by Karen MacInerney
I was thrilled to be invited to guest blog on Killer Hobbies -- what a fabulous group of writers! What an honor!
But then a niggling little thought occurred to me. Gosh. I'm really not much of a hobbyist.
It's not that I haven't tried. My garage and attic contain huge boxes of half-finished latch-hook rugs, skeins of yarn, and crochet needles (I think that's what they are), not to mention a variety of paints, most of which I think are watercolors.
My mother's gift of a sewing machine a few years ago (It still puzzles me -- have we met, mom?) inspired me to take one class that resulted in a lopsided check jumper for my daughter. I even tried knitting a while back, thinking it would be a relaxing and soothing break from writing. I could almost envision the chunky, soft throws, knitted in soft, organic wool, tossed casually over the living room couches. But since knitting gave me carpal tunnel syndrome and eye strain, I was forced to abandon it. (Fortunately, I have since discovered that Pottery Barn sells several very nice, knitted-looking throws. But handing people credit cards and unwrapping packages hardly constitutes a real hobby.)
So despite my love of handmade things, I count myself among the hobby-impaired. (I love to cook, though; does that count?)
My poor daughter, on the other hand, has the hobby gene in spades, as a result of which I am forced to face my inadequacy on an almost daily basis. Afternoons off from school invariably mean suggestions we undertake any number of little projects, including, but not limited to, say, shearing sheep, spinning yarn, weaving cloth for and then constructing a period outfit for my daughter's baby doll. Or sponge painting her room with organic paints we have created from sweet potatoes and crushed cherry pits. Or building an origami village out of homemade paper.
My philosophy has been pared down to this: I will undertake a craft only if it is possible to achieve results using thumb tacks and Scotch tape. (My son seems to have inherited this gene, as I find wads of Scotch tape and rocks/toothpicks/feathers/legos stuck in the most interesting places.)
But my poor daughter will grow up deprived, and I feel powerless to help her. I can envision the counseling sessions now: "In third grade, I was a pumpkin in the school play. My mom thumbtacked a Hefty bag together, taped the seams, and spray-painted it orange. I was the laughingstock of the school. And can you believe she thought a collage was something you pinned to your dress for prom?"
Ah, well. I may not be crafty... but at least my kids will know how to make a mean meatloaf.
Karen MacInerney is the author of the Agatha-nominated Gray Whale Inn mystery series and the forthcoming Tales of an Urban Werewolf (Ballantine, Spring '08). You can find her online at http://karenmacinerney.blogspot.com and www.karenmacinerney.com.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Grandma Always Said . . .
What to do when your documented proof doesn't match up with the beloved family legend?
Oh boy, is this a sensitive topic.
Here's my stand on my ancestors. They are what they are and who they are, regardless. No matter if they were horse thieves or Kings (and sometimes both) I wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't be me, without them. So, I don't really give a flying fig if my ancestors were Irish, Jewish, Russian, or what have you. It doesn't matter to me. That's not to say that I don't have my favorites when it comes to my branches on my tree, because I do. Usually, though, my favorite branches are the ones that have the most information because they paint a clearer picturer of the people long gone. Not because of a specific race, religion, creed or occupation.
Even though I don't care what my ancestors origins were, doesn't mean that I don't require more than a certain color of eyes or the absence of a Christmas tree to prove my ancestors nationality or religion. If it can't be proven, then I don't put it in the family history. I might add a footnote saying something to the point of "it is rumored that Tom Jones was an Irish sea captain, but no proof has been found to this date." That way, the family legend still makes its way in, but it's not misrepresented as something that is documented or proven.
Here's the reason: For years my paternal grandmother told me that she was four years old when her mother died. Much ado had been made about the fact that she was orphaned so young. Her mother had a tragic death and an even more tragic life. My grandmother's father lived another fifty years, for all the good it did her, and she was bounced around with relatives, ultimately living with her father a few short years before trekking out on her own at the age of fifteen to work at the old Kenrick Seminary in St. Louis. So, if my Grandma was born in 1901 and her mom died when she was four . . . using my rudimentary math skills, I figured Great-Grandma died around 1905. As is typical in genealogy, I broadened my search to a year before and a year after the date in question. Great-grandma would have died before the mandatory death record year of 1910, between 1904 and 1906, and so I began searching for an obituary and a place of burial for those years. I could find neither. I even tried hunting down the old Mulanphy hospital records where she died, to no avail. I tried the Catholic records, no such luck. So for years I shelved this as one of my brick walls, because it never occurred to me to check for any other years, because I just couldn't believe that Grandma would have gotten it wrong. How could she? She was alive for the event!
Then, as luck would have it, somebody outside of our immediate family--but still a distant cousin--found an obituary record for my great-grandma. He'd been searching for other things and wouldn't you know it, since he didn't have that "family legend" to hinder his way of thinking, he found her obituary . . . for 1909. A full four years after she was supposed to have died. Making my grandmother a whopping 8 years old, instead of 4. Now, HOW does that happen? You'd think my grandma ought to know when her own mother died. Right? How could she get 4 and 8 mixed up? Some in the family thought the obituary was for a different woman. Not our ancestor. But luckily, my great-grandma had a very unusual name and her two daughters had even more unusual first names. The obituary was for the right woman. There was no question.
Now, I adored my grandma, but you have to wonder if she was fudging on the years of her story for a specific reason? Was she trying to get more attention or more sympathy out of saying she was "only four" when her mother died? Or maybe her mother had been very ill and she was taken from her when she was only four because her mother could no longer care for her. To a young child, I could see this getting confused in her mind, and that's most likely what happened. However, I also have to realize that my grandma wasn't beyond exaggerating, either. This is the same woman who told me she was "full blooded French" only to stammer and admit that she was 3/4ths French when I asked her how her grandmother had gotten the English name of Eliza Jane Yates? It seemed she had three French grandparents, and one very English Catholic. She is also the one who told me of another legend in our family about how her very English grandma had died during childbirth and was buried under a cedar tree with the baby on the "old home place." Several years into research, I discovered that wasn't exactly right, either. Her grandmother was actually buried in a Catholic cemetery, and that the people buried on the old home place were my grandmother's French great-grandparents and two great, great-uncles. That went over like a lead balloon, considering my uncle had erected a homemade tombstone on the old home place with the wrong names, based on this family "legend."
So, my point is, our ancestors are not beyond getting things wrong, mixed-up, confused, or even exaggerating just a bit. So, for the most part, I believe that our ancestors believed what they told us, but that doesn't mean they got it right. After all, if I hadn't discovered the above errors, I would have passed on these "legends" to my kids, none the wiser. So, when you're handed a "family legend" on your tree, you must treat it as just that. A legend. Until you prove it with documents. It's not always a popular stand to take, because people hold those family legends to heart and don't want to let go of them. I have a friend who started tracing her family tree just so she could find out the Indian name of her great-grandmother who was supposedly a "full-blooded Cherokee princess." She'd been told this her entire life. Several years later, all she'd found for six generations in any direction were Germans, one Irish line and more Germans. She never did find the Native American, and she expressed that she'd wished she'd never started the search, because then she'd still have the fantasy that she was descended from a Cherokee princess. And she's certainly not alone in this. I hear these types of stories all the time. So, like I said, those who hold onto these legends don't always take too well to having them squashed. Be honest, tell them what you've found, when asked. But don't defend yourself too much and let the subject go, if possible. It's not worth an all out family war. If any of their children decide to do the research, they'll find the same thing you did, anyway.
My grandma died before I found the obituary for her mother. I would have loved to have heard her answer for the discrepancy. These legends meant a lot to me, too. They were the stories I grew up on. (And many other legends I've been told, actually have turned out to be true!) So, I've documented the legend along with the truth. I've written in my family history scrapbook, the story of how Grandma told me her mom had died in 1905, and how and what the truth ended up being. Because, there was a part of me that just couldn't let my Grandma's story be lost to history.
Rett MacPherson
Oh boy, is this a sensitive topic.
Here's my stand on my ancestors. They are what they are and who they are, regardless. No matter if they were horse thieves or Kings (and sometimes both) I wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't be me, without them. So, I don't really give a flying fig if my ancestors were Irish, Jewish, Russian, or what have you. It doesn't matter to me. That's not to say that I don't have my favorites when it comes to my branches on my tree, because I do. Usually, though, my favorite branches are the ones that have the most information because they paint a clearer picturer of the people long gone. Not because of a specific race, religion, creed or occupation.
Even though I don't care what my ancestors origins were, doesn't mean that I don't require more than a certain color of eyes or the absence of a Christmas tree to prove my ancestors nationality or religion. If it can't be proven, then I don't put it in the family history. I might add a footnote saying something to the point of "it is rumored that Tom Jones was an Irish sea captain, but no proof has been found to this date." That way, the family legend still makes its way in, but it's not misrepresented as something that is documented or proven.
Here's the reason: For years my paternal grandmother told me that she was four years old when her mother died. Much ado had been made about the fact that she was orphaned so young. Her mother had a tragic death and an even more tragic life. My grandmother's father lived another fifty years, for all the good it did her, and she was bounced around with relatives, ultimately living with her father a few short years before trekking out on her own at the age of fifteen to work at the old Kenrick Seminary in St. Louis. So, if my Grandma was born in 1901 and her mom died when she was four . . . using my rudimentary math skills, I figured Great-Grandma died around 1905. As is typical in genealogy, I broadened my search to a year before and a year after the date in question. Great-grandma would have died before the mandatory death record year of 1910, between 1904 and 1906, and so I began searching for an obituary and a place of burial for those years. I could find neither. I even tried hunting down the old Mulanphy hospital records where she died, to no avail. I tried the Catholic records, no such luck. So for years I shelved this as one of my brick walls, because it never occurred to me to check for any other years, because I just couldn't believe that Grandma would have gotten it wrong. How could she? She was alive for the event!
Then, as luck would have it, somebody outside of our immediate family--but still a distant cousin--found an obituary record for my great-grandma. He'd been searching for other things and wouldn't you know it, since he didn't have that "family legend" to hinder his way of thinking, he found her obituary . . . for 1909. A full four years after she was supposed to have died. Making my grandmother a whopping 8 years old, instead of 4. Now, HOW does that happen? You'd think my grandma ought to know when her own mother died. Right? How could she get 4 and 8 mixed up? Some in the family thought the obituary was for a different woman. Not our ancestor. But luckily, my great-grandma had a very unusual name and her two daughters had even more unusual first names. The obituary was for the right woman. There was no question.
Now, I adored my grandma, but you have to wonder if she was fudging on the years of her story for a specific reason? Was she trying to get more attention or more sympathy out of saying she was "only four" when her mother died? Or maybe her mother had been very ill and she was taken from her when she was only four because her mother could no longer care for her. To a young child, I could see this getting confused in her mind, and that's most likely what happened. However, I also have to realize that my grandma wasn't beyond exaggerating, either. This is the same woman who told me she was "full blooded French" only to stammer and admit that she was 3/4ths French when I asked her how her grandmother had gotten the English name of Eliza Jane Yates? It seemed she had three French grandparents, and one very English Catholic. She is also the one who told me of another legend in our family about how her very English grandma had died during childbirth and was buried under a cedar tree with the baby on the "old home place." Several years into research, I discovered that wasn't exactly right, either. Her grandmother was actually buried in a Catholic cemetery, and that the people buried on the old home place were my grandmother's French great-grandparents and two great, great-uncles. That went over like a lead balloon, considering my uncle had erected a homemade tombstone on the old home place with the wrong names, based on this family "legend."
So, my point is, our ancestors are not beyond getting things wrong, mixed-up, confused, or even exaggerating just a bit. So, for the most part, I believe that our ancestors believed what they told us, but that doesn't mean they got it right. After all, if I hadn't discovered the above errors, I would have passed on these "legends" to my kids, none the wiser. So, when you're handed a "family legend" on your tree, you must treat it as just that. A legend. Until you prove it with documents. It's not always a popular stand to take, because people hold those family legends to heart and don't want to let go of them. I have a friend who started tracing her family tree just so she could find out the Indian name of her great-grandmother who was supposedly a "full-blooded Cherokee princess." She'd been told this her entire life. Several years later, all she'd found for six generations in any direction were Germans, one Irish line and more Germans. She never did find the Native American, and she expressed that she'd wished she'd never started the search, because then she'd still have the fantasy that she was descended from a Cherokee princess. And she's certainly not alone in this. I hear these types of stories all the time. So, like I said, those who hold onto these legends don't always take too well to having them squashed. Be honest, tell them what you've found, when asked. But don't defend yourself too much and let the subject go, if possible. It's not worth an all out family war. If any of their children decide to do the research, they'll find the same thing you did, anyway.
My grandma died before I found the obituary for her mother. I would have loved to have heard her answer for the discrepancy. These legends meant a lot to me, too. They were the stories I grew up on. (And many other legends I've been told, actually have turned out to be true!) So, I've documented the legend along with the truth. I've written in my family history scrapbook, the story of how Grandma told me her mom had died in 1905, and how and what the truth ended up being. Because, there was a part of me that just couldn't let my Grandma's story be lost to history.
Rett MacPherson
More on Pet Food
Okay, I know I blogged last week on pets and the Internet and included a bit about the pet food recall. But the subject seems to be getting even nastier, so here I am again.
I can only imagine how awful some of the owners whose cats and dogs were affected by the tainted food must feel. The company involved, Menu Foods, makes pet foods for a whole lot of well known companies, both established pet food brands and other foods that are branded specifically for the stores where the stuff is sold. The pet owners surely assumed they were doing the very best they could to feed their babies, and instead wound up poisoning them.
Yes, I know similar kinds of things have happened now and then to people because of tainted spinach and other produce served in fast food restaurants and homes. Of course that’s terrible, too. But to me it seems as bad where the poison is inadvertently served by pet owners to their dearest friends.
I’ve been following the story with interest, particularly when the FDA has apparently determined that there has been a relatively small number of deaths and illnesses caused by the recalled food, but veterinarians who belong to national professional organizations have reported much larger numbers.
Being a lawyer as well as a writer, I’ve also been interested to see that the lawsuits are starting. Of course I’m not a litigator like my mystery protagonist Kendra Ballantyne. Maybe she’ll run into a similar situation some day in one of her adventures. If so, I’m sure she’ll find out whodunit, and why. And maybe she’ll even handle the lawsuit.
Not that any genuine claimant is likely to get rich even if he wins a suit based on poisoned pet food. In the law, pets are considered property, not family. I don’t know if bereaved owners will be able to get substantial amounts of money for wrongful death and emotional distress, let alone punitive damages, but I suspect not. And even if they do, it won’t bring their best friends back.
So what do you feed your cats and dogs?
In case you’re interested (and I certainly was), I received this link from the PetSit USA newsletter, which I really appreciated. It’s a list of pet foods that have apparently not been affected by the recall:
http://petsitusa.com/blog/?p=210
It’s much easier to find the lists of recalled foods, but many brands have individual types of foods manufactured by different suppliers, and this list describes which use any of Menu Foods’ products and how they’re produced.
I’ve changed what I feed Lexie and her good friend Sparquie. No problem with their dry breakfasts, but instead of their canned dinners they now get a combo of dry food with a smaller amount of canned food--from one of the manufacturers shown on the list as not being produced by Menu Foods.
I have to applaud my local Petco, since they took back the canned food I had in inventory with a couple of the recalled brand names, even though none of it was the “gravy and chunks” kind that was supposedly all that was affected. The manager went with me to check out the canned food they were still selling and helped me read the labels, since my older pup Sparquie is on a low-salt diet and I needed to find something that would work best for her.
I doubt that Menu Foods set out to harm any of the creatures they’re attempting to feed. Why would they? Their economic losses now are horrible, and the bad PR could even put them out of business. I only hope they figure out what went wrong so they can ensure nothing like it ever happens again. Plus, I hope they go public with it so they can educate other manufacturers in a manner that will keep it from happening to them, too.
It’s a situation that benefits no one--least of all the poor, poisoned pets.
--Linda
I can only imagine how awful some of the owners whose cats and dogs were affected by the tainted food must feel. The company involved, Menu Foods, makes pet foods for a whole lot of well known companies, both established pet food brands and other foods that are branded specifically for the stores where the stuff is sold. The pet owners surely assumed they were doing the very best they could to feed their babies, and instead wound up poisoning them.
