Dolly the Songteller

                                                                   Find me at my publisher

"If you don't like Dolly Parton, do you even have a heart?" Thus begins one review of Dolly Parton's 2020 memoir Songteller. T-shirts now proclaim, "I'm suffering from post Parton depression." 

Stories of this American Original proclaim her business acumen, philanthropy, support of her family and community, 60 year marriage to Carl, movie and TV star status, membership in the Country Music and Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, memorable collaborations with everyone from Linda Ronstat and Emmylou Harris (their Trio collaborations are, in my opinion, nothing short of glorious), to Bette Midler, to Kenny Rodgers to Ladysmith Black Mombasa. Her acceptance and advocacy for the marginalized and persecuted have made her a heroine of the Black, Women, LGBTQ+ and Trans communities. 

And of course, there's her kindness toward everyone, and especially children, through her Imagination Library. 

It's very clear that Dolly has read The Little Engine that Could!

How did Dolly want to be remembered? As a writer.

Her stories are in her songs, in the magic of crafting each one from words, and with them enriching the world. So it's to Dolly, my fellow writer, I say, what a privilege it has been to breathe the same air as you in our short time together on Mother Earth. Hail and farewell, sister writer.

My Amazing Research Trip: Day Four by Susan Calder

 Please visit this link for author information and to read my earlier blog posts in this series

Our last full day in Karlovy Vary, Czech Republic, my husband Will and I hiked to Goethe's Lookout Tower. In the first draft of my historical novel-in-progress, The Water Cure, my protagonist Marie and her boyfriend Rado hike to an unnamed viewpoint not far from the tower. Goethe's Lookout turned out to be a shorter distance from town than I'd expected, so in the next draft, I'll have them hike to this Karlovy Vary landmark. 

The tower opened in 1889 and was the inspiration of Princess Stephanie, daughter-in-law of Austrian Emperor Franz Josef. The monument retained her name until the end of World War One, when the new Czechoslovakia distanced itself from its former Habsburg rulers. From the top of the renamed Goethe's Tower, Will and I enjoyed views of the town similar to those seen by Marie and Rado, although the trees have grown higher since my characters were there 112 years ago. 

Will and I headed back down the hill into town. We passed a yellow building that I might use as a model for Rado's boarding house. 

After our pizza lunch, we walked to the train station, Marie's arrival point in Karlovy Vary. I discovered the closest bridge across the Ohře River to the station hadn't been built in 1914, the year of my story. The roundabout walking route of that time would be cumbersome with a suitcase. In my revisions, Marie will take a horse-drawn carriage from the station to her lodgings. 

Train station platform - I like to think this is a spruced-up structure from 1914

I had also placed Rado's favourite pub and the lodgings of two secondary characters near the train station. In my next draft, I'll move them all to the city's commercial area, which will give those characters a shorter walk to their workplaces in the spa zone.   

 Today, the main commercial street is a pleasant pedestrian mall

My research in Karlovy Vary was almost done. Four days earlier, I'd arrived with limited knowledge of the spa town and its history. I left with a wealth of information to make my novel more accurate and vivid. It makes me glad I wrote the first draft of The Water Cure before this research trip. If I hadn't, I might have been too overwhelmed with details and images to find the story.   

       

View from our hotel room - Mill Colonnade at night

September Speculations – Barbara Wackerle Baker

 

https://books2read.com/b/Jillian-of-Banff

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September means seven. I know. I hear you. It’s the ninth month. But remember - the old Roman calendar originally only had ten months. January and February didn’t exist yet. Obviously they hadn’t discovered Alberta or they would have been included.

When they added January and February, none of the old calendar names changed. Yup, it confuses me too. Lets just skip past what the name means and agree that September is the start of autumn in the north part of the earth and the start of spring in the south. 

