The Mystery of Old Economy Village, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

A young adult haunted house story. Five stars from Long and Short Reviews! They were thrilled by the novella.

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Today's post is about a visit I took with my husband and best friend to Old Economy Village, an historic site near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I hope you find it interesting.

The village was founded by German Lutheran separates in the 19th century. A sect that formed to create a utopian society, waiting for the second coming of the Messiah. 

Visitors can explore several historic buildings, original artifacts, and learn about their culture.

George Rapp led the group. He began preaching in his native Germany. When he split from the Lutheran Church he was banned from preaching. He called himself a prophet and defied the church. His subsequent persecution forced him to flee to the United States with his followers in 1803.

He preached celibacy to keep the group pure as they waited for the Messiah. They didn't believe in procreation, and that was their downfall. Pretty soon they died out.

Rapp died in the village in 1847

Here is my husband talking to our guide

The society was self-sufficient. A sawmill, tannery, distillery. We even took part in rope making. I can't find the picture I took of that.

They nurtured beautiful gardens and grew their own food.

Harmonist church-another society in Harmony, PA, founded by Rapp

They were nonviolent pacifists who refused to serve in the military. Following the literal teachings of the New Testament, as interpreted by Rapp, they believed Jesus would come again and a thousand years of peace would ensue. Their experiment failed.

Rapp was sometimes called a tyrant and was sued by former members for compensation, so not everything was peaceful.

The village is mostly intact and welcomes visitors. A fascinating excursion.

A recent storm sent a tree onto one of the buildings, crushing it. Sorry to hear that.

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Diane lives in western Pennsylvania with one naughty Dachshund

Creative Living

                                                      Find my books here

Merika is a Greek word meaning creative spark. We all have it. It's part of what makes us human. 

Creative people lead creative lives. Most of my author friends have other creative passions that sometimes fed their writing lives. 

My friend Jodi is a caller for traditional New England dances. 

In addition to her wonderful books, my friend Juilene is an Irish Storyteller in the oral tradition. 

Friend and BWL author Eileen O'Finlan keeps a beautiful garden in her Massachusetts home.

Our readers have wonderful sparks of creativity, too. Roseanne creates beautiful table settings for her large family at holidays. Jeanie is a creative baker. David and his uncle Bill delight children with beautiful model train villages for our local historical society displays.

What are your satisfying creative pursuits, dear reader? How do you make our world more beautiful?

Will Luke Survive the Ruthless Oyster Police during the Potomac Oyster Wars? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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In 1956 the state of Virginia fought a war with Maryland over dredging oysters on the Potomac River. Maryland had their own Oyster Police Force, who shot at the Virginians.. Dredging ruined the oyster beds but collected more bounty. Here is a scene from my story where my protagonist Luke is involved in this illegal and dangerous business. Enjoy:

This is a fictionalized account of an event that actually happened:

Luke cringed and leaned over the port rail. Images were blurry in the mist, though the faint light of dawn appeared in the direction of the Chesapeake Bay. Miss Ann’s engine roared to life.

The two police boats closed in, pushing strong waves against Sally. Their boat rocked. Bobby and Frank shoved up on either side of Luke.

Miss Ann sped across the water toward Monroe Bay, the two police boats in pursuit.

At a noise in the sky, Luke stared up. “A seaplane, too?”

“Mama won’t like this,” Frank said, though didn’t sound scared.

“Virginia should have a plane,” Bobby groused. “We’re too timid.”

Jim grabbed his binoculars. “Hell, this looks bad.”

Gunfire exploded, shot after shot. Luke winced, though the shots were in the opposite direction, toward Miss Ann.

Captain Jim started their engine. They nosed out into the water. “We should find a safer place, or head to port.”

The Miss Ann careened back and forth over the waves in the glimmer of dawn like a combat maneuver.

“We might get in the line of fire,” Silas said. “Damn fool, Harvey. We should stay put.”

“I should have brought my pistol,” Frank said, breath rasping.

“I warned you about that.” Luke glared at the boy. “Silas is right, we could all be shot. Have some sense.”

“Shut up, Frank.” Bobby pushed on his cousin’s shoulder to force him to kneel. “Stay down. I hope Harvey blasts those bastards.”

