Alaska, adventure in my fiftieth state, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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Five stars from Long and Short Reviews
"I enjoyed guessing what may happen next and then comparing my assumptions with what I actually read. Paying close attention is key to getting the most out of Sage’s adventures.
Secrets of Lakeluster House thrilled me."

But today's post is about my trip to Alaska, a mysterious land to the far north. I didn't know if I could do it, I'd recently lost my husband and have mobility issues, but my best friend was a huge help-I couldn't have done it without her-and we had the adventure of a lifetime. I'd been through forty-nine states, I just needed Alaska.

Our cruise began in Seattle, Washington. Neither of us had cruised before.

The ship was huge, with over eleven decks. On our second day out, the sea became rough, and my friend seasick. I'm surprised I wasn't sick at all. A good sailor's wife, I guess. Though I couldn't walk anywhere without being bumped against a wall.

Juneau was our first port, a town tucked in among glaciers. You can't access it by road; plane and sea only, because of the miles of surrounding glaciers. The reason it remained the capital is that millions of dollars of gold was discovered here. 

It rained, heavily at times, so I got no picture of the town. Here is the port. 

It's a beautiful frontier town with friendly people. I splurged and bought myself a ruby ring for my birthday.

Our next stop was Sitka, on an island, and where Russia handed over Alaska to the U.S. in 1867.

Russian church in Sitka. Another beautiful town. We also visited a cannery where salmon is processed. Sitka calls itself the Salmon capital of the world.

We were supposed to see black bears, but they were obviously in hiding. That's okay; I've seen black bears in my front yard in Pennsylvania.

Our last port was Ketchikan. We visited a totem pole park, and learned about Alaska's indigenous people.

Later in the cruise, we anchored in Glacier Bay National Park, an amazing sight and site.

Here we are at Glacier Bay.

Along with the service on the ship, the delicious food, I recommend this cruise to anyone. Ask for a cabin with a veranda. It doesn't cost that much more and it lets so much light into your cabin. Plus, you can sit out if you dress warmly.

Now I'll get to work on my paranormal set in California.

                     

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

All of Me (Navajo Code Talker Chronicles #3) is Released!

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Dear Readers--

I'm delighted to announce that All of Me, Navaho Code Talker Chronicles Book #3 is a November 2025 release from BWL Publishers.  Have you been waiting for the reunion of Kitty and Luke after their harrowing adventure in New York? Well, the wait is over! Here's Chapter 1:

Chapter 1 

 Summer, 1943 

 Riordan Railroad Station, Arizona Reunion 

 Luke Kayenta checked the delicate gardenia nestled between two rapidly warming bottles of Pepsi Cola. Was it foolish to bring the corsage, given the train’s tendency to be late in wartime? But it had called out to him. I am for her, the one you left in those other canyons, it had said. 

 He sensed Kitty Charante every day and deep in the night. He sensed her while waiting for mail deliveries. He caught the scent of her fingers, past all those fingers that had handled her letters between the city of New York and the small Dinètah trading post where they finally reached him. That scent she wore—Eau de Gardenia always intensified when they kissed. 

 His mother and sisters teased him about the corner of his sister Taswan’s window where he nurtured the small plant that had flowered in time to welcome her. It was where he kept the small stack of books, photographs, and drawings from Kitty and her family. Even his grandmother, who did not tease him as much, called it his shrine. Did their laughter signal approval of the correspondence across their cultures? 

 His nephews accepted the gifts of baseball cards and marbles from Matty and Dom, their counterparts in Kitty’s world. Maybe the children should have come here to the station to wait for her arrival with him. She was used to family all around her. Where was the train? 

He stood, leaving the gardenia on the bench, and paced, a bad habit he’d picked up from White people. A Hopi woman, who had been scowling at him since he’d shared the shade beside her, stirred. “She is coming,” the woman said, in English, their common language. 

Under his own shoes, Luke now caught the vibration she’d already felt. “You are right, Grandmother,” he said in the best Hopi he could manage. 

 She grinned, her eyes disappearing in the squint. “Come, lovesick newcomer. Help these old bones to rise.”

 He obeyed, giving her his arm, grateful she had used one of the less pejorative terms her people had for his: newcomer. The Hopi had preceded the Diné into the American Southwest by many centuries. As for the “lovesick,” that was merely a statement of fact. 