Yes, I know similar kinds of things have happened now and then to people because of tainted spinach and other produce served in fast food restaurants and homes. Of course that’s terrible, too. But to me it seems as bad where the poison is inadvertently served by pet owners to their dearest friends.
I’ve been following the story with interest, particularly when the FDA has apparently determined that there has been a relatively small number of deaths and illnesses caused by the recalled food, but veterinarians who belong to national professional organizations have reported much larger numbers.
Being a lawyer as well as a writer, I’ve also been interested to see that the lawsuits are starting. Of course I’m not a litigator like my mystery protagonist Kendra Ballantyne. Maybe she’ll run into a similar situation some day in one of her adventures. If so, I’m sure she’ll find out whodunit, and why. And maybe she’ll even handle the lawsuit.
Not that any genuine claimant is likely to get rich even if he wins a suit based on poisoned pet food. In the law, pets are considered property, not family. I don’t know if bereaved owners will be able to get substantial amounts of money for wrongful death and emotional distress, let alone punitive damages, but I suspect not. And even if they do, it won’t bring their best friends back.
So what do you feed your cats and dogs?
In case you’re interested (and I certainly was), I received this link from the PetSit USA newsletter, which I really appreciated. It’s a list of pet foods that have apparently not been affected by the recall:
http://petsitusa.com/blog/?p=210
It’s much easier to find the lists of recalled foods, but many brands have individual types of foods manufactured by different suppliers, and this list describes which use any of Menu Foods’ products and how they’re produced.
I’ve changed what I feed Lexie and her good friend Sparquie. No problem with their dry breakfasts, but instead of their canned dinners they now get a combo of dry food with a smaller amount of canned food--from one of the manufacturers shown on the list as not being produced by Menu Foods.
I have to applaud my local Petco, since they took back the canned food I had in inventory with a couple of the recalled brand names, even though none of it was the “gravy and chunks” kind that was supposedly all that was affected. The manager went with me to check out the canned food they were still selling and helped me read the labels, since my older pup Sparquie is on a low-salt diet and I needed to find something that would work best for her.
I doubt that Menu Foods set out to harm any of the creatures they’re attempting to feed. Why would they? Their economic losses now are horrible, and the bad PR could even put them out of business. I only hope they figure out what went wrong so they can ensure nothing like it ever happens again. Plus, I hope they go public with it so they can educate other manufacturers in a manner that will keep it from happening to them, too.
It’s a situation that benefits no one--least of all the poor, poisoned pets.
--Linda
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Florida
by Monica
The weather here is magnificent. I'm here for a flying visit to two nieces and to pick up their mom, my sister Dolores. My mother is now living with another sister, Therese, and Therese needs a break. Dolores is going to come and stay with Therese but wants her car. So she needs to drive from Ft. Meyers to Milwaukee. And I'm here to help with the drive. Plus I get two whole days in this glorious weather and beautiful beaches -- and Cuban food.
We went to a Cuban restaurant yesterday and I discovered the food isn't at all like Mexican. I think I'm in love! Would you belive Yucca? Fabulous! And they do something with strips of beef that is amazing, subtly spiced (not at all hot). One thing that's the same: when you say "lemon" what you get is lime. But limeade is delicious, too.
Yesterday, I didn't think about Chapter Four of Thai Die once. That -- not thinking about something I'm writing -- hasn't happened in a long time. Months and months. Maybe more than a year. Usually, the chapter or whatever is always, always there, if in the background. I hope it's a good thing, that now I'm all refreshed and see it in a new light. I haven't opened it to see where I left off. I'll do that later. Maybe after we get back from Sanibel Island and the bird sanctuary. I feel as if I'm playing hookey, and it feels kind of nice.
My niece Rachel is giving one of her cats to my niece Reggie, so we brought the cat, Miko, from one to the other yesterday evening. Ever traveled with a cat? They don't like it. Cars equal trips to the vet in most cats' minds, and Miko started telling us how distressed he was the minute the car door slammed. It's not far from Naples to Ft. Meyers, but Miko made it seem like a drive across Texas. At last I took him out of the cat carrier -- Dolores was driving -- and that shut him up for about ten minutes. Then he wanted to walk around. No, Miko. Could he help steer? Could he call out the (closed) window for a driver in the other car to rescue him? Could he get back in his box? (I was mistaken when I thought he wanted back in the box. Funny how wide and tall a small, thin, half-grown cat can be when you're trying to stuff him back in a cat box.) Oh, well, we survived it and he's walking around the lanai
Tomorrow, very early, we start the drive back. I hope it goes smoothly, because I have to be back in the Cities in time to give a presentation in Robbinsdale on how I got into writing needlework mysteries.
posted for Monica
The weather here is magnificent. I'm here for a flying visit to two nieces and to pick up their mom, my sister Dolores. My mother is now living with another sister, Therese, and Therese needs a break. Dolores is going to come and stay with Therese but wants her car. So she needs to drive from Ft. Meyers to Milwaukee. And I'm here to help with the drive. Plus I get two whole days in this glorious weather and beautiful beaches -- and Cuban food.
We went to a Cuban restaurant yesterday and I discovered the food isn't at all like Mexican. I think I'm in love! Would you belive Yucca? Fabulous! And they do something with strips of beef that is amazing, subtly spiced (not at all hot). One thing that's the same: when you say "lemon" what you get is lime. But limeade is delicious, too.
Yesterday, I didn't think about Chapter Four of Thai Die once. That -- not thinking about something I'm writing -- hasn't happened in a long time. Months and months. Maybe more than a year. Usually, the chapter or whatever is always, always there, if in the background. I hope it's a good thing, that now I'm all refreshed and see it in a new light. I haven't opened it to see where I left off. I'll do that later. Maybe after we get back from Sanibel Island and the bird sanctuary. I feel as if I'm playing hookey, and it feels kind of nice.
My niece Rachel is giving one of her cats to my niece Reggie, so we brought the cat, Miko, from one to the other yesterday evening. Ever traveled with a cat? They don't like it. Cars equal trips to the vet in most cats' minds, and Miko started telling us how distressed he was the minute the car door slammed. It's not far from Naples to Ft. Meyers, but Miko made it seem like a drive across Texas. At last I took him out of the cat carrier -- Dolores was driving -- and that shut him up for about ten minutes. Then he wanted to walk around. No, Miko. Could he help steer? Could he call out the (closed) window for a driver in the other car to rescue him? Could he get back in his box? (I was mistaken when I thought he wanted back in the box. Funny how wide and tall a small, thin, half-grown cat can be when you're trying to stuff him back in a cat box.) Oh, well, we survived it and he's walking around the lanai
Tomorrow, very early, we start the drive back. I hope it goes smoothly, because I have to be back in the Cities in time to give a presentation in Robbinsdale on how I got into writing needlework mysteries.
posted for Monica
Monday, March 26, 2007
Off Topic -Teenagers
The Tarts were discussing teenagers over on The Lipstick Chronicles and it got me thinking about my own situation. I’ve had kids in my house for thirty-one years. I never planned it that way. It just happened. One failed marriage before a successful one. My oldest son was twelve when I had another baby boy, then a girl.
When the last two kids were old enough to stay home along overnight, I was already in my fifties. But I could still do the jig. Yes! I was going to have a night alone with my husband in a condo in Fish Creek, Wisconsin. Three hours from the house, not too far, but not close enough for them to find us either.
No interruptions, no teenage boys showing up unexpectedly at the most…um …inconvenient times. No seventeen-year-old girls wandering into our bedroom to surprise us with plans to ‘borrow’ my stuff.
My husband and I begin by having a romantic dinner, a little wine, we go back to the condo and start filling our private Jacuzzi, light a few candles, drink more wine, dance another jig while disrobing.
Then the phone rings.
Don’t get it, my husband says.
It’s our daughter telling me she’s safely home, I reply, it’ll only be a minute.
Mom, she screams into the phone. Ohmygod! A deer ran right into the side of the car (BTW, she’s driving MY car). It was an enormous buck and it scared me and ohmygod.
Are you okay? Great. Everything’s going to be okay. Don’t cry. How much damage to the car? What do you mean, you don’t know. Compare it to fruit. Is it the size of a grape? An Orange?
No, she whimpers, more like a watermelon.
At this point, my husband turns off the water and slumps on the side of the tub. Then he just HAS to say what he’s thinking out loud. Why did you let her use your car? Like it’s my fault the deer plowed into the side of the car. The mood has definitely shifted.
Daughter calls back seven times that night, apologizing and crying and…probably just making sure we were still where we said we were. Because…
Next morning, we arrive home to find some of our things, well, in the most unusual places. Sofa pillow in the closet, plants rearranged on the window sill, floors in a surprisingly clean state.
Radar at full output, I take a little finger trip to My Space and visit my children’s pages. My son has posted a wonderful picture of a pyramid of beer cans surrounded by his glowing face and the rest of his cohorts.
THAT’S OUR WINDOW BEHIND THE CANS! My husband yells when he sees the picture.
Sure enough, the Baker’s house was partyville, all the little mice playing while the cats were away. Eleven lively teenagers had a rip roaring time. But they’ve learned responsible bad behavior. An oxymoron? Not at all, when coming from a teenage point of view. Here’s an example of responsible bad behavior.
Just so you know, my daughter says proudly, we didn’t let anybody drive home drunk. Everyone had to spend the night.
When the last two kids were old enough to stay home along overnight, I was already in my fifties. But I could still do the jig. Yes! I was going to have a night alone with my husband in a condo in Fish Creek, Wisconsin. Three hours from the house, not too far, but not close enough for them to find us either.
No interruptions, no teenage boys showing up unexpectedly at the most…um …inconvenient times. No seventeen-year-old girls wandering into our bedroom to surprise us with plans to ‘borrow’ my stuff.
My husband and I begin by having a romantic dinner, a little wine, we go back to the condo and start filling our private Jacuzzi, light a few candles, drink more wine, dance another jig while disrobing.
Then the phone rings.
Don’t get it, my husband says.
It’s our daughter telling me she’s safely home, I reply, it’ll only be a minute.
Mom, she screams into the phone. Ohmygod! A deer ran right into the side of the car (BTW, she’s driving MY car). It was an enormous buck and it scared me and ohmygod.
Are you okay? Great. Everything’s going to be okay. Don’t cry. How much damage to the car? What do you mean, you don’t know. Compare it to fruit. Is it the size of a grape? An Orange?
No, she whimpers, more like a watermelon.
At this point, my husband turns off the water and slumps on the side of the tub. Then he just HAS to say what he’s thinking out loud. Why did you let her use your car? Like it’s my fault the deer plowed into the side of the car. The mood has definitely shifted.
Daughter calls back seven times that night, apologizing and crying and…probably just making sure we were still where we said we were. Because…
Next morning, we arrive home to find some of our things, well, in the most unusual places. Sofa pillow in the closet, plants rearranged on the window sill, floors in a surprisingly clean state.
Radar at full output, I take a little finger trip to My Space and visit my children’s pages. My son has posted a wonderful picture of a pyramid of beer cans surrounded by his glowing face and the rest of his cohorts.
THAT’S OUR WINDOW BEHIND THE CANS! My husband yells when he sees the picture.
Sure enough, the Baker’s house was partyville, all the little mice playing while the cats were away. Eleven lively teenagers had a rip roaring time. But they’ve learned responsible bad behavior. An oxymoron? Not at all, when coming from a teenage point of view. Here’s an example of responsible bad behavior.
Just so you know, my daughter says proudly, we didn’t let anybody drive home drunk. Everyone had to spend the night.
Oh that’s really reassuring, considering her boyfriend was right in there with the rest of the revelers.
It’s been weeks, but I’m still traumatized.
I’m also counting down. One year, five months left before the last one, our precious baby daughter, leaves for college.
We’re changing the locks as soon as she’s gone.
It’s been weeks, but I’m still traumatized.
I’m also counting down. One year, five months left before the last one, our precious baby daughter, leaves for college.
We’re changing the locks as soon as she’s gone.
Vacation Journaling
Often when scrapbookers journal about their vacations, the commentary becomes lackluster. "We went to (fill in the blank). We did (such and such). We had a good time."
I suggest you consider a vacation for what it really is...a departure from ordinary life. With that in mind, you'll notice the little "things" that when added to your journaling and your photos will make your memories more vivid on the page.
Here's a thought: If you are flying, start by taking note of your traveling experience. Cheapflights.com released a survey of air travelers’ pet peeves. The most annoying behaviors are:
- Incessant Talker, chatters non-stop: 23 percent
- Rapid Recliner, wheels up, in your lap: 20 percent
- Arm Rest Hog, elbow wrestling, you lose: 12 percent
- Carry-on Champ, bashes bags left and right: 12 percent
- Seat Back Grabber, grabs your seat to get up: 11 percent
- Who Me?, yes, you; turn off your cell phone: 10 percent
- Flight DJ, iPod loud enough for all: 3 percent
- The Boozer, unscheduled landing anyone?: 3 percent
- Mad Bladder, quaff-n-go maniac: 1 percent
We left St. Louis yesterday for a Spring Break trip to Florida. I wondered if my husband, son and I would encounter any of these rude behaviors on the flight down.
Generally, I look forward to a flight as the chance to catch up on my reading. This time, I sat between my husband and son, so we were able to indulge in the sort of delightful catching up families do when they are "forced" to spend quality time without the distractions of television, phones and Internet.
More surprisingly, the interesting tidbit on THIS particular trip wasn't a rude traveler. It was the man who sat across the aisle from us. Let me describe him and see if you can guess his occupation...
He had jet-black hair, long in the back and rising high and tossed back over his forehead. A pair of long sideburns framed his high cheekbones. He wore lots of silver jewelry, necklaces and rings. His denim jacket and matching black jeans paired with a florid orchid shirt looked like a stage costume, especially when he turned around. The image of a man singing before a large audience was screen-printed on the back of the jacket. When the flight attendant served him a drink, he responded in a southern drawl and said, "Thank you. Thank you very much."
Okay, my description might not do him justice, but if you'd seen him, you'd have realized as fast as we did that either Elvis lives or we were sitting next to an Elvis impersonator!
Speaking of folks impersonating other people on planes, I had a male “friend” who used his flight-time to pull pranks. He’d exchange business cards with his in-flight neighbors, and on his NEXT flight, he’d introduce himself as the person on one of the business cards he’d just been handed.
It worked pretty well for a long time. He’d hand over the card and wait for the unsuspecting recipient to read it aloud. (We always read them aloud, don’t we?) Then he’d nod sagely and say, “Yes, I’m an architect.” Or, “Uh huh, I’m an investment banker.”
He swore it made traveling a lot more fun. And he was amazed at how gullible people are. But the party ended one day.
He was cruising at 37,000 feet and sitting next to a very, very pretty woman. He pulled a card from his pocket without looking.
“So.” She smiled at him after glancing at the business card. “You’re a gynecologist? Let me tell you about a problem I’ve been having….”
I suggest you consider a vacation for what it really is...a departure from ordinary life. With that in mind, you'll notice the little "things" that when added to your journaling and your photos will make your memories more vivid on the page.
Here's a thought: If you are flying, start by taking note of your traveling experience. Cheapflights.com released a survey of air travelers’ pet peeves. The most annoying behaviors are:
- Incessant Talker, chatters non-stop: 23 percent
- Rapid Recliner, wheels up, in your lap: 20 percent
- Arm Rest Hog, elbow wrestling, you lose: 12 percent
- Carry-on Champ, bashes bags left and right: 12 percent
- Seat Back Grabber, grabs your seat to get up: 11 percent
- Who Me?, yes, you; turn off your cell phone: 10 percent
- Flight DJ, iPod loud enough for all: 3 percent
- The Boozer, unscheduled landing anyone?: 3 percent
- Mad Bladder, quaff-n-go maniac: 1 percent
We left St. Louis yesterday for a Spring Break trip to Florida. I wondered if my husband, son and I would encounter any of these rude behaviors on the flight down.
Generally, I look forward to a flight as the chance to catch up on my reading. This time, I sat between my husband and son, so we were able to indulge in the sort of delightful catching up families do when they are "forced" to spend quality time without the distractions of television, phones and Internet.
