blue when they are less riled up.”

     “I did not apologize,” I said.

     “And they are called “toms” short for “tomcat,” Bizness rambled on. “You know like one of those wild cats or men who like to keep the company of a lot of different women, but turkeys aren’t cats so we just say “toms.” Also, a juvenile male is known as a “jake,” and a juvenile female is known as a “jenny.”

     “I did not apologize,” I insisted.

      “Good talk, Karen. The cat scampered down the steps to the basement. “I’ll be in my room.”

     Just then the hubster rounded the corner. “Were you talking to me?” he asked.

     “Nope,” I replied. “Just singing … a silly song.”

     “What song?”

     “But the cat came back the very next day,” I warbled. “The cat came back, we thought he was a goner, but the cat came back, it just couldn’t stay away, away, away.”

     “You’ve lost your mind.”

     “Yes,” I said slinking back into my study to finish painting the desk. “That is a real possibility.”

A thunderclap of glass shattering jolted me upright. Springing to my feet, I threw the book I was reading on the bed and scrambled to the kitchen. There I heard my invisible cat on top of the kitchen island stalking back and forth, his tail thumping against the fruit bowl each time he passed it. 

“It appears that a vase has broken, Karen.”

“What did you do? That was my only vase,” I moaned.

“I did nothing, Karen. Can you say cross breeze? This is what you get for leaving the front and backdoor open.” 

I stared at the fragmented remains of my splashy, fragile, and once whole vase scattered on the floor for a moment before dejectedly shuffling to the closet for a broom and dustpan.

“Rest in peace, Vauzzy, the vase,” the cat said. “Your pulchritudinous likeness will be missed.”

“You can’t slip a word like pulchritudinous into everyday casual conversation,” I said, sweeping the glass into my dustpan. “Hardly anyone knows what that word means.” 

“Pulchritudinous is an adjective used to describe beauty, Karen,” he replied in his most patronizing tone. “It’s a grandiose way of saying someone or something has great physical beauty.”

“I’m aware of what the word means.”

“Then you know I used the word correctly, Karen.”

“The point I’m trying to make is the word pulchritudinous sounds more like the name of a bad infection or a terrible disease. Everyday people aren’t going to use that word to describe someone’s beauty. You could have simply said, ‘Your beauty will be missed, Vauzzy.’” 

“Yes, and I could also be dull and ordinary like you and everyone else, but I choose not to be, Karen.”

I snorted out a theatrical sigh as I dispatched the glass shards of Vauzzy now residing in my dustpan into the garbage bin.

“By the way, Karen, what were you doing in your bedroom for the last two hours?” the cat asked.

“Reading and thinking.”

“Isn’t that what your study is for, Karen?”

Glaring in the direction of the cat, I expelled another exasperated breath.

“I’m waiting for an answer, Karen.”

“I was trying to have some alone time. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t get much of that around here,” I said, slinging the broom and dustpan back into the closet.

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot. It’s all about you, Karen, day in and day out. All about you! You’re such a narcissist.”

“You would know,” I said, throwing my hands up in the air. “At least I’m not a pestering, nagging, irritating …. what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, yeah … bore! And for the last time, my name is not Karen!” 

I could feel a vein throbbing in my forehead as I shook my head at the cat, all the while silently berating myself for ever letting him look over my shoulder at the cat memes on Twitter during our covid quarantine. (These are a few of his favorites).

“No, Karen. The word you’re looking for is nudnik. A pestering, nagging, irritating bore is known as a nudnik, and I’ll have you know, I am no such thing.”

“Agree to disagree,” I muttered under my breath.

“Would you cease your susurrations, Karen. You do more whispering, murmuring, and rustling then the breeze swishing through this room earlier, or that silly brook in your backyard for that matter.”

“Do you study the dictionary at night while I’m sleeping?”

“Of course, I do. Words are our thing, Karen. It’s how you and I connect on a deeper spiritual level. Can’t you feel it?”

I pressed a hand to my forehead. “Honestly, the only thing I’m feeling right now is a headache coming on.”

“Don’t be absurd, Karen. Incidentally, I heard you crying in the bedroom a few minutes ago.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“Why are your eyes red and why do you continue to susurrate and sigh then? You can’t be upset over Vauzzy. You and she simply weren’t that close.”

I dropped my head into my hands. Sometimes ideas have a way of coming back to bite you squarely in the backside and this was one of those times for me. I had thought getting an invisible cat during the pandemic might provide a modicum of comfort as well as the diversion and distraction I so desperately craved being so isolated from the outside world.

(Boy! Oh! Boy! Was I ever wrong)!

I hadn’t anticipated the little he-devil would insist on following me around and scrutinizing every teeny tiny detail of my life in order to make a connection with me. Nor I had I anticipated he would, in fact, be able to speak.

“Karen, you need to stop being ridiculous.”

“Mind your own business, cat.”

“Talk to me, Karen.”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, get your butt off the pity potty, Karen.”

“I’m too tired for this today. Go outside.”

“It’s raining, Karen.”

“So you’ll get wet. Toodle-oo!” I said, waving.

“I’m not going anywhere until you stop riding the whimper wagon.”

“Aaauuugh!” I stomped into the living room and plunked down on the couch. Crossing my arms, I tried to regain my composure.

I heard the cat pad into the room and sit on the floor beside me. There was a minute of blissful silence before the cat said, “Poor, Karen. Do you want me to call you the wambulance? I know how to dial whine one one.”

“Please shush and cease baiting me, cat.”

“You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself, Karen.

“And you need to stop accusing me of things I’m not actually doing,” I squawked. “Besides, even if I were having some ‘feels’ today, aren’t you the same cat that told me a month ago, ‘In order to heal you must feel?’”

“I changed my mind, Karen. Your feelings are far too complicated, and they make me uncomfortable. Your feelings are also making the dog uncomfortable.” 

“That’s not true. Rupert loves me. He is very comfortable with my feelings.”

Hearing his name, the dog sauntered into the room, ogling me adoringly with his dark brown eyes.

“Keep walking, dog. This doesn’t concern you,” the cat snapped.

“Leave him alone!”

“Stop defending him, Karen. He does not love you. That stare translates into, ‘You have hands. Open the refrigerator door and give me the chicken you keep in there.’ It has nothing to do with love.”

“Stop throwing shade at the dog, cat! He does love me and he’s perfectly comfortable with my feelings. And for your information, you can’t give someone advice about their feelings and then take it back a month later.”

“Yes, I can. I’m a cat. It’s what we do, Karen.

“Too bad. Get used to some moodiness around here besides your own. I’m learning how to sit with my feelings.”

“I’d advise trying to flee from them instead, Karen.”

“Nope. My feelings are appropriate for all the stuff going on around here.”

“Karen. Karen. Karen. Why must you always be so melodramatic? Wait. Did I miss something? Are you acting out because you’re sick?” the cat asked, sounding extremely suspicious. “You have been looking a little peaky lately.” 

“No, and I’m not the one who has been acting out around here, cat!”

“Oooo. Ooooo. Is your husband going to prison?”

“NO, HE IS NOT!” I hollered. “Why would you ask me something like that?”

“Are you sure? He has no regard for the rules of society. He constantly jaywalks and the other day I even saw him twerking in the backyard. He’s scaring the birds, Karen.”

“You little nutbag! Go away!” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Karen! That’s where I draw the line. I might perhaps be classified as a tad oppositional from time to time, but nutbag … never!

“I beg to differ.”

“You’re no fun to be around when you are like this, Karen. Why must you wallow? Do you want to live your life in eternal misery?”

“I am not wallowing in anything … except maybe my deep, deep regret for getting an invisible cat. Please just leave me alone.”

“Never.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut. “Do you want me to give you away?”

“That’s low even for you, Karen. Threatening a cat’s security for trying to distract you and cheer you up?”

“Oh, that’s what you’re trying to do?” I said, glaring in the cat’s direction. “You’re terrible at it.”

“You’re mean as a hornet, Karen.”

“Last chance,” I warned through gritted teeth as I strode into my study and sat down at the computer.

“I must tell you I think it is highly unlikely you’ll be able to give an invisible kitty away,” the cat said, sauntering into the study after me.

“Wanna make a bet? I’m sitting down to write a blog post right this minute.”

“People are going to think you’re a lunatic, Karen.”

“Not to worry, cat. I’m pretty sure that ship has already sailed.”

The cat hurrumphed. “Not only has it sailed … you’re the captain of the ship, Karen McCuckcoo. Don’t blame me when this all goes south, and the crazies are fighting over me in your front yard.”

“That’s it,” I said, my fingers flying over the keyboard in a dizzying tizzy.

Free to a good home:  One extremely snarky and highly annoying invisible nudnick of a cat who periodically likes to pretend he is a princess on the back deck. Goes by the name of Bizness, and I promise he’ll be all up in yours. Don’t miss this one-of-a-kind opportunity. Hit me up, people. Please, I’m begging you!

“Sup?” my invisible cat asked me as I came into the kitchen this morning.

I shook my head at the cat and pointed to my sweatshirt which read, “I’m only talking to my dog today.”

“That’s rude, Karen.”

“My name is not Karen.”

“Whatever,” the cat said in a contemptuous tone.

“If you must know,” I said. “I broke the cartilage of my right ear yesterday. My mask won’t stay on because the darn ear just keeps folding over and the strap won’t stay on.”

“That must hurt, Karen.” That cat’s voice positively dripped with sarcasm.

I clenched my teeth, trying hard to maintain my cool with my snippy invisible cat. “It. Really. Does. Cat.”

I busied myself making tea when suddenly I heard something large tumble down the steps and crash onto the basement floor.

“What did you do?” I asked the cat.

“I didn’t do anything, Karen,” the cat replied, his voice coming from the top of the stairwell. “It looks like your husband fell down the steps.”

“Oh, crap! Did you trip him?”

“No. Who has the energy for that, Karen?”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s on his feet, but he broke the television.”

“What? The television is mounted on the wall eight feet away from the bottom of the steps. How could he have possibly done that?”

“I don’t know, Karen. You tell me.”

“Don’t get lippy with me,” I warned, hurrying down the steps to investigate.

“Would you look at that?” the hubster said, standing in front of the television staring at a pixelated mess.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. The television, however, is not.”

“I see that. How on earth did you land at the bottom of the stairway and break the television?”

“Pure, unadulterated, raw talent.”

“Ummm hmmm. I’ll give you that,” I said, nodding. “Were you carrying anything? Did something fly out of your hand and hit the screen?”

“I suppose that’s possible,” he replied.

“You don’t know?”

“No, I do not.”

“Ooooookay,” I said more as a sigh than a word as I turned to climb back up the stairs.

The cat was waiting for me in the kitchen. “You need a new television, Karen.”

“Yeah. I know, Captain Obvious.”

“The name’s Bizness, Karen.”

“I know what your name is. I’m the one that gave it to you. Do you know mine?” I asked, pretending to shoot laser beams out of my eyes toward the invisible cat.

“Poor Karen. Anxiety makes you grumpy. I suggest therapy. You should probably take the dog with you. He’s been a real pain in my assets lately.”

“I don’t need therapy, and neither does the dog. Stop being such a little bee-atch.”

“Tch. Tch. Tch, Karen. Language,” the cat admonished. “In order to heal, we must feel.”

“No, thank you,” I replied. “I prefer to eat my feelings.”

“That’s hard not to notice, Karen. You are looking a little chunky. You’ll find the only way out is through.”

“Through what, cat?” I snarled. “The woods? A field of landmines? The nine circles of hell? Give me a freaking break. I’m just trying to survive a global pandemic in a small house with a husband, dog, and an invisible shrew of a cat.”

“That’s harsh, Karen. I’m trying to help. Ben Franklin once said, ‘Out of adversity, comes opportunity,’” the cat purred.

“Did he? Let me quote another famous person, Friedrich Nietzsche. ‘What do I care about the purring of one who cannot love, like the cat.’”

“No need to be hostile, Karen. Just because I don’t love the way you do, doesn’t mean I cannot love. Look, lady. Everybody is dealing with circumstances beyond their control now. Take me for instance. I’m in a one-sided relationship with my owner, who clearly prefers dogs over cats.”

“Stop being ridiculous. I don’t prefer dogs over cats. I am allergic to real cats, which is why I got an invisible cat in the first place.”

“We’re all muddling through the best we can, Karen. But some people, I won’t name names. KAREN,” the cat coughed his new nickname for me under his breath. “Some people just can’t seem to handle their own shiz. Ever.”

“I can handle my own shiz, Biz. I’m just sick of all the whitewater rapids I’ve been shooting for the last year. I feel like I’ve been caught in one of those strainers.”

“Strainers?” the cat asked, sounding mildly interested. 

“It’s when large objects block the river, but the flow of water continues around them. The force of the water will pin your body and pull you right down into it, like a giant kitchen colander.”

“I don’t use colanders, Karen, so … not a really great analogy … but I totally get your gist. The whole world’s been caught in the Devil’s Toilet Bowl this last year. It’s not just you. Strap on your life jacket, put on your helmet, and hold onto your paddle. And for the love of all that is holy, stop whining and learn to read the river, Karen.”

“I am not whining and I am reading the river better than I was a year ago.”

“Are you Karen?” the cat said in a skeptical tone. “Are you really?”

“Yes. Yes I am. I am practicing radical acceptance and gratitude for the things that I have. I am not concentrating on the losses. I am looking only forward.”

“Is that so?” the cat asked, sounding surprised. “Then why do you have to keep giving yourself the rah rah sis boom bah pep talks in the mirror every morning?”

“That is none of your business, Bizness!” 

“I’m just saying, you’re a little too old for the cheerleader thing, don’t you think?”

“Stay out of my bathroom!”

“I’m an invisible cat. I go wherever I want. It’s just what cats do. Deal, Karen.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I bellowed. “What must I do to shut you up today?”

“I thought you’d never ask. I want to play princess and pirates out on the deck. I’ll be the princess. You will make an absolutely fabulous pirate; you’ve developed such a potty mouth lately the role of a pirate shouldn’t be too much of an artistic stretch for you.”

“Fine.”

“Goody. Can I wear your crown?”

“Don’t push your luck,” I said. “I’m hanging on by a thread today.”

“That’s obvious. You own an invisible cat. How sane can you possibly be, Karen?”

Tilting my head to the side, I pondered that statement. The cat had a point. I’m just going to chalk it up to an overactive imagination and a severe case of Covid craziness, which is still better than actually having Covid. So there’s that.

P. S. I sincerely hope our neighbors weren’t watching the shenanigans on the deck this morning. The things I have to do to shut that invisible cat up.

Dearest Friends, Family, and Random Blog Readers,

It’s time once again for our humble holiday newsletter from our house to yours! Hold onto your hats, people! We’ve had quite an eventful year, but I’ll try to make it brief!

Twenty-twenty began with the hubster and me fleeing the Covid-19 virus and the partisan antipathy of the Disunited States. It was really a toss up of what would kill us first so we decided to vamoose it to an uninhabited part of the Brazilian Rainforest.

