Springtime—what are your favorite memories? Betty Jo Schuler

Baby chicks in assorted colors, cuddly bunnies with wiggly noses, tulips bobbing their heads in the breeze, lilacs sweetening the air…these are a few of my favorite spring things…to remember.  Let’s take a look back in time.

Easter?  How much has yours changed?

Many years ago, baby chicks were dyed pastel colors and available for sale in dime stores and other places. I know that horrifies animal lovers today but seventy years ago, it wasn’t harmful to anyone’s knowledge, and those Easter chicks I got every year were well-taken-care of.  My daddy set up a light to keep them warm and food and water dispensers. When they needed more room, he built an outside pen and later, we took them to his sister’s farm where they prospered.

White bunny rabbits…one Easter my “boyfriend” (we were in fifth grade) brought me a really beautiful live bunny with a red bow around its neck. Yikes!  What should I do with it?  It was a baby taken from his family who was given a temporary abode until…Daddy to the rescue. He built a first-class hutch out back when Sweetie needed more room, and that bunny appeared to live a long happy life.

Setting the scene…Fragrant blossoms sweeten the air and bright green grass sways in the breeze. Spring brings new life and hope. And Easter egg hunts and baskets. Who doesn’t love dark chocolate rabbits, white chocolate crosses, marshmallow Peeps, Jelly Bellies, cream-filled eggs. And of course—the unofficial treats of the season, hard-boiled, beautifully decorated Easter Eggs.

For weeks ahead at our house, onion skins were saved and eventually eggs were boiled in a pot of water with those skins.  They turned beautiful shades from golden to mahogany.  My family and I were all convinced they tasted better—some unique aroma or flavor we couldn’t pin down.  Another procedure we used was pickling eggs to make them gorgeous and piquant. First, peel boiled eggs and pickle them in a jar of pickled beet juice. And same as most people, we also personalized Easter eggs by writing names with a white crayon on the shell before dipping them in a cup of food coloring, vinegar and water

My favorite egg to find in my basket was the panoramic spun sugar egg.  They are such a work of art.  Of course, I didn’t eat those.  They were treasures.

While we’re on the subject and skipping ahead, there was a family tradition of starting Easter dinner with egg fights. All in fun. You cracked one end of yours against one of the person’s next to you. It went around the table and once a participant’s egg was damaged on both ends, he or she was out of the game. The last “fighter” with at least one end intact is the winner.  I don’t remember any prize for that but it could be added the hilarity. Now we could eat!

 Dinner?  I doubt this was the highpoint of Easter Day for youngsters but it was delicious and slowed down the activity level for a short time. Baked ham glazed with cola and brown sugar topped with pineapple rings. (My mom made it sound like there was no secret to the way she fixed hers but no one else could ever make it as good.) I remember candied sweet potatoes, yeasty hot rolls and who knew what else, but one other memorable thing was the white multi-layer cake my grandmother made with fluffy 7 minute frosting--and wait for it—fresh shredded coconut gracing the top with a nest of jelly beans in the middle.

What do you remember?  Isn’t it wonderful to go back to Spring times of your youth?  Thanks for taking this short trip with me.

Click to purchase from Amazon

Love seasons and special days in a small town? I grew up in one in Indiana.

LOVE IN A SMALL TOWN by Betty Jo Schuler

Link: http://amzn.com/B005II64GS

This cozy Small Town is one you'll want to visit, and stay right to the end. 

The Emperor Napoleon Invades England (almost) by Diane Scott Lewis

This year is the 200th anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo. I wrote a book about Napoleon years ago, and found that after he was "captured" and taken to England, the reception there was quite the surprise.
In the summer of 1815, Plymouth, England received startling news. A ship had entered the sound with the notorious Corsican Ogre on board. England had fought different coalition wars with General Bonaparte (the government refused to accept him as in emperor) on and off since 1796, and defeated him at Waterloo on June 18, 1815.




HMS Bellerophon

In the aftermath of Waterloo, the 74-gun, third rate ship, HMS Bellerophon, was assigned to blockade the French Atlantic port of Rochefort. The ship had served during the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars. In July, finding escape to America barred by the blockading Bellerophon, Napoleon came aboard "the ship that had dogged his steps for twenty years" to finally surrender to the British.

Napoleon had thought he would be granted asylum in England, but the British government knew it would never work. He’d still be too close to France, and many in the French military were still loyal to their defeated emperor. Rebellion in France was feared. Britain had to protect the fledgling government of the unpopular Louis XVIII.

On July 26th the Bellerophon entered Plymouth Sound. A multitude of small boats, full of curious people, quickly surrounded the ship.