More surprisingly, the interesting tidbit on THIS particular trip wasn't a rude traveler. It was the man who sat across the aisle from us. Let me describe him and see if you can guess his occupation...
He had jet-black hair, long in the back and rising high and tossed back over his forehead. A pair of long sideburns framed his high cheekbones. He wore lots of silver jewelry, necklaces and rings. His denim jacket and matching black jeans paired with a florid orchid shirt looked like a stage costume, especially when he turned around. The image of a man singing before a large audience was screen-printed on the back of the jacket. When the flight attendant served him a drink, he responded in a southern drawl and said, "Thank you. Thank you very much."
Okay, my description might not do him justice, but if you'd seen him, you'd have realized as fast as we did that either Elvis lives or we were sitting next to an Elvis impersonator!
Speaking of folks impersonating other people on planes, I had a male “friend” who used his flight-time to pull pranks. He’d exchange business cards with his in-flight neighbors, and on his NEXT flight, he’d introduce himself as the person on one of the business cards he’d just been handed.
It worked pretty well for a long time. He’d hand over the card and wait for the unsuspecting recipient to read it aloud. (We always read them aloud, don’t we?) Then he’d nod sagely and say, “Yes, I’m an architect.” Or, “Uh huh, I’m an investment banker.”
He swore it made traveling a lot more fun. And he was amazed at how gullible people are. But the party ended one day.
He was cruising at 37,000 feet and sitting next to a very, very pretty woman. He pulled a card from his pocket without looking.
“So.” She smiled at him after glancing at the business card. “You’re a gynecologist? Let me tell you about a problem I’ve been having….”
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Meet Honora and Susan
Honora Finkelstein and Susan Smily, co-authors of the Lovey Award-winning and Agatha-nominated first novel, The Chef Who Died Sautéing, love to do things their characters do in their mystery series.
Honora, who says psychic detective Ariel Quigley is her inner 32-year-old, reads Tarot cards, talks to ghosts, has precognitive dreams (which she and Susan analyze to pieces), and studies metaphysics.
Honora’s love affair with the paranormal began when she had her first out-of-body experience at the age of four—while learning to tie her shoes. The conversations with disembodied spirits aren’t something she necessarily seeks out, but often people do ask for assistance with pesky other-dimensional presences, so she sometimes taps into these energies to see what they want and clears them out of houses if that’s what’s called for. (For the past 14 years, Susan has been assisting with these parapsychological activities.)
Both Honora and Susan also study magic, especially that associated with Egyptian Hermeticism and Hebrew Kabbalah. Like Michelle Wise in the first novel, Susan actually built a Kabbalistic Tree of Life out of paving stones in the back yard.
Honora’s favorite avocation is reading Tarot cards. She bought her first deck of cards in 1960 (even before she was an official adult), from a very strange bookstore in New Orleans run by a little guy who kept lots of cats and had cat pictures everywhere. When she paid her money for the deck of cards, he said, “Be very careful with these!” It was a really woo-woo experience! As a consequence of that warning, she played with the cards and studied their meanings, but she never actually allowed herself to read them for anyone until years later.
However, even more woo-woo was the event in 1987 that spurred her to actually learn to read the cards. She was teaching a summer workshop to writers on symbolism, and she’d put on her teaching outline to discuss the way the life energy of the human spinal column is imaged in different cultures. But on the day of that class, she’d forgotten to bring any visuals. When she went to the notes she’d made on that subject, there was a reference to the Tarot card of the High Priestess, who supposedly sits in the Temple of Solomon, with a black pillar on one side and a white pillar on the other. The note said, “The black and white pillars represent the two forces of energy (known in Sanskrit as the ida and pingalla) that flow up and down the spine (called the shushuma).”
Honora had her Tarot cards with her, so she started going through the deck to find the High Priestess card, which she figured she could pass around in class to show at least one visual of a symbol for the life force. But while flipping through the deck, she started thinking, “I’m such a ditzy person, I’ll probably pass the card around and forget at the end of class to pick it up—and then I’ll be playing without a full deck! I wish I could show this card to people without risking losing it altogether.” As she said these words, she came to the card of the High Priestess—and when she picked it up, underneath it was a second High Priestess card! That’s the day she resolved to learn to read the cards for other people.
Susan is the prototype for the character of psychotherapist Bernice Wise in the novel series. As Susan puts it, “Bernice is my inner me.” Anyone who’s already read the book knows that Bernice wears cool ‘60s clothing (especially muu-muus) and Birkenstocks, as does Susan. And Bernice also loves to cook gourmet meals. There’s a quote, the origin of which we haven’t yet traced, that goes,
“If it’s got four legs, and it’s not a table;
If it swims and is not a submarine;
If it has wings and it’s not an aeroplane;
Then there’s a bloody good chance the Chinese will eat it.”
Well, the same might be said for Susan, who has tried, or is willing to try, most edible things on the planet, and who has probably also cooked the majority of them. (Though Susan helps Honora with metaphysical pursuits, Honora does not cook! Ever, if she can help it.)
Spring also does strange things to Susan, who suddenly feels 16 again and goes out to tackle the great outdoors, planting trees, flowers, and vegetables, laying brick pathways, and generally defying any physical limitations.
So far, neither Honora nor Susan has tried defying gravity, but who knows what the future will bring?
Honora Finkelstein and Susan Smily are the authors of the Ariel Quigley Mystery series and the accompanying Killer Cookbook series. Please visit them at www.arielquigleymysteries.com, and get on their mailing list.
Honora, who says psychic detective Ariel Quigley is her inner 32-year-old, reads Tarot cards, talks to ghosts, has precognitive dreams (which she and Susan analyze to pieces), and studies metaphysics.
Honora’s love affair with the paranormal began when she had her first out-of-body experience at the age of four—while learning to tie her shoes. The conversations with disembodied spirits aren’t something she necessarily seeks out, but often people do ask for assistance with pesky other-dimensional presences, so she sometimes taps into these energies to see what they want and clears them out of houses if that’s what’s called for. (For the past 14 years, Susan has been assisting with these parapsychological activities.)
Both Honora and Susan also study magic, especially that associated with Egyptian Hermeticism and Hebrew Kabbalah. Like Michelle Wise in the first novel, Susan actually built a Kabbalistic Tree of Life out of paving stones in the back yard.
Honora’s favorite avocation is reading Tarot cards. She bought her first deck of cards in 1960 (even before she was an official adult), from a very strange bookstore in New Orleans run by a little guy who kept lots of cats and had cat pictures everywhere. When she paid her money for the deck of cards, he said, “Be very careful with these!” It was a really woo-woo experience! As a consequence of that warning, she played with the cards and studied their meanings, but she never actually allowed herself to read them for anyone until years later.
However, even more woo-woo was the event in 1987 that spurred her to actually learn to read the cards. She was teaching a summer workshop to writers on symbolism, and she’d put on her teaching outline to discuss the way the life energy of the human spinal column is imaged in different cultures. But on the day of that class, she’d forgotten to bring any visuals. When she went to the notes she’d made on that subject, there was a reference to the Tarot card of the High Priestess, who supposedly sits in the Temple of Solomon, with a black pillar on one side and a white pillar on the other. The note said, “The black and white pillars represent the two forces of energy (known in Sanskrit as the ida and pingalla) that flow up and down the spine (called the shushuma).”
Honora had her Tarot cards with her, so she started going through the deck to find the High Priestess card, which she figured she could pass around in class to show at least one visual of a symbol for the life force. But while flipping through the deck, she started thinking, “I’m such a ditzy person, I’ll probably pass the card around and forget at the end of class to pick it up—and then I’ll be playing without a full deck! I wish I could show this card to people without risking losing it altogether.” As she said these words, she came to the card of the High Priestess—and when she picked it up, underneath it was a second High Priestess card! That’s the day she resolved to learn to read the cards for other people.
Susan is the prototype for the character of psychotherapist Bernice Wise in the novel series. As Susan puts it, “Bernice is my inner me.” Anyone who’s already read the book knows that Bernice wears cool ‘60s clothing (especially muu-muus) and Birkenstocks, as does Susan. And Bernice also loves to cook gourmet meals. There’s a quote, the origin of which we haven’t yet traced, that goes,
“If it’s got four legs, and it’s not a table;
If it swims and is not a submarine;
If it has wings and it’s not an aeroplane;
Then there’s a bloody good chance the Chinese will eat it.”
Well, the same might be said for Susan, who has tried, or is willing to try, most edible things on the planet, and who has probably also cooked the majority of them. (Though Susan helps Honora with metaphysical pursuits, Honora does not cook! Ever, if she can help it.)
Spring also does strange things to Susan, who suddenly feels 16 again and goes out to tackle the great outdoors, planting trees, flowers, and vegetables, laying brick pathways, and generally defying any physical limitations.
So far, neither Honora nor Susan has tried defying gravity, but who knows what the future will bring?
Honora Finkelstein and Susan Smily are the authors of the Ariel Quigley Mystery series and the accompanying Killer Cookbook series. Please visit them at www.arielquigleymysteries.com, and get on their mailing list.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Pets and the Internet
There’s a whole world of info available on lots of topics on the Internet, and a huge amount of it involves pets.
Like what? Well, veterinary information, for one thing. My Lexie had a bump on her back. I took her to her vet and had it tested, and fortunately the results were negative for the horribles they looked for. She has an allergy to bee stings, so on vet’s advice I gave her a low dose of Benadryl in case the bump was caused by a bug bite. It went down but didn’t go away, so, worried, I went on line and Googled “dog back lump.” And found a whole bunch of information! It included articles that vets had written that described some of the bad stuff lumps could signify, but that there were also a number of benign reasons. Lexie’s lump is still there but it’s a lot smaller, so I’m starting to worry less.
Then there is that awful pet food scare. I heard it on the news but also checked it out on line. Sure enough, the brands of canned food I buy for my two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels were on the long list that I printed out--not necessarily the lot numbers or even the varieties they eat, but it was enough information for me to return the cans I had to my local pet store and find something else to feed them.
The Internet helped there, too--or would have, if I’d chosen to cook for my Cavaliers. There are pet food recipes that are easily accessible, too. I did cook for my first Cavalier, Panda, when he was diagnosed with a heart problem (all too common in Cavaliers). This was before you could buy specialized diets for dogs at a vet’s, so I had to make up a salt-free combo of chicken and rice for him. I cooked up large batches, then packed them into plastic bags and froze them.
I’m also a member of an Internet loop for Cavalier aficionados. As with most loops I’m on, I’m a champion lurker, but I have lots of fun reading as people extol the virtues of this wonderful breed. They answer questions of people who are considering buying a Cavalier but require more info. And, sometimes, others offer information about illnesses or solace on a loss. That part’s not fun, but it is kind.
There is a lot of information about dog breeders on line, too. And about lost dogs. Dogs to rescue, and the organizations who’ve taken them in. It’s hard sometimes to look at those sites and the adorable photos of the poor lost souls who need a new home. I’d love to take them all in--particularly the Cavalier babies. I sent an e-mail recently to the Cavalier rescue organization about a couple of Cavaliers I saw on-line that needed a new home. I was tempted but didn’t think the idea would work well with my pups--and they have to take priority, of course.
I’m on a daily e-mailed newsletter list for dog aficionados. The articles are sometimes interesting, and the purpose of the newsletter is more to sell pet-related items and insurance than simply informing and educating. Even so, I haven’t yet opted out. I’m always interested in hearing more about pet products.
And most especially, the Internet is ideal for researching stuff on some of the pets featured in my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter, mysteries. Of course I always want to meet some of the creatures face-to-face to get my own take on their appearances and personalities. And I talk with some owners for their perspectives, too. But for general background information, I love the Internet. It saves huge amounts of time I otherwise might need to spend in libraries or otherwise.
Finally, what else is there about the Internet that’s related to pets and fun? This blog!
--Linda
Like what? Well, veterinary information, for one thing. My Lexie had a bump on her back. I took her to her vet and had it tested, and fortunately the results were negative for the horribles they looked for. She has an allergy to bee stings, so on vet’s advice I gave her a low dose of Benadryl in case the bump was caused by a bug bite. It went down but didn’t go away, so, worried, I went on line and Googled “dog back lump.” And found a whole bunch of information! It included articles that vets had written that described some of the bad stuff lumps could signify, but that there were also a number of benign reasons. Lexie’s lump is still there but it’s a lot smaller, so I’m starting to worry less.
Then there is that awful pet food scare. I heard it on the news but also checked it out on line. Sure enough, the brands of canned food I buy for my two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels were on the long list that I printed out--not necessarily the lot numbers or even the varieties they eat, but it was enough information for me to return the cans I had to my local pet store and find something else to feed them.
The Internet helped there, too--or would have, if I’d chosen to cook for my Cavaliers. There are pet food recipes that are easily accessible, too. I did cook for my first Cavalier, Panda, when he was diagnosed with a heart problem (all too common in Cavaliers). This was before you could buy specialized diets for dogs at a vet’s, so I had to make up a salt-free combo of chicken and rice for him. I cooked up large batches, then packed them into plastic bags and froze them.
I’m also a member of an Internet loop for Cavalier aficionados. As with most loops I’m on, I’m a champion lurker, but I have lots of fun reading as people extol the virtues of this wonderful breed. They answer questions of people who are considering buying a Cavalier but require more info. And, sometimes, others offer information about illnesses or solace on a loss. That part’s not fun, but it is kind.
There is a lot of information about dog breeders on line, too. And about lost dogs. Dogs to rescue, and the organizations who’ve taken them in. It’s hard sometimes to look at those sites and the adorable photos of the poor lost souls who need a new home. I’d love to take them all in--particularly the Cavalier babies. I sent an e-mail recently to the Cavalier rescue organization about a couple of Cavaliers I saw on-line that needed a new home. I was tempted but didn’t think the idea would work well with my pups--and they have to take priority, of course.
I’m on a daily e-mailed newsletter list for dog aficionados. The articles are sometimes interesting, and the purpose of the newsletter is more to sell pet-related items and insurance than simply informing and educating. Even so, I haven’t yet opted out. I’m always interested in hearing more about pet products.
And most especially, the Internet is ideal for researching stuff on some of the pets featured in my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter, mysteries. Of course I always want to meet some of the creatures face-to-face to get my own take on their appearances and personalities. And I talk with some owners for their perspectives, too. But for general background information, I love the Internet. It saves huge amounts of time I otherwise might need to spend in libraries or otherwise.
Finally, what else is there about the Internet that’s related to pets and fun? This blog!
--Linda
That Darn Cat - Again
Continuing the "Weird Cat" chronicles: Saturday I went to a local yarn shop and fell in love with a big skein of overdyed merino wool yarn. It's soft, and it's gently colored red, blue, yellow, green, and brown. It makes me think of an old circus poster. I bought the skein, and two solid-color balls (I'm thinking of knitting a scarf of mitered squares). That evening, with the help of a friend, I wound the skein into a ball. You've seen it done, if you haven't done it yourself: The friend puts two hands through the skein while you pull the yarn off and wrap it around your fingers to start. I put the ball back into the plastic bag it came in (with the two other balls) and went to bed. Sunday morning I came into my office to boot up my computer – and found the beautiful overdyed ball in the cats' water bowl, which is a goldfish bowl. The wool was saturated with water (and possibly a little cat spit, too). Another ball was partially unwound all over the office floor. The third ball had escaped to hide behind a door and so was intact.
I know it wasn't an accident that the ball went into the water bowl because some months back, Snaps would take the balled-up socks out of my shoes and drop them into the water bowl, too. (I lay out my clothes on the night before I head out for a very early morning session of water aerobics.) About the time I began to learn not to put the socks where he could get them, he quit doing it.
I suppose I should be grateful he doesn't drop them into the toilet.
I unwound the ball to drape the yarn over a towel rack to dry, and it seems none the worse for the experience. But that darn cat!
