Sand walking: a killer workout

Oh. My. God.

I discovered sand walking this week. Talk about a killer workout.

Before sand walking, I was doing brisk-but-not-brutal walks along the boardwalk by the Pacific Ocean, five mornings a week.

I usually set off on my walk around six a.m. This is a time of day when only die-hard joggers, dog walkers and the occasional urban wastrel can be found along the beaches of my Southern California city.

Each morning, I set out from my house and head down the hill toward the sea. Ten minutes later I hit the Strand, a cement pathway that parallels the shore. I pump my arms, striding vigorously. I feel virtuous. My forward-canted pace is bouncy with the belief that today, I will wrestle my demons-of-the-flesh to earth. Today, I will take control of my body.

But no matter how hard I push my heel-toe cadence, rocking along to my Jenny Craig walking tapes, I can’t seem to boost my heart rate into the fat burning zone.

And I can’t lose weight.

I’ve read that this is because your body “adjusts” to a workout. (I say, if your body “adjusts” to a workout, why can’t it “adjust” to overeating, and not put on pounds?)

So I’ve been looking for a way to shake up my routine. And then, last week, I looked west toward the Pacific Ocean. And saw: The Sand.

I’ll just walk on the sand, I thought. Maybe that will be different. I stepped into the Sand Zone.

And yes, sand walking was different. Sand walking was so different that five minutes later, I was beet-faced and gasping for breath. After only five minutes, I had to retreat back to the Strand, sucking in air like a stressed-out puffer fish.

Understand that I’m not talking about walking on the wet, hard-packed sand by the water, where you can dangle your flip-flops from your pinkie finger while you stroll along the surf, looking sexy.

I’m talking the killer white, uneven, fluffy stuff. Try looking sexy walking across that.

I did a little research and discovered that when you walk on sand, your caloric output increases by as much as fifty percent.

And my scales have noticed the difference. I lost two pounds this week, without changing what I eat. Hallelujah!

Now, if only I could write sand walking into my second mystery, A KILLER WORKOUT, which is coming out in 2008. But that story is set in the Great Smoky Mountains, which are short on beaches.

However, they do have cliffs, where you have to really watch your step.

Mountain climbing as aerobic activity. Hmm…I’ll have to try that and report back.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

As I sadly mentioned several weeks ago on this blogsite, we recently lost our older Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Sparquie. Although we have lost dogs before, it is both fascinating and, sometimes, depressing to me to see how things are different with Sparquie gone. She was smart, dynamic, and even more alpha in our household than I was totally aware of while she was with us.

The changes in Lexie are especially interesting and, at times, poignant. Both dogs would leap up and catch tossed treats in the air. Before, Lexie would snatch everything thrown to her and usually gobble it before Sparquie could steal it away. Now, she is more discriminating. She’ll still catch most anything, but then she will put one treat or another gently down on the floor, sniff it, and sometimes just walk away. We have found out this way that she is not especially fond of lettuce or grapes or strawberry pieces, even though she used to eat them all with Sparquie around.

Then there are her habits outside. Before, when we walked out onto our back patio to let the dogs run down the steep wooden steps and romp in the yard, Lexie would always hurry down and usually run around. Sparquie was less inclined to go down the steps at her age, and would sometimes just stand at the top and watch Lexie. Other times, Sparquie, too, would go down the steps. As long as one produced what they were outside to accomplish, both would get treats--which was often why Sparquie would stand at the top, watch for a while, then bark at Lexie to hurry back upstairs. Now, though, Lexie sometimes chooses not to go down the steps unless she sees a neighbor’s cat or some birds to chase, or unless she’s sure she has something she needs to do. She takes her time more, now, without Sparquie to encourage her to dash back up.

Same thing with our side-yard dog run. Lexie used to bark to be let outside there many times during the day, often because she assumed Sparquie needed to go out--and this was an easier trek than getting down into our backyard. Again, as long as one produced, both would get treats. Now, Lexie only barks now and then to be let out, and either a romp or side-yard outing is generally okay with her.

Speaking of barks, Sparquie’s hearing had been disappearing as she got older. Lexie was always the one to let her know if the doorbell rang or something else should get her attention. Now, on her own, Lexie is letting herself become more laid back about noises.

My husband Fred and I are going on a trip in a few weeks, and I’ve already braced myself to take out the references to Sparquie in the tried-and-true instructions I’ve always left for our pet-sitters. And I’m concerned about Lexie, who’s spoiled by having one or both of us around all the time, and how lonely she will be while we’re gone. Our pet-sitter will stay at our home with her, fortunately, and at least one of our sons will be around often, but I can’t help being concerned for Lexie and her state of mind.

One upshot of all this is that we’re really spoiling Lexie even more than she already was. But of course, she deserves it!

--Linda

Whew!

Okay, we're in our new co-op apartment, surrounded by boxes, and I finally found the one that has my shoes. We have begun the process of opening boxes and putting things away, but have realized we overestimated the capacity of our new home. We are going to have to continue to down size if we want room to beathe.

One of our cats is enjoying himself after an initial alarm (I think he was a mountain goat in another life, the way he bounces from box to box), but the other is still traumatized -- she actually "holed up" in her litter box for a couple of hours. We put it inside a cabinet in the master bath so it must have felt like a little den. And since it was her old litter box (though emptied and washed) it must have smelled like home to her, too. Poor thing, our townhome was the only home she'd known since early kittenhood, while for our other cat, this is his fourth place to live.

I set off a week ago to write the new version of Thai Die, and to my immense pleasure and relief, the first four chapters simply poured out. My agent says I might get a month or six week extension of the November 1 deadline, so that's another relief. Now all I have to do is get my desk put back together and I can pick up where I left off three days ago when all this moving mess got underway.

We had terrific movers, they did not lose or break a single item (well, so far, there are boxes to unpack yet) and were friendly and courteous. And expensive. It's amazing what it costs to get burly men (and brawny women, for that matter) to pack up, carry out, and carry in your worldly goods. On the other hand the temperature in Minneapolis was in the nineties, with humidity to match, a really horrid day to be carrying heavy goods out of doors, so they certainly earned their pay today. Watching them, and catching fragments of conversation about other jobs, kindled my criminal imagination. I'm sure there's a mystery plot in there somewhere.

I'm posting this tonight instead of in the morning because we haven't got our new wireless system up and running but a neighbor hasn't got one of those guards on his so we're piggybacking. I don't know if I'll be able to do it again in the morning.

Now I'm pooped and my back hurts and I'm a little depressed at the size of the unpacking job in front of me, so I think I'll go to bed.

On The Road Again

I just came off a full week of promotion with Maggie Sefton, author of a best selling knitting mystery series. We planned the tour several months ahead of time, contacting three area indies and one Barnes and Noble in Milwaukee. We also contacted our niche shops and dropped off flyers.

I know knitting has been hot for awhile, but I didn’t know how hot. All the bookstores have knitting and mystery groups that meet regularly, so we had built-in audiences. Fans arrived with their knitting projects, and the booksellers wined and dined us.

