Meghan, Harry & The Crown

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Like millions of people in North America and Britain, I watched the recent Oprah Winfrey interview with Meghan Markle and Prince Harry. When the couple married almost three years ago, my husband and I happened to be in the UK on vacation. We visited the church at Windsor Castle, where the wedding would take place and watched the preparations underway. On May 19, 2018, the day of the event, we took a train from the Lake District to Edinburgh. At the decorated train station, a woman set up a festive table with afternoon tea for sale.  

Meghan and Harry’s honeymoon with the press and public deteriorated quickly after that, as did their relationships with people in the royal family. A year ago they gave up their duties as senior royals and moved to Canada, a Commonwealth nation where Meghan had lived and worked as an actress. When the UK and Canada refused to pay for their long-term security, they settled in California with plans to pursue non-regal ventures. In their interview with Oprah, they said that unfair and hurtful treatment by members of the royal family, the palace establishment and the British media forced them to take these steps. 

Everyone I know, including me, has watched the Netflix series The Crown, which chronicles the life of Queen Elizabeth II from girlhood to recent times. A theme I take from the series is that the personal lives of royal family members come second to protecting and preserving the institution of The Crown. In the Oprah interview, Harry said that all of his relatives are trapped in their royal roles. The Netflix show suggested the Queen might have been happier living a simple life in the countryside with her horses and dogs. But then she wouldn’t have fame, fortune and a place in history. Many would choose the trap. 

The media loves drama. It sells newspapers and gets people to watch shows like the “bombshell” and “explosive” Oprah interview. The UK tabloids exploited and maybe created the Meghan vs Kate conflict. This narrative serves The Crown if  Kate generally comes across better, since she’s a future queen. Harry told Oprah that the royal family needs positive coverage by the press. The monarchy isn’t secure forever and the country has many anti-royalists. While the Queen is beloved, her successor Prince Charles isn’t. But Will and Kate look on track to replacing the Queen in people’s hearts. They also have three children ahead of Harry in the line of succession. Harry's drop to the # 6 spot makes him less important to The Crown. That's why their son wasn't made a prince and perhaps why the palace made little effort to protect Meghan from media criticism and lies, as she said in the Oprah interview. 

Both Harry and Meghan made a point of telling Oprah they still get along well with his grandmother, Queen Elizabeth. Harry followed up the interview by making it clear that the Queen and Prince Philip weren’t the unnamed royals who made racist remarks that were arguably the interview’s biggest bombshell revelation. This shows that the young couple's intentions haven't strayed completely away from their prime roles as members of the royal family—to protect and preserve the person who embodies The Crown. 

 

Me with Harry and Meghan in Windsor, UK, May 2018

  

The Great Omelet Caper as told to Karla Stover

  

     I am a huge fan of the humorist, Jeanne Robertson, and one of her philosophies is to try and find at least one humorous thing that happened during your day. My problem is---is the following story I wrote from an experience that happened to a friend of mine funny or is it schadenfreude? 

Here it is:

     Thank goodness in the New Millennium—which really isn’t all that new anymore—it was possible for thirty-something businessman, wearing after-five attire, to sit in a bar late at night and have a drink without being eyed, and raked over by suspicious minds.  Well, almost possible, anyway, but “shame, shame, shame,” as Gomer Pyle used to say, on their potty minds. My friend, DJ was business professional, whose job as a stock broker required a lot of socializing. And that’s what he’d been doing, on a Thursday night in Bellevue, Washington, Seattle’s sophisticated neighbor.

     Earlier in the evening, one of his clients, a gallery owner and artist in his own right, had an art showing. DJ had attended, done the wine-and-cheese thing, and trolled for new clients—unsuccessfully, as it turned out, and left around 11:00 p.m. Along with some of the art lovers he’d gone to kill the effects of the wine with a cup of coffee at a swanky restaurant and lounge called Benjie's, but they’d left, he was blissfully alone, enjoying the ambiance and the relative quiet.

     Benjie’s was located in the penthouse of a bank building. Its décor was chrome and black leather with recessed lighting and wide floor-to-ceiling windows. Even if blurred by Puget Sound rain, they framed the city lights and eliminated most of the street noise. Another part of the architecture was the bar, which was designed to let people watch the chefs at work. Benjie’s specialty was omelets for the light-night, crowd. DJ was a regular because he liked to sit at the bar and listen to snatches of the cook’s conversations, and watch their economy of movements as they prepared the orders coming in.