I'm doing some research for my next book. I love doing research. I learn so many interesting things, and often an interview will translate into a scene in the book. Once in awhile I'll gain a new aspect that will re-write the whole plot. Right now I'm looking into Buddhist reliquaries; that is, objects containing a sacred fragment of the Buddha's body or something he used, such as a garment or scroll. Yesterday I learned that every single relic of the Buddha is fake, because it never occurred to Buddhists to take an interest in relics until the Buddha had been dead for hundreds of years – and he was cremated, besides. Still, since he lived six hundred years before Christ, some of these reliquaries are very, very old. The Minneapolis Institute of Arts has a large Asian section, and it has a Buddhist reliquary about nine or ten inches high. No indication of what it contained – or contains. It looks something like an elaborate hand bell. I am thinking my reliquary contains a scrap of cloth purported to be from the Buddha's robe. I spoke with a woman at a different museum who told me what the fragment might look like. So it was a fruitful day.
I will have a marvelous give-away for the book signing for Thai Die: Thai silk floss! This is a unique product, because Thai silk manufacturers don't sell Thai silk except as fabric. But a friend who has a business in Thailand persuaded a silk factory to set aside a spool of silk thread for sale to me. I have to buy the whole spool, two kilos of it which, when you consider the extraordinarily light weight of silk is an enormous amount. I don't know yet what color it will be, but I've already talked to Denise Williams, who designs the counted cross stitch patterns for the back of my books, and she is excited to design a pattern that will use a yard or less of this silk. Then I will give away that amount of Thai silk thread at book signings. Of course, the pattern will work just fine if the stitcher uses ordinary floss, too. But this is looking well down the road. The book won't come out till late 2008, probably. If I can get it written.
I know it wasn't an accident that the ball went into the water bowl because some months back, Snaps would take the balled-up socks out of my shoes and drop them into the water bowl, too. (I lay out my clothes on the night before I head out for a very early morning session of water aerobics.) About the time I began to learn not to put the socks where he could get them, he quit doing it.
I suppose I should be grateful he doesn't drop them into the toilet.
I unwound the ball to drape the yarn over a towel rack to dry, and it seems none the worse for the experience. But that darn cat!
I'm doing some research for my next book. I love doing research. I learn so many interesting things, and often an interview will translate into a scene in the book. Once in awhile I'll gain a new aspect that will re-write the whole plot. Right now I'm looking into Buddhist reliquaries; that is, objects containing a sacred fragment of the Buddha's body or something he used, such as a garment or scroll. Yesterday I learned that every single relic of the Buddha is fake, because it never occurred to Buddhists to take an interest in relics until the Buddha had been dead for hundreds of years – and he was cremated, besides. Still, since he lived six hundred years before Christ, some of these reliquaries are very, very old. The Minneapolis Institute of Arts has a large Asian section, and it has a Buddhist reliquary about nine or ten inches high. No indication of what it contained – or contains. It looks something like an elaborate hand bell. I am thinking my reliquary contains a scrap of cloth purported to be from the Buddha's robe. I spoke with a woman at a different museum who told me what the fragment might look like. So it was a fruitful day.
I will have a marvelous give-away for the book signing for Thai Die: Thai silk floss! This is a unique product, because Thai silk manufacturers don't sell Thai silk except as fabric. But a friend who has a business in Thailand persuaded a silk factory to set aside a spool of silk thread for sale to me. I have to buy the whole spool, two kilos of it which, when you consider the extraordinarily light weight of silk is an enormous amount. I don't know yet what color it will be, but I've already talked to Denise Williams, who designs the counted cross stitch patterns for the back of my books, and she is excited to design a pattern that will use a yard or less of this silk. Then I will give away that amount of Thai silk thread at book signings. Of course, the pattern will work just fine if the stitcher uses ordinary floss, too. But this is looking well down the road. The book won't come out till late 2008, probably. If I can get it written.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Precious Pooches
In my Dolls to Die For series, Gretchen Birch has a purse dog, a tiny black teacup poodle named Nimrod. No, this isn’t a picture of Nimrod. This manly beast is modeling Doogles, those popular shades that every hip dog yearns to own. These goggles, I mean doogles, are shatterproof, flexible, have anti-fog lenses, foam padding for face comfort, and feature an extra wide nose bridge for maximum comfort.
The last time I visited Phoenix to do research for my doll collecting series, I went to the Biltmore Fashion Park specifically to see Three Dog Bakery. The store welcomes canine customers and carries everything you need to accessorize, clothe, and feed your precious pet, including freshly baked, healthy treats made from whole grains, peanut butter, honey, tomatoes. The best selling snack, the one the dogs all love—doggie ice cream. On Thursdays the store features Yappy Hour.
I missed Yappy Hour, but the inside of the store as well as the outer courtyard of the Fashion Park were teaming with two-legged and four-legged browsers on that late sunny morning, all ages, all sizes, from Great Danes to Chihuahuas.
What are the hottest fashions this season? Bling bling collars (those shiny, sparkling jeweled ones), polo shirts, shoes, and bomber jackets. Shoes? You bet. Your pooch can select from a variety of canvas sneakers, hiker books, ballerina shoes, and fleece-lined muttluks.
The Biltmore Fashion Park is an upscale shopping mall, the customers are well-‘heeled’ (the humans, I mean). So I was amazed to discover how well-behaved all the doggy visitors were. My border collie would have been ‘marking’ his territory in every corner of the shop. He would have been greedily snatching treats away from other dogs. He would have been testing the toys before buying them.
He would have exposed himself and me as the Midwestern, small town hicks we really are. I’m glad he wasn’t along. I bought him some treats though. Vanilla Woofers and SnickerPoodles.
To comment on my post, click on “comment” on the “Posted by” line below.
The last time I visited Phoenix to do research for my doll collecting series, I went to the Biltmore Fashion Park specifically to see Three Dog Bakery. The store welcomes canine customers and carries everything you need to accessorize, clothe, and feed your precious pet, including freshly baked, healthy treats made from whole grains, peanut butter, honey, tomatoes. The best selling snack, the one the dogs all love—doggie ice cream. On Thursdays the store features Yappy Hour.
I missed Yappy Hour, but the inside of the store as well as the outer courtyard of the Fashion Park were teaming with two-legged and four-legged browsers on that late sunny morning, all ages, all sizes, from Great Danes to Chihuahuas.
What are the hottest fashions this season? Bling bling collars (those shiny, sparkling jeweled ones), polo shirts, shoes, and bomber jackets. Shoes? You bet. Your pooch can select from a variety of canvas sneakers, hiker books, ballerina shoes, and fleece-lined muttluks.
The Biltmore Fashion Park is an upscale shopping mall, the customers are well-‘heeled’ (the humans, I mean). So I was amazed to discover how well-behaved all the doggy visitors were. My border collie would have been ‘marking’ his territory in every corner of the shop. He would have been greedily snatching treats away from other dogs. He would have been testing the toys before buying them.
He would have exposed himself and me as the Midwestern, small town hicks we really are. I’m glad he wasn’t along. I bought him some treats though. Vanilla Woofers and SnickerPoodles.
To comment on my post, click on “comment” on the “Posted by” line below.
Deb Baker
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Canine Cops
Like the diligent little scrapbooker I am, last night I carried my camera to our Sisters in Crime meeting. The program was Canine Cops, featuring Officer Pete St. James and his two partners, Bo and Lucy.
I love scrapbooking animals, and I knew I'd enjoy meeting Pete's dogs. Since I'm in charge of our local SinC programs, my first concern was getting Pete and the dogs into the library where we hold our meetings. There's a strict NO Pets policy. I'd called ahead, but you never know, right?
Pete put me at ease. "Ma'am, I wear a uniform, I carry a gun, and I have a ninety-pound German Shepherd with me. I NEVER have a problem getting into a place."
Yeah, right. I should have figured THAT one out for myself.
Pete quickly explained how his job works, "I'm not a police officer. I'm a dog driver. And if these guys could drive, I'd be out of a job! I take Lucy and Bo from point A to point B, and they do the work!"
Bo is a big, full-bred German Shepherd originally from Czechoslavakia. That's where many law enforcement agencies buy their dogs. Evidently, in our zeal to have docile pets, we've bred a lot of the aggressiveness out of German Shepherds in the US. For police work, the dogs need to be more "driven." Before the dogs can come to the US, they receive scent and obedience training in Czechoslavakia. Consequently, Bo knows Czech--and Pete uses that language as well as English in giving commands.
Lucy is much smaller. She's an anomaly among police dogs because of her "origins." A local German Shepherd rescue group called the St. Louis Police Department and suggested she'd be good at police work. They noticed her intense nature and her "prey sense." Pete explained that when training dogs for this kind of work, the handlers build on a dog's natural desire to chase and track down prey.
Lucy's a love, really. After getting Pete's permission beforehand, I came armed with a plastic bag full of dog treats. Lucy ate one gently from my fingers and sat and stared at me, begging for more. As Pete talked, the dangerous situations the dogs face became more vivid. Bo is trained to sniff out bombs. He also acts as Pete's partner just as a human would by protecting Pete against aggressors. Lucy's not trained for "bite work," but in searching out human remains, she may travel over treacherous terrain.
Quickly, we were all struck by the magnitude of the dogs' potential sacrifices for the sake of law enforcement. Finally one of our group found the courage to ask, "What if you are asked to put your dogs in harm's way? Do you? Would you?"
"We have no kamikaze dogs. I am solely responsible for the dogs' safety and welfare 24-hours a day," Pete explained. He has respectfully declined to send the dogs into situations that would put them in danger. Part of his rational is their value to the police department--they are expensive and valuable "equipment."
Another reason is that while Pete is their handler, they officially belong to St. Louis Chief of Police, Joe Mokwa, a dog-lover who backs Pete up in his decisions.
Last but not least, it's obvious Pete loves his charges. He can't say that the dogs have saved his life, but he can swear they've taken beatings in his stead and kept him out of the emergency room.
I came home thoughtful. I've known and loved many pets in my life. Losing them has been some of the worst pain I've ever felt. But what if my life depended on them? How much harder would it be to see them hurt? Or in danger? How difficult would it be to make decisions that could cost them their lives?
You can meet Pete and his canine partners. They've been invited to make a presentation at Sisters in Crime's Forensic University, Nov. 1-4, 2007 :
http://www.sistersincrime.org/ForensicU
or for updated information about programs & faculty, go to :
http://forustl.blogspot.com/
I love scrapbooking animals, and I knew I'd enjoy meeting Pete's dogs. Since I'm in charge of our local SinC programs, my first concern was getting Pete and the dogs into the library where we hold our meetings. There's a strict NO Pets policy. I'd called ahead, but you never know, right?
Pete put me at ease. "Ma'am, I wear a uniform, I carry a gun, and I have a ninety-pound German Shepherd with me. I NEVER have a problem getting into a place."
Yeah, right. I should have figured THAT one out for myself.
Pete quickly explained how his job works, "I'm not a police officer. I'm a dog driver. And if these guys could drive, I'd be out of a job! I take Lucy and Bo from point A to point B, and they do the work!"
Bo is a big, full-bred German Shepherd originally from Czechoslavakia. That's where many law enforcement agencies buy their dogs. Evidently, in our zeal to have docile pets, we've bred a lot of the aggressiveness out of German Shepherds in the US. For police work, the dogs need to be more "driven." Before the dogs can come to the US, they receive scent and obedience training in Czechoslavakia. Consequently, Bo knows Czech--and Pete uses that language as well as English in giving commands.
Lucy is much smaller. She's an anomaly among police dogs because of her "origins." A local German Shepherd rescue group called the St. Louis Police Department and suggested she'd be good at police work. They noticed her intense nature and her "prey sense." Pete explained that when training dogs for this kind of work, the handlers build on a dog's natural desire to chase and track down prey.
Lucy's a love, really. After getting Pete's permission beforehand, I came armed with a plastic bag full of dog treats. Lucy ate one gently from my fingers and sat and stared at me, begging for more. As Pete talked, the dangerous situations the dogs face became more vivid. Bo is trained to sniff out bombs. He also acts as Pete's partner just as a human would by protecting Pete against aggressors. Lucy's not trained for "bite work," but in searching out human remains, she may travel over treacherous terrain.
Quickly, we were all struck by the magnitude of the dogs' potential sacrifices for the sake of law enforcement. Finally one of our group found the courage to ask, "What if you are asked to put your dogs in harm's way? Do you? Would you?"
"We have no kamikaze dogs. I am solely responsible for the dogs' safety and welfare 24-hours a day," Pete explained. He has respectfully declined to send the dogs into situations that would put them in danger. Part of his rational is their value to the police department--they are expensive and valuable "equipment."
Another reason is that while Pete is their handler, they officially belong to St. Louis Chief of Police, Joe Mokwa, a dog-lover who backs Pete up in his decisions.
Last but not least, it's obvious Pete loves his charges. He can't say that the dogs have saved his life, but he can swear they've taken beatings in his stead and kept him out of the emergency room.
I came home thoughtful. I've known and loved many pets in my life. Losing them has been some of the worst pain I've ever felt. But what if my life depended on them? How much harder would it be to see them hurt? Or in danger? How difficult would it be to make decisions that could cost them their lives?
You can meet Pete and his canine partners. They've been invited to make a presentation at Sisters in Crime's Forensic University, Nov. 1-4, 2007 :
http://www.sistersincrime.org/ForensicU
or for updated information about programs & faculty, go to :
http://forustl.blogspot.com/
Friday, March 16, 2007
Meet Evelyn David
What's a 13-letter word for puzzle lover?
How about mystery author?
Sure it's two words and the answer probably wouldn't satisfy Will Shortz, the reigning puzzle king. But it goes a long way to explain how our hobby, solving all kinds of puzzles (word, number, jigsaw), spurred us to create our mystery, Murder Off the Books.
We're Evelyn David - the writing duo of Marian Edelman Borden and Rhonda Dossett. Our debut mystery, Murder Off the Books, is a modern cozy with a story to keep you guessing, characters you'll love, humor to make you laugh out loud, a touch of romance, and an adorable and adored Irish Wolfhound.
Our lead characters, Mac Sullivan, a retired DC cop turned private detective, and Rachel Brenner, makeup artist to the recently departed, don't meet because of their hobbies. Mac is investigating the murder of a college comptroller and Rachel's brother is the number one suspect. But it's our hobby that led us to create our most challenging puzzle of all.
We delight in that seesaw of emotions that puzzle lovers get when first confronted with an overabundance of unrelated pieces. It begins with gnawing doubt. Can you possibly fill in all the blanks in the crossword puzzle; find the right combination of numbers to complete the sudoku; unravel the secret code of the cryptogram; organize hundreds of uneven-shaped cardboard pieces to reveal a beautiful picture? Slowly, but surely, you begin to piece together the clues, stumped occasionally by the letter, number, piece that doesn't fit no matter how you turn it or try to force it into the slot. You begin to see the outlines of the solution, but maybe confront another deadend or wrong turn. And then suddenly! Bingo! Somehow all the pieces fall into place.
Plotting a mystery is a similar process. First you make sure you have all the pieces (characters, plot, suspects, victims). You take a good long look at the big picture on the outside of the box (Where will you begin? How will you tackle the project? What will the end result look like?) Then you line up the straight edges (rough in the location, characters, framework for the mystery). And then the real work starts…fitting it all together.
Our first draft of Murder Off the Books was 168,000 words. It had too many pieces for the cozy mystery framework we had chosen. The frame bulged at the sides, the picture was fuzzy, and the project was unwieldy. We sorted the pieces again (altered the plot), eliminated pieces that were duplicates or unnecessary (removed characters and events), and reduced our word count by about 30,000. The end result was better, but still overstuffed. Instead of moving things around again, searching for a different way to make things fit, we realized that, to continue the metaphor, we actually had some pieces that didn't belong in this particular puzzle. So we trimmed scenes, sharpened dialogue, and put the pieces that didn't fit aside, to include in the next book where they belonged. The finished puzzle, Murder Off the Books, fit so tightly together that no editor or publisher was going to find any plot holes or mistakes. A mystery was born.
We solved our puzzle. And the satisfaction was enormous. But then, of course if you're a puzzle lover, you understand that feeling of triumph!
So, what's a six letter word for "what's next"?
Sequel.
How about mystery author?
Sure it's two words and the answer probably wouldn't satisfy Will Shortz, the reigning puzzle king. But it goes a long way to explain how our hobby, solving all kinds of puzzles (word, number, jigsaw), spurred us to create our mystery, Murder Off the Books.
