Hey, I’m not the only pet blogger out there. Am I surprised? Of course not. As I’ve always maintained, pets are family. People love to talk about those they love!
I find some of the other blogs fascinating--if I only had time to read them. But when I did Google and Yahoo searches on pet blogs, I found a whole bunch of them. Some involve the blogger’s own and favorite pets, often dogs and cats. Others are much more esoteric and include all kinds of animals, even more than most of my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mysteries. A lot of them even talk about exotic and wild animals, although why they appear on pet blogs I’m not certain.
Kendra has sat for dogs, cats, ferrets, macaws, iguanas, rabbits, ball pythons and pot bellied pigs. Other animals she hasn’t yet cared for, but are definitely cared for by some of the bloggers out there, include horses, frogs, turtles and rats.
Some of the blogging topics? Pet adoption is a favorite. Then there’s pet health. The pet food recall. Pet toys and gadgets, including high tech ID tags and implanted chips. Playing with pets. Pet clothing (mostly for dogs).
There are lots of other pet-related websites, too. One I really like is petfinders.com. It’s a general clearinghouse for lots of animals available for adoption, all over the country. You can search by area and type of pet, even breed, that you’re interested in, and lots of possibilities appear. They include a lot of information, including some background of the animal when possible, any known health issues, and whether they get along with other pets or kids. Not that anything like that is a guarantee as to how an adoption will work out, especially with an older animal. Then again, I was watching the Crufts Dog Show the other day and a rescue dog--a pointer, I think--was winning lots of Best of Breed ribbons.
And then there are the newsletters. I receive one about daily from Dr. Jon of petplace.com. Petplace is a website that deals with pet health issues. The daily articles are often interesting, even though the reason for them is that Dr. Jon would like to sell me pet insurance.
I’ve loved the Internet for quite a while, especially when I need to research something for my writing. There’s a lot out there--and some of it’s on pets, one of my favorite topics.
Excuse me. I have some more reading to do....
--Linda
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tough Times
What a week! Went to a Memorial Day service at Lakeview Park in Minneapolis, where many famous Minnesotans are buried, people like Senator Hubert Humphrey and others whose names grace our streets and parks. I was disappointed in the main speaker, a grief counselor who tried to make us all feel sorry for ourselves because we’ve suffered losses or have been afraid we might suffer a loss, instead of invoking fond or proud memories of our deceased. But Robert Robinson and his three backup singers were in very fine voice as they sang with all the fervor and elaborations of the gospel singer. Meanwhile, I’m having a fight with my next novel. Yes, it’s possible to have a fight with a growing yet inanimate thing like a story. I keep finding new facts that have to get squeezed in, or finding that something I knew to be true isn’t true after all. Last night, falling asleep, I realized my sleuth wasn't as scared as she needs to be. Suddenly the huge pleasure I get from writing becomes a pain, and when I’m not at my keyboard I go about the house grumbling and complaining. It doesn’t help that we’re closing June 19 and moving June 26, and we'e still sorting through twenty years of STUFF to decide what we can keep and what we can sell and what goes to Goodwill or Disabled American Vets. I’ve been filling box after box with books to take along and hauling other books over to Half Price Books and even giving books away, and still the shelves seem filled. And clothes! I didn’t realize I have THREE raincoats! (Two are being given away.) Four swimsuits! (Ditto.) Two dozen pairs of socks – no, I’m keeping all the socks, I love my socks. So I go from patriotic pride to disappointment to frustration to frenzy, all in a few days. Whew!
Today I go to water aerobics. Although I go frightfully early in the morning – 6:30 to 7:30 – I try not to miss any of the thrice-weekly sessions. It energizes me, strengthens and stretches my muscles and joints, plus I’ve been going so long most of the women – and the two men – who come have become good friends. One thing about going so early is, it doesn’t put a hole in my day. I’m home shortly after eight, washed, dressed and ready to face the world.
I was going to make my first quilt to go on our bed in the new apartment. It is still mostly chunks of fabric, not even cut into squares, much less sewn into blocks. I’m so ashamed about it that this is the first place I’m admitting my failure. And I’m behind on my stitching, too. (So long as I’m confessing I might as well do a good job of it.) I have two drawers full of unfinished projects. Sometimes I think I’d like to take a year off writing and just concentrate on stitching. I love it when I set aside a block of time and get down to knitting or doing counted cross stitch or (my favorite) needlepoint. But there are so many other things going on in my life . . .
Oh, well. The plot will unravel, the move will be made, the angry note I sent to Lakewood will be read, and the quilt MAY be ready by winter. In a year’s time I may look back on this entry and wonder what I was so fussed about.
Today I go to water aerobics. Although I go frightfully early in the morning – 6:30 to 7:30 – I try not to miss any of the thrice-weekly sessions. It energizes me, strengthens and stretches my muscles and joints, plus I’ve been going so long most of the women – and the two men – who come have become good friends. One thing about going so early is, it doesn’t put a hole in my day. I’m home shortly after eight, washed, dressed and ready to face the world.
I was going to make my first quilt to go on our bed in the new apartment. It is still mostly chunks of fabric, not even cut into squares, much less sewn into blocks. I’m so ashamed about it that this is the first place I’m admitting my failure. And I’m behind on my stitching, too. (So long as I’m confessing I might as well do a good job of it.) I have two drawers full of unfinished projects. Sometimes I think I’d like to take a year off writing and just concentrate on stitching. I love it when I set aside a block of time and get down to knitting or doing counted cross stitch or (my favorite) needlepoint. But there are so many other things going on in my life . . .
Oh, well. The plot will unravel, the move will be made, the angry note I sent to Lakewood will be read, and the quilt MAY be ready by winter. In a year’s time I may look back on this entry and wonder what I was so fussed about.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Doll Intrigue
by Deb Baker
In 1940s New York, Velvalee Dickinson owned a doll shop where she catered to wealthy customers from all over the country. She made a name for herself as an expert in rare dolls and corresponded regularly with her clients. In spite of her growing celebrity in the doll world, the doll business was not a great financial success, and she struggled to maintain her lifestyle on Madison Avenue.
Her financial situation suspiciously changed with the attack on Pearl Harbor.
Little did she know that her latest “letters” were being intercepted by the FBI and she would soon be arrested as an agent for the Japanese.
Velvalee crafted a series of letters and sent them to an address in Buenos Aires, forging the signatures of other doll collectors. Her downfall began when one of her letters was returned to an unsuspecting doll enthusiast after Velvalee misspelled her contact’s street address. The letter found its way to the authorities.
“The only new dolls I have,” one letter read, “are THREE LOVELY IRISH dolls.”
Another, “A lovely Siamese Temple Dancer which had been damaged, tore in the middle, but it is now repaired.”
It became obvious to the FBI that Velvalee Dickinson was passing military information about the Pacific Fleet to Japanese operatives in South America. After her arrest, she confessed to preparing the letters using correspondence received from her customers to forge their signatures. She also confessed to visiting naval yards and transmitting information to the Japanese.
She was found guilty of violating wartime censorship laws (saving her from espionage charges and the death penalty) and spent seven years in a correctional institution in Alderson, the same one made famous years later by Martha Stewart.
After her release, she quietly disappeared from sight.
Her financial situation suspiciously changed with the attack on Pearl Harbor.
Little did she know that her latest “letters” were being intercepted by the FBI and she would soon be arrested as an agent for the Japanese.
Velvalee crafted a series of letters and sent them to an address in Buenos Aires, forging the signatures of other doll collectors. Her downfall began when one of her letters was returned to an unsuspecting doll enthusiast after Velvalee misspelled her contact’s street address. The letter found its way to the authorities.
“The only new dolls I have,” one letter read, “are THREE LOVELY IRISH dolls.”
Another, “A lovely Siamese Temple Dancer which had been damaged, tore in the middle, but it is now repaired.”
It became obvious to the FBI that Velvalee Dickinson was passing military information about the Pacific Fleet to Japanese operatives in South America. After her arrest, she confessed to preparing the letters using correspondence received from her customers to forge their signatures. She also confessed to visiting naval yards and transmitting information to the Japanese.
She was found guilty of violating wartime censorship laws (saving her from espionage charges and the death penalty) and spent seven years in a correctional institution in Alderson, the same one made famous years later by Martha Stewart.
After her release, she quietly disappeared from sight.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Memorial Day 2007
“I hope that on Memorial Day when people think about our soldiers, they won’t just think about the ones who died—they’ll think about those who came back different,” said the woman caller.
Tom Ashbrook, host of On Point, probed gently, asking if there was anyone specific the woman had in mind.
“My husband. He came back from Iraq, and…he’s different. Because of what he saw…and went through,” she struggled with the words.
On Memorial Day, we pause and remember the dead. But that’s not enough. A count of headstones does not include all those who sacrifice for our nation. Some die on the battlefield or in hospitals far from home. But others return marred, scarred, and changed: never the men (or women) they once were. The
y, too, give their all.
Take Arthur Middleton, for example. In 1776, he was a delegate to the Continental Congress. A Cambridge graduate, he was more radical than his father, Henry, who served as the second President of the Continental Congress, and thus the leader of what was to become the United States from Oct. 22, 1774 to May 10, 1775.
Arthur’s attitude toward Loyalists was said to be ruthless. When he pledged his life, his liberty and his sacred honor, he meant exactly that. In 1781, Charleston, South Carolina, was overrun by General Clinton and the British army. Arthur Middleton was asked to swear a new loyalty oath. In John Jakes’ bestseller Charleston, he writes, “Many important names—Middleton, Pinckney, Manigault, Hayne—obliged.”
Jakes has it wrong. Very, very, badly wrong.
Arthur Middleton refused. So did Pinckney.
Middleton taken prisoner, thrown onto a British warship and taken to a jail in St. Augustine, Florida. There in a small coquina cell, with vaulted ceiling and wet walls, he carved his name—a twin to the bold signature on the Declaration of Independence. He was held more than a year before he was exchanged in a prisoner swap. By then, most of his fortune was gone.
He died at age 44, about four years later. The legend beneath his portrait in the Ch
arleston Museum, suggests he died of an illness contracted while in prison, which possibly would have been malaria.
Arthur Middleton is buried at his family home Middleton Place. To see it go to http://www.middletonplace.org/ Or rent The Patriot (Mel Gibson), and you’ll see footage of the gardens and the house’s interior.
So Arthur Middleton did not die on a battlefield, but he gave his life in service to our country. As the caller to On Point suggested, on Memorial Day we need to remember all those who have served, both living and dead.
Today as we put up our flag, I said a prayer for all the soldiers and patriots in my family, including my ancestor Arthur Middleton.
Tom Ashbrook, host of On Point, probed gently, asking if there was anyone specific the woman had in mind.
“My husband. He came back from Iraq, and…he’s different. Because of what he saw…and went through,” she struggled with the words.
On Memorial Day, we pause and remember the dead. But that’s not enough. A count of headstones does not include all those who sacrifice for our nation. Some die on the battlefield or in hospitals far from home. But others return marred, scarred, and changed: never the men (or women) they once were. The
y, too, give their all.Take Arthur Middleton, for example. In 1776, he was a delegate to the Continental Congress. A Cambridge graduate, he was more radical than his father, Henry, who served as the second President of the Continental Congress, and thus the leader of what was to become the United States from Oct. 22, 1774 to May 10, 1775.
Arthur’s attitude toward Loyalists was said to be ruthless. When he pledged his life, his liberty and his sacred honor, he meant exactly that. In 1781, Charleston, South Carolina, was overrun by General Clinton and the British army. Arthur Middleton was asked to swear a new loyalty oath. In John Jakes’ bestseller Charleston, he writes, “Many important names—Middleton, Pinckney, Manigault, Hayne—obliged.”
Jakes has it wrong. Very, very, badly wrong.
Arthur Middleton refused. So did Pinckney.
Middleton taken prisoner, thrown onto a British warship and taken to a jail in St. Augustine, Florida. There in a small coquina cell, with vaulted ceiling and wet walls, he carved his name—a twin to the bold signature on the Declaration of Independence. He was held more than a year before he was exchanged in a prisoner swap. By then, most of his fortune was gone.
