Friday, November 29, 2019

Day after Turkey

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Day after Thanksgiving here. We've reached the life stage where family lives far away and there are no youngsters nearby. Down to bare minimum family now. A brother-in-law who visits from Maryland. We cook less every year, but it's still too much. Husband & his brother have gone down to Lancaster County to go knife shopping on Black Friday, so here I am--tardy--but here.

Anyone who writes about Mozart has to have a love for opera, and if you've been reading me for even a small time, you know I truly adore this old, peculiar western art form. I'm beginning to break free of the tried and true repertory. (How many Madame Butterflys can you absorb?) The wonderful innovation of Met performances showing at the Movies allows me to go with a fellow devotee to see a performance from NYC of Philip Glass's opera, Akenaten.

Usually, you "hear" an opera more than "see" it. In the case of this production, however, the visual was a partner to the music.  As a result of the one-two punch, the performance stunned us.  Juggling has been added to the staging, and it provided another way to enter into entrancement. This composer is sometimes accused of creating what  has been called "Philip Glass Time," in which the audience is left spellbound. The popular genre this music is most clearly related to is Trance. 

And that's where I'll leave this, because words fail me. I can't do justice to this performance which combines choreography, music of orchestra and voice, and spectacle filled with color and symbolism.

Karen Almond / Metropolitan Opera) as seen in Opera Wire

Nefertiti & Akenaten

Karen Kamensek was the conductor; good to see a woman take the podium and do exactly what the work needed. No outsize stars here, just an astonishing piece of teamwork, craft, professionalism and ART. 

My friend and I were hypnotized. It took us a few minutes to collect our wits and walk with great care out of the theater with all those multi-plex (disorienting!) carpet patterns. Hours had passed; when we finally saw a clock, we were surprised by how late it was.     

Here's a link--barely a minute of your time, if you are curious.

~~Juliet Waldron

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Thursday, November 28, 2019

Holiday Traditions, Old, New, and (maybe) Improved by Connie Vines


Remember when we were in elementary school and sang those multi-generation holiday songs?

One that comes to mind:

Over the river and through the woods,
To grandmother's house we go;

The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh,
Through (the) white and drifted snow!
Over the river and through the woods,
Oh, how the wind does blow!

It stings the toes and bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river and through the woods,
Trot fast, my dapple gray!

Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound!
For this is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river and through the woods,

Now Grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!

In the U.S.A.  when we were in elementary school we traced an out-line of our little hand, coloring each finger to appear as a turkey’s tail feathers.  The palm was the turkey’s body and our thumb the turkey’s neck and head.  We sat on the sofa, with our stomach growling, waiting for the turkey to be removed, golden and hot, from the oven.  Gaze locked the lovely prepared pumpkin pies and the like resting on the sideboard.

While, I certain many children would recognize the song, few are going to sit around at grandma’s after the final bite of pumpkin pie is consumed.

Why?  Because Black Friday starts on Thursday afternoon.  With Cyber Monday right upon its heels!

I can count, on the fingers of one hand, the number of times I’ve venture out (rising at 3:00 AM) on Black Friday to go shopping.  FYI: It’s not happening this year either.

I often shop on Cyber Monday (though I can usually find comparable money-saving deal of non-tech items) all through the month of November.

I will spend my Thanksgiving in my kitchen preparing dinner, setting my table, and sharing food and fond memories with family and friends.

Chanel (my poodle) may order her new winter sweater online before I cozy up in my wing back chair with my e-reader and a new novel from BWL. 

Tomorrow, I may unpack my Christmas decorations and start listen to Christmas music.

But not today.

Thursday is Thanksgiving—the day we give thanks.  I am thankful for Family and dear Friends-- everyone here at BooksWeLove, and our treasured readers.

I wish everyone a healthy and a happy holiday season.

Now, please enjoy a few holiday memes and remember we have holiday discounts on our eBooks –no Black Friday lines, or need to wait for Cyber Monday!

Celebrate the holidays with one of my novels:

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Wednesday, November 27, 2019

CULTURE SHOCK - Or, don’t mess with apple pie - by Vijaya Schartz

AKIRA'S CHOICE, Byzantium Book 2 Sci-fi Romance
More of Vijaya Schartz' book from BWL HERE

Edouard Herriot famously said that culture is what remains when one has forgotten everything. Culture in the French vocabulary of the period meant learning and knowledge, but the saying is also true in today’s extended meaning of the word. 