 *** 

 Kitty saw him from the window as the train slowed. Through the shimmering heat he stood in his full-dress uniform, with every button fastened, gleaming. His hat shaded his eyes. And a gardenia was somehow blooming in his hands. 

 “The war must be going badly if the Marines are letting them in,” the conductor said, behind her. 

She turned. He shrugged. “Waiting for that gaggle, likely.” He gestured to the laughing woman, who lifted a baby as her two small girls waved from the train car window. 

It was the family Kitty had invited to use her private compartment’s washroom an hour earlier, to place a Band-Aid for the older girl’s scrape. “Elbow’s the strongest part of you if anybody gets fresh,” she’d advised as she worked. 

“I know,” the girl replied with a small smile.

 “I don’t see anyone waiting for you, Mrs. Charente,” the conductor said now. “You’d best stay on. Flagstaff is a proper stop. You can telephone your party from there. Put it back, George,” he instructed the stooped porter, whose name was not George. 

 The train lurched. 

The edge of her trunk bumped the smaller girl off her feet. The mother quickly transferred the baby to Kitty, then lifted the crying girl. 

 The conductor sighed hard. “Now, Ma’am, you don’t have to help these clumsy—”

 “Stand aside,” Kitty ordered. 

 Even the crying girl went silent. The porter, a small barrel-chested man, turned, grinned wide enough for her to see his gold tooth. “No lasting harm done? Well, this way then, ladies and children,” he proclaimed brightly, hoisting the mother’s carpetbag on top of Kitty’s trunk. 

The older sister blocked her way. Her pretty embroidered blouse was like her mother’s. Unlike her mother’s braid, the girl’s black hair was whorled around each ear. “You can’t keep our tiposi, White lady,” she warned. 

 Her mother’s breath caught. 

 Kitty laughed. “Don’t worry, kiddo.” She looked down at the still-sleeping infant. How long had it been since she’d allowed herself to hold a baby? Breathe, she told herself. You can do this. 

 The scowling girl came closer, tilted her head. “You don’t smell like iodine now. You smell good.” 

 “Thanks. How’s the elbow?” 

 “Better.” She pointed her chin out the train’s last window. “Is he your man?” 

 “Sure is. Isn’t he handsome?” 

 The girl frowned. “He is Diné. But my grandmother pets his arm. Look, Ingu! Grandmother pets a Diné!” 

 “Hush,” her mother admonished, her middle child now settled at her hip. 

“My daughter is very young, Miss.” 

 “I have five years,” the girl protested. “My sister has three, but she can jump rope almost as good as I can.” She nodded toward the bundle in Kitty’s arms. “He cannot even sit up yet. But he likes to laugh.” 

 “Well. You’re all swell kids. Even him.” 

 A smile broke through the woman’s wary expression. “You honor my family.” 

 As the train door opened, the heat hit Kitty with a force that rocked her stance. She was still getting used to the altitude change from New York’s sea level. This was a new challenge. But the baby nestled in her arms balanced her. Careful. Baby’s wiseacre sister was onto Kitty’s deep longing. The piney smell of his head only intensified it. 

 Luke Kayenta reached out for her. 

She remembered his hands and their gentle strength. He eased her down the train’s steps, traded the baby for his gardenia with a shy smile. 

He carried the baby back to his mother. The Pullman porter left her trunk on the platform and carried the young mother’s bag to the waiting flatbed wagon. 

Luke followed, assisting the family’s grandmother. Happy squeals rose from the women. And did she even hear the baby’s merry chortle? So much for stoic, cigar-store wooden Indians she’d been told to expect. 

Luke and the porter returned. “That was so kind of you, William,” Kitty said, loud enough for the conductor to hear that she knew the man’s actual name. “Thank you.” 

 The porter touched the brim of his cap. “Not at all, Miss Kitty. It’s my job, Ma’am.”

 “Wait.” She looked up into Luke’s eyes. “Hey, partner. Got some change?” 

 Luke plunged his hand into his Marine dress pants pocket, then opened his palm. In the middle of the copper pennies gleamed a silver dollar. 

 William Marshall, Pullman porter, whose son graduated college first in his class, took a step back. “Oh, no. You already gave me an envelope for services rendered,” he objected. 

 “This is to thank you for helping with the bags of my friends,” Kitty insisted, nodding towards the women. She took up the coin from Luke’s palm. Why had she let her sister talk her into painting her nails? She flipped his silver dollar behind her while she still had sense of where William Marshall stood. 