     That Thursday night DJ heard enough of the waiter’s whispered conversations to know that there was tension in the air. Apparently, Vinnie, the head chef, had been cooking steadily since 10:00 a.m. that morning—nearly 12 hours standing at the hot stoves.  While he flipped eggs and cheese in a small pan, it was obvious the long day was taking its toll. Tufts of bleached blond hair stuck out from under his tall, white hat. The hat, itself, was decidedly askew. His apron was fresh, but his face glistened with steam and sweat. His slightly hunched posture looked so tense, DJ later told me his own neck and shoulders began to ache, sort of a kitchen couvade.

     Three of the waiters on duty, two men and a woman, all young and collegiate-looking, seemed just a little anxious, but one, a man named Kirt, was apparently oblivious to the tension. He was also oblivious to the fact that he was giving Vinnie extra aggravation. DJ was familiar with Kirt; he had a bubbly personality and treated every patron as if they were a welcomed regular.  However, he stopped and talked too much—annoying under the best of circumstances and a powder keg under the worst.  And that night, circumstances were at their worst.  Vinnie snatched the order slips out of Kirt’s hand, and barked out his name when the orders were ready for pick up. Unfortunately, due to his chatting, Kirt didn’t always hear his call, and his name seemed to be called four times more often than those of his fellow waiters. It was a situation ripe for potential. 

     “Kirt, please." Vinnie slapped yet another dish on the bar between the kitchen and the lounge.

     Kirt was at the far end of the room, taking another order and didn’t hear.

     “Kirt, order up,” Vinnie called again.

     That time Kirt heard, but a man at a window table detained him.

     “Kirt! Get your ass in here!” The over-heated cook roared.

     Kirt’s fellow waiters stepped aside to clear a path, and Kirt responded immediately, practically speed walking through the archway into the kitchen.  Just before loading his arms from wrist to elbow with assorted-sized plates, he gave another order to Vinnie.

     “Tell them there’s none left,” Vinnie snapped, as he looked at the new request.

     “Tell them yourself,” Kirt snapped back.

     With a lot of unnecessary clatter, Vinnie slammed his way through a refrigerator and several cupboards.  After gathering his ingredients, he mixed, poured, and stirred in a series of small, round-bottomed sauce pans. DJ said he never saw him leave the stove for a minute, but suddenly the unmistakable odor of burning food began to waft ever-so-gently toward the bar. That was evidently Vinnie’s own particular boiling point. With a magnificent and enviable windup, he snatched the offending pan off the stove and heaved it and its contents against a far wall. The pan ricocheted back, left a black mark on the white paint, and dropped conveniently into a nearby garbage can with a cacophony that stopped the diner’s conversations. A sunshine yellow assault of eggs, milk and various-colored peppers flew up in a leap Nureyev would have envied. A confetti of ingredients splattered the walls and appliances in a six-foot radius, but most of it hit the wall near the black mark. Like a slow-motion action sequence, the goo slid slowly and inexorably toward the floor, leaving cheery streaks of yellow dotted with red and green.

     For a moment the room was so quiet even the distant sounds of freeway traffic could be heard. Then conversations resumed as the waiters and remaining kitchen staff raced to the scene like reporters to the site of a disaster. The wall’s egg-tempura vanished under an assault of paper towels. While some hands wiped the appliances down, others patted Vinnie soothingly, talking softly in attempts to diffuse the situation.

    “That was the last order, Vinnie.”

     “You’ve had a really long day.”

     “Go home; we’ll take care of things.”

     Impervious to it all, Vinnie pushed everybody aside and stormed out through the lounge, his apron strings floating behind him.

     It was over in a flash.  The majority of the diners probably weren’t even aware of the great drama

 that had just taken place. DJ was just lucky enough to have seen it all from start to finish. And what a

great ending since he didn’t particularly like omelets.

SO---funny or unkind to laugh?