Would this have happened for me? Probably not. My Yooper mystery series is doing well, but it doesn’t have a “hook” (pun intended). My doll series is also selling, but doesn’t draw out readers like knitting does. Maggie’s been doing so well with her series, she recently moved into hard cover. Many attended to see her.

We put on quite a show, our goal being to entertain them, pulling out all the stops. We didn’t collaborate in advance, never prepared a thing, just went in and improvised. What fun!

I cruised along on her crafting shirt “tale”, selling lots of books to the knitters. Maggie said she never had such a successful week of touring. We both agreed that two authors traveling together was the way to go.

But what got our fans the most excited? Sex talk. That’s right. All we had to do was throw the three letter word out into space. Everyone in our audience came to attention. They were intrigued by the cozy definition of acceptable sex scenes and what we could and could not do in our mysteries. No onstage sex and absolutely NOT two guys. EVER.

They wanted to discuss Janet Evanovich and whether book twelve offended the masses. Yes, most agreed, but not enough to stop reading. Maggie and I decided to take our next books (book 3 in each of my series is already written, so this would be the fourth) closer to the forbidden edge. We’ll see if it gets past our editors.

We’ll do whatever it takes to leave our readers satisfied!

What do you think? Does sex sell?

This and That for June 2007

Every so often I like to journal small stuff, like the minutia of life. Here’s a sample:

* Prepare to Die!—Author Katherine Mansfield wrote, “Whenever I prepare for a journey I prepare as though for death. Should I never return, all is in order.” Boy, was I glad to read that quotation. It makes me feel a lot less weird. I go all berserk before I take a trip, stress out totally, and act like I’ll never make it home. We’re leaving for New York City today, and if I show up without foaming at the mouth, it’ll be a blooming miracle.

* Japanese Beetles—How can a creature so beautiful be so destructive? They’ve turned every leaf on our crabapple tree into lace. They chewed through the buds on all my rose bushes. They’ve swarmed my four o’clocks and made holes in the leaves. But I must admit they give me a great measure of satisfaction when I mash them between my fingers. My husband yells, “Spray them! Every time you squish them, you get those two, but their buddies just take over.” But that’s not true. See, I read on the beetle catcher bag that the smell of dead Japanese beetles wards off the living. WHOOOO—HA-HA!!! Let me at ‘em.

* They Be Jammin’—The boys are at it again. David’s on the keyboard and Mike’s on the guitar. They’re wailing away, and the ceiling above my office is vibrating with the blues. Most people have to pay an admission charge for this kind of great music, but all I have to do is make meatloaf. What a great life I have. (All right, I do make a really, really good meatloaf!)

* Tino Wallenda and His Bike—For my birthday we went to see Circus Flora. Since 1987 it’s been a permanent performing arts organization in St. Louis. This circus is one ring, intimate and magical. We had front row seats. I came home literally covered in sawdust. A couple of times the acts were so death-defying, I covered my eyes, especially when The Flying Wallendas took to the high wire. Tino, the patriarch, was bottom man holding up a complicated pyramid of family members while riding his bike across the wire. There was no net.

All I could do afterwards was laugh. Last year I fell off my bike riding down our street. Uh, I think any possibility of auditioning is off, don’t you? The photo is of Tino congratulating me on my triple: I ate a bratwurst, peanuts and cotton candy. (Kathryn, sweetie, could this be why SlimFast isn’t working for me? My nightly snacks?)

Not-so-heavenly gardens, by Kathryn Lilley

Today’s topic is gardening.

It will come as no surprise to those of you who have read my previous posts that I am not the world’s most accomplished gardener.

But it’s not for lack of caring—or trying.

It’s not as if I have Kensington Gardens to maintain. My family and I live in Southern California, in one of those congested cities-by-the-sea, in a house that pushes up against the confines of its undersized lot. Instead of a garden, we are proud owners of a “decorative strip.” Our decorative strip is so narrow, it looks like it should get a bikini wax every week instead of a mowing.

But over the years, even the decorative strip has tested my mettle.

When we moved into this house five years ago, I was drawn to the giant trees that surround it. I didn’t realize that come fall, those trees would morph into leaf-dropping monsters. Their daily drop-off requires a raking-and-mop-up operation every twenty-four hours, at the very least. Which I don’t do, of course—I think that once-a-week raking is enough for any householder. And my husband’s response, whenever I mention the carpet of leaves, is always: “What leaves?” Bless his heart.

The worst thing about the leaves is that we’re the only house in the neighborhood with trees, except for the odd palm tree here and there. Our annual leaf carpet is painfully evident to all, like the neighbor who doesn’t mow the lawn all summer, or who keeps an old junker in the front yard.

One time at a block party someone asked me where we lived, and I said, “The house with the leaves.” This was met with a nod and an “Ah, yes.”

I haven’t had much success with planting things, either. Or with dealing with what’s already planted. We have a lovely pair of barrel-shaped shrubs, very tall, that provide a symmetrical balance to the southern side of the strip. But, they need to be trimmed. I once gave that task over to my husband (with a direct, please trim the shrubs request, so that there’d be no comeback of “what shrubs?”). He really seemed to take to the task, and I was happy—until I went outside and discovered that instead of two barrel-shaped shrubs, we now had shrub topiary. All of the branches in the lower halves had been whacked off, trimmed down to the bare trunk.

I shouldn’t complain. My idea of the perfect garden is one that you plant once, get just right--and then it stays perfect, forever more. That’s what I’ve heard they have in garden heaven. I keep trying to do weeding, but I get confused between the “real” plants and the weeds. I once pulled up a ring of daffodils—or maybe it was iris—thinking it was onion grass.

For the moment, I have retreated from the fray. A nice gentleman named Mannie now comes to our house every Wednesday morning. It takes Mannie fifteen minutes to do more than we ever accomplished in eight hours. And he does it twice as well.

I was thinking that the Mannie solution was just a stopgap, until I could recharge my gardening engines and give it another go.

But then I saw his results. And now, I’m not so sure. I believe that Mannie may be here to stay.

At least through the leafy-carpet season.

--Kathryn
http://www.kathrynlilley.com/

Family Numbers

Yes, I know I’m off my usual topic, but I wanted to interject something about my other hobby of sorts--my family.

I had a wonderful Father’s Day, even though I’m not a father. Our adult sons Eric and Keith both joined Fred and me, and we went out for an informal dinner. Eric lives in LA and leads an exhaustingly busy life. Keith lives in San Diego and pops up here to home periodically.

At dinner the three of them discussed a common thread in their lives: money, the stock market, interest rates and the economy in general.

Now, I admit that when I was younger I had a mind that did quite well with mathematics. Plus, I found the stuff fascinating. I loved algebra! But these days, as a transactional lawyer who mostly drafts and reviews contracts where the deals are determined by others, and as a novelist who works with words, the math part of my mind hasn’t kept fully in practice.