Once in Brazil, we hopped a smaller plane and parachuted out into the wild blue yonder with our gear. Roughing it in the wild would be our biggest adventure yet.

I made quite a ruckus coming down through the canopy and managed to knock down a bee’s nest as big as me, but other than that, I made it pretty much unscathed. (My bad, bee friends, my bad).

The hubster was not so lucky, his parachute got stuck in a tree with him still strapped into it. As I began to shimmy up the tree with my handy knife between my teeth to cut him down, I noticed the tanned backend of a man running off into the forest. Fine by me. I had to save the hubster anyway, there was no time to make friends.

It took quite some time to get him out of the tree as he is afraid of heights. (So, you may ask, how did I get him to jump out of a small plane if he is afraid of heights? Simple. I pushed him. Okay? Desperate times call for desperate measures. Who wants to live alone in the middle of the rainforest? Am I right)?

Turns out I needn’t have worried about being alone. As we got to the ground, we turned to find a previously undiscovered indigenous tribe of people gathered around the huge bee’s nest which was oozing golden honey everywhere. Apparently honey is a delicacy in the rainforest, and me inadvertently knocking the humongous nest down was a very good thing.

These new people were the Kaca Daca tribe. They were seriously thrilled to meet us, and from what I could understand, they’d just made me their new Kaca Daca Queen.

Sidenote: At first we were not happy because the hubster and I had hoped to ditch our masks and have less handwashing and social distancing to do, but when you land in a tribe of previously uncontacted indigenous people, well … it is completely irresponsible to not wear a mask, wash frequently, and social distance. The Kaca Daca people didn’t mind. It just made us more magical and mysterious to them.

Anyway, we stayed for six months enjoying them and learning their ways until one day a drone flew over. It dropped a message informing us that our son and daughter-in-law had given birth to a baby boy and we needed to try to make our way back to civilization in America. We stole away in the middle of the night so the Kaca Daca people would not follow us and one month later we emerged from the rainforest.

Once back in Vermont, our phones started working and we were delighted to see we were grandparents to a Gerber baby replica, but sadly we also found the bank had foreclosed on our house and in addition, we had lost our castle in England. We had nowhere to go! What were we to do now?????

Well … I happened to have enough money to buy a single lottery ticket, and, as I am a very lucky person, we won 120 million dollars that very night. Ahhh. Twenty-twenty! What a year!

Being unable to visit our new grandson due to Covid restrictions and having lost our homes, we decided to move to Maine. We spent every penny of the lottery winnings on a boat and an old sardine factory on a remote island in Maine where we plan to make a new life. As soon as the hubster gets the hang of herring fishing, we’ll be all set. I’ve already packed four jars of sardines, which I will sell for 50$ a jar. This is probably the best business decision we’ve made in a long, long time.

I have become very popular with the local seabirds and wild turkey because what bird doesn’t love a woman who smells like salt and fish guts? Meet my new bestie.

Our eldest daughter started a home bakery business, mindy-cakes.com, and she has done outrageously well from the very get go. Every major network is clamoring to get her as a contestant on their baking shows and from what I am told she is now Duff Goldman’s new protégé.

The youngest daughter has become a world-renowned botanist. She has quite the green thumb and cultivates sweet plants of the non-smokable variety. If she is doing the smokable variety, she has failed to inform me.

Rupert is turning 13 and since moving to Maine is wearing camo outfits and refusing to budge from the fireside.

I haven’t given up writing and am working on the third book in the Rafe Ryder series. Progress was slowed with this amazing year of ours and because I can’t stop gawking at the fantastic trees in the woods up here.

Anyway, hopefully this letter has not made any of you feel bad or ridiculously inferior. We’ve just had a wonderful year! The stars were aligned for us!

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Diwali, Happy Kwanzaa, or whatever else you celebrate!

Love, Joy, and Peace!

All the best!

L. L.

Without letting me suit up in protective gear, 2020 hurled some pretty crazy curveballs my way. I was able to dodge most of them, but one of the filthy little suckers landed square in my chest throwing life, as I had known it for the past thirty-one years, tail over teakettle into the air.

I had just started writing the third book in the Rafe Ryder Series when the “unexpected-retirement-for-the-hubster” curveball slammed into us at the end of June. What a shock! Our life and time in Vermont had suddenly come to a screeching halt!

… But in every ending, there is a new beginning.

As it so happened, I’d left a piece of my heart in the mid-coast region of Maine where I’d grown up and where generations of my family had lived before me. The hubster and I had met in Maine, and strangely, he heard the whisper of the grand old state more strongly than I did at first. “It’s where we met,” he said. “It’s where I remember being the happiest.”

“Awww. Me too.”

Maine is an incredible place. I love each and every blue-green mountain rolling down to the sea, not to mention the sweet-smelling hillsides sprinkled with their wild blueberry fields known as barrens. The blueberry barrens are also exceptionally beautiful in the fall when they are kissed spicy red by the autumn air.

Just a glimpse of lobster boats and windjammers jouncing on the waves of the craggy blue harbors can brighten even the sourest soul.

The sound of ocean waves mingling with the cry of seabirds is surely spun from pure magic. (Wish I could capture that in a picture for you.).

Here in Maine, lighthouses beam the way home, and fog horns blast away any murkiness of heart. This is my home again. Finally.

In mid-September we arrived and settled in with the help of my eldest daughter and her beau and my wonderful younger brother, Randy. I don’t know what I’d do without them. Thank you, my darlings!

The first weekend I was here my brother coaxed me out onto the breakwater in Rockland in the fog. I felt a tiny bit trepidatious, but it was eerily gorgeous, and I’m so glad I went. Here are some pictures for your viewing pleasure.

I hope there is a vaccine for Covid soon because I am so looking forward to spending time with family and old friends. But now, it’s time to “hunkah down for the wintah” and “getta writin'” book number three of the Rafe Ryder series.

George Floyd’s death was unspeakably barbaric. As a mother and a nurse, I cannot comprehend why the words “I can’t breathe” meant nothing to the man kneeling on George’s neck. How could that not matter to the law enforcement officer? HOW??

It’s taken me some time to get over the shock and outrage I felt and still feel regarding George Floyd’s horrendous death. I tried to write a blog post immediately, but what kept pouring from my pen were long streams of pain and harsh poisonous words which could not be put out into the world.

Day after day, I wonder when will we learn as human beings that we are all equal? When will it be okay to look, and think, and feel differently than others?

No matter how “woke” we may believe we are, those of us who are honest, can delve into our little brains and scrutinize the prejudices, biases, and stereotypes floating around in our intellect.  

In my humble opinion, I think it is time to get past those things. We have to do better! The way I see it, there are practical ways for us to help and to do better.

First, it begins with police reform. There seems to be a tremendous lack of accountability for police officers, and there needs to be reasonable standards which officers are obliged to uphold.

Perhaps this reform begins with something as simple as requiring our police officers to have more education and training, particularly around mental health issues and deescalating and defusing situations with just their words when possible.

What if law enforcement officers were required to hold a license like a nurse does? Nursing licenses can be temporarily suspended or permanently revoked, so we can’t go to another state or hospital and continue substandard practices. I know I’d feel a lot better if police officers who did not meet the standards set could not simply move to another state and get another job in law enforcement. 

That being said, I do realize there are many good and compassionate men and women who are police officers who discharge their duties appropriately. They should be training the next generation of officers.

 Secondly, I feel strongly our children need to be taught to value and celebrate diversity. I’ll never forget the first teachable moment I experienced with my eldest daughter quite some years ago now.

As a young nurse and mother working in a large mid-Maine hospital, I towed my almost two-year-old along with me to pick up my paycheck one glorious summer day. As luck would have it, a doctor of color got in the elevator with us. 

He was the first person of color my daughter had ever seen. Standing next to me in the elevator, I watched her eyes light up when she saw him. Clasping her little hands under her chin she squealed. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, Look! God made him chocolate. Oh, Mommy! Isn’t he beautiful!”

“Yes,” I said, feeling mortified she’d just used the word chocolate to describe the doctor. “He’s beautiful.” 

Then I scooped my precious pumpkin into my arms just in case she was thinking about licking his hand and mouthed the words “I’m sorry” to the doctor.

He bestowed a gracious smile on us both and asked my little cherub if chocolate was her favorite flavor.

“Yes,” she said, vigorously shaking her head up and down. 

The doors to the elevator opened. “What a coincidence! It’s mine too,” said the doctor. He gave my girl a smile and me a wink before exiting onto his floor.

Those few moments spent on the elevator that day made me deeply aware I needed to educate my child about colors, cultures, and religions, and so it began.

A great deal of acceptance and tolerance education is done simply by modeling the behavior you want your child to emulate and leading by example.

It’s important to teach your child to judge a person only by what they discover in a person’s heart, not by their skin color or religion. Tell your children to always treat others the way you would want them to treat you. The Golden Rule is golden for a reason!

As embarrassing as the elevator incident was at the time, I’ve come to realize it wasn’t a bad thing that my young daughter saw skin color as flavors at all. Sunburned people were strawberry people. Brown people were coffee. And she loved all of them! They were all beautiful to her. “The world is a better place because there is more than just vanilla,” she pronounced one day as she grew older and wiser.

I wholeheartedly agree. The world is a better place because there is more than just vanilla here. I hope and pray this is finally the year we all learn to respect, embrace, and enjoy our unique human “flavors” and celebrate our diversity.

Sadly, it’s true. The coronavirus storm has reached the shores of America.

The call to adventure, as detailed in Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces, has been issued throughout our country and countless people are embarking on their “heroes/heroines journey. You are amazing human beings and I salute you! Each and every one of you!

As many of you know, my husband, known as “the hubster” to me, is an ER doctor who is currently working on the frontlines for us in the Northeast.

So basically, I’m forced into the role of “heroine by proxy” just because we live together.

I’m out.

“Don’t you think it’s time to retire?” I ask the hubster. “Because …

It’s my moral obligation,” he says. “You understand this. You’re a retired nurse.”

“I do, but …”

“Once a nurse, always a nurse. Isn’t that what you always say?” he asks.

“I was going to say what I understand is …

“Be brave,” he says.

“Be bold,” he says.

He smiles and says, “Woman, I need you to …

“But, seriously …

“Come on,” he says.

“Fine,” I concede.

“After nearly forty years together, ” he says. “We’re a package deal.”

I ponder the package deal statement for a moment before getting on board with it. “I guess we are a pair,” I say. “Just like Jon Snow…”

“and Daenerys Stormborn.”

“Not a great example. Remember how that show ended?” he says.

“Then Wonderwoman ….”

“and Superman.”

“I was thinking more like Lois and Clark. You know, you being a writer now.”

So my fellow Americans, (Ooooh. Don’t I suddenly sound presidential)? from the lips of one very reluctant heroine, we will get through this together, and we will be patient and brave! We will weather this storm. We will pray for each other, and we will get through this insanity together! We will stay positive. We will be kind, and generous to one another, and we will try to protect each other by doing our part and staying home. Above all else, we will always be grateful for the heroes and heroines that walk among us. Our angels in disguise.

God Bless you, friends, and remember …

The loss of a dear friend, Bunny Dunn, has me reminiscing today. My sweet, wise, older nurse friend, I will cherish the memories we shared always. Rest in peace, my darling friend, as you rub elbows with the other saints in heaven. Today, I share this amusing memory of my time at EMMC in your honor. 

Before the hubster started moving me around the country, I once belonged to a tightknit group of Labor and Delivery nurses at Eastern Maine Medical Center, (now known as Northern Light Eastern Maine Medical Center). These nurses were my teachers, mentors, and friends. They shared their knowledge and expertise with me and molded me into a kind, caring, effective, and efficient nurse.

Working in Labor and Delivery was my dream come true. I worked my way through three years of nursing school as a nursing tech in the unit, and I knew the first week there, surrounded by those strong, unique, magnificent women that I wanted to be a Labor and Delivery nurse, too. And as luck would have it, immediately after I graduated from nursing school, a highly coveted, full-time nursing job opened in the unit, and I was fortunate enough to be hired!

While my fellow nurses welcomed me with open arms, some of the older OB doctors were openly hostile squeamish around new nurse recruits, and one doctor in particular liked to test the mettle of the newbies. For the purposes of our story today, I shall call him by one of his nicknames, Dr. Shooby Dooby Doo. 

My first delivery with Dr. Shooby Dooby Doo went extremely well (or so I thought). I did everything exactly as I had been taught. Everything went fine as far as I could tell. Mom was delivered of a healthy baby girl with no complications. I got the patient back to her bed, did my postpartum checks and charting before tackling the job of cleaning the delivery room. 

The delivery had been a little sloppier than normal because just as the baby was born, the mother’s amniotic sac burst forth from her like floodwaters from a damn, drowning Dr. Shooby Dooby Do’s scrub pants in fluid and perfuming him in the slightly sweet aroma of amniotic fluid and the weird metallic tang of blood.

As I gathered the dirty instruments from the delivery table, I heard a furious stomping coming toward me and I turned to face the door. A pair of soused boxer shorts came flying through the air and I got my hand up just in time to bat them away from my face. 

“Thanks for nothing,” Dr. Shooby Dooby Doo shouted at me. “Now I’ve got to go purchase new undershorts.”

Picture a very young, and very green registered nurse wearing a shocked “deer-in-the-headlights” expression on her face as my colleagues came to investigate the stomping and shouting. 

“Why is he mad at me?” I moaned after the doctor stormed away. “I had nothing to do with his underwear getting wet. It’s not like I pushed him in front of the woman. He was standing there of his own accord.” 

“No, you didn’t,” one of my colleagues said with an unconcealed smirk. “He’s testing you. He does it with all the new nurses.”

“But I’m not new. He knows me. I’ve worked here for the last three years,” I said.

“You’re an RN now. It’s different. You’ve got to stand up for yourself and trust me, after that he’ll respect you,” the head nurse said. “He’s trying to figure out if you have a backbone or not.”

“Great. What am I supposed to do to prove that I do?”

“You’ll need to figure that out for yourself,” she said.

Figure it out? That was all the direction anyone was going to give me? Figure it out?

As I cleaned up the delivery room, my eyes kept returning to the wet bloody boxers on the floor. There had to be extremely creative consequences for someone having the audacity to throw their dirty underwear at me for something neither the patient nor I could control. How dare he?

While I scrubbed the instruments in a state of white-hot fury, it hit me! I returned to the delivery room, retrieved the boxers, and plunged them into warm soapy water. It took me ten minutes to scrub and scoured every trace of blood and amniotic fluid from the Dr. Shooby Dooby Doo’s undershorts and then I left them to dry in the nurses’ backroom work area. 

The next day when I came on shift, I was determined to finish what I had begun. I folded and wrapped the doc’s now dry undies in one of the clear plastic autoclave package sleeves and baked them in our autoclave until those puppies were nice and STERILE.

Since I didn’t have the nerve to actually hand them to Dr. Shooby Dooby Doo in person, I decided to mail them to his house. 

A week later, he stopped me in the hallway and asked to speak with me for a moment.

Uh-oh. He’s going to let me have it. I’m still on probation. Oh, I hope I don’t get fired for this.

