Christmas Memories by Nancy M Bell

 

Storm's Refuge takes place at Christmas and gives a stay dog a start at a new life. To find out more about Nancy's books click on the cover.  

Many years ago, I lived on a little farm in Uxbridge Ontario. I'm please to share A Brandy Hollow Christmas with you. This was originally written in 1987.

There is nothing quite like a country Christmas, in this fast paced world it is a very few of us wo have the chance to live with nature rather than against it. I am lucky enough to live on a small farm and experience the joys of working with the land. Recently we sold this farm and I began to say good-bye to all the little things that are so much a part of living here. Suddenly, I realized that this Christmas I wouldn't be in my little house in the hollow. Perhaps because I won't be in Brandy Hollow this year I want to share the Christmas' we did enjoy here.

The times when the snow bloomed against my living room window and laced the cedar trees, bending the woods beneath its weight. In the new light of morning the children and the dogs make tracks across the virgin blanket of the lawn, and the horses when we turn them out blow the snow up in puffs with their snorts and then roll and run and roll again. I want to share the special stillness there is here after a snow fall and especially a Christmas snow. The sun just catching the top of the cedars and the birch in the barnyard and the blue jays and the chickadees already searching for seeds. The gentle hand of the morning air sending sparkles dancing from the delicate fingers of the snow dressed trees. The warm smell of horses and hay when you step into the barn from the frosty stillness of early morning.

The warm glow of my little living room, the sun coming in the window, a fire in the woodstove and the Christmas tree taking over the living room. Every year we re-arrange the furniture so we can fit the tree in and by Christmas morning there are presents under the tree, on the tree, around the tree and presents across the floor and in front of the hearth as well. The cats just waiting for all that lovely ribbon and paper to be theirs.  The lovely peace of Christmas Eve when the children are asleep and the old folks are waiting for Santa. Jessie and Josh, the dogs, sleeping on the hooked rug my Grandfather Pritchard made by the stove, joined by most of our five house cats. There is that special thrill of anticipation that comes on only on Christmas Eve. The warm feeling of the love that goes with the presents. The sharing of joy in giving that special gift. The dark quietness of the night, moonlight throwing blue and silver shadows on the snow as i go out to the barn to tuck the horses in on this most special of nights. The music of the wind in the trees and the starfire crackling in the stillness as I take a Christmas walk around the pond and savour the opportunity to say my own private Thank You to the spirit who created al this wonder.

There is a peace on this farm and always a feeling of love. As this this house and this land have always been loved and blessed. But never is the feeling so strong as at Christmas. All things find refuge here. Strays find their way to my door, both wild and tame and human as well as animal. This is a safe place and a healing place. There is that little bit of Christmas love here all year.

One of the best things about Christmas is the love, the giving. It is the one time in the year we can hug someone and not embarrass them or ourselves, or kiss someone and say the things we think all year but never find the words to say.

This year I'm leaving my little farm and I will miss it terribly. But I will never lose the peace or the love that it has given me. And always I'll carry that little piece of Brandy Hollow Christmas in my heart.

My Christmas wish for you and yours is that you will know the peace and joy that Christmas brings. And that 'all things wise and wonderful' and 'all things bright and beautiful' will be yours.

I wish you a Brandy Hollow Christmas.

Nancy

  

Squires in the Age of Chivalry by Rosemary Morris

 

To learn more about Rosemary's books please click on the cover above.

My novel, Grace, Lady of Cassio, The Lovages of Cassio, Book Two, sequel to Yvonne, Lady of Cassio, begins in the reign of Edward III. It will be published in October 2021.

At heart I am a historian. My novels are rich in historical detail which requires intensive research, some of which I am sharing in this blog.

At fourteen a page* became a squire and trained to fight with a lance and sword, to be adept at horsemanship, hunting and hawking. and master the complicated rules that governed heraldry and jousts. A squire accompanied his lord to war, armed him before a joust or battle and led his horse into battle. In earlier medieval eras he held the reins while war was fought on foot. It was a dangerous occupation in which and many squires were injured or killed.