Fred is an engineer by background and has an MBA from UCLA in international finance. Eric just received his MBA this weekend also from UCLA, and he owns a business dealing with a specific tax issue relating to real estate. He has worked for accounting firms as well--much of this on a full time basis while working toward his MBA. And Keith is a successful day trader. You can tell from this that all of them are highly numbers oriented.

Consequently, I understood a lot, but not all, of what they discussed over dinner on Father’s Day. But, boy, was I proud of all of them. They sounded impressive, and they all communicated on the same level, even if they left Mom behind.

I don’t think that interest in math, money and the stock market are necessarily guy things. There are plenty of men who are only interested in figures that don’t include the numerical kind, and many women who are great with more mathematical subjects. But in my family, it’s certainly the case that the guys are the ones into numbers. All three of them read a lot: newspapers, magazines, the Internet--everything but fiction. I don’t think any of them has ever finished one of my books.

Do I mind? Not really. They’re who they are, and I love them that way.

--Linda

Bad News, Good News

I missed blogging last week. One reason was, we’re packing to move. Actually, we have hired a moving company, so we don’t have to do everything, but on the other hand, my husband has books, I have books, and we have books; so we are each packing our own books so they don’t all end up in one huge pile. Plus, we are sorting through the accumulation of twenty years and discovering what a pair of pack rats we are. So things are being kept, sold, given away, and thrown away. Our new place is about two-thirds the size of this one, which is encouraging the disposal of things. We closed on Tuesday, handing over a check that was scary in size. And for right now, we own two homes.
The second reason was even bigger: I had a book come apart in my hands. Not a literal book; that is, not a book you pick up and have the pages fall out. No, this was a book I have been writing for months, with nine chapters on the computer, eight of which had been shown to my writer’s group and carefully commented on. Based on the synopsis, my editor had been complaining there was not enough stitching in it, so I was adding lots and lots of it. But it turned out that what she didn’t like was the core plot, which involved an ancient golden Buddha hidden inside a fake-stone one. My agent and I had a long talk last week, in which she finally explained the problem in words I could understand. I was angry of course, because why hadn’t that been made clear long ago? But a day or two later my agent phoned again and we brain-stormed and came up with a fresh angle, and suddenly, instead of having to start on a brand new book, the plot of Thai Die became viable again. My editor loves it. What’s even better, the changes needed aren’t so enormous that I have to start completely over – in fact, I can keep chunks of the plot already written, with alterations. All I have to do is research the history of silk . . . Oh, well. It’s an interesting topic. I have already learned that a roomful of silkworms munching on mulberry leaves make a sound like heavy rain. And that there are pieces of brightly colored silk more than two thousand years old.
This past weekend I was at a quilt show in St. Paul. It started Thursday and ended Saturday. It’s amazing how fun and exhausting it can be to be friendly and interested and excited from ten to five, three days in a row. I signed a lot of books, which was great. On Sunday this nice woman stopped and we talked. She is a professional quilter. I have never made a quilt. But about three years ago I bought a few pieces of fabric at a quilt show. Then more at another. The only requirement I had was that it have a chicken theme. At first I bought it because I like chickens and the patterns were amusing or beautiful. You would not believe how much chicken-themed fabric there is out there, and I kept buying it. After awhile I had so much I knew I was going to have to make a quilt of it – I was buying “fat quarters,” which contain a quarter yard each, and so are not big enough for me to do anything else with it. I decided it was just going to be squares, none of those complex patterns for me. So I took a couple of lessons and bought a fabric cutter and cutting board and a very large, clear-plastic ruler. Just to make it a bit more interesting, I decided some of the squares would be stitched (counted cross stitch, needlepoint, punch needle, applique). I bought some stitching patterns – there are a lot of chicken patterns, too, I must not be the only person who likes chickens. But somehow the writing kept getting in the way and the fabric, only a little of it cut into squares, just sat in a box. I did most of the stitched squares, but not all of them. I wanted the quilt for our bed in our new place, but we’re moving June 26, and I was upset with myself for not getting this done. But this wonderful woman, the professional quilter, said she’d make the fabric into a quilt for me – and at a price that is very reasonable! I wanted to hug her, I wanted to fall on her neck weeping with joy. I told her I wanted to complete a couple more stitched squares, then I’d send everything to her. Her name is Karen and she lives in Wisconsin, and I’m not telling you any more than that for fear some of you would get in line ahead of me. But I’m reasonably sure that my birthday present to myself this year is going to be a new quilt.
So life is exasperating, infuriating, frustrating, exciting and, most of all, good.

Miniaturists Have More Fun

*It may not look it from the photo, but we're having a bit of a party ... a miniatures crafts day in the messiest corner of my home. I get together as often as possible with other crafters to do projects. Sometimes we work on our own separate creations; other times (as here) we work on the same project. Three friends and I (on the empty stool!) are putting together a bookstore. You can see a corner of the finished product in the other photo.

We hash it all out. Do we put the books on the lower shelves randomly, or put like volumes together? I wanted them placed in any old order because it would be a lot of trouble to sort them and keep all the same spines together. I lost the vote, and the effect was much more true to what you would see in a life-size bookstore. It WAS a lot more work, by the way!

The larger pieces, like the comfy chair and table were bought. They are the cornerstones of the scene, but the fun and uniqueness come from the other touches. The book covers (downloaded from the Internet and shrunk to size) happen to be all from my new publisher, Berkley Prime Crime! The rolled up "maps" in the left corner are really scraps of newsprint. The holder for the maps is a plastic cover from a small spray can of ... I can't even remember what. I keep anything that looks remotely like it might be useful someday.

After this photo was taken, a few more things were added: a sign that says "Mysteries," a poster of Agatha Christie under the one of Edgar Allan Poe, and more books on the table and floor.

We spread all my junk on a table and browse through for added touches. I forget who thought of placing a dime on the shelf for scale, instead of the usual ruler. It doesn't matter; it's a joint creation.

Part of the fun of doing projects with friends is that they see things I might not see. Now that I think of it, it's not too different from how my writing critique group works!

Magpie Moments, Die Cuts, and a Birthday Gift to You

Last week I blogged about making die cut letters for my friend Monica Ferris. And when Camille asked for more information, I said I’d show you’all.

So here I am with my tools and a technique. And since it was Father’s Day, I had the opportunity to use my die cut lettering for a special project: A Magpie Album.

Magpie is an English scrapbooking term. It takes its name after magpies, birds who pick up this and that and take the odd pieces of garbage home to add to their “stash.” Another way to define this would be “found” pieces, which I’m sure our Camille can address since her “pizza” table is a great example. I think I first discovered the joys of found items when I started with my dollhouse. Now I look at incorporating magpie pieces into my scrapbooking as a super-duper creativity booster. More importantly, those weird pieces of flotsam and jetsam (goods of potential value that have been thrown into the ocean) are the stuff daily life is made of.