I braced myself, but Dr. Shooby Dooby Doo didn’t let me have it. In fact, he did the most unexpected thing. He smiled at me and said, “Thanks for returning my boxers. My wife didn’t find it nearly as amusing as I did to find my shorts in the mail, and she suggested I might want to apologize to you.”

“Apologize?” I said. “For throwing your dirty underwear at me like a monkey throwing feces when he’s angry? Nah. Why would you do something that drastic?”

“Well,” said Dr. Shooby Dooby Doo, looking at his feet. “Basically, because she said I had to. So … I’m sorry. We good?”

“Yes. We’re good. Thank you.”

Dr. Shooby Dooby Doo spun around without another word and walked away, while I stood there in the hallway, stunned and very grateful to still have my job.

I learned a few really important things the week of the underwear debacle. One: Sometimes in life, I’ll have to prove myself to people because trust cannot always be given freely or blindly. Two: Sometimes in life, I’ll have to figure out what to do all on my own, and learn to trust myself. Three: A sense of humor makes everything life throws at you bearable. (Including dirty underwear). Four: When life hands you dirty undershorts, wash them, and throw ’em back clean. 

It’s the holiday season once again. December is a fabulous way to conclude the year for most people, but for me it is often not the happiest and most marvelous time of the year. This is largely because my gift-wrapping skills are so unbelievably deplorable, which can be attested to by the many men, women, and children I’ve shared holiday gifts with over the years … and if I’m brutally honest … even some little beasties of the world, too. It’s true.*Hangs head in shame* Every holiday season my lack of gift-wrapping abilities leave a foul stench in the nostrils of the universe, as well as my unlucky gift recipients. 

Side note: Does anyone else wonder why this skill was not taught in school? Seriously! This is a skill most of us would clearly have to use for all gift-giving holidays, and no one ever thought to provide a class on it in Life Sciences at school. That’s outrageous!

I confess, I’ve always been bad at gift-wrapping. My oldest daughter mastered the skill early in life, (which she learned from another mother in our neighborhood) because my gift-wrapped presents for her little friends quickly became a total embarrassment for her. Now that’s she’s grown, gone, and no longer here to do my gift-wrapping, I knew I had to figure this out once and for all, and I was determined to do just that.

Things would be different this year! Yes, siree! This year my gifts would be encased in delightfully festive paper and gorgeous handmade bows and ribbons. I gathered my scissors, tape, and wrapping paper and sat down to watch some online gift-wrapping tutorials. (I knew in my heart I could do this. After all, my teachers had once lauded my ability to cut with scissors as well as fold paper. Okay. It was in first grade, but still my skills had been praiseworthy once upon a time).

The Japanese seem to have gift-wrapping down to an art form, so it was a no-brainer to start with their tutorials. There are no tears in their paper, no overlapping bulges, no ugly folds, no ragged or jagged edges to be seen in their beautifully wrapped gifts and only one piece of tape necessary to secure the entire package. Soon I’d have a lovely present wrapped just like theirs.

I figure I’d start with the blankets I’d bought for my two sweet little doggy granimals.

Three hours later, my eyes had glazed over and I was seriously contemplated poking them out with the scissors I held in my hand. What is up with the Japanese people? For crying out loud! You would have to be a Rhodes Scholar to master their gift-wrapping techniques! There should have been a warning in the tutorials that one would first have to learn origami in order to wrap presents their way. For the love of Pete!

My spirit had not been broken, (just yet, but bear with me, it will be) so undeterred I pressed on turning my attention to a smaller present for a friend and the Japanese Furoshiki method of wrapping in a square piece of cloth. Why not, I thought, It’s versatile and environmentally friendly. I have a bandana I can spare. An hour later I realized I had failed again.

This is what it is supposed to look like:

This is what I ended up with:

What was I to do now? I still had to wrap the dogs’ blankets and get them in the mail. Realizing I had destroyed every bit of wrapping paper I had in the house, I went to the recycling bin and found some colorful newspaper and tackled the task. It did not end well either.

When the hubster came home and saw the gifts on the table, he asked me if I had been angry at the presents I was wrapping or if I had just drunk too much eggnog. Then he snickered like a horse at my Furoshiki bandana wrapping attempt and asked me if I had decided to go on the road as a hobo.

After telling the hubster to get lost, (perhaps in slightly crasser language then that) I stared at my Frankenstein gift-wrapping job. How happy would I be if I make my gifts looked even just common instead of atrocious, downright repulsive, and execrable!

Which brings us to the writer’s word of the week. EXECRABLE! A word meaning utterly detestable, abominable, abhorrent, horrible, sickening, or odious. You catch my drift?

I am pretty sure I know how this word originated. Someone took the words excrement and crap, creatively combined them, and put the letters b-l-e at the end of it to get execrable. And my poor little gift did indeed look EXECRABLE!

Long story short, I stuck the dogs’ blankets in an old Amazon box and posted them without any wrapping paper. (Grams is sorry and she loves you despite what you may think Sky and Mac)!

Whatever.

I must face the fact I am not good at gift-wrapping, and I can say with absolute certainty that gift-wrapping is not—nor will it ever be—the pinnacle of my ambitions. Besides, at this point, I’m pretty sure not even Martha Stewart can help me, so I’m driving to the mall and paying to have someone there wrap my gifts from now on. Then the spirit of the holidays will remain magically intact for everyone concerned.

Happy Holidays family, friends (and random people who read this blog) and to all a good night! xox

L. L.

Dear Family, Friends, and Random People Who Read This Blog:

Tradition dictates I write our annual holiday newsletter. The hubster and I know people in all parts of the world eagerly anticipate hearing of our amazing adventures and accomplishments each year, so I apologize ahead of time for what’s coming. This year has been a great disappointment to us, and thus to you also.

The hubster and I can honestly say we’re not sorry to see 2019 on its way out. For the most part, it has been a huge heaping helping of a stinking stanking bowl of horse dookie. No. Really!!!! This year has been like treading water in the backyard tank of a cesspool, BUT we’re both out of prison and on parole now, so we do have SOMETHING to be thankful for during this holiday season. (And I don’t care what they say; orange is definitely not the new black). 

On the positive side of the year, I was called for jury duty in January, but luckily, I didn’t get selected for any juries. Now this might possibly have been due to the fact they didn’t feel I could be fair and impartial since I felt compelled to tell the defense attorneys, “Well—if your client is here in court today, they must have done something naughty.”

Although we did travel many places this year, each ended in a splendid disaster. The highlight came in Senoia, Georgia when the hubster accidently wandered into a herd of zombies from the set of The Walking Dead. Production quickly caught and detained him. However, after he claimed his hemorrhoids were acting up and impairing his vision, they called the local sheriff, and the hubster was involuntarily hospitalized for three days in a quaint country psychiatric hospital. (Good times).

A golden opportunity came my way while the hubster was recovering. CNN discovered this blog and the journalists there were quite impressed with my work. They offered me a position at the network, but I had to turn it down, as at this point in my life, I’m too old to do janitorial work. (Nonetheless, my kudos to the network for wanting even their custodians to be high achieving literary types).

I also qualified for power walking at the senior Olympic games this year, but sadly could not compete due to the fact a teeny tiny meteor fell out of the sky and struck me in the head while I was training. The hubster was beside himself worried because I was in a comma for a week. I pulled out of it though and I can now communicate with aliens. (Silver linings. I feel sure this will translate to a great job opportunity in the government somewhere down the line).

Sadly, the hubster lost all the toes on his right foot while he was trying to change the blades on the lawn mower. Don’t ask me how he managed to do that. The lawn mower wasn’t even on.

Speaking of losing things, the hubster told me today he has “lost most of his marbles” and doesn’t remember where he left them. He tells me the possibilities of finding them again will include visits to Syracuse, Boston, the lost city of Atlantis, and El Dorado. (Bless his soul).

I’m still writing my little heart out, for all the good it does me. The royalties for the Rafe Ryder series came in yesterday, and I can now pay for groceries for several months, but the menu is going to be very limited. We will have to subsist on Ramen noodles and tea. (Tea is iffy. Might be too expensive. We will see).

Rupert, our twelve-year old Shiba Inu has been defined as a public nuisance and banned from every dog park throughout Vermont and New Hampshire because he refuses to play nicely with other dogs, particularly if the other dog is a yellow lab. (Petulant, supercilious little prig). As if that hasn’t been hard enough on us, his plus-sized dog modeling career fell through and he is now between job opportunities. (Freeloading little fur ball).

By the way, our aforementioned stint in jail came shortly after I read the works of the great philosophers and was struck by Kant’s essay “Answering the Question: What is enlightenment?” Kant was of the opinion enlightenment is man’s emergence from immaturity and everyone ought to think autonomously free of the dictates of external authority. 

In hindsight, I never should have discussed Kant’s essay with the hubster. (I think it was far too esoteric for him). Anyway, he thought it would be fun to see if he could achieve said enlightenment, and I went along with him. (I’m supportive like that).

In our quest for the hubster’s enlightenment, it didn’t take long for us to find a large dilapidated brick building in rural Vermont. Each of us thinking autonomously, I painted splashy fluorescent murals on the building, and the hubster planted a beautiful public flower garden around it. Most of the local community seemed to think it was wonderful, but sadly, we heard the owners did not.

One evening, after driving up to water the garden we happened to run into the owners at their local Kentucky Fried Chicken/Taco Bell franchise. Heated words were exchanged and chicken wings and burritos were flung. Windows, tables, and chairs were allegedly broken. Long story short, the hubster and I did a month in the slammer.

I’d love to tell you about our three children and what they’re doing this year, but currently none of them are speaking to us.

So biding adieu to our year of general failure and broken dreams, the hubster and I wish you ALL a year full of joy and happiness! Have a healthy and prosperous 2020!!

All the best,

L. L.

The old woman labored up the steps to the second story of her home carrying her fancy green coat. Stopping at the top of the stairs and gazing around the quiet hallway, the old woman smiled. In front of her stood the dark silhouettes of the doors to her children’s bedrooms. 

When a house has been lucky enough to have children within its walls, it always contains a fair bit of residual magic. Knowing this, the old woman closed her eyes and listened. Soon she heard the distinct sound of her three youngsters racing around one of the bedrooms and giggling as they tried to catch one another. How she loved the way this house allowed her to hear these echoes of times gone by! 

Of course, other people proclaimed her “echoes in time” to be quite impossible. After all, her three children—the ones she loved with her entire heart and soul—were grown and gone. All of them content to navigate the world without her, no longer needing her or her watchful eye and guidance. 

Despite the fact she missed her children each day, she knew the world was as it should be now, but it had all gone by so fast. Everyone warned her as a young mother, “The days are long, but the years are so very short. Enjoy every moment you have with them.”

Opening her eyes, the old woman saw only the dark and silent hallway. The years had flown by faster than the starship Enterprise traveling at warp speed nine. Now she only had her memories, which she used for comfort, wrapping them around herself like a thick, old, cozy quilt.

Stepping into her son’s room, she flicked on a light and sat on the edge of his bed. Just one more memory and I’ll call it a night, she thought, smiling and staring at the gold four-leaf clover pin with a pearl situated in its center resting on her coat lapel. Closing her eyes again, she conjured a memory. This time without the help of her house.

It had been a luscious warm day in the deep green summer month of August when her six-year-old son had found a four-leaf clover by the pool.

“Congratulations!” she’d told him. “Four-leaf clovers mean you’ll have very good luck and magical protection. Some people say if you carry it around with you, you can even see fairies.”

“I don’t want to see fairies,” he had replied. “Here. This is for you to have good luck.” Plopping the four-leaf clover into her hand, the boy ran off to play with his sisters.

A few weeks later on a walk through the neighborhood with her children, the woman had come across a yard sale. She’d let the children rummage through the tables looking for treasure while she chatted with a neighbor. Looking at her watch, she realized she needed to get home to start supper and called the children to her side. 

“Mommy, can I have a quarter. Please,” begged her son. “The man says I can buy something if I just have a quarter.”

“I have a quarter you can have,” volunteered his older sister.

“Stay there, Mommy,” the boy commanded. “I don’t want you to see.”

Running back to a table, he dropped the quarter into the man’s waiting palm and a small object passed between them. Little legs churning, the boy raced back and presented her with a gold four-leaf clover pin with a perfect faux pearl in the middle. 

“This is so you’ll always have good luck, Mommy,” he said.

There are times in a mother’s life that children will melt you into little puddles of happiness. This had been one such moment in the woman’s life. Tenderly kissing her child on his head, she’d thanked him profusely for the wonderful and very thoughtful gift.

The yard sale pin became one of the woman’s most prized possessions. For many years she’d proudly worn it on her coats and all her dress suit lapels. She’d regal anyone who asked her with the story of the yard sale pin from her little boy.

After her son graduated from college, the unthinkable happened. The pin disappeared. She looked everywhere. It could not be found. The woman had never known such great distress. Nothing could have felt worse to her. At Thanksgiving that year, the moment came that she had been dreading. Her son asked her why she didn’t wear the pin anymore, and she had to confess the pin had been lost. 

His look of disappointment hurt her beyond measure, and she realized she’d injured her son’s heart. Something no mother wants to do to her child. And so the woman grieved, as one does, for precious things lost and broken.

A month passed and Christmas arrived along with her three children. The children filled the house with such activity, love, beauty, humor, and kindness. How she loved spending time with them! How precious their brief visits home now were to her! She was sure they couldn’t imagine how much she loved having them all safe and sound and, for one brief day or two, under one roof again. 

The gift of her children’s presence was always gift enough for her, however, this Christmas was to be extra special. Waiting under the tree for her sat a sparkling gold-leafed four-leaf clover with a real pearl. A Christmas gift from her perpetually thoughtful and generous son.

“I won’t lose this one. I’ll cherish it forever,” she’d promised him as her heart overflowed with a mother’s joy.

The woman glanced at the fancy green coat in her lap, admiring the four-leaf clover on the lapel one more time. Rising, she snapped off the light and headed toward her own bedroom.

“Thank you, son. This pin means the world to me. Your sisters and you mean the world to me. Thank you all for being mine,” she whispered into the darkness.

Ahhhh, the brown marmorated (veined or streaked like marble) stinkbug, the six-legged, shield-shaped little suckers who have invaded my attic during the fall and winter months for the last three years. Yeah, I got nothing good to say about them. When it gets chilly these small prehistoric monstrosities crawl through every crack and crevice to find warmth. 

Now before you say, “Can you blame them? You do live in New England?”, let me inform you that any creature living in my attic needs to be paying me rent or they shall be deemed a nuisance and dispatched to heaven posthaste. Although, I’m quite certain these demonic bugs are sent directly back to Satan upon their demise. (There has to be some justification as to why they are called “the devil’s thumbtack” in some European countries, and this seems to be the most likely conclusion).

The first time I saw a stinkbug was in January of 2016, it was flying around my overhead bedroom lamp with a frantic buzzing similar to an army of flies held hostage against window glass. After it landed, it seemed fatigued and not at all concerned that I was picking it up in a tissue. I soon figured out why it had such a laissez faire attitude because the defensive stench that poured out of it was amazing, and not in a good way.

