A New Title, and excerpt, "Bretagne: a forbidden affair", by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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Formally "Outcast Artist in Bretagne," my WWII novel is now "Bretagne: a forbidden affair."

In the month of love because of Valentine's Day, enjoy a different kind of romance. A romance no one would expect to survive without dire consequences.

August is the German commandant of southern Brittany. Norah is an Englishwoman trapped in France after the German invasion. The two fall in love after she draws his portrait, desperate for money. August loathes Hitler and has plans to take Norah to Switzerland. Every moment is rife with danger.

Read an excerpt:

“I understand. It’s so awful.” Norah drank from her cup, her gaze searching. “I just want us out of this war, some place safe for you and me. A cottage on Lake Lucerne?”

“I’m working on that. As soon as my son graduates next autumn, I can put in my papers, then take him out of Germany.” August drank half his cup, stood, fetched his tunic, and put it on. “I have to leave now to inspect the airfield at the tip of this peninsula. I’ll return tomorrow. Why don’t I bring over my horse, and you have your cousin Jean spend the night here? He can ride Maler, and I’ll rest easier knowing you aren’t alone.”

She rose and stepped up to him, her smile tempting, her eyes moist. “That’s a perfect idea, thank you.”

He bent, longing to wipe away any hesitation, any lasting doubts, and kissed her, hard, his hands in her hair. Tasting the sweetness of her lips, he pressed her close. She wrapped her arms around him. He pulled back, stabilizing himself before his resolve melted. “I wish I could stay, but we slept late, and I must bring Maler.” He turned from her flushed face, put on his hat, and left the cottage. August’s body thrummed like a tuning fork. He yearned to indulge in their passion, but needed to stand aloof, the man in charge, for just a little longer.

Diane lives is Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund. 

1692 And All That...

 

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I'm so happy that my new novel in the Canadian Mystery series with my co-author Jude Pittman is coming out next month! What do you think of the cover? I think this series is a fine way to learn more about Canadian history, province by province, while engaging in great stories and tacky mysteries to solve, along with resourceful amateur and professional detectives.

Our assignment was Newfoundland-- an island I've admired since seeing the enchanting musical "Come From Away." Since I'm a New Englander, a place with historic ties to Newfoundland in the colonial period, Jude and I decided to link the province's vibrant cod fishing trade to that of Salem, Massachusetts. And what was happening in 1692-93 Salem? You know it-- a witch hunt.

That got our creative juices flowing! 

Then of course, came research and lots of it. I have not set a novel this far back in time, so I thought I share some of our research that I found fascinating...

Did you know....

* That most witch hunts took place, not in the so called "Dark Ages" or medieval times, but in the period of the Renaissance?

*That there was a secret alliance between England and France that left Newfoundland's settlements vulnerable to attack during King William's War?

*That the delightful puffins of Newfoundland did not get their name until 1760? So in Spectral Evidence we needed Newfoundlanders to call them sea parrots!  

Puffin (Sea Parrot)

*That the First Peoples of Newfoundland, the Beothuk, were declared "extinct" by the 1820s, but their friends the Mi'kmaq disputed the claim. Genetic evidence have proven them right.

The Beothuk of Newfoundland

*That there are "easter eggs" in Spectral Evidence that fans of Star Trek might enjoy?

What??? Oh, yes, make it so!

 

Romantic Subplots are Fun

 

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I don't write romance novels, but most of my mystery and suspense books have romantic subplots. This shouldn't be surprising since I love Jane Austen's novels, which always centre on romance. A few years ago, while visiting my friend Barb in the UK, we went to Jane Austen's home in Chawton and dressed in costumes of the times. 

Jane Austen had the romance formula down pat - keep the lovers in conflict and separated through the story until the end, when they realize they are right for each other. Their conflict and separation can be caused by external problems (family objections, war, geography) and/or internal flaws.  

In my first novel, A Deadly Fall, my heroine/sleuth Paula struggles with both types of problems. She falls for a man who is a suspect and she's committed to a boyfriend (two external impediments). Internally, she's burned from her recent divorce. As the story progresses, Paula learns she must take risks to find love again. 