We're Evelyn David - the writing duo of Marian Edelman Borden and Rhonda Dossett. Our debut mystery, Murder Off the Books, is a modern cozy with a story to keep you guessing, characters you'll love, humor to make you laugh out loud, a touch of romance, and an adorable and adored Irish Wolfhound.
Our lead characters, Mac Sullivan, a retired DC cop turned private detective, and Rachel Brenner, makeup artist to the recently departed, don't meet because of their hobbies. Mac is investigating the murder of a college comptroller and Rachel's brother is the number one suspect. But it's our hobby that led us to create our most challenging puzzle of all.
We delight in that seesaw of emotions that puzzle lovers get when first confronted with an overabundance of unrelated pieces. It begins with gnawing doubt. Can you possibly fill in all the blanks in the crossword puzzle; find the right combination of numbers to complete the sudoku; unravel the secret code of the cryptogram; organize hundreds of uneven-shaped cardboard pieces to reveal a beautiful picture? Slowly, but surely, you begin to piece together the clues, stumped occasionally by the letter, number, piece that doesn't fit no matter how you turn it or try to force it into the slot. You begin to see the outlines of the solution, but maybe confront another deadend or wrong turn. And then suddenly! Bingo! Somehow all the pieces fall into place.
Plotting a mystery is a similar process. First you make sure you have all the pieces (characters, plot, suspects, victims). You take a good long look at the big picture on the outside of the box (Where will you begin? How will you tackle the project? What will the end result look like?) Then you line up the straight edges (rough in the location, characters, framework for the mystery). And then the real work starts…fitting it all together.
Our first draft of Murder Off the Books was 168,000 words. It had too many pieces for the cozy mystery framework we had chosen. The frame bulged at the sides, the picture was fuzzy, and the project was unwieldy. We sorted the pieces again (altered the plot), eliminated pieces that were duplicates or unnecessary (removed characters and events), and reduced our word count by about 30,000. The end result was better, but still overstuffed. Instead of moving things around again, searching for a different way to make things fit, we realized that, to continue the metaphor, we actually had some pieces that didn't belong in this particular puzzle. So we trimmed scenes, sharpened dialogue, and put the pieces that didn't fit aside, to include in the next book where they belonged. The finished puzzle, Murder Off the Books, fit so tightly together that no editor or publisher was going to find any plot holes or mistakes. A mystery was born.
We solved our puzzle. And the satisfaction was enormous. But then, of course if you're a puzzle lover, you understand that feeling of triumph!
So, what's a six letter word for "what's next"?
Sequel.
Don't Give Up
Good morning!
I know I've blogged about brickwalls and about how sometimes you just have to face the fact that you may never discover the next generation back.
But that doesn't mean that you give up. Every now and then I still get out all of my information and type the names in Google or Genforum. And everytime I go to the library I still check out the names on my "brick wall" list. And especially, if you're visiting a specific location that your ancestors lived that you've never been to before, definitely take your research a long and make a side trip to the courthouse!
Because, here's what happened to me. When I first started researching my family tree, I did what every good little beginner genealogist does (or at least back then before the internet). I contacted the courthouse for the county in which my ancestor lived. My great-grandfather was born, raised and assumably died all in the same county in West Virginia. So, I mailed off for his marriage record to my great-grandmother and got a reply that no such record existed. I requested from this very same county, several more records, got the same reply and finally just wrote an open letter to the county saying that I was most certain these records had to be there, was I maybe spelling the name wrong? I never got a reply to that letter. So, I thought that maybe my ancestors had crossed the county line for whatever reason and began bombarding the surrounding counties with these same requests for these same records (always use a self-addressed stamped envelope) and got the exact same reply: No such records. I spent hours and hours, not to mention money, searching at least seven surrounding counties to no avail. I was beginning to think my ancestors never existed at all. Let me tell you, that's frustrating.
So a few years later, I took a trip to West Virginia with my grandmother to visit a cousin of hers, do some sightseeing, and of course--some genealogy. The first thing I did was head straight for the ORIGINAL county in question. My grandmother felt certain her parents were married there, so I headed to the courthouse.
What happened next delighted me, but angered me all the same. When I got to the courthouse not only did I find my great-grandparents marriage record, plain as day, for the exact month and year that I'd told them. I also found my great-grandfather's divorce records from his first wife, his parents' (my great, great-grandparents) marriage record and my great-great grandfather's last will and testament. In addition to that were scores of his siblings records. For about twenty minutes I was walking on cloud nine!
Then I thought about it. If these records had been there all along, what happened to all those requests I'd sent asking for these very records? I came up with all sorts of conspiracies and realized that either the clerk at the time had been new at her job and had no idea where to even look for the records I'd asked for, or they just blew me off. A request came in from another pesky genealogist and they didn't even bother to look for it. I can't come up with any other explanation for records that were obviously there!
So, the moral to the story is, don't give up. If I'd gone to West Virginia and not even tried that courthouse, I would have never found these records. And honestly, there was no reason for me to even go to that courthouse, since supposedly the records had been checked and they weren't there. So, if I hadn't had the attitude of "I'll just check for myself" I would have never found them.
In addition to this, there are all sorts of other reasons to check the records yourself. A good example is a last name that starts with a vowel. Like Erwin. It could be spelled Irwin or even Arwin. If you list a specific name of say, Tom Erwin, chances are they won't check under the I's or A's for this person, whereas, you most likely would. A researcher also has the time to check records for more than the standard "three year" span, that most clerks will check for. Obviously, they don't have the time to spend all day searching the records for something that's off by ten years and spelled wrong! But you do.
Believe me when I say, I scoured EVERY courthouse within ten counties for records on that trip, just in case anybody else had missed something. :-)
Have a lovely day, happy reading and happy researching!
Rett MacPherson
I know I've blogged about brickwalls and about how sometimes you just have to face the fact that you may never discover the next generation back.
But that doesn't mean that you give up. Every now and then I still get out all of my information and type the names in Google or Genforum. And everytime I go to the library I still check out the names on my "brick wall" list. And especially, if you're visiting a specific location that your ancestors lived that you've never been to before, definitely take your research a long and make a side trip to the courthouse!
Because, here's what happened to me. When I first started researching my family tree, I did what every good little beginner genealogist does (or at least back then before the internet). I contacted the courthouse for the county in which my ancestor lived. My great-grandfather was born, raised and assumably died all in the same county in West Virginia. So, I mailed off for his marriage record to my great-grandmother and got a reply that no such record existed. I requested from this very same county, several more records, got the same reply and finally just wrote an open letter to the county saying that I was most certain these records had to be there, was I maybe spelling the name wrong? I never got a reply to that letter. So, I thought that maybe my ancestors had crossed the county line for whatever reason and began bombarding the surrounding counties with these same requests for these same records (always use a self-addressed stamped envelope) and got the exact same reply: No such records. I spent hours and hours, not to mention money, searching at least seven surrounding counties to no avail. I was beginning to think my ancestors never existed at all. Let me tell you, that's frustrating.
So a few years later, I took a trip to West Virginia with my grandmother to visit a cousin of hers, do some sightseeing, and of course--some genealogy. The first thing I did was head straight for the ORIGINAL county in question. My grandmother felt certain her parents were married there, so I headed to the courthouse.
What happened next delighted me, but angered me all the same. When I got to the courthouse not only did I find my great-grandparents marriage record, plain as day, for the exact month and year that I'd told them. I also found my great-grandfather's divorce records from his first wife, his parents' (my great, great-grandparents) marriage record and my great-great grandfather's last will and testament. In addition to that were scores of his siblings records. For about twenty minutes I was walking on cloud nine!
Then I thought about it. If these records had been there all along, what happened to all those requests I'd sent asking for these very records? I came up with all sorts of conspiracies and realized that either the clerk at the time had been new at her job and had no idea where to even look for the records I'd asked for, or they just blew me off. A request came in from another pesky genealogist and they didn't even bother to look for it. I can't come up with any other explanation for records that were obviously there!
So, the moral to the story is, don't give up. If I'd gone to West Virginia and not even tried that courthouse, I would have never found these records. And honestly, there was no reason for me to even go to that courthouse, since supposedly the records had been checked and they weren't there. So, if I hadn't had the attitude of "I'll just check for myself" I would have never found them.
In addition to this, there are all sorts of other reasons to check the records yourself. A good example is a last name that starts with a vowel. Like Erwin. It could be spelled Irwin or even Arwin. If you list a specific name of say, Tom Erwin, chances are they won't check under the I's or A's for this person, whereas, you most likely would. A researcher also has the time to check records for more than the standard "three year" span, that most clerks will check for. Obviously, they don't have the time to spend all day searching the records for something that's off by ten years and spelled wrong! But you do.
Believe me when I say, I scoured EVERY courthouse within ten counties for records on that trip, just in case anybody else had missed something. :-)
Have a lovely day, happy reading and happy researching!
Rett MacPherson
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Blog and Cat Show
More cats? Why not? Even though Monica blogged yesterday about cats and murder, that was my plan, too, though from a different perspective, since this mystery author’s basic blog topic is pets.
Why cats this week? Well, not long ago, I visited my first cat show, and I enjoyed it. Consequently, it’s been on my mind.
I’ve been to dog shows before, mostly those held by the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Club USA. And I’ve of course watched some of the major dog shows on television--at least parts of them--such as the Westminster show.
So why a cat show? Well, I wanted to let people there know about my latest Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mystery: MEOW IS FOR MURDER. Plus, I was curious. How do cat shows work?
With dog shows, the pups are trained to strut their stuff. Accompany their handlers around the ring and stand still as their best traits are examined by the judges. Cats, though, are so much more independent. Would they do as directed and preen for the judges?
Sure--on their own terms, sort of. They remained in enclosures while being observed--and observing the judges, too. If they felt like, they reached for toys dangled in front of them. They showed off. They preened. They probably laughed behind their pretty paws about how the silly humans vied for their attention.
Cat breeds are diverse, although their sizes don’t seem to vary nearly as much as, say, the differences between dogs--chihuahuas and St. Bernards, for example. Some cats are slender and short haired. Others are larger and fluffier. Some have short noses, others long. Many are beautiful, or elegant, or cute, especially the kittens.
But one thing I saw that didn’t differ between dog shows and cat shows is the pride their owners have in their beautiful babies. The love between person and pet.
I had some concerns, though, about how the cats felt about their confinement, when I suspect they’re used to dominating their home domains. I didn’t have the opportunity to ask any of them, but hope they tolerated it out of enjoyment of the competition and humoring the people who thought they owned them.
So what is the purpose of such competitions, whether cat, canine or other pet? They’re celebrations. Excuses for people with similar interests to get together and discuss their babies and show them off. Hopefully, they’re fun, or at least tolerable, to those babies, too.
The kitties who star in MEOW IS FOR MURDER are beautiful Bengal cats. There weren’t any at the show I attended, since Bengals aren’t always a recognized breed, even though they are becoming popular. I’ve never asked Kendra Ballantyne to attend a pet show in her mystery stories. I’m sure that, if she went to one, mayhem would result, since she’s such a murder magnet.
In any event, while I was considering what to blog about this week, I received an invitation to attend a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel show not far from my home in a couple of months. Will I drop in? You bet!
--Linda
Why cats this week? Well, not long ago, I visited my first cat show, and I enjoyed it. Consequently, it’s been on my mind.
I’ve been to dog shows before, mostly those held by the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Club USA. And I’ve of course watched some of the major dog shows on television--at least parts of them--such as the Westminster show.
So why a cat show? Well, I wanted to let people there know about my latest Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mystery: MEOW IS FOR MURDER. Plus, I was curious. How do cat shows work?
With dog shows, the pups are trained to strut their stuff. Accompany their handlers around the ring and stand still as their best traits are examined by the judges. Cats, though, are so much more independent. Would they do as directed and preen for the judges?
Sure--on their own terms, sort of. They remained in enclosures while being observed--and observing the judges, too. If they felt like, they reached for toys dangled in front of them. They showed off. They preened. They probably laughed behind their pretty paws about how the silly humans vied for their attention.
Cat breeds are diverse, although their sizes don’t seem to vary nearly as much as, say, the differences between dogs--chihuahuas and St. Bernards, for example. Some cats are slender and short haired. Others are larger and fluffier. Some have short noses, others long. Many are beautiful, or elegant, or cute, especially the kittens.
But one thing I saw that didn’t differ between dog shows and cat shows is the pride their owners have in their beautiful babies. The love between person and pet.
I had some concerns, though, about how the cats felt about their confinement, when I suspect they’re used to dominating their home domains. I didn’t have the opportunity to ask any of them, but hope they tolerated it out of enjoyment of the competition and humoring the people who thought they owned them.
So what is the purpose of such competitions, whether cat, canine or other pet? They’re celebrations. Excuses for people with similar interests to get together and discuss their babies and show them off. Hopefully, they’re fun, or at least tolerable, to those babies, too.
The kitties who star in MEOW IS FOR MURDER are beautiful Bengal cats. There weren’t any at the show I attended, since Bengals aren’t always a recognized breed, even though they are becoming popular. I’ve never asked Kendra Ballantyne to attend a pet show in her mystery stories. I’m sure that, if she went to one, mayhem would result, since she’s such a murder magnet.
In any event, while I was considering what to blog about this week, I received an invitation to attend a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel show not far from my home in a couple of months. Will I drop in? You bet!
--Linda
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
THOUGHTS ON MURDER AND CATS
THOUGHTS ABOUT NICENESS AND MURDER:
You know, looking back at the entries on this log, I'm struck by something: the sweet innocence of our hobbies. Doll collecting, scrapbooking, knitting – not a Civil War Re-enactor or gun collector in the bunch! So it further strikes me that no one thinks it odd that such a group of sweethearts could take pleasure in murder. Nasty people, murderers. Watch Court TV for a week for a glimpse. What a bunch of cold-hearted, greedy, posturing, self-centered people – and that's just the attorneys!
So why do we nice ladies write about murderers? For the contrast, maybe? Could be. There's hardly any two things more unalike than a middle-aged woman sitting at a table glueing photographs into an album and a housewife in the kitchen stirring arsenic into a pot of soup. Wait a minute, better contrast: a woman sewing a tiny evening gown for a Barbie doll and a woman filing a sharper point on a steel knitting needle. No, wait!
Never mind.
I think what we're interested in is the evil that lurks in all of us. The sweetest child in the world erupts with rage when someone takes his favorite toy from him; the nicest woman on the block may think black thoughts about her husband if she finds out he's having an affair with a woman she thought was a good friend. Very, very few of these angry people act on the anger beyond a verbal explosion or two. But I have a friend who knows a great deal about poisons. She points out that the ratio of men to women in prison for murder is singularly lopsided; well over ninety-five percent are male. "We're not that different," she says of her sex. Whereas a furious man will grab a club or gun or knife, a woman will go into her kitchen and cook. "Here," she'll say to her husband. "I made your favorite dessert. No, no, I can't have any, I'm on a diet. You eat it all up." Now who do you think is more likely to get arrested? That man with blood on his clothes and his wife dead at his feet (a surprising number, on cooling down a bit, will call the police on themselves), or the woman all in tears at the sudden, unexpected death of her husband (and who keeps her satisfied smirk for her bed, at night, with the lights off)? There are some problems with poison, of course. One is, not everyone dies. People who compile the ugly statistics consider a "lethal dose" the one at which half the imbibers die. That means the other half don't, and I imagine they might look with suspicion at any dessert offered them again. Another is, getting hold of the stuff. In the old days, you could buy a couple packets of fly paper and soak the sticky coating off to get the arsenic embedded in it. It's had to find poisonous flypaper nowadays. Of course, a surprising number of house and garden plants are poisonous – though the process of looking up which and in what doses can leave a trail for investigators to follow later. A third is, if it works, the temptation to do it again is strong. Many a female poisoner is caught only while working on her sixth, or twelfth, or two dozenth victim, and then only because two things combine: her prospective victim has an amazing capacity for arsenic and the hospital has a nurse who wonders why every time the guy's wife brings a special treat to him he gets sicker.