Some people have likened the smell to cilantro. NOT TRUE. I happen to like the smell of cilantro. The odor from this scoundrel smelled like burning rubber with a hint of industrial chemical plant coupled with subtle undertones of rotting meat. 

After some Internet sleuthing, I determined I had an invasion of brown marmorated stinkbugs which seeped and dribbled out of my attic all fall, winter, and spring. I discovered this particular stinkbug is native to Asia and came over to Allentown, Pennsylvania in 1998 most probably via a shipping container or pallet. All the websites I searched seemed to be of the opinion that although stinkbugs have a needlelike mouth used to pierce the skin of fruit and plants, the little hellions don’t bite, or if they do, they bite defensively. 

Again, NOT TRUE. A few days ago I was sitting barefoot at my computer, minding my own business, when I felt something sharp stabbing the top of my foot. I flicked whatever it was off and looked at the tiny drop of blood forming on my foot. Then I saw and smelled the stinkbug, which had landed next to my dog who promptly ate the little sucker. 

Fast forward to a few minutes later, and me declaring war on the brown marmorated stinkbugs as I cleaned up dog puke. It’s on now, you little stinkers! 

I AM SICK TO DEATH of stinkbugs. I am sick of them buzzing me in the shower. I am sick of them on my computer screen and my television screen. I’m sick of them on my furniture and in my curtains. 

Which brings me to our other writer word of the week. I’m the most sick of their brown liquid frass (insect poop) that dries in tiny spots on my window and walls. I’m not sure if that many of you writerly types will be using this word in a sentence, but it’s a fun word to know. I’m putting it my arsenal of vague insults to hurl at someone when I’m upset.

Don’t you hate it when someone makes you feel invisible? I’m still scarred for life by the Romper Room teachers and the way they signed off their show with that stupid magic mirror.

Romper, bomper, stomper, boo,
Tell me, tell me, tell me do.
Magic mirror, tell me today
Did all my friends have fun at play?

My four-year-old self would sit inches away from the television willing the teacher to see the good do-bee that I was trying to be at home, but she never did. Oh, she saw my sisters, Linda and Laura, at least once a week, but never saw Lois. Not once ever! I mean ever! Being invisible is traumatizing. (Excuse while I blow my nose).

I was the best darned good do-bee I could be, and I tried really hard to never be a don’t-bee, but it didn’t matter. The Romper Room teachers never saw or acknowledged me.I guess that is why to this day, I get frustrated when people are in the same room with me, but not really there with me.

I suppose everyone has experienced trying to talk to someone who was not truly present and in the moment with them. There have been times I have shared things with friends and family members that I have been really excited about or thought important only to get a polite, “Umm Hmmm,” as they continue to stare at their computer, television, or cellphone. (They have no idea it’s like friggin’ Romper Room all over again for me)!

Because I’m so sensitive to this sort of thing, when people are with me I try to make them feel heard, understood, and acknowledged. Being present for someone else means my feelings, personal concerns, needs, or accomplishments temporarily take a backseat to theirs. In my experience, most adults have trouble suspending their sense of self-importance, but Mister Rogers never seemed to have that difficulty.

Fred Rogers was a remarkable teacher and man! He was a kind soul who truly knew how to be present in the moment with you, even if you were just a kid. Best of all, he liked me just the way I was, and he told me so.

You can absorb so much for watching a man like Mister Rogers. He was a genuinely kind human being with not a false bone in his body. Kids can spot things like that. I watched him …  I mean, I really watched him.

I learned from Mister Rogers’ how to gift someone with my full and complete attention. Mister Rogers’ never multitasked. He knew no one could effectively attend to two things at once. Even though I was at home watching him on television, I felt like I was getting his full and undivided attention. It felt like he genuinely cared about me.

I loved the non-hurried way he spoke to everyone. He made time for people and wasn’t always rushing off to see someone else in the neighborhood. I’d watch him give his full attention to anyone who was in the room with him. He maintained amazing eye contact with the individuals (one of the most powerful forms of human connection) and he really listened. He made any person lucky enough to be in his presence feel warm, safe, valued, and most of all heard.

I also loved the way Mister Rogers would always recap or summarize what a person shared. He would be silent and wait for you think about what he said. Sometimes he’d even count the seconds on a clock while he gave us time to think. He never rushed.

As a young child, I learned Mister Rogers’ facial expressions, gestures, and even the tone of his voice were clues that told me what he was thinking and feeling. He told all of us out in television land that he valued us, and as strange as it may sound, in return I learned to value myself.

Children need more people like Mister Rogers in their lives. Scratch that, the world needs more people in it like Mister Rogers. I am so grateful to have had him as part of my childhood. (Romper Room … eh … not so much).

 I AM BACK! FINALLY!!!

A spied a squirrel on a walk around the neighborhood and felt an instant connection. I feel ya, buddy! I feel ya!

 Exhausted, but I’m here!

I don’t normally relate to squirrels. Personally I think they’re nut jobs and I don’t enjoy any creature exuding too much energy, enthusiasm, or perkiness before nine in the morning,  but this guy seems to know how to chill and soak up a little sun. He’s my kind of squirrel.

Even my dogs know not to get all up in my grill before nine.

You will rise and feed me human.

Well … except for  Rupert, but he knows to be mellow about it. He’s into this freaky mental telepathy type of thing. He actually believes he can bend me to his will by simply staring at me. He’s so stinking cute. Exceptions must be made.

This is our other Shiba Inu, Winnie. She’s almost seventeen, but she is on the same page with me about morning people. She’s such a love!

Winnie

Shiba Inu sweetness!

Okay, so the smile is fake. Whatevs! You shovel a foot of snow out of two long driveways and see if you’re wearing a genuine smile afterwards.

It was a tough winter for me between all the dang snow shoveling and finishing Rafe Ryder and the Brushstroke of Time, but I tried to maintain a positive attitude in the face of snow, ice and adversity.

(I do not know how the hubster managed not to be around for 99% of the storms last winter. I think it is one of his special super powers).

But things turned around as soon as June busted out all over!

The baby girl got me all duded up for the Heifer stroll.

Sisters, sisters. There were never such devoted sisters!

In June, I did get to see all my babies at the Strolling of the Heifers in Brattleboro, VT. My daughters pose for pictures, but my son and his wife are beautiful, but elusive creatures.

The hubster and me with two of our three! Such a fun night!

However … we did get to see our son and youngest daughter again a week ago in NYC! As the children grow and live so far apart now, we always seem to be missing one or two family members when we manage to get together. (If you’ve still got your babies at home with you, make sure you give them extra snuggles and cuddles …  because one day this happens to all of us old successful Mommas who don’t practice enmeshed parenting).

Now it’s time to make the jams and jellies while I wait on my editors to work their magic, and while I wait on those edits, I need to stop ignoring my blog. Strawberry, peach, cherry, blueberry and raspberry done so far! Off to do another batch of blueberry!

Lovely to see you all again!

Ta Ta for now!

I’ll be back again soon. Promise.

It’s that time of year again, folks. The time television gives us all the classic movies that we all know and love, like this gem. Who doesn’t love The Sound of Music?

I certainly do, but I also like to update things now and then. Keep things fresh and new, you know? So this post is dedicated to all my grinch friends out there who believe it’s easier to be mad than sad.

Here’s what I’d like you to do. Sing along to the tune of My Favorite Things, but use the words to My Unfavorite Things written below the karaoke version. *evil cackle*

My Unfavorite Things

Spiders in corners                                                                                                              And weasels with whiskers.                                                                                              Renegade dog poos and bickering sisters.                                                                    Shoveling blizzards that mid-winter brings,                                                                    These are a few of my unfavorite things.

Robotic phone calls and raw baby eels,                                                                  Stairwells and bombshells                                                                                              And people who steal.                                                                                                        Wild snakes that slither with moon on their backs,                                                          They give me nightmares and that is a fact.

Callous fanatics.                                                                                                            Inflexible thinkers.                                                                                                          Spoiled childish dramas and people who’re stinkers.                                                    Volatile, ignorant, sour ding-a-lings.                                                                                  These are a few of my unfavorite things.

When the dog bites.                                                                                                          When the bee stings.                                                                                                        When I’m feeling sad.                                                                                                          I simply remember my unfavorite things,                                                                          And then I get really mad.

Debaucherous scoundrels with lecherous hands.                                                        Makes me so glad that they got themselves canned.                                              Gossiping people who can’t shut their mouths,                                                            These are the people that I’d like to trounce.

Cowards who lie and are fatally truthless.                                                                      Bullies and cheaters and trolls that are ruthless.                                                        Porcelain toilets, which smell and don’t gleam.                                                            These are a few of my unfavorite things.

Clowns in white dresses and covered in ashes.                                                          Worms that can live in my nose and eyelashes.                                                              Bats that attack me on grisly wings.                                                                            These are a few of my unfavorite things.

When the dog bites.                                                                                                    When the bee stings.                                                                                                      When I’m feeling sad.                                                                                                           I simply remember my unfavorite things,                                                                           And then I get really mad.

Dear Family, Friends, & Random People Who Read This Blog,

What a wondrous year 2017 has been! I simply have to share!

To celebrate our wedding anniversary in March, the hubster and I went on a lovely anniversary cruise. We did run into a little trouble in Costa Rica when the hubster tried to smuggle a darling, but very stinky, three-toed sloth he’d picked up in the jungle and a tank of Tico moonshine on board our ship. I had no idea my husband’s souvenirs would land us in a Costa Rican jail for the night, but apparently those items are prohibited on board by some sort of international law. (Who knew? Consider yourselves warned)!

Next it was on to the country of Panama. Visiting the Panama Canal took my breath away, mostly because the hubster leapt from one of the observation stations and into one of the locks after it had filled with weird green water. There he proceeded to float around on his back spurting water from his mouth like a mini-humpback whale. He said it was a glorious swim. I’m thrilled he had the opportunity and that we got to see the Panama canal when we did, as we have now both been permanently banned from the country.

The bird sanctuary in Cartagena, Columbia was my favorite stop even though the hubster took up with a brazen hussy of a toucan who followed him everywhere he went. He took more pictures of her than me on the trip, but I’m no longer bitter. My man made it up to me by giving me a beautiful emerald, which I was allowed to wear after he smuggled it through customs in his underpants.

When we returned home, we heard from our son and his adorable wife who live LA. Since he’s hit it big in Hollywood he’s offered to treat us to the nursing home of our choice in the future if we promise to keep our international escapades to a minimum in the coming years.

Our eldest daughter continues to surprise and delight me. She will be receiving her masters in belly dancing and will be playing the lead in an up and coming Broadway production called “Been There. Done That. Never Again.”

After raising enough money to start an orphanage in Botswana in the spring and despite being maimed by a lion while on safari in the Serengeti, our youngest daughter went to the Himalayas this summer and climbed Mount Everest carrying two injured traveling companions to the top on her back.

Not to be outdone, while visiting NYC this summer, Winnie and Rupert were “discovered” by a talent scout for dogs. He wants them to move to NYC, but Winnie and Rupert are totes against it until after the holidays.

My multiple personality disorder reared it’s ugly head again this year, which is why I haven’t been able to blog for the past couple months, but I’m out of the “clinic” for good this time. (Fingers crossed, people)!

Anyway … ‘Tis the season to sell ice in Alaska, so I’m off. You all take care!

Love, Joy, and Peace!

All the best,

L.L.

Picture by Wolfgang Piecha  Click here to see more of his photos.

“Mom, I’m climbing Kilimanjaro in August with Team Fox to raise money for Parkinson’s Disease!”

“Say what?” I asked, feeling faint and almost dropping the phone I held.

“You heard me.”

“I’m not sure I did,” I replied, white knuckling the phone. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No, I know where it is.”

“Fine. Go get it and bring it back home to me so I can talk some sense into it.”

“Oh, Mmmooom. You’re so dramatic. “

My babe conquering Machu Picchu.

Okay, so the kid may have a point. It’s probably a little excessive for me to be suffering multiple panic attacks at the thought of my baby girl climbing Kilimanjaro. She likes hiking up large mountains, and climbed Machu Picchu a few summers ago. 

Now, lest you think I’m a nut job, let me assure you, I’ve every right to be nervous. My girl’s fearlessness has often gotten her into trouble before.                                                                           

Can I confide in you? Good, cause I’m going to. My darling baby daughter has given me fits since the day she became mobile. (Eye twitch).

My little nugget at age three.

You think I’m kidding? I’m totally not. I’ll just touch on a few highlights.

When she was two, I had to give her the Heimlich Maneuver when she climbed onto a counter after supper one night and crammed a whole hotdog into her mouth and choked. Then the there was the time, at age three, she dove off a chair and broke her clavicle while watching the olympic diving events. A year later I rescued her from the bottom of our swimming pool and so forth and so on until well after college. (Sigh. Good thing for her I was a nurse before I ever became a writer.)

And the pièce de résistance, she fell four stories off a roof and into a dumpster at college and was fortunately not paralyzed!

What was she doing on a roof? She was having a snowball fight, of course. Duh. Why on earth else would she be on a roof? Don’t all young adults move snowball fights from the ground to the sky in college? (I should have known then, this child was going to keep on climbing things whether I liked it or not).

Despite my anxiety about her bold new endeavor, I am so proud of the kind, generous, compassionate young woman she has become. She is amazing and I love her so much!

She is determined not only to raise awareness for Parkinson’s Disease, but to also raise 10,000$ to give to Parkinson’s research. She has raised 8,300$ towards her goal and she’s almost there!

Lara’s (a.k.a. the baby’s) fundraising page

If you’d like to contribute even 10$, she’d be ever so grateful! If you can’t give money, I’d really appreciate you sharing this blog post all over social media.

She is determined to succeed and I know she will.

I, however, will probably be seeing my family doctor for a small prescription of Valium while she’s gone, because I’m afraid deep breathing and meditation are just not going to cut it for the babe’s latest adventure!

It took one hour from Puerto Limon by bus to reach a veritable ecological paradise, the Veragua Rainforest!

There were plenty of other shore excursions offered by our cruise line that we could have taken in Costa Rica, so why did the hubster and I decide to visit the Veragua Rainforest Reserve and Adventure Park?

1. Visiting a rainforest was on our bucket list. Naturally, we wanted to visit the rainforest touted as the “creme de la creme of rainforests” by the National Geographic Traveler.
2. When we found out that the Veragua Rainforest borders the 479,000 acre La Amistad International Park, which is listed by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) as a national heritage site for humanity, it really was a no brainer. (If UNESCO considers the area to be of outstanding value to humanity, well … who are we to argue?) La Amistad International Park is the second largest and most remote nature reserve in Central America. Half the park is located in Costa Rica and the other half is in Panama. Much of La Amistad has not yet been explored because the terrain is less than hospitable.

The day we spent in the pristine Veragua Rainforest and Research Reserve did not disappoint, in fact, it was more than remarkable … it was magical! I only have pictures, but I wish I could have captured the smells and sounds of the rainforest for you as well.