In book # 4 of the series, Paula and her current boyfriend are stranded on different continents due to the COVID-19 world shutdown. Their separation challenges their relationship. But the novel's greater romantic subplot belongs to Detective Mike Vincelli, a secondary narrator. Mike is attracted to a coworker, but his fear of failure and reluctance to shake up his comfortable life conflict with his desire to make their involvement personal.

Typically the romantic subplot reflects the protagonist's personal journey in stories that are primarily about other things--finding the treasure, defeating an enemy army, solving a murder. While navigating romantic entanglements, heroes and heroines learn the lessons they need to resolve their problems.    

My current mystery-novel-in-progress, A Killer Whisky, has two romantic subplots. The main one features my two story narrators, Katharine, who witnesses a suspicious death, and Bertram, the detective investigating the case. The story is set in 1918, during the last days of WWI. Katharine's loyalty to her husband fighting in France clashes with her attraction to the attentive detective. Bertram's obstacles are largely internal--he can't move past the deaths of his wife and son. Through the story events, Katharine and Bertram must discover what they want in life and from each other after the war is over.  

A Killer Whisky's second romantic subplot involves two suspects, who are non-viewpoint narrators. Their romance fuels the murder investigation plotline. I find their relationship fun and am curious to see how their romantic subplot works out.

Or doesn't work out.  

When romance is merely a subplot, it doesn't have to follow the romance novel tradition of bringing the lovers together in the end. Actually, my impression is that romance novels today don't require this either. I can't think of book example that breaks the rule but a successful romantic comedy movie springs to mind ** spoiler alert ** My Best Friend's Wedding.

Whatever your current real-life romantic journey -- Happy Valentine's Day! 

 

         Me in Puerto Vallarta with Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Their grand romance had numerous ups and downs that captured the world's imagination.  

             

Creating a Home Library - A Labor of Love by Eileen O'Finlan

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I recently took on a labor of love in my home - turning an unused room into a library. "Labor of love" is definitely the right term. There is a tremendous amount of both involved. 

After having the furniture that was in the room removed, I had to do battle with a slew of killer dust bunnies. I was able to banish them, but they took their revenge by inducing a lot of non-stop sneezing.

Next came removing all the books from all five bookcases in my living room as well as the books on the built-in shelves on either side of the fireplace and carrying them, one bag at a time, to the soon-to-be library. Following that, I carried each bookcase into the room. With so many books taking up the floor space it wasn't easy getting the bookcases into the room. I can't imagine what I'll do in the coming days when I bring in the books from five more bookcases coming from other rooms. I could load the books into the bookcases already there, but I really want to organize them first.

                                  

I've had to rethink my plans more than once. I originally wanted to put my antique secretary desk and my papasan chair in the library, but now I realize that even though I might be able to squeeze them in, they will make the room very overcrowded. Instead of the papasan, I moved in my bentwood rocker. I'll wait on the secretary and see how much room is available when I'm finished. (With the removal of the bookcases from the living room, there is now enough space in there for the papasan so all good!) I'm also planning to put the round rock maple table in the center of the room as a place to spread out my books, notes, and documents for my novel research.

That should give you an idea of the "labor" part. Now for the "love."

Having a home library has always been one of my heart's desires. Seriously, I could sit and gaze as shelves of books in the same way one gazes dreamily at a lover. (Add a cat into the picture and I'm over the moon!) So, the fact that this is becoming a reality has me in raptures. I can just picture myself gently rocking in my rocking chair reading a book or sitting at the table diligently researching my next novel. I nearly swoon thinking about it.

Labor of love? You bet! Lugging books, bookcases and other assorted furniture is a small price to pay for what it will be in the end.

Best historical of 2023; read an excerpt, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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I'm so thrilled my WWII novel won best historical of 2023. I hope you enjoy the excerpt, which changes Norah's journey as she's trapped in France after the Germans invaded.

At the sound of a boot scraping over stone, Norah peeked around the tall rock. Her pulse spiked. The Commandant stood a couple of feet away, straight as a steel beam, arrogant, gazing out over the Atlantic. His Nazi uniform was a terrible mockery to the village of Saint Guénolé.

She’d thought herself secluded here. Why had she taken the chance? She hunkered down and should slip away, since she could be apprehended for spying on the German officer. Though that’s not why she was there. Loathing coated with fear rippled through her.