 

In Canada, kids are back in school. Parents catch their breath. And teachers smile as they survey all the new faces in their classroom. Some even begin the countdown until Thanksgiving long weekend. Retired folk acknowledge the movement of the shiny orange school buses and notice playgrounds are a hub of noise and activity during recess again. 

 

After everyone's on board with their new routines, the season pauses … for a few weeks, days or maybe only a few hours. Some folks believe whatever the weather was on the 1^st day of September indicates what the entire month is going to look like. Just an FYI - it was totally wrong this year.

43 years ago, I got married on the September long weekend. I know, 43 years, how did that happen? So fast? It was a beauty of a fall day. Crunchy leaves. No need for coats, umbrellas, toques ...

  

Two days later we headed out on our honeymoon … in the snow. See what I mean? Mother nature. Alberta. September. Quite a combination.

Signs I relate to the changing of seasons in Calgary are:

• after months of silence, the furnace starts to kick in at 6 AM again
• blue jays stop in and squawk (they’ve been gone all summer)
• robins show up in flocks instead of on their own
• hares develop white blotches

 

• Northern Flickers use their long beaks to aerate the lawn (we really should hire them - every spring and fall they do a thorough job)
• squirrels become more neurotic (seasonal? or maybe they're looking for their stash?)

 

Google, of course, has its own ideas on how to determine when winter will pounce on us:

• mice find ways to get indoors (I have experienced this)
• if hornet or wasp nests seem higher in the trees than normal, it means we’re in for deep snow (how the heck could they know that? And why in the world would we trust hornets or wasps?)
• a narrow orange band between the black ends of a caterpillar means a harsh winter is coming. If the band is brown, it will be a mild winter

 

 

I have no idea what kind of winter these caterpillars are predicting 

• when you pull an onion out of the garden and the skin is tough and/or thick, it’s going to be a cold one
• tucking a chestnut in your pocket wards off arthritis and headaches (nothing weird about that)

What do you notice going on outside as the season changes? Anything to add to the list? 

Regardless what the month has in store for us, enjoy all the beauty September has to offer. And I’ll start taking a jacket with me when I head outdoors. 

 

Baker, Barbara - BWL Publishing Inc. (bookswelove.net)

Barbara Baker Author Page Facebook 

 

Summer of Lies by Barbara Baker — BWL Publishing

What About Me? by Barbara Baker — BWL Publishing

Jillian of Banff XO — BWL Publishing

A Chance Meeting, a Friendship, and a Life-Changing Phone Call by Naguib Kerba

 A Chance Meeting, Friendship & Life-Changing Call | Naguib Kerba — Naguib Sami Kerba Photography

Creative Insults by J.S. Marlo

 

Wide of the Mark

(Click here to buy)

   

 

  

To buy any of my books, visit

J. S. Marlo's Books

I'm an avid reader, but frequent swearing turns me off. I will not stop reading a good novel if the a character uses the f-word a few times in the right context, but I will put one down, and never pick it up again, if it's the protagonist's favourite adjective. To me, it just shows a lack of depth in the character, and I don't like two-dimensional characters.

Now, if you want to insult someone without swearing at them, you may want to try some of these creative examples:

- You have a unique ability to misunderstand the most simple thing.

- Everyone has the right to be stupid, but you’re abusing the privilege.

- I’d agree with you but then we’d both be wrong.

- The closest you’ll come to a brainstorm is a light drizzle.

- You look smart in pictures.

- Were you dropped a lot as a baby?

- I’m still debating whether you’re the weakest link or the missing link.

- I don't have any crayons to explain this to you.

- If ignorance is bliss, you must be ecstatic at all times.

- Did you sniff a lot of glue as a kid?

- There really is one born every minute.

- You’re completely right, except for everything you just said.

- Your gene pool needs more chlorine.

- I will not have a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent.

- It’s impossible to underestimate you.

- I’ll never forget the day we met, but I'll keep trying.

- You’re not stupid. You just have bad luck thinking.

- You’re like a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

- Somewhere, somehow, you are robbing a village of their idiot.