Jumping off the bus, we entered the welcome center. Informative signs in Spanish and English greeted us while we waited for our guides.

Most of the park is wheelchair and stroller accessible via elevated wooden planks.

RAINFOREST RULES! Pay attention to the sixth line down. It says: Do not touch the plants, there could be insects or snakes within the vegetation.

                                                                                                                                        Let me introduce you to our guide for this rainforest adventure, Dennis Quiros Vargus, an amazingly patient, kind, generous, knowledgable, and all around excellent human being. He’s been instrumental in this blog post, making sure I’ve got the right names and information to give you.

In this picture Dennis is telling us about the orchids growing on the trunk of this tree. An orchid is a common example of an epiphyte, which are simply plants that live over other plants on their branches, trunks or other raised surfaces. These epiphytic orchids cling to the host plant’s bark with tuberous roots and absorbs nutrients from rain and debris which collects around them. Another common example of an epiphyte would be Spanish Moss.

First up was a visit to the Reptile Habitat. Iguanas, lizards and snakes, oh my! I have to confess, I’m not a huge fan of snakes. I have a healthy respect … fear … okay, a downright phobia of snakes, but I’m working on it. I didn’t take a lot of pics here because when we got to the snakes, I buzzed right through it so I wouldn’t faint.

On our way to the frog habitat some red leaf-cutter ants were marching along in single file carrying big chunks of leaves.

The ants “saw” off pieces of plants that they carry back to their huge underground nests. They tuck the bits of leaves into their tunnels and wait for a certain type of fungus to grow on the leaves. The fungus is their source of food.

The latin name of this flower is Cochliostema odoratissimum from the Spiderwort family. The plants themselves are epiphytes, though they will grow terrestrially if they happen to fall from their host tree. This one was on the ground. A popular ornamental plant, the flowers are deep violet-blue and very fragrant. The leaves have a rosetta pattern. In botany, a rosetta is a circular arrangement of leaves. This plant can collect and retain rainwater in its crevices.

Did you miss anything in that last picture?

I’ll bet you did. Here, let me enlarge it for you.

I didn’t catch this little tree boa curled up inside the plant in the above picture either, but, I assure you, Dennis did, and he pointed the little bugger out to our group. The snake is hiding his big old head in his coils.

The latin name of the snake is Corallus annulatus and it is not poisonous. (Thank the Lord!)

Annulated tree boas have strong prehensile tails so they can easily move about the treetops. These boas also have the ability to change color and are capable of extreme changes in pigmentation. They can change from a dark brown color to a shade of pale gray in very short periods of time.

Next up was the frog habitat. It was fabulous!  Because most frogs are nocturnal, Veragua has an exhibit where day is artificially turned into night so people can observe their little froggy friends without venturing out into the rainforest at night.

I fell in love with Agalychnis callidryas, a red-eyed frog species that lives in small creeks in and around the Veragua Rainforest. They like to call this frog Ruthie the Rufi.

I love frogs and I caught a lot of them when I was a kid so I could kiss them. (Don’t ask.) However, I learned it is probably best to leave frogs alone in the rainforest unless you’re an expert.

The golden poison dart frog or phyllobates terribilis color pattern is aposematic, which means it has a conspicuous warning coloration to alert predators of its toxicity. Its skin is covered in a dense alkaloid toxin. In captivity, poison frogs lose their toxicity when deprived of certain foods, but a wild-caught poison frog can retain alkaloids for years.

(Good to know.)                                                                                                             Next we were off to the Butterfly Garden, where gorgeous winged beings fluttered all around us! If anyone has read my book, Rafe Ryder and the Well of Wisdom, you’ve read about the butterfly conservatory I created inside of the fictitious Cliff House. I’m lucky enough to live near the Magic Wings Butterfly Conservatory in Deerfield, Massachusetts, which is my sanctuary in the cold northern winter months of the year, and it always inspires me.

This Blue Morpho Butterfly thought the hubster’s schnoz was the perfect landing pad.

We watched in delight as the butterflies  flitted and floated gracefully among their native flora. Then we visited a glassed in research lab where scientists study the many wondrous creatures of the rainforest.
This Blue Morpho Butterfly landed on the hubster’s nose. It’s latin name is Morpho peleides. With its wings folded, it is perfectly camouflaged for the rainforest floor where it spend much of its time.

This is the Blue morpho with its wings open. It’s one of the largest butterflies with a wing span of 5 to 8 inches.

This beautiful plant was located in the butterfly enclosure. The latin name is Pachystachys lutea, the common name is the Golden Shrimp Plant. It is native of Peru, but also very common in tropical and subtropical regions.

We grabbed a yummy lunch at the Veragua Rainforest Cafe, before heading off to take our aerial tram ride to the Victoria River Canyon floor with Dennis still faithfully pointing out thrilling things for us to see.

This is a tree fern belonging to the family of Cyatheaceae. These are the world’s tallest tree ferns. They can reach 32.8 ft tall. Some groups of tree ferns are very ancient and date back to the Jurassic and Cretaceous periods. The trunk of these ferns are often used by epiphytes.

This view of the Veragua Rainforest was so spectacular, it took my breath away!

Dennis Quiros Vargus and Julian Solano.

Here’s our guide Dennis and his friend, Julian Solano, the resident butterfly expert waiting with us at the aerial tram station.

This ride was so much fun!

No I didn’t take this picture. t really wanted to see one of these little beauties though! A three-toed sloth. I would have taken a two-toed sloth as well. I wasn’t fussy! I think they are the cutest little furry creatures on this planet! Kirsten Bell may be the only other person alive that is as crazy about sloths as I am!!!

Although our guide pointed a sloth out to us in the tree tops, it was too hard for my untrained eye to spot.

I’ve blown this picture up a million times looking for it, but I just can’t find it.

Did you know sloths have the slowest metabolism in the world and only climb out of the tree tops to go to the forest floor to defecate every thirty days. (I’m full of … fun facts, aren’t I?)

This is our tram coming in for a landing on the floor of the Victoria River Canyon.

We chose to take the Puma Waterfall Trail which took us to a 65 foot two-tiered waterfall. We saw so many interesting things along the way!

Wild bananas.

Eighty to ninety percent of the mass inside a wild banana is comprised of big hard seeds. Once you dig the seeds out out of the banana, there isn’t much free pulp to eat. The bananas we eat in North America have been cultivated to be free of these seeds.

Here you can see a bud emerging from the trunk of a wild banana plant which had been cut down. The latin name is Musa acuminata, the family is Musaceae. Wild bananas are the progenitors of the commercial bananas we eat around the world today.

Giant trees were everywhere. 

This tree is an example of the Dussia macroprophyllata which can grow up to 130 feet tall (40 meters high). Isn’t she magnificent?

Here is our group heading to the Puma Waterfall.

There are about 150 steps (up and down) to climb to get to the waterfall.

This old Momma made it to the observation deck of Puma Falls, a little overheated, but still smiling.

The latin name for this plant is Heliconia longa, otherwise known as a Hanging Lobster Claw. They are the perfect host flowers for birds as they produce a sweet nectar. Hummingbirds especially love them. Also the flowers are popular with florists and are used in flower arrangements.

Here is another Heliconia plant, the latin name is Heliconia rostrata. In Costa Rica there are 35 naturally occurring species of Heliconia. There are 200-250 species of Heliconia found throughout Central and South Americas.

Even the rocks are amazing in this rainforest. I am saving this for a writing exercise to do with some creative writing students. I found inspiration every where I looked in Veragua.

Dennis told us that it is common to find different colored spots on the trunks of trees in the rainforest. These are lichens, a composite organism that arises from algae living among the filaments of fungi. It it a symbiotic relationship, which is an obligatory biological interaction between two species. An obligatory relationship means that one or both organisms depend entirely on the other for survival, and there is a mutual benefit for each of them. In the lichen, the algae produce the energy from the sunlight and the fungus provides water and protection.

Zamia neurophyllidia is the host plant for the butterfly Eumaus godartii. The plant is found in Costa Rica, Panama and Nicaragua, although it is threatened by habitat loss by human activities. I guess I can actually understand why people wouldn’t want them in their yard or close to their houses because all parts of this plant are poisonous to animals and humans if ingested. These plants are toxic because they produce cicasin, which causes liver and kidney failure, as well as eventual paralysis. No treatment for the poisoning is currently known. (Aye yi yi!)

In the center of the Zamia plant around the cones, you can see the colorful red and yellow caterpillars, which belong to the Lycaenidae family. This insect can feed on leaves of the zamia and is able to keep and use the plant’s toxins to defend itself from predators. Notice the aposematic coloring screaming danger, danger, danger! (It really is kind of nature to warn us, isn’t it?)

Let’s end with a few more beautiful plants and some lessons from Dennis.

This plant is a Calathea sp (sp means an unknown species). It comes from the family Marantaceae, which are very commonly used as ornament plants. It is popular for the different tones of green in front of the leaves and for the purple coloration on the backs of the leaves.

This flower is Conostegia sp, and the Costa Ricans call it Cow’s tongue for the texture of the leaves. When the fruits ripen, they are popular with many species of birds.

The latin name for this plant is Alpinia purpurata, the common name is Red Ginger. Isn’t it gorgeous? The family of ginger plants is Zingiberaceae. Ginger can be grown as a houseplant and its cut flowers can be use in many types of flower arrangements.

This last beauty is Lantana camera, of the variety Sanguinea. It is a naturalized species found in the tropics. The humid conditions and hot temperatures in tropical regions make it the perfect habitat for this plant. It is one of the favorite plants for many species of butterflies and for that reason is fairly common in gardens in Costa Rica.

The hubster and I were so impressed with how the Veragua Rainforest staff and founders have gone out into the local communities and taught the people there the importance of biodiversity. They spend time educating and encouraging the communities to conserve and preserve their amazing local resources.

In addition, since opening on July 4th, 2008, the Veragua scientists and researchers have discovered almost a dozen new rainforest species. Isn’t that amazing? We had to donate to this worthwhile cause and plan to continue to support them in the future.

My biggest take home lesson from my day in the rainforest: When I see something brightly colored and pretty in the rainforest, it means I probably shouldn’t touch it. Like the big red stop signs in our country, aposematic coloring means stop!

At the end of the day, I said to the hubster, “I’d come back to Veragua in a heartbeat, and the next time I do, I want to do the canopy zipline tour.”

“Of course you do, and just to be clear, you’ll be entirely on your own that day.”

“Where is your sense of adventure?” I asked.

“I’d say it’s located much closer to the ground than yours,” he said.

Oh, hubster. You tickle me. He doesn’t know it yet, but he is so going zip lining with me.

On March 16, 2017, after two days at sea, I flung open the sliding glass door leading out onto our cruise ship balcony to catch my first glimpse of Puerto Limon, Costa Rica.

Looking down to the right, I found a bustling dock and no one had even disembarked our ship yet. The folks down there were just waiting on customs to clear the ship so they could whisk the passengers off on their shore excursions.

I can’t begin to explain how excited we were to go on our first shore excursion. Neither the hubster or I had ever been to Central America.

Our tour buses were waiting for us on the docks and we were off!  We had chosen the Veragua Rainforest excursion which would involve a one hour trek inland. The night before I was a bit apprehensive about such a long ride on a bus, but my anxiety was needless. Our guide, Monica was amazing and so informative. It truly felt like we were only on the bus for fifteen minutes.

As we departed the dock, Monica pointed out the tiny island off the coast of Puerto Limon. She mentioned the island had many names in the past, but originally it was known as Quirbri by the indigenous people living along its coastline. In 1986 the name was officially changed back to Isla Quiribri, but it is seldom used, and the locals still referred to the island as Isla Uvita.

Monica said the Island was famous because in September of 1502 Columbus landed there when he discovered Costa Rica on his fourth and final voyage. On this voyage Columbus had set out to discover a passageway west into the orient. (Spoiler alert: Most of his crew died, all his ships were lost and no passage to the west was ever found. Total bummer, CC!)

Someone on our bus asked if Columbus named Costa Rica, and Monica hedged. “Maybe,” she said. “It is argued that either Columbus or Gil Gonzalez Davila, a spanish conquistador, gave Costa Rica its name. The only thing we’re sure of is that Costa Rica means “rich coast” in spanish.”

Monica brought a wealth of things along with her for our education and entertainment. Did you know chocolate comes from a fruit? (You might want to store that fun fact away for trivia night.) This is a cacao fruit that she passed around. It is roughly the size of a squash and reddish brown on the outside. The cacao beans are surrounded by a sweet white pulp which the locals like to ferment and drink. The brown beans inside are dried to make CHOCOLATE! Like any fruit, there are different varieties and each fruit will produce a different tasting chocolate bean. (Who knew???)

We got to try some different bags of of criollo cacao from a manufacturer who farms, dries and caramelizes the beans in Puerto Limon. It was a very crunchy, interesting snack that the whole bus enjoyed sharing together.

Now for another fun item! A nutmeg fruit! Of course, this is where nutmeg comes from, but did you know, mace, another type of spice, is made from the dried lacy reddish covering of the nutmeg seed? (I certain did not!)

This is the nutmeg and mace as it dries.

And did you know bananas do not grow on trees? (For real. I’m serious. They don’t.) Bananas come from the largest herbaceous flowering plant in the world. (I know! How could I have lived so long and not have known that?) This is a banana flower with all its little baby bananas.

And finally … this is turmeric, another spice and the root of plant. Turmeric is another powerful antioxidant. (Any one getting the hint here that Monica is into health and wellness?)

On the rest of our journey Monica pointed out fruit companies and the typical “tico” houses. (Native Costa Ricans called themselves ticos.) She told us that  ticos make the best beans and rice on the entire planet and they have a much simpler, slower way of life. Costa Ricans have no army and are very proud of that. It was dissolved back in 1948. (Color me shocked to learn the United States will step in and fight for Costa Rica if need be.)

She went on to say Costa Ricans are less materialistic than other societies and are a truly diverse bunch … multicultural, multiracial, and multilingual. (Immigrants from China, Africa, and Jamaica, some willingly and some not so willingly, came to work on the railroad, banana plantations, and coffee plantations.)

Mostly the houses are cinderblock covered by plaster with low ceilings and small windows. The roofs are made from sheets of tin and it is very noisy when rains, but Monica says she loves it. Some of the older houses have been built with wood, but wood molds and rots very quickly in the tropical climate of Costa Rica.

She had great personal advice for us as well. She assured us it would keep us strong and vital especially when we hit our elder years:

1. Do something fun or enjoyable everyday. (She suggested a piece of chocolate made only from 70% cacao for its antioxidant values.)
2. Laugh at least once a day.
3. Learn something new every single day.

Then we arrived in the rainforest. It was lush and breath-taking. Just before we got off the bus, Monica told us to be careful where we put our feet and hands in the rainforest, due to bullet ants and snakes. (She said if a bullet ant bites you it will feel as if you have been shot and the pain lasts for a very long time.) Terrific. Good to know.

“Stay on the marked trails and always listen to your guides in Veragua,” she admonished.

“What does the name Veragua mean in spanish?” asked one of the bus riders.

