An author walks into a library and asks...

 That sounds like the opening line of a joke. In reality, it's a regular discussion for most authors. I didn't "walk" into the library, but emailed one of my favorite librarians, and asked, "Is your library haunted?"

Madeline replied, "There are some strange unexplained things that happen (in our one-hundred-year-old library), but I've never ascribed them to a ghostly entity. She went on to explain that most of them involved books falling off of shelves, lights being on or off when they shouldn't be, strange noises coming from the older parts of the library. They occur most often to the assistant librarian and volunteers when the head librarian is away. Some volunteers apparently refuse to investigate any of the book falling off the shelf incidents unless accompanied by one of the staff.

"Do you know who the ghost is?" I asked.

"We jokingly refer to her as Anna, who was the first librarian. We don't know that anything bad happened to her, which would make her haunt the library."

"Have you ever had a seance in the library?" I asked.

Since this conversation is going on via email, I wasn't surprised when I didn't receive a response for several days. "I have not personally been involved in a library seance." 

I explained that my co-author, Anne Flagge, and I were outlining a book featuring the haunted Two Harbors Library, where Madeline is the head librarian. "Would you be disturbed by us creating a fictional ghost in a fictionalized version of your library? And maybe having a seance to initiate a conversation with the ghost?"

Madeline was totally onboard with the ghost and seance. She suggested a location for setting up the seance and its special effects and even consented to the use of her real name as the book's fictional librarian. We went on to discuss the core of the plot, something stolen from a locked library table drawer, who's key had been missing for decades.

A few weeks later, Madeline contacted Anne and me to say the library is having a summer reading competition. She asked if she could offer the opportunity for the winner to have her name included in the upcoming book, "Whistling Librarian". We agreed, and Paula Pettit (the winner) is the book's assistant librarian.

My message to all of you is, talk to your librarian. They're a great resource for many questions, some they'd never considered. The most important from me was, "Will you host a book event for us?"

Anne Flagge and I were at the Two Harbors library yesterday. Madeline and Paula were delighted to see us, as were Shannon Walz and her friends of the library group in Silver Bay.

What's a good book event?

 I recently did a "meet and greet" at a bookstore in a medium-sized northern Minnesota city. Sherri, the events manager, set me up with a table, a couple of book stands, and a selection of pens. Stepping back, she wished me luck and assured me there would be somewhere between one and one thousand people buying my books. Hmm, somewhere between one and a thousand people offers a lot of wiggle room. 

As is usually the case the sales were closer to the one than the thousand. However, that doesn't represent the fun I have talking about books to intelligent, well-read people, like those who frequent bookstores and libraries. One young gentleman who was dressed like a lumberjack, paused when he saw me. Roger walked over and read the "A Bourbon to Die For" blurb, then looked at me with a very serious expression. "What's it like to write a book? I mean, so you sit down and write it from beginning to end without thinking about where it's going, or do you have a skeleton?" He went on to explain that he was a professional musician and composer. As he put it, "There are times when I've been commissioned to write a song and there's literally nothing musical that comes to mind. Other times, I'll be doing something mindless and a whole melody and lyrics come so fast that I can't get them all on paper."

His comments brought to mind my friend, Terry. He'd worked as a roadie for a big-name country star while he was trying to decide if he was going to be an engineer or a truck driver. (He became an engineer). As Terry explained it, one night the roadies and the band were drinking beer and jamming when Terry overheard something that made him start picking a song. Kenny O'Dell developed the melody and Terry sang three verses of "Behind Closed Doors". Charlie Rich heard them singing it, had them write it all out, and he added it to his next concert. Terry and Kenny won a Grammy Award for a song they wrote in half an hour.

So, this young songwriter and I talked about books and songs, dungeons and dragons, and what it's like to live in a city with nine months of winter and three months of "poor sledding". (Yes, we were that far north.)

Roger bought a book, then thanked me for sharing my story, and for listening to his. It was the sale of one book, but it made my day. I hope Roger went home and wrote a hit song! 

Sometimes, a book event isn't about how many books you sell. It's about meeting and connecting with people. Yes, I'd love to have another event like the one where I sold eighty books in an hour. But even without that type of sales, there's so much value to talking to people, sharing ideas, and maybe strumming a guitar.