Almost frozen with inaction, she slid down a little more into the cove of the rocks’ shadows. She glanced at her drawing book. The sketch of the Atlantic Puffin, delicate in its lines traced in colored pencils. The orange legs and strong red and black beak on a body of black, pale gray, and a white underside shimmered on the page. In profile, its eye shone with life, and the puffin looked about to take flight.

A gust of wind tossed her hair into her face, a thick sweep of strawberry-blonde in the scent of brine from the sea.

Did she hear his boots scrape closer? What if he peered over the rocks? Swiping her tresses aside, she shrank deeper into a cleft and glared over the ocean, longing for her home in Yorkshire, angry and upset at being stranded. But she must pretend to be calm, in control.

The Southern Finistère coast, with its rugged, rocky outline, was a buttress against the forceful ocean waves that slapped the stone slope two yards below her toes. The dark indigo of the Bay of Biscay reflected a blue spring sky. Spray filtered through the air, a mist that refreshed her skin—except today. If she could only sneak to the north coast and be capable of swimming the channel.

Inching to the side, Norah crept, head down, out from the semi-circle of tall rocks on the opposite side from the Commandant. Thankful she wore trousers and not a skirt, plus sturdy Oxford shoes, she brushed off her backside. She hurried past the monolithic-like stones with golden lichen clinging to their bases, across an open area of grass and into the bushes then woods. Her pencils rattled in the canvas bag. Her legs grazed against the orange and yellow wildflowers.

A sentry or two always patrolled this area. She tried to remain inconspicuous, but more soldiers had arrived in the last few weeks. The Germans had started to build ports somewhere along here and a special one, heavily guarded, right below the village. She must be more careful.

As she pushed her way through gorse bushes and scratchy plants, sharply fragrant, she pondered the German officer’s reasons for standing at the cliff, which he did often—but never so close to her cove. Was he waiting for reinforcements by sea? Or coveting England across the channel? But that view was on the northern coast of this peninsula that stuck like a fat finger out into the Atlantic.

The Nazis’ bombing raids had already decimated so much in London in the Blitz. They’d also dropped bombs on York, but with minimal damage so far. Her country had been attacked by German planes from September ’40 to last month—the worst raid ever on London. She groaned. Now June, would it start again?

Since last year, Hitler planned an invasion of England, but he had failed to land any troops.

Her stomach clenched with more anger she needed to temper. She increased her stride, sucking in the fresh air. Rustling behind her, footsteps—too close. Someone panting then a hand grabbed her shoulder.

Norah flinched and swung around. A baby-faced soldier in Nazi greenish-gray scowled at her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in heavily accented, terrible French, two of his teeth jagged like a weasel.

She straightened, chin high, the pad pressed to her stomach. Inside, she trembled. “I live nearby. I was enjoying a walk. I draw birds.” Her French was passable after the year entrenched with her cousin, and her schoolgirl lessons from a decade ago. Her arrival happened only five weeks before the Germans invaded France. A desperate year because of that and for anguished, personal reasons.

The young man pointed at her book and bag, then shouted over his shoulder in German.

Was he alerting his superior? “Please, I’ve done nothing wrong.” She had no desire to come face to face with the Commandant. “You can search me…if you want.” She cringed at that idea.

“I have no choice but to report you.” The soldier shouted again. The officer’s heavy footsteps thudded closer.

He burst through the bushes, tall and broad-shouldered, his expression stern. The two Germans spoke in their guttural language.

Norah wanted to collapse to the ground but refused to show intimidation. Her spine nearly crackled as she held it firm.

The Commandant confronted her, his blue eyes penetrating. “What is your purpose out here at the shore?” He had distinct cheekbones, a handsome face, his lips full; a man of about forty. An iron cross hung at his high collar. “You don’t care to take instruction from we Philistines. Civilians are restricted.”

“I apologize,” she tried to keep the revulsion from her tone, though his near-teasing words —or perhaps a taunt—put her off-balance even more, “I was out for a walk and…I used to walk by the shore. Before—” Before you damned Germans arrived.


Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

Historical Research by Eileen O'Finlan

 

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Have you ever wondered why it seems that a lot of time elapses between books from authors of historical fiction? It can feel like a long frustrating wait, especially when authors of many other genres seem to pump out books at lightning speed. There are several variables that determine how much time it takes to write a book such as the speed at which any given author writes, the amount of outlining (or lack thereof) done ahead of time, and the number and depth of revisions to name a few. But for most authors of historical fiction, the preliminary research can easily take just as long as the actual writing of the book. Sometimes, longer. This is not to say that authors of other genres don't do any research. They do. But historical research seems to be naturally more in-depth.

I usually take anywhere from six months to a year for research before I even begin to write. Once I start writing, I will still stop several times for more research because something invariably comes up that I didn't realize I was going to need to know about before I started.

So what does that initial research look like? Maybe I'm a bit old school, but I still favor using books for research so that's where I start. Right now I'm in the research phase for the next Irish book (so those of you who are fans of Kelegeen and Erin's Children, there will be a third and, most likely, a fourth book with these characters). The next book will be set during the American Civil War. Even though the setting is Worcester, Massachusetts, some characters will go to fight in the war and at least one of them will be a POV (point of view) character. So part of my research is on the Civil War in general then narrow in to focus on the regiments that were sent from Worcester and the battles in which they took part.

I will also need to know about everyday life in the 1860s including foodways, how holidays were celebrated (Christmas was finally becoming a "thing" in New England by then), fashion, etc. I'll need to know what was happening in Worcester during that time which I will learn about from reading the City's annual reports for that decade. Women were becoming more independent so some of my non-Irish female characters may take up employment. I will need to know where they might have worked and what that was like for them.

The books being used for research for my next Irish novel (yes, all of them!)

While what I plan to write determines what I will need to research, my research also informs what I will write. As I do the research, I often come across something very interesting and decide I want it in my story. Then I may need to learn even more about it. The research and the writing are co-dependent in this way. There are a lot of rabbit holes one can go down while researching. Fortunately, most of them lead to something that can be used, if not in the current manuscript, then in a future one.

I do not stop at books, though. I will also include websites, trips to museums (I foresee several to the Worcester Historical Musuem), chats with Tom Kelleher, my dear friend and favorite historian, and whatever else presents itself as needed.

Like most authors of historical fiction, I strive to create books that are as historically accurate as possible while also being stories in which my readers can totally immerse themselves. And that, dear readers, takes time.

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Count your blessings, Cherish every day, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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I've learned a lot this tumultuous year, but mostly to appreciate what I have. In our rush-around world we forget what is important. I hope you all out there really take time to slow down and smell the honeysuckle (I know it's supposed to be roses, but I love the scent of honeysuckle).

At the beginning of the year my family received shocking news and I wasn't sure how to manage the emotions. Now I see I need to appreciate every blessing in my life.

Firstly, my two granddaughters, lively and funny, and of course, talented. Here's an old picture of us on Mother's Day. The girls painted themselves and me, face to fingernails.

I've always overthought things and that can lead to negative vibes. I need to make the best of everything. I grew up in a loving family, a comfortable home, food always on the table, that is something to be thankful for. Did I appreciate it at the time? Not enough, I'm sure.

I got to travel to many different countries in the navy and as a civilian. I met my husband in Greece. Then we returned for a reunion four years ago. Here we're in front of the base (now closed) where we met. (and he didn't even attempt to Return me, lol)

We have two healthy sons together, both who are pitching in to help us out at this "bumpy" time.

I'm still in contact with women I went to elementary school with. We talk on the phone, or PM through Facebook. They cyber hold my hand when needed. I do the same for them.

I love and appreciate all these family and friends. I try to cherish the simple things, hearing the birds chirp in the morning, watching the geese fly by, a doe and her fawn grazing in our grass. Rain against the window. The silly laughs from the grandgirls.

In this divisive world, spread love not hate.

I go to my happy place (a warm, sandy beach, with crashing waves and rippling wildflowers) when I need to find calm.

It's devastating to lose people in your life, but I try to think how lucky I was to spend time with them in the first place.

And, no, none of this is easy. I get frustrated, panicky, but I'm making my best effort.