Spray dampened Luke’s face and shoulders as he held onto the boat’s rail, balancing with the slap of the river. On shore, as the sky lightened further, the sun straining to shine through the murk, people gathered. They cheered for Harvey and cursed at the police.

Bullets flew. Luke and Bobby ducked beside Frank on the slimy deck. Jim navigated near the shore, toward a creek’s mouth they knew about. Up on the bank, tree trunks splintered, struck by gunfire.

Harvey careened around bars and in and out of coves, then he cut a hard turn as the seaplane lowered to the water’s surface. The Miss Ann revved, and Harvey steered her right at the plane.

“Oh, shoot,” Jim muttered. “He wouldn’t.”

In a splash of flying water, Harvey gunned his boat. The people on shore gasped. The seaplane lifted just as the Miss Ann swerved beneath her pontoons.

“He’s as insane as Bozo.” Luke gripped one hand to the port rail as he still kneeled.

A boat roared up behind them, lights flashing.

“We’re spotted.” Jim slipped Sally into the creek, amongst thicker foliage. Little sunlight had penetrated in there yet. The mist clung like a smoky curtain.

A sudden shift in water again, and a low engine sounded behind them. The police had followed! A spotlight lit up their boat. “Stay where you are!” a disembodied voice shouted. “We’re coming aboard to check your equipment.”

Luke cursed. He couldn't risk being arrested. He had a wife and young son to support. Their boat pushed into deeper shadows, scraping the starboard side.

“Dammit. Jump overboard. All of you.” Jim flicked his cigarette away. “I’ll take the heat.”

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Diane lives in western Pennsylvania with one naughty Dachshund

Artificial Intelligence: the Good, Bad, & Ugly by Susan Calder

                                          For book and author information, go to Amazon

         A Killer Whisky is Book # 12 of BWL"S Canadian Historical Mystery Series

Every day I receive an email from a stranger wanting to feature one of my novels in their book club or promote the book in another way. I almost fell for the first email. It was well-written, contained specific details about my story, and analyzed it better than I could have done myself. I was sure the sender had read the book until later that day a similar email arrived from another stranger. Two new fans who loved my novel and wanted to help it get the recognition it deserved? This seemed too good to be true.   

Within days, I saw a Facebook post by an author who had received one of these effusive emails. This convinced me they were scams created by Artificial Intelligence. Not that I understood AI, but the emails were something beyond my previous experience. I deleted them both. 

From then on, I pressed "delete" without reading these kinds of emails. Quick deletion was possible because the first line of messages appears in my inbox and clues me in to the rest. So, this daily process wasn't too time consuming. Then variants appeared. Authors I didn't know wanted to connect with me as a fellow writer. A few were famous, like "Margret Atwood." Fortunately, I knew the real Atwood spells her first name "Margaret." 

The most recent variant came from "Kaela" who said she'd tried to post a review of my novel A Killer Whisky on Amazon but her review was rejected, so she asked for my Goodreads link to post a review there. Her story was plausible as I know many people who've been unable to post Amazon reviews, but why would she need my Goodreads link? While I was suspicious, I wrote back advising her to search for me on Goodreads. Meanwhile, a second person (I'll call him Jake) emailed me with the same review issues.  

"Kaela" replied with an attachment of the Goodreads review she'd posted. I went directly to the Goodreads site and her review was there! Was this really legitimate? I sent "Jake" my same reply, suggesting he search for me on Goodreads. I also thanked "Kaela" for her review. Then -- big mistake -- I decided to copy her rave review for my records and clicked on her attachment. Seconds later, alarms shrilled on my computer. A voice blared "Your IP address is stolen!" My computer mouse didn't work. I think the voice told me NOT to shut down my computer, but this is exactly what you should do in that situation. It worked. When I turned my computer back on, all was normal with no apparent damage done.   

"Jake" had now replied. I was curious to see what he'd said and assumed my computer would be safe if I didn't open any attachments or click on links. I opened his email and the alarm instantly blared because he had embedded his review in the email message. Curse you "Jake" for fooling me a second time. 

"Kaela" replied to my thank-you note with a message that began, "Susan, you're very welcome! It truly was my pleasure to read and review ..." I was too afraid to open her email for fear of crashing my computer, but I pinned the email to the top of my inbox in case I had the nerve (or foolishness) to see what she had said.  