The boats grew so thick that hardly any space of water could be seen between them. Women in bright hats, along with men and children, called out "Bonaparte." Napoleon accommodated them by showing himself at the ship’s rail and tipping his hat to the ladies. Here he was in the flesh, the man who had menaced the continent for nearly two decades. Napoleon was heard to remark about the English ladies, "what pretty women you have here."

The British officials dreaded the sympathy their relentless enemy was garnering among the common people, and ordered the boats pushed away from the vessel.

Skiffs from the ship, with armed sailors, rudely shoved back the spectators, causing some of the smaller boats to capsize, injuring the people inside, and at least one person drowned.
George Keith Elphinstone, 1st Viscount Keith, was at Plymouth when Napoleon arrived. The decisions of the British government were expressed through him to the fallen Emperor.


Lord Keith

Lord Keith refused to be led into disputes, and confined himself to declaring steadily that he had his orders to obey. He was not much impressed by the appearance of his illustrious charge and thought that the airs of Napoleon and his suite were ridiculous. He also grumbled that if the Prince Regent spent a half hour with Napoleon, they would be the best of friends.

The Duke of Sussex, the sixth son of George III—the king debilitated by madness since 1810—spoke in Napoleon’s favor. Allow him to remain. But the British government was adamant: Bonaparte, and everyone in his entourage, would not be allowed on England’s soil.

On July 31st, Lord Keith informed Napoleon that he would be exiled to the far, South Atlantic island of St. Helena. Under duress, Napoleon was transferred to the HMS Northumberland for the ten week voyage. He would die on the island six years later. Plymouth returned to the routine of a harbor town.
Sources: Wikipedia; In Napoleon’s Shadow, by Louis-Joseph Marchand, and my own research.

I have since written a book about a French maid who travels with Napoleon’s entourage to St. Helena, and discovers the island is haunted by vampires. Plus the enigmatic man she loves hides his own deadly secrets.

Both of them indulge in desire, but must scheme to rescue Napoleon from a sensuous vampire.

Click here to purchase A Savage Exile: vampires with Napoleon on St. Helena

Visit my website for more information about my books: http://www.dianescottlewis.org




　

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A SENIOR CITIZEN by Victoria Chatham

Book 1 of The Buxton Chronicles

(with apologies to James Joyce)

I was asked for bio notes and a photograph.

Photograph? Of me? I have always considered myself totally unphotogenic and really dislike having my photograph taken, so such a thing is like hens’ teeth. It doesn't exist. But, the project in which I became involved required it. I thought I might just be able to get something a bit better than my driver’s licence or passport picture by playing around with my webcam - if only I could find it.

Now, I’m not the smartest when it comes to using my laptop for anything but writing, simple spread sheets, emailing and searching the Internet. However, I had managed to take a photo with my webcam once before. Surely it couldn’t be so hard? I thought I could use the search feature to find the webcam, but have you noticed that computers will only find what you are looking for when you input the correctly worded query? Find webcam, how to use the webcam, open the webcam – none of these had the desired effect. I finally searched All Programs. Voila!

However, once I had opened the webcam, the screen was like snow. Panic set in. What could be wrong? Nothing as it turned out. I simply switched the light in my office on and bingo, could see myself on my computer screen. I thought about all the hints and tips about taking photographs that I’d ever heard or read. In profile is often better than full face. Look up into the camera. Try smiling naturally rather than the ‘big cheese’ grin. And then there was the color aspect.

Having been professionally color coded at some sales presentation many years ago, I knew which colors enhanced my natural coloring. Only trouble was, back then my hair was dark brown, almost black in fact. Now it iwas grey going on white. Does that make a difference? I thought not, so pulled shirts, blouses and tops from my wardrobe, all with appropriate accessories.

I still had a dog when this palaver took place. The activity totally confused him as he sat watching these quick changes. He was smart. He knew the difference between going-to-work clothes and going-to-the-park clothes. After my third change of top and jewelery he gave up and went to bed, curling up on his feather pillow (he wasn’t at all spoiled) in a disgusted ball.

My first outfit was a powder blue blouse. When I bought it I thought it was smart but, with or without the string of pearls around my neck, it made me feel like a positive dowager. At what point had I started to regress to a more youthful image? I missed that moment altogether. Next I went for a dark blue shirt. I didn’t like that either. Finally I tried a never-been-worn white shirt. Now, I was told on more than one occasion that white is my color, but not when I owned a black dog that shed hair like a frightened cat.

Next was to arrange a back drop that did not include books growing out the top of my head. I cleared my desk and moved my laptop around so that I just had the wall behind me. That was great, except for the fact there was hardly any room for me between the end of the desk and the wall. I turned the laptop around and perched it on the opposite end of the desk, but then I got a corner of the door in the picture and for the life of me could not find an angle to exclude it.