He died at age 44, about four years later. The legend beneath his portrait in the Ch
arleston Museum, suggests he died of an illness contracted while in prison, which possibly would have been malaria.Arthur Middleton is buried at his family home Middleton Place. To see it go to http://www.middletonplace.org/ Or rent The Patriot (Mel Gibson), and you’ll see footage of the gardens and the house’s interior.
So Arthur Middleton did not die on a battlefield, but he gave his life in service to our country. As the caller to On Point suggested, on Memorial Day we need to remember all those who have served, both living and dead.
Today as we put up our flag, I said a prayer for all the soldiers and patriots in my family, including my ancestor Arthur Middleton.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Letters, graduation and paths, oh my!
My oldest daughter has graduated from highschool. Finally. I don't say that because she was a problem child or I was ever worried about her not graduating. In fact, her highschool career was much more stellar than mine. She graduated with NHS cords and she received all sorts of awards and pins for her participation in choir, band and theatre. It's just that the last two months of their senior year is filled with one banquet, ceremony, performance, dinner, dance after another, that by the time it's over, the parents are exhausted. At least, I am. Not to mention considerably poorer.
So this morning I sat down to my computer to try and catch up on stuff (okay, I admit, I didn't realize it was Friday until about ten minutes ago) and read my e-mail. I love getting letters from readers. They can be filled with all sorts of things, from wonderful praise to not so wonderful criticism. I've had people tell me their life story, and some just write one line. "Keep writing." I'm always thrilled to see people explain to me how they came upon my books. I always find that so interesting. I've had some very touching letters that just stick with me forever.
One thing I didn't really think of when I set up the website, was people writing to me about their family tree. What an unexpected JOY! Being a genealogist, I'm always happy to hear about other people's journey into genealogy and what they discover. A few people have written asking my advice about where to look for a specific record, and others just share their own stories and findings. And occasionally, somebody writes and says . . . "I think we might be related." Which is always cool. Turns out, we usually are.
The internet has really helped genealogy, but it has it's bad side, too. For example, anybody can write anything they want about their family tree, and it's there for everybody to see as long as they keep it up, whether it's true or not. You have to be careful, ask for the original source or documents, before you use anything you find on the internet. At the same time, I've found new photographs of ancestors, I never knew existed, because somebody thought to put it up on their website. Or, they've e-mailed the photographs to me. Genealogists really are a generous lot. Most will share anything they have with you. For one thing, you want the truth out there, so if you share your documentation, the more likely the truth about a family tree will prevail, instead of the false information.
At any rate, I started tracing my family tree,about three or four months after I graduated from highschool and look at the profound impact it's had on my life. I can't help but wonder what my daughter will discover in the next year that will be with her until she's an old lady! Sometimes I think it's the years between 18 and 22 that make the biggest impression on a person, not the first five years or those middle teen years. I wish that all 18 to 22 year olds could find something like genealogy to help shape them. I would be such a different person if I'd never walked down the genealogy path.
Happy reading!
Rett MacPherson
So this morning I sat down to my computer to try and catch up on stuff (okay, I admit, I didn't realize it was Friday until about ten minutes ago) and read my e-mail. I love getting letters from readers. They can be filled with all sorts of things, from wonderful praise to not so wonderful criticism. I've had people tell me their life story, and some just write one line. "Keep writing." I'm always thrilled to see people explain to me how they came upon my books. I always find that so interesting. I've had some very touching letters that just stick with me forever.
One thing I didn't really think of when I set up the website, was people writing to me about their family tree. What an unexpected JOY! Being a genealogist, I'm always happy to hear about other people's journey into genealogy and what they discover. A few people have written asking my advice about where to look for a specific record, and others just share their own stories and findings. And occasionally, somebody writes and says . . . "I think we might be related." Which is always cool. Turns out, we usually are.
The internet has really helped genealogy, but it has it's bad side, too. For example, anybody can write anything they want about their family tree, and it's there for everybody to see as long as they keep it up, whether it's true or not. You have to be careful, ask for the original source or documents, before you use anything you find on the internet. At the same time, I've found new photographs of ancestors, I never knew existed, because somebody thought to put it up on their website. Or, they've e-mailed the photographs to me. Genealogists really are a generous lot. Most will share anything they have with you. For one thing, you want the truth out there, so if you share your documentation, the more likely the truth about a family tree will prevail, instead of the false information.
At any rate, I started tracing my family tree,about three or four months after I graduated from highschool and look at the profound impact it's had on my life. I can't help but wonder what my daughter will discover in the next year that will be with her until she's an old lady! Sometimes I think it's the years between 18 and 22 that make the biggest impression on a person, not the first five years or those middle teen years. I wish that all 18 to 22 year olds could find something like genealogy to help shape them. I would be such a different person if I'd never walked down the genealogy path.
Happy reading!
Rett MacPherson
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The Birds Is Coming
My topic may not seem grammatically correct, but those of you who are old enough will recall that sentence when it advertised Alfred Hitchcock’s movie The Birds. In my case, the birds came to my party and were a delight!
My husband Fred and I were about to reach a milestone anniversary, and his brother Jim and Jim’s wife Sandy were nearing an even bigger milestone anniversary than ours. Last weekend, we held a joint party at The Sportsmen’s Lodge in Studio City, California. Jim and Sandy live in Hawaii but decided on a party here because it was easier for many family members and guests to attend. We had been thinking of throwing a party, too, so we joined in.
We had a Hawaiian theme. This allowed people to attend in Aloha shirts and colorful Hawaiian prints. The women wore leis, and the men wore kukui nut necklaces. Sandy did the planning, and the party turned out fantastic!
One of the really fun things was the attendance by Christiana, a delightful lady from the West Valley Bird Society, an organization I visited while researching my third Kendra book, Fine-Feathered Death. She brought along a variety of beautiful and personable birds, including a blue and gold macaw, the type featured in FFD. There was also a hyacinth macaw, a white cockatoo, an adorably charming toucan, and a unique-looking black bird whose type I never did learn. Party guests could pose with the birds and have their photos taken. I had great fun with the toucan, who observed me cheekily even as he pulled petals off the pretty lei I had around my neck. The cockatoo perched on Fred’s arm for our picture. I learned later that the hyacinth macaw took great pleasure in pecking at the kukui nuts, and the men who wore the necklaces were soon told to take them off while posing for pictures.
No one seemed to mind waiting in line to get their pictures taken with the birds, especially because the cockatoo entertained by dancing on his perch and spreading the feathers on the comb on his head. The photos were the crowning touch to an evening that I most certainly will remember forever, and the comments I’ve been receiving suggest that our guests will remember it, too.
--Linda
My husband Fred and I were about to reach a milestone anniversary, and his brother Jim and Jim’s wife Sandy were nearing an even bigger milestone anniversary than ours. Last weekend, we held a joint party at The Sportsmen’s Lodge in Studio City, California. Jim and Sandy live in Hawaii but decided on a party here because it was easier for many family members and guests to attend. We had been thinking of throwing a party, too, so we joined in.
We had a Hawaiian theme. This allowed people to attend in Aloha shirts and colorful Hawaiian prints. The women wore leis, and the men wore kukui nut necklaces. Sandy did the planning, and the party turned out fantastic!
One of the really fun things was the attendance by Christiana, a delightful lady from the West Valley Bird Society, an organization I visited while researching my third Kendra book, Fine-Feathered Death. She brought along a variety of beautiful and personable birds, including a blue and gold macaw, the type featured in FFD. There was also a hyacinth macaw, a white cockatoo, an adorably charming toucan, and a unique-looking black bird whose type I never did learn. Party guests could pose with the birds and have their photos taken. I had great fun with the toucan, who observed me cheekily even as he pulled petals off the pretty lei I had around my neck. The cockatoo perched on Fred’s arm for our picture. I learned later that the hyacinth macaw took great pleasure in pecking at the kukui nuts, and the men who wore the necklaces were soon told to take them off while posing for pictures.
No one seemed to mind waiting in line to get their pictures taken with the birds, especially because the cockatoo entertained by dancing on his perch and spreading the feathers on the comb on his head. The photos were the crowning touch to an evening that I most certainly will remember forever, and the comments I’ve been receiving suggest that our guests will remember it, too.
--Linda
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
More Travel to Research
Someone told me Amboy, Minnesota, is where a woman named Lisa Durkee lives and that I ought to drive down and meet her. Lisa not only runs a restaurant she made out of a 1920s gas station, she spins wool and angora fibers, dyes them, and knits them into hats, mittens, etc.
Amboy is a long drive from the Twin Cities, as I found out on Monday. The weather was breezy but sunny and not too hot. It’s a very pretty drive down 169, which pretty much runs alongside the Minnesota River. The river, I thought to myself, used to be much bigger than it is now, because it has high hills on either side that are some distance from the river itself, and the land runs down to the water from them. Then, by chance, I paused at a rest stop and read a sign that said the Minnesota River occupies the bed of what was once an enormous river made from the melt-off of mile-thick glaciers that covered the state. A glacier a mile thick! I caught myself measuring off a mile on the highway and trying to imagine an ice-pack that tall. What an astonishing sight it must have been!
Amboy is a very small town of about five hundred, south of St. Peter, south of Mankato. The business district is one block long. It has four churches, no grocery store at present (one is planned), and an antique shop packed full of antique clothes (Victorian underwear!), toys, furniture, and hundreds of hats. The restaurant I was looking for is in a darling little building set back from the main street in a little lawn with iron (really!) and real flowers. And the food is fabulous! I was a little surprised that there was such wonderful food – and not the basic stuff like mashed potatoes and pot roast you often find in small towns, but basil-flavored tomato soup with mushrooms and corn, and pita bread stuffed with cooked onions, herbed vegetables and grilled chicken. And the best pies in the state.
Lisa is a tall, slender, beautiful woman who must never sleep, because she runs
the restaurant and a craft shop for her wool and angora items, plus she is buying the nineteenth-century building her shop is in and renovating it, hammering off years of paint and plaster to expose the brick walls, and putting up a tin ceiling by herelf. Her mother, Maria, is an artist and spinster (meaning one who spins!), too. And quietly charming. She’s the one currently raising the angora rabbits. She brought one from her home in Blue Earth to show me.
I have never in my life seen a rabbit that big. He filled a wire cage big enough for six chickens, and at first glance I thought he was two very big white rabbits. He had huge red eyes and the usual winking nose and big ears he lay back on his shoulders or held erect. He didn’t move when I reached into the open top of the cage to stroke him. He was, of course, very fluffy, and I thought it must be all hair, but when I touched him my fingers didn’t sink to my knuckles like I thought they would. This was a very solid rabbit!
Lisa sat down at her spinning wheel, spread a towel on her lap, and hauled the rabbit up onto her lap by the scruff of his neck. She showed me how the fur is pulled out rather than combed out – the rabbit did not so much as blink as she pulled out fingerfuls of white fur. She invited me to try it, and, while it doesn’t just fall out, it doesn’t take much of a tug to get a sample of it. Then she started her spinning wheel turning using a foot pedal, the kind that goes up and down, and began feeding the fur into the yarn already coming out of the mechanism. Soon she had a rhythm going, pulling out fur with one hand and twisting it into the yarn with the aid of the other. It was fascinating to watch how smooth and even the yarn was as it came out of her hands. We talked while she worked, and the rabbit – whose name is, I think, Fernando, sat perfectly still. Lisa said the rabbit actually likes being plucked because his fur is so thick and hot. In my opinion (which is worth exactly nothing) Fernando is too stupid to know if he does or does not like something unless it involves drawing blood or eating clover. Since this involved neither, he was content to sit still. He did look as if he were thinking long thoughts – or merely listening to the cricket sounds in his otherwise empty mind. Certainly he has a very small and narrow head, so there’s not room in there for much of a brain.
Wool fibers have microscopic "hooks" that make it hold together when twisted. Angora doesn’t have that, so adding wool fibers makes it stronger. But pure angora yarn is incredibly soft, and it isn’t smooth like wool but has a long, thin nap, as if it were enveloped in a cloud. Lisa told me that the younger the animal (goat, rabbit or sheep), the softer the fibers, but I can’t imagine anything softer than the angora yarn she was spinning. Lisa will spin a length of yarn, then take another single-ply yarn and twist it onto the first, going in the opposite direction to make a two-ply yarn that hangs straight and won’t twist back on itself. Most yarns she spins have at least two plies.