“People always ask that question,” she said. “Veragua doesn’t have a translation.The Central American countries of Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama were all grouped together and called Veragua under spanish rule. Speculations abound, but there is no definitive answer.”

Laden with advice, we entered the Veragua Rainforest and met our guide.

(Next post: Veragua Rainforest and pics!)

This is us on our 34th wedding anniversary.

The hubster and I just got back from a wonderful eleven-day anniversary cruise. We’ve been married a long, long time. Yeppers. Thirty-four years to be exact, but we’ve actually been a “thing” for thirty-six years now. Isn’t he the cutest?

This is us on our wedding day.

It was a truly terrific way to celebrate. I ask you, “Is there really anything not to love when you’re on a luxury liner cruise ship traversing a vast blue expanse decorated with frothy white spume?”

(Shhhh. That was a rhetorical question.)

That being said, I’d like to offer a few suggestions regarding a cruise ship’s balcony, if you’re lucky enough to have one.

Helpful Hint #1) A sunrise breakfast is one of the loveliest ways to enjoy your balcony when you’ve got an early shore excursion.

Helpful Hint #2) Do not EVER leave underwear, bathing suits or towels out to dry on your balcony when you are in port. Dry them in your cabin or in your bathroom.

Why? Well … it’s not just because it’s an eyesore. It’s because when you get back from your amazing shore excursion absolutely exhausted and scurry away to an early dinner you may forget to take these items inside before your ship leaves for its next port-of-call.

Exactly why is that such a problem?

Relax. I’m about to tell you from first hand experience. It’s a problem because if your ship sets sail and you have forgotten aforementioned items on the balcony, I assure you they will not be there when you return. Ships travel fast, seventeen to twenty knots an hour, and as a result it is not unusual for a wind vortex to suck things right up and off your balcony.

Luckily for me, I’d brought several other bathing suits with me because I discovered my two piece had suddenly became a one piece after we returned to our room later in the evening, and, fortunately for the hubster, he’d brought along quite enough underwear so that he didn’t mourn the loss of the one that went missing in the ocean.

“At least our towel just blew onto the floor of the balcony,” I said to the hubster, feeling quite miserable about our faux pas.

“That’s great. It’s such a relief to know that only our intimate apparel is now residing at the bottom of the sea,” he said, shaking his head at me. “It was stupid, but we shouldn’t let this ruin our cruise. I’m sure we’re not the first people to have made this mistake and we won’t be the last.”

I grimaced. “I should have remembered to take those things off the balcony as soon as we got back here today. I can’t believe we just polluted the ocean like that. I feel soooo bad. I hope the fishes don’t eat the clothes and get sick.”

The hubster gave an evil smirk. “I’d like to think that right at this moment, there’s a hot mermaid down there rocking your old bathing suit top.”

“This is no laughing matter. Stop it!” I protested.

“Fine, but I think you’ll find it’s better than thinking about a merman swimming around in my gray underpants.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

True dat, hubster. True dat!

Most of the time I can give Wonder Woman and Superwoman a run for their money. I keep a dozens of balls up in the air on a daily basis and juggle them effortlessly (If I do say so myself), but over the last couple months, fate dealt me several blows which I”m still trying to recover from. On the surface, I handled everything well, but underneath my emotions were running unchecked and amuck.

Today, during CNN’s coverage of the Women’s March on Washington, the undercurrent of stress and fatigue finally reached its zenith and I spiraled into a cataclysmic meltdown worthy of a belligerent toddler. Thank you, Madonna, for tipping me past the point of no return.

Stress is a terrible thing. Exhibit A.

Sprawled on the kitchen floor, I sobbed over the bucket of soapy water I was using to wash the floor, and loudly berated Madonna for her use of undignified language on national television. Happening onto the situation, the hubster tried to retreat, but he wasn’t fast enough to get away.

“I see you,” I bellowed.

“I was afraid of that,” he said. “If you’re trying to fill that bucket, I’d recommend using the faucet.”

I glowered at him, trying to scorch holes in him with my eyes. Most of the time his Asperger’s retorts don’t have much of an effect on me, but today he was in trouble and he knew it, too.

“You aren’t funny. You’re supposed to ask me what’s wrong … and everything is wrong! I burned dinner and set off the smoke alarm in the kitchen. I’ve been too busy to do any writing on Rafe Ryder or any social media posting in weeks. People are going to lose interest in my writing. Not to mention, the Women’s Marches for human rights and equality are turning into anti-Trump rallies and Madonna just dropped three f-bombs on CNN and … and … she said she’s thought about blowing up the White House. That’s crazy! I may be a Democratic, but even I can’t support that kind of talk. Why would she say something like that? ” I ranted.

“Uh … because she’s Madonna.”

“But that’s not classy behavior.” I wailed.

“I think you’re being excessively dramatic.”

“I am not. I just want everyone in America to get along with each other before we’re brought to the brink of another civil war.” I paused, partly for maximum effect, but mostly because I’d forgotten where I was going with my next thought. Still I couldn’t shut myself up. “You know what I need?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me,” he said washing his hands over his face in frustration.

“I NEED a housekeeper,” I squalled. “Like Alice on The Brady Bunch.”

“Yeah … I was going to go with mental health counselor … but okay.”

Ignoring his jab, I removed the rag from my bucket without wringing it out and sloshed water onto the floor. “The dogs won’t stop fighting. I stepped on bleach in my favorite red socks, so I have to wear these yucky black ones. I can’t get the moldy smell out of the washing machine … and I’m allergic to gluten.”

“Oh boy, we’re back to that gluten thing again. I see where this is going.”

“You’re not helping me. Do you know how hard it is not to be able to eat bread anymore?” I asked, bawling and scrubbing at the floor in front of me. “You’re supposed to act interested and talk to me about stuff … and ask me if anything else is bothering me.”

“Is there?”

“Of course there is! You have stupid lymphoma and now my dad has throat cancer, and I can’t deal with anything else right now, especially Madonna!”

“It’s no wonder you’ve got a stomach ulcer.”

“Yes, and it really, really hurts.”

Snapping a picture of me with his phone, the hubster executed an eye roll worthy of television.

“Why would you take a picture of me like this? You’re the worst.”

“Maybe you should talk to your doctor about some xanax.”

I gave the hubster my haughtiest scowl. “How dare you say something like that to me?”

“Fine, I’ll talk to my doctor about getting some xanax for me then.”

“Why can’t you be supportive of my feelings for once … just once?”

He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know what you want.”

He had a valid point. Being physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, I didn’t actually know what I wanted either, so I went with the first thing that popped into my head.

“I. Want. To. Be. A. Mermaid.”

“Shoot me now,” said the hubster, lifting his eyes heavenward and pleading with a higher power.

“Mermaids don’t EVER have to wash floors!”

Pulling a spoon from the drawer next to him, he strolled over to the freezer, opened the door and produced a small carton of ice cream.

What are you doing?”

“Leaving you with the only two people capable of helping you at this point. Ben and Jerry.”

Sniffing, I momentarily feigned disinterest. “What flavor?”

“I call it, Magic Meltdown Management, but they call it Americone Dream.”

Wiping my nose on the sleeve of my hoodie, I took the carton from his hands. “Ice cream makes me cough.”

“I don’t care. Just stop blubbering and eat it,” he said as he exited the room.

“Fine,” I whimpered, prying the cover off the ice cream. “I will.”

See. All better.

That’s the end of the story, and you can stop with the judgy side-eye now, people. Everyone meets his or her waterloo eventually. I’m no different. While I’d prefer to tell you I handled my emotional outburst with grace, mindfulness, and prayer, I have to tell you I ate my feelings first. After my ice cream coma was over, I snapped out of it and I am back to myself again.

Well played, hubster, well played.

Grocery shopping is a chore, but, as a writer, I love it! If you keep your eyes and ears open, it’s a great place to find a new “character” and glean all kinds of wisdom.

I posted this encounter to my Facebook a couple of winters ago and thought I’d share it here today. Everyone who knows me, knows how much I despise bullying behavior of any kind, and it’s been on my mind a lot lately, so I thought I’d share this hilarious tidbit with you. Personally, I think the mother involved handled the situation like a pro.

I was in the baking aisle of my local grocery store the other day when I noticed a mother with her teen daughter and preteen son in tow.

The mother and daughter were discussing the fact someone was cyber-bullying the teenager on social media.

“I’m sorry, honey,” the mother said. “That girl is a cowardly, hateful, mean child. It is best to ignore her. If she doesn’t get a reaction from you, it won’t be fun for her anymore. Don’t you worry, karma will eventually catch up with all the mean girls of the world.”

The daughter shrugged her shoulders and sighed. “I guess.”

“Screw that!” said the son. “I say we hunt her down, kill her and eat her!

“That does it!” exclaimed the mom, giving the boy a shut-up-we-are-in-public look. “I don’t care what your father says, you are not watching THE WALKING DEAD anymore!”

At this point, I’m bent over pulling some flour from the bottom shelf, chuckling as silently as I could, but the mother heard me anyway.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “He’s a good kid. I promise you he’s not the next Jeffery Dahmer.”

“Please, don’t apologize,” I said, still giggling.

“But it’s wrong on so many levels. So much for my dream of raising pacifists. I blame his father … and television,” she said, continuing down the aisle.

“But Mom,” called the boy from behind her. “It would stop bullies once and for all. Besides, I bet mean people taste delicious.”

“Okay, I’m pulling your teeth as soon as we get home,” said the mother in a calm tone.

I laughed so hard, it was difficult to stay on my feet. To this day I can’t help but wonder if mean people really do taste delicious. Kids say the darndest things. Gotta love em!

As most of you know, Rafe Ryder and the Well of Wisdom is entered in a cover contest over at http://authorsdb.com/2016-cover-contest-results/22392-rafe-ryder-and-the-well-of-wisdom which ends October 15. If you haven’t voted yet … you still have time! Please help me show some serious love for my cover artist Jenny Zemanek. She is a dream to work with! You can find out more about her at http://www.seedlingsonline.com/

AND … BECAUSE RAFE RYDER FANS ARE EVERY SHADE OF AWESOME:

If you’ve voted for Rafe Ryder and the Well of Wisdom in the cover contest over at authorsdb, you can send an e-mail to llreynoldsbooks@yahoo.com to win a signed book as well as a 25$ Amazon gift card. There will be five lucky winners drawn on October 16th.

ALSO … TO THANK YOU FOR THOSE AMAZING AMAZON REVIEWS:

If you’ve read Rafe Ryder and the Well of Wisdom and have left me a book review on www.amazon.com/Rafe-Ryder-Well-Wisdom-Book/dp/0996931910, you’re eligible for a different drawing. This drawing you’ll win a signed copy of the book and a100$ Amazon gift card! This drawing will take place on November 20th, on the first anniversary of the series release. Just remember to e-mail me at llreynoldsbooks@yahoo.com to tell me you’ve left a review. There will be only one lucky winner. (I’m not rich yet, people! Give me time.)

AND … BECAUSE EVERYONE KEEPS ASKING:

Here’s some more exciting news. The second book in the Rafe Ryder series, Rafe Ryder and the BrushStroke of Time, is due out in May 2017. Mark your calendars!

Hot Flash Crazy Eyes

I don’t know the way to San Jose and I can’t take you to Funky Town. Heck, unlike Rod Stewart and Gladys Knight, I can’t even find the Downtown Train or the Midnight Train to Georgia without Google Maps, but sadly, I am intimately familiar with how to get to Crazy Town courtesy of something called

H-O-T F-L-A-S-H-E-S.

In my younger years, I was mistakenly under the impression hot flashes would be a brief, but fun mini excursion to my own personal tropical paradise where a handsome guy named Sven would serve me umbrella drinks as I lounged by the pool.

Holy Cow, People! Was I ever wrong!!!!?

Wikipedia states and I quote, “Hot flashes (also known as hot flushes) are a form of flushing due to reduced levels of estradiol. They are typically experienced as a feeling of intense heat with sweating and rapid heartbeat, and may typically last from two to thirty minutes for each occurrence.”

Wikipedia’s explanation is woefully lacking. Here is my definition. “Hot flashes are a form of satanic punishment meant to encourage women to pray and beg for favors from the Almighty.”

My daily prayer: Dear God, Please, please, please, keep my hot flashes to a minimum of five, because I know you’re not a big fan of me saying swear words and such … and I’m working really hard on that … I promise. But these hot flashes are making it freakin’ impossible, Lord!

It goes without saying that woman with severe hot flashes should not own guns. Here is a list of things I would shoot during a hot flash.

• The toilet which keeps stopping up in the bathroom
• The treadmill which whispers “Thunder Thighs” whenever I pass it
• The toaster oven which burns everything that goes into it
• Jodi Picoult’s novel My Sister’s Keeper for the worst ending ever
• The telephone because it keeps emitting that annoying ringing sound

Hot flashes can also make your marriage a tricky business.

Let’s say the hubster does something really stupid …

like this …

during one of your hot flashes.

Instead of handing him a broom and demanding he clean up his mess … in the back of my mind where Crazy Town is located, I’m contemplating going all Hannibal Lector on his nose. (I know …  I know. Crazy Town is not a nice place. Stop judging me!)

“Geez, you’re sour today,” he says, while I give him the evil eye for his heinous transgression.

“Are you kidding me? Stick your head, neck and shoulders into a 450-degree oven and not be able to remove them for ten minutes, Buster!” I reply, wanting to rip his eyebrows off his face. “You’re bound to be a little testy too.”

In my later years, I plan on being the old lady popping estrogen like tic tacs in the corner. Just leave me alone and walk on by when you see the crazy eyes and you’ll be all right. Maybe. *evil cackle*

I’ve heard it said that dreams reveal a person’s deepest desires and their deepest wounds, so in theory, by investigating the “stuff” of dreams, a person can gain a deeper understanding of their lives.

To which I’ve always said, “Meh!” Usually my dreams do nothing, but confuse me. They’re my own personal “Magical Mystery Tour.” Emphasis on the word mystery. That’s perfectly okay with me though. I’m of the opinion, some things just aren’t meant to be understood. However, last night my subconscious, determined to be heard, delivered a not so subtle wake-up call.

In my dream, I found myself trekking through a pristine jungle surrounded by hundreds of species of trees, plants, birds, mammals, reptiles, and the occasional marauding dinosaur, but I remained unflappable and poised. I traipsed through the undergrowth like a modern day Jane of the Jungle looking for water. Every jungle movie has a tranquil waterfall and a pool of refreshing water just waiting to be discovered. I was sure there had to be one here as well.

Try as I might though, I couldn’t locate a single jungle waterfall, or one drop of water. As evening fell, along with the mosquitoes, I wandered across a cave inhabited by a small group of Neanderthals who invited me to join their tribe.

Oh, why not? I was alone. Everyone needs a tribe, and a place to belong. So what if we were from different worlds? I love a good challenge. I’m in! (Besides I was thirsty and they had water.)

I set about adapting to my new tribe, determined to be a valuable, contributing member of the group. It didn’t go smoothly at first, but I have a strong streak of Pollyanna running through me, and I knew I could make it work!