Squires also studied the seven ‘liberal arts’ Grammar. Logic, Rhetoric, Arithmetic, Geometry, Astronomy and Music so they would be well educated as well as accomplished warriors.

At meals retainers brought fowl and meat to the squires to be carved. Even the king’s sons were required to perform this service as part of their education to become knights. In addition, he served his master to his master on bended knee and in the king’s household tasted food to make sure it was not poisoned.

A squire of the bedchamber fetched whatever his lord required and was available to convey messages. In the afternoon and evening he served in the private apartment and entertained people by talking, singing or strumming a musical instrument. He played chess or backgammon indoors. Outdoors he took a minor part in various pastimes, for example such flying hawks and hunting.

When he completed his education, he became eligible to become a knight.

 Knights and a squire at the Malbork Castle, a historical re-enactment

 

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

 

http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

 

Children in the Age of Chivalry – Part Three - Pages by Rosemary Morris

For more information on Rosemary's novels please click on the cover above.

My novel, Grace, Lady of Cassio, The Lovages of Cassio, Book Two, sequel to Yvonne, Lady of Cassio, begins in the reign of Edward III. It will be published in October 2021. At heart I am a historian. My novels are rich in historical detail which requires intensive research, some of which I am sharing in this blog. Pages wore their master’s badge across the front of their tunics. They were the sons of the well-born. When they were seven years-old they became pages to a suitable nobleman. In return for their service they were trained for their future career as knights and educated with the lord’s sons by the household priest. It was not important for a page to learn to read but books about etiquette were written for them. Babee’s Book set out a page’s daily routine. First, he should rise early, wash his face and hands, make sure his fingernails were clean and comb his hair. Next, he should say his prayers or attend Mass. His deportment should be excellent. He should never scratch himself or sniff in public. During the day he was expected to greet everyone he met. He was repeatedly reminded to attend to other people at meals and not to grab this best food, and neither stuff his mouth full ‘as a pigge’ nor speak with food in his mouth. Instead of picking his teeth with his knife he should use a clean stick. He must wait carefully on his lord and lady, remove his cap, and bow before he addressed them. At every meal, on bended knee, he offered his lord wine and afterward brought water for him to wash his hands. Apart from learning good manners he learned how to be a superb horseman, how to wear armour correctly, and to use weapons. An adults’ full armour was very heavy. A page gradually became used to it and learned how to put it on and take it off correctly. He was also taught the complex rules to be observed when taking part in a joust at tournaments and for hunting and hawking. www.rosemarymorris.co.uk http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

The Treadmill is my Enemy by Stuart R. West

Great to read while on the treadmill!

I hate the treadmill. Yet I try and get on it three to four times a week. Obviously I must be some sort of masochist, because, honestly, how else do you explain how something so horrendous is supposed to be good for you? Pure agony.

Whoever said exercise is good for you is a huge liar.

Every morning I wake up, knowing I should exercise. "Just five more minutes," I tell myself. It's particularly hard to rouse on those dark Winter and Fall mornings when the only ones up are insomniac serial killers and vampires. Yet, eventually, I get up.

You know, the magical number of "50" is usually a milestone to be celebrated. The human body, on the other hand, has very different ideas. If there's a party being thrown, it's purely a pity party, the body mocking its host all the way to the grave. It's like one of those charts detailing the state of our economy; the one with the arrow plummeting down into the red zone.

Anyway, after twenty to thirty minutes on the "monster machine," I'm done. And it's not pretty. Buckets of sweat roll off me. I look like a wet T-shirt contest reject (doubtful I'd garner any votes, but you get my drift--just, um, stay downwind because I smell like canned spam). My heart is galloping to burst through its cage. I'm leaning over the cursed machine, panting, hyperventilating like a pneumatic air compressor. My back hurts. And my knees! Oh, my knees! When I walk, they emit an unhealthy squelching gelatinous sound. I swear it sounds like aliens replaced my kneecaps in the middle of the night with fish bowls.