She had a couple of felted wool hats in shades of pale cream and brown for sale (to make a felted hat or purse, you knit it in a very large size, then wash it in hot water to make it thicken and shrink). I looked at them, but bought a pure angora beret that is a natural color somewhere between gray and blue and so soft I will have to restrain myself from rubbing it between my fingers instead of wearing it. Oddly, rabbit angora will not shrink so it cannot be felted – if it is blended with wool and the wool is felted, the angora will make something like picots (tiny loops) all over the wool.
Lisa’s mother has worked with rabbits all her life. And she is an artist in not only fibers. Lisa gave me a card that has a pen and ink drawing on the outside of an angora rabbit, done with a minimum of lines, very beautiful. Her mother drew it and drew a mohair goat and woolly sheep for other cards. But I love the rabbit.
Later, Lisa took me into the back yard of her shop and dug up a sample of madder, a plant from which a red dye can be made. She showed me a machine which cards wool, a dangerous-looking thing with lots of rollers covered with sharp wire brushes. And a felting machine which was made of two very large flat pieces that squashed and rubbed wetted combed wool between its panels until it became a solid mass. And she showed me some of her dyed yarns. One skein was a beautiful shade of green she’d colored using copper wire – and suddenly I realized that it is the exact color of the oxidized copper roof of St. Mary’s Cathedral in Minneapolis. She said Kool Aid is a great dye – she uses vinegar to set the colors, making it a safe process for children to try. But a lot of her wool and all of her angora is left its natural colors.
It was a wonderful visit, I loved meeting Lisa and Maria, and I think my runaway character Doris Valentine is going to have an interesting time in Amboy.
Amboy is a long drive from the Twin Cities, as I found out on Monday. The weather was breezy but sunny and not too hot. It’s a very pretty drive down 169, which pretty much runs alongside the Minnesota River. The river, I thought to myself, used to be much bigger than it is now, because it has high hills on either side that are some distance from the river itself, and the land runs down to the water from them. Then, by chance, I paused at a rest stop and read a sign that said the Minnesota River occupies the bed of what was once an enormous river made from the melt-off of mile-thick glaciers that covered the state. A glacier a mile thick! I caught myself measuring off a mile on the highway and trying to imagine an ice-pack that tall. What an astonishing sight it must have been!
Amboy is a very small town of about five hundred, south of St. Peter, south of Mankato. The business district is one block long. It has four churches, no grocery store at present (one is planned), and an antique shop packed full of antique clothes (Victorian underwear!), toys, furniture, and hundreds of hats. The restaurant I was looking for is in a darling little building set back from the main street in a little lawn with iron (really!) and real flowers. And the food is fabulous! I was a little surprised that there was such wonderful food – and not the basic stuff like mashed potatoes and pot roast you often find in small towns, but basil-flavored tomato soup with mushrooms and corn, and pita bread stuffed with cooked onions, herbed vegetables and grilled chicken. And the best pies in the state.
Lisa is a tall, slender, beautiful woman who must never sleep, because she runs
the restaurant and a craft shop for her wool and angora items, plus she is buying the nineteenth-century building her shop is in and renovating it, hammering off years of paint and plaster to expose the brick walls, and putting up a tin ceiling by herelf. Her mother, Maria, is an artist and spinster (meaning one who spins!), too. And quietly charming. She’s the one currently raising the angora rabbits. She brought one from her home in Blue Earth to show me.
I have never in my life seen a rabbit that big. He filled a wire cage big enough for six chickens, and at first glance I thought he was two very big white rabbits. He had huge red eyes and the usual winking nose and big ears he lay back on his shoulders or held erect. He didn’t move when I reached into the open top of the cage to stroke him. He was, of course, very fluffy, and I thought it must be all hair, but when I touched him my fingers didn’t sink to my knuckles like I thought they would. This was a very solid rabbit!
Lisa sat down at her spinning wheel, spread a towel on her lap, and hauled the rabbit up onto her lap by the scruff of his neck. She showed me how the fur is pulled out rather than combed out – the rabbit did not so much as blink as she pulled out fingerfuls of white fur. She invited me to try it, and, while it doesn’t just fall out, it doesn’t take much of a tug to get a sample of it. Then she started her spinning wheel turning using a foot pedal, the kind that goes up and down, and began feeding the fur into the yarn already coming out of the mechanism. Soon she had a rhythm going, pulling out fur with one hand and twisting it into the yarn with the aid of the other. It was fascinating to watch how smooth and even the yarn was as it came out of her hands. We talked while she worked, and the rabbit – whose name is, I think, Fernando, sat perfectly still. Lisa said the rabbit actually likes being plucked because his fur is so thick and hot. In my opinion (which is worth exactly nothing) Fernando is too stupid to know if he does or does not like something unless it involves drawing blood or eating clover. Since this involved neither, he was content to sit still. He did look as if he were thinking long thoughts – or merely listening to the cricket sounds in his otherwise empty mind. Certainly he has a very small and narrow head, so there’s not room in there for much of a brain.
Wool fibers have microscopic "hooks" that make it hold together when twisted. Angora doesn’t have that, so adding wool fibers makes it stronger. But pure angora yarn is incredibly soft, and it isn’t smooth like wool but has a long, thin nap, as if it were enveloped in a cloud. Lisa told me that the younger the animal (goat, rabbit or sheep), the softer the fibers, but I can’t imagine anything softer than the angora yarn she was spinning. Lisa will spin a length of yarn, then take another single-ply yarn and twist it onto the first, going in the opposite direction to make a two-ply yarn that hangs straight and won’t twist back on itself. Most yarns she spins have at least two plies.
She had a couple of felted wool hats in shades of pale cream and brown for sale (to make a felted hat or purse, you knit it in a very large size, then wash it in hot water to make it thicken and shrink). I looked at them, but bought a pure angora beret that is a natural color somewhere between gray and blue and so soft I will have to restrain myself from rubbing it between my fingers instead of wearing it. Oddly, rabbit angora will not shrink so it cannot be felted – if it is blended with wool and the wool is felted, the angora will make something like picots (tiny loops) all over the wool.
Lisa’s mother has worked with rabbits all her life. And she is an artist in not only fibers. Lisa gave me a card that has a pen and ink drawing on the outside of an angora rabbit, done with a minimum of lines, very beautiful. Her mother drew it and drew a mohair goat and woolly sheep for other cards. But I love the rabbit.
Later, Lisa took me into the back yard of her shop and dug up a sample of madder, a plant from which a red dye can be made. She showed me a machine which cards wool, a dangerous-looking thing with lots of rollers covered with sharp wire brushes. And a felting machine which was made of two very large flat pieces that squashed and rubbed wetted combed wool between its panels until it became a solid mass. And she showed me some of her dyed yarns. One skein was a beautiful shade of green she’d colored using copper wire – and suddenly I realized that it is the exact color of the oxidized copper roof of St. Mary’s Cathedral in Minneapolis. She said Kool Aid is a great dye – she uses vinegar to set the colors, making it a safe process for children to try. But a lot of her wool and all of her angora is left its natural colors.
It was a wonderful visit, I loved meeting Lisa and Maria, and I think my runaway character Doris Valentine is going to have an interesting time in Amboy.
All Things Miniature by Camille Minichino aka Margaret Grace
Killerhobbies has graced my Bookmark Bar since its wonderful writers started it. I've derived so much enjoyment from this site, and I'm thrilled to be part of it.
Pardon me if I forget my name. I used to be Camille Minichino, author of eight books in the periodic table mysteries but for the last few weeks, I've also been Margaret Grace, author of the miniature mysteries. The first in the series, "Murder in Miniature" is due from Berkley Prime Crime in February 2008.
My husband questions my allegiance — I declined the opportunity to change my name to his when I married him thirty years ago, but I quickly agreed to change it when my agent recommended a pen name. He has a point.
Camille and Margaret come together in a bookcase in my living room. I've converted it to a miniature three-story building—the Galigani Mortuary, where my periodic table protagonist, Gloria Lamerino lives.
On the lower floor is the embalming room—it's not easy to find embalming tables, trocars, or mortician's pins in miniature catalogs, so I had to do some improvising. The laundry room is down there, too (on the right in the photo). No wonder Gloria's laundry is backed up—she's afraid to go down there alone, or after dark. I felt this scene needed some comic relief, so I added the ruby slippers under the embalming table. See what you think.
The next floor up holds the parlor, where the mortuary's clients are laid out for viewing. The casket started life as a box of paperclips. How embarrassing—while taking this photo, I noticed that my dollhouse floor needs vacuuming as much as my real life living-room floor!
Gloria's apartment is on the third floor. It's undergoing remodel and will be available for a photo session later.
If you'd like to know how any of this was constructed, let me know. From time to time I'll be posting tips—for more normal rooms, you'll be glad to know.
Monday, May 21, 2007
This and That...
Every so often I like to journal small stuff, like the minutia of life. Here’s a sample:
* Mr. Miracle Grow—I’ve always figured you stick a plant in the ground and let nature take its course. Not so David, my husband. He’s out there watering every morning and fertilizing at least every other week. You know what? He was right: Our lawn and flowers look fantastic.
* Mono—Lots of words begin with “mono,” the prefix meaning “one.” There’s monopoly, monotone, monotonous, and mononucleosis. Michael, my 17-year-old son, has mononucleosis. The poor kid is really sick, tired, feverous, and miserable. And this is going to go on for a while, which is monotonous. But I’m trying to consider this a special family time together since it’s so hard to get a teenager to slow down, which means our chance to monopolize and capitalize on this opportunity. (By the way, that part about mono suppressing your appetite? It hasn’t happened at our house.)
* Monarch—While I was walking Rafferty, I noticed a big hole in the leaf of a milkweed plant. Sure enough, when I turned it upside down, I saw a Monarch butterfly (another “mono” word!) caterpillar hanging on. I carefully plucked off the leaf and brought it home. I put it in a big plastic container with a piece of damp paper towel at the bottom. Then I set it beside Michael’s computer. When he woke up the next morning, he found the new “pet.” It made him happy—and I know that’s one caterpillar that will make it to be a butterfly because we’ll care for it until it metamorphs. (Is that a word?)
* A New Name, A New Life—Someone asked me if our rescue dog’s name was always Rafferty. I don’t think so. I think that when a dog is given a foster home, he or she also gets a new name to go with a new life. I hope so. I like the name Rafferty, and I want to think he only has good associations when he hears it.
* Susan McBride—And I had lunch together on Saturday before she spoke to our Sisters in Crime group. I really enjoy her Debutante Dropout Mystery series. I also like her spunk. She’s coming back from a bout with breast cancer, and each time I see her, I have a new image of the word “survivor.” The title of her most recent book, Night of the Living Deb, is just brilliant. That's Susan's picture upper right.
* My, What a BIG Hummingbird—Each night the syrup disappeared in our feeder: Poof! So I thought I’d start bringing it in after dark. Last night I threw open the back door and came face to face with a raccoon. Did I write raccoon? Huh. This guy was SUPER-raccoon, bigger than poor Rafferty. I decided he could have the syrup. Gulp.
* Somewhere Out There—I went to send a sympathy card to Linda Johnston about her dog’s death. I realized I have NO idea where she lives. I mean, she’s as close as my computer keyboard and Internet connection. I have a lot of friends like that. It’s kind of weird that I can’t say, “Oh, she’s in Kalamazoo.” I do have her cell phone number. I think I do, at least. Which is more than I have with some of my Internet buddies. I can’t even call some of these folks on the phone. Worse yet, there are a few I’ve never met in person. And yet…they are my friends. I could have never predicted this a decade ago, but it’s true.
* Speaking of Cards—I keep buying them and losing them. ARRRGGGHHH. I did manage to get a lot written this weekend: A sympathy over a loss of a loved one, an “I’m thinking of you” letter to a friend with MS, a get well card to Elaine Viets, a graduation congratulations, a pregnancy congratulations, two birthdays, one belated birthday, and more “thank you” notes than I can count. You know, that’s a pretty correct percentage, come to think of it. There’s a balance of good and bad, but on the whole a LOT more to be thankful for.