While everyone else in the tribe painted animals on the cave walls, I drew a swirling and starry Van Gogh-esque night sky, which was met by disdainful guffaws from the men and scornful looks from the women, for what they regarded as my deliberate ineptitude for cave painting. I found myself banished to a very dimly lit portion of the cave to practice my “modern” art all on my own … but yay for me! At least I had my very own spot in the cave.

Having some musical ability, I tried to participate in the men’s nightly drum circle, but they refused to let me have a drum. There is more to music than just rhythm, so I made up a catchy tune and belted it out while they pounded on their drums. The tribe scowled and shook their heads to silence me, but I persisted until they wrestled me to the ground and covered my mouth with their hands to shut me up, but on the upside, they did allow me to hum, if I did so quietly. Another success! The tribe had met me halfway.

I possessed some ability as a storyteller, however, most, if not all, of my tales lost their sparkle when translated into the grunts and tongue clicks of my tribe’s Neanderthal language. Undeterred, I regaled the tribe with stories told in my own native language, complete with ridiculous pantomimes. They didn’t understand a blessed word I said, but I amused them, and that made me happy.

It didn’t take long for me to develop serious issues with the way Neanderthal men treated the women of our tribe. I’ve never been one to suffer mean, ungrateful, disrespectful men quietly, and I particularly resented the men telling me what contributions I’d be making to the tribe. I wanted to hunt, fish and do all the things the men did, but instead I was forced to cook, gather firewood, fetch water, sew furs together, and gather edible plants and berries. Uck! Boring!

I felt rebellion stir and rise up inside me. This would never do. I had no problem talking the Neanderthal women into a work strike until the men agreed to treat us with a modicum of dignity and kindness. To my surprise, the cavemen caved. I had expected them to beat down the rebellion with their clubs, but the cavemen were much smarter than they looked. Who would do the work they didn’t want to do if all the women were incapacitated? They saw the wisdom in change, and their newfound kindness worked like a healing salve on the hearts of the Neanderthal women. Another victory!

Although, I still wasn’t happy with the position women had been relegated to in our tribe and I lamented the sad lack of choices in our lives, my life was far more desirable than the life of the tiny, crying newborn infant by the fire that everyone totally ignored. I had joined the tribe several years ago, and couldn’t recall seeing the infant ever being held or fed. As impossible as it sounds, the baby remained a newborn, occasionally crying in a muted, pathetic tone. Every so often I’d try to pick the child up and comfort her, but the tribe would not allow it. My heart ached for the poor little thing.

One day when I could no longer stand it, I snatched the child and fled up a set of wooden stairs that had miraculously appeared. As I ran, each step disappeared after me so the Neanderthals couldn’t follow.

I found myself in a spectacular room of glass walls with modern conveniences, high up in the clouds looking down over the jungle canopy. Everything I needed to care for the baby and myself was contained in the spacious room. Here in this cloud fortress, I knew we were untouchable.

Delighted, I bathed and and dressed the baby in clothes for the first time in her life. The baby hadn’t made a sound since I picked her up off the cave floor, and I guess I thought she’d cry during her bath, but she seemed to love it. As I fed her a bottle and snuggled her close to me, she gazed at me, her eyes full of gratitude. I placed her in the middle of a kingsize bed to sleep and walked away to admire her from a distance as I had done with my own children years ago.

Right in front of my eyes the girl suddenly grew to about six months size and sat up by herself. Gaping in surprise, I watched as she continued to grow to the size of a one year old. She smiled at me and waved. Then she stood up, tottered over the bed, and off the edge before I could stop her.

By the time she reached the floor and walloped her head, she looked to be about two years of age. To my amazement, she didn’t cry when she cracked her head on the floor. She merely looked surprised and sat up with a smile on her face. What an unusual child!

She continued to grow at breakneck speed and was soon ready to begin Kindergarten. She’d disappear from the room in the clouds for a few hours each day to go to school and come back another year older each time she returned.

The girl displayed everything a mother could wish to see in her own child. She was compassionate, loving, thoughtful, genuine and honest. She had an innate curiosity about the world and her fearlessness scared me and delighted me at the same time.

As the years flew by, (and by years, I mean hours) I found her remarkably intuitive. She followed her gut, instead of her head and it never let her down. She remained positive and focused. She owned her successes and her mistakes. She didn’t see her mistakes as failures, but rather as chances to get things right the next time. If she didn’t like the direction she’d chosen for herself, she’d reverse course in a heartbeat and change it.

God knows the child did have her faults. She was a nervous little worrywart, and quite impatient at times. Not to mention, she was far too sensitive a soul for my tastes. The day her friend, Chelsea, had called her “A Miss Goody Two-Shoes” for not wanting to play a mean joke on another friend, she had cried all night long. I have to admit, my ears and I were happy to see her go to school the next day just to be rid of the sniffling. The girl would someday find out there were far worse things to be called in a lifetime than “A Miss Goody Two-Shoes.”

In a matter of two weeks, she stood before me as a young lady ready to go out into the world.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something for a long time now,” she said, winding a long dark lock of hair around her finger. “I’ve been having a problem with one of my friends. It’s been going on for as long as I can remember. When we were younger, Chelsea told me that I needed to stop entering the contests and competitions at school because I was hogging all the awards and winning everything. She said I was taking opportunities away from her. Every year, things just kept getting worse and worse between us. Now she gossips about me, talks behind my back, spreads rumors about me, and even tells outright lies about me. This week she told everyone that I have stolen every boy she has ever liked away from her. I can’t understand what is going on with her. I love her. I’d never treat her the way she treats me. What’s wrong with her? Why is she acting like this?”

“Ahhh, yes,” I said, wishing I wasn’t familiar with what was causing the problem between the two girls. “You’re talking about the two-headed green-eyed monster that some people learn to wield as weapons, called jealousy and envy. Two closely related words which carry different meanings … well at least to a writer, but other people use them interchangeably.”

She puckered her brow. “They’re not interchangeable?”

“No, not at all. Jealousy is about relationships. If you feel jealous of someone, it’s because you think they are taking away the attention or affections of someone who belongs to you, or someone you think should belong to you. On the other hand, if you are envious, you want something someone else has. Envy can be felt for material possessions as well as someone else’s achievements or stature. Everybody experiences jealousy and envy from time to time in varying degrees, especially if they compare themselves to others and come up short. Haven’t you ever felt jealous or envious of someone?”

“Not jealous, because I don’t have a boyfriend, and I don’t want one, but I’ve felt envious plenty of times. Last week, I wanted a pair of jeans like Miranda Peabody’s in the worst way.”

“That type of envy is fleeting and harmless,” I said, “but the type of envy that causes somebody to recruit people to participate in their anger and resentment of you … that is malicious and it is not okay. Inflicting pain on others because you’re in pain yourself is never okay. Do you understand me?”

The girl shook her head and scowled. “Of course, I do, and I wouldn’t do that to anybody. If you ask me, jealousy and envy seems like such a waste of time and energy. Nobody has it all. Nobody. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I don’t sit around comparing myself to others all day. I’m not competing with anyone in life either … except maybe myself.”

“That’s a good philosophy to have, and I’m proud of you. People are all talented, gifted and unique in different ways. I don’t view life as a competition either.”

“I still don’t get it though,” said the girl. “When Chelsea does well, I’m happy for her. I celebrate her accomplishments. Why can’t she do the same for me? Instead of being happy for me, she makes me feel sad and ashamed for being smart, working hard, and winning things.”

“Many times girls outgrow this sort of thing, and its best to ignore it … unless their jealousy and envy become a pattern.”

“By now, I’m fairly confident Chelsea’s not going to outgrow it,” the girl said in a sad tone. “I’ve talked to her about how this makes me feel, but she’s more focused on how I make her feel. She thinks I need to be a better friend by not doing things or entering contests and competitions that she’s interested in, and if I want to continue to be her friend, I’m not even allowed to speak to any boy that she is remotely interested in either.”

“Well then,” I said. “You have a very difficult decision ahead of you. A true friend respects and celebrates your accomplishments with you. Instead of being discouraged by your successes, a true friend is motivated and inspired by them.”

The girl nodded her head. She seemed pleased that I understood.

I placed my hand on her shoulder and looked straight into her brown eyes and continued, “If you allow a friend like Chelsea to stay in your life, she’ll continue to diminish the quality of yours. You can’t allow her to erode your sense of self-worth. Forgive her, wish her well, let her go, and move on with your life.”

“It won’t be easy,” she said, “but I know I have to do it.

I pulled her close to me and hugged her tightly. “I know you can, and now you’re ready get out there in the real world.” I whispered. “I’ll miss you.”

The girl grabbed me, hugging me back so fiercely her body melted into mine, and she was gone. What? That was impossible! Wasn’t it?

I heard the girl’s familiar laugh and her voice was now inside my head. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “It seems you’d forgotten who I was, so I stopped by to remind you.”

My whole body jerked and I was suddenly wide awake. For once, I didn’t need anyone to decode the dream for me. I woke up remembering who I really am. I woke up knowing that no one should ever, ever have to tolerate feeling bad about themselves, in order to make someone else feel better about themselves. I had forgotten that, too, but I never will again. The truth really can set you free.

Today I want to discuss pirates. No, not this type of pirate.

I rather enjoy this kind of a pirate. Arrrr! (Just look at that face … commanding yet wistful at the same time … but enough of Captain Jack. He always gets me off topic.)

I want to talk about book pirating! (Aaurgh!)

In the past few days, I’ve discovered no less than eight sites offering free downloads of Rafe Ryder and the Well of Wisdom. I find myself caught between congratulating myself that my work is now popular enough for pirates to want to steal and offering myself condolences for the theft.

Am I flattered?

Am I angry?

Well mostly … but there are other feelings too, but those feelings involve me wearing my rose colored glasses. (Hold on while I put them on.)

It feels totally awesome to have your book suddenly become popular! Let’s face it, who wants to be obscure? What author, doesn’t want hundreds, or even thousands of people reading their books? I know I do. I want readers to love the Rafe Ryder series.

(Now taking the rose colored glasses off.) From a business standpoint, it makes me very sad. I have devoted so much time to Rafe Ryder and the Well of Wisdom, and I’m currently working just as hard on the next book in the series. I’d really like to be paid for my work. Wouldn’t you?

There are websites offering free downloads of my book and still others are using mirror websites which redirect people to its main website, promising free downloads of my books for a certain amount of money, either for a month or for a lifetime. Most of these websites are scams that either steal your credit card info, put malware on your computer or both. It really bothers me that people are using my name and my book to scam others. (I can’t help it, I have a motherly heart, and I don’t want anyone’s credit or computer comprised. Both things have happened to the hubster and me, and it is not pleasant.)

My author friends liken it to playing the Whac-A-Mole game, and it definitely feels like it.

I report one and three more pop up. It is an exercise in frustration.

I realize I’m not going to be able to stop most of them, and I’d much rather spend my valuable time writing versus chasing crafty literary pirates!

I might just as well be banging myself in the head, but given my age, and the fact I’m in desperate need of every precious brain cell I still possess, I’ve decided against it.

Okay, I’ve said my piece. Now, I’m going to go meditate and try to find my happy place.

It may take some time, but I shall meditate until I can handle any situation thrown my way, such as the one seen below. I live with the hubster, who has way more energy than I do (most of the time), so this happens more frequently than you’d think.

The hubster and I celebrated thirty-three years of marriage on Sunday.  I think that qualifies me to offer a bit of advice to all you dewy-eyed young things still wallowing in connubial bliss. (Not to be a Debbie Downer or anything, but sooner or later connubial bliss gives way to connubial arguments.)

In order to survive this eventuality, you must always maintain your sense of humor. Repeat after me. “A sense of humor charms and disarms.” Got it? It really is that simple. Let me share an example from my own life.

Nine years and three kids into our marriage, the hubster and I moved to a new town. An experienced Labor and Delivery nurse, I found a part-time job in the local hospital’s Birthing Center. The only catch was … I needed to orient to the job full-time for six weeks, jumping around on all three shifts as needed.

It was a recipe for disaster from the beginning. The hubster had no idea what he was getting into when he offered to take over as many of my responsibilities as possible, so I could start my new job. Up to that point in our marriage, he had not realized how much I insulated him from the day to day mayhem created by three exuberant youngsters and their daily destruction of the house (in sometimes as little as fifteen minutes).

It was enormously difficult for all of us, and tensions mounted exponentially until one fateful day five weeks into my orientation. That morning, just before I started my shift, the hubster had finally had it with making lunches, taking the children to school, skipping out of work to pick them up, friends, activities, laundry, dishes, homework, baths, etc … and he lost it. He had a temper tantrum of magnificent proportions. I’d never quite seen the likes of it before. I didn’t say a word at the time, but I was beyond miffed that he felt so “put upon” and he knew it when I slammed the door on my way to work.

Every spare moment of the morning during my shift, I contemplated how to express my disappointment at his deplorable behavior. Then it came to me.

I ordered a dozen long-stemmed roses from a local florist shop and had them delivered to me at the Birthing Center. I made a few alterations to the flowers, put them back in the box and asked the Unit Secretary to drop them off at my hubster’s office on her way home that afternoon.

(The rest of the story I know from the hubster’s office manager)

“Oh,” said the hubster when he received the box of flowers. “Probably an apology from my wife. She was mad at me this morning”

Smiling, he tugged off the box top to find a dozen thorny stems sans flower tops.

The office manager peered over his shoulder into the box. “I’d say apparently, she still is. “What does the card say?”

“The card says, “To the thorn in my side, Love your wife,” he read solemnly.

The whole office erupted in laughter, my husband included.

So you see, young lovers, (wherever you are) it is in your best interest to make your point in a humorous way and defuse potentially hazardous situations with comedy. By the way, you’re welcome.

Ahhh, Valentine’s Day. The day we celebrate love. I’ve adored Valentine’s Day ever since first grade when I got my first taste of decorating tissue boxes and stuffing them with homemade cards full of compliments for my fellow classmates.That was a long, long time ago.

The hubster realized early in our marriage that Valentine’s Day was not to be forgotten. (Once was enough for him to experience his wife’s transformation into cranky dragon lady.)

The hubster (and my darling son) sent me beautiful roses this year, even though they don’t always like me, they always love me enough to send flowers on Valentine’s Day. (Presses hanky to eyes and sniffs.)                                                                    

The hubster and I also have an understanding regarding candy on Valentine’s Day.  It is not an appropriate gift I will eat every piece of candy in my house like it’s my job. While I could get away with this in my younger years … I might just as well paste it directly to my thighs now.

The hubster is working a shift in the Emergency Room today so I can’t be mad. I’ll just send him my love and kisses … lots of kisses.

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! Hope you’re getting a lot of attention and love today!

(Oh, by the way hubster …. here’s a hint for next year’s Valentine’s day/birthday/anniversary/Christmas gift. What do you think? I just love sparkly things, but you know that.)

My shovel is always at the ready here in New England during the winter months, but it looks like I get to sit this one out! YAY! Winter Storm Jonas is only going to clobber the Mid-Atlantic States. The news say it may be the biggest storm in 90 years for Washington,     D. C. Yikes. Sorry guys.