Short Stories

 

            Have you ever tried to capture a childhood memory -- that illusive remnant of an adventure softened by the shadows of time? As adults, we might wonder if those events really happened, or if they are only figments of our imagination.  We might laugh now at our naiveté, but at the time, those painted carousel horses were very much alive, the pirate ship held tons of gold, and the cowboys always won.                    For me, there was a candy dish; but not your ordinary candy dish of course…

            "Are we there yet?"

The road was bumpy, and Dad swerved to miss a snake slithering across the gravel.  It was hot, but July is always hot in Iowa, and back in 1956, air conditioning wasn't included on the sticker price of our Chevy station wagon.  It didn't bother me, though, because I was seven years old.  I was tough, and not about to let hot weather stop me from enjoying the drive that would take me to my adventure.

            Bugs splattered against the windshield, and a big grasshopper ricocheted off the rear view mirror to land on the back seat.  Dad said to get it out of the car, but one look at those beady eyes convinced me it wouldn't hurt if the grasshopper went with us. 

            Dad was taking me to my Aunt Bea's -- a farm with horses and other animals and homemade cookies and my cousin Craig.  We would take baths in a galvanized tub hardly big enough to sit in; we had to hand-pump water into the kitchen sink.  We played from sun-up until Aunt Bea rang the huge dinner bell, then after meals we played some more.

            At that time, there were no convenience stores on the corners, no public swimming pools and skating rinks or shopping at the mall every afternoon.  There were no computers, video games or cell phones; no colored TV in every room or central air conditioning. 

             Instead, we had acres and acres of green grass and blue sky in which to play; square hay bales to hide behind when playing cowboys; a big house with a huge porch and cookies hot from the oven.  Our imaginations never limited the source of our adventures, and we didn't need a lot of toys to occupy our time.  Unless, of course, you counted the dollar's worth of plastic cowboys we bought at the local Five & Dime. 

            Aunt Bea had a big old farmhouse -- far too large for just the three of them, so the front rooms had been closed off by a set of pocket doors.  White slipcovers blanketed the furniture and the draperies were always closed. Voices echoed eerily off the chill walls and hardwood floors should anyone happen to step into what looked like a mausoleum.    

            It was as though an entirely different family lived there, but they were never home.  Even so, you had to walk past the connecting doors quietly, for it wouldn't be polite to disturb them. 

            "Don't say a word," my cousin would whisper, a finger to his lips.  Of course, I believed him -- he was older than me and he lived there all the time.

            It was more fun living in the back of the house, anyway, because there were two kitchens.  In one, Aunt Bea put up summer vegetables from the garden.  There were big wooden worktables, the pump to get water into the sink, and a big, pot-bellied stove. 

            Aunt Bea made cookies in the other kitchen.  It was by the living room, where Uncle Clair watched black & white TV and an old sidesaddle hung on the wall.  My cousin and I would lie on the hardwood floor and play with little cars that went in a metal garage and rolled down the ramp to the car wash.

            Every day we played cowboys, hiding behind hay bales and shooting at each other with plastic handled pistols.  We'd take turns being the cowboys and bad guys because it was only fun when there was someone to shoot at.  After all, with just two of us, it would be too easy to steal horses from imaginary outlaws.  Even so, it was easy to get bored.  So we would hide out and try to decide what to do next.

            We could go get something to eat or drink.  It was hot and we played hard.  Of course, we couldn't just walk in and ask -- that would have been too simple -- so we decided to sneak in through the front of the house.

            The old weathered boards of the porch creaked beneath our bare feet.  The screen door swayed on rusty hinges and created eerie noises that belonged to the inky night, not to broad daylight.  I giggled and my cousin shushed me -- we couldn't dare be caught.  We silently crept closer to the door, keeping low beneath the windows.  Craig turned the handle -- a soft click and the door squeaked open, inch by noisy inch.  I held my breath, sure that any second we would be discovered.  Craig pushed on the big wooden door -- I grabbed his arm and hung on.  After all, he was bigger than me and much, much braver.

            Shadows loomed gigantic across the wood floors.  Shrouded furniture turned to ghostly shapes before our eyes and towered larger than any monster either of us had ever seen.

            "Let's go," I whimpered, ready to forget the entire escapade.

            "We can't," Craig jerked me to a stop and pointed. 