Hey! I just remembered where the cards are! Yipppeeeee!
Sunday, May 20, 2007
New Addition to Killer Hobbies!
We'd like to give a warm welcome to Camille Minichino, who will be sharing Tuesday blogging with Deb Baker. Camille has written eight fabulous periodic table mysteries and is set to launch a new series under the name, Margaret Grace. Look for MURDER IN MINIATURE in the spring.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Loss of a Pet
As I said when I first started participating in KillerHobbies, I was delighted to be asked to join in even though I considered pets not hobbies but family.
One of my dear family members is now gone, and I’m teary-eyed as I write this. But then, I’ve been terribly sad for days.
I’d mentioned in my posting last week that my 13-year-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Sparquie had spent the last few days at the vet’s. She’d stopped eating, perhaps because she had nibbled on her bedding. Whether it resulted from that or something else, her main problem turned out to be an accordion-like section in her intestine. Perhaps it was caused by an obstruction, or a growth, or... well, there were several possibilities. But at her age, and the way she had been failing, we decided not to make her suffer through surgery to find out.
I’ve lost several Cavaliers over the many years they’ve owned me, and this has been the most difficult loss, particularly since it was the first time I had to make a decision when it was time for her to go. The only two males I’ve owned, Panda and Micquie, both dropped in their tracks just shy of their 10th birthdays. One female, Lucia, lived to age 16 and although I had her put to sleep, she’d had a massive stroke and would not have survived anyway, so there really was no other choice. Then Sparquie’s mom, Emily, died in my arms from a seizure. She’d been having other seizures so her passing wasn’t entirely unexpected.
According to the vet, Sparquie could have survived perhaps a day if we had brought her home once more, but she might have suffered. She certainly had little quality of life at the veterinary hospital and was clearly deteriorating. So, my husband Fred and I made the decision we felt we had to. There are many ways to refer to it--euthanasia. Putting her down. Putting her to sleep. Letting her cross the rainbow bridge. Whatever the euphemism, however it’s phrased, she is now gone from our life. But absolutely not forgotten.
I see her at our front door, demanding to be allowed onto the porch behind the wrought iron gate, her window onto the world. I feel her leap onto the sofa beside me in her favorite spot--insisting that Lexie move to my other side--and waiting to be petted, then rewarding me with a small kiss. I find her fluffy white fur everywhere and know that, when Lexie sniffs at some of my clothing, it’s her dear friend’s scent she senses, only adding to her confusion and obvious loneliness. I even took Lexie to the vet because her stomach was upset, and the only cause we could discern was stress. And loss.
Family and friends understand the loss and offer hugs and condolences for the loss of our dear pup. And I appreciate it. I know that passage of time will help, and so will lots of licks and hugs from Lexie.
But I really miss my Sparq.
--Linda
One of my dear family members is now gone, and I’m teary-eyed as I write this. But then, I’ve been terribly sad for days.
I’d mentioned in my posting last week that my 13-year-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Sparquie had spent the last few days at the vet’s. She’d stopped eating, perhaps because she had nibbled on her bedding. Whether it resulted from that or something else, her main problem turned out to be an accordion-like section in her intestine. Perhaps it was caused by an obstruction, or a growth, or... well, there were several possibilities. But at her age, and the way she had been failing, we decided not to make her suffer through surgery to find out.
I’ve lost several Cavaliers over the many years they’ve owned me, and this has been the most difficult loss, particularly since it was the first time I had to make a decision when it was time for her to go. The only two males I’ve owned, Panda and Micquie, both dropped in their tracks just shy of their 10th birthdays. One female, Lucia, lived to age 16 and although I had her put to sleep, she’d had a massive stroke and would not have survived anyway, so there really was no other choice. Then Sparquie’s mom, Emily, died in my arms from a seizure. She’d been having other seizures so her passing wasn’t entirely unexpected.
According to the vet, Sparquie could have survived perhaps a day if we had brought her home once more, but she might have suffered. She certainly had little quality of life at the veterinary hospital and was clearly deteriorating. So, my husband Fred and I made the decision we felt we had to. There are many ways to refer to it--euthanasia. Putting her down. Putting her to sleep. Letting her cross the rainbow bridge. Whatever the euphemism, however it’s phrased, she is now gone from our life. But absolutely not forgotten.
I see her at our front door, demanding to be allowed onto the porch behind the wrought iron gate, her window onto the world. I feel her leap onto the sofa beside me in her favorite spot--insisting that Lexie move to my other side--and waiting to be petted, then rewarding me with a small kiss. I find her fluffy white fur everywhere and know that, when Lexie sniffs at some of my clothing, it’s her dear friend’s scent she senses, only adding to her confusion and obvious loneliness. I even took Lexie to the vet because her stomach was upset, and the only cause we could discern was stress. And loss.
Family and friends understand the loss and offer hugs and condolences for the loss of our dear pup. And I appreciate it. I know that passage of time will help, and so will lots of licks and hugs from Lexie.
But I really miss my Sparq.
--Linda
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
I bet you thought I forgot all about you. Well, I did, sort of. I got up early this morning, as I do on Wednesdays and went off to water aerobics. On coming home, I realized I hadn’t written up my entry last night, as I usually do. And I didn’t have time this morning, because I had to leave almost immediately after breakfast (a hasty bowl of cereal with a banana sliced in it) for St. Peter, something over an hour down the road.
I LOVE research! This is for Thai Die, in which Doris Valentine, in fear of her life, runs away from Excelsior with nothing more than her purse. She realizes she cannot use her credit cards, because they can be traced. So she must use what cash is in her purse, which isn’t a lot. So she can’t go far.
Plus, she can’t stay at a hotel or motel, for two reasons. Most won’t take cash anymore, they want a credit card. Second, even if she could use cash, all anyone has to do is call the hotel or motel and ask if there is a Doris Valentine registered there.
I went to St. Peter a couple of weeks ago, looking for a boarding house, and instead found a "secret" bed and breakfast called The March Hare Inn and Gallery. The owner isn’t quite finished with restoration (it’s a mansion built in 1876), but will rent rooms if you can find the place. It doesn’t even have a sign in the yard. But I needed to see it again and talk to the innkeeper, whose name is Heidi, to make sure she understood someone is going to die in The March Hare. She did – in fact, she wants me to hold the publication party for the book (Thai Die, coming out in the latter part of 2008) at the old house. Which I think is a great idea!
I also talked with a law enforcement man named Ray Thrower, who now is in charge of the security force at Gustavus Adolphus College, who gave me some extremely relevant information about how this crime would be investigated, and how Doris Valentine, who will run away again, might be found. And Prof. Elizabeth Baer, who arranged my appointment with Thrower, told me a great, great place Doris might end up in her flight. Did you know Minnesota is full of eccentric people? There’s a very small town way south of here where a woman bought a 1920s gas station and turned it into an excellent restaurant. She also raises angora rabbits and combs out their fur, spins it into yarn which she dyes and knits into mittens and scarves. Angora rabbit fur is the most delightfully soft yarn you can imagine. The town is called Amboy, and I never heard of it until today. Well, Doris loves to knit, so the two get to talking and Doris ends up hiding out in Amboy.
I also spoke with the second-in-command at the Sheriff’s Department – St. Peter is the county seat down there. He told me that BCA (Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, the Minnesota state crime lab people) would be called, and his department would turn out, and the local police department would be first responders plus sending an investigator, and the county coroner would also come over. It’s going to be rather crowded at the foot of those steep stairs! I’m going to use real names of real people in all of this – except for the police. The chief was a nice, tall, soft-spoken but wary man, who asked me not to use his or a detective’s real name. So I won’t.
I just got home and haven’t had my supper yet, so I’m going down and eat a hot dog and some potato
I LOVE research! This is for Thai Die, in which Doris Valentine, in fear of her life, runs away from Excelsior with nothing more than her purse. She realizes she cannot use her credit cards, because they can be traced. So she must use what cash is in her purse, which isn’t a lot. So she can’t go far.
Plus, she can’t stay at a hotel or motel, for two reasons. Most won’t take cash anymore, they want a credit card. Second, even if she could use cash, all anyone has to do is call the hotel or motel and ask if there is a Doris Valentine registered there.
I went to St. Peter a couple of weeks ago, looking for a boarding house, and instead found a "secret" bed and breakfast called The March Hare Inn and Gallery. The owner isn’t quite finished with restoration (it’s a mansion built in 1876), but will rent rooms if you can find the place. It doesn’t even have a sign in the yard. But I needed to see it again and talk to the innkeeper, whose name is Heidi, to make sure she understood someone is going to die in The March Hare. She did – in fact, she wants me to hold the publication party for the book (Thai Die, coming out in the latter part of 2008) at the old house. Which I think is a great idea!
I also talked with a law enforcement man named Ray Thrower, who now is in charge of the security force at Gustavus Adolphus College, who gave me some extremely relevant information about how this crime would be investigated, and how Doris Valentine, who will run away again, might be found. And Prof. Elizabeth Baer, who arranged my appointment with Thrower, told me a great, great place Doris might end up in her flight. Did you know Minnesota is full of eccentric people? There’s a very small town way south of here where a woman bought a 1920s gas station and turned it into an excellent restaurant. She also raises angora rabbits and combs out their fur, spins it into yarn which she dyes and knits into mittens and scarves. Angora rabbit fur is the most delightfully soft yarn you can imagine. The town is called Amboy, and I never heard of it until today. Well, Doris loves to knit, so the two get to talking and Doris ends up hiding out in Amboy.
I also spoke with the second-in-command at the Sheriff’s Department – St. Peter is the county seat down there. He told me that BCA (Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, the Minnesota state crime lab people) would be called, and his department would turn out, and the local police department would be first responders plus sending an investigator, and the county coroner would also come over. It’s going to be rather crowded at the foot of those steep stairs! I’m going to use real names of real people in all of this – except for the police. The chief was a nice, tall, soft-spoken but wary man, who asked me not to use his or a detective’s real name. So I won’t.
I just got home and haven’t had my supper yet, so I’m going down and eat a hot dog and some potato
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Weight Watchers
by Deb Baker
My hobby this month is losing fat. After pounding out six mysteries in two and a half years, I’ve blimped out to a scale reading I never expected to see in my lifetime. Yipes. Time for intervention. Time for Weight Watchers On-Line.
I didn’t know about this nifty option until I googled around. There it was. A three month package on-line with a daily chart to count points and a weekly weigh-in. The handy site calculated my age, weight, etc. and came up with my magic number. I started out with 18 points per day and 35 points to use any way I’d like throughout the week. Since I love wine, I decided to use the spare ones as wine points. Smart, right?
Weight watchers suggested 3 servings of fat-free dairy products every day since I’m over fifty. Okay, there go 6 of my 18 points. 12 left. I could have 3 ounces portions of meat. I got out my handy kitchen scale because I didn’t have a clue. I found out that 1 ounce of meat, poultry, or fish is the equivalent of one mouthful! I’m exaggerating a bit, but not much. So one boneless, skinless chicken breast is 3 points. Now I’m down to 9 points and I’ve only had milk and chicken.
The good news is that veggies and most fruits are free. Bad news is I’ll never again see a baked potato or a lucious mound of pasta.
By Wednesday of the first week, I had used my 35 extra points just trying to survive. I had 4 days to go and NO extra points left. Sheer determination got me through to my first weigh-in where I’d lost 2 pounds. Yahoo. The best part is, I found out I can get points back by exercising. A chart tells me how many points for what activity. And housework, gardening, and laundry washing count as points.
Three weeks into it and I’m really on my way. I’m eating healthier than I’ve ever eaten in my life. I’m walking for wine points ( I have to have my wine) and I’m learning portion control.
Spring has sprung and life is good.
I didn’t know about this nifty option until I googled around. There it was. A three month package on-line with a daily chart to count points and a weekly weigh-in. The handy site calculated my age, weight, etc. and came up with my magic number. I started out with 18 points per day and 35 points to use any way I’d like throughout the week. Since I love wine, I decided to use the spare ones as wine points. Smart, right?