She heard it land in his palm. “Why, thank you, Missus. And Corporal, sir. You have yourselves a good visit, now!” 

 Even in her spectator pumps, Kitty had to look up to finally make solid contact with Luke Kayenta’s fathomless eyes. The sight almost robbed her breath. “So,” she managed, “How about a kiss?” 

 Luke smiled. She remembered how rare his smiles were. “I have many kisses for you, Kitty.” 

 “You think you could plant the first?” 

 The small drama had drawn the attention of every remaining passenger on the train. She would have been mortified if he’d hesitated. But he did not. He swooped on her mouth as if it were his ultimate destination over the months they’d been apart. Kitty didn’t remember anything but the taste of Luke Kayenta after that, except for the vague sense of her skirts flying in the train’s wake. As Luke gasped for air, he buried his nose in her hair and her neck. He spoke a little. Not in English, but in that deep, nasal, drawling language of the people he was born into.  As she felt her breasts rise, react against that buttoned-up uniform, the evidence of his own desire tantalized her thighs. 

 When they finally finished the kiss, both the train and the wagon were gone. Only a beat-up green truck remained at the station. 

 Luke’s smile slid lopsided and his brow furrowed. “The silver dollar. It was for gas.” 

 “Oh. Well, we can walk.” 

 “But Kitty. I wrote to you, explained, remember? That we have many miles to go yet?” 

 She grinned. “Relax, Captain.” 

 “I am not a captain in the Marines, Kitty.” 

 “But you are still a member of the Office of Strategic Services? And that’s your rank there?” 

 “Well, yes. That seems a hard unit of government to be released from.” 

 “Then, in private, you’re still my captain, who well earned his rank. There have to be some rewards for your service! So, my captain, if you’ve got ration coupons, I can pay for gas.” 

 “You did not forget what I wrote in the letter, then, about distances here. You are teasing me. The women do that all the time. They say I am too serious.” 

 She touched the slight stubble at his chin. “Luke. I’m so glad to see you. And this gardenia. Thank you. It’s beautiful.” 

 “Saiah naaghai bikieh hozho, Yanaha,” he said quietly, formally. Kitty recognized the phrase from his letters. “Walk in beauty,” was the poor English translation of the complex philosophy of life balance he explained in his letters. And he used the name he’d given her, Yanaha: She Meets the Enemy. His voice, even deeper than she remembered, made the name soar. Those exotic Valentino eyes were exactly as she remembered. Where had he found a gardenia? Its scent drifted past the strand of pearls against her throat. She pressed her finger to his bottom lip. He drew it into his mouth. The sudden sensuousness of it robbed her breath. His arms closed around her again. She reveled in his familiar scent of corn and sage mixing with the oiled metal of his hidden firearm. There, encircled, she felt safe from the world and all its cruelties—from the petty aggressions of the railroad conductor toward the kind porter and the young Indian mother to the war itself. 

 “We need to go,” Luke murmured into her hair. “The sun will not wait for us to finish.”

 “Finish what?” she teased him, now that she knew his other women did. But he had no snappy comeback. He did not even grin or call her a brazen hussy. 

 “Drinking each other in,” he answered her question. 

Historical Fiction: how accurate do you need to be?

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At this year's When Words Collide Festival for Writers and Readers, I participated in a panel titled Historical Fact and Fiction: what can and can't be changed. Moderator Lori Hahnel began by asking how and where to find accurate historical facts. My fellow panelists, John Corry and Donna D. Conrad, talked of the challenges of historical research for novels set centuries ago. John's novel about British author Geoffrey Chaucer takes place in the 1300s; Donna's retelling of the story of Mary Magdalene in the first century. 

Donna said she used sources from different countries and religious perspectives to get the most accurate spin on Mary Magdalene. John noted that he had to be careful about dates in his research, since most countries changed from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar after his novel's time period. 

My historical novel, A Killer Whisky, set in 1918 during World War One, felt modern in comparison, and I had more research tools available. While I found that reading historical fiction and non-fiction was useful, I learned the most from material published at the time of my novel. I signed up for a one-week free subscription to Newspapers.com and devoured the headlines of the day as well as ads for groceries, houses, jobs, and more. Online, I combed through the 1,000+ page 1918 Sears catalogue for images and descriptions of fashion and other consumer goods. Novels and memoirs published in the early twentieth century provided details of daily life, attitudes of the times, and words and expressions used. To avoid language anachronism, I suggested that the panel audience check out Google Books Ngram Viewer. You plug in a word or phrase and a graph tracks its usage in books from 1800 to 2022. For instance, the word "groovy" barely registered before 1960, when it peaked. Then it dropped and hit a higher peak this century, perhaps from people writing about the swinging sixties. My WWI characters would never say "groovy." 