Writers who've responded to these scam emails say that, once they rope you in, they ask for money to fund the project they'll set up for your awesome book. Some direct you to websites that look legit but turn out to be phony. The individual amounts requested aren't enormous, but if a percentage of the targeted authors sends money, presumably the accumulated amount is worth the scammer's effort. 

Like all scams, they appeal to the target's weakness. In this case, it's every writers' longing for their hard-earned work to reach and be appreciated by readers.         

Sadder still, these scam emails have made me suspicious of every unexpected email related to my writing. In the past, I've enjoyed engaging with readers this way, and some were strangers with genuine interest. I can't even fully trust emails of this type from people I know because email addresses can be stolen. Along the way, I'll probably delete an opportunity that is actually real. 

So far, this post has been all about the Bad & Ugly of Artificial Intelligence, but the Good exists. For the past 13 years, I've exchanged letters with a relative in the Czech Republic. Neither of us speaks the other's language. I compose my letters in English, plug them into Google Translate, and send her the Czech translation. I've suggested she do the same, but she continues to handwrite me letters in Czech. I tried typing them on Google translate, but it doesn't work because every second Czech word has an accent. Over the years, I've scrambled to find people to translate her letters, but now, thanks to AI, I photographed her last letter, uploaded it to ChatGPT, and got a good translation. 

I'm sure Artificial Intelligence has hundreds of other useful applications, and I can see a great potential for medical diagnoses and treatment programs. Every innovation comes with the good, bad, & ugly.

Today, in the name of research for this blog post, I opened "Kaela's" latest email on my old computer. No alarms went off. My computer didn't freeze. "Kaela's" friendly message continued with an offer to introduce me to Book Cafe to promote my novel that touched her deeply. She signed off with a casual, "Would you like more details?"

I deleted her but almost feel we had a relationship. Creepy, but maybe in the future we'll all have AI friends. Is this a huge leap from Facebook and other online friendships?  

I also checked my novel's reviews on the Goodreads site. "Kaela's" rave review is gone. Drat!

On the Loss of a Muse by Eileen O'Finlan

 

                              

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On Friday, January 16, 2026, my muse passed away. She was 17 years old, calico, and very fluffy. Her name was Autumn Amelia. She was a gorgeous Maine Coon mix. As anyone who knows cats well can attest, they are excellent at hiding illness and pain. I knew she was slowing down. That wasn't surprising. She'd been considered a "senior cat" by the vet for several years. She'd also been on medication for hyperthyroidism for several years, too. However, it did take me by surprise to find out at her December vet appointment that her liver and white blood cell counts were way off. The vet thought it might a side effect from her thyroid medication and suggested taking her off it for a month and rechecking her bloodwork. If her liver and white cell counts were headed back to normal, we'd know that  was the cause.

A few days before her next appointment, I could tell she was very sick, so I called the vet. They had me bring her in that afternoon. A recheck of her bloodwork showed that not only had her liver and white cell count not improved, but they had dramatically worsened. The vet was certain she had liver cancer and, given how quickly things had gone downhill along with her current condition, felt that she probably only had a few days left. Not wanting her to suffer any longer, I asked the vet to euthanize her. I held her in my arms, told her how much I loved her and what a special cat she'd been. I reminded her that she would live on in the Cat Tales books, and I asked her to send me the next kitties that needed a loving forever home. She left this world peacefully in my arms, soaked with my tears.

Autumn Amelia used to live with me along with a beautiful Russian Blue cat named Smokey. They were the inspiration for All the Furs and Feathers, a novel I wrote while home from work for a month recovering from a major surgery. Smokey passed away just as that book was being completed. My mom, who had been living with me, went into a nursing home due to advancing dementia one month later. She would pass away within three years.

Autumn and I were on our own ever since. We shared a home and a life. She was a great source of love, affection, amusement, and inspiration. She was always with me while I was writing, laying next to (or on top of) my keyboard. I called her my muse for that's what she was. My beautiful, magical muse. She celebrated with me when the second Cat Tales book, All in the Furry Family, was released. I bought cat "wine" for her and we toasted the unboxing of the new books when they arrived. 

She was a regular fixture at the writing group that meets at my house every Wednesday evening. They will all miss her, too.