 - Stupidity isn’t a crime. You’re free to go.

- You’re about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

- I’m busy right now, can I ignore you another time?

- It's hard to get the big picture when you have such a small screen.

- Please just tell me you don’t plan to home-school your kids.

- Don’t feel bad. A lot of people have no talent.

I may just use one or two in my next book.

Happy reading!

JS

 

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

Lunch with a Paranormal Investigator by Eileen O'Finlan

 

           Click here for purchase informaiton

           Purchase directly from BWL Publishing

It's not every day I have lunch with a paranormal investigator, but recently I did just that. I am working on my contribution to BWL Publishing's upcoming Paranormal Americana Collection, The Haunting of Blackberry Hill. I've decided that my characters need to call in a paranormal investigator. The only problem is I had no idea what they do or how they do it. As I am a stickler for research and accuracy, I decided the best way to find out was to talk to one. So, I did an online search and was delighted to find a woman living in a nearby town who has been doing investigations for the past 13 years. I contacted her and she agreed to meet with me.

Jo and I clicked almost immediately. That's not surprising considering that I mainly write historical fiction, have a degree in history, have worked in a living history museum, and devour history books both fiction and non-fiction. Jo has a Ph.D. in medieval history, has published a book on medieval Irish history, and is the Chair of the Board of Trustees at her town's library.

One more thing we share is a fascination with the paranormal. Once I told her that The Haunting of Blackberry Hill is based on a house my family lived in when I was very young, she was hooked. We dove right in and talked for at least an hour and a half. It was like we had known each other for years.

Jo gave me some great information on what a paranormal investigator does and what kind of equipment they use. She let me know that she will be doing an investigation for Preservation Worcester at the Salisbury House in Worcester, Massachusetts on September 18th. The house is Preservation Worcester's headquarters. They'd probably like to know with whom they are sharing it. 

She will be using her infrared cameras, EVP (electronic voice phenomena) recorder, and a spirit box. I'm looking forward to seeing her in action, though I'm not sure if I'm looking forward to seeing or hearing any ghosts! In any case, it should be an interesting evening.

 

 

Sing Down Summer: Yacht Rock & Porch Pants

                                    

Soft and slow, the summer winds down. Warm breezes carry the essence of autumn. These last few weeks are always bittersweet. Those cozy "BER" months are on their way. Every season brings its own special something always worth looking forward to, but for now, let's relish end-of-summer days.

Sing Down Summer

Seed heads sway, taking bow after bow for 

    feeding the birds 

        through dry spells,

            soggy spells,

                windy spells,

                    and calm.

    Nature's pantry.

Crisp grass underfoot tells staccato tales of drought

    with each brittle 

         crunch,

              crunch.

    It will survive.

Goldfinches snack greedily on a slow-mo metronome 

    purple-petaled coneflower,

        plucking, 

            cracking, 

                flinging seeds

    Cookie Monster-style.

Ruby-throated hummingbirds swarm,

    and fight,

        and scramble

            for every last 

                drop of nectar.

                    Frenzied orchestra string wings.

They have a long flight ahead.

Long shadows inch their way into our day,

    crowding us from the sun,

        reminding us to 

            settle down,

                simmer down,

Sing down the summer.

I watch it all transpire from the comfort of an iron swing

    sipping coffee or wine

        in my breezy linen porch pants.

Listening to the easy tones of soothing yacht rock

    melodies from my yesteryears.

        LPs. 45s.

            Mixed tapes.

                Burnt CDs.

A little Ambrosia to start things off.

    They know just How Much I Feel.

        Some Bee Gees, Steely Dan, and 

            Jefferson Starship 

                serenade the Winds of Change.

As the sun slips down, a delightful chill

    spurs me 

        to wrap into a ratty zip-up

            And just like that,

                afternoon turns into evening.

I linger longer.

        

Good Things Recipe

    A pinch of Seager. 