Weight watchers suggested 3 servings of fat-free dairy products every day since I’m over fifty. Okay, there go 6 of my 18 points. 12 left. I could have 3 ounces portions of meat. I got out my handy kitchen scale because I didn’t have a clue. I found out that 1 ounce of meat, poultry, or fish is the equivalent of one mouthful! I’m exaggerating a bit, but not much. So one boneless, skinless chicken breast is 3 points. Now I’m down to 9 points and I’ve only had milk and chicken.
The good news is that veggies and most fruits are free. Bad news is I’ll never again see a baked potato or a lucious mound of pasta.
By Wednesday of the first week, I had used my 35 extra points just trying to survive. I had 4 days to go and NO extra points left. Sheer determination got me through to my first weigh-in where I’d lost 2 pounds. Yahoo. The best part is, I found out I can get points back by exercising. A chart tells me how many points for what activity. And housework, gardening, and laundry washing count as points.
Three weeks into it and I’m really on my way. I’m eating healthier than I’ve ever eaten in my life. I’m walking for wine points ( I have to have my wine) and I’m learning portion control.
Spring has sprung and life is good.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
The Power of Love
by Joanna Campbell SlanA recent New York Times article showed knitters creating orange and maroon blankets for the families of those killed in the Virginia Tech massacre.
I hope that many of you will join with me in knitting--or crocheting--at least one square. I believe you are reading this blog because you believe in the power of handmade articles. I know I do.
You see, every time I make something by hand, I make it with love. With every stitch (even those I pull out and start over), I add a prayer. Currently, I'm working on a tea cozy for my friend, Margaret, whose father in Scotland has taken a turn for the worse. Even when I’m not consciously thinking these loving thoughts, on some level, I am adding them in with every stitch.
And I know Margaret will be able to tell the tea cozy was made with love. It will do more than warm the teapot; it will warm her heart.
I know this about crafts because I still have little cotton purses my grandmother cross-stitched for me. I still run my fingers over the tiny Xs that spell my name, and I see her—vivid, real and oh-so-alive—in my mind’s eye. I know how something matters when it’s made with love because I’ve seen my son’s face light up when he looks at a scrapbook page that he’s the star of. I know how special a poncho is when it’s crocheted with love, because I know how much my sister Meg enjoys the poncho I made her—and how when she puts it on, it’s sort of like my arms hugging her, and she can feel it, I see it in her face.
So those knitters making the blankets for the families of the Virginia Tech tragedy, well, they aren’t really knitting blankets. They are knitting love, compassion, sympathy, support, good-wishes, caring, and prayers of healing into lumpy squares of wool. And even if each of those families has a hundred other blankets in the closet, even if the LAST thing they need is another blanket, they DO need these particular handmade blankets.
And folks, that’s why I do crafts. It’s not cheaper than store-bought. Given my talents, it’s certainly not more perfect or exacting. But each item I make is imbued with love. The craft item in question may look like a blanket, a tea cozy, a draw-string purse, a scrapbook page, a poncho, whatever…but it’s really a prayer made manifest.
Want to help the grieving families at Virginia Tech? Go to http://www.wtnh.tv/blogs/index.php/anchors/2007/05/01/knitters_helping_virginia_tech to learn how you can contribute a crocheted or knitted square. The last day to contribute your square is May 31. And if you do decide to contribute, tell me about it in an email, please. Email me at savetales@aol.com and I'll send you a personal thank you note.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Inventive Things To Do With Your Research
If you're like me, after you've researched the family for twenty years and you have amassed a great deal of documents, photocopies, old photographs and information . . . you're not sure what to actually do with it. It's been my experience that unless a person is a fellow researcher, or just particularly interested in the family tree, most people can't make heads or tails out of the charts and their eyes start to glaze over after a few minutes of looking at all of your hard work. And they're only back to great, great grandpa! Considering part of the reason I worked so hard to get all of this information down was to pass on to the next generation, this was a matter of great concern. So, I got creative.
Here's three ways to present the information on your family tree to somebody who might care, but isn't a genealogist himself. And besides, we all know that what makes the ancestor so interesting is the stories behind him or her, not just their names and dates.
1.) Family history scrapbook! My favorite. I've made several for each one of my children (with the same information and photographs, triplicated. Since I have three kids.) I've found I have way too much info to put in one scrapbook, so I had to make two or three for each kid. So, this can be a daunting task. So, if you want to condense yours and put two generations on one scrapbook page that works, too. Basically, I start page one with whichever child the book is for. On that page I put his or her vital statistics with lots of pictures from their childhood. Sometimes I do a couple of pages each of the first three generations. Next page(s) I do that child's parents etc. Then grandparents. You get the picture. What I've done is try to do "sides of the family." So, even though my husband will be included on the "parents" page, when it comes to the grandparents page, I only follow my side of the family or his side of the family, depending on which book I'm working on. And then I just fill the book with all of the info I've gathered on my family tree, only instead of boring charts, I use photographs of the ancestor (if I have them) I make copies of old documents and shrink them down to fit on the page, I use lots of dye cuts and stickers and what have you to represent a particular time period. Like, for my revolutionary war ancestor, I found stickers of Washington crossing the Delaware and I used those on a page of red, white and blue stars. It's very important to write a little something about the ancestor in question aside from names and dates. You could even write about the difficulty you had finding this ancestor. What nationality you think he might be. Details of military service, or court records. (I had an ancestor sue his wife for not performing her "wifely duties.") On one of my husband's lines, I knew very little about the person, other than they lived in a particular place in Germany. So, I did some research on Germany during that time period and discovered that Beethoven had made a visit to that area during that time. So, I wrote about that, to try and put some sort of face to this ancestor. It's difficult when you only know a name and a date. So, that's my favorite way to put my information down, because I've yet to meet anybody who's looked at a family history scrapbook that was bored. My kids love them and although they may never be researchers themselves, they've got the family history preserved. (Don't forget to save a page for aunts, uncles and cousins.)
2) a genealogical quilt. I made one of these, too. Actually, I've made three. One, I did in an Indian Hatchet design, which gives a large area of white to write on. With washable fabric ink (or even embroidery) I wrote the names of my grandparents, their children, their grandchildren and the beginnings of the great grandchildren, on individual squares. I tried to match up fabric with my impression of the person. Like my grandmother's square is in feedsack cloth, my grandpa's is an old shirt of his. My square is in Christmas fabric, since my birthday is in December. I did the same thing for the otherside of the family only I used the old friendship block. Lastly, I got a bit more adventureous and did one with all of my known ancestors names, dates and place of birth written on the blocks. There's no way to tell who is the parents of whom unless you do the math and substract, but that's okay. Just the fact that all of their names are on one quilt makes me happy and is a priceless heirloom.
3) Family recipe scrapbook. This is not quite as big of an undertaking as the other two projects. What I did was gather recipes from as many people in the family as I could, found recipes that my grandparent's used, I even have a recipe for my great, great Aunt Minnie's divinity. My aunt graciously gave me an old canning book that belonged to my grandmother, where Grandma had written in the margins the changes to the recipes. Not only did I put that little booklet in the scrapbook, but I wrote out two of the recipes. On each recipe page, I put a photograph of the person and a paragraph of how they're related to me, and their "history." Now, this won't go back nearly as far as a quilt or a family history scrapbook, but it's a nice preservation of recipes of the family. Don't forget to include a recipe or two from yourself.
That's all for now!
Rett MacPherson
Here's three ways to present the information on your family tree to somebody who might care, but isn't a genealogist himself. And besides, we all know that what makes the ancestor so interesting is the stories behind him or her, not just their names and dates.
1.) Family history scrapbook! My favorite. I've made several for each one of my children (with the same information and photographs, triplicated. Since I have three kids.) I've found I have way too much info to put in one scrapbook, so I had to make two or three for each kid. So, this can be a daunting task. So, if you want to condense yours and put two generations on one scrapbook page that works, too. Basically, I start page one with whichever child the book is for. On that page I put his or her vital statistics with lots of pictures from their childhood. Sometimes I do a couple of pages each of the first three generations. Next page(s) I do that child's parents etc. Then grandparents. You get the picture. What I've done is try to do "sides of the family." So, even though my husband will be included on the "parents" page, when it comes to the grandparents page, I only follow my side of the family or his side of the family, depending on which book I'm working on. And then I just fill the book with all of the info I've gathered on my family tree, only instead of boring charts, I use photographs of the ancestor (if I have them) I make copies of old documents and shrink them down to fit on the page, I use lots of dye cuts and stickers and what have you to represent a particular time period. Like, for my revolutionary war ancestor, I found stickers of Washington crossing the Delaware and I used those on a page of red, white and blue stars. It's very important to write a little something about the ancestor in question aside from names and dates. You could even write about the difficulty you had finding this ancestor. What nationality you think he might be. Details of military service, or court records. (I had an ancestor sue his wife for not performing her "wifely duties.") On one of my husband's lines, I knew very little about the person, other than they lived in a particular place in Germany. So, I did some research on Germany during that time period and discovered that Beethoven had made a visit to that area during that time. So, I wrote about that, to try and put some sort of face to this ancestor. It's difficult when you only know a name and a date. So, that's my favorite way to put my information down, because I've yet to meet anybody who's looked at a family history scrapbook that was bored. My kids love them and although they may never be researchers themselves, they've got the family history preserved. (Don't forget to save a page for aunts, uncles and cousins.)
2) a genealogical quilt. I made one of these, too. Actually, I've made three. One, I did in an Indian Hatchet design, which gives a large area of white to write on. With washable fabric ink (or even embroidery) I wrote the names of my grandparents, their children, their grandchildren and the beginnings of the great grandchildren, on individual squares. I tried to match up fabric with my impression of the person. Like my grandmother's square is in feedsack cloth, my grandpa's is an old shirt of his. My square is in Christmas fabric, since my birthday is in December. I did the same thing for the otherside of the family only I used the old friendship block. Lastly, I got a bit more adventureous and did one with all of my known ancestors names, dates and place of birth written on the blocks. There's no way to tell who is the parents of whom unless you do the math and substract, but that's okay. Just the fact that all of their names are on one quilt makes me happy and is a priceless heirloom.
3) Family recipe scrapbook. This is not quite as big of an undertaking as the other two projects. What I did was gather recipes from as many people in the family as I could, found recipes that my grandparent's used, I even have a recipe for my great, great Aunt Minnie's divinity. My aunt graciously gave me an old canning book that belonged to my grandmother, where Grandma had written in the margins the changes to the recipes. Not only did I put that little booklet in the scrapbook, but I wrote out two of the recipes. On each recipe page, I put a photograph of the person and a paragraph of how they're related to me, and their "history." Now, this won't go back nearly as far as a quilt or a family history scrapbook, but it's a nice preservation of recipes of the family. Don't forget to include a recipe or two from yourself.
That's all for now!
Rett MacPherson
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Puff the Papillon
By Joanna Campbell Slan
The photo is of Puff, the Papillon, and me. When I saw Linda's post, I told her I had Puff's photo, and she suggested I share it with all of you. Puff is a service dog. He alerts to smoke alarms to safeguard his owner, Jean C. Keating. Jean breeds Papillons and noticed that Puff was the smartest of the litter. I was missing my dogs, so when Jean and I were together on a panel, I took the opportunity to give Puff a cuddle. The first day of Malice, Puff surprised and delighted us all by appearing in his Sherlock Bones overcoat. He's just too cute, isn't he?
Home at Last!
I’m home from Malice Domestic and the Mystery Lovers Festival at last. Not that I had a horrible time. In fact, I had a great time at both. But I really needed to come home because of my fur-kids.
Before I explain why, I do want to say how pet-oriented my whole trip seemed to be. First, I visited a great bookseller in Glen Burnie, Maryland, and a fan caught up with me at the same Borders Express. We discussed--what else?--my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mysteries and some of our respective experiences with pets.
Then, a neighbor at some property my husband and I own in Glen Burnie introduced us to her adorable dog, Bruiser.
Next, I actually got to meet Hudson, the sweet, well-behaved and utterly lovable Lab mix owned by our guest blogger, and my agent, Paige Wheeler.
At Malice, I seemed nearly always to be around fellow pet lovers who also willingly traded tales about the babies they’d left at home. One writer, though, who sat beside me at our signing had her cute Papillon perched on the ledge of her walker!