Unless I try my hand at writing alternate history. 

Lori asked what we thought of television shows like Bridgerton, a Netflix series based on Julia Quinn's novels set in early 19th century London. Main characters include wealthy and aristocratic people of colour who are totally accepted in high society. 

I said I liked Bridgerton. Everyone watching knows the world wasn't like that then or even now, but Bridgerton makes you think, what if this alternate world were true? Donna said she enjoys these kinds of shows but cringes at the historical inaccuracy. 

Lori brought up her second concern about historical fiction: the abundance of WWII novels. Is the market saturated? Will people ever get tired of reading about that war?

John and Donna thought the trend would continue because writers are constantly finding new angles about the war. I suggested that WWII endures because it is arguably the last heroic war and it is still close to many of us whose parents or grandparents fought in or lived through the war. Perhaps, interest will wane for the next generations, until writers rediscover and reinterpret that momentous time.    

As to the panel topic question: what can and can't be changed? We all agreed you can't change major known facts. I wouldn't change key dates about WWI, even though it would probably work better for my novel-in-progress if the war had started a month earlier. John and Donna said they wouldn't change dates that Chaucer or Mary Magdalene were known to be in particular locations. 

I pointed out that Chaucer and Mary were their novels' main characters, but it might be okay for me to write a novel set in 14th century York and have Chaucer make a cameo appearance despite no evidence that he'd ever gone there. Small changes like that wouldn't significantly impact history or my main characters and themes, although I think it's more interesting to readers if the historical figure really was present. We all like to pick up factual trivia from our reading and history is ripe with interesting tidbits. 

My historical novel-in-progress begins in Karlovy Vary (aka Karlsbad), a spa town in Czechia (aka Czech Republic). Somewhere I read that Sigmund Freud, founder of psychoanalysis was in Karlovy Vary at the outbreak of World War One, when my novel takes place. Unfortunately, I've lost the reference. (Advice to historical fiction writers: keep your references). The Psychiatric Times confirms that Freud visited Karlsbad more than once for health reasons and I'll do my best to find my missing reference. But if I can't, would it be wrong to make him a character in my novel? Freud's interactions with my fictional characters would be interesting and relevant to the story.     

WWC 2025 Historical Facts and Fiction panel

        

Halloween-A European Ancestral Festival

 

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Around this time of year in Europe, long ago, the ordinary folks had already celebrated Harvest Home, bringing in grain from the fields and hogs from the forests. The barley, oats and wheat, gathered in, was measured. Now the community knew, more or less, how hungry the coming winter would or would not be. The light was disappearing day by day, the sun setting earlier and rising later, as the northern hemisphere angles away from that ancient God--or in Germanic countries, Goddess--the Sun.

This was a time to celebrate the beginning of a new year, and this season, one of the four most important of the solar year was observed with three days of ritual, full of deep spiritual meaning. We can tell how important this observance was because the Catholic Church, after that entity had firmly established its rule, took over the ancient celebration and gave each of those three autumnal days a new, canonical designation.

Halloween is a contraction of "All Hallows Eve," that falls on the evening before what is today called "All Saints Day." Originally, on that night, all the fires in the village would be extinguished. Everyone would huddle in the dark and increasing chill of their homes. On this night, only the priestly caste dared to be out and about, because, now without firelight, evil beings could be stalking through the villages, the fields and the forests on every side. Offerings, sometimes a bowl of milk, sometimes cakes, were left outside each door in hopes of appeasing the endless hunger of these dreadful creatures. 

Today, all that is left of that practice are our children, costumed and masked, dressed as supernatural beings, who knock on our doors and beg for candy. 

On the morning after, as the sun rose, each housewife would sweep and gather the ashes of the central hearth and dispose of these into the purifying safety of running water. At the same time, religious leaders, male and female, would rekindle each village's sacred fire. Once this was established, flaming boughs would be carried house to house, to rekindle each and every village hearth.  Afterward, everyone set to work to make a communal feast. This day, eventually renamed by the Church "All Saints Day," was then rededicated to Christian Saints. In pagan times, however, this day was the first of the New Year and pagan gods and goddesses were the ones celebrated.