        A dash of Don Henley. 

            A handful of Fleetwood

And a Little River Band.

Some one-hit wonders I somehow know

    all the words.

        LP jacket still crisp in my mind.        

            Must sing along

                Must move my body.

                

Brandy, You're A Fine Girl, 

    so says Looking Glass.

Dance with Me, 

    Orleans.

How Sweet It Is, James.

So Come Sail Away with Chris and me

    to Never, Neverland

Believe Loggins and Messina,

    Everything is gonna be alright.

Lean back,

    get your porch pants on,

        revel in these last days of wonder,

            tap a foot,

                and

Sing down the summer.

Sparkslingers                            Nokota Voices                    Echoes of the Nokota

A psychopath celebrates National Courtesy Month by donalee Moulton

 

ORDER HERE

September is, wait for it, National Courtesy Month. Who knew. Despite the fact that every month of the year is a celebration of numerous issues, this one resonated with me because I believe it would resonate with the main character in my first book Hung Out to Die. As a psychopath, the four to twelve percent of the population who are CEOs, Riel Brava understands the pressure to fit in – and what it feels like when you don’t. As you’ll see in the excerpt below.

 

 EXCERPT

Tiffany must have called Faye Bedwell to let her know we were coming. The grieving widow greets us at the front door. She’s a mess. Her hair is tousled, her eyes red, and her face blotchy. She waves us inside. “Thank you for coming.”

Tiffany leans in and hugs her. “We are here for you.” The widow weeps. I closely continue to watch how my wife does this. I am always amazed at the ease and naturalness with which Tiffany draws people to her and makes them feel comfortable.

From a bag I didn’t even realize Tiffany had in her hand, she removes a lasagna she purchased from our favorite Italian restaurant. “A little comfort food,” she says, leaning in again. I suspect the touching is likely to go on for a while.

Another woman enters the fray, takes the lasagna, and leads us into the living room. Several people are there, including a child I assume must be Muffin. Dammit, Bran.

I sit down uncomfortably and realize everybody is looking just as uncomfortable. I relax. Tiffany mingles, doing it well. People are responding to her. Perhaps she should run for president. Ha, who knew I had a sense of humor.

I don’t know who these people are, but they all seem to know their surroundings and the Bedwell family. I assume they are relatives and neighbors. I’ll confirm that with Tiffany.

I glance at my watch in what I hope is a nonchalant move. This is a perfunctory visit; I’m hoping we’re in and out in under 30 minutes.

As I look up, I realize Muffin is looking directly at me. Dammit. Bran. I’m hoping he didn’t see my sidelong glance. I smile. It’s a mixture of warmth and sadness. I get a quivery smile in return. This is good. The kid must not know what looking at a watch indicates. I’m in the clear.

Tiffany catches my eye and motions me toward the kitchen. As always, protocol is her forte. I rise and follow her to the adjoining room. It’s warm from the oven and stove, brightly lit, and HGTV comfortable. I struggle to picture Norm here eating, doing dishes, or sipping coffee. I fail. The fact is, I don’t even know if Norm drank coffee. All I seem to know for certain is his fondness for pastry.

Samantha, Norm’s sister, sets our lasagna on a table laden with more lasagna, rolls, salads, soups, and sandwiches. She sees me staring. “People have been kind.”

“As they should. How is Bran doing?” I realize it’s a stupid question, but commonly asked in situations like this.

“He’s shaken. And confused.” Samantha turns, a little uncertainly, I think. Now she looks me in the eye.

Oh, god.

“Can I ask you something?”

I want to point out that she already has asked me something, but I know that would not be appropriate. I nod.

“Did you know Norm well?”

The real answer is, “Well enough to keep him at arm’s length and out of my life.” The suitable answer is more nuanced. Hesitation works well in these situations, I’ve discovered. Psychologists and shrinks like to use indicators like this to demonstrate the presence of psychopathy or sociopathy. It doesn’t always. A delay is acceptable and anticipated for real people grappling to find the appropriate words.