After that, I headed to Oakmont, Pennsylvania, near my hometown of Pittsburgh, for the Mystery Lovers Festival, where I met Clea Simon, author of MEW IS FOR MURDER. No, not MEOW IS FOR MURDER, my fourth Kendra book, but another mystery with a similar title. As Clea said, great minds think alike--but fortunately in this case not exactly alike.
Okay, so why was I so eager to get home? My 13-year-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Sparquie has spent the last few days at the vet’s. She’d stopped eating, very unlike her. It could have been because she started nibbling on her bedding, a bad habit she’d had when younger but had given up, or so I’d thought. She seemed to take it up again now that I was out of town. She was also found to have pancreatitis. Fortunately, she seems to be getting better. I returned home too late on Wednesday to visit her, but if all goes well I’ll be able to bring her home on Thursday morning.
Then there’s Lexie. She’s been acting nuts and upset in my absence, not only because she misses Sparquie but also because she’s jealous, believing that Sparquie is on one heck of a long, fun ride. How do I know? Well, Lexie loves rides and acts as if she thinks a lot of human acts are hints that she’s about to embark on one. She has a special high-pitched whine that she utters only when she thinks a ride is coming on. My older son Eric, who stepped in to assist with the doggy situation, even took her for a ride to see if it helped her to settle down. It didn’t.
Well, now I’m home, so I’ll give Lexie lots of attention. She seems to be worn out. When I get in the car to fetch Sparquie, though, I expect she’ll get all excited once more. Please send some good wishes our way, especially for Sparquie. Thanks!
--Linda
Before I explain why, I do want to say how pet-oriented my whole trip seemed to be. First, I visited a great bookseller in Glen Burnie, Maryland, and a fan caught up with me at the same Borders Express. We discussed--what else?--my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mysteries and some of our respective experiences with pets.
Then, a neighbor at some property my husband and I own in Glen Burnie introduced us to her adorable dog, Bruiser.
Next, I actually got to meet Hudson, the sweet, well-behaved and utterly lovable Lab mix owned by our guest blogger, and my agent, Paige Wheeler.
At Malice, I seemed nearly always to be around fellow pet lovers who also willingly traded tales about the babies they’d left at home. One writer, though, who sat beside me at our signing had her cute Papillon perched on the ledge of her walker!
After that, I headed to Oakmont, Pennsylvania, near my hometown of Pittsburgh, for the Mystery Lovers Festival, where I met Clea Simon, author of MEW IS FOR MURDER. No, not MEOW IS FOR MURDER, my fourth Kendra book, but another mystery with a similar title. As Clea said, great minds think alike--but fortunately in this case not exactly alike.
Okay, so why was I so eager to get home? My 13-year-old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Sparquie has spent the last few days at the vet’s. She’d stopped eating, very unlike her. It could have been because she started nibbling on her bedding, a bad habit she’d had when younger but had given up, or so I’d thought. She seemed to take it up again now that I was out of town. She was also found to have pancreatitis. Fortunately, she seems to be getting better. I returned home too late on Wednesday to visit her, but if all goes well I’ll be able to bring her home on Thursday morning.
Then there’s Lexie. She’s been acting nuts and upset in my absence, not only because she misses Sparquie but also because she’s jealous, believing that Sparquie is on one heck of a long, fun ride. How do I know? Well, Lexie loves rides and acts as if she thinks a lot of human acts are hints that she’s about to embark on one. She has a special high-pitched whine that she utters only when she thinks a ride is coming on. My older son Eric, who stepped in to assist with the doggy situation, even took her for a ride to see if it helped her to settle down. It didn’t.
Well, now I’m home, so I’ll give Lexie lots of attention. She seems to be worn out. When I get in the car to fetch Sparquie, though, I expect she’ll get all excited once more. Please send some good wishes our way, especially for Sparquie. Thanks!
--Linda
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Malice Domestic
I tried posting this early this morning but a curious thing happened: my computer had been wiped of its "cookies," and Killer Hobbies didn't recognize me! While I was in Washington, I couldn't get online from my hotel room, and ended up calling an 800 number. The person who answered walked me through all kinds of places I didn't know my computer had, trying to fix things. It didn't work, I never got to the Internet from my room. So now, back home, the changes I made dis-enabled my ability to get onto Killer Hobbies with a post. But now it seems to have fixed itself, so here I am.
Wow, has Malice Domestic grown! Many more people in attendance than back in the early days. I had a lovely time. I had planned to go out Sunday afternoon to an art gallery or the Smithsonian, but something rather good happened: The muse struck. I actually wrote two chapters of Thai Die during that weekend. This is most unusual, normally I get caught up in things and leave my laptop sitting lonely in my room.
Not that wasn't plenty going on, panels to attend, my editor to breakfast with, and a little bit of shopping. We were given a large red-canvas tote full of books, but that didn't stop me wandering the book sellers' booths. And there was a double booth selling jewelry and wonderful things like netsukes. Ivory is the traditional material used to carve these Japanese ornaments, but now they use rosewood. I bought three of the tiny ones, ojime they're called, used to hold the knot that ties the netsuke to the sash. Those for sale were shaped like tiny animals, and were about an inch high. I bought a hen and rooster and, for my sister-in-law, a rat standing on his hind legs and holding a scroll in one forepaw – a litter rat, I guess. She collects small rat sculptures, and this guy is maybe an inch and a half tall, and complete down to microscopic claws.
The panel went well, lots of good humor and intelligent comments – and we worked on our little craft items during the panel as planned. I'm stitching a fox to go in an obscure corner of the chicken quilt I will finish someday, and I got some more of his red-brown body stitched. I don't have a proper counted cross stitch pattern to work from, just a color photo of him finished. I decided to work him in outline first, following the stitching as best I could, which isn't by any means perfect. But people looking at him recognize him as a fox, so it's okay.
The speeches given the night of the banquet were deep and inspiring, I was touched and inspired by them.
I bought a copy of the book that won an Agatha for Best First, "Heat of the Moon," and started it on my way home. I'm a bit surprised at its dark mood and one fairly explicit sex scene (so far) – the Agatha is supposed to be for the traditional or "cozy" mystery. Of course, seeing what's out there in the noir sub-genre, this could be considered tame, even cozy. It's very well written, in any case. The author has an interesting understanding of the injured human heart.
The final event of the convention was the tea and hat contest. It was a very nice tea, with cucumber sandwiches, egg salad sandwiches, and lots of cakes and pastries. And tea or coffee. Then the hat contest. They had two categories, beautiful and creative. The creative ones were fun. A straw hat with Crime Scene tape for a hatband and assorted models of murder weapons hanging from it won the creative contest. And (modest blush) I won the beautiful hat contest!! I think it was the whole costume that did it: a white wool suit, pewter shoes, green shell and green hat with a narrow brim cocked up on one side with a big silver clip and a big, flat "brush." And a long, fringed scarf in green, gray and white with long fringe. I noted that I was invoking Charlotte McLeod, who was a staple figure at the early Malice Domestic conventions, and who always looked beautiful in carefully matched suits and hats. That drew a soft "Awwwwwww" from the audience, many, if not most, of whom remember her as fondly as I do. And I do use her as inspiration, and I've come to love dressing up for these events and for signings.
Wow, has Malice Domestic grown! Many more people in attendance than back in the early days. I had a lovely time. I had planned to go out Sunday afternoon to an art gallery or the Smithsonian, but something rather good happened: The muse struck. I actually wrote two chapters of Thai Die during that weekend. This is most unusual, normally I get caught up in things and leave my laptop sitting lonely in my room.
Not that wasn't plenty going on, panels to attend, my editor to breakfast with, and a little bit of shopping. We were given a large red-canvas tote full of books, but that didn't stop me wandering the book sellers' booths. And there was a double booth selling jewelry and wonderful things like netsukes. Ivory is the traditional material used to carve these Japanese ornaments, but now they use rosewood. I bought three of the tiny ones, ojime they're called, used to hold the knot that ties the netsuke to the sash. Those for sale were shaped like tiny animals, and were about an inch high. I bought a hen and rooster and, for my sister-in-law, a rat standing on his hind legs and holding a scroll in one forepaw – a litter rat, I guess. She collects small rat sculptures, and this guy is maybe an inch and a half tall, and complete down to microscopic claws.
The panel went well, lots of good humor and intelligent comments – and we worked on our little craft items during the panel as planned. I'm stitching a fox to go in an obscure corner of the chicken quilt I will finish someday, and I got some more of his red-brown body stitched. I don't have a proper counted cross stitch pattern to work from, just a color photo of him finished. I decided to work him in outline first, following the stitching as best I could, which isn't by any means perfect. But people looking at him recognize him as a fox, so it's okay.
The speeches given the night of the banquet were deep and inspiring, I was touched and inspired by them.
I bought a copy of the book that won an Agatha for Best First, "Heat of the Moon," and started it on my way home. I'm a bit surprised at its dark mood and one fairly explicit sex scene (so far) – the Agatha is supposed to be for the traditional or "cozy" mystery. Of course, seeing what's out there in the noir sub-genre, this could be considered tame, even cozy. It's very well written, in any case. The author has an interesting understanding of the injured human heart.
The final event of the convention was the tea and hat contest. It was a very nice tea, with cucumber sandwiches, egg salad sandwiches, and lots of cakes and pastries. And tea or coffee. Then the hat contest. They had two categories, beautiful and creative. The creative ones were fun. A straw hat with Crime Scene tape for a hatband and assorted models of murder weapons hanging from it won the creative contest. And (modest blush) I won the beautiful hat contest!! I think it was the whole costume that did it: a white wool suit, pewter shoes, green shell and green hat with a narrow brim cocked up on one side with a big silver clip and a big, flat "brush." And a long, fringed scarf in green, gray and white with long fringe. I noted that I was invoking Charlotte McLeod, who was a staple figure at the early Malice Domestic conventions, and who always looked beautiful in carefully matched suits and hats. That drew a soft "Awwwwwww" from the audience, many, if not most, of whom remember her as fondly as I do. And I do use her as inspiration, and I've come to love dressing up for these events and for signings.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
The Original Travel Doll
By Deb Baker
Hitty was carved from white ash sometime in the mid-eighteen hundreds. She was a six-inch, one-of-a-kind wooden doll with black hair and blue eyes and now resides in climate control at the Stockbridge Massachusetts Library.
She sprang to life in a Newberry award winning 1929 children’s novel by Rachel Field called Hitty, Her First Hundred Years. The story was told in first person by Hitty at night in an antique shop. She described her travels and adventures so vividly that the book is still in print almost eighty years later.
Her yahoo group has 500 members and her newsletter is sent to over 1000 readers. At http://www.hitty.org/ you can purchase a replica of her, buy her clothes patterns, or select a kit to carve your very own.
I heard a rumor that someone attempted an abduction of the original Hitty, but I haven’t been able to verify it. Does anyone know if this occurred?
Hitty was carved from white ash sometime in the mid-eighteen hundreds. She was a six-inch, one-of-a-kind wooden doll with black hair and blue eyes and now resides in climate control at the Stockbridge Massachusetts Library.
She sprang to life in a Newberry award winning 1929 children’s novel by Rachel Field called Hitty, Her First Hundred Years. The story was told in first person by Hitty at night in an antique shop. She described her travels and adventures so vividly that the book is still in print almost eighty years later.
Her yahoo group has 500 members and her newsletter is sent to over 1000 readers. At http://www.hitty.org/ you can purchase a replica of her, buy her clothes patterns, or select a kit to carve your very own.
I heard a rumor that someone attempted an abduction of the original Hitty, but I haven’t been able to verify it. Does anyone know if this occurred?
Monday, May 7, 2007
Report from Malice Domestic XIX
If you love mysteries—and who doesn’t?—you’d love Malice Domestic XIX in Washington, D.C. Held annually, Malice celebrates mysteries in the style of Agatha Christie. In fact, their awards are called the Agathas.
This year for best new novel Sandra Parshall won for The Heat of the Moon; for best novel was Nancy Picard for The Virgin of High Plains; and for best non-fiction book Chris Roerden won with Don’t Murder Your Mystery.