A few other reasons this particular album appealed to me—1.) I’ve been thinking more and more about trash and how much we, as a nation, create of it 2.) I love the idea of capturing a moment in time 3.) when we moved to the UK, I realized how where we shop defines our lifestyle and changes over time and 4.) I was prepping an empty instant mashed potato box for recycling and fell in love with the weight of the cardstock. No joke! (Okay, now you are thinking, “This is one seriously WEIRD chick.” Guilty!)

So I cut out the front and back of the mashed potato box. I covered it with a paper bag from a recent run to St. Louis Bread Co. (Panera Bread, for the rest of you, but they started HERE in St. Louis). Then I added to the inside cover pieces of the daily newspaper for June 17, 2007, which was Father’s Day. I tore up my husband’s Father’s Day cards and basically glued down anything that wandered across my path.

I used my QuicKutz to “punch out” the letters of the word “Father.” I have three alphabet sets. Each letter is impressed onto a silver metal “die” which you can see propped up against the “pliers” that provides the “oomph” to punch out the lettering. I also used another alphabet to punch out “DAD” and those letters went on the tabs to the right of the album. With a hole punch, I put holes in envelopes from the cards. I added three pages of cardstock and punched them. Then I struck the whole thingie together on some twine.

What do you think? I still have the inside pages to decorate. But, I’m psyched!

Speaking of psyched—I turn 54 this Thursday. I’m grateful to be here. Life’s been a blast! And much of that joy I owe to people like you, people who have joined me on this super journey. So…I’m offering EACH of YOU a birthday gift—a thank you note and a handpunched set of your three initials. 1.) Send me your name and postal address at savetales@aol.com. 2.) Put Birthday in the subject line. 3.) Tell me what three letters you want. 4.) The offer’s good until June 28.

Life in the Fat City

Today’s topic is my life-long hobby: diet and exercise.

According to the American Heritage Dictionary, the definition of the word “hobby” is “An activity or interest pursued outside one's regular occupation and engaged in primarily for pleasure."

Okay, so dieting and exercise doesn’t really fall into that category. No one diets or exercises for pleasure, do they? (If you do, kudos to you, but you probably won’t relate to this rant. You might want to try Googling “Jack Lalanne” or “Bill Phillips” for like-minded souls).

So I’ll just seize on the part of the definition that defines a hobby as being “outside one’s regular occupation.”

My “regular occupation” is writing and editing. Roughly speaking, this means that I get up at four a.m., turn on the laptop, and make a pot of coffee. Then I stare, bleary-eyed, at the computer screen, until I have to take my daughter to school.

That done, I’m faced with a choice: to exercise, or not? To launch a day of healthy eating, or not?

Sounds simple, but in practice, it’s a daily struggle. And like the Roman Empire’s battle against the Visigoths, it’s a struggle that I am slowly, inexorably losing, with the occasional shocking setback.

I once knew a guy who had an awesome physique. He went to the gym—every day—after work. I remember him talking disdainfully about people who joined the gym on January first, only to disappear sometime during the month of February.

I heard his complaint with a hollow pang of recognition. He could have been describing me: I was a January Joiner, and a February Failure.

Along the way, however, there are victories. While I may not actually be using my gym membership or counting my Weight Watcher points (until next January, that is), I have now incorporated diet and exercise into a new mystery series, called—what else? —The Fat City Mysteries.

The Fat City Mysteries are set in Durham, North Carolina, the self-proclaimed “Diet Capital of the World.” They feature a spunky, slightly chunky TV journalist-turned-sleuth, Kate Gallagher. Like me, Kate is forever fighting the Battle of the Bulge. But unlike me, she chalks up more wins than losses. The first book, DYING TO BE THIN, comes out in October. The second, A KILLER WORKOUT, comes out next year.

I relate to Kate. I once had to lose 90 pounds to land a job on camera as a TV reporter. And even today, I avoid the street that goes past 31 Flavors.

That’s because, when you’re a perpetual dieter, it pays to know your limits.

-- Kathryn

www.kathrynlilley.com

It's weird where writers get their ideas from. Some of the ideas I get for my books come from personal family stories, but some don't. And I love the way an entire book can come out of one small, seemingly insignificant detail.
For example: I have a cousin who has one blue eye and one brown eye. In my first book, I kept trying to think of a way for my main character to be able to recognize a man that she's only seen in a photograph from fifty years ago. Well, give him one blue eye and one brown eye and that's a sure fire way to recognize him!
In my fourth book, MISTY MOURNING, I wanted to write about everything I had learned about coal mining in West Virginia, since some of my ancestors were coal miners. That was a bit more broad sweeping of an idea, than say, a man with one blue eye and one brown eye. But the kernel of the idea actually came from a story that my mother's mother had told me about the KKK burning a cross in their front yard during the twenties. Not because of any racial reasons, but because, evidently, my step-great grandfather was beating his wife. Somehow, I knew as a kid when I first heard the story, that it was the stuff of legend! And I used it is the thing that made me think of the story for MISTY MOURNING.
One day when I lived in this very, very tiny place called Sulpher Springs, a neighbor pointed to a spot in the river and said, "Right there's where that paddleboat went down about 1919. You can see it when the river's down." Eureka! Book number six! And I've spoken on my blog about how at least fifteen years ago, I found one of those old picture postcards at an antique mall and all it said (other than who it was addressed to) was, "I think you have forgotten your promise."
That was the birth of book number eight, THICKER THAN WATER.
My next book (the one to come out in spring of 2008) is about a song. The book is called THE BLOOD BALLAD. My father's family were all musicians of some sort, some more serious than others. My father could play six instruments, all self-taught. His brother was the most amazing guitar player I've ever heard. His brothers would sit on the front porch during the forties and fifties and sing six part harmony! (Because there were six of them!) And all of this musical genius came from their father, my grandfather. My grandfather was a fiddle player who was born in 1892. He played his first square dance at the seminary in Perryville when he was only fourteen, and was the lead fiddle player. My uncle told me there was a hundred couples at that dance. Pretty big debut. He played all over southeast Missouri and evidently had his own unique style that was known through out the area. I'm not sure where he learned to play, but family legend says his father played, as well, and I know his sister played the guitar. It is a family rich in music. So, I thought I would pay homage to my grandpa and write a book about it. Only in the book, of course, Torie discovers an old song that appears to be a confession to murder . . .
I just love that kind of stuff!
Rett

Neighbors

I live in the Hollywood Hills, and I have to admit that, although I’m friendly with our neighbors, I don’t know many of them very well. Those I speak to most are because of their pets!

Our next door neighbors have a beautiful Brittany Spaniel who loves to play vigorously in their yard. I always know when they’re away, because their dog goes out the doggy door and cries mournfully. Calling her and throwing occasional treats only interrupts her for short periods. I always feel so sorry for her! And the poor thing started wailing as I wrote this blog...

On the other side of our house live two middle-sized dogs who are brothers, and beyond them lives another dog of different breed but similar size. They all act as if they would like to be alpha in the neighborhood pack, but as we walk by Lexie tugs on her leash to tease them that she’s the one who’s out and about.