The worst part? After all this torture, the treadmill's electronic face taunts me, registering joy that I've burned off a mere 100 calories. 100 lousy calories. If I were to eat half of a small donut, I'd break even. Any more food over the day, though, puts me back over the top. The demonic treadmill is laughing at me

You know, there's gotta' be a more pleasant method of exercising. Maybe I'll try yoga. Now...where's that leotard?

I imagine the character Zach loooooves the treadmill!

Cornish Pasty - A Meal For The Miners by A.M.Westerling

Cornish Pasty – A Meal For The Miners by A.M.Westerling

Love Regency romance? Find this one at your favourite online bookstore here: https://books2read.com/The-Countess-Lucky-Charm

"A.M Westerling's "The Countess' Lucky Charm" is a keeper. Combine "Pygmalian" (with a happily-ever-ending), throw in a smidgeon of "Oliver Twist," add a healthy dose of love and passion, a trek through the Canadian wilderness and a host of finely drawn secondary characters, and you'll find a terrific read." Kathy Fischer-Brown

***

Okay, enough shameless self promotion. *silly grin* Today I’m sharing a classic British recipe that originated in Cornwall, the setting for my current project, a Regency romance titled Sophie. It’s Book 1 of The Ladies of Harrington House series. My hero Lord Bryce Langdon eats a pasty one day while having lunch in an inn in Truro.

It’s thought the pasty originated as a convenient meal for Cornish miners who were unable to return to the surface at lunch time. Their hands would be dirty but the pasty could be held easily by the crust and provided a hearty meal.

***

Picture and recipe found here:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/classic_cornish_pasty_67037

Ingredients

For the pastry

·         500g/1lb 1oz strong bread flour

·         120g/4oz vegetable shortening or suet

·         1 tsp salt

·         25g/1oz margarine or butter

·         175ml/6fl oz cold water

·         1 free-range egg, beaten with a little salt (for glazing)

For the filling

·         350g/12oz good-quality beef skirt, rump steak or braising steak

·         350g/12oz waxy potatoes

·         200g/7oz swede/turnip

·         175g/6oz onions

·         salt and freshly ground black pepper

·         knob of butter or margarine

Method

1.    Tip the flour into the bowl and add the shortening, a pinch of salt, the margarine or butter and all of the water.

2.    Use a spoon to gently combine the ingredients. Then use your hands to crush everything together, bringing the ingredients together as a fairly dry dough.

3.    Turn out the dough onto a clean work surface (there’s no need to put flour or oil onto the surface because it’s a tight rather than sticky dough).

4.    Knead the dough to combine the ingredients properly. Use the heel of your hand to stretch the dough. Roll it back up into a ball, then turn it, stretch and roll it up again. Repeat this process for about 5-6 minutes. The dough will start to become smooth as the shortening breaks down. If the dough feels grainy, keep working it until it’s smooth and glossy. Don’t be afraid to be rough – you’ll need to use lots of pressure and work the dough vigorously to get the best results.

5.    When the dough is smooth, wrap it in cling film and put it in the fridge to rest for 30–60 minutes.

6.    While the dough is resting, peel and cut the potato, swede and onion into cubes about 1cm/½in square. Cut the beef into similar sized chunks. Put all four ingredients into a bowl and mix. Season well with salt and some freshly ground black pepper, then put the filling to one side until the dough is ready.

7.    Lightly grease a baking tray with margarine (or butter) and line with baking or silicone paper (not greaseproof).

8.    Preheat the oven to 170C (150C fan assisted)/325F/Gas 3.

9.    Once the dough has had time to relax, take it out of the fridge. The margarine or butter will have chilled, giving you a tight dough. Divide the dough into four equal-sized pieces. Shape each piece into a ball and use a rolling pin to roll each ball into a disc roughly 25cm/10in wide (roughly the same size as a dinner plate).

10. Spoon a quarter of the filling onto each disc. Spread the filling on one half of the disc, leaving the other half clear. Put a knob of butter or margarine on top of the filling.

11. Carefully fold the pastry over, join the edges and push with your fingers to seal. Crimp the edge to make sure the filling is held inside – either by using a fork, or by making small twists along the sealed edge. Traditionally Cornish pasties have around 20 crimps. When you’ve crimped along the edge, fold the end corners underneath.