The third day of the feast, later named "All Souls," was originally in honor of the ancestors. Ancestor worship still exists today here and there on planet earth, but 2,000 years ago, this was a universal feature of most religions. Bones of last year's deceased, previously de-fleshed in various ways, and subjected to cremation and temporary housing in pots, might be brought out of dwellings to be reverently interred within the local barrow or stone burial chamber. 

In some places/times, when barrows were the fashion, the great stones which blocked the openings would be laboriously moved so that the year's dead would be carried within, to rest with those ancestors who had gone before. The rituals of deposition for cremains varied from place to place and age to age. Cremains urns have also been discovered beneath standing stones. Others carpet the ditches which enclose stone or earthen monuments, or the ditches that still exist, still guarding a long perished henge made of wood. 

In the Norse tradition, this period, after the full moon of the Autumn Equinox, was celebrated as the Disirblot, a feast in honor of the ancestral female spirits who guarded the family line and also in honor of Freya Vanadis, their chief. The celebration was local and domestic, and was also a harvest home. The pig, often portrayed as the mount of Freya, provided the pork for the feast. 

Of course, there are as many traditions as there are countries for this time of year. Divali, the feast of lights, is celebrated in India by closing the books of the last financial year and opening those of the next. Laxshmi, goddess of good fortune and wealth, asked for Her aid in business. What is most visible, however, are the oil lamps that line the streets and float upon the rivers. Many other divinities are honored during this feast in the vast and populous country.  In some regions it is great Kali with her necklace of demon heads
(She who embodies primeval energy/change and creative destruction) that is honored, in others it is Durga, demon slayer, seated upon her tiger. The Warrior God Rama also gets into the Divali celebration, as his devotees know that in the times long ago, this was the season of his coronation.

~Juliet Waldron

What if vampires existed on the island of Napoleon's final exile? What can a young maid do to stop them? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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I wrote this fanciful novel after reading about a story of vampires involved with Napoleon's failed conquest of Russia. Why not set up these enigmatic creatures on the remote island of Saint Helena, a place of myth and hardship?

Enjoy the surreal existence of vampires during Napoleon's final exile. Just who is one of the undead, and who isn't? Young maid Isabelle, a member of the emperor's household, will soon find out. And she must rush to stop a wicked attack.

Here is an excerpt:

Isabelle envied the handsome white stucco colonial house with light gray shutters nestled in its verdant garden. But the Union Jack—the emblem of their imprisonment—that rippled from a flagstaff in front of the structure’s Georgian porch had marred the effect.

This beautiful scenery almost eased her distress over the bat-dream of three nights past, or had that part been real? She stifled a quiver.

“Do you like working here?” she asked the maid who had arranged many of the other ladies’ wraps.

She was a mulatto girl with slightly brownish skin and plump lips. “Yes, it’s one of the best places on the island to work.”

“I imagine it would be.” Isabelle stepped to the ballroom door, watching the ladies twirl like flowers in their gowns of pink, blue and yellow; silks, taffetas and muslins. A reminisce of life back in Europe. She sighed. Not that she would have danced in such company. She turned and helped the other maid arrange wraps and hats in scents of perfume, talcum powder and perspiration. “These English bonnets are not so pretty. Do you like Governor Lowe?”

“I don’t see him much.” The maid held up a wrap with intricate lace on the borders, her gaze admiring. “I mostly assist the Missus.”

“Lowe seems a man of quick temper.” Isabelle said this as nonchalant as she could manage. She caressed a white ostrich feather on one of the hats.

“He can be, but he does not sleep well.”

“How do you know that?” Isabelle kept her tone conversational.

“His valet. . .is my special friend.” She grinned. “He says the governor wanders about late at night.” The maid twitched her lips. “But I should not speak ill of my employer.” Now she watched Isabelle, embarrassment glinting in her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Isabelle decided to leave that topic—though she found that information significant. “Do you know I’m the one who found that poor, dead girl in Sane Valley?” She again pictured Amanda’s distressed face.

The maid started and backed up a step. The feathered hat in her hands wavered. She set it down. “A very terrible sight, I’m certain.”

“Are they still investigating the death?”

“I don’t think so.” The maid averted her gaze and plucked at a ribbon on a bonnet.