Autumn and Smokey are the main characters in the Cat Tales series books. Their characters are based on their personalities. Many of their antics in the books were true to life including Smokey's zoomies before a storm and Autumn's penchant for stealing food. Autumn really did take apart my humidifier and eat the charcoal filter when she was a kitten and she really did have a pirate ship that she adored just like in the books.

The Cat Tales series will continue. I have the basic idea for the next book in my head now. Smokey and Autumn Amelia will return with all their furry and feathered friends. 

Autumn Amelia and Smokey

And in the next book, they will have two new friends because Autumn and Smokey completed their assignment very quickly and sent me two new kitties to help heal my broken heart. Zachary and Josette are brother and sister orange cats who are now living with me. I have had one cat or another since I was six years old and simply could not stand being without one. They came from a local shelter and now have a forever home where they will be loved and pampered for the rest of their lives. They will also become characters. I need to finish the paranormal book I'm writing now before I can start on the next Cat Tales book, but that will give me plenty of time to get to know Zach and Josette so that their personalities can shine through in the next story.

Rest in peace my precious Autumn Amelia. Thank you for your wonderful inspiration and for sending me these two new babies to love.

   

                            Zach                                                                            Josette

Norah resists her forbidden attraction to the German Major in war-torn France, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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I wrote this novel after watching a tv show about the German occupation during WWII. What if a young Englishwoman is trapped in France after the Germans invade and she must ask for help from the Commandant. She finds he's not at all who she thought he was, and a dangerous attraction develops. I hope you enjoy reading an excerpt.

Norah walked stiffly in, her courage waning, but her resolve anchored. She’d never been in this office before. And now with the Germans in charge, changing everything—and a child’s fate in her hands.

Major von Gottlieb stood behind his desk, tall and imposing, his expression curious. “What can I do for you, Fräulein Cooper?”

“My young cousin did something foolish, but he’s only a child.” She rubbed her knuckle along her collarbone and explained what happened in barely controlled words. “Please, don’t let anyone hurt him. He’s ten years old, and impulsive.” Tears dampened her eyes, despite her effort to appear tenacious. “Release him to his mother. It’s all a mistake.”

She saw the Major’s gaze change from surprised to concerned.

“Extraordinary. I will investigate at once. Wait here, Fräulein.” The Major thrust on his hat and indicated the chair in front of the desk. He marched from the room and shut the door. She heard strong words exchanged in German, the shuffle of feet.

Norah sank into the leather seat, unsure what to do. Her heart beat so fast, her chest ached. She glanced about the office. A picture of Hitler on the wall made her cringe. On a glass-fronted bookcase full of books was a smaller picture of a woman. Broad-faced but attractive. The Major’s wife?

Mahogany furniture filled the cramped room. The desk was neat, with a tan leather inlay. The room smelled pleasant, of lemon oil. She tried to balance herself as her mind spun.

A small table held a partially finished jigsaw puzzle. She stood to see what it was, to distract her upset.

The door opened behind her. She nearly jumped.

The Major strode in, his gaze fixed on her. He removed his hat. “Fräulein, it’s been taken care of. The child is being escorted to his mother as we speak.”

She pressed her hand to her breast, almost swaying. “Thank you. I’m so relieved.”

“Warn him he should not be so impulsive. It’s dangerous.” Without his hat, she saw the Commandant’s hair was sandy-colored, almost golden, a wave over his high forehead. He had a strong cleft chin.

“I will, I promise.” Her words came out too breathy. She still believed it unfair the villagers hadn’t access to their own coast, but she couldn’t allow her resentment to show.

“It seems a problem in your family, this impulsiveness. You should not have been dancing before the cottage the other night either.” He raised an eyebrow, but the glint in his eyes was somehow a challenge. “The soldiers notice these things.”

Her cheeks burned. Had he watched her dance? “You’re right. It won’t happen again. I’ll restrict my dances to the rear garden.”

“Good. See that you do. I’m only trying to keep you out of mischief, if that is possible.” His tone wasn’t harsh, his glance almost teasing.

“I must go and see how my cousins are.” Norah inched toward the door. She should have asked about Mr. Kerguelen, what happened to him? But wouldn’t push her luck. “Thank you, again. I’ll try not to be such a problem.”