My history with Norm is short. Canadian Cannabis opened in 2015, producing medical marijuana for a global market of patients suffering everything from depression to fibromyalgia to cancer. I arrived 18 months later to prepare the company for the domestic recreational cannabis market as Canada became only the second country in the world to legalize marijuana.

Norm was already in place when I assumed the helm. I got the feeling he would have liked to have been friends, which is the last thing I ever wanted. Distance is a safety valve for me. Get too close, and you are more likely to trip up. In Norm’s case, it was also chemistry. I don’t have friends, but I understand the concept. You must have common ground, mutual respect, and a shared fondness for each other. We didn’t have that. More accurately, I didn’t have that.

I look up at Samantha. “I’ve known Norm since I moved here three years ago. I saw him almost every day. We worked well together, but we were not close.” It’s an honest answer. Shit. Where did that come from?

“Did you expect this?” Samantha asks.

More confusion on my part.

“That he killed himself,” she explains somewhat cautiously.

It’s a great question. The obvious answer is “Yes.” I dig a little deeper. The answer is the same: “Yes.” That’s what I tell Samantha.

“Me too.” Norm’s sister twists a dish towel in her hands tighter and tighter. “I keep going over it in my head. It just doesn’t make sense.”

I remain silent. I’ve learned people will fill the silence, doing the work for me.

“I’m down from Sydney because Norm and Faye were supposed to be going to Cuba for a week’s vacation, a romantic getaway. I was staying with Bran. They had non-refundable tickets. They had plans.”

I agree it doesn’t make sense.

“Do you think he killed himself?”

My bewilderment is obvious even to me. I feel the shockwaves in my bones. “What else could it be?” I simply did not see this question coming even in the long list of possibilities I reviewed on the drive over.

“I don’t know,” Samantha says, looking me directly in the eye. “But I don’t believe my brother killed himself.”

It turns out Samantha’s disbelief was well-founded.

 

Saving Something for Later by Eden Monroe

 

www.bookswelove.com

https://www.facebook.com/AuthorEdenMonroe/

https://edenmonroeauthor.com

https://books2read.com/Watched-by-Eden-Monroe

 

I thought it would be fun to talk about preserves since that season is now full upon us. What! Preserves! How, you might ask, do preserves relate to my latest novel WATCHED? Well, it’s the cherries, and apples and berries and everything else that grows in abundance on Cherry Orchard Farm. Letting nothing go to waste (especially during the Depression) ahhh… mixed in with murder and mayhem:

“Davis’s eyes wavered, a study in indecision. Then he turned, throwing the tire iron unceremoniously through the car’s open window before climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘This place is bein’ watched and make no mistake about it. Edwin had a lot of friends,’ he warned, braver now that he’d put more distance between himself and Shay. ‘You sneakin’ in here don’t make no difference at all. You gotta sleep sometime, bully boy. Just ask yourself, do you want to wake up in the mornin’? Think about it.’”

Alrighty then, back to the preserves and in salute to the namesake of Cherry Orchard Farm there are any number of recipes for preserving cherries, be they sour/tart, sweet, cultivated or wild. Always a delight for the palate, but here are some wild cherry blossoms for the soul.

             In addition to simply bottling cherries to enjoy a little summertime all year long, or maybe preserving them in jams and jellies, you can even make cherry pickles!

And speaking of pickles, more traditionally at least, they are also high on the list of something delicious to put away for later, given the bumper crop of cucumbers available in most gardens.

While digging into this subject I learned that pickling is actually one of the oldest methods of food preservation, according to www.history.com, dating back to about 2400 BC.  Vinegar, Brine “or a similar solution” did the trick and the ancient Mesopotamians get the nod from archeologists as the peoples who were practicing pickling (leeks, onions, radishes, capers, olives, turnips, melons and yes, even locusts) way back then. Cucumbers (native to India) got into the game a few centuries later in the Tigris Valley.

