Mourning a Fictional Character

The sixth installment in my Happy Valley series went live yesterday. Greed at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort is the first book in which I killed off a character, and I struggled with that, even though the death affects a minor character and takes place off the page.

When the final scene was written, I contemplated a total rewrite before sending the manuscript to my editor. Even after she’d made her recommendations, I came close to scrapping half the book. In the end, though, I left it.

But I’m not sure I’ll ever do it again. Fictional deaths take a lot out of me, even when I’m the one orchestrating them. Can we have a moment of silence?

Peace, people.

Part Time Vagabonds

Traveling the backroads has its perks: Less traffic, scenic vistas, quaint little towns.

But, it’s not all sunshine and lollipops, especially on Christmas Day. Literally nothing was open in many of those quaint little towns. Finding a convenience store gas station that could accommodate our motorhome and towed jeep was a bit tricky. So we ended up driving a little farther than we’d intended and then couldn’t find a rest area to park in overnight.

And that’s how I got to experience my first night sleeping In a brightly lit truck stop parking lot.

Christmas miracle! I had the best night in years. Maybe decades. We turned in around 7:30 because David was bushed. I frowned at him and said, “you know, with these bright lights shining in every window, I’ll never be able to sleep.”

Eight hours later I woke up, looked at the clock, and asked “is it 3:30 a.m. or p.m.?” And promptly fell back to sleep until 5.

We threw on some clothes. Grabbed cups of truck stop coffee and hit the road. We’re planning on making it all the home today, but that means Interstate highway travel. With its own sets of perks and drawbacks.

But we’re vagabonds. At least part time. We can handle just about anything.

Peace, people!

Anticipation

Christmas Eve.

Forget all that science-y stuff about the shorter days of winter. My brothers and I knew that the day preceding Christmas was, without question, the longest day of the year.

We’d rise early and immediately begin imploring our parents to allow us to open one gift. Just one.
They never relented.

“After dark,” they’d say. “The Christmas tree lights are prettier after dark.” Or, “You know we never unwrap until after your Dad gets home.”

Daddy managed the Piggly Wiggly in our town and on Christmas Eve he often kept the store open just a bit later as folks would rush in for last minute purchases. To us it felt like hours. We didn’t care if Mrs. Jones needed one more can of Cream of Mushroom soup, or if Mr. Smith had forgotten to purchase batteries for the toy fire truck his kids would find under the tree, but Daddy did.

My brothers and I would do our best to stay busy, but every ten minutes or so we’d have to check in with the tree. Look over the presents Mom had carefully wrapped, speculating about their contents. Wondering if it was dark enough yet. At noon. With Daddy still at work.

And even when it was dark enough, and our dad was safely home, we were forced to do inconsequential stuff, like hugging relatives and eating dinner, before we could open our gifts. It was inhumane.

Finally, though, some grown up would decide the time had come. We children would sit, almost patiently, around the tree as gifts were handed out in dramatic fashion by the person who had been voted “Most Likely to Have Been a Snail in a Former Life.” And once they’d all been distributed, we’d be given a signal and heaven help anyone who tried to slow us down.

I don’t remember much about specific gifts. There were always pajamas. New clothes for school. A game or a toy to tide us over until Santa made his delivery early on Christmas morning. Books and records.

But I remember the anticipation. The scent of our favorite foods emanating from the kitchen. The way my grandparents hugged us like they hadn’t just seen us the day before and the day before that. The way Mom’s eyes lit up when Daddy came through the door. My own excitement reflected in my little brothers’ eyes.

And right now, I wish it could happen again. Exactly as it was back then.

May your Christmas be merry and bright, and filled with love.

Knowing

I met two women today at the coffee shop. Both named Betsy. I didn’t ask if Betsy was a nickname for either woman, but I wondered. My friend Stephanie, introduced us. I only know Stephanie from this coffee shop where I go each day to write. She’d once asked me to watch her infant daughter while she ran to the restroom. Today I asked her if she’d worried the entire time her daughter was in my care, with me being a stranger, and all, and while laughing, she told me and the women named Betsy, that on her way to the ladies room that day she’d stopped by the counter and asked the baristas to keep an eye on me while I kept an eye on her daughter. It was a leap of faith that she took, leaving that precious child with a stranger. One of the Betsys had lost her own daughter to murder. Not to a stranger, but to someone they’d known well. And it struck me as the saddest thing I’d ever heard. It sat with me all morning as I worked, this knowing that we never really know.

Heard it in a Love Song

Yesterday, on my Facebook author page, I solicited love songs to be included in my current work in progress, Greed at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort. Since copyright laws prevent me from using much more than just the title, I suggested that the song be easily recognizable and might be enough to bring out all sorts of lovey dovey emotions.

I gave participants a lot of leeway when it came to the era in which the song was released. I’ve kept the timeline for the Happy Valley series fairly vague so as not to have to deal with politics or COVID or any other unpleasant topics. These are primarily feel good books. With occasional crimes. Maybe a murder in the one I’m working on. 😳

When suggestions began pouring in, I was delighted. So many great song titles! And a few odd ones—Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys, for one. Spoiler: It didn’t win.