“I thought your valet friend might have known whether they thought the death an accident or something more?” In the resulting silence, Isabelle spoke again: “I’m new here, but,” she ran her fingers along a satiny pelisse, feigning indifference, “I wondered if you’ve heard of an animal called the beast?”

                                       

“Everyone knows of that.” The reply sounded more like an accusation, the maid’s eyes sharpening.

“Has anyone ever seen it? Isn’t it more a superstition?”

“No, it’s real.” The mulatto girl twisted at the bonnet ribbon, then turned her back. “But we keep our mouths quiet here.”

For more on me and my books, visit my BWL author's page

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Plaid Blanket Cover Story

      

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I'm excited to announce that I have a new book coming out next month! It's the third of my Navajo Code Talker series that began with I'll Be Seeing You and continued with Watch Over Me. Keeping up with the title theme of songs that were popular in the 1940's, Book #3 is a song that my mom once told me was her and my dad's favorite: All of Me.

All of Me is set in the summer of 1943, just after the first class of Navajo Code Talkers has been sent overseas to the Pacific. Our hero Luke Kayenta is still stateside in Arizona, training and recruiting more possible candidates for this important work that helped the United States win the war.

It's now New Yorker Kitty Charente's turn to be a fish out of water as she comes to join Luke and meet his family.  But Nazi agent Helmut Adler has arrived too, to try to throw the Code Talker program into chaos.

The threesome....

Book 1: Spain 1942

Book 2: New York City 1942

Book 3: Arizona 1943

Do you like the cover of All of Me? It's another wonderful design of our Art Director, Michelle Lee. There's a story that goes with that blanket that Luke and Kitty are snug under, concerning a long-ago real life Scottish trader named Big Jock....

Big Jock McCluskey

Big Jock McCluskey

The story Luke's grandmother Anaba Bowman tells is about the Hudson’s Bay Scottish trader lost in a storm. It's based on the life of Big Jock McCluskey, who traded machine loom blankets and shirts woven in the colors of Rob Roy tartan of the Clan MacGregor. McCluskey family stories claim that the Native Americans loved the red-black cloth and called it Buffalo Plaid. It became a quintessential symbol of the American West. I had fun thinking of Big Jock losing his way in a Northern Arizona winter and finding the Navajo, who had been weaving their own wool for centuries! Luke’s long-ago grandmother politely traded one of her textiles for his, and so it became a family heirloom. It appears in All of Me’s story as well as its wonderful cover.

Next month I'll include a sneak peek at my new novel. Thank you for being readers of the series!

Fun with Research by Eileen O'Finlan

 

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A lot of research is involved when writing historical fiction. Most writers of this genre will say that the research is nearly as much fun as writing the novel. I am no exception. I love doing historical research. For me this normally includes reading a lot of historical non-fiction both primary and secondary sources, watching videos, visiting pertinent historical sites and museums, and talking with professional historians. All of this is usually very interesting and informative.

Recently, however, I found myself doing research unexpectedly and sort of by accident.

Lately,  I have been reading and taking copious notes on the American Civil War, everyday life during the mid-19th century, and specifically, the history of Worcester, Massachusetts at that time in preparation for writing the third novel in my Children of Ireland series. The first book in the series, Kelegeen, is set in 1740s Ireland during An Gorta Mor (the Great Hunger aka Potato Famine). The second book, Erin's Children, is set in Worcester in the 1850s after some of the characters from Kelegeen emigrated. The third book (no title yet) will also be set in Worcester but in the 1860s. Most recently I have been going through the Worcester City Annual Reports for the 1860s. The names of several of Worcester's prominent citizens appear from time-to-time in these reports.

In something totally unrelated, or so I thought, my neighbor and I recently went on a night time tour of Rural Cemetery, the oldest cemetery still in use in Worcester. Billed as Rural Remains, the tour was given by Preservation Worcester. Never having been on this tour before, we assumed it was Halloween- oriented since it was to take place in an old cemetery at night in late October. I suppose that actually was the intent. However, for me, it quickly turned into a research opportunity.

As the tour guide walked us by lantern light and flashlights through the winding paths of the old graveyard, she called our attention to the grave sites of some of Worcester's early prominent citizens. It wasn't long before two of those citizens stepped out of the shadows to greet us and tell us their stories.