At a house down the street, the owner started to remodel before getting permits. The work was stopped, and now two German Shepherds guard the place and bark menacingly as we walk by. Our Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Sparquie, whom we just lost, always thought she was alpha, no matter what the size of the other dogs around, and nipped at even the nicest ones--except for Lexie, fortunately. Good thing she never had an opportunity to see who’d win in a fight with these two guarding their territory.

A couple of neighbors walk a dog owned by another family for the fun and exercise of walking a pet. They (the humans, not the dog) always carry treats to give to other dogs on their route. And they’re not the only ones. At least one other neighbor knows all the dogs by name and best way of providing them treats. She knew how to give Lexie a treat that Sparquie couldn’t steal by the way she threw them.

A lovely and friendly Golden Retriever lives in the house at the point formed by two streets and likes to greet dogs walking by nose-to-nose through her fence. That works fine with Lexie, but I had to keep Sparquie away so she wouldn’t nip.

There’s a cat who enjoys trying to stalk the gopher in our yard, and Lexie always looks for the cat before tearing down our steps into the yard. Lexie enjoys chasing the cat away. I doubt that the kitty is afraid of Lexie, but fortunately they’ve never gotten close enough to see who would prevail in a cat fight.

Then there is the amazing array of wild animals around here. Not pets, but they help to shape the character of the neighborhood. Yes, I live in a really urban part of L.A., but on a slope of one of the Santa Monica Mountains, and there are still areas around here where homes can’t be built, so wild animals still roam.

A couple of weeks ago, I was coming home at night from a writing critique group and, as I turned onto my street, I saw the butt of a doe that was heading up a yard into the hills. I’ve seen quite a few deer here over the years, but always on a gated driveway and away from the street.

And then there was the coyote that got stuck in my fenced backyard a few years back. That freaked me out with my Cavaliers around, and I now look carefully before I let any pup loose, even though there’s been additional work done by the neighbors to secure adjoining yards.

We’ve had squirrels come down our chimney a couple of times, and it was great fun (hah!) trying to chase them outside. And then there was the one fellow who sharpened his teeth on our skylights. That went on over several months and led to us having to replace the skylights--until we chased him away by putting a combination of soap and hot sauce around the skylights’ edges. I’m not sure whether it was him or a friend who retaliated by gnawing our electrical lines.

Speaking of pests, I mentioned the gopher. He surreptitiously eats the strawberry and melon plants my husband Fred has planted recently, then peeks his head up from his hole to stick his tongue out at Fred. Plus, I rarely see the skunks, but I know when they’re around.

Yes, there are stories to be told about all the animals in my neighborhood. Maybe I’ll add them to my Kendra tales.

--Linda

Changes

I’m an impulsive person, and that’s a gross understatement. I get restless easily and have to go exploring. Change. It’s what keeps me excited about life. That’s why I like gardening so much. It adapts right along with me. Every year, I plot and plan exactly the same way as I do with my manuscripts. I rip things out and move them here or there. I bring in fresh colors, new ideas to experiment with. My garden hasn’t looked the same two years in a row. Ever. But as I age, I don’t have the physical stamina I once did, so now I’m abandoning annuals with all their vibrant colors and short life spans, and I’m going to perennials. I still move them around, though. I can’t resist.

Cooking is another hobby I love. I came from a family who had chicken on Sunday, pork chops (1 per person) on Monday, Tuesday was meatloaf day. You get my drift. Me? I rarely cook the same thing twice. Yes, I have a few favorites and we eat our share of pizzas and subs, but when I get ready to create, I don’t want any limits. Anything and everything is possible. I like that.

I’ve never understood, although I’ve paused to admire, those tenacious souls who continue on the same course forever -the myrmecologist (for example), who can study the red wood ant of southern England for an entire lifetime without getting bored!

The only things constant in my sea of change are those things that can adapt to my wants and needs.

Which brings me to writing. Talk about excitement and change! I’ve just wrapped up two contracts. Three books in the Yooper series, three in the Dolls To Die For series. I’m waiting to hear if my publishing houses think the numbers are good enough to continue them. While I’m waiting, I’m fidgeting. I’m at a crossroad in my career. Do I want to do more in these series? I ask myself. Of course you do, I answer. Back and forth. Wouldn’t it be fun to try writing something completely different? Gertie and Gretchen were fun, but I have all these ideas. I want to plant them and see what grows.

So…while I wait, I’m puttering with a proposal for a new series. Still a mystery, but with a twist. I’ll let you know what happens.

Do Something Nice for Someone

I’m getting ready to die cut some fancy letters for Monica. She’s planning an album about her trip to Thailand. I wanted to thank her for several courtesies, and I thought, “What can I do? What can I do that she might not be able to do for herself?”

See, I think that’s always the best gift. In your life, in your world, there’s always something you can do that no one else can. It can be as simple as making a special recipe or a sharing a talent. What might seem small to you is BIG to others. Not because it is BIG in the eyes of the world, but because it is PERFECT. Just what they needed.

I hope this will be perfect for Monica because, honestly, there’s no other way to thank her.

I have so many cool scrapbook tools and toys. I don’t like to go to crops because I can’t haul the whole scrapbook room with me. Cutting letters by hand is a pain. I know because I’ve done it, and I’ll continue to do it because sometimes that’s the only way you can get just the right look. But since I invested in several letter cutting tools, I often turn to them for consistent, gorgeous letters.

Probably, I’ll use my QuicKutz hand held die cutter for the words, “Thai, Thailand, and Thai Die.” I keep the gizmo—which looks like a big pair of pliers—on my scrapbooking desk. What I don’t like about it is how much pressure you must exert with your palm. I also have a Sizzix die cut machine, which makes great chunky letters, and a Cricut. The Cricut is new, and I’m a bit afraid of it. Plus I hate to waste paper, so I need a little more practice. The Cricut only goes down to ½” size, and sometimes that’s just too big.

While I’m at it, I need to finish a small album for my friend Linda. She’s another person I can never thank enough. Mainly for being a friend. She’s just terrific. We met at SleuthFest last year, and since she lives near my family in Stuart, Florida, we visit whenever I’m down there.

Meantime, I finished my Hokie square, only it’s not very square. I felt pretty sheepish sending it to the nice people at Mosaic Yarn. I ripped the thing out, oh, ten times? I couldn’t quite get it to come out 8” by 8”. Sigh. I hope they can use it.

All this reminds me of something that once happened to my mother, many years ago. She was in the grocery store, in the days before credit cards, and while she was in the check out lane, she discovered she was ten cents short for her purchases. The lady behind her volunteered a dime. Mom asked if she could have her name, so she could send her the money. The woman just smiled and said, “No. Here’s a better way to pay me back. Now you go do something nice for someone else.”

Saturday's guest blogger - Kathryn Lilley

Greetings, and thank you for inviting me to be your Saturday guest blogger!