THOUGHTS ABOUT CATS:
Cat owners are less inclined than dog owners to think the animals we live with appreciate the same things we do, and in much the same way. Still, we like to think our cats do love us, if they are less slobbery about it, and understand our joys and sorrows. But once in awhile the animal will do something that shows us they have a different view of the world. For example, my orange cat Snaps (don't blame me, he came with that name) has suddenly decided he wants me to carry him up the stairs. He is a young, energetic, slim fellow, but he just dotes on being carried. He'll get in front of me as soon as I start up, then rear onto his hind legs and reach for my chin with his forepaws (he's an amazingly long cat). If I brush him aside, he'll go up a couple more steps and repeat the reaching motion. If I pick him up, he'll purr loudly and roll around in my arms, often kissing me on the chin to show how happy he is for the ride. He refuses to get down along the way, but hops off nicely at the top. Is it a game? A power play? Most cats, on being lifted and carried up or down stairs, will object strenuously and try to get away. But not this cat, he dotes on it. I have a feeling that if I could figure out what that's about, I'd have broken through a feline-human barrier of understanding.
SPEAKING OF CATS: Got the cover art for Knitting Bones – and it's beautiful! It features Sophie the cat (who was once our pet and now lives with Betsy). Go to my web site, monica-ferris.com, in a couple of days for a look.
You know, looking back at the entries on this log, I'm struck by something: the sweet innocence of our hobbies. Doll collecting, scrapbooking, knitting – not a Civil War Re-enactor or gun collector in the bunch! So it further strikes me that no one thinks it odd that such a group of sweethearts could take pleasure in murder. Nasty people, murderers. Watch Court TV for a week for a glimpse. What a bunch of cold-hearted, greedy, posturing, self-centered people – and that's just the attorneys!
So why do we nice ladies write about murderers? For the contrast, maybe? Could be. There's hardly any two things more unalike than a middle-aged woman sitting at a table glueing photographs into an album and a housewife in the kitchen stirring arsenic into a pot of soup. Wait a minute, better contrast: a woman sewing a tiny evening gown for a Barbie doll and a woman filing a sharper point on a steel knitting needle. No, wait!
Never mind.
I think what we're interested in is the evil that lurks in all of us. The sweetest child in the world erupts with rage when someone takes his favorite toy from him; the nicest woman on the block may think black thoughts about her husband if she finds out he's having an affair with a woman she thought was a good friend. Very, very few of these angry people act on the anger beyond a verbal explosion or two. But I have a friend who knows a great deal about poisons. She points out that the ratio of men to women in prison for murder is singularly lopsided; well over ninety-five percent are male. "We're not that different," she says of her sex. Whereas a furious man will grab a club or gun or knife, a woman will go into her kitchen and cook. "Here," she'll say to her husband. "I made your favorite dessert. No, no, I can't have any, I'm on a diet. You eat it all up." Now who do you think is more likely to get arrested? That man with blood on his clothes and his wife dead at his feet (a surprising number, on cooling down a bit, will call the police on themselves), or the woman all in tears at the sudden, unexpected death of her husband (and who keeps her satisfied smirk for her bed, at night, with the lights off)? There are some problems with poison, of course. One is, not everyone dies. People who compile the ugly statistics consider a "lethal dose" the one at which half the imbibers die. That means the other half don't, and I imagine they might look with suspicion at any dessert offered them again. Another is, getting hold of the stuff. In the old days, you could buy a couple packets of fly paper and soak the sticky coating off to get the arsenic embedded in it. It's had to find poisonous flypaper nowadays. Of course, a surprising number of house and garden plants are poisonous – though the process of looking up which and in what doses can leave a trail for investigators to follow later. A third is, if it works, the temptation to do it again is strong. Many a female poisoner is caught only while working on her sixth, or twelfth, or two dozenth victim, and then only because two things combine: her prospective victim has an amazing capacity for arsenic and the hospital has a nurse who wonders why every time the guy's wife brings a special treat to him he gets sicker.
THOUGHTS ABOUT CATS:
Cat owners are less inclined than dog owners to think the animals we live with appreciate the same things we do, and in much the same way. Still, we like to think our cats do love us, if they are less slobbery about it, and understand our joys and sorrows. But once in awhile the animal will do something that shows us they have a different view of the world. For example, my orange cat Snaps (don't blame me, he came with that name) has suddenly decided he wants me to carry him up the stairs. He is a young, energetic, slim fellow, but he just dotes on being carried. He'll get in front of me as soon as I start up, then rear onto his hind legs and reach for my chin with his forepaws (he's an amazingly long cat). If I brush him aside, he'll go up a couple more steps and repeat the reaching motion. If I pick him up, he'll purr loudly and roll around in my arms, often kissing me on the chin to show how happy he is for the ride. He refuses to get down along the way, but hops off nicely at the top. Is it a game? A power play? Most cats, on being lifted and carried up or down stairs, will object strenuously and try to get away. But not this cat, he dotes on it. I have a feeling that if I could figure out what that's about, I'd have broken through a feline-human barrier of understanding.
SPEAKING OF CATS: Got the cover art for Knitting Bones – and it's beautiful! It features Sophie the cat (who was once our pet and now lives with Betsy). Go to my web site, monica-ferris.com, in a couple of days for a look.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Those Oh So Fashionable Ginny Dolls
In the beginning, Jennie Graves called her little Massachusetts shop YE OLDE VOGUE DOLL SHOP. She started out as a doll clothes designer, but when she discovered dolls in department store windows wearing the clothes she had designed and carrying hefty sales prices, she decided to do something about it.
In 1951, she created the Ginny doll, named after her daughter Virginia. The first one had painted eyes and a mohair wig. A “Vogue Doll” inscription marked the back of her head, and she sported a ‘Hi! I’m Ginny” wrist tag.
By the mid 50s, Ginny was so popular that one in four little girls living in the United States had one.
By then, the tiny doll shop had grown into VOGUE DOLLS. Mrs. Graves used over 100 home sewers to make Ginny’s outfits, paying them by the piece. Cut out clothing articles with snaps, hooks, and eyes already assembled were sent out in boxes to the sewers, who used treadle machines to make Ginny’s beautiful wardrobes.
Not every eight inch plastic doll from the 1950s is a Ginny. She had many copies. The real Ginny must say “Ginny” or “Vogue” someplace on her body.
Ginny is featured in my next Dolls To Die For mystery, when Gretchen Birch bids on a box of originals and gets more than she bargained for. Go to my home page for a sneak peak at the cover of Goodbye Dolly, coming in September, and tell me what you think.
www.debbakerbooks.com
In 1951, she created the Ginny doll, named after her daughter Virginia. The first one had painted eyes and a mohair wig. A “Vogue Doll” inscription marked the back of her head, and she sported a ‘Hi! I’m Ginny” wrist tag.
By the mid 50s, Ginny was so popular that one in four little girls living in the United States had one.
By then, the tiny doll shop had grown into VOGUE DOLLS. Mrs. Graves used over 100 home sewers to make Ginny’s outfits, paying them by the piece. Cut out clothing articles with snaps, hooks, and eyes already assembled were sent out in boxes to the sewers, who used treadle machines to make Ginny’s beautiful wardrobes.
Not every eight inch plastic doll from the 1950s is a Ginny. She had many copies. The real Ginny must say “Ginny” or “Vogue” someplace on her body.
Ginny is featured in my next Dolls To Die For mystery, when Gretchen Birch bids on a box of originals and gets more than she bargained for. Go to my home page for a sneak peak at the cover of Goodbye Dolly, coming in September, and tell me what you think.
www.debbakerbooks.com
Note: to comment on my post, click on 'comments' on the 'posted by' line.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Size Does NOT Matter
So...I was happy making a page the other day when I found myself stressing out because I was using two 4 x 6 inch photos.
See, most of the magazines lately are showing these oversized photos as the focal points on pages.
And I started to feel bummed. Right in the middle of working on the page! Up until then, I was enjoying the colors, the textures, and the theme. But this crummy feeling crept up on me, and I thought, "Really, Joanna, you are just not cutting edge anymore. How pathetic."
(Do you talk to yourself like that? I do. Sad, eh? Mainly it happens when I'm tired, and I've been tired lately. Funny...I wouldn't let anyone ELSE talk to me like that.)
A day later, I received my February/March issue of Scrapbooks etc. Magazine. Inside was an entire article on getting creative with 4 x 6 inch prints. And a few days later ScrapBook Inspirations, my favorite UK magazine, arrived and it showed a page sketch built around 4 x 6's and a gatefold album solely of 4 x 6's.
Here's my point: Everything old is new again.
Here's my other point: This hobby is a particularly trend-driven one. And if I stress over that, I ruin it for myself.
And here's my third point (because 3 is such a good number): Guilt and creativity do NOT go together.
So, I'm going to get back to making pages, and I'm not going to care about the size of my photos. At least, not until the next attack of the ucky comparisons.
See, most of the magazines lately are showing these oversized photos as the focal points on pages.
And I started to feel bummed. Right in the middle of working on the page! Up until then, I was enjoying the colors, the textures, and the theme. But this crummy feeling crept up on me, and I thought, "Really, Joanna, you are just not cutting edge anymore. How pathetic."
(Do you talk to yourself like that? I do. Sad, eh? Mainly it happens when I'm tired, and I've been tired lately. Funny...I wouldn't let anyone ELSE talk to me like that.)
A day later, I received my February/March issue of Scrapbooks etc. Magazine. Inside was an entire article on getting creative with 4 x 6 inch prints. And a few days later ScrapBook Inspirations, my favorite UK magazine, arrived and it showed a page sketch built around 4 x 6's and a gatefold album solely of 4 x 6's.
Here's my point: Everything old is new again.
Here's my other point: This hobby is a particularly trend-driven one. And if I stress over that, I ruin it for myself.
And here's my third point (because 3 is such a good number): Guilt and creativity do NOT go together.
So, I'm going to get back to making pages, and I'm not going to care about the size of my photos. At least, not until the next attack of the ucky comparisons.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Meet Mary Ellen Hughes
Hi everyone,
I’m delighted to have been invited to guest blog on the killer hobbies blogspot.
For those who may not be familiar with my Craft Corner series (which may cover most of you, since the first book, Wreath of Deception, only debuted last September), the series features Jo McAllister who has opened up a brand new arts and crafts shop in a small town in southern Maryland. Jo’s artist husband was killed in an accident a few months before, and Jo, who designs and makes jewelry, needs to have a more reliable source of income. Hence the craft shop.
Since Jo would be teaching various arts and crafts in the books, I needed to do significant research into several crafts in order to write about them intelligently. What fun that was! I had done a certain amount of crafting over the years, some of it only in a “dabbling” way, some more serious. But so many new crafts have been developed and grown so popular that I needed major re-educating.
I signed up for classes in wreath making for the first book, and ended up with a gorgeous Christmas wreath to hang on my wall. But for the wreath that is depicted on the cover (and directions for which appear at the back of the book) I went to a real pro – a florist whose shop is nearby and who let me watch as she designed the wreath. It was fascinating, watching her creative abilities go to work. I knew for a fact at that point (if I’d ever doubted it) that my major talents lay in writing about crafts, and, though I might be able to follow step-by-step directions, I would never be able to design an original piece on my own. I was so grateful to Julie Black, my florist friend, for sharing her expertise with me.
I also sat in on a few sessions of a stamping club and was amazed at the beautiful cards this group was making. The same with scrapbooking. Plus I watched how the women at these groups interacted, and tried to work some of that into the workshops in my book.
For the second book in the Craft Corner series, String of Lies, (which will be out next September) I focused on beading and went through similar steps in learning what I needed for the book: signing up for beading classes, making a few pieces for myself, then going to the real expert for a craft project to be included in the book.
During these processes I met some really terrific people, had a wonderful time, and thought how nice it would be to have more time to spend doing arts and crafts. That’s my catch-22. Through the research necessary for writing the books, I came across things that I’d almost rather be doing than to actually sit down and write the book. Almost.
My first love will always be writing. The crafts are important to my books, but I love creating the people who are doing the crafts, who are interacting with each other, growing and developing, and, of course, solving mysteries. So I’m probably not in any real danger of turning off my computer and turning to the glue gun or needlenose pliers, tempting though that may be. But I’ve certainly enriched my life through the writing of this new series. And if I ever run out of plot ideas, or just need to take a break from murder and mayhem, I’ll always have something intriguing and challenging to turn to.
That is, I will as long as I have step-by-step directions in front of me.
Visit Mary Ellen at www.maryellenhughes.com
I’m delighted to have been invited to guest blog on the killer hobbies blogspot.
For those who may not be familiar with my Craft Corner series (which may cover most of you, since the first book, Wreath of Deception, only debuted last September), the series features Jo McAllister who has opened up a brand new arts and crafts shop in a small town in southern Maryland. Jo’s artist husband was killed in an accident a few months before, and Jo, who designs and makes jewelry, needs to have a more reliable source of income. Hence the craft shop.
Since Jo would be teaching various arts and crafts in the books, I needed to do significant research into several crafts in order to write about them intelligently. What fun that was! I had done a certain amount of crafting over the years, some of it only in a “dabbling” way, some more serious. But so many new crafts have been developed and grown so popular that I needed major re-educating.
I signed up for classes in wreath making for the first book, and ended up with a gorgeous Christmas wreath to hang on my wall. But for the wreath that is depicted on the cover (and directions for which appear at the back of the book) I went to a real pro – a florist whose shop is nearby and who let me watch as she designed the wreath. It was fascinating, watching her creative abilities go to work. I knew for a fact at that point (if I’d ever doubted it) that my major talents lay in writing about crafts, and, though I might be able to follow step-by-step directions, I would never be able to design an original piece on my own. I was so grateful to Julie Black, my florist friend, for sharing her expertise with me.
I also sat in on a few sessions of a stamping club and was amazed at the beautiful cards this group was making. The same with scrapbooking. Plus I watched how the women at these groups interacted, and tried to work some of that into the workshops in my book.
For the second book in the Craft Corner series, String of Lies, (which will be out next September) I focused on beading and went through similar steps in learning what I needed for the book: signing up for beading classes, making a few pieces for myself, then going to the real expert for a craft project to be included in the book.
During these processes I met some really terrific people, had a wonderful time, and thought how nice it would be to have more time to spend doing arts and crafts. That’s my catch-22. Through the research necessary for writing the books, I came across things that I’d almost rather be doing than to actually sit down and write the book. Almost.
My first love will always be writing. The crafts are important to my books, but I love creating the people who are doing the crafts, who are interacting with each other, growing and developing, and, of course, solving mysteries. So I’m probably not in any real danger of turning off my computer and turning to the glue gun or needlenose pliers, tempting though that may be. But I’ve certainly enriched my life through the writing of this new series. And if I ever run out of plot ideas, or just need to take a break from murder and mayhem, I’ll always have something intriguing and challenging to turn to.
That is, I will as long as I have step-by-step directions in front of me.
Visit Mary Ellen at www.maryellenhughes.com
Friday, March 9, 2007
Coming Forward To Go Back
Hey Everybody!
I've never met a genealogist yet, who has not encountered at least one brick wall on their family tree. In fact, if you're an ordinary genealogist like me, you probably have several. Brick walls are caused by all sorts of things like courthouse fires, ancestors being born too early to appear in the 1850 census with their parents. (I really hate that one.) Or even a traveling preacher who, on his way back to the courthouse, fell into a river and lost all of the records of marriages he'd just performed.
At any rate, I have at least four or five brick walls that I can think of right now, but one in particular was fairly interesting because of the way it was solved.
I have ancestor who was born in the late 1790's in North Carolina, near where Chimney Rock is. Absolutely gorgeous country. Anyway, I can find no record of her marriage to her husband, who, evidently owned a fairly large farm in the area. Around 1832 they moved west and settled in Illinois where they had the rest of their children. She then died in the 1850's. Her husband then re-married. So, all I managed to learn in the beginning was the approximate date of her birth and the fact that it was in North Carolina, and her first name, based off of the 1850 census. That was it, my one and only record of her, except for the slash mark that she represents in the 1830 and 1840 censuses, is the 1850 Census. She died before her husband, which meant that his will speaks of his second wife, not his first, he's buried with the second wife, not the first, and her younger children have no clear recollection of her. I checked land records to see if her name appears with her husband, and it doesn't, and I rechecked the marriage records for North Carolina for every county and there is no marriage record! It probably floated down river!