Diane lives in western Pennsylvania with her husband one very naughty dachshund.

Working on a YA with my granddaughter, by Diane Scott Lewis

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I've never worked on a novel with another person, much less a girl who is almost fourteen. Please enjoy the folly and reward of this decision.

At first, Jorja was excited and we planned out the beginning of the story. I put in some suggestions, and so did she. 

I began to write it and gave her the chapters to go over. She'd change a word or two and give it back.

I said I wanted her to give me insight, story changes, different ideas.

We went over the dialog together because she said the main character, Sage, spoke too formally. That was great, just what I needed. Give me some teen slang. Do you like the direction the story is going?

The set up is three children explore a haunted house where their great-great grandmother supposedly murdered her lover. Also, a favorite teacher is found murdered near the manor five months previously. 

New people have moved into the mansion, but there's something odd about all of them. Sage hears strange footsteps and sees other inhabitants that no one else does. Are they ghosts?

Is it scary enough? She said yes. But I plan to make it even scarier. It's meant for kids twelve to fifteen, so I won't go too gory. I've enjoyed the creation of this story and will press her to contribute more. I know she will if we just buckle down in front of the computer.

Of course, Jorja is busy being a middle school teen, different friends, and new experiences. And she's working on her own novel. I love that she is writing and loves to read. She takes after her grandmother.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

Magical Lights by Eileen O'Finlan

 

                          

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Have you ever felt as though you had just walked into the pages of a fantasy or science fiction book? I had that sensation recently. I'm a member of the New England Botanic Garden at Tower Hill in the nearby town of Boylston, Massachusetts. Every year starting around Thanksgiving and ending on last day of December they have an amazing light display called Night Lights throughout the grounds. This year was the first time I've had an opportunity to see it. It was more than worth the price of admission.

After leaving the ticket center, visitors are greeted with this:

How could you not feel like you had just stepped into a magical realm?

As visitors progress along the pathways, the sights become even more spectacular and the feeling that you are no longer in your own world increases. Perhaps you've entered a fairy land? Narnia? Hogwarts? Or, maybe you've left the planet completely:

Taking your eyes off the lights long enough to look at other visitors, you can see your own expression reflected in theirs - eyes wide in wonder, mouth smiling or agape when the next tableau takes your breath away.

A stunning experience, it must be especially transportive to those of a creative nature. Fantasy and science fiction authors could surely find unending inspiration here. 

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!

It's NaNoWriMo Time Again! by Eileen O'Finlan

 

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November is here which means I am now seven days into this year's NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). My goal this year is to write 50,000 words of the first draft of Book 2 in the Cat Tales series, tentatively titled All in the Furry Family.

This is my third time doing NaNo. It's a fun, motivating, supportive, and very large group (about half a million writers worldwide take part) that comes together every November to write our hearts out. Some folks have even been known to write an entire novel in that one month! At least a first draft, anyway. I have no delusions about accomplishing that feat, but I do depend on it to get a huge chunk of the first draft done. 

Each day participants log the number of words written and the site keeps track of the total, marking important milestones along the way. For me, it's a great way to hold myself accountable and track my progress.

There are ways to connect with other writers (the ever-important networking!) for inspiration and a little cheerleading. Joining the postcard group gets the month kicked off right by sending and receiving encouraging postcards to and from other participants. There are also ways to connect with other participants online.

I've even found out that there will be some in-person write-ins happening at a library in a nearby town. Perhaps I will try joining in to meet some other local writers and soak up the writerly vibe. Or maybe, I'll see if my own town's library would like to become a write-in location. 

You don't have to go anywhere, though. Writing from home or where ever is fine. It's all about the writing. Getting words down on paper or up on the screen is what counts. This isn't the time to finesse. That's for later after the first draft is done. But what a huge step it is in the process from idea to finished book.

I am hoping to get the second Cat Tales book out before the end of 2024, so fingers crossed that NaNoWriMo gives me a huge boost in making that happen.

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A tender moment between illicit lovers, Outcast Artist in Bretagne, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

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I hope you enjoy this intimate moment between my characters, after last month's turmoil when August caught Norah with forging material. This scene takes place prior to that. An unlikely romance during WWII.