Malice is a “fan conference.” That means the activities are geared for the enjoyment and edification of mystery fans. Fans can hear authors talk about their books, then buy the books and have them autographed.
Malice is a great place for readers to get to know new authors. Malice Go Round is a book-lovers’ version of speed dating. Readers plunk down at a table, and after the moderator gives the signal, new authors come by to pitch their books. Writers are allowed two to three minutes each. For a reader, it’s pure heaven—a surfeit of interesting ideas. And bookmarks? Did I mention bookmarks? Most authors bring bookmarks and postcards, perfect for holding your place in your current read and for reminding you of new items to put on your TBR (to be read) pile beside your bed.
I lucked out. I was invited to be on the “Undaunted Sleuths” panel. Usually you don’t get to participate unless you have your book in hand. (Over Exposed isn’t out until Fall 2008.) I was delighted to have the opportunity. First, I got to practice being on a panel. As a motivational speaker I'm used to speaking in front of a group, but that’s different from having just a few minutes and sharing the microphone with others. As a motivational speaker, it’s all up to you. In a panel, it’s a teamwork situation.
I needed something memorable to offer any audience members. You all have seen my business card. I wanted something equally “fun” that said “scrapbooking."
I came up with the bookmarks shown above. What you can’t tell is that the flower on bottom is individually hand-punched and secured with a brad. (Uh, I'll be replacing the flower punch. It pooped out on me. And my poor hand got sore from pressing down.) On the back is this compliment by Shirley Damsgaard, author of Witch Way to Murder: “Even if you passion isn’t scrapbooking, you’ll love Kiki Lowenstein! A spunky, down-on-her-luck widow with a young daughter to raise, she’s not going to let a murderer get away with---well…MURDER!” ISBN: 0-7387-1250-7
I have a few bookmarks left over. If you’d like one, email me at savetales@aol.com Be sure to put BOOKMARK in the subject line. In the body of the email include your name and postal address, and I’ll pop a bookmark in the mail to you. Supplies are limited.
This year for best new novel Sandra Parshall won for The Heat of the Moon; for best novel was Nancy Picard for The Virgin of High Plains; and for best non-fiction book Chris Roerden won with Don’t Murder Your Mystery.
Malice is a “fan conference.” That means the activities are geared for the enjoyment and edification of mystery fans. Fans can hear authors talk about their books, then buy the books and have them autographed.
Malice is a great place for readers to get to know new authors. Malice Go Round is a book-lovers’ version of speed dating. Readers plunk down at a table, and after the moderator gives the signal, new authors come by to pitch their books. Writers are allowed two to three minutes each. For a reader, it’s pure heaven—a surfeit of interesting ideas. And bookmarks? Did I mention bookmarks? Most authors bring bookmarks and postcards, perfect for holding your place in your current read and for reminding you of new items to put on your TBR (to be read) pile beside your bed.
I lucked out. I was invited to be on the “Undaunted Sleuths” panel. Usually you don’t get to participate unless you have your book in hand. (Over Exposed isn’t out until Fall 2008.) I was delighted to have the opportunity. First, I got to practice being on a panel. As a motivational speaker I'm used to speaking in front of a group, but that’s different from having just a few minutes and sharing the microphone with others. As a motivational speaker, it’s all up to you. In a panel, it’s a teamwork situation.
I needed something memorable to offer any audience members. You all have seen my business card. I wanted something equally “fun” that said “scrapbooking."
I came up with the bookmarks shown above. What you can’t tell is that the flower on bottom is individually hand-punched and secured with a brad. (Uh, I'll be replacing the flower punch. It pooped out on me. And my poor hand got sore from pressing down.) On the back is this compliment by Shirley Damsgaard, author of Witch Way to Murder: “Even if you passion isn’t scrapbooking, you’ll love Kiki Lowenstein! A spunky, down-on-her-luck widow with a young daughter to raise, she’s not going to let a murderer get away with---well…MURDER!” ISBN: 0-7387-1250-7
I have a few bookmarks left over. If you’d like one, email me at savetales@aol.com Be sure to put BOOKMARK in the subject line. In the body of the email include your name and postal address, and I’ll pop a bookmark in the mail to you. Supplies are limited.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Paducah!!!
I took a bus to Paducah, Kentucky, last Friday for the annual AQS quilt show and all I can say is, wow. When a writer can only say "wow" it must be good. I should be able to come up with some other words, but no, sorry, I can't.
My quilt guild took a bus down. We left at six in the morning, stopped for breakfast and made it there with a running desire for the ladies room before ten. I went on ahead and walked down to the AQS Musuem, which I have wanted to see for fifteen years. I was not disappointed. The display this year is Rose of Sharon quilts. They had the old ones (about 1825 to 1890) and then they had a contest to see what new and amazing ways quilters could alter this old and much loved pattern. I am continually blown away by todays quilters and their inventiveness. (Is that a word?) This display was really up my alley because the Rose of Sharon pattern is one of my favorites, and antique applique quilts have always held a special place for me.
I also visited the Eleanor Burns shop--for those of you who know who she is--and was a bit overwhelmed by all the people. I didn't really get to shop because of it. So, I guess that just means I'm going to have to go back to Paducah when it's not Quilt Week. I also did not get to visit Hancocks of Paducah, so it's not as if I'd be making a trip down there just to visit one store. (Wink Wink.) At least that's what I'll tell my husband. Seriously, though, Eleanor Burns is one of my heroes. You talk about a woman who knows how to market herself. I hope she's on the scene for another 25 years.
Aside from probably walking ten miles, I got to ride the trolley. (The entire town pretty much stops for the quilters that week, including free trolley rides all over downtown.) I also ate homemade ice-cream with peaches. That right there was worth the bus trip down there.
I got to meet fellow mystery author, Emilie Richards, who was signing books. She is a lovely and gracious woman. I shopped and shopped and shopped. The shopping was actually the most disappointing part of the trip, because the booths are so small you can barely get in them to see everything that the vendors have. And when there's five women all looking at the same pattern, well . . .
Last but not least was the show! I'm not sure how to express my feelings about that. I was both inspired by the quilts in the show, and humbled, and . . . at times sort of felt like, "gee, why am I bothering?" Sort of how I felt after I read "Fried Green Tomatoes." I thought, well, why am I bothering writing when Fannie Flagg's already written the perfect book? Well, that's how some of these quilts made me feel, too. But, I suppose it's a lot like writing. I have my own fabric to work with and my own quilts I want to make. So, I can strive to be as good as some of these ladies, but I'll be happy with what I create. I'd like to mention that fellow St. Louis quilter, Connie Chunn got an honorable mention for her miniature quilt and Suzanne Marshall got first place in the hand applique category for her dragon quilt. You go St. Louis Quilters!!!
I was also fairly surprised that having all of that estrogen under one roof didn't cause any major problems.
I met quilters from Japan, England, France, Australia . . . I even got directions from a German woman who could not speak a word of English, but managed to tell me the right way to go where I needed to go. Quilting really does unite the world. It's all in the language of a needle and thread and a scrap of fabric.
I was a little disappointed that we didn't break out singing . . . "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" on the way home, but I have to admit that most of us ladies were snoring on that bus ride home. I know I was.
Well, I feel like a real quilter now that I've been to Paducah, Kentucky. I can't wait to go back next year. Lessons I learned: Do not take a back pack. It gets in the way when you're in those tiny booths. On more than one occasion I hit some poor unsuspecting woman with it. Drink more water. You might have to make a trip to the potty more often, but getting dehydrated is worse. Take more pictures (of course.) Stay more than one day. This one goes without saying. To really have the true Paducah Experience, I think I should stay at least Friday and Saturday next year.
So, those were the highlights of my trip. It truly amazed me just how many quilters were there and from all corners of the globe. I don't think this "hobby" can be considered "old fashioned" or "out of date" any longer. It's not just something your grandmother used to do. It is a thriving industry and popular medium for people to express their creativity through.
Take care and happy reading!
Rett MacPherson
My quilt guild took a bus down. We left at six in the morning, stopped for breakfast and made it there with a running desire for the ladies room before ten. I went on ahead and walked down to the AQS Musuem, which I have wanted to see for fifteen years. I was not disappointed. The display this year is Rose of Sharon quilts. They had the old ones (about 1825 to 1890) and then they had a contest to see what new and amazing ways quilters could alter this old and much loved pattern. I am continually blown away by todays quilters and their inventiveness. (Is that a word?) This display was really up my alley because the Rose of Sharon pattern is one of my favorites, and antique applique quilts have always held a special place for me.
I also visited the Eleanor Burns shop--for those of you who know who she is--and was a bit overwhelmed by all the people. I didn't really get to shop because of it. So, I guess that just means I'm going to have to go back to Paducah when it's not Quilt Week. I also did not get to visit Hancocks of Paducah, so it's not as if I'd be making a trip down there just to visit one store. (Wink Wink.) At least that's what I'll tell my husband. Seriously, though, Eleanor Burns is one of my heroes. You talk about a woman who knows how to market herself. I hope she's on the scene for another 25 years.
Aside from probably walking ten miles, I got to ride the trolley. (The entire town pretty much stops for the quilters that week, including free trolley rides all over downtown.) I also ate homemade ice-cream with peaches. That right there was worth the bus trip down there.
I got to meet fellow mystery author, Emilie Richards, who was signing books. She is a lovely and gracious woman. I shopped and shopped and shopped. The shopping was actually the most disappointing part of the trip, because the booths are so small you can barely get in them to see everything that the vendors have. And when there's five women all looking at the same pattern, well . . .
Last but not least was the show! I'm not sure how to express my feelings about that. I was both inspired by the quilts in the show, and humbled, and . . . at times sort of felt like, "gee, why am I bothering?" Sort of how I felt after I read "Fried Green Tomatoes." I thought, well, why am I bothering writing when Fannie Flagg's already written the perfect book? Well, that's how some of these quilts made me feel, too. But, I suppose it's a lot like writing. I have my own fabric to work with and my own quilts I want to make. So, I can strive to be as good as some of these ladies, but I'll be happy with what I create. I'd like to mention that fellow St. Louis quilter, Connie Chunn got an honorable mention for her miniature quilt and Suzanne Marshall got first place in the hand applique category for her dragon quilt. You go St. Louis Quilters!!!
I was also fairly surprised that having all of that estrogen under one roof didn't cause any major problems.
I met quilters from Japan, England, France, Australia . . . I even got directions from a German woman who could not speak a word of English, but managed to tell me the right way to go where I needed to go. Quilting really does unite the world. It's all in the language of a needle and thread and a scrap of fabric.
I was a little disappointed that we didn't break out singing . . . "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" on the way home, but I have to admit that most of us ladies were snoring on that bus ride home. I know I was.
Well, I feel like a real quilter now that I've been to Paducah, Kentucky. I can't wait to go back next year. Lessons I learned: Do not take a back pack. It gets in the way when you're in those tiny booths. On more than one occasion I hit some poor unsuspecting woman with it. Drink more water. You might have to make a trip to the potty more often, but getting dehydrated is worse. Take more pictures (of course.) Stay more than one day. This one goes without saying. To really have the true Paducah Experience, I think I should stay at least Friday and Saturday next year.
So, those were the highlights of my trip. It truly amazed me just how many quilters were there and from all corners of the globe. I don't think this "hobby" can be considered "old fashioned" or "out of date" any longer. It's not just something your grandmother used to do. It is a thriving industry and popular medium for people to express their creativity through.
Take care and happy reading!
Rett MacPherson
Thursday, May 3, 2007
The Tale of the Tail
by Joanna Campbell Slan
Every morning when I come downstairs to the kitchen, the welcome party begins. Rafferty and Vicky greet me at the foot of the stairs and wriggle their bodies with joy. Since Raffi only has three legs, sometimes he falls over with the urgency of his effort. Our recently refinished wooden floor is slick; his singular back leg loses purchase. But when that happens, he pops right back up again and continues the love fest.
I plop down on the bottom stair to pet them. Our purebred Bichon Frise Vicky has a dense coat, a fancy pedigree, and a beautiful confirmation. She is perfectly formed. Rafferty is bigger, and his heritage is mixed. When the Humane Society rescued him, they discovered matted fur cut off the circulation to his right rear leg. The Small Paws volunteer who gave him a foster home had to have Raffi's hind leg amputated four months before we adopted him.