“You’re welcome. Be warned to follow the rules no matter how you might object. Guten tag, Fräulein.” He bowed his head for an instant, like an aristocrat in a play. He smiled wryly. “Yet I imagine this won’t be our last meeting.”

Norah blinked then left the office and hurried across the square.

Was Jean home already? Surely the Major hadn’t lied to her. He seemed a gentleman. She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth. What a bizarre thing to think about a Nazi commandant. What sort of man would follow the dictates of a tyrant like Hitler?

Find out more about me and my books

                              

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her naughty dachshund.

Cover Reveal for Jessie's Cafe by Nancy M Bell

 

Very happy to reveal the cover for my new novel coming in Spring of 2026. The image is an actual building in Castor, Alberta which was built in or around 1910. It has had many names over the years, Jessie's Cafe, The Royal Cafe, The Queen's Cafe, The Golden Crown. It was also known locally as Lewies and Andy's over its storied past.

The building has intrigued me ever since I move to Castor and it seemed natural to set a novel within its precincts. Sadly, the building is in sad need of restoration and as a heritage building I hope that someone will take on that task. Someone with very deep pockets. LOL

My story starts in 2026 but to do the building's history justice I have created a time travel journey with some interesting twists and turns. Another interesting thing about the building is the tiny shed that is clearly visible perched on the flat roof of the cement block addition at the back of the original structure. It looks suspiciously like an outhouse although I have been told it served as a garden shed at some point in its career. That humble shed plays an integral part of my plot...so stay tuned...

I love uncovering and discovering the legends and tales that seem to cluster around old buildings, as if they are just sitting and waiting to share their stories with anyone who is willing to linger and listen. So if you are ever in Castor be sure to stop by Jessie's/Andy's and then wander down the street to visit the other venerable building - The Cosmopolitan Hotel. This is also a 1910 structure that was in use up into the early 2000's. I'm sure if those walls could talk there is a plethora of stories regarding adventure and misadventure that has occurred over the years. Interestingly, there used to be another hotel directly across the street where the ATB bank is now. The National Hotel which burned down in 1924. Can you imagine the brawls that might have occurred with denizens of the two establishments duking it out in the middle of what was then referred to as Grand Avenue.

Until next month be well, be happy. Oh, and Happy Valentines Day even if it's a bit late.

Travel & Historical Research - A Fun Combination

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I'm planning a trip to Karlovy Vary, Czechia (aka Karlsbad, Czech Republic) to do research for my historical novel-in-progress. My initial idea was to visit the locations in the story. take numerous photographs and notes, and soak in the atmosphere to make my novel more vivid and authentic. 

Many of these locations are tourist sites, such as the Elisabeth Spa, where my novel's protagonist works. Austrian Emperor Franz-Josef built the opulent baths to honour his late wife Elisabeth (Sisi). The spa opened in 1906. My novel takes place in 1914 during the months leading up to World War One. On my short visit to Karlovy Vary thirteen years ago, I saw the Elisabeth Spa building and its gardens and park setting. On this refresher trip, I'll get a peek inside by enjoying swimming and relaxation pools. Research is tough work.

 

During my trip planning, I discovered that Karlovy Vary has an excellent museum with exhibits on the history and development of the town since the 15th century, famous Karlovy Vary doctors and visitors, and local crafts, art and historical collections. Might the museum have archives that I could view with advance notice? It also occurred to me that the municipal library must have books of local interest not available elsewhere. I emailed both institutions about my research trip and explained that my novel was inspired by my 2013 visit to Karlovy Vary and my maternal grandparents who immigrated to Canada from Czechia shortly after WWI. I received helpful and enthusiastic replies.

Librarian Kateřina Krieglsteinová advised me to check the Karlovy Vary Library’s online catalogue and send her a list of books that interest me. She will have them available when I arrive and supplement them with other relevant books. In addition, she offered to arrange a walking tour of the city with an English-speaking guide knowledgeable about local history, a visit to the Karlovy Vary Museum exhibits, and, as a benefit to the library, an informal, evening talk about my writing and ancestors in Czechia for their readers. Since I don't speak Czech, she'll try to find a translator.     