We speak of ancient cultures, of the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Romans, their philosophy and their mythology. We speak of the great artists of the Renaissance. They left long lasting testimonies of their history, architecture, writings, and way of life… Some say modern culture will only be evident when we are long gone and forgotten. 

I say culture is not only art, architecture, wisdom, or knowledge, but it is how we treat each other, and how we celebrate life, family, and the traditions that accompany good and bad events in our lives. 

Being raised in France, my first contact with America over the course of a three-month summer vacation was a true culture shock. I didn’t understand fast-food. Who in their right mind would eat ketchup? Why stick a piece of dry meat between two dry buns, when you can simmer your own coq-au-vin and bake potatoes au-gratin? 

I couldn’t understand why Americans worked such long hours and never took extended vacations. The French, even in those days, took five weeks of mandatory paid vacation each year, and often took a few extra, unpaid vacation weeks as well, with their employers’ blessing. Many French companies still close completely for an entire month each summer. 

When I returned to France, that fall, I declared that I would never want to live in America. These people were crazy, frantic, and didn’t know how to live… and they probably thought the same thing about me. 

As things go, life has a way of making you regret such statements made in the ignorance of youth. While studying in an ashram in India, where I felt totally at ease, despite the many cultural differences, I met an American man and fell in love. We were married, and I came to live with him in the United States. 

Imagine my reaction when he took me to eat a T-bone steak at Jack in the Box, on a paper plate, with plastic flatware. The culture shock was back. Never in my life had I cut a steak with a plastic knife. From then on, I cooked at home. It was great for a while, but soon, my husband missed American food… which I didn’t care for, and didn’t know how to cook. 

This was decades ago, and I since learned to appreciate American food and culture. I understand that a busy life requires take out or fast food, in order to spend more time with family. My mother spent all her time in the kitchen. I can now fully enjoy a barbecue party, or a seafood buffet. I absolutely love apple pie a la mode (which surprised me at first, because the French do not eat pie with ice-cream). I smile when I hear my neighbors shouting at the referee during a football game… although I still cook most of my meals at home… you know… trying to eat healthy. 

I even corrected my husband when he said America had no culture, compared to the Europeans, the Greeks or the Egyptians. But America is still young. These ancient cultures had a chance to mature over many centuries. Besides, Lady Liberty could compete with the colossus of Rhodes, and what about the faces carved in the rock of Mount Rushmore? 

Because America is young, it experiences many growing pains and is learning to cope with change, and handle diversity. It’s not an easy task, and progress is painful and takes time. Yet in the midst of all that, America has all kinds of great cultural traditions, because of its diversity. Emigrants from many countries melted their cultures together so much that we do not exactly know where American traditions come from. You can experience Mardi-Gras in New Orleans, or a Greek Festival in California. American pizza (nothing like its Italian ancestor) is now conquering Europe. Who hasn’t enjoyed a bagel smeared with cream cheese, or sushi, or Mexican food, Thai food, or Chinese take out? America embraced all these different cultures and from them, forged its own. 

But Thanksgiving is definitely a unique holiday of the American continent (although Europe is now trying to copy it), and I am ready to enjoy it to the fullest. I wish you all a fantastic Thanksgiving, with turkey, stuffing, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, and all. And I’ll take my pie a la mode, merci beaucoup.

For a total culture shock, read ASHES FOR THE ELEPHANT GOD, a reincarnation love story set in India.
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To scatter her brother's ashes over the Narmada River, Fabienne leaves France for the mysterious India of her childhood dreams. As she awakens to a newfound spirituality, unexpected visions of a former life during the Raj stir ancient yearnings for a long lost passion. Mukunda, the palace architect Fabienne loved a century and a half ago, lives again as an American engineer and works on the local dam project.

As Fabienne falls in love again with India and the man of her destiny, the tapestry of her previous life unfolds. But, in the karmic land of the blue gods, a ruthless foe lies in wait. The Kali worshiper, who murdered the two lovers in a faraway past, has come back through the centuries to thwart their dream once more.