I headed to Illinois and walked through every cemetery I could find in the entire county and not only did I not find her burial record or tombstone, but I couldn't find one for her husband and the second wife, either. Eventually, several years later, some brave soul compiled all of the cemetery record for that county on-line. Apparently, there were numerous cemeteries that were considerably off the beaten path, that I hadn't found and low and behold, there she was in the records! Buried by herself. I thought this was an extremely lucky discovery, since tombstones from the 1850's, especially off in the woods, are quite difficult to find or read! But there she was, proof that the woman did exist, with her date of death and a date of birth, but still no maiden name. But, at least she was there!
So, next came the obvious. I started checking all of the death records for her children. Sometimes you get lucky and the "informant" on the death record actually knows the names of the deceased's parents. (It is important to remember though, that if the daughter or son or even grandchild of the deceased is the informant on the death record, a good percentage of the time you will get wrong information. Because the offspring doesn't always know the full correct name of their grandparents. I saw one death record that had the deceased's mother listed simply as: Mama. Sometimes you just get initials! And a lot of times you only get the first name of the mother or her married name. You don't always get the maiden name of the mother from a death record. When the full maiden name of the female ancestor from a death record does appear, you can usually hear me give a big victory cry and then a little dance to go with it.)
Tracking down her children was not so easy, aside from the one I was descended from. Girls get married and die under new names. At the turn of the twentieth century people were to still scattering, so many of her children had moved west or died before the mandatory death certificate date. A few of them that I did manage to track down, however, listed my ancestor's married name, which I already knew, or not at all on their death records.
The thing that FINALLY solved the question of the maiden name of this ancestor was an obituary. Not hers, but her son's. Nearly seventy or eighty years after she had died, her son passed on as well, and his third wife (sing her praises) not only knew the full name of his mother, the woman she'd never met, but thought to list it in her husband's obituary! (I had not been able to find his death record because I had no idea where or when he'd died. The obituary had been "compiled" from newspapers on-line and all it took to find it was to type in his name!)
It's funny how when you learn the maiden name of one of your female ancestors how they suddenly become more real to you (at least they do to me) because a surname can tell you a lot about them. If you discover your ancestors maiden name was MacLeod, then you know they probably came from Scotland. That tells you so much, right there. Or Chappuis (French), or Feinstein (Jewish) or Grumbacher (German) and on and on. When you learn the maiden name of your ancestor it's almost like a watercolor in your mind takes shape, and you can "see" her more clearly and get a feel for what she brought to the marriage. It's also funny how once you discover the maiden name, suddenly you start remembering how you've seen that name before, in conjunction with that family. Maybe they were neighbors, or attended the same church.
At any rate when people tell me that they've come to grinding halt on a particular ancestor, I remember this adventure and I suggest to them, "Have you tried coming forward?" A lot of times they already have, but sometimes they get this odd expression on their face and I say, "Try coming forward with your research to go back." You might get rewarded with a maiden name!
Hope everybody has a great week!
Rett MacPherson
I've never met a genealogist yet, who has not encountered at least one brick wall on their family tree. In fact, if you're an ordinary genealogist like me, you probably have several. Brick walls are caused by all sorts of things like courthouse fires, ancestors being born too early to appear in the 1850 census with their parents. (I really hate that one.) Or even a traveling preacher who, on his way back to the courthouse, fell into a river and lost all of the records of marriages he'd just performed.
At any rate, I have at least four or five brick walls that I can think of right now, but one in particular was fairly interesting because of the way it was solved.
I have ancestor who was born in the late 1790's in North Carolina, near where Chimney Rock is. Absolutely gorgeous country. Anyway, I can find no record of her marriage to her husband, who, evidently owned a fairly large farm in the area. Around 1832 they moved west and settled in Illinois where they had the rest of their children. She then died in the 1850's. Her husband then re-married. So, all I managed to learn in the beginning was the approximate date of her birth and the fact that it was in North Carolina, and her first name, based off of the 1850 census. That was it, my one and only record of her, except for the slash mark that she represents in the 1830 and 1840 censuses, is the 1850 Census. She died before her husband, which meant that his will speaks of his second wife, not his first, he's buried with the second wife, not the first, and her younger children have no clear recollection of her. I checked land records to see if her name appears with her husband, and it doesn't, and I rechecked the marriage records for North Carolina for every county and there is no marriage record! It probably floated down river!
I headed to Illinois and walked through every cemetery I could find in the entire county and not only did I not find her burial record or tombstone, but I couldn't find one for her husband and the second wife, either. Eventually, several years later, some brave soul compiled all of the cemetery record for that county on-line. Apparently, there were numerous cemeteries that were considerably off the beaten path, that I hadn't found and low and behold, there she was in the records! Buried by herself. I thought this was an extremely lucky discovery, since tombstones from the 1850's, especially off in the woods, are quite difficult to find or read! But there she was, proof that the woman did exist, with her date of death and a date of birth, but still no maiden name. But, at least she was there!
So, next came the obvious. I started checking all of the death records for her children. Sometimes you get lucky and the "informant" on the death record actually knows the names of the deceased's parents. (It is important to remember though, that if the daughter or son or even grandchild of the deceased is the informant on the death record, a good percentage of the time you will get wrong information. Because the offspring doesn't always know the full correct name of their grandparents. I saw one death record that had the deceased's mother listed simply as: Mama. Sometimes you just get initials! And a lot of times you only get the first name of the mother or her married name. You don't always get the maiden name of the mother from a death record. When the full maiden name of the female ancestor from a death record does appear, you can usually hear me give a big victory cry and then a little dance to go with it.)
Tracking down her children was not so easy, aside from the one I was descended from. Girls get married and die under new names. At the turn of the twentieth century people were to still scattering, so many of her children had moved west or died before the mandatory death certificate date. A few of them that I did manage to track down, however, listed my ancestor's married name, which I already knew, or not at all on their death records.
The thing that FINALLY solved the question of the maiden name of this ancestor was an obituary. Not hers, but her son's. Nearly seventy or eighty years after she had died, her son passed on as well, and his third wife (sing her praises) not only knew the full name of his mother, the woman she'd never met, but thought to list it in her husband's obituary! (I had not been able to find his death record because I had no idea where or when he'd died. The obituary had been "compiled" from newspapers on-line and all it took to find it was to type in his name!)
It's funny how when you learn the maiden name of one of your female ancestors how they suddenly become more real to you (at least they do to me) because a surname can tell you a lot about them. If you discover your ancestors maiden name was MacLeod, then you know they probably came from Scotland. That tells you so much, right there. Or Chappuis (French), or Feinstein (Jewish) or Grumbacher (German) and on and on. When you learn the maiden name of your ancestor it's almost like a watercolor in your mind takes shape, and you can "see" her more clearly and get a feel for what she brought to the marriage. It's also funny how once you discover the maiden name, suddenly you start remembering how you've seen that name before, in conjunction with that family. Maybe they were neighbors, or attended the same church.
At any rate when people tell me that they've come to grinding halt on a particular ancestor, I remember this adventure and I suggest to them, "Have you tried coming forward?" A lot of times they already have, but sometimes they get this odd expression on their face and I say, "Try coming forward with your research to go back." You might get rewarded with a maiden name!
Hope everybody has a great week!
Rett MacPherson
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Happy Birthday to Lexie!
This is an appropriate day for me to blog about loving pets. It’s my Lexie’s birthday! She was born on March 8 four years ago, and still acts like a puppy. But the time has gone so fast.
One reason I can’t forget her birthday is that March 8 was also my mother’s birthday. We lost her the same year as Lexie became a member of the family. They unfortunately never met. But it’s a bittersweet treat to be able to continue to celebrate something great on that day each year.
When I told my older son Eric that I intended to mention Lexie’s birthday in my blog, he remarked that she is the same age in dog years as he is in people years. That’s not entirely correct, by today’s standards. Previously, I’d always heard that you calculated dog years as 7 for each human year. More recently, I’ve read that because dogs mature faster than human kids, the newer standard is to count 10.5 years for each of the first 2 years, and 4 years for each calendar year thereafter. That would make Lexie a year older than Eric will be on his birthday later this month!
I don’t know if similar calculations are done comparing life spans of other animals with those of humans, so if anyone reading this is aware of any, please be sure to let me know.
One thing I haven’t done is given a birthday to either my mystery protagonist Kendra Ballantyne, or her dog Lexie. Kendra is 35 years old, and has stayed around that age for the few years I’ve been writing her pet-sitter series. Her Lexie is ageless, I suppose, although in many ways I equate her with my Lexie. So, happy birthday to them both--whenever their birthdays may be!
Lots of people adopt their beloved babies from pet shelters, so they don’t really know their actual birthdates. Does that preclude celebrating birthdays? Who said they had to be on the exact date? Or why not celebrate the adoption anniversary each year? Or both!
Do I have a present for Lexie? Sure, one I think she’ll be especially happy about. An edible one. While in a local mall--in Burbank--I was drawn to the bookstore. Big surprise. And right next door was Woof, a nearly brand-new doggie boutique. I had to stop in and look around. It had really cute stuff, mostly doggy clothing. And treats. And one of the cute cookies baked especially for dogs had a nice, big “Happy Birthday” written all over it. I bought it, of course. It’s large enough that Lexie can share some with Sparquie--whether or not she wants to.
Are we having a party for Lexie? Well, nothing too outré, but I’ll sing a little off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” And Lexie and Sparquie will enjoy the cookie.
Happy Birthday, Lexie, and any other pet who shares the date or chooses to!
--Linda
One reason I can’t forget her birthday is that March 8 was also my mother’s birthday. We lost her the same year as Lexie became a member of the family. They unfortunately never met. But it’s a bittersweet treat to be able to continue to celebrate something great on that day each year.
When I told my older son Eric that I intended to mention Lexie’s birthday in my blog, he remarked that she is the same age in dog years as he is in people years. That’s not entirely correct, by today’s standards. Previously, I’d always heard that you calculated dog years as 7 for each human year. More recently, I’ve read that because dogs mature faster than human kids, the newer standard is to count 10.5 years for each of the first 2 years, and 4 years for each calendar year thereafter. That would make Lexie a year older than Eric will be on his birthday later this month!
I don’t know if similar calculations are done comparing life spans of other animals with those of humans, so if anyone reading this is aware of any, please be sure to let me know.
One thing I haven’t done is given a birthday to either my mystery protagonist Kendra Ballantyne, or her dog Lexie. Kendra is 35 years old, and has stayed around that age for the few years I’ve been writing her pet-sitter series. Her Lexie is ageless, I suppose, although in many ways I equate her with my Lexie. So, happy birthday to them both--whenever their birthdays may be!
Lots of people adopt their beloved babies from pet shelters, so they don’t really know their actual birthdates. Does that preclude celebrating birthdays? Who said they had to be on the exact date? Or why not celebrate the adoption anniversary each year? Or both!
Do I have a present for Lexie? Sure, one I think she’ll be especially happy about. An edible one. While in a local mall--in Burbank--I was drawn to the bookstore. Big surprise. And right next door was Woof, a nearly brand-new doggie boutique. I had to stop in and look around. It had really cute stuff, mostly doggy clothing. And treats. And one of the cute cookies baked especially for dogs had a nice, big “Happy Birthday” written all over it. I bought it, of course. It’s large enough that Lexie can share some with Sparquie--whether or not she wants to.
Are we having a party for Lexie? Well, nothing too outré, but I’ll sing a little off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.” And Lexie and Sparquie will enjoy the cookie.
Happy Birthday, Lexie, and any other pet who shares the date or chooses to!
--Linda
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
The God of Writers
I'm setting off on Thai Die, the next Betsy Devonshire mystery. I know who dunnit, how, and why, and this one will have a mysterious disappearance as well. It's always exciting to begin a new work, just as it is immensely satisfying to finish one.
But this novel will be especially fun because I'm going to work in details of my trip to Thailand last year. Thailand is the most amazing country, exotic and beautiful, with kind, good-humored, polite people – and wonderful food. You think Thai food here in the States is good? (I sure do!) Well, Thai food in Thailand is even better, probably because the ingredients are fresher – vegetables picked that morning, seafood caught that day. Hotter, too, if you like spicy. I am not much of a fan of hot food, but I thought their tom yung seafood soup is fantastic, even while it felt as if it were setting fire to my teeth.
Thailand is a curious mix of "a lot like us" and "really different from us." The skyscrapers in Bangkok are like something from a futuristic science fiction movie, yet there are beggars on the street – many suffering from diseases or disabilities we have cured in the USA. Budhism is the national religion, and it's about as far as you can get from the Protestant Work Ethic. Buddhism is about relinquishing your affection and desire for the things of this world. Nirvanna happens when you become perfectly indifferent to worldly things. Yet the Thai entrepeneurs make American merchants look like Buddhists. Small example: I paused to look at an elderly woman selling post cards outside a temple. I didn't want any post cards, I wanted a hat like the one she was wearing. But she wasn't selling hats, though she was perfectly happy to sell me her hat. It was an old one, with a hole in its brim. I was shaking my head and handing it back when a young man appeared as if by magic, holding a brand new version of the hat in his hand. And of course it was for sale. How many did I want? I looked around, and there was no sign of a hat stand anywhere, so I don't know if I brought me the hat off his own head or if he was psychic, or . . . No, he wasn't an illusion, as I have the hat in my office this minute. Wait a second, let me check . . . Yes, there it is, looking more like a lampshade than ever. Interestingly, the Thai think they aren't that much as merchants, citing the Chinese as the best merchants in the world.
Another of my souvenirs is a small bronze statue of Ganesha, a four-armed, elephant-headed god. He is half god, half human, actually. I don't know why I found him so attractive, far more so than the other gods encountered over there. (The Buddha was a human being, not a god, so Buddhists are free to believe in any god or gods they choose. And they select from all the other religions on earth.) Maybe it's the friendly look on his face. He is in charge of beginnings, no Hindu (or even many non-Hindus) would begin a project of any size, from taking a new job to building a house, without invoking his aid. I saw this statue of him for sale in a giant warehouse full of interesting things like statues, amulets, small carvings, and jewelry, and bought it. Only later did I also find he is also in charge of writers. So he stands on my desk, encouraging me to greater efforts – he himself broke off one of his tusks to use as a pen to write down a wonderful poem he was hearing. With the example of such a sacrifice always before me, how can I complain that I'd rather be at the movies than sitting here writing? If you want to see a picture of my statue, go to Monica-Ferris.com, click on Adventures, and look for the small gold-colored statue in the upper right corner. Click on it to enlarge.
But this novel will be especially fun because I'm going to work in details of my trip to Thailand last year. Thailand is the most amazing country, exotic and beautiful, with kind, good-humored, polite people – and wonderful food. You think Thai food here in the States is good? (I sure do!) Well, Thai food in Thailand is even better, probably because the ingredients are fresher – vegetables picked that morning, seafood caught that day. Hotter, too, if you like spicy. I am not much of a fan of hot food, but I thought their tom yung seafood soup is fantastic, even while it felt as if it were setting fire to my teeth.
Thailand is a curious mix of "a lot like us" and "really different from us." The skyscrapers in Bangkok are like something from a futuristic science fiction movie, yet there are beggars on the street – many suffering from diseases or disabilities we have cured in the USA. Budhism is the national religion, and it's about as far as you can get from the Protestant Work Ethic. Buddhism is about relinquishing your affection and desire for the things of this world. Nirvanna happens when you become perfectly indifferent to worldly things. Yet the Thai entrepeneurs make American merchants look like Buddhists. Small example: I paused to look at an elderly woman selling post cards outside a temple. I didn't want any post cards, I wanted a hat like the one she was wearing. But she wasn't selling hats, though she was perfectly happy to sell me her hat. It was an old one, with a hole in its brim. I was shaking my head and handing it back when a young man appeared as if by magic, holding a brand new version of the hat in his hand. And of course it was for sale. How many did I want? I looked around, and there was no sign of a hat stand anywhere, so I don't know if I brought me the hat off his own head or if he was psychic, or . . . No, he wasn't an illusion, as I have the hat in my office this minute. Wait a second, let me check . . . Yes, there it is, looking more like a lampshade than ever. Interestingly, the Thai think they aren't that much as merchants, citing the Chinese as the best merchants in the world.