I’m not about to make light of your situation. Snow is far worse for people outside of the New England states than it is for us. Here the snowplows and trucks are out sanding and salting before we even wake up. We own four-wheel drive vehicles, and since we grew up teething on ice, we think nothing of  practicing our winter driving skills in parking lots just for fun. Therefore, most of us can usually steer out of a slide or a skid on an icy road without panicking. (Sorry about all those donuts I did in our yard, Dad. I realize this may be the first time you’re hearing I did those with your Maverick, but I felt it was time to come clean. Please don’t hate me. Your next set of winter snow tires is on me.)

I’ll give you an analogy regarding winter. It’s sort of like making lemonade from lemons. Winter often gives us ice and snow in the Northeast, so we buy ice skates, toboggans, skis, snowshoes, snowboards, snowmobiles, and we make the best of our situation.

As much as I hate the problems that come with snow, I’m not paralyzed by the white stuff, I’m merely inconvenienced. When we lose power, I have a gas stove and oven so I can cook meals. I always fill up the bathtub so I’ll have water with which to bathe and cook or incase I have to flush the toilets by pouring a bucket of water into it. I have a warm winter coat, gloves and a closet full of fuzzy blankets.

So … be smart and be safe, my southern friends. Stay inside. Check on your elderly neighbors, and never, (I REPEAT NEVER) start a generator inside your house or garage, especially if it is attached to your house. (Can you say carbon monoxide poisoning?)

I hate plastic packing peanuts. I only received one box full of the loathsome things in early December, but it was more than plenty.

The debacle started innocently enough (as all debacles do) … a simple click of a computer mouse. At that moment, I could barely contain my elation. I had ordered a present that I knew the hubster would love.

Within a few days, the UPS guy dropped a fat brown package on my doorstep. Armed with scissors and a grin, I swooped it up and set out to open it on the kitchen floor. My dogs sniffed at it suspiciously, which should have been my first clue … but sometimes their Momma is a bit dense, and doesn’t pick up on things as fast as they do.

I lifted the first flap and saw the box filled to the brim with white packing peanuts. My face contorted in horror, and I felt sure I was on the verge of a seizure. I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings, but at that moment anybody could have guessed that I had (and would continue to harbor) deep animosity for the packing peanut perpetrator.

I stared into the abyss of white with my dogs. The only way to get what I wanted out of that box was to swim my way down to the bottom to retrieve it. I dove in and sifted through the pestiferous peanuts until I found the prize.

I carried the gift upstairs to its hiding place and returned to what looked like a packing peanut war zone. My dogs had pulled the cardboard box apart and were romping around in the peanuts like it was a new snowfall. Itty-bitty beads of plastic clung to their coats while they cavorted.

I squeezed my eyes shut. “Deep breath in … deep breath out. Deep breath in … deep breath out. Remain calm,” I said, while experiencing a true Calgon-take-me-away moment.

When I was sufficiently serene, I fished some plastic peanuts from the dogs’ mouths, shooed them outside, and resolved to clean up the mess.

“Let the games begin,” I declared, knowing full well the packing peanuts had malicious little minds of their own, and any attempt to remove them would be hellish. “I will prevail.”

An hour later, I had the majority of the kitchen cleaned up, but miniscule particles of the peanuts were stuck on the outside of the vacuum, on the dogs, on the broom, on my hands, on my clothes and in my hair. It wasn’t much of a victory.

Without going into any further diatribe, may I simply state I abhor, despise, detest and loathe packing peanuts. Honestly, I’d rather someone use marshmallows to pack the items they were shipping to me … at least I’d have use for the marshmallows. Flutternutter, anyone?

The partridge (missing half it’s backend) was the only unlucky one in our family this year.

 I have never written a holiday news letter before, but this is an excellent year to start. I hardly know where to begin, except to say 2015 has proven itself to be the best year ever! I MEAN…EVER! So here goes!

Greetings Family and Friends,

What a year! At the beginning of 2015, I had lasik surgery, and it turned out flipping fantastic. Not only has my vision been corrected to 20/15, as a bonus side effect, I now have x-ray vision. How incredible is that?! I’m so blessed and fortunate. I can now read books without having to open them!
I have gained nearly ten pounds this year, but that’s largely because one week after we completed our kitchen renovation, Wolfgang Puck showed up on our doorstep, offering to become our personal chef. How could we turn him down? (Believe me, I was as surprised as you are!)
You’d think that would have been the end of our good luck streak for the year, but you would be wrong. Two days after releasing my first middle grade fantasy book, Rafe Ryder and the Well of Wisdom, Johnny Depp, Robert Downy, Jr., and Peter Dinklage began wooing me for the book’s film rights. They had all read the book and fallen completely and hopelessly in love with it. How could I choose between them?
I took a drive to clear my head, and, as luck would have it, Ron Howard bumped into me with his car on his way to his home in Vermont. There was no damage done, but being the sweet man he is, he wanted to buy me lunch, and we discussed my dilemma with the actors. I gave him a copy of my book and within four hours of receiving it, he called and offered to buy the film rights. (No one says no to Ron Howard. I mean, really … how could I refuse him?)
Ron also insisted on introducing me to his good friend, Oprah Winfrey, who immediately ditched Gail King to become my bestie. (I know, I’m speechless too!) I’ve always, always wanted to be Oprah’s best friend.
To make a long story short, the hubster and I are now filthy rich.
Together, he and I decided the best and most responsible thing for us to do, considering our advanced age, was to move to England and buy that cute little castle we’ve had our eyes on since … like forever! We have twenty-eight servants and staff, but I have yet to see any of them as the castle has two-hundred and sixty-five rooms.
Those of you who know me well, know how much I value humility and to go on any longer about our good fortune would not be in good taste.
So that being said, the hubster and I wish you a happy, healthy, prosperous New Year! The hubster hopes you’ll be blessed with the same good fortune as us, or at the very least, the same wild imagination that his wife has. (Yeah, good luck with that, people. None of you would last five minutes in my noggin.There’s barely room for me here, but … it’s a really fun and happy place.)

P. S. I can neither confirm, nor deny, there may have been some spicy eggnog involved whilst writing of this letter. (I feel comfortable using the word whilst now … you know … because of owning the castle in England and all.)

Book giveaway for middle grade fantasy on goodreads.com “Rafe Ryder and the Well of Wisdom” is on! Today, you’ll find it on page 3 of the most requested giveaways, or page 64 of the recently listed giveaways! Available worldwide! Enter to win your hardcover edition today! Only10 hours left. It ends December 27th!
    

My Shiba Inu loves! Winnie is our fourteen-year-old female and Rupert is her seven year old son.

It has been brought to my attention that although I have thanked many people for helping me get ready to release “Rafe Ryder and the Well of Wisdom” into the world, I have not given sufficient credit to the two “furry” muses who live with me, my Shiba Inu loves, Winnie and Rupert. And honestly…I couldn’t have done it without them. They give me unconditional affection and provide me with the focus I need to write.

Not to mention the fact, my dogs seem to enjoy the writing process as much as me. Rupert, in particular, loved perusing my manuscript and offering his opinion.

Although, he can sniff out a troublesome storyline with no problem whatsoever, just try to cut his toenails…he’ll treat you to his freaky Shiba scream, which is always guaranteed to raise an eyebrow or two in our neighborhood. (Thank heavens for a vet who doesn’t mind cutting nails and thinks the Shiba scream is hilarious!)

And he has actually been known to “sit” on parts of the story until I come around to his point of view. He’s stubborn like that.

Momma?

I could never do without these adorable fluffbottoms! They remind me there is more to life than writing…there is love, belly rubs, kisses, walks, and more inspirations than than I can ever explain in a simple blog post.

Hello!

Gahhh….look at these faces! How can I not be inspired to write something terribly imaginative with these two around?!

So here’s to you, my darlings! Thanks for just being mine.

Deepest gratitude and love from your Momma.

Although I was excited about the renovation and my new sink, the house was not.

Hello there. I know…I know. It’s been quite awhile since I’ve done a blog post, but I’m back at last. Our home has been undergoing a major kitchen renovation (since February!) and I completely underestimated the havoc it would cause in my life, not to mention the unholy mess! (Dang you, HGTV, for all those one-hour television shows demonstrating short, painless renovations!)

Over the last eight months, living in our home has not been at all conducive to thinking…let alone writing, and besides that, my muse flew straight out the window the moment she heard the buzzing of saws and pounding of hammers. (I can’t blame the poor thing, In hindsight, I should’ve vacated with her!)

Now that things have settled down, I’m anxious to tell you a story. Truth, in this case, is stranger than fiction (and far more entertaining), so let me began the saga of my spiteful house.

Creepy basement stones

The hubster and I own a home, which is well over one-hundred-years-old. It’s charming and brimming with character. I LOVE this house to pieces, although I do find the basement with its creepy stone foundation a tad bit disconcerting at times.

Exhibit A.  The house has a pretty mean slant on things.

I have long been suspicious my house is a living, breathing entity who does not easily embrace change, and I’m now more convinced of it than ever. Over the years, our house has adamantly refused to cooperate with the myriad of repairs and renovations we’ve had to make to her. She has never willingly accepted anything new, particularly the plumbing, wiring and windows, and this time was no exception. Ask the carpenters and subcontractors who have been unlucky enough to deal with her chicanery. (Exhibit A).

Bye byes, back stairway, bye byes!

The kitchen renovation was the largest we’ve ever undertaken and I think we pushed our house over the edge when she lost her back stairway to the new pantry area of our kitchen. Oozing petulance, she pulled every dirty trick in the book to slow the process.

New pantry sans stairway.

I tried to sweet-talk her and convince her that everything would be okay, but she was having none of it. Reaching her boiling point, she took her revenge on me, and the hubster as well.

The new pantry was clearly unacceptable to the house.

The last week in August on a stifling summer night, she had the audacity to push me down a flight of stairs, causing me great bodily harm. No. I’m not being dramatic and taking creative license here. No… seriously, I’m not. I REALLY had 3 broken ribs, a lacerated liver, and a compression fracture of my spine. My hand to heaven! (Now, the doctor said the fall down the stairs was due to a blackout caused by dehydration and hypotension, but I’m not buying it! Not for one single second!)

Two weeks later, my husband fell down two steps onto the cement floor in the garage rupturing a lumbar disc in his back, and compressing a nerve in his leg. (Coincidence? I think not.) The hubster had back surgery and has recovered quite nicely. We’re both fine and perambulating about town now, although six weeks on my back has turned me into a butterball.

Main kitchen. Still need back splash, but taking shape.

I believe the house is done retaliating for the renovation, at least I hope so, because we’ve still got flooring to go down and I’m not in the mood for any more of her insolence! I have cautioned her to carefully consider any further retribution, because I know where we keep the matches.

Mother’s Day has rolled around again. It’s a day where most children take a moment to acknowledge and appreciate their mothers, but for me, it’s a day when I pause to think of how I earned the proud title of Momma and my three delightful darlings (or as I like to call them, the best kids EVER!)!!!!

My babies when they were young!

My children are vastly different from one another and each required a whole different set of parenting skills.

My oldest child passionately loved new things and new experiences. My middle child was much more tentative and often had to be coaxed into new experiences. The last child, (and possibly the one most responsible for every prematurely gray hair on my head), frequently disappeared like Houdini. I was never certain if she liked new experiences or was avoiding them altogether. (If you think I’m kidding, be assured, I am not. She was famous for her vanishing acts! It took the whole family and a few neighbors, to keep track of that girl!)

My babies all grown up!

Although being a mother is an extraordinary amount of work and I was often dirty-dog-tired, I’d gladly go back to the days when I was their whole world and they loved me as fiercely as I loved them.

Every mother knows those days. The days when they run to you to be held, their little hands encircling your neck, while their short legs wrap around your waist in a strangle hold any wrestler would be proud to possess. Then that precious moment when they purposely place their perfect little heads on your shoulder while sighing into your ear, “I love you, Mommy.”

I ache for the days I was allowed to hold them, rock them, sing them lullabies, and read them stories (often the same one over and over again).

They picked these from our yard on Mother’s Day, each child trooping in with a fistful to present to me..

I miss boo-boo kisses and handpicked bouquets of violets from the lawn. I even miss the dirty handprints and coloring on the walls, but what I miss most of all is the way they looked at me. If you’re a mom, you’re familiar with “the look.” The one that says, “You are my everything. I love no one and nothing more than I love you.”

However, children must grow and my number one job became encouraging them to keep their heads in the clouds and reach for the stars all the while keeping their feet firmly planted on the ground. That is not as easy as it sounds either.

I adore them and I am so proud of them. They amaze me daily, or at the very least, weekly.

Each year they give me wonderful Mother’s Day cards and gifts, but I have three Mother’s Day gifts that are sacred to me, one from each of them that I keep in a special drawer in my bedroom.

My oldest daughter’s beautiful little handprint.

My son’s homemade necklace.  

My youngest daughter’s heart-in-a-box.

Today, I’m sending good wishes to all the mothers out there, to the young and to the very old. It is the hardest, yet the best, most incredible job you will ever love doing.

And here’s to our children, our endless loves, and to their lives…full of endless possibilities.

(P.S. To my own Mom: I love you more than you will ever know! xoxo)

Once upon a time, born in the deepest part of winter’s heart and clasped to her frosty bosom there was a tiny Ice Princess. The princess loved Mother Winter with her whole being, but as the princess aged, a strange and terrible thing happened. Mother Winter’s gifts—the frozen land, ice, snow, and cold, which had once held endless possibilities for fun, became tedious and full of drudgery.

Deeply stinging from the princess’s resentment, Mother Winter made it her mission in 2015 to remind her daughter of all the precious moments they had once spent together, but no matter how stunning the storms or how many she sent, the Ice Princess remained angry and sullen.

It would take a miracle to thaw her daughter’s frozen heart and restore their relationship, but miracles do happen, especially on the birthdays of Ice Princesses, and most especially, for Ice Princesses lucky enough to be  living in the state of Vermont.

How do I know? Because I’m the Ice Princess in the above story.

What was the miracle? A visit to the  ICE CASTLE snuggled between two ski slopes in the Sun Bowl at Stratton Mountain in Vermont.

The Ice Castle at Stratton is a magical melding of ice caves, frozen waterfalls, glacial formations, towering archways, winding passageways, ice towers, thrones, benches, wishing wells, slides, igloos, hidden alcoves, caverns and tunnels. Sculpted hearts, crystal balls, and colored spheres are everywhere just waiting to be discovered.

The castle is crafted by “growing” icicles, harvesting them, piecing them together one icicle at a time. The framework is then sprayed with water. The results are unique and beyond spectacular.

My family and I explored the Ice Castle by day and then again by night when the lights embedded deep within the ice bounce and dance to the music piped into the castle.

If you want to see the Ice Castle Light Show, you can see it here. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFy1OLvDH3I

Thanks to a birthday miracle and a wonderful family, the Ice Princess is back in the loving embrace of Mother Winter, and it’s wonderful so long as I remember to wear snow pants and a down coat.