"... a broad-stroked, magnificent picture of a lavish India of the past and the present... a vivid tale of suspense... a gripping account of a woman coming to terms with heightened awareness... destiny." The Book Reader

"... entertaining, fast-paced yet deeply spiritual... Here is a superior metaphysical novel!" Richard Fuller - Metaphysical Reviews

"... passionate... love, lust, faith and deception... a magnificent offering to the world of fiction..." The Charlotte Austin Review

", sensual... multilayered... a thriller... magical, mystical book..." Writer's Digest

"...a striking and highly recommended metaphysical novel..." Midwest Book Review

Vijaya Schartz, author
 Strong heroines, brave heroes, cats, romance with a kick
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Tuesday, November 26, 2019

Another trip down memory lane with Tricia McGill

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While taking a look at some old posts of mine I came across this one I wrote in 2014. How times change. Although I stated at the end that I was never going to move again--I have done just that. Our requirements change with age. 

Anyway, this was my post titled—there’s no place like home.
Or is there?

It occurred to me lately that I live in a very confined area. I don’t drive distances as I once did, and tend to stay nearer home. A lot of this is due perhaps because the roads aren’t like they used to be in what us older people refer to as “the good ol’ days”. 

I’ve towed an 18 foot caravan around Australia when my husband had to give up driving after one of his early strokes, but as much as I would love to take off, and still envy folk who take to the highways and byways of this beautiful country I call home, I couldn’t stand the hectic pace on the roads these days.
A hair raising drive on an unmade road around a mountain

My pondering came about after reading Sandy’s post of a day or so ago when I commented that if I returned to my hometown I’d be hard-pressed after so many years to find more than about six people apart from family and a few friends who would remember me. Of course my hometown was London and to be more specific Highbury in Nth London, which was no small town by any stretch of the imagination.

I then pondered on the fact that perhaps I am a homebody who likes to be in familiar places, but then I started to think about the places around the world I have visited and it occurred to me I’ve been quite a traveller in my time.

My first trip in a plane was to San Sebastian in Spain. In those days a trip to anywhere in Europe was considered very extravagant. My sister was getting married at the end of that year and I was to be married soon after, so we took the opportunity to travel before settling down. While there we took a bus trip to Madrid, where we walked out of a bullfight in disgust after about half an hour. I guess we only expected all the grandeur of the parade and never considered the poor bull was going to die a slow death. I have to say here that we were told afterwards it was a very poor fight and the matador was not considered very good. We also went on a bus trip to a coastal resort in France. I can’t recall exactly where but do remember the horrendous drive where the driver seemed intent on killing us all, driving along mountain roads like a kamikaze pilot.

After my marriage my husband and I drove every year to Devon or
Cornwall. For anyone who knows that area of England my favorite places were Crantock or Lynton/Lynmouth. I expect both have changed considerably since the 60s.

Of course the biggest journey of all came when we migrated to Australia. We opted to come by sea, and sailed on the Fairstar, a recently refitted liner, in 1966. The sea trips from England to Australia were abandoned long ago, so we were very fortunate. It took exactly four weeks. Now when I refer to the Good Old Days you will understand what I mean when I tell you that along the way we went on a side trip to Cairo and the Pyramids at Giza. In those days ships travelled through The Suez Canal. We left the ship and stayed overnight in Cairo. Next morning we were up early and took a camel ride to the nearby pyramids. Then we visited the museum where the stand out was Tutankhamen's artefacts. Next we went by bus to Giza to see the Great Sphinx and pyramids. We met up with the ship again and continued on our journey. All this for 8 pounds sterling!

My husband went back to England about six times over the years, but I only returned once and that was in 1975. On the return trip we stayed overnight in Singapore.

I’ve travelled extensively in Australia, been right around the coastline once, up the inland road to Darwin, over to the west a couple of times travelling across the Nullarbor Plain. I’ve stroked a dolphin in the sea at Monkey Mia in WA, visited Uluru in the red centre, and swam in the warmest, clearest water you can imagine off the Great Barrier Reef, walked through magnificent rain forests, driven across unmade roads and along highways, seen a platypus swimming in his natural Tasmanian habitat, and emus and kangaroos running free. I’ve been across to Tasmania more times than I can remember, sometimes by air and other times on the ferry. For years we towed a caravan—our preferred means of travel as we could then take our dogs along. My husband would have spent all his days on the road, but I was always glad to get home, to sleep in my own bed.

So, back to where I started, there is obviously no place like home for me. But then home is where the heart is. My early years were spent in a tenement house in Nth London where I was surrounded by love and had no idea that we were not rich. But after my mother passed away that ceased to be home so anywhere my husband and I were together was home. I will remain in this house until they carry me out. My heart is here.