Another of my souvenirs is a small bronze statue of Ganesha, a four-armed, elephant-headed god. He is half god, half human, actually. I don't know why I found him so attractive, far more so than the other gods encountered over there. (The Buddha was a human being, not a god, so Buddhists are free to believe in any god or gods they choose. And they select from all the other religions on earth.) Maybe it's the friendly look on his face. He is in charge of beginnings, no Hindu (or even many non-Hindus) would begin a project of any size, from taking a new job to building a house, without invoking his aid. I saw this statue of him for sale in a giant warehouse full of interesting things like statues, amulets, small carvings, and jewelry, and bought it. Only later did I also find he is also in charge of writers. So he stands on my desk, encouraging me to greater efforts – he himself broke off one of his tusks to use as a pen to write down a wonderful poem he was hearing. With the example of such a sacrifice always before me, how can I complain that I'd rather be at the movies than sitting here writing? If you want to see a picture of my statue, go to Monica-Ferris.com, click on Adventures, and look for the small gold-colored statue in the upper right corner. Click on it to enlarge.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Frozen Charlotte
One of the best things about writing the Dolls To Die For series is getting to do research. I grew up in the fifties when one paycheck families were the norm, and money was tight. I was lucky to have one Barbie doll and a few outfits. And I had Lucy, a large rubbery doll named after Lucille Ball. That was it.
When I began researching for Dolled Up For Murder, I went to doll shows and introduced myself to the doll dealers. They welcomed me with open arms and lots and lots of stories about dolls.
That’s where I found out about Frozen Charlotte.
The story begins in the 1840s when Seba Smith, a Maine author, wrote a poem based on a story he read about in the newspaper. Later the poem was put to music and even later the doll was created. The tiny porcelain dolls were baked into cakes or Christmas puddings. The lucky child, who found the doll, received a prize. Here’s the story behind the legend:
Once upon a time on New Years Eve, a vain young girl named Charlotte set off with her lover Charles to attend a ball. The night was frigid and the sleigh ride would be long. Charlotte’s mother begged her to wrap up in a blanket for the trip, but Charlotte wore a new dress that she feared might not be seen. She refused her mother’s request, and they set off. Only once during the long ride did Charlotte complain about the cold. Charles called to the horses to run faster. When they arrived, Charles jumped down and offered Charlotte his hand, only to discover that she had frozen to death. Charles mourned until he died of a broken heart.
To make a Frozen Charlotte dessert –line the sides and bottom of a springform pan with ladyfingers. Soften 1 ½ tsp. of unflavored gelatin in a little water. Whip 2 cups of heavy cream until stiff, adding a little vanilla or rum when ready. Meanwhile, heat the softened gelatin and 3/4 cup of sugar in a heavy pan until sugar dissolves. Add gelatin mix slowly to cream while whipping with a beater. Fill the lined pan with the cream mixture. Freeze overnight. Serve with more whipped cream, strawberries, cherries, or hot fudge.
The original poem can be found at:
http://www.wtv-zone.com/phyrst/audio/nfld/12/charlotte.htm
When I began researching for Dolled Up For Murder, I went to doll shows and introduced myself to the doll dealers. They welcomed me with open arms and lots and lots of stories about dolls.
That’s where I found out about Frozen Charlotte.
The story begins in the 1840s when Seba Smith, a Maine author, wrote a poem based on a story he read about in the newspaper. Later the poem was put to music and even later the doll was created. The tiny porcelain dolls were baked into cakes or Christmas puddings. The lucky child, who found the doll, received a prize. Here’s the story behind the legend:
Once upon a time on New Years Eve, a vain young girl named Charlotte set off with her lover Charles to attend a ball. The night was frigid and the sleigh ride would be long. Charlotte’s mother begged her to wrap up in a blanket for the trip, but Charlotte wore a new dress that she feared might not be seen. She refused her mother’s request, and they set off. Only once during the long ride did Charlotte complain about the cold. Charles called to the horses to run faster. When they arrived, Charles jumped down and offered Charlotte his hand, only to discover that she had frozen to death. Charles mourned until he died of a broken heart.
To make a Frozen Charlotte dessert –line the sides and bottom of a springform pan with ladyfingers. Soften 1 ½ tsp. of unflavored gelatin in a little water. Whip 2 cups of heavy cream until stiff, adding a little vanilla or rum when ready. Meanwhile, heat the softened gelatin and 3/4 cup of sugar in a heavy pan until sugar dissolves. Add gelatin mix slowly to cream while whipping with a beater. Fill the lined pan with the cream mixture. Freeze overnight. Serve with more whipped cream, strawberries, cherries, or hot fudge.
The original poem can be found at:
http://www.wtv-zone.com/phyrst/audio/nfld/12/charlotte.htm
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Organizing Your Photos...or NOT!
Most scrapbooking books, articles, and experts will tell you to start scrapbooking by organizing your photos. They'll suggest you drag out every cotton-picking photo you own, label and date them. Then they want you to put it in some sort of order. Finally, they suggest you scrapbook those pictures chronologically.
Okay. Like that's really going to happen in this lifetime.
Call me contrary. Go ahead. You may be a better woman than I. (The line forms in the rear.)
I'd love to have all my photos organized by date. But it ain't going to happen, folks. I have photos I've inherited, photos from my childhood, photos from my sisters, photos from friends...are you beginning to see the problem? I have 22 photo boxes of photos. I also own three moving boxes of memorabilia. Not to mention albums from my prescrapbooking days and more than 100 new photos on my camera.
A wise woman would organize those photos. However, the sheer size of the project makes me so tired I want to lie down.
So here's my solution: I organize what I can. BUT...I put a time limit on it. Say, I'll organize for an hour. (All right. Fifteen minutes.) Then I'll pull out a handful of photos that call to me to be put on a page.
Here are the benefits:
1. I can get enthused about my hobby. As I make pages, I feel I am getting somewhere. The creative juices start flowing.
2. Organization occurs organically. As I pull photos, I also notice photos I can toss, photos that go with other photos, and photos I can put aside to work on next. Which leads me to #3.
3. As I pull the photos I want to scrapbook RIGHT NOW, I set aside groups of photos to work on at some other time. These I put together in a page protector. Now I am ready to work on them the next time I sit down.
Oh, I honestly wish I was a person with organized photos. I almost was. I had 90% of my photos in photo boxes, labeled and categorized. Then we moved to England for a year. I took photos with me to work on. That messed up my whole system. And you can imagine how many pictures I took while I was there!
So, I could wait until the day I get everything organized. Or I could take a long nap. Or I could continue to live an exciting life and take photos along the way.
Three guesses as to the choice I've made!
Okay. Like that's really going to happen in this lifetime.
Call me contrary. Go ahead. You may be a better woman than I. (The line forms in the rear.)
I'd love to have all my photos organized by date. But it ain't going to happen, folks. I have photos I've inherited, photos from my childhood, photos from my sisters, photos from friends...are you beginning to see the problem? I have 22 photo boxes of photos. I also own three moving boxes of memorabilia. Not to mention albums from my prescrapbooking days and more than 100 new photos on my camera.
A wise woman would organize those photos. However, the sheer size of the project makes me so tired I want to lie down.
So here's my solution: I organize what I can. BUT...I put a time limit on it. Say, I'll organize for an hour. (All right. Fifteen minutes.) Then I'll pull out a handful of photos that call to me to be put on a page.
Here are the benefits:
1. I can get enthused about my hobby. As I make pages, I feel I am getting somewhere. The creative juices start flowing.
2. Organization occurs organically. As I pull photos, I also notice photos I can toss, photos that go with other photos, and photos I can put aside to work on next. Which leads me to #3.
3. As I pull the photos I want to scrapbook RIGHT NOW, I set aside groups of photos to work on at some other time. These I put together in a page protector. Now I am ready to work on them the next time I sit down.
Oh, I honestly wish I was a person with organized photos. I almost was. I had 90% of my photos in photo boxes, labeled and categorized. Then we moved to England for a year. I took photos with me to work on. That messed up my whole system. And you can imagine how many pictures I took while I was there!
So, I could wait until the day I get everything organized. Or I could take a long nap. Or I could continue to live an exciting life and take photos along the way.
Three guesses as to the choice I've made!
Friday, March 2, 2007
Genealogy
Well, first of all I should probably apologize if any of you are getting a blog twice! I am a little technologically challenged, believe it or not and I could have sworn that I already posted a blog here late last night! So, in case there is any doubt, I'm going to blog again.
My character Torie O'Shea, like a lot of working mom's in America, wears a lot of hats. She works for the historical society, she's a genealogist, a mother, a wife and an all around busy body. I created this character and her life for several reasons. For one thing, how cool would it be to work for the historical society amongst all those old documents and antiques and costumes? Okay, well, I think it's pretty cool even if other people don't. It was my dream job! The other thing was the genealogy.
Genealogy has been the cornerstone to almost all of my interests and hobbies. I'm not sure which came first, my love of history or my love of genealogy. Because after all, genealogy is just FAMILY history. I can remember sitting under the table in my grandma's kitchen and hearing her talk about her ancestors. How her grandpa spoke fluid French, how one branch of the family had landed in New Orleans and stayed there for awhile before moving on up the Mississippi to Missouri. On the other side of the family, I can remember visiting cousins in West Virginia sitting up way past my bedtime listening to my mom's family speak in a "strange" accent about the Civil War and the Revolution, and "Poppy" working in the mines. (That was the same night I heard a panther scream for the very first time just as I was dozing off to sleep. After that, I didn't get much more sleep. There's nothing quite like a panther calling in the night, the sound ricocheting off those West Virginia mountains, echoing through the valley. Let me tell you. It will raise the hair on your arms!)
At the same time, in school, I was gobbling up every history class I could take. I would take history classes as an elective when most kids would take pottery or shop!
Tracing my family tree just seemed like the natural course to take. Genealogy has allowed me to meet some fascinating people. My father's mother was an avid quilter and so I'd been exposed to quilting bees and fabrics my whole life. But quilting really came to life for me once I became a genealogist. With quilting came the history of women. So much history is defined by war and territory and politics (and excuse me for saying this, but all three of those things, historically speaking, were all done by men) and so quilting really offered me a look into the history of women. The--quite often--unsung heroes of the forming of this nation. Writing is something I've always done, so genealogy didn't fail me there, either!
I can't explain the love and desire to know where I come from. To connect with people across time who are very different from us who live today, but at the same time, incredibly alike.
This is nothing like the original blog I had intended, because in case the original blog is lost out there in the ether and decides to return, I didn't want that subject out there twice! :-)
So, next week I'm going to discuss that horrible word that all genealogists hate, "brick wall." And give examples of how some of my brick walls on my family tree came tumbling down. And how some, are still there and may never come down and how I deal with that.
Take care and Happy reading!
Rett MacPherson
My character Torie O'Shea, like a lot of working mom's in America, wears a lot of hats. She works for the historical society, she's a genealogist, a mother, a wife and an all around busy body. I created this character and her life for several reasons. For one thing, how cool would it be to work for the historical society amongst all those old documents and antiques and costumes? Okay, well, I think it's pretty cool even if other people don't. It was my dream job! The other thing was the genealogy.
Genealogy has been the cornerstone to almost all of my interests and hobbies. I'm not sure which came first, my love of history or my love of genealogy. Because after all, genealogy is just FAMILY history. I can remember sitting under the table in my grandma's kitchen and hearing her talk about her ancestors. How her grandpa spoke fluid French, how one branch of the family had landed in New Orleans and stayed there for awhile before moving on up the Mississippi to Missouri. On the other side of the family, I can remember visiting cousins in West Virginia sitting up way past my bedtime listening to my mom's family speak in a "strange" accent about the Civil War and the Revolution, and "Poppy" working in the mines. (That was the same night I heard a panther scream for the very first time just as I was dozing off to sleep. After that, I didn't get much more sleep. There's nothing quite like a panther calling in the night, the sound ricocheting off those West Virginia mountains, echoing through the valley. Let me tell you. It will raise the hair on your arms!)
At the same time, in school, I was gobbling up every history class I could take. I would take history classes as an elective when most kids would take pottery or shop!
Tracing my family tree just seemed like the natural course to take. Genealogy has allowed me to meet some fascinating people. My father's mother was an avid quilter and so I'd been exposed to quilting bees and fabrics my whole life. But quilting really came to life for me once I became a genealogist. With quilting came the history of women. So much history is defined by war and territory and politics (and excuse me for saying this, but all three of those things, historically speaking, were all done by men) and so quilting really offered me a look into the history of women. The--quite often--unsung heroes of the forming of this nation. Writing is something I've always done, so genealogy didn't fail me there, either!
I can't explain the love and desire to know where I come from. To connect with people across time who are very different from us who live today, but at the same time, incredibly alike.
This is nothing like the original blog I had intended, because in case the original blog is lost out there in the ether and decides to return, I didn't want that subject out there twice! :-)
So, next week I'm going to discuss that horrible word that all genealogists hate, "brick wall." And give examples of how some of my brick walls on my family tree came tumbling down. And how some, are still there and may never come down and how I deal with that.
Take care and Happy reading!
Rett MacPherson
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Pets Rule!
I’m Linda O. Johnston, and I love animals!
When I was asked to join the Killer Hobbies blog, my first reaction was excitement. It sounded like fun!
My second reaction was... well, do I really belong there? I mean, sure, we all write mysteries that revolve around particular pastimes, but pets aren’t hobbies. They’re family.
My third reaction was to think over the hobbies reflected by my fellow bloggers and their mysteries. Most of those pursuits might be inanimate, but they consume time, energy, and a whole lot of love. Otherwise, why engage in them?
So, yes, I think I belong here.
Hopefully, my adoration of animals is reflected in my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mystery series from Berkley Prime Crime. I’m a lawyer who lives in the Hollywood Hills, and I have two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, the younger of whom is a tricolor named Lexie. Kendra is a lawyer who lives in the Hollywood Hills, and her tricolor Cavalier is also named Lexie. What a coincidence!
I have to admit I don’t have as much time for leisure activities these days as I used to, since I recently took on a part-time law job. But when I’m home, I love to write and to play with my pups.
So why write about a lawyer who becomes a pet-sitter? Isn’t that a bit far out to be believable?
Well, Kendra doesn’t think so. And, yes, I sometimes write about her as if she were a real person, since she’s a kind of alter ego. She reflects a lot of characteristics I sometimes wish I had, and a lot I’m glad I don’t have. She’s a litigator; I’m a real estate attorney and, although I admire those who go to court, I find that part of the practice of law much too frustrating.
Kendra’s determined to make the best out of bad situations. Plus, she, too, loves animals. All kinds of animals. Those she’s sat so far include many dogs, a few cats, plus ferrets, a Blue and Gold Macaw, a ball python, and a pot-bellied pig. She’ll soon take on an iguana. Her current adventure, published just this month, is MEOW IS FOR MURDER.
Kendra’s Lexie is a whole lot better behaved than mine is. I admit it. When Kendra tells her to stay in the car without barking or, generally, to behave, her Lexie obeys.
Mine gets away with a lot. We actually have two Cavaliers. The older one is Sparquie. Lexie and Sparquie are good friends and conspirators. When one has an accident in the house (which, fortunately, isn’t often), they both act guilty so it’s hard to punish either one.
My older son, Eric, has bought us the Dog Whisperer’s book. I’ve watched the Dog Whisperer on TV, too. Sure, I admire him and how he gets other people’s dogs to mend their ways, stop their bad habits and all. But to do that, he treats the dogs like... dogs!
My husband Fred and I are so-called empty nesters. That means our human kids--our sons Eric and Keith--are adults and live on their own. Fortunately, our fur kids are still around. Fred and I have been together for quite a few years. I’ve had Cavalier King Charles Spaniels longer than I’ve had Fred. He had to accept my first Cavalier, Pandaemonium (Panda for short) before I could fully accept him into my life. Panda and Fred had a lot of friction between them at first. I’ll save all that for another blog!
Linda
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