In the end, Sherri was right. I had somewhere between one and a thousand people buy books. But better than that I met Roger, and a woman who was spending her children's inheritance by filling her new house with books, and another woman who was awestruck to meet an actual author and get MY signature in her new book. How do you put a value on those things?

Check out my books at the BWL website. I might be prejudiced, but I think "Skidded and Skunked" and "A Bourbon to Die For" are pretty good reads.

A Bourbon to Die For — BWL Publishing

Did People really kill over Oysters? The 1950s Oyster Wars, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To Purchase this book click HERE

A friend of mine said her boyfriend had been a witness to some of the dangerous antics on the Potomac River in the 1950s. Maryland owned the river and shot at any Virginians who were dredging for oysters, a profitable practice but it ruined the oyster beds. My protagonist, Luke, is involved, anxious to make money to support his family.

My critique group said this couldn't possibly have happened, but it did.

Enjoy an excerpt:

Colonial Beach

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

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

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

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

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

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

A boat roared up behind them, lights flashing.

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

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

Luke cursed. Their boat pushed into deeper shadows, scraping the starboard side.

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

Luke hesitated, but he urged Bobby and his cousin—though they both cursed—to crawl over the side and slosh through the shallow water.

“You got a young family,” Silas hissed and pushed at Luke’s shoulder. “Get goin’. Now.” 

Luke couldn’t be any help to anyone in jail. Especially his family.

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

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

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Life Beside the Sea...by Sheila Claydon

 

Find my books here

Several of my books are set on or beside the sea (Cabin Fever, Reluctant Date, Kissing Maggie Silver) while others are set in countryside close to the sea, including the three time travel books in my latest series (Mapleby Memories), where the sea is briefly a major player in book 3, (Many a Moon).  This is probably partly because I was born in a seaside town on the south coast of the UK, partly because my grandfather was a sailor with many sea faring stories, and partly because my earliest memories feature sand blown, windswept trips to the beach. 

When my husband and I married, however, we moved away from the sea and spent 25 years living  close to London, so nowhere near the sea at all, although we did spend some summer days picnicking on the banks of the River Thames as it meandered its way out of London into the Buckinghamshire countryside. It wasn't the sea though, so when we learned our jobs were moving north we decided we would look for a house as close to the sea as possible. We were lucky. The house we have now lived in for 35 years was a wreck when we bought it but it's on the edge of a nature reserve with nothing between it and the sea except fields, woodland, and rolling sand hills, so all the effort that had to go into renovating it has been worth it. Living so close to the sea does, however, have drawbacks as well as responsibilities.

Out of season it is wonderful. We can walk for miles and see nothing more than one or two dog walkers in the distance. In season, every family for miles around wants to visit, and who can blame them. So we are used to the parking problems and the piles of litter that pollute the area for a couple of months of every year. And, like most local residents, we consider clearing up the mess and the occasional traffic queues a small price to pay for the fact that we are lucky enough to be able to enjoy it everyday.

Sometimes though, the problems are more serious. This year we have already taken one visitor to the local hospital when he badly burned his foot on very hot sand after he moved a portable BBQ. We have twice been custodians of car keys when cars have broken down and the owners couldn't get them collected until the following day. We have also rescued lost dogs, one of which seemed to want to stay with us indefinitely! We have invited desperate mothers with small children to use our bathroom, and filled water bottles for others. We've had to sluice down the path outside the house when a small child was violently sick. And we have advertised many lost car and house keys on our local social media site and then held them until the owners could collect them. 

We also have to explain, myriad times, to families with pushchairs, wheelchairs, small children, and less than agile oldies, all wearing sliders or flip flops, that while the beach is close, it is a wild beach, so there are no paved paths, nowhere to rest on the way. No ice cream stops. No coffee shops. Just fields, woods with treacherous tree roots, and finally high sand hills to traverse before they climb down to the beach itself. 

We have twice had medical helicopters land in the field right in front of our house and watched the paramedics set off at a run to rescue someone who had been badly injured. Sadly there have also been a couple of deaths, one very sad one when an elderly person with dementia was lost in the sand hills. We have reported woodland fires and watched the rapid regrowth with fascination. Seen police on sand buggies drive down to the beach to break up the occasional fight. On one of our rainy days I even found an elderly woman and her dog hunched, dripping wet, under a bush, as she desperately tried to call the emergency services. She had slipped and broken her leg and was in a lot of pain. Directing the paramedics to the spot where she'd fallen, which was in the middle of unmapped woodland, took some doing with an almost non-existent phone signal, but we managed.