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Monday, November 25, 2019

Cornwall Continued by A.M.Westerling

Haha, I know, a medieval knight hasn't got much to do with 1805 Cornwall but I love this eye catching cover! You can find it at your favourite online store HERE.

In my blog post last month, I talked a bit about Cornwall and the large part smuggling played in its history. Research is actually one of the reasons why I enjoy writing historical romance as much as I do. It’s always interesting to see what curious bits I can find and in today’s post I thought I’d share a few of the anecdotes that caught my fancy.

Once smuggled goods were dropped off on shore, the contraband made its way to inns and hostelries such as Jamaica Inn on Bodmin Moor. This inn is the inspiration for Daphne Du Maurier’s novel which now is on my to be read list. Then there’s the quick-witted landlady who hid a keg of spirits beneath her skirts during an unexpected search by the revenue men. Hmm, I don't think I'd have the nerve to do that. And it’s rumoured some villages had so much illegal gin the villages washed their windows with it! Why not, glass cleaner contains alcohol although not of the drinking variety. *wink*

Finally, signals were needed so smugglers knew when it was safe to land their cargo on shore. A local farmer used a white horse – if the men saw a white horse parading up and down the coast, they knew it was safe to land. If there was danger, the farmer would simply ride his horse home.

Of course there are many other examples but I have a Grey Cup party to go to this afternoon so am keeping this post short. Haha, yes, I am a master of procrastination…😊

I’m finishing off with the next excerpt from Sophie, Book 1 of The Ladies of Harrington House series coming soon. This is scene number four. Enjoy!

Bryce cantered up the gravel drive to Harrington House, flanked by manicured holly shrubs interspersed periodically with the silvery white trunks of birch trees. He rounded a final curve and came upon the building in all its three-story brick and stone glory. The pediment above the front door held a coat of arms and the carving on the solid oak door depicted a stag with multipronged antlers. In short, the country estate of a silk stocking family. He didn’t have much of a chance to examine the workmanship before the door swung open on well oiled hinges.

“Good evening.” The butler bowed. “You must be Lord Langdon. Welcome. I am Montgomery.” He held out one arm. “May I take your coat and hat?”

“Thank you.” Bryce handed over his gloves and beaver hat. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the opposite wall. Polished black boots, black pantaloons, white shirt, striped grey, black and red waistcoat with a grey jacket. Simple yet well tailored and in the latest fashion. He hoped to make a good impression on his guests for not only did he want acceptance by the local ton, he wanted their confidence.

He adjusted his white silk necktie then glanced around at the comfortable yet elegant front hall. Harrington House showed pride of ownership. The planked oak floors gleamed, the oriental carpets lay perfectly, the candles in their wall sconces cast an inviting glow as did the massive brass candelabra on the marble topped table. A row of portraits, Harringtons past presumably, looked down their noses at him. The most recent portrait showed a young couple with two small dark-haired girls and a toddler. Yes, that must be Sophie and her family. Even at the age of the girls as shown in the portrait – five, perhaps six? – he recognized her dazzling green eyes and shade of hair. The pretty little girl had grown into a beautiful young woman.

Montgomery returned. “This way if you please.”

The butler showed him into a sitting room dominated by a pianoforte in the corner. “Lord Langdon,” he announced before bowing and backing out.

“Welcome to Harrington House. I am Lady Evelyn Harrington.” An attractive blonde woman in her forties rose and made her way to him. She carried herself with the grace and assurance of one who knew her place and knew it very well.

He bowed. “Lord Bryce Langdon.” He glanced about the room – a settee, several groups of arm chairs – but no sign of glossy chestnut curls. Had Sophie been mistaken, that they were to meet this evening? He stifled the disappointment and kept his expression bland.

“My husband, Oliver Harrington.” A middle aged man with brown streaked grey at the temples lifted his hand.

She gestured to a well dressed, elderly couple seated on a bench by the windows. “Lord and Lady Blackmore.”

“Please, not so formal,” said the man. “Call me Simon.”

“And I am Priscilla,” twittered his wife. The woman, resplendent in pearls and an outmoded dress of royal blue satin, lifted her pearl studded lorgnette and regarded him intently.

Bryce had the uncomfortable sensation she studied him for nefarious purposes. As if she searched for something from him and found him lacking. Thankfully, another couple entered the room just then and he turned away.

“Ah, Vicar, Mrs. Sinclair, welcome.” Lady Evelyn waved them over. “This is our new neighbour, Lord Bryce Langdon.”