David Čech from the Karlovy Vary Museum replied that he and two historians will be available to show me their museum archives that include old maps, photographs, postcards, and official documents. He supplied the historians' email addresses so I could contact them directly and about a dozen links to websites with historical information. One of these was the “Kurlisten,” which lists every spa guest in Karlovy Vary from 1795 to 1949. I had recalled reading that Sigmund Freud was in Karlovy Vary at the outbreak of WWI and made him a character in my novel even though I couldn't find confirmation of his visit anywhere on the internet. I asked David about this. He sent me an article stating that Freud "took the cure" in Karlovy Vary from July 13 to early August, 1914, as well as the "Kurlisten" page that records his arrival on July 13, 1914. My novel had Freud arriving a month earlier, but now I've altered the timeline to make his story appearance historically accurate. This will involve a number of changes, but at this first draft stage of writing, the revision isn't drastic.  

I also asked one of the historians about current spa culture in Karlovy Vary. It's still a thriving industry, but the pictures I've seen show treatments done in modern facilities. I like to experience one in a historical atmosphere. The historian said I'd be disappointed; the old ways are all gone. He suggested I visit the building of the former imperial spa, which has been renovated into a cultural centre and museum. I hadn't known this building existed. I emailed it and learned the facility offers guided and audio guide tours of its displays of the golden era of the spa industry in the early 20th century. I'll definitely add this to my itinerary.

My research trip idea began as a relaxing jaunt through the footsteps travelled by the characters in my historical novel. I'd stroll down the river promenade, enjoy leisurely lunches at cafes to gather details for my story's fictional cafe, and hike to historic viewpoints. I'll still do all these things and more -- library and museum visits, guided tours, evening talk with readers who don't speak my language. It feels overwhelming but exciting.        

Imagine Karlovy Vary in 1914

   

Rose Fights to Work as a Doctor in 18th c. England, but encounters village Superstition, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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In the eighteenth century women were forbidden to work as doctors (though many did in rural areas) and were denied any medical education.

Rose is determined to learn from the local doctor in a Cornish village filled with secrets and superstition. She has just had an unsuccessful encounter with him, but she won't give up.

Travel with her as she is embroiled in the local history, mystery. and deadly events.

An excerpt
Rose rubbed her palm over her temple as she stalked from Dr. Nelson’s cottage. The doctor was an insufferably insecure man, even if she had acted too brazen. His rejection weighed on her confidence, but she’d have to make amends so he wouldn’t scurry off like a rabbit.

It shouldn’t be a sin to want to be someone useful, a student of medical science instead of a master of perfect hem stitching. She’d proven herself smarter in her schooling, plus applying in a limited capacity the medical texts she’d read. Now she yearned to use her knowledge to promote healing.

                                       
Rose blew out her breath. Forced to leave America, she’d convinced herself that as a stranger she might find it easier to establish herself among people who didn’t know her. Had she been foolish to believe she could shape this village to her wishes? An ancient land of castles and traditions might thrust up higher walls for her to scale.

Her resolution returned; she stiffened her spine. She needed to become a part of a doctor’s—any doctor’s—practice.

Near the mill, an old woman hovered, staring. She wore a threadbare blue dress over a squat form and a red shawl with fringe about her shoulders. Hatless, her round face a network of wrinkles, she had wispy white hair that floated in the breeze.

Rose nodded politely and kept walking.

“Dydh da, a good day to you, Miss.” The old woman smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. “I’m Mrs. Trew. Hebasca they call me, an’ I need to talk to you, if you please.”

Rose paused, not wishing to be rude to the villagers. “I’m Miss Gwynn and I’m actually in a rush. We’ve recently moved in and there’s so much to do.” Still flustered, she longed for time to plan her next strategy. “Why did you need to speak with me?”

“You’re one o’ the new tenants at Avallen, an’ look a mite disappointed.” Mrs. Trew drifted nearer in a scent of sage. She had odd, yellow eyes, which she prodded over Rose. Perhaps she suffered from jaundice. “I see you’ve visited the lending library an’ visited with our Damawyn.”

“I wanted to research my ancestors who are supposed to be from this area.” Rose gripped her books, restless to continue on. “And find out some of the local history. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“I’m the village charmer.” The old woman touched her finger to the side of her right eye. “Ask me what you seek. I know the history here; you don’t need no books for that.”

Rose took a step away. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Trew. Perhaps another time?”