We've even had to help track an out of control dog that killed a mother goose and her 3 goslings, something that involved phone calls to others as we all covered the wide area surrounding the lake where the geese had been living peacefully all summer, much to the pleasure of the local residents. That was a sad day! 

Another day we had to persuade visitors to abide by the notice that asked them to keep their dogs on a lead in one part of the woodland, as a baby owl had fallen out of a tree and was being cared for on the ground by its parents until it was strong enough to fly. Most did as they were asked but some who didn't  understand the unspoken countryside code were not so helpful. Fortunately the little owl soon found his wings and flew away.

And as well as all that we have to let the National Trust that manages the nature reserve know if we find dead wild animals such as squirrels, seals, foxes etc., and also if we see live ones that shouldn't be here such as grey squirrels, as the area is a red squirrel reserve. If greys invade they kill them, not physically, but by bringing in viruses that the reds can't survive.  Once upon a time the smaller reds were too numerous to count until they were decimated by the greys squirrel pox.  The few remaining ones were captured and quarantined for 6 months. When they were released the National Trust stopped selling the small bags of nuts that visitors bought to feed them because they had by then realised that to survive healthily in the area the population needed to be less dense, so the squirrels have now voted with their feet and moved away from the visitor area to the more varied woodland at the edges of the reserve. If you know what to look for you can find still them, so showing small children how to identify chewed pine nuts and then watching them set off on a squirrel hunt is satisfying, although I'm not sure they are always successful.

So living in such a lovely area comes with responsibilities, especially on the sort of sunny days we have been enjoying for most of the summer. But it comes with so many pleasures too, such as being able to pick wild apples, blackberries, sloes, dewberries, damsons, rosehips and buckthorn. There are even nettles for those who want to make nettle soup. And while there are wild flowers in bloom for most of the year, the bluebells that cover most of the woodland in Spring are an amazing sight. Such pleasures far outweigh the occasional emergency or upset. And because it is a wild beach, dogs are allowed to run free, and the most joyous thing is to see a dog breach a sand hill, spy the sea in the distance and race towards it without a care in the world. And every dog and dog walker becomes a friend. I don't know whether it's the feeling of freedom that comes with wildness of the countryside, the unspoilt beach and the wildlife all around, but nearly everyone says hi or stops to chat. The dogs do too.  Long may it continue as it offers time out from an increasingly stressful world. 

A Little Patch of Green: a short story by Victoria Chatham

 

https://www.bookswelove.com/search?q=chatham

A LITTLE PATCH OF GREEN

 by

Victoria Chatham

 

If asked, Adele Fisher would have replied yes, of course she was happy. But lately, a nagging doubt had crept into her solitary lifestyle. She enjoyed her work, knowing exactly what she would do each day, and did not let anything disturb the balance of her daily routine.

And maybe that was it, she thought. She existed rather than truly lived. Life simply passed her by. It was as if she were moored in some quiet backwater while, beyond her, a river of excitement rushed past in full flood.

She pondered this as she walked through the park from her apartment to the offices of Simpson Sellers, Architects, where she had worked as an office administrator for the past eight years.

Each morning, more of the park looked fresher and tidier. At first, Adele barely noticed the landscapers, thinking that they, like her, were heading to work. It took her a few mornings to realise they had already been working, probably even before her alarm woke her from a cosy sleep.

She began searching for the two businesslike young women who were engrossed in the task of bringing life to bare patches of earth. They both wore white T-shirts and blue jeans, but that was where all resemblance ended. One was tall, blonde, and serious-looking. The other was shorter, red-haired, and hummed and sang while she worked, regardless of who might be passing by.

Adele did not usually speak to anyone as she walked, since she was not, as she put it, a morning person. She preferred to be left alone until after her second cup of coffee at ten-thirty, but there was something infectious about the cheerful redhead. Adele looked for her, caught her eye, nodded, and said “good morning”. In return, she received a broad smile and a cheery wave.

Somehow Adele felt brighter, lighter. She stepped out a little more confidently and arrived at her office a full five minutes earlier than usual. Slightly infected by the redhead’s cheerfulness, she hummed to herself as she removed her coat and hung it on her hanger in the staff closet. She la-lahed her way to the coffee machine and poured her first cup, unaware that she was receiving some curious glances from her junior colleagues.