12. Put the pasties onto the baking tray and brush the top of each pasty with the egg and salt mixture. Bake on the middle shelf of the oven for about 45 minutes or until the pasties are golden-brown. If your pasties aren't browning, increase the oven temperature by 10C/25F for the last 10 minutes of cooking time.

***

Now that you’ve made your pasties, munch on one while you’re reading the next scene from Sophie. The previous excerpts can be found in order in my posts from August 25, September 25, October 25 and November 25. Enjoy!

The nerve of Leah, fumed Sophie, sitting beside Lord Langdon despite the impropriety of it all. Mama would doubtless have a few choice words later - she didn’t believe in airing the family dirty laundry in public and for that Leah should be grateful.

Lady Harrington clapped her hands. “Sophie, Catherine, you may begin.”

Conscious of Bryce’s eyes on her every move, Sophie glided over to stand beside the pianoforte. She cleared her throat and picked up the sheaf of lyrics, fidgeting with it while she waited for Catherine to seat herself. Catherine ran her fingers up and down the keys a few times then nodded to Sophie before playing a few bars.

Sophie began to sing:

“Alas my love you do me wrong, To cast me off discourteously, For I have loved you well and long, Delighting in your company.”

She finally dared to look at Bryce in time to see Leah drop her fan at his feet. Sophie almost choked at her sister’s blatant ploy but he appeared not to notice Leah’s fan on the floor beside him. Sophie started the chorus:

“Greensleeves was all my joy, Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves was my heart of gold, And who but my Lady Greensleeves?”

She risked another glance at Bryce. He’d picked up the fan and held it in his hand. Obviously uncomfortable, he offered it to Leah, who batted her eye lashes at him. At the sight of the brazen deed, Sophie’s voice cracked on the opening notes of the next verse, drawing a shake of the head from Mama. She composed herself and managed to finish the verse.

Again she looked over to her sister and their guest of honour and repeated the chorus. During this Leah held a handkerchief to her eyes and dabbed at them, as if moved by the music. From time to time she peeped sideways to Bryce and when he appeared not to notice, dropped her handkerchief on his lap.

The little minx. Annoyed and more than a little irritated, Sophie mispronounced a word, drawing a horrified look from Mama. Look at Leah, Sophie wanted to scream, not at me. She managed to draw a quick breath and began the third verse:

“I have been ready at your hand, To grant whatever you would crave, I have both wagered life and land, Your love and goodwill for to have.”

Sophie mused on the last phrase while she began the chorus. Is that why Leah’s actions irritated her so? That Sophie wished for Bryce’s love and goodwill? No, she corrected herself. Not love but certainly goodwill and his favorable regard although why that should be so important to her didn’t make sense.

She sang the next few bars and looked over in time to see Leah make google eyes at Bryce. Would the brat never stop her wanton actions? Sophie missed a high note on a passage in the chorus she’d mastered many times before. Catherine glanced over and shook her head. Papa merely smiled, that indulgent twist of his lips that he used only with his daughters.

Sophie soldiered on. Next when she looked over, Leah tapped Bryce on the knee with her fan and leaned in close to him. Sophie almost choked then started on the wrong verse, drawing a hiss from Catherine. “Sophie, what is the matter with you? Pay attention.”

Lady Blackmore coughed into her elbow; Lord Blackmore stifled a smile. Surely they must find Sophie’s performance lacking. Or had they spied Leah’s shenanigans? Sophie could only hope that they realized the problem lay with Leah, not Sophie. With that, she sucked in a huge breath and with a nod to Catherine began the proper verse. She ignored Leah and their new neighbour and sang instead to the vicar and his wife. That worked and why hadn’t she thought of that earlier, she scolded herself.

Mercifully the song came to an end. She placed the sheets of paper back on the stand and inclined her head at the smattering of applause. “I do thank you,” she said, “but it’s Catherine who is the musical one, not I.”