I'm Kathryn Lilley, and you can think of me as something of a failed hobbyist. "No hobby project too simple to be botched up," could be my motto.

But recently, I discovered that I've been redeemed.

First, a bit of personal background: I come from a long and distinguished line of crafty, hobby-oriented women. My mother (and her mother before her, and so on, and so on), could have written a chapter in the book about that most quintessential of American crafts, quilting.

Back in the day (aka Whistler, Alabama, circa 1930) quilting was much more than a hobby. The ladies of the quilting bee ruled that town. They were that era’s equivalent of today’s blogosphere. Did you want the the latest gossip? You had to ask the Quilting Bee ladies. Who was schtupping whom? Again, consult the QB’ers. The Ladies of the Bee were the go-to gals for matters matrimonial, mordant, or just plain malicious. While they hand-stitched their Double Wedding Ring quilts, pinwheel designs and Sunbonnet Sues (which they called “Dutch Dolls”), the quilting ladies quietly kept the social order of that time and place.

My mother inherited the craft/quilting gene. As a child, I was the happy recipient of her wonderful, hand-made Halloween costumes. Cooking, decoupage, making Christmas decorations—it was all good.

But soon after I was born, it became clear that the crafts gene had skipped a generation. The first major sign of my uncraftiness was a Four-H sewing project. My mother was a club leader, and she sewed, for heaven’s sake. Expectations for my creation ran high in my little group of eight-year-olds.

And my finished project was indeed stunning—and would have looked wonderful on an organ grinder’s monkey. If the monkey’s left arm was three inches shorter than his right, that is.

Fast forward to my college years, and I could be found trying to develop a sport/hobby that I thought might come in handy someday: golf. My dorm at Wellesley College was right next to the golf course, so it should have been easy for me to learn, right? But by the time I graduated, my nickname was “The Divot Queen.” When I went to Wellesley, the school still had a sports requirement. Luckily for me, the coaches there had a sense of humor—or maybe it was pity. I graduated.

A few years later, I was trying to impress a date with my newest hobby, this time cooking. The poor guy made it gamely through the paella, which looked like fallout from some kind of saffron dirty bomb. After choking the last of it down, he looked at me with a strangely hopeful expression and suggested that we go to the Cheesecake Factory for dessert.

But now my own daughter is in college. And I’m pleased to say that, like our family’s recessive gene for red hair, the crafts/cooking/hobby gene has reemerged. I visited her a week ago, and she made a dinner that was a tour de force. Spanakopita, honeyed chicken kabobs, a fruit trifle (topped with a pattern of kiwi and strawberries that was reminiscent of a six-point star quilt). With no training from me whatsoever, my daughter has taken crafting to the next level. She does glass blowing, which has always struck me as a craft on steroids. You get to work near a blast furnace, wear goggles, and turn out spectacular things. Take, for example, a vase she made for me. It swirls and blooms with the colors of a Caribbean sunset. The vase sits in our kitchen’s solarium window, casting rainbows.

To me, those rainbows are my quilting ancestors, smiling. Their rainbow smiles tell me that all is forgiven—through my daughter, our family’s crafting honor has been restored.

Those Old Family Bibles

Personally, I've never had much luck with the old family Bible. But the family Bible can be a valuable asset to your genealogical research. Especially if you're lucky enough to have one, find one, or have somebody share one with you.
In the 19th century, in particular, people would write their family information, in the family Bible. The Bible was often a wedding present given to a young bride and groom as they went off to start their own household. So, the bride (or groom, as the case may be) would painstakenly write her name and birthdate and her groom's name and birthday and the day they got married inside. Then their parents were listed and then, as they had their children, those would be listed in the family Bible, as well.
Depending on your ancestor, the information could end there, or they might add where they were born. Sometimes they added death dates as they came. If they had enough room, they might even list their own siblings and the people that their children eventually married. You can see how valuable this could be. Unless a tombstone or death record exists for your ancestor, sometimes, this is the only way to get an actual birth or death date. Many times we have a year for when our ancestor was born, but not always an exact date. The family Bible is also, sometimes, the only record of children who did not make it to adulthood.
I had an uncle who died when he was about five of Diptheria. Of his eight brothers and sisters, only one actually ever met him, and that was the sister born two years after him. I know who he his, his name, I've even got a few photographs of him. But, if I were not a genealogist and I didn't write it down, how many of my 23 cousins would pass this information on to their children? (As it is, I've had some of my cousins say to me . . . I thought there were only eight kids. Because they didn't know about the oldest boy who died.) Within two or three generations, Raymond Lenrow Allen, would be completely lost to antiquity.
So, the family Bible is great for uncovering relatives you never knew existed. I know of one woman whose great-grandmother thought to write in her Bible that her brother "had gone west to live in Oregon." Little things like that are priceless.
For me, my mother's parents divorced very early on, and my Grandma moved about constantly for at least ten years. If there was an "old" Bible, it's long gone by now. Plus, she was orphaned at six, and most of her mother's things were kept by her step-father. My father's parents--a combination of Catholic and Methodist--I'm assuming were too poor to have ever had such a luxury as a family Bible. The house my grandfather was born and raised in, burned to the ground when his mother was seventy-seven years old. And everything in it, burned, too. So, no luck there . . .
However, just a few weeks ago, I posted a query on one of the genealogical boards and this very nice man answered it. After a week or so, he sent me a scanned copy of a family Bible that belonged to my great-great-great-grandmother. I didn't know this woman was my 3rd great-grandmother. The point is, the information she had written within her family Bible, allowed me to connect by great-great-grandpa with her and her family, and brought down a brick wall I'd been pounding at, since 1984. All from one little old family Bible, that somebody thought to keep. And somebody thought to share.
Rett MacPherson

Dogs’ Night Out

As a pet lover, I’m always looking for fun things to do that involve animals. That was why, when my husband Fred showed me an article in a neighborhood newspaper about an upcoming event called Pawsapalooza, we had to go--especially because it was to be a celebration of all things canine. Plus, it was to benefit a worthwhile-sounding organization I’d never heard of before, called Pets Are Wonderful Support/Los Angeles (PAWS/LA). People were invited to come and bring their dogs, which meant that Lexie was invited, too.

The event was held last Saturday evening in an area of L.A.’s Griffith Park, across from the Los Angeles Zoo and right beside the Autry National Center. (Yes, the Gene Autry museum of the Old West.) I hadn’t really paid much attention to the area beside the museum before, but there was a large lawn right behind the parking lot.

We could tell we were at the right place when we pulled into the busy parking lot and saw the canvas covers over rows of booths of supporters who were selling pet-related items. Plus, there was the huge screen where a number of independent films that starred dogs were to be shown after sundown.

Admission was charged--people only. Dogs were admitted free. And the money went toward supporting the organization.

Dogs in attendance were of all sizes, from yappy puppies and teeny dogs who rode in their owners’ purses and pockets, to those as huge as a St. Bernard. Our tricolor Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Lexie wasn’t even the only Cavalier. Another attended--one of the Blenheim, or red and white, coloration. There was a demonstration in the background of some well-trained dogs who ran relay races. The rest of the canines seemed to be there to partake of a good time, sniffing each other out and sometimes barking their greetings.