Adele took her coffee to her office. Her seniority in the company granted her the advantage of having an outside office with a window. She did not often bother to look out of it, preferring instead to sit at her desk and start work immediately. But this morning, she was drawn to it and looked down into the street. The traffic crawled to a halt as the lights changed, and people scurried along the sidewalks.

What are they thinking about? she asked herself. Are they planning their days, recalling what they did the previous evening, or perhaps looking forward to meeting a friend for lunch?

It occurred to her that, compared to the hustle below her, her life was unbearably dull. From Monday to Thursday, she worked from eight-thirty in the morning until five o’clock in the afternoon, and on Fridays, she finished at four. On Saturdays, she cleaned her apartment, did her laundry, and shopped for groceries. Sunday was her catch-up day, when she made a full pot of coffee and opened all the mail received during the week, answering, paying, or discarding it. After a light lunch, she might read a book from the library or magazines picked up from the grocery store. If the weather was fine, she would take a walk or sit on her balcony. In the evening, she watched some TV—if there were programmes that interested her—then would run a bath and soak in it. It refreshed and revived her, preparing her for another week at work.

As she mentally reviewed her routine, Adele felt she should fall asleep standing up. When had she allowed herself to fall into such a rut? More to the point, why had she? Her life seemed dull, colourless, as empty as the wind-swept prairie from which she thought she had escaped. ‘Small town girl makes good’ had been the motto in her mind when city life beckoned, promising better things ahead. She worked tirelessly, took one educational course after another, and climbed her particular ladder. She was so busy studying and working that there never seemed to be time to accept the offer of coffee with a neighbour or a movie with someone from the office. Over time, the invitations gradually ceased.

She now thought that it would make little difference to the staff at Simpson Sellers whether she was there or not. Perhaps she should take some time off. That might clear away her mental cobwebs. If she just stepped off her particular roundabout for a short while, she might feel refreshed, less jaded, and discontented. Adele checked her wall calendar.

Her bosses, Henry Simpson and Jonathan Sellers, had no major meetings scheduled the following week. The junior architects Kirk, Taryn, Mike, and Boyd were all out of town working on various projects and would definitely not need her. In fact, it was not necessary for her to be there at all.

She picked up yesterday’s letters and took them to Henry’s office for his signature.

“Thanks, ‘Del.” He barely looked up.

“Think nothing of it, Henry. By the way, I won’t be here next week.”

“Eh?” Henry’s handsome head swung up. “Won’t be here? How come?”

“I’m taking a break. I think I need it.”

“Oh, well, I suppose that’s all right.” Henry frowned. “When was the last time you had time off?”

“Two extra days at New Year, and before that?” Adele’s brow creased in thought as she frowned. “I honestly can’t remember. Shall I ask Kelly from reception to help with some of your workload?”

“God, no.” Henry shuddered. “Get someone from Super Supply. I don’t want to deal with the mess Kelly will make, nor will you when you come back.” Henry looked at her suspiciously. “You are coming back?”

Adele giggled. “Of course! It’s just a week’s holiday, Henry, nothing sinister, I assure you.”

“Hmm. Well, okay. But what will you do?” Henry, a self-confessed workaholic, would only ever tear himself away from his drawing board for the odd round of business-oriented golf.

Adele thought of the colourful spots appearing in the park and immediately knew what she would do. She smiled and said, “I’m going to plant a garden.”

“Where?” Henry was again suspicious. “Don’t you live in a high-rise? Forteenth floor or something? How can you plant a garden there?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, Henry. When it’s done, I’m going to have a garden party and I’ll invite you and Jonathan and a few of my neighbours.”

With that, Adele swirled out of his office.

Oh Lord, what have I done, she thought. Why did I open my big mouth?

Her only attempt at growing anything had been an unsuccessful Grade 4 science project. Her carefully planted apple pips failed to respond to her daily nurturing, and she was never sure if she had looked after them too carefully or not carefully enough. Her daily log entries had been as barren as the little pots on her windowsill. Now she had committed herself to planting a garden.

On Thursday night, Adele reset her alarm clock. She planned to wake up twenty minutes earlier on Friday morning. After giving it considerable thought, she realised the answer was right in front of her. Talk to the landscapers in the park. It wasn’t as if she would ask them to do it for her; she would just seek some advice about which plants might be best and where she should buy them. She showered and dressed with more purpose than she had in a long time. Goodness, she almost felt excited. She strode briskly across the park searching for the two girls and soon spotted them unloading trays of plants from a truck bed.