“Well met, my boy.”

My boy? Bryce stifled a grin. The vicar, a tall balding man with a bearing as upright as his convictions, didn’t appear to be much older than Bryce.

Mrs. Sinclair curtsied. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” She stood almost as tall as the vicar and with her severe black frock, sharp features and prominent nose, reminded Bryce of a crow.

“Of course you know the Earl of Blackmore and his wife?”

Both the vicar and his wife nodded. “Indeed we do.” The vicar cleared his throat.

“Indeed,” squeaked his wife, dropping another curtsy in the vague direction of the Blackmores.

The two were obviously uncomfortable with the company they kept this evening. Bryce stepped over to strike up a conversation to put them more at ease. “How long have you served the local parish?”

The vicar cleared his throat again. “Just over a year.”

“A year.” Mrs. Sinclair fluttered a hand toward her neck then dropped it to clutch her reticule so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Seeing as how you are relative newcomers, perhaps you could help me?”

She turned wide eyes to him. “Help you?”

“I am finding it difficult to set up my house and would welcome advice.”


Bryce almost snorted with laughter at the horrified expression that crept over the woman’s face. Surely as a vicar’s wife, she would be accustomed to helping parish members in whatever capacity was required? He took pity on her. “Please, forgive my impertinence. I’m certain you have much more pressing matters in the parish to attend to than helping a newcomer settle in.”

A sigh of relief whooshed out of the woman’s thin lips. “I thank you for your understanding.”

The vicar spoke then. “If you wish, I could raise the matter this Sunday with my congregation. I’m sure someone would be pleased to oblige.”

Lady Harrington barged over. “My goodness, Vicar, there is no need. I should be delighted to visit Lord Langdon in his new home to give him my thoughts.”

“Lady Harrington considers herself something of an artiste,” remarked Lady Blackmore. “I myself have relied on her judgement. No one has a better eye for colour than she does. You must come and see my drawing room and draw your own conclusions.”

“How kind of you to say so, Priscilla.” Evelyn flushed with pleasure at the compliment.

“Oh, I couldn’t impose on you like that,” protested Bryce.

“Nonsense, it’s no imposition. Are you in tomorrow afternoon?”

Despite her diminutive stature, Bryce realized no one dared argue with Evelyn Harrington. “I am and I would be delighted to receive you, say four o’clock?”

She nodded. “That’s settled then. I shall look forward to it.”

The door opened and Bryce looked towards it hopefully. A footman entered carrying two decanters of wine and crystal glasses. Damnation. Still no sign of the lovely Lady Sophie. After serving the room’s occupants, the footman left the remainder of the wine and three glasses on a side table and left.

The clatter of slippers on wooden stairs and girlish giggles drifted through the air and the door burst open to reveal Sophie and two other young ladies who could only be her sisters. His chest tightened at the sight of her in a charming lilac frock and he could scarce tear his eyes away during introductions.

“Finally, our daughters have arrived. Better late than never, I always say,” Lord Harrington said fondly. Eyes bright with pride, he pointed as he chimed off their names. “Sophie, Leah and Catherine.”

Bryce noted Sophie and Leah obviously favoured their father, both of average height and with chestnut coloured hair, while Catherine, short and blonde, took after their mother.

“Please accept our apologies for our tardiness,” murmured Sophie, dropping a graceful curtsy. Leah and Catherine followed suit. “However that is the hazard of sharing a maid,” she continued. For an instant she looked directly at Bryce; a faint flush coloured her cheeks and Bryce thought he had never seen anyone so alluring. His heart stilled briefly then began pounding.

“It wouldn’t have been a problem if Leah hadn’t insisted on trying every evening frock she owned before deciding on the very first one she put on,” interrupted Catherine, her voice grievous.

“I wasn’t the one who demanded three ribbons threaded through her hair,” Leah grumped. She stared at Bryce until Sophie thumped her in the ribs with a well placed elbow.

“Girls,” admonished their mother. “Our guests have no interest in hearing your difficulties.” She clapped her hands. “Now, we have planned a small program to entertain you while we wait for our dinner. Lord Langdon, if you please.” She pointed to the chair closest to the pianoforte.

“Bryce if you please. Lord Langdon makes me sound like my father.” With an incline of his head, he sat down.

“Very well, Bryce it is.”