“Hebasca, I insist. An’ there’s no time like the now. Me cottage be over there.” She placed her gnarled hand on Rose’s sleeve and pointed.

A sudden breeze sent Rose’s hair tickling along her neck. The clob cottage—built with a mixture of slate into the wattle and daub her father had explained—crouched across the road in a yard tangled with brambles and gorse. Its roof had thatch missing in places, and the shutters were worn and peeling paint.

Reluctant to visit there, Rose tested the old woman. “Do you know anything about the big stone ring near the cliff behind Avallen?”

“Ess? You seen it already, have you?” Hebasca nodded slowly, a wry grin curling her thin lips. “The ancient ones believed, and some still do, that if you be ailin’ or struck down with disease, if you crame on all fours...”

“I’m sorry. Crame?”

“That be the local word. If you crawled on all fours through a ringed stone, nine times backened to the sun, the ancients believed it would cure your ills.”

Rose recalled the ridiculous sensations she’d felt when she viewed the ring. “How peculiar. I guess ‘backened’ means your back to the sun?”

“It do.” The old woman’s cat-like eyes gleamed.

“Of course it’s all nonsense.” Rose prided herself on her steadiness, not given to vapors or swooning as many girls were.

“Not to people here.” Hebasca grasped Rose’s arm and tugged her across the road. “Cummas 'zon, an’ we’ll share a cup o’ tea. I’ll tell you more tales. Your ancestors are from hereabouts. That story be a bleak time from Lankyp’s past.”

Find out more about me and my books

                              

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her naughty dachshund.

Surviving a New England Winter by Eileen O'Finlan

 

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Every time I send my sister in Florida a picture of the snowfall I just woke up to, she always texts me back about how pretty it is. She's right. A fresh  snowfall in New England is lovely as I'm sure it is anywhere. Waking up to look out at a blanket of sparkling white is awe-inducing. That is, until you have to shovel it. As of this writing, I have spent the past several mornings removing several inches of snow from my car and driveway. On go the boots, hat, coat, and gloves. Grab the shovel, spray the scoop part with cooking spray to keep the snow from sticking to it, and step out into frigid temperatures for some vigorous exercise guaranteed to wake me up. In my case, that also includes causing a very sore back for at least the next 24 hours due to the severe arthritis throughout my spine. On days when the shoveling is immediately followed by getting in the car and driving to my full-time job, there isn't even a moment to rest.

                   

Though I do appreciate the beauty of a pristine snow-covered landscape, I find the long, cold New England winters to be more and more of a hardship as the years go by. Oh, how I wish I could hibernate.

So, what do I do to survive the winter months? I spend as much time as possible tucked away inside my house, snuggled up on the couch or draped with a blanket in the rocking chair in my home library, a cup of hot chocolate next to me, a good book in hand, and my beloved cat nearby. More than ever, winter has become my cozy time. For me, cozy means books, cats, and warmth. The more time like this I can get in the winter, the better.

My "stay in the house as much as possible" routine has the added benefit of giving me more time for writing and research. Though I never make New Year's resolutions, I have promised myself I will be more diligent than ever about my writing this year. Ideas for novels have been spinning in my head so much lately, it's surprising that characters aren't falling out of my ears!

So, fine, bring on the snow and cold. I just wish it could be contained to the days I don't have to go out. Then I can semi-hibernate in my little house with my laptop, my books, my sweetie pie, Autumn Amelia, and some warming comfort food and that will see me through the winter just fine. 

Who could resist cozying up to this face?

An Englishwoman Braves the Wilds of New Brunswick, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

In 1784, a woman braves the wilds of a burgeoning Canada, in the province soon to be named New Brunswick. Will Amelia Latimer marry the callus soldier her father has chosen for her, or start a romance with the handsome Acadian trader, Gilbert? A man forbidden to her.

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I had so much fun writing this story, learning about the formation of New Brunswick. I even traveled there to visit the sites I wrote about. I hope you enjoy it, too.

In this excerpt, Gilbert is teaching Amelia how to fire a pistol.

Mademoiselle Latimer and her maid waited in the once tall grass, now matted down by frost. Both of them were wrapped in capes, their hoods pulled up. The girl held the wooden box the pistol came in.

Gilbert dismounted and approached them. “Bonjour, ladies.” He tipped his hat.