“Good morning,” Adele said.

Both girls turned to face her.

“Hi,” they replied. The simple greeting sounded like a carefully rehearsed chorus. They looked at her expectantly.

“I hope you don’t mind, but...” Adele suddenly felt unsure of herself.

“Yes?” the blonde girl prompted, clearly eager to get on with her work.

Adele introduced herself.

“I’m Adele Fisher,” she said. “I’m at 1402 Park View apartments, and I want to brighten up my balcony. I thought about getting some plants, but I’m not sure which would be best. Would you mind recommending something bright and cheerful that wouldn’t mind living up there with me?”

Both girls turned towards the apartment building and looked up. The redhead smiled. “Your balcony faces west. Fill it with geraniums. Red, white, pink. All they need is sun and not too much water. They’ll look lovely.”

“Merle, don’t forget petunias and marigolds.”

“Mm.” Merle nodded in agreement. “Got a car?”

Adele said yes, she did.

“Then take a run out of town to Amberside Nurseries. Ask for Patrick and tell him Merle and Tanya sent you. He’ll look after you, probably give you a good discount too.”

Adele smiled. “I’ll do that. Thanks very much, and when it’s done, you’ll have to come to my garden party.”

“That’ll be neat,” Merle said. “Thanks, Adele, we’ll look forward to it.”

The day stretched out before her. For once, Adele couldn't wait for it to end. She planned the week ahead with Henry, quietly delighting in his consternation at what he saw as her neglect of duties. That alone gave her a boost. She was doing something unexpected, extraordinary. For once, she was making waves, as Kelly would say. A bubble of amusement rose within her and escaped as a giggle. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt like this.

During that week, she bought various gardening magazines and became intrigued by the different sizes and styles of tubs and planters. She thought she might even add a water garden, just a small one, naturally, but it would enhance the ambiance. Garden furniture would be enjoyable, especially if she planned to invite people to share in it. She chose a few select pieces, wicker rather than plastic, and instead of one large table that could be cumbersome, she decided on several small side tables.

Armed with a rough idea of what might work, she set out of town on Saturday morning to the garden centre. The sky was a clear blue, with a slight breeze that swept away all but a few high, wispy clouds. Merle’s directions were straightforward, and Adele was soon driving through the entrance of Amberside Nurseries. She wandered among stands of bedding plants, shrubs, and baskets — a confusing array of pots and planters in all shapes, colours, and sizes. She found a bench to sit on and gather her thoughts.

“Need some help?” A tall, slender man with a warm smile on his tanned face approached her.

Adele smiled in return. The Adele of last week might have said, “No, thank you." The Adele of this week said, “Oh, yes, please. I’m here to see Patrick. Merle and Tanya recommended him.”

“That was kind of them. I’m Patrick. How can I help you?”

Adele showed him her sketch and saw an expression of interest light up his lean face as he studied it.

“You’re really going all out on this, aren’t you?” he said.

“It’s time for a change,” Adele replied quietly.

Patrick marked her measurements on the pavement inside the greenhouse and arranged pots, planters, and furniture so she could better visualise how everything would look. She had even chosen a wooden, plastic-lined half barrel fitted with a bamboo spout and circulating pump. It was just deep enough for a water lily and a couple of goldfish, making it surely a conversation starter.

Before Adele knew it, the afternoon had flown past and her purchases filled two carts. Patrick asked her how she planned to get it all back to town.

“Goodness, I didn’t think of that,” she said. “I didn’t expect to get so much.”

“Tell you what. I’ll load it all onto my truck and follow you back. How would that do?” More than friendly interest shone in Patrick’s gentle brown eyes.

Something stirred in Adele Fisher’s heart, and a gentle smile spread across her face. “Thank you, Patrick. That would be very helpful.”

Patrick nodded, clearly pleased.

“And perhaps,” Adele added, surprising herself with her boldness, “you’d like to help me with my little patch of green?”

The smile Patrick gave her made her breath catch in her throat.

 “I’d like that,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

She sensed the undertone in his voice, and in that exhilarating moment, Adele Fisher realised that life was no longer passing her by.

 

END