August kissed Norah’s naked shoulder, her skin warm after their lovemaking. Her lithe body felt natural against his in their mutual musky scent. Crickets chirped through the open window where a slight breeze filtered around blackout curtains, into the dark room of the gardener’s cottage. The moonlight outlined them both. “I love you, mon amour.”

“I love you…so much. And this is nicer on a mattress,” she murmured, her back to him as they snuggled under the sheets on the iron bed.

“You seemed a little agitated earlier; is something wrong?”

She turned and touched his face. “I’m fine now. Can I ask where you got that huge scar on your right side?”

“I was shot seven years ago, trying to warn friends.” He really didn’t want to go into the details, the pain, at this moment. But he was naked, like she was, to be explored in all his flaws. He shoved away those ugly memories, brushed his lips over hers, then traced his fingers down her silky, soft back. “I’ll tell you more later. In the morning, we’ll plan our picnic, and you can meet my stallion, Maler. He might like his picture drawn, then painted.”

“Another handsome portrait. I’d be happy to.” She reached up and ruffled his hair. “Even in the shadows, I like your hair mussed up.”

He smiled. “No military strictness?” Wouldn’t it be ‘freeing’ to not have to wear that uniform each day, which wrapped him in the menace of the Wehrmacht?

She nestled her head on his chest. “My cousin’s husband might ask me to leave their home.”

“Why? What has happened?” His mind immediately went to the rumor of a forger, an inquiry he’d yet to begin.

“He thinks…I’ve been there too long already.” She sounded evasive. Or he read too much into it.

“Is it as straightforward as that?” Here was the source of her anxiety. A shame to have to discuss these things after they’d shared such sweet passion tonight. He did need to find out what she knew. “Is it because you are with me?”

She sighed and ran her fingers down his abdomen. “That’s part of it. I was wondering, though you might object, if I could move in here.”

August closed his eyes, enjoying her touch, but now these other problems pushed in. “You’d be alone, though I could come most nights; unless I leave for inspections. Let me think about it.” He could throttle the damn butcher. He wanted to recapture that languid, satisfied feeling he’d just had. 

“You could provide me with a pistol, for protection,” she whispered.

He grasped her wandering hand. “That is dangerous, too.” Non-Germans weren’t allowed weapons, for obvious reasons. “I would worry about you out here.” But where else could she go? Anywhere close by, without her family, she’d be open to worse scrutiny and hazard.

She kissed his chest, her mouth warm on his skin. “I know how to fire a gun.”

“I’m not surprised.” He pulled her against him and kissed her firmly on the lips. “We should sleep, then talk about this soon. I’ll think of a solution.” Another, more personal question niggled at him. He hated to continue to dishonor her when he felt this intensely about her. He let the question slip out. “Norah, would you marry me? Though as a German officer I might be a threat to you and your people for a short time more."

She breathed in slowly. A few minutes of quiet. “As difficult…yes, I would. We’ll go to Switzerland, you said. You can retire next year?”

“That is my intention.” As soon as he could take his son with them—after graduation—away from the Nazis, and count on his daughters being protected by their husbands.

He kissed the top of her head as he hugged her, holding on to his dream, making it real. He needed her love, though other troubles such as the direction of the war, and the business with the U-boat, kept him from any true peace. But negotiating life was always a challenge. She couldn’t be involved in the clandestine activities in the village—he must believe that. Yet Schmidt was certain to cause problems.

August closed his eyes, trying to drag himself into oblivion. He knew his family wouldn’t be thrilled when he married an Englishwoman. One thirteen years younger, and his mistress. But his love blurred all these battles.

He rested his cheek on her lush, fragrant hair as she snuggled against him. Her name was whispered in the allegations. The picnic—he swallowed a groan; he must question her then.

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund. 

Why Salem?

 In our research for our upcoming Canadian Mystery Spectral Evidence, co-writer Jude Pittman and I faced a confounding question:

Why did the witch hunt hysteria of 1692 take over Salem and the New England colonies and not their neighbors and trading partners in Newfoundland?