The booths included dog food sample giveaways and sales, window decals to inform rescue workers about animals inside homes, promotions of other upcoming animal events, introduction of pooper scooper services, and a drawing for prizes to benefit PAWS/LA. I hadn’t thought about it in advance but fortunately had some of my own books in my car, so I was able to donate one of my Kendra Ballantyne, Pet-Sitter mysteries plus another prior release that seemed highly pertinent to the occasion: my time-travel romance ONCE A CAVALIER which stars--what else?--Cavalier King Charles Spaniels.

I learned that PAWS/LA was founded to help seniors and the disabled who need animal companionship but may be unable to secure or keep that kind of support on their own. The PAWS/LA website says that their mission is “preserving the healing bond between disenfranchised individuals and their companion animals; enriching their overall quality of life; and sustaining their independent living.” One of the delightful people I met at Pawsapalooza was the PAWS/LA founder. You can find out more about them at www.pawsla.org.

Eventually, evening fell, introductions of important attendees were given over the loudspeakers, and finally the films were shown--none long, and most cute. A worthwhile evening? Absolutely. Just ask Lexie!

--Linda

Writers' Retreat

This past weekend I went down to Lanesboro, MN, on a writers retreat. My group, Creme de la Crime, does this twice a year -- once at one anothers' homes up in the Twin Cities, but the second time going away. Lanesboro has been a popular choice. This year we discovered we'd chosen the weekend of their Rhubarb Festival and Garrison Keillor was doing a show from there. The little town was packed. Fortunately, the B&B had its own parking lot or we would have had to take one of the horse-drawn shuttles into town. Each of us was given an hour to read from something we were writing and get criticism on it. There are two rules for comments: You have to find something nice to say, and you must never launch a personal attack on the writer. The goal of our group is to get everyone published -- and keep them getting published by improving his or her writing. (Publishers nowadays will drop a writer if he or she only maintains his or her audience.) We all write mysteries, but while I write from the cozy end, Kent Kruger writes from the dark end, Carl Brookins writes from the satiric end, Julie Fasciana writes from some peculiar end of her own invention, and the rest come in somewhere among there. I found this weekend extremely helpful -- except I'm going to have to do some heavy re-write of the last three chapters. It will improve them immeasurably, but it makes me kind of sad.

We did do some fun things, like going to one of the strangest plays I've ever seen, one that was kind of a satire on the gothic mystery, with vampires, werewolves, mummies, a creepy old mansion, a mising wife, a ditsy new wife fresh off the stage, a loopy lord of the manor, a sinister maid, an even more sinister one-legged servant who works in the stable -- and the entire cast was played by two men!

And we dined at a two-story restaurant that didn't look like much on the outside but had very high-end food and drink on the inside. I had the quail, and it was fabulous.

Have I said before that I love my job?

The Mini Uses of Pizza

I hate pizza, but sometimes I have it delivered just so I can get those little white plastic pieces that (allegedly) keep the cover of the box from smashing into the topping. The before and after photos show what I do with them. They make the best all-purpose tables. Break off the little legs and add your own style. For a miniature bistro table, twist heavy copper wire into more fashionable legs and glue the assembly to the bottom. You can paint or add contact paper to the top for a different look, but "as is" works fine as well.

The chairs, as you see, are bottle tops with wire backs and legs. Contact paper can also be added to the seats; I've left them as is.

Creating a miniature scene like this is a lot like writing fiction. I look at a bottle top and see a chair seat. Or I look at a thimble and see a tiny waste basket. In the same way, writers look at the guy at the next table in the coffee shop and see his secret life or they read a news article and ask "what if?"

The whole scene is fiction, in fact. The bottle cap is not really a seat, the table could not hold up a real mug of coffee. It's all about glue, not gravity.

A poster to my first blog took the connection between miniatures and fiction to a new level. I have tiny ruby slippers under the embalming table in my mortuary scene. The poster's comment: maybe Dorothy didn't make it to Kansas, after all!

My Teacher

Last month I nearly didn’t make it to Malice Domestic. My son had a crisis moment—and it happened because of a hobby.

Okay, some of you might not call golf a hobby. W. Edwards Deming once said, “Have you ever seen a happy golfer?”


Uh, not so much.


I find it hard to believe that people would spend so much “leisure” time trying to do the impossible—that is, how the heck can you get that little white ball into a hole on the other side of town? Geez. I can’t even keep a bowling ball in the right alley! (Unfortunately, I’m not exaggerating. When I have gone bowling—all two times—people lined up to offer free lessons.)

But my son and husband are golfers, and as it happens, my kid is pretty dang good at it. He can hit the ball a mile. Correction: 300 yards or more. No, that’s not a typo. But golf is more than smacking the snot out of the little white ball. It’s aiming it in the right direction.

The day of the golf districts dawned wet and gloomy. As a member of the Varsity MICDS Golf Team, Michael was expected to play. Unfortunately, my son has never believed in the value of outer wear. That worked against him as he played all day in the drizzle, except for the hour where there was a downpour. And he played his worst game ever. Which might not have mattered so much, but his high school team had won state the last three years in a row. This year, in part due to his score and that of one other player, they didn’t go as a team. (Individuals did qualify, but of course, Mike wasn’t one of those.)


He felt very, very bad. Totally despondent. He said, “I’ve spent thousands of hours playing this game and the one time it really counts….”


I wanted to fix it for him. I wanted to make it all better. I did move my flight to D.C. to a later one so I could spend more time with him. I couldn't do much, but I could be here, and there's comfort in knowing a person is nearby even if you don't want to interact. I also did what moms have done throughout the ages: I baked cookies. Warm oatmeal raisin chunks hot from the oven served with a tall glass of milk.

But the truth of the matter is that Michael learned a very tough lesson: There are times in our lives when we will let other people down. Sometimes because there's been a misunderstanding. Sometimes because we didn't do our best. Sometimes through no fault of our own.


Even when we try our best--do our utmost--"stuff" happens. We aren't in control of every aspect of our world.

It broke my heart to see him so down. I didn’t tell him it didn’t matter…because it did.


I have too often tried to fix things for him. This year, I’ve worked hard to let him learn his own lessons. The reason I tried to fix things has nothing or little to do with Michael, and everything to do with me. I was taught that I had to be perfect. I was taught that if I was perfect everything would be all right. In a home with an alcoholic father, “all right” means no one gets hurt. In my home, growing up, there was a high penalty for imperfection.

I sure don’t expect Michael to be perfect. And I try not to expect it of myself although old habits die hard.

A week after the horrible loss, he went out and played another tournament with his team. This time he came in second and tied with a young man who’s probably the best in our area. His team won a resounding victory. Mike did much better—and he had taken a lot of responsibility for his performance. He prepped for the match by practicing, taking a lesson, and practicing some more.