“Good day to you, Mr. Arsenault.” Mademoiselle Latimer smiled and pulled the pistol from her muff. “I thought I’d put the Muff Pistol to its original purpose.”

Flintlock Pistol

He chuckled, happy to be in her company, though disturbed that she had this tug on him. He took and examined the small gun, then got right to business. “First, let me show you the trigger mechanism. This lever is called the sear and the trigger lowers from here. Engage the sear to keep the trigger in half-cock. That will keep the pistol from going off unexpectedly.” He caught her eager face, then stared at the weapon again. “When you’re ready to shoot, you pull to full cock and the hammer forces the trigger down. The sear and trigger are locked together, and pulling the trigger releases the sear. Now the pistol will fire.” 

He fingered the metal pieces gently as he glanced up. “No one has loaded this, have they?” At her head shake, he pointed the barrel at the woods and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He handed the pistol to her. “You try it, and always treat the pistol with caution.”

She didn’t hesitate, which impressed him. Arm extended, she pulled the trigger.

“Bon. Now we’ll load it. Observe closely.” Gilbert went to the maid, and took the box, which contained balls, flints, a powder flask, and cleaning rod. The girl smiled, as if relieved to be rid of her burden.

                                       Laverty Falls in New Brunswick

Setting the box on the ground, he crouched, unscrewed the pistol barrel, and inserted only seven grains of the acrid powder into a chamber behind the threads. He placed a ball over the powder. “Now I very gently re-screw the barrel. If any powder residue is left on the threads, the stuff could ignite and the gun may explode. So clean these threads with a cloth after each use.”

“Oh, my, that does sound dangerous. But pistols aren’t toys, are they?” Mademoiselle Latimer rubbed her gloved hands together. The cold pinked her cheeks attractively. “I don’t know how many people or beasts I’ll have the need to shoot, yet.”

“Be aware, this little gun won’t stop a large animal, though the noise might.” Gilbert hid his amusement, half-cocked the weapon and stood. “Please make certain you clean this pistol, care for it diligently, so you don’t get hurt.” This time instead of handing her the gun, he stepped behind her, put his arms around her and pressed her finger on the trigger. She felt warm against his body. Her hair smelled flowery. “Use both hands and be prepared for a slight kick-back.”

She quivered under his touch. “All right. I’m ready.” Her voice trembled, then she straightened her arms and pulled the trigger. Smoke puffed out and the bang echoed around them.

The maid had crushed her hands over her ears. Mademoiselle Latimer gasped and slipped back, deeper into his arms. Gilbert released her as a heated thrill wriggled through him. He shouldn’t have held her, but he’d meant it for support—hadn’t he? Or was it much more?

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Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her naughty dachshund.

Trying Again for Jolabokaflod by Eileen O'Finlan

 

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I have been fascinated with the Icelandic tradition of Jolabokaflod ever since I found out about it. Jolabokaflod roughly translates to "Christmas book flood|." Beginning during World War II, people in Iceland have been purchasing books from a catalog sent to every household in Mid-November. They give these books to friends and family. Gifts are opened on December 24th. According to tradition, the recipients start reading the books right away. A cozy Christmas Eve is spent with hot chocolate, a sweet treat or two, and a brand new book. It sounds like heaven to me.

Last year, I decided I would try my own version of Jolabokaflod by getting everything ready early and then spending the entire evening reading. Unfortunately, I did not plan well enough. I host Christmas dinner for a few family members at my house so a lot of Christmas Eve is spent cooking what I can ahead of time, cleaning, and playing Santa for my cat. (Yes, she's very, very spoiled.) I miscalculated how much time I would need and never got my long evening of reading.

I do try to learn from my mistakes, so this year I intend to do everything I can do ahead of time on December 23rd so that on Christmas Eve I can curl up in my favorite comfy chair next to the Christmas tree and indulge in my favorite pastime - reading. A couple of cookies, a mug of hot chocolate, and my cat lounging nearby will make my Jolabokaflod complete.

I will have to take time out to fill Autumn Amelia's stocking with catnip toys and place her special treats under the tree.  I don't mind, though, in fact I like doing that for her. She loves Christmas. Besides, she's my muse and the inspiration for one of the main characters in my Cat Tails series books, so she's earned it. After all, how could anyone deny Christmas joy to this face?

                           

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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.