Actually, pickles were considered a super food in c. 50 B.C. Egypt. Queen Cleopatra ate them for beauty, and Julius Caesar’s (and other Roman emperors’) troops consumed them for strength. Something new to think about when you’re enjoying a pickle or two.

Jam has also long been a household staple, a timeless sweet treat with a variety of applications. Sugar, in ample supply, is needed for jams, jellies and pickles.

 

 

 

In terms of ancient jamming, we look to the Greeks according to www.nourishcommunities.com/ :

“The origins of jam trace back to ancient times when the Greeks used honey to preserve fruits. One of the earliest written recipes appears in the Roman cookbook De Re Coquinaria (The Art of Cooking), featuring quinces, honey, and fresh wine.

“In the 16th century, even Nostradamus dabbled in jam-making. His quirky recipe for a "love jam" included unusual ingredients like the blood of sparrows, promising to ignite passion.”

Marmalade, which like jelly is a close cousin of jam and also a perennial favourite. This is a famous marmalade myth (digital.nls.uk):

“Legend has it that Mary, Queen of Scots, took marmalade as a cure for sea-sickness.

“In this case, she must have brought it back with her when she returned to Scotland from France after the death of her first husband in 1561.

“Later in life, Mary is said to have asked for marmalade when taken ill at Jedburgh. From these episodes comes the pun on her name, ‘Marmelade pour Marie malade’.”

Of course it’s not all about pickles and jams, given the myriad of produce that can be preserved in what is now called, across the board, canning. Like the cherries at Cherry Orchard Farm, most vegetables and fruits can be canned, in addition to fish, meat and so on but let me ask you this: are sea birds on your canning list this year? For some it is an annual delicacy. Ictnews.org tells the story:

“The BBC Human Planet Explorer team recently traveled to Greenland’s Siorapaluk, one of the northernmost inhabited villages in the world, to watch Inuit prepare kiviaq, a fermented delicacy of seal skin and sea birds.

“This recipe originated from ancient indigenous methods of preserving food to survive harsh winters.

“First, meat is removed from sealskin, leaving a thick layer of fat. After forming a bag with the skin, it is packed with 300 to 500 little auk birds. Once stuffed and pulled tight, the skin is sewn up. Seal fat is greased around the exterior to act as a repellent to flies. The sealskin bag is then hidden under a pile of rocks to ferment for three to 18 months.

“When the darkness of winter pervades the landscape and game inevitably becomes scarce, Inuit families dig up the kiviaq. It is generally consumed outside due to the pungent aroma. One BBC commentator described the taste as a mix of liquorice and sharp cheese.

“The bird meat is tender from the seal fat, so it is enjoyed raw and whole with the frail bones. Supposedly, the heart is the most savoury part of this Inuit delicacy.”

And now that I’ve thoroughly tempted your palate, I’ll take you to the opposite end of the spectrum with something that is quite frankly, shocking. Horrible. Disgusting. Thankfully the practice has long been abandoned, but in the interests of an all-inclusive look at preserving, here is a bit of appalling history from www.smithsonianmag.com/ that I’ll only touch on briefly:

“(Louise) Noble’s new book, Medicinal Cannibalism in Early Modern English Literature and Culture, and another by Richard Sugg of England’s University of Durham, Mummies, Cannibals and Vampires: The History of Corpse Medicine from the Renaissance to the Victorians, reveal that for several hundred years, peaking in the 16th and 17th centuries, many Europeans, including royalty, priests and scientists, routinely ingested remedies containing human bones, blood and fat as medicine for everything from headaches to epilepsy…”

Okay, nuff said about that.

Let’s just focus on this nice bowl of cherries, or any other fresh produce waiting to become a mouth-watering bottle of jam, always a feel-good taste experience. “Happiness is like jam. You can’t spread even a little without getting some on yourself.” - Anonymous

 

 

 

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