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Newfoundland of the seventeenth century a multicultural society of indentured servants, planters (year-round settlers), merchants and their servants (some of whom were enslaved Africans) and seasonal fisherfolk from England's west country, Ireland, France the Basque region of Spain, and the Netherlands. Joining them were the Mi'kmaq and Beothuk people who had been living on Newfoundland for hundreds of years. All of these cultures had traditions of witchcraft.

Seventeenth century New England was dominated by a society of puritans. Their religion dominated government, ministry, education. The "other" was suspect, whether it be Quakers or Catholics, another country of origin, or another culture. Both Native Americans and the French were looked upon as "devils," especially after devastating raids that were the result of English incursions into lands claimed by the French or Wabanacki Confederacy.

Mix this with territorial disputes among neighbors, children suffering from the trauma of warfare violence, a bad harvest's hunger. The match was lit for neighbors accusing neighbors of witchcraft. Spectral evidence (actions and torments only the accusers could see) was used to hang devout grandmothers, homeless women, neighboring farmers, even one of Salem's former ministers. The accused included a four year old child.

Only when the governor of Massachusetts Bay Colony's wife was accused, did the fever that was the Salem Witch hunt break. 

Why Salem? It's a question that's been asked ever since. Jude and I hope to contribute to the debate in our storytelling. 

Distracted Biking - by Barbara Baker

 

 

Most days I’m over the embarrassment and if just one person rethinks what they do because of my incident, my work here is done.

I was biking on a quiet, paved path behind my seven-year-old granddaughter. The sky was pink. A mountain loomed in the foreground. On a slight downhill, Ainsley crouched low behind her handlebars, hair flying, pedaling like she was headed for a finish line. What a picture.

With my right hand, I dug deep in my shorts’ pocket for my cell phone. Pulled it out. Glanced down to open it. Looked up and there she was - right in front of me. No time to think. My left hand hit the front brake. Hard. My bike stopped. I could feel the back end lift. Over the handlebars I flew. I think I tucked and rolled and landed beside Ainsley. Thank God I didn’t hit her.

I got up fast and looked around. How stupid is that? I just crashed and my brain is worried someone might have seen it happen.

“Gramma,” Ainsley screamed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, honey.” I picked up my cell phone, groaned at the cracked screen and shoved it in my pocket. “Can you lead the way back to Grampa?”

“You’re bleeding really bad.”

“Not a big deal.” I glanced at the blood pouring from the road rash on my knee. “We have lots of band aids. Lets go.”

Off she pedaled towards home.

The handlebars were off centre so my steering was all wonky but I managed to keep it straight and focused on pedaling.

“Grampa,” Ainsley shouted. “Gramma fell off her bike.”

“I hit the front brake,” I said.

David looked at me with puzzled eyes. I knew those eyes were saying “what the hell, your front brake? Why?” but his outside voice said, “Are you okay?”

“I will be.” I nodded.

I put my bike away and took my helmet off. The top was scratched and chipped and chunks of gravel stuck out of the air vents. The visor hung on by one arm. I hooked it on my handlebar and went to the outside tap.

First, I stuck my bleeding palm under the cold water. It felt so good. Then my knee. Then my elbow. I repeated the process until the body parts were numb and my embarrassment subsided.

“I cannot tell a lie.” I looked up at David. “I was getting my phone out of my pocket with my right hand and when I looked up, I was right on Ainsley’s tail.”

He nodded. And frowned. Checked my scrapes and got out the Polysporin.

I stayed awake long into the night fretting about what could have happened if I hadn’t had a helmet on. If I hadn’t stopped in time and hit Ainsley. World’s worst grandmother ever. When I closed my eyes, the worst-case scenario made me open them again. It was a long night.

A few ribs on my left side screamed at me when I got out of bed the next morning and brushing my hair made me wince. Weeks later the ribs still reminded me of the crash.

 

When I see kids or adults riding bikes without helmets, I want to yell at them to put a helmet on. Road rash and ribs heal. The head, not so much. If you see a gramma sitting on a street corner handing out helmets to helmetless riders, it might be me. And yes, I will buy a new helmet for myself.

Now when I follow the grandkids on my bike, I keep both hands on my handlebars and my head up, capturing the moment to memory - it saves the bytes taking pictures would use and more importantly, any further injury to myself.