Before her mother could say anything more, Leah scuttled over and dropped into the chair beside him, which elicited raised eyebrows from both her parents. Lady Harrington frowned but said nothing. Apparently her daughter’s forward action was not worthy of a rebuke. At least not in public.

The vicar and his wife settled in behind them while the earl and countess stayed where they were. The Harringtons chose the settee.

“La, sir, I am certain you will enjoy this.” Leah leaned over and tapped her fan on Bryce’s knee. Her altogether too familiar deed drew a puzzled look from Sophie. Then comprehension dawned on her face and she compressed her lips while glaring at Leah.

Bryce had the distinct feeling he was going to be the centre of a battle between the two young women. He well knew from his own sisters how nasty things could get between them if all wanted the same prize. Deuced uncomfortable situation particularly as Sophie piqued his interest, not Leah.

He ran his finger beneath his starched collar and swallowed hard. How should he comport himself in order not to insult Leah, his hosts and especially Sophie?

Sunday, November 24, 2019

Canadian Authors Past and Present by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey--Prince Edward Island

 Prince Edward Island
Lucy Maud Montgomery was born in Clifton, now New London, Prince Edward Island on November 30, 1874. Her mother died of tuberculosis two months before Lucy’s second birthday. Lucy was put in the custody of her maternal grandparents in Cavendish by her father who later moved to Prince Albert in what is now Saskatchewan.
     This was a very lonely time for Lucy. She spent much of her childhood alone so she created imaginary friends and worlds. Lucy kept a diary and when she was thirteen years-of-age, she wrote that she had early dreams of future fame. After completing her education Lucy moved to Prince Albert and spent a year with her father and step-mother. While there she had two poems published in The Daily Patriot, the Charlottetown newspaper.
     Lucy returned to Cavendish and obtained her teacher’s license, completing the two year course in one year. She went on to study literature at Dalhousie University in Halifax, Nova Scotia. She worked as a teacher which gave her time to write. From 1897 to 1907 she had over one hundred stories published in magazines and newspapers.
     Lucy had a number of suitors over the years and turned down two marriage proposals, one because he was narrow-minded, the other because he was just a good friend. She finally accepted a proposal from Edwin Simpson in 1897 but came to dislike him. She found herself in love with another man, Herman Leard. She refused to have sex with him but they did become quite passionate in their kissing and petting. She finally stopped seeing Herman in 1898 and was upset when he died of influenza in 1899. She also broke off her engagement to Edwin Simpson.
     Ms. Montgomery moved back to Cavendish to look after her ailing grandmother and began writing novels. Her first novel, Anne of Green Gables, was published in June of 1908 under the name L.M. Montgomery and was an instant success, going through nine printings by November of 1909. Lucy stayed in Cavendish until her grandmother’s death in March 1911 and shortly after she married Ewen (Ewan) Macdonald. Ewen was a Presbyterian minister and they moved to Leaskdale in present-day Uxbridge Township in Ontario where he took the position of minister at St. Paul’s Presbyterian Church. The lived in the Leaskdale manse and she wrote her next eleven books while there.
     Lucy and Ewen had three children, the second one being stillborn. Lucy’s second book, Anne of Avonlea was published in 1909 and The Story Girl, came out in 1911. She went through several periods of depression and suffered from migraine headaches while her husband had attacks of a major depressive order and his health suffered. She almost died from the Spanish flu in 1918, spending ten days in bed. She began an Emily trilogy with Emily of New Moon in 1923.
When Ewen retired in 1935, they bought a house in Swansea, Ontario, a suburb of Toronto which she named Journey's End.
     On April 24, 1942, Lucy Maud Montgomery was found dead in her bed in her Toronto home. The primary cause of death recorded on her death certificate was coronary thrombosis. Montgomery was buried at the Cavendish Community Cemetery in Cavendish. In 2008, Lucy’s granddaughter, Kate Macdonald Butler, said that because of her depression she may have taken her own life through a drug overdose.  
     Writing was Lucy’s comfort and besides the nine books of the Anne series she wrote twelve other novels and had four short story collections published. Nineteen of her books were set in Prince Edward Island and she immortalized the small province with her descriptions of the people and community. Each year, hundreds of thousands of people from around the world, come to Prince Edward Island to see the place that Lucy loved so much, and to visit Green Gables, the house and farm where ‘Anne grew up.
     Lucy Maud Montgomery was made an officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) by King George V in 1935. She was given a special medal, which she could only wear out in public in the presence of the King or one of his representatives such as the Governor-General. Montgomery was named a National Historic Person in 1943 by the Canadian Federal government. On May 15, 1975, the Canadian Post issued a stamp to Lucy Maud Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables. The Leaskdale Manse was designated a National Historic Site in 1997. Green Gables, was formally recognized as "L. M. Montgomery's Cavendish National Historic Site" in 2004.
     In terms of sales, both in her lifetime and since, Montgomery is the most successful Canadian author of all time.