            There, like a glittering crystal crown, a candy dish perched on top of the dark wood coffee table.  We stood in silent awe as it beckoned us.  Sunshine filtered through a gap in the draperies to form a spotlight, causing the crystal to wink knowingly at us.  Dust motes floated down the sunbeams and danced around the crystal, paying homage.

            We crept on hands and knees now, our eyes wide and our hearts pounding.  Any minute unbidden creatures would jump up and screech at us from behind the white sheets.  Beasts from beneath the couch would snatch our legs and drag us, screaming and fighting, beneath the draped edge, never to be heard from again. 

            Regardless of the danger, we slithered closer, for the candy dish proved a stronger lure than the threat of unseen monsters.

            Even as our grubby hands touched the sparkling cut glass, we cast furtive glances over our shoulders toward the doors that separated this section from the real house.  Craig whispered to be careful, for we not only had to remove the lid without letting it click against the side, but we must put it back so no one would know we had been there. 

            Our adventure became more difficult the minute Craig lifted the lid.  It had a fluted edge, and if the little curves didn't fit together just right, it would fall off to the side and break.  Not to mention making an incredible noise. 

            I could hear Aunt Bea moving around in the kitchen on the other side of the pocket doors.  The dog barked outside, and a horse neighed in the distance.  My heart beat louder than any ordinary noise, and I knew for sure she could hear us.  I held my breath as I reached into the bowl.  My hand closed around the prize -- sweet, hard bits of sugar.  As quietly as we had come, we left, pulling the door softly closed behind us.

            Those few seconds were as long as we could remain quiet.  With whoops of laughter, we jumped off the porch and raced for the hay bales, falling down to the ground only after we were safely out of sight and no one the wiser.  We laughed as we ate the spoils of our adventure, arguing already over who would lead the secret raid tomorrow.

            We never questioned the reason for a candy dish in a room no one ever entered.  After a week of raids on the ghostly haunt, we never once thought it unusual that the candy dish, sitting alone in a room never used, was always full.  After all, it was summer on the farm, and at seven years of age, it's easy to believe in magic.

***

If you like short stories for a change of pace, I invite you to grab a copy of “Before Tomorrow Comes” -- Can five women with tender hearts find the love they deserve before their secrets and pasts are exposed? This, and all my romance novels are available at Books we Love www.bookswelove.net.

Here’s hoping your memories are magic.

Barb Baldwin

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

https://bookswelove.net/baldwin-barbara/

An Author's Cookbook by Vanessa C. Hawkins

 

Vanessa C. Hawkins Author Page

In the context of stories, it is often the case that a dash of ingenuity and a pinch of drive, combined with a healthy dose of creativity seasoned with levity and charm, can create a wonderful snack on a rainy pandemic day. The great thing about stories, is that no matter how much you indulge, you will never get fat, or feel bad about doing so. 

Unless you're an author in need of an oven light. Or whose cupboards are bare of ingredients...

Darn... out of inspiration again.

It happens to us all. Like wrinkles. Even very young authors—and I use the term young in reference to career and not to one's duration within the universe—who start out fresh and full of paragraphs will eventually find themselves struggling to mix up something that sates their palate. It is perhaps the eternal struggle for scribes everywhere, and without a Gordon Ramsay to hurl abuse at us until we write better, what is one to do? 

Cry? Yes. That's fine. A good dose of sorrow is always good seasoning for a hearty tale. 

Punch something? Perhaps. Though over kneading can result in broken fingers and poor handwriting. 

Marinate for days in one's own insecurities and self hate? Author's love to do this, however it rarely improves the flavor of their stories. Avoid if at all possible. 

Carry a notebook for on the spot inspirations? Yes! You never know when you'll think of a new recipe.

Go for a walk, or listen to music or read or improve one's own world vision through others? Absolutely! Then write about what you know!

Though of course, it is always easier said than done, and until someone invents a Ducolax for writer's block, we may all feel up *%&# creek without a paddle sometimes. 

How the heck do I pass this?!

My solution was to add another cook to the kitchen, because after having a baby, going back to work, caring for  the needs of my husband on top of all the other great and no-so-great things that goes along with being alive, I found myself too busy to deal with the enormous block that had been shoved up my tookus. 

But—pun intended—I was lucky to have a secret weapon up my arsenal. 