Imagine my surprise upon meeting Doctor John Green, one of Worcester's earliest physicians and the founder of the Worcester Public Library and his brother, pharmacist Meltiah Green. In the annual report for 1865, which I had just been reading, the Mayor of Worcester noted the death that year of Dr. John Green and his generous donation of hundreds of books to the library including nearly all the books that made up the medical library. Now, here was Dr. Green standing before me. History come to life! (Well, sort of)

Dr. John Green (left, played by John Riccio) and Meltiah Green (right, played by Fran DeNicola).

As we moved on, we soon encountered another pair of brothers, James Prescott Hamilton and Edward Bangs Hamilton. James was a successful banker, eventually becoming the President of Worcester County Institute for Savings Bank. His brother, Edward, did not fare so well. After a serious injury he became addicted to opioids and eventually murdered his family then took his own life. This was a sad and sobering tale that is all too human.

James Prescott Hamilton (standing, played by Shane Sampson) and Edward Bangs Hamilton (seated, played by Patrick Crawley)

As the tour continued we visited with George Bancroft, a historian, statesman, and founder of the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland along with his sister, Eliza Bancroft Davis, wife of Governor John Davis.

Eliza Bancroft Davis (played by Ana Santos) and her brother George Bancroft (actor's name not given)

Then it was on to two sisters, Anna L Foster and Cora Mercy Foster. Though neither ever married and both were sixth grade teachers, these ladies were as different as they could be. Anna loved to travel and longed for the finer things in life. Cora was more of a homebody. She eventually became a Jehovah's Witness. Due to her religious views she refused to salute the American flag which led to no little controversy in the school where she taught.

Anna L. Foster (left, played by Erica Cawley) and Cora Mercy Foster (right, played by Monika Mangsen)

One of Worcester's mayors graced our tour. The respected and well-liked James Barnard Blake was elected mayor six times. At age 18, he entered his uncle's firm, Blake and Darracott, which had charge of Worcester Gas Works, the first gas works in Worcester. Sadly, one evening just before Christmas in 1870, he went to visit the gas works when a spark jumped from his lantern causing an explosion that took his life.

Mayor James Barnard Blake (actor's name not given)

Our tour ended with a visit from Caleb and Roxana Metcalf. After the devastating loss of their three year old son, they dedicated their lives to the education of children by founding the Highland Academy for Boys in 1856. With the onset of the Civil War, the name was changed to the Highland Military Academy and remained open until 1912.

Roxana and Caleb Metcalf (actors' names not given)

Others on the tour may have found being greeted by ghosts who appeared to have just stepped from their graves a bit spooky, but for me it was a fascinating glimpse into the lives of some of the people who shared the city with my characters and, in some cases, may even have an impact on their lives.

Found: A Book Lover's Paradise by Eileen O'Finlan

 

Click here for purchase information

A friend recently told me of an incredible place to buy used books. It's called The Book Barn, and it's in Niantic, Connecticut. It has three locations all within minutes of each other. Once I heard about it, I knew I had to go. So, on a recent, gorgeous fall day, my friend, Katie, and I took a ride south to check it out. 

Oh my, what a place! If you are a book lover and you're in the area, you must give the Book Barn a try. It's not just a store. It's an experience. Besides the main buildings of the three locations, there are loads of smaller buildings and stalls filled with books. Because they are all used books, the prices are low.               

The main site has an enclosure with some friendly goats available for visiting. Fortunately, they do not have the pellets available for (over)feeding, but you can purchase a few carrot sticks for 25 cents if you want to give the goats a treat.

Oh, and they also buy books at the Main Barn, so if you go don't forget to bring some books to sell. You can get a check or credit for them.

At Chapter Three, the site just 100 feet from the Main Barn, live several beautiful cats who patrol the store and sometimes even allow petting.

 These two sites are both on West Main Street. Then there's the Downtown Store on Pennsylvannia Avenue just about a mile away set in the heart of this lovely seaside town.

If you don't live are don't plan to be anywhere near Niantic, try to find a unique book shop somewhere. It's a balm to the book lover's soul.

My book haul for the day: 13 books. My joy level: Through the roof!

How does a young woman spy for the British during the American Revolution? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase this novel click HERE

I decided to write a story from a loyalist's point of view, the British side, even though I'm American. My ancestors fought on the revolutionaries' side.

My heroine, Rowena, learns to decipher code under the guidance of the Welshman Derec. She must flee her home with her family as Washington's army closes in. Will she ever see Derec again?

I hope you enjoy this different view of the fight over America.