You can contact me at: bbaker.write@gmail.com

Summer of Lies: Baker, Barbara:9780228615774: Books - Amazon.ca

What About Me?: Sequel to Summer of Lies : Baker, Barbara: Amazon.ca: Books

 

The Origins of Halloween by Eileen O'Finlan

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In my new historical novel, The Folklorist, main character, Charlotte Lajoie, puts together an exhibit on the history and evolution of Halloween for the New England Folklife Museum where she works. To accurately describe the exhibit, I had to do research on the subject. For this I relied heavily on a wonderful book by Halloween expert Lisa Morton called Trick or Treat: A History of Halloween.

I could not possibly relate all I learned in one blog post, so I will just offer an overview of the origins of the Halloween. 

As many people know, the holiday we celebrate on October 31st had its beginnings in the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, which means "summer's end." A Druid religious holiday, it was a three-day festival celebrating the reaping of an abundant harvest and the belief that souls journeyed to the other world, which they called Tir na tSamhraidh (Land of Summer) at this time. They believed that the veil between this world and that one was very thin at Samhain, allowing the dead to return to the living, and creatures called sidh (fairies) to cross to our side. On Samhain, a gathering was held that featured feasting, sports, repayment of debts, and legal trials, followed in some cases, by executions. Story-telling featured prominently at the festival, most stories having an eerie, supernatural element to them. Fortune-telling was also a favored element of Samhain.

Interestingly, by the 7th century, when the Celtic lands were Christianized, Samhain didn't totally disappear. It was transformed, yet it remained a religious holiday. By the 8th century, Pope Gregory III moved the feast of All Saints to November 1st, and 100 years later Pope Gregory IV declared it a universal Church holiday. Because "hallow" comes from the Old English word "halga", meaning holy, the night before All Saints Day became All Hallows' Eve, eventually morphing into Hallowe'en and finally Halloween.

Like Samhain, it was a three-day celebration consisting of All Hallows' Eve, All Saints Day, and All Souls Day. Though the Church purposely supplanted Samhain with these three days, the Celts were unwilling to entirely give up their ancient roots. They celebrated with traditional foods reminiscent of those used for the ancient festival and retained the mix of joyful celebration and somber contemplation of death.

By 1350 the Black Death had killed 60% of Europe's population. Popular culture changed along with this calamity bringing about a morbid fascination and obsession with death. The invention of the printing press allowed for the dissemination of artwork. Especially popular was an image known as the Danse Macabre which featured skeletons and Grim Reapers. These images soon became incorporated into the All Hallows' Eve festival especially since the belief that the dead cross over at this time had not left the Celtic lands. 

With the tens of thousands of women executed for witchcraft in the 1480s,  another Halloween icon arose - the witch. Suspected witches were often accused of causing or spreading the Plague and were believed to have a close association and sometimes a sexual relationship with devil. They soon became incorporated into the holiday as well. The traditional  image of the witch with a broom, cauldron, and cat, all symbols of female housekeeping, began to appear at this time.

It was in the mid-19th century that Halloween finally made its way to America along with Irish and Scottish immigrants.  As the newly emerging middle-class tried to imitate the British, they became fascinated with Queen Victoria's 1869 Halloween visit to Balmoral Castle in Scotland reported on in American newspapers. If the queen could celebrate Halloween, so could they!

By the early 20th century, Halloween was becoming established in America, though it was still very much an adult affair. That's not to say kids had no part in it. Children's Halloween parties became popular by the by the 1920s. On the downside, teen boys became so enamored of Halloween pranks that they grew in intensity and became so out of control that by the 1930s Halloween was nearly outlawed.

Civic organizations saved the day by offering parties, parades, costuming, carnivals, and contests to supplant the pranking. Handbooks, popular from 1915 to 1950 were written with instructions on how to celebrate the holiday. In the 1930s, neighbors pooled resources to create "house-to-house parties" in which groups of kids were taken from one house to the next, each house hosting a different theme - the precursor to trick-or-treating.

 

Finally, Halloween in America as we know it today came into its own shortly after World War II with the development of suburban neighborhoods and the ability to safely trick-or-treat for candy.

So, as you celebrate Halloween this year, remember you are taking part in a holiday with a long, varied, and fascinating history!