Often people don’t notice he’s missing a leg. In fact, last fall we took the dogs to my son’s soccer games, and a little girl on the sidelines pulled her finger out of her mouth long enough to say to my husband, “He’s only got three legs.”
David feigned surprise. He bent down to examine Raffi’s undercarriage. He looked back up at the child and said, “Wow! He had four when we left the house.”
When the groomer added “THREE LEGS” to poor Rafferty’s intake card, I couldn’t help but ask, “Is that so you can identify him or so no one back there thinks she lopped one off by mistake?” (I mean, really. Hello? Can we talk? I don’t write invasive personal notes about them in my checkbook. Geez.)
Reduced to three support struts, Raffi uses his tail to help him balance. As he climbs the long flight of stairs to our bedroom, it rotates like a propeller. Vicky shows a lot more restrain with her tail use. She wags but selectively. She’s exuberant in the morning, ecstatic if going for a ride, and otherwise restrained unless she wants something from her “daddy” David. She is, after all, a princess. She is the daughter of an English champion, and buddy, she knows it.
Last week (April 24, 2007) The New York Times reported a study of “asymmetric tail-wagging responses by dogs to different emotive stimuli.” The original research appeared in the March 20 issue of Current Biology. The authors are Giorgio Vallortigara, a neuroscientist at the University of Trieste in Italy, and two veterinarians, Angelo Quaranta and Marcello Siniscalchi, at the Univerisity of Bari, also in Italy. According to the reporter, Sandra Blakeslee, “When dogs feel fundamentally positive about something or someone, their tails wag more to the right side of their rumps. When they have negative feelings, their tail wagging is biased to the left.”
On the other hand, maybe the dogs have an Italian accent?
(Okay, just kidding. I followed up with my own highly unscientific research. The cooperative subject, Rafferty, is displayed above!)
PS Linda will be back on Thursdays next week. I'm just filling in.
Every morning when I come downstairs to the kitchen, the welcome party begins. Rafferty and Vicky greet me at the foot of the stairs and wriggle their bodies with joy. Since Raffi only has three legs, sometimes he falls over with the urgency of his effort. Our recently refinished wooden floor is slick; his singular back leg loses purchase. But when that happens, he pops right back up again and continues the love fest.
I plop down on the bottom stair to pet them. Our purebred Bichon Frise Vicky has a dense coat, a fancy pedigree, and a beautiful confirmation. She is perfectly formed. Rafferty is bigger, and his heritage is mixed. When the Humane Society rescued him, they discovered matted fur cut off the circulation to his right rear leg. The Small Paws volunteer who gave him a foster home had to have Raffi's hind leg amputated four months before we adopted him.
Often people don’t notice he’s missing a leg. In fact, last fall we took the dogs to my son’s soccer games, and a little girl on the sidelines pulled her finger out of her mouth long enough to say to my husband, “He’s only got three legs.”
David feigned surprise. He bent down to examine Raffi’s undercarriage. He looked back up at the child and said, “Wow! He had four when we left the house.”
When the groomer added “THREE LEGS” to poor Rafferty’s intake card, I couldn’t help but ask, “Is that so you can identify him or so no one back there thinks she lopped one off by mistake?” (I mean, really. Hello? Can we talk? I don’t write invasive personal notes about them in my checkbook. Geez.)
Reduced to three support struts, Raffi uses his tail to help him balance. As he climbs the long flight of stairs to our bedroom, it rotates like a propeller. Vicky shows a lot more restrain with her tail use. She wags but selectively. She’s exuberant in the morning, ecstatic if going for a ride, and otherwise restrained unless she wants something from her “daddy” David. She is, after all, a princess. She is the daughter of an English champion, and buddy, she knows it.
Last week (April 24, 2007) The New York Times reported a study of “asymmetric tail-wagging responses by dogs to different emotive stimuli.” The original research appeared in the March 20 issue of Current Biology. The authors are Giorgio Vallortigara, a neuroscientist at the University of Trieste in Italy, and two veterinarians, Angelo Quaranta and Marcello Siniscalchi, at the Univerisity of Bari, also in Italy. According to the reporter, Sandra Blakeslee, “When dogs feel fundamentally positive about something or someone, their tails wag more to the right side of their rumps. When they have negative feelings, their tail wagging is biased to the left.”
On the other hand, maybe the dogs have an Italian accent?
(Okay, just kidding. I followed up with my own highly unscientific research. The cooperative subject, Rafferty, is displayed above!)
PS Linda will be back on Thursdays next week. I'm just filling in.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Travel!
I'm leaving tomorrow for Washington, DC, to attend a mystery convention at the Crystal Marriott in Arlington. I went to the very first one of these conventions, which was at a terrible hotel with an indifferent staff. Now it's at a very nice hotel and I assume the staff is of the same high quality as it was last time I attended Malice Domestic a few years ago. They have some great features: a hat contest (which I will enter, naturally), solid panels, a fancy tea, and The Agatha, awards for best first, best, best paperback original, best non-fiction, etc. The prize is a hand-thrown teapot, which DOESN'T mean they toss it at you as you approach the podium, but means it is hand made by a real potter.
I've been making lists for over a week, trying to find a meeting place between wanting to bring all my fancy clothes and hats and knowing I'll have to get all that stuff on the plane and carry it out of the airport. I want the white suit and green hat, the blue suit and blue hat, the gray suit and gray hat, and the black dress and the gold hat. But I may have to leave at least one outfit behind. I'll try to get someone to take pictures.
I'm going to be on a panel about the "craft" of murder, meaning with fellow authors who mix crafts into their mysteries. And I'm going to have breakfast with my editor, whom I have never met in person. And I'm going to buy some books and have them autographed.
These events are fun, but they're important, too. An author gets to meet potential fans and try to make them want to buy her books. Pre-published authors try to meet agents and publishers, to make a connection. Agents and publishers meet their clients to see what they want next – and sometimes potential clients. Fans get to meet authors they like in person. The panels can be very useful, giving information and techniques to bring back to your own keyboard. Besides all this, they're fun.
I took a shorter trip last week, to St. Peter and New Ulm, Minnesota, looking for sites to write about in the next book. The trip was more than I expected, I may be doing a How To Write a Mystery seminar at a bed and breakfast in New Ulm this year, or next, in conjunction with a stitch-in with the owner of Nadel Kunst, a needlework shop. And I found a mysterious bed and breakfast in St. Peter, one that doesn't advertise, not even a sign by the road. A beautiful mansion, built in the 1870s, now called the March Hare Inn and Gallery. The owner is still putting it together, but he rents rooms.
I'll report on the convention next week.
I've been making lists for over a week, trying to find a meeting place between wanting to bring all my fancy clothes and hats and knowing I'll have to get all that stuff on the plane and carry it out of the airport. I want the white suit and green hat, the blue suit and blue hat, the gray suit and gray hat, and the black dress and the gold hat. But I may have to leave at least one outfit behind. I'll try to get someone to take pictures.
I'm going to be on a panel about the "craft" of murder, meaning with fellow authors who mix crafts into their mysteries. And I'm going to have breakfast with my editor, whom I have never met in person. And I'm going to buy some books and have them autographed.
These events are fun, but they're important, too. An author gets to meet potential fans and try to make them want to buy her books. Pre-published authors try to meet agents and publishers, to make a connection. Agents and publishers meet their clients to see what they want next – and sometimes potential clients. Fans get to meet authors they like in person. The panels can be very useful, giving information and techniques to bring back to your own keyboard. Besides all this, they're fun.
I took a shorter trip last week, to St. Peter and New Ulm, Minnesota, looking for sites to write about in the next book. The trip was more than I expected, I may be doing a How To Write a Mystery seminar at a bed and breakfast in New Ulm this year, or next, in conjunction with a stitch-in with the owner of Nadel Kunst, a needlework shop. And I found a mysterious bed and breakfast in St. Peter, one that doesn't advertise, not even a sign by the road. A beautiful mansion, built in the 1870s, now called the March Hare Inn and Gallery. The owner is still putting it together, but he rents rooms.
I'll report on the convention next week.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Climbing Mountains
by Deb Baker
See this woman standing at the very summit of Camelback Mountain in Phoenix, Arizona? That is definitely NOT me.
It all started last year when I was writing my first doll collecting mystery, DOLLED UP FOR MURDER. The story’s victim takes a deadly plunge from a ridge along Camelback Mountain. I wanted to experience the mountain’s heights to enrich the tale. My protagonist, Gretchen Birch, is a hiker. Shouldn’t I give it a whirl?
Mid-afternoon, sunny, not a cloud in the sky, must be 80 or 90 degrees, no trees. I stood at the trailhead and peered up. No mountain peak in sight. But I DID see climbers going up and coming down, so I started out. A while later I paused for a drink of the water like a sign below had advised me to carry. Okay. That helped. Sure would like to find a bench. And a tree. People at the trailhead looked like ants. Still can’t see the top.
A few kids passed me heading down.
“Am I almost there?” I asked.
They tittered. “You’re not even halfway. There’ll be a marker at the halfway point.”
That got me up and going again.
I saw little kids climbing up and parents with children in backpacks going both ways. I can do this, I told myself. Just take it slow.
Much later, I still hadn’t found the halfway marker, but I did reach a bench. And sat. By now I knew I wasn’t going to make it to my goal. I’d used all my water and the heat was melting my shoes. I wrestled with failure for awhile before starting back down.
A woman more than sixty-five-years-old using a cane was coming up. “Are you going to the top?” I really wanted to know.
“I’m not sure. Sometimes I do, but it’s pretty hot today.”
“Can you describe the summit for me?” I said, taking the whimpy way out.
Camelback Mountain is a hiker’s dream. That’s what I’ve heard. I’ve also read that the Phoenix Fire Department goes on more Camelback Mountain rescues than any department near any other mountain in the United States. Two or three inexperienced climbers fall to their deaths every year.
In the meantime Gretchen Birch, heroine of the Dolls To Die For series, has climbed to the top of the mountain several times every week through three mysteries. She gets to stand at the summit, while I wait on a bench below, scribbling down descriptions told by real hikers.
It all started last year when I was writing my first doll collecting mystery, DOLLED UP FOR MURDER. The story’s victim takes a deadly plunge from a ridge along Camelback Mountain. I wanted to experience the mountain’s heights to enrich the tale. My protagonist, Gretchen Birch, is a hiker. Shouldn’t I give it a whirl?
Mid-afternoon, sunny, not a cloud in the sky, must be 80 or 90 degrees, no trees. I stood at the trailhead and peered up. No mountain peak in sight. But I DID see climbers going up and coming down, so I started out. A while later I paused for a drink of the water like a sign below had advised me to carry. Okay. That helped. Sure would like to find a bench. And a tree. People at the trailhead looked like ants. Still can’t see the top.
A few kids passed me heading down.
“Am I almost there?” I asked.
They tittered. “You’re not even halfway. There’ll be a marker at the halfway point.”
That got me up and going again.
I saw little kids climbing up and parents with children in backpacks going both ways. I can do this, I told myself. Just take it slow.
Much later, I still hadn’t found the halfway marker, but I did reach a bench. And sat. By now I knew I wasn’t going to make it to my goal. I’d used all my water and the heat was melting my shoes. I wrestled with failure for awhile before starting back down.
A woman more than sixty-five-years-old using a cane was coming up. “Are you going to the top?” I really wanted to know.
“I’m not sure. Sometimes I do, but it’s pretty hot today.”
“Can you describe the summit for me?” I said, taking the whimpy way out.
Camelback Mountain is a hiker’s dream. That’s what I’ve heard. I’ve also read that the Phoenix Fire Department goes on more Camelback Mountain rescues than any department near any other mountain in the United States. Two or three inexperienced climbers fall to their deaths every year.
In the meantime Gretchen Birch, heroine of the Dolls To Die For series, has climbed to the top of the mountain several times every week through three mysteries. She gets to stand at the summit, while I wait on a bench below, scribbling down descriptions told by real hikers.
Sure would like to see what Gretchen sees.
Maybe someday.
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