A good friend who I had been writing with for years, and who seemed inclined to write about dragons and romance and loose vampire police women in the 1920's prohibition era. 

Sound spicy? We like to call it Urban Fantasy Fusion. 

Not really, but I'm trying to keep with the cooking theme, so just go with it. Scarlet Fortune and Shad O'Rahin: two individuals embroiled up to their fangs in bootlegging shenanigans, monster hunters and strange affections. Coming to you piping hot September 2021, and lovingly prepared by word culinarian Tara Woodworth and Executive Chef Vanessa C. Hawkins!  

We don't have the cover art done yet...

Of course, what worked for me may not work for everyone. In the grand scheme of things, whether one decides to include another in their endeavors, scribble words on a page until they make sense, or cry in darkness of your room at night while second guessing everything you've ever done or written... an author's cookbook is defined by the author itself. Do what you need to do to keep serving up delights.

Poe cried a lot and he
became famous... after he died...

Fatten your readers with smut and romance, sadden them with drama and fright! Serve them up something disturbing, leave them feeling full and complete! It is impossible to satisfy every taste, but write for yourself first. And figure out who may like Urban Fantasy Fusion later. 

Did I mention it comes out in September? Yeah? 

Okay... just making sure.  

Weird things happen after death by J.S. Marlo

 

J. S. Marlo's BWL Books

I'm currently working on a sweet Christmas story. So far I haven't had to worry about time of death as no fresh body has landed in the snow around my heroine's country house. While I do not plan to kill anyone in my current work-in-progress, the same couldn't be said about my previous stories.

In an investigation, it helps to determine the time and cause of death. We've all heard the terms algor mortis, livor mortis, or rigor mortis, but what do they mean, and mostly importantly how and why do they occur?

Sooner or later, preferably later, we all die, but what  happens to our physical body between the time we die and the time we become dust or ashes?

 By nature, I'm a very curious person and I ask lots of questions. Sometimes, too many. If I'd pursued my degree in science instead of switching to accounting, I would have become a pathologist/medical examiner/coroner, so when I stumbled on an article about the weird things that happen after you die, I couldn't resist reading--and sharing.

- Your cells burst open

The process of decomposition starts just minutes after death. When the heart stops beating, we experience algor mortis, or death chill, when the temperature of the body falls about 1.5 degrees Fahrenheit an hour until it reaches room temperature. Almost immediately, the blood becomes more acidic as carbon dioxide builds up. This causes cells to split open, emptying enzymes into the tissues, which start to digest themselves from within.

- You turn white — and purple

Gravity makes its mark on the human body in the first moments after death. While the rest of your body turns deathly pale, heavy red blood cells move to the parts of your body that are closest to the ground. This is because circulation has stopped. The results are purple splotches over your lower parts known as livor mortis. By studying the markings of livor mortis, the coroner can determine when the victim die and if the body was moved.

- Calcium makes your muscles contract

Rigor mortis is when a dead body becomes stiff and hard to move. Rigor mortis generally sets in about three to four hours after death, peaks at 12 hours, and dissipates after 48 hours. It is caused by the pumps in the membranes of our muscle cells that regulate calcium. When the pumps stop working in death, calcium floods the cells, causing the muscles to contract and stiffen.

- Your organs will digest themselves

Putrefaction follows rigor mortis. This phase is delayed by the embalming process, but eventually the body will succumb. Enzymes in the pancreas make the organ begin to digest itself. Microbes will tag-team these enzymes, turning the body green from the belly onwards. As this bacterium breaks us down, it releases putrescine and cadaverine, the compounds that make the human body smell in death.

- You may be covered in a wax

After putrefaction, decay moves quickly to turn the body into a skeleton. However, some bodies take an interesting turn on the way. If a body comes into contact with cold soil or water, it may develop adipocere, a fatty, waxy material formed from the bacteria breaking down tissue. Adipocere works as a natural preservative on the inner organs. It can mislead investigators into thinking a body died much sooner than it actually did.

- You will probably move

This last one sounds strange, and creepy, but apparently a body doesn't just twitch as it goes through the process of decomposition, it can move quite a lot...

Now, this was everything you probably didn't want to know about what happens after you die.

Happy Reading & Stay Safe

JS

Reference: Treehugger.com

 

 

J. S. Marlo's Website