“We’ll take a small break to refresh ourselves and then Leah shall read her poetry,” said Lady Harrington. Her mother gave her a speculative look then turned towards the Blackmores.

Disappointment at her performance of the piece bubbled through Sophie. She’d wanted to impress Langdon, not make an utter fool of herself. She needed a beverage to wet her throat and wash away her frustration with her recital and she sidled to the decanters of wine. Bryce joined her and she clutched the edge of the table for a moment to steady her nerves.

 “I much preferred your show this afternoon.” He glanced down to her satin slippers. His meaning was clear – he referred to the sight of her unshod feet on the beach. A warm flush crept over her cheeks and she glanced about to see if anyone heard. Everyone else was engaged in conversation except for Leah, who gave her a glowering look. Her sister stood and looked as if she meant to come over but thought better of it and sat down again.

Sophie peeped up at Bryce through her lashes. If Leah could play the coquette without drawing notice, so could she. “Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you find my vocal skills lacking?”

The Waiting Game by Stuart R. West

Click for comedy, mystery and murrrrrderrrrrrrr most dumb!

Recently, I encountered surely one of the world's worst waiters at a Mexican restaurant. Let's call him "Nelson (because that was his name)." Combative, non-communicative, just plain bad table etiquette. He mistakenly delivered baked beans instead of refried. My wife told me to let him know about it. No thanks. After the fight he put up over his bringing flour instead of corn tortillas, I didn't want things to escalate to violence. Still, he got the last laugh. When he swept my plate out from under me (without asking), he dropped my knife an inch from my hand. No apologies.

Now I'm no waiter, never have been one, yet I do have empathy for those plying the fine trade of waiting. And, as always, I'm here to help. Hence, Stuart's Easy School of Good Waiting for the low, low price of three $39.99 installments . Order now and you'll receive a free doily.

Waiters, kindly remember these rules:

1) Hairnets. If you have hair like the lunch-lady of my nightmares, hairnets are appreciated. Soup served with croutons and curly black hairs is simply not an option.

2) For God's sake, give me time to take a bite! Overzealous behavior doesn't suit the art of waiting well. Sometimes, before I've even jammed a fork in my mouth, a tip-starved waiter will ask how everything is. And keep coming back. Again and again. It's a weird time-space conundrum. Can't comment until the food's in me. Just...no.

3) Waiters, please don't chortle at a customer's menu selection. It doesn't exactly instill culinary confidence.

4) And do we really need to know your grandmother just passed away? When the waiter starts crying, my appetite starts dying.

5) When I ask what's good, don't respond with a generic shrug and say, "everything." I don't believe you. On the other hand, when a waiter says, "I eat next door," the honesty is appreciated, but gives me pause.

6) Don't be the invisible waiter, the guy who takes an order and vanishes into the Bermuda Triangle. When a different waiter brings out a milk carton with my waiter's visage on it, I know I'm in for an even longer wait.

7) Know your customers. Do I REALLY look like a guy who wants to eat the Kale platter?

8) "Oh, I see someone's hungry."  Well. When a waiter says that, I fire back, "I see someone's hungry for a tip." Puh-leaze.

9) If you're gonna' serve up witty patter, make sure it's at least borderline amusing. And don't deliver your patter like a robot. Bring your material to life. When you bury your face in the order pad, reciting lines like "you say tomat-oh, I say ta-mah-to (and I know you've recited it a kazillion times before)," it makes me wanna' use the steak knife for other purposes. Bad jail-bound purposes.

10) Finally, don't overdo it. When a waiter sits down at my table, drops an arm over my shoulder, jabs a toothpick between his teeth, and says, "You know, I'm not really a waiter...," dessert is definitely off the table.

Gang, the next time you go out to eat, recite these rules upfront to your waiter. Trust me. I'm sure they'll appreciate the advice. Absolutely positive.

What does "waiting" have to do with writing, I hear you ask? Quite a bit, actually. A waiter has to guide his/her customer through an entire meal before any kind of feedback is given (and hopefully a tip). A writer is in the same sort of unknowing vacuum until reviews come out (and hopefully sales).

There will be a test later.