Here is an excerpt:

In the musty stone cottage they’d gathered in before, Rowena laid the paper bearing her cipher on the rough-hewn table. It had taken her all of yesterday to unravel the mystery of the Greek words. Dressed again like a boy, she sat without having to manage with petticoats and hoops. A lantern flickered beside the note. Sam, Derec and James stared down at it.

“This dispatch tells of rebel forces gathering again to protect Morristown in New Jersey. Their General Greene knows they’re outnumbered.” She kept her tone officious and massaged a bush scratch on her hand. She’d taken a great risk sneaking from her aunt’s home this evening. Sam had strolled boldly through the rear garden, the extra guard watching him, while she slipped off in another direction. They’d reunited at the stables to retrieve Kayfill.

On the tip of her tongue, she decided she wouldn’t dare ask the courier’s fate from whom they’d obtained this report. The first courier’s bloody stomach flashed through her mind.

"A well written story, produced by an author who knows her era. Details of espionage and intrigue keep those pages turning."

“Aye, General Knyphausen plans a second attack after the failure of Connecticut Farms.” Derec plucked up the note. “Greene has over a thousand Continental troops, plus the hundreds in the New Jersey militia to oppose the Hessians.”

“Connecticut Farms. Where you imprudently put yourself and Sam in grave danger.” James’ words cut through her. “But you never heed my warnings.”

“Dear James, we must work together to prevail in this war.” She tried Aunt Joan’s soothing manner, instead of allowing him to provoke her.

“I still think you should return to Easton, and Uncle Robert, before you’re hurt or arrested.” He averted his gaze, his shoulders hunched.

She grinned over her irritation. “How kind of you to worry about me, dear cousin.”

“We do worry, geneth.” Derec paced the hard-packed dirt floor, his face in and out of shadow, the note in his hands. He’d briefly smiled at her when they’d greeted tonight and cast her a look now and then.

She thought of his words at the river. The dare about her seeking a husband. The memory of his arm around her sent a heated tremor through her. She rubbed her nape, hard. If she wanted to be taken seriously, she couldn’t be seen as a simpering girl. The boy’s clothing sheltered her.

                               

For more on me and my books, visit my BWL author's page

https://bwlpublishing.ca/lewis-diane-scott/

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Reading by Season by Eileen O'Finlan

                                                                                                                                                                   

https://www.bookswelove.com/search?q=O%27Finlan

Click here for more information

Over the years, I have noticed an interesting phenomenon. At certain times of the year, usually at the change of seasons, I get the overwhelming urge to read specific types of books. Often, just as we are sliding into summer, I get the hankering for historical fiction set during either the American Revolution or the American Civil War. I've no idea why the warmer weather induces such a fancy. After all, those are hardly what most people would call beach reads, but there we are. 

I've never been into the typical "beach read" anyway. The last time I read a book on the beach (many, many years ago), it was The Shining by Stephen King. I was so into it that I completely lost track of time - a common occurrence when I'm reading a good book - and didn't realize that four hours had gone by. I'd been laying on my stomach, propped up on my elbows. I got a massive sunburn and wore the outline of it on my back from my low, scoop-back, one-piece bathing suit for the next two years! Yes, Stephen King books can be dangerous!

Now that we are heading into fall, the temperatures here in New England are beginning to dip, the days are getting shorter, and autumn is definitely on its way, my book cravings are turning to the supernatural. I'm beginning to amass a "to be read" pile of such books, having just finished two of the genre's classics - Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House and Henry James's The Turn of the Screw.

I'm sure I'm not alone in turning to these types of books at this time of year. It makes sense. (Certainly more than yearning for Revolution and Civil War books just because it's summer.) Come the holidays and the long, cold winter, I'll probably start looking for something more cozy. But from now through Halloween, bring on the vampires, ghosts, and haunted houses. 

While it took a year to write The Folklorist, (after at least six months of research), I really got into it the most during the fall. It was exciting to craft a novel that could have been on my own autumn TBR list at the same time I was craving that type of book. I think it helped me write the kind of book I most wanted to read at that moment.

Included in this fall's reading will be books from BWL's Paranormal Canadiana Collection. If Nancy M. Bell's Night at the Legislature is any indication, they are sure to induce plenty of spine tingles!

Of course, I might throw a book or two by Stephen King into the mix. At least at this time of year, I won't be risking a sunburn.

The beginning of my fall TBR