Milton James Rhode Acorn was born in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, on March 30, 1923. At the age of eighteen, he joined the armed forces and was stationed mainly in England. On an ocean crossing, he was injured as a result of depth charges. He returned home and received a disability pension. He moved to Montreal in 1956 where he self-published a chapbook of his poems titled, In Love and Anger. His poetry was also published in New Frontiers, a political magazine, and in Canadian Forum magazine.
     Milton moved to Vancouver in the mid-1960s and helped found the ‘underground’ newspaper, Georgia Straight, in 1967. The newspaper is still in publication. His collection of poetry I’ve Tasted My Blood, was published in 1969 and he received the Canadian Poets Award in 1970. He wrote three more books of poetry and in 1976 received the Governor General’s Award for The Island Means Minago.
     Acorn liked to be a man of mystery. He disguised and altered his background so that biographers and anyone wanting to find out more about him did not learn anything that he did not want uncovered. Because of the many different versions he told of his life it is difficult to know where reality ended and fiction began. He was also considered to be a hostile and quarrelsome man. However, Milton Acorn was deemed to be one of Canada most well-known poets by the early 1970s. Thirteen collections of poetry were published before his death and five more were published posthumously.
     Three documentaries were made about Milton Acorn: Milton Acorn: The People’s Poet (1971; In Love and Anger: Milton Acorn-Poet (1984); and A Wake for Milton (1988).
Milton suffered diabetes and moved back to Prince Edward Island in 1981. He had a heart attack in July 1986 and died on August 20, due to complications from the diabetes and his heart attack.
     Milton Acorn was known as the ‘People’s Poet’. The Milton Acorn People’s Poetry Award was established in his memory in 1987. It consists of $500 and a medallion and is given to an exceptional ‘People’s Poet.’

Book 11 of the Canadian Historical Brides Series:  Envy the Wind (Prince Edward Island) - Anita Davison and Victoria Chatham - May 2018
Victoria (Vicki) Chatham was born in Bristol, England and now lives near Calgary, Alberta. She grew up in an area rife with the elegance of Regency architecture. This, along with the novels of Georgette Heyer, engendered in her an abiding interest in the period with its style and manners and is one where she feels most at home.
     Vicki mostly writes historical novels but now and again will tinker with contemporary romance. Her stories are laced with a little mystery to keep her characters on their toes and, of course, in the end love has to conquer all. Cold Gold (2012), On Borrowed Time (2014) and Shell Shocked (2014) are the three books in her Buxton Chronicles series set in the early 1900s. She switched time eras for her next book Loving That Cowboy (2015) which is a contemporary novel that takes place in Calgary during the Calgary Stampede.
     Apart from her writing, Victoria is an avid reader of anything that catches her interest, but especially Regency romance. She also teaches introductory creative writing. Her love of horses gets her away from her computer to volunteer at Spruce Meadows, a world class equestrian centre near Calgary. She goes to movies often and visits her family in England when she can.
     She is a long time member of Romance Writers of America and her local RWA chapter, CaRWA, the Calgary Association of Romance Writers of America.

Anita Davison was born in London, England and she connected with the history of that city at a young age. While the rest of the students on a school trip were throwing the contents of their lunch boxes at each other, Anita imagined men in high white wigs, flared long coats, and heeled shoes coming out of coffee houses, climbing into sedan chairs on the cobbles in Paternoster Row, where Christopher Wren was lowered down the outside of St Paul's Cathedral in a basket.
     Her first historical fiction novel was about a 17th Century West Country family during the Monmouth Rebellion. By the time she submitted the manuscript to publishers, historical family sagas were no longer in fashion. Historical fiction, however, still had a following and she wrote the Rebels Daughter (2014) and The Goldsmith’s Wife (2017) the two books of The Woulfes of Loxsbeare.
     Anita has also written an Edwardian Cozy Mysteries series set in early 20th Century London and Cheltenham.

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