Shortly thereafter, Michael was diagnosed with mononucleosis. From beneath his chin to the top of his shoulders ran a line of lumps as hard as marbles. He's had a raw throat and a fever that goes up and down line a pianist practicing scales. And he's been tired. So tired.


Did he have mono when he played that awful game? The doctor shrugged. "It's entirely possible." Suddenly, my husband and I saw Michael's loss in another light: one of an exhausted kid trying to carry his golf bag 18 holes in the pouring rain. But Michael said, "That's no excuse."


Which surprised me. And warmed my heart in a strange way. I don't want him blaming himself unfairly, but I am pleased to see that he hasn't "blown off" the whole situation. He's still willing to take responsibility. And in my mind, to my way of thinking, it's the ability to take appropriate responsibility that separates winners from losers. Again, my mind time-travels back to my alcoholic father. NOTHING was ever his responsibility. "Everyone is out to get me," was his mantra. If nothing is ever your responsibility, you are absolved of the need to ever try, right?

In the front of my book, I’m Too Blessed to be Depressed, I have written: I prayed to God to send me a child so that I could teach him or her all that I had learned. God heard my prayer and sent me a teacher.

I am learning from my son--about the world, about assumptions, about myself.

In honor of my teacher, my son, I'll autograph and give away ONE copy of I'm Too Blessed to be Depressed. Go to savetales@aol.com Put "Blessed" in the subject line. In the body give me your name and postal address so I can send you the book if you win. I'll draw one name. DEADLINE: I must receive your entry by June 15, 2007.

Meet Sunny Frazier

HEAVEN KNOWS!
By Sunny Frazier

It was September, 1971, El Monte, California. I was working as a Ma Bell operator, bored out of my skull, when I peered into the dusty window of an old bookstore. A book was calling out to me: Astrology for the Aquarian Age, by Alexandra Mark. I was only earning $100 a week, so even a $15 book was a luxury.
I went into the store and asked to see the book. The dealer said, “Are you an astrologer?” Somehow, I knew I was.
This scene and much of how and why I do astrology is explained within the context of my mystery novel, Fools Rush In. Christy Bristol, my protagonist, is a very conflicted astrologer, a little shy about telling people of her hobby because she also works in law enforcement. Oh, did I mention that I left the telephone company and, after a stint in the Navy, got on with the Fresno County Sheriff's Department as an undercover narcotics secretary?
After doing horoscopes on and off over the past 36 years, for pay and pro bono, I've learned a lot about human nature and myself. Even though many people scoff at what I do, curiosity is difficult to control. Who doesn't want to know what the future holds? It's my firm belief that the ancient practice of astrology has a practical application in today's world.
Simplified, a horoscope is a mix of planets, signs and houses. There are 12 houses, each assigned a sign based on where the planets are at the time of a persons birth, date of birth, and location. Each house represents an element of a person's life: ego, childhood, money, love, career, etc. Every planet and sign has both positive and negative values.
The birth chart, or my term, Natalscope, is a valuable tool in several ways. In my view, it is very much like psychology. In a child's chart, it can help a parent encourage the child from birth to use the best qualities of their personality and be aware of the negative qualities present to circumvent those traits from taking over. In a young adult's chart, it helps to be aware of repeated negative behavior and turn negative behavior into positive actions. In mature adults, it can provide introspection, although often too late to alter the course of their life's path.
My Futurescopes are based on the location of the planets on the natal horoscope wheel for the current day the horoscope is cast. The database for all astrological equations is provided by NASA through a book called the ephemeris. The Futurescope is superimposed on the Natalscope and through the relationship of the two scopes, the future is read. All this means is that it becomes apparent to the astrologer which houses the planets are headed for and when they will arrive. It answers questions such as “When will I get money,” and “When will I find love.” It is also important to see how current planetary movement affects the stable natal planets. Trines, squares, oppositions and conjunctions add extra information on the future.
I'm very brave about forecasting the future. I can forecast up to the year 2050, which is where my ephemeris ends. These are the NASA calculations for planetary movement. The tricky part is interpreting what the horoscope is trying to reveal. Accuracy greatly depends on the abilities of the individual casting the chart. I demonstrate this in my novel as Christy is forced to cast a horoscope on a drug dealer, yet cannot interpret her own chart.
At the end of the book, I provided a form for readers to send in to have a horoscope cast. I also do a free drawing once a month via my website www.sunnyfrazier.com So far, I've touched many lives and it feels pretty good. It also gives me material for the next books.
I believe astrology is a tool to be used intelligently as a guide through life, a reassurance that things will change. We all contain a universe within us. Astrology is the recognition of the relationship between man and the universe in the most basic way.

A Blooming Garden

Roses, lilies, daisies, oh my! Yes, gardening is another one of my non-genealogical hobbies. Well, not completely. After being around my family for only a short time, my husband understood exactly where my love of growing things, earth and the sun on my face came from. Mostly, my father's family. My grandparents had a farm, which wasn't unusual in Missouri in the first half of the twentieth century, but they also just had a love of the earth and being outside. My grandparents put in a vegetable garden every year, in addition to their many berries and the orchard that was well established. My grandmother canned, preserved, pickled and picked everything and I loved to help! (Actually, all of the cousins loved to help.) She had these two gigantic lilac bushes and ancient, antique old garden roses growing in the front right beneath the Martin house. It was only natural that the green thumb gene passed on to her kids. One of her daughters had an amazing rose garden, at one point she had almost fifty roses--almost all of them, hybrid teas. Which, I won't even mess with. I love roses, but not hybrid teas. When a back injury prevented her from working with the roses she began growing special orchids in doors, with special lamps and humidifiers! She was serious about her plants. Another aunt of mine still does the vegetables every year, has her berry bushes and peach trees, and she loves flowers of all kind.
So, of course, when that aunt offered me cuttings off of those old antique garden roses, I jumped on the chance to have a cutting. I took several, and three have taken root. They even bloomed this year, although very sparsely. But, I'm certain next year's show will be well worth the wait.
Right now, however, in a vase in my kitchen window, I have a bouquet of other roses that I grow. It's stuffed full of yellow Golden Celebration and pink Brother Cadfael roses. The whole kitchen smells good.
In addition to roses, I try to plant things that are native. Like, echinacea, daisies, astors and primrose. If I don't spend at least an hour outside every day, I feel restless. This year, I've got my tomatoes--I bought some heirloom tomatoes to see what tomatoes tasted like a hundred years ago--and I've got my blackberries and raspberries, but no veggies. Last year we did veggies and it was rewarding to watch the kids faces as a seed grows into a pumpkin. Some children think all of our food comes from the grocery store and don't really think about it beyond that. When I was a kid, a neighbor never knew that milk came from a cow, BEFORE it came from the grocery store, until she was about ten. It's kind of sad that things all kids used to take for granted, like milk from a cow, is something that has to be LEARNED now.
At any rate, my garden is blooming, and all is right with the world.
Rett