In the end, I picked two song titles because I couldn’t decide on just one: Amazed by LoneStar and I Love How You Love Me by Bobby Darrin. The names of those who submitted these suggestions will be featured in the Acknowledgements section of Greed and I’ll send them a signed copy of the book.

I’ve held similar contests for my previous books, and never been disappointed in the results. Thank goodness for my little army of devoted readers.

Peace, people!

Droopy Drawers

I was at water aerobics this afternoon, following directions, jogging this way and that, throwing my arms in the air like I just don’t care. Then we did some kind of leg exercise and I had the odd sensation that I was wearing a skirt. I knew that wasn’t the case—I had on a tankini, one of those two piece suits that pretends to be a one-piece, and bottom half definitely did not have an attached skirt.

But the bottom was acting weird. I could feel the lining snugged up against my derrière, but the outer bit seemed to be drooping halfway down the back of my thighs.

I’d jump, the suit flapped. I’d swim, the extra material floated up like seaweed. When I exited the pool at the end of the hour we all had a good laugh.

I guess these bottoms are going in the dumpster, unless someone’s knows how to fix a pair of droopy drawers.

Peace, people.

I Prevailed. Eventually

This story has a happy ending, but at the time I wrote this, it sure didn’t look all that favorable for yours truly,

Okay, before I lose my mind completely I’m going to tell you I TRIED to write today. I really did. But I opened up my Word file for Greed at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort to find that my subscription to Microsoft Word had lapsed and that I needed to renew. I could READ my work in progress but couldn’t WRITE anything.

No biggie. Right?? WRONG. I could not remember the password for the account. And my phone number had changed since I set it up. I filled out a form, but couldn’t recall any previous passwords. I don’t think I ever had but the one.

I tried to chat with support through a new account I made just for that purpose, but after getting shuffled around six times I lost the connection and almost cried. Almost.

Microsoft sent me a note saying they couldn’t verify my information and to submit another form. Basically it wanted me to once again say I didn’t know anything it was asking for one more time. Like maybe I’d suddenly remembered an old password that I never had in the first place. Yes, I need a better password system. I know.

I filled out the form anyway only to get a message saying I’d used up all my attempts. Try again in 24 hours. So, if you hear a scream coming from the southeastern corner of the country, it’s probably me.

A Leg to Stand On

Several years ago, a female acquaintance approached me to say that she thought I had gorgeous legs. Now, as a teen and on into my late 50’s (when I received the aforementioned compliment) I was accustomed to being noticed for my legs. They were long and shapely and honestly the only part of my body to ever engender even a tiny bit of vanity in me.

But as you might guess the compliments have tapered off now that I’m in my 60’s. The right knee has garnered a few scars from a much needed procedure to allow me to walk around without wincing or cursing in pain, but they are righteous scars and I’ve embraced them. My legs are just legs now. To whom should the leg torch be passed?

Last week I entered the women’s locker room at one of Tallahassee’s many fine city pools to find myself in the presence of the holy grail of legs. Honestly, I’ve never seen such perfection. The woman was taller than my 5’8”. Indeed, it appeared that her leg was my height; although, I’m sure that wasn’t the case.

Long, tan, and sculpted as beautifully as if Michelangelo himself had created it, this leg begged for a compliment. I’m not even sure she had another leg, so mesmerizing was her right one.

“Tell her what a beautiful leg she has!” the weird side of my brain urged.

Fortunately, just in time, the less weird side of my brain realized that might be a little weird in the confines of a locker room, so I just filed it away in my memory. But I must say, the torch has been passed. More than passed. Elevated to a standard no mortal could ever reach without the assistance of the gods. And I’m in awe.

Peace, people.

Book Five is Live. Achoo!

I published book five in the Happy Valley series this week. Second Chances at the Happy Valley Motor Inn and Resort is live on Amazon for Kindle and in paperback form

Now my heart and mind wanted to celebrate the occasion with a nice glass of wine and dinner at a favorite restaurant, but my body had other ideas and came down with a summer cold. So I took to my bed and went through a couple of boxes of Kleenex.

Still, the book doesn’t care that I’m feeling low. It’s selling well and I’m excited. My sneezes are all enthusiastic ones. And that glass of wine will still be there when I’m through coughing.

Check out Second Chances and if you enjoy the book, please leave a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Your reviews mean a lot!

Peace, people!

My Mind

According to recent tests (EEG, MRI) my brain is just fine. I think I’ll have that crocheted and framed for the whole world to see.

Brain Works as Intended.

Move Along.

Nothing to See Here.

Am I relieved? You betcha! The test I didn’t pass with flying colors, though, was the one for sleep apnea. I have sleep apnea. According to the doctor I stop breathing, on average, 26 times an hour.

I asked, “Did you mean a night? That I stop breathing 26 times a night?”

“No, 26 times an hour, putting you squarely in the range of moderate sleep apnea.”

Huh. No damn wonder my brain feels like Swiss cheese. No wonder I couldn’t remember how to operate a simple screw driver. (Righty tighty, lefty loosey, am I right?)

Soon I’ll be fitted with a CPAP machine that will magically put an end to all my confusion. Or at least that confusion caused by a lack of oxygen. Look out evil doers, I’ll soon be primed for world domination. I promise to be a benevolent overlord.

Peace, people!

Oh, a sincere thank you to everyone who reached out to check on me. Love you all.