Speaking of waiters, my dunderheaded protagonist of the Zach and Zora comic mystery series isn't exactly a waiter (and maybe the world's a better place for it). No, no, Zach has chosen to study and practice the fine art of "male entertainment dancing." Just, whatever you do, don't call him a "stripper." So gauche.

Click for wacky murder mystery hijinx.

Calamity Jane and Annie Oakley by Katherine Pym

Buy Here

~*~*~*~

 

Martha Jane Cannery was born in 1852 and Phoebe Ann Moses in 1860. Both were show women, and were crack shots. Both were born in upper Midwest, and both had worked in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, but that is pretty much where the similarities end.

Annie Oakley

Annie Oakley (Phoebe Ann Moses) had a more stable life. Even as her father had died when she was still very young, she never went west. She married and remained married to the same man, Frank Butler. They met at a shooting contest. Frank Butler was a fancy shooter, but Annie won the meet. After Frank licked his wounds, they married two years later. It is said Annie took the name ‘Oakley’ from a neighborhood in Cincinnati, Ohio. If you go to google maps, it is still there, not far from the Ohio River.

Annie joined Frank’s traveling show, but before long Frank realized Annie was the best shot, and the wanted attraction. He relinquished his climb to stardom and became Annie’s business manager when they joined Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. One of her feats was when she shot a cigar from Kaiser Wilhelm’s mouth.

See how small Annie's waist is???

When I visited the Buffalo Bill Center of the West Museum in Cody Wyoming, there were artifacts from Annie’s time with the show, clothes and guns and things. She was a small person. Sitting Bull called her: Little Sure Shot, and I can attest her waist was tiny, amazingly so. She couldn’t have been more than 5’, but don’t quote me on that. I based this statement on how small her clothes were. 

Annie died of that B-12 deficiency in 1926. She was 66 years old. Frank died 18 days later. 

Hers was a good life.  

~*~*~*~*~

Now, Calamity Jane (Martha Jane Cannary) was an entirely different animal altogether. Her parents, not the best in reliability or reputation, died when she was only 12, leaving her to care for her 5 siblings. Reportedly a big woman and strong (sort of manly), she supported her family as well as she could. Some say she even went into prostitution for a while. This is also where fact and fiction come into play. Calamity Jane’s true actions were superseded by her spun autobiography and newsprint’s tall tales. 

Calamity Jane

There is more than one explanation for the ‘Calamity’, which are vague and nonsensical, so I won’t go into it here. Her brothers and sisters fell out of history, too, with Jane moving through life and their existence never mentioned. She dressed like a man and did men’s work. She rode with the cavalry, saving one soldier on a wild horse ride, after which someone called her Calamity. But who knows.

Everyone thinks she was madly in love with Wild Bill Hickock, who was married. She may have been fond of him, but Bill didn’t like her much. There’s another story where she met him only a week or so, outside of Deadwood South Dakota, before he was murdered, holding the ‘dead man’s hand’, a pair of black aces and a pair of black eights.

Word has spread Jane was a kind soul who helped tend the sick during a smallpox epidemic, but on the whole, she sabotaged every good event in her life. She was a terrible alcoholic. She supposedly married and had a child but gave up the girl and wandered the country. She may have met Annie Oakley in the Buffalo Bill Wild West Show, but her drinking was too much. She was cast adrift after a short while. She was also reported to have ridden in other west shows that toured the Midwest.

By 1903 she was ill and destitute. She found her way near Deadwood where she died at the age of 51. Her last wish was to be buried beside Bill Hickock in Deadwood.

Hers was a sad life.

~*~*~*~

Many thanks to:

Wikicommons, public domain

And the following websites:

http://www.thewildwest.org/cowboys/wildwestlegendarywomen/199-calamityjane

https://www.biography.com/performer/calamity-jane

https://www.legendsofamerica.com/we-calamityjane/

https://www.legendsofamerica.com/annie-oakley/

https://www.legendsofamerica.com/famous-female-shooters-of-the-west/

https://www.legendsofamerica.com/we-buffalobillgallery/