Back to the narrow spot. I might add here that moving my desk was not an option. By now the dog had left his bed and was sat in the middle of the floor watching me and no doubt wondering what the hell his idiot person was up to. Now to practice a natural smile. Have you ever wondered what a natural smile looks like? No? Me neither. I tried to think of something funny, but where do the jokes go when you want them? My brain was dead and I wasn’t getting any inspiration from the picture that gazed back at me from my screen.

I leaned in closer to the camera, but this did not achieve the look I wanted. I turned slightly sideways and found it was not easy to look out the corner of my eye and have my hands on the keyboard ready to take a picture. I tipped my head up, then down and then remembered that looking up into a camera is supposed to produce the best picture.

So now I tried sitting lower than my laptop and looked up into it. I looked like Oliver, asking for more. Not a good look. By now I was giggling like a teenager at this performance. Oh, the things we do in the privacy of our own homes! At least my laughter produced the more natural look the pundits recommended. I returned to my spot between the desk and the wall, still laughing at myself for my stupid antics. Said dog had by now retired once more to his bed, having given up on his lunatic human.

I tried a few more poses, altered the angle of my desk lamp, and finally got a shot that I could live with. Those are the pictures gracing my Facebook pages. The pictures that a friend of my daughter’s recently mentioned make me look old and advised me to ‘sharpen them up’.

I still don’t like having my photograph taken but I’ve moved beyond using my webcam. I don’t have a smartphone or iphone, so taking a selfie is out of the question. Who coined that word anyway? Is it really a word?

Recently I had pictures taken by a professional photographer. Very soon I’ll be updating my Facebook and web site pictures and hopefully, I won’t have to go through that process again for a very long time.

You can find out more about Victoria (with or without pictures) at:

www.bookswelove.com/chatham.php
www.amazon.com/author/victoriachatham
www.facebook.com/AuthorVictoriaChatham

Muses, Wine-making and the Art of Automotive Maintenance by Frank Talaber

Purchase Raven's Lament from Amazon

Yeah okay some of this title you read before, most likely back in the weed induced seventies but Robert M. Pirsig did make a fortune off that book, Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

So I swore I'd never twitter, eat toast upside down while making a phone call or do a blog. So here I am. Well the digital era happened and if it wasn't for ebooks, I'd still be sending out letters to publishers. Current total before my first book was accepted 398 rejections. So if I hear one more person saying, oh I'm one of the lucky ones, got accepted on my first send out. GRRR, she'll be wearing my glass of red wine down the front of her dress, don't care if it's Donna Karan or Walmart. Speaking of Walmart, ever seen any of those Walmartians? Wow, what kind of bad Rice Krispies did these people eat to think that looks good in public. Wouldn't dress my 1991 Honda Civic in those clothes and I buried that thirty years ago.

            Yes, I've had many short stories accepted over the years or short-listed, can check a few out a readwave.com. My first novel I entered into anything was Raven's Lament, back in Jan/2000. Yup, virtually pre-internet. I entered it into the Chapters novel contest. I needed 5,000 words, and had 8,000 written and thought what the heck, give it a go, wasn't working at the time and if pushed could crank it out over a month. Hey, people crash write novels over a long weekend here in Canada. Yes, cold, long winters and nothing else to do. Hence the popularity of Tim Horton's, you should see the lineups at those places. So I go to a job interview Jan 10th for a automotive technicians job and get two phonecalls that afternoon. One to say I've got the job, start tomorrow, full time and second to say I've made the semi-finals of the contest. Need to submit, by the 31st of the month at least a 50,000 word manuscript.

            After banging my head against the wall several times and jumping up and down in glee, I told my former wife (could be what lead to the end, don't know) leave me alone for the next 21 days, I need to pound out a novel. At the time I met a lady in one of my writing groups, who was an editor, she was bored and living in Toronto, and I was in Chilliwack, British Columbia. So, I'd send her emails at night, read the edits the next morning and on the way to work, scribble deliriously. Didn't have a car at the time, rode public transit, although I've been known to bomb down highway one and pencil thoughts as they came to me. Yes, distracted driving, I know, fine me now officer.

            I did manage to make the dead line, didn't get any further, but it was by far one of the most exciting writing experiences of my life. On the edge of the muse. I've always told writers you need to get into the flow. It was something I learned back in a creative writing course I took in high school. I remember the first day of class and the teacher plunking a writing book on each desk and saying "this is your manual for this course." I naively stuck up my hand and said, "yes, but its blank. Nothing but blank lined pages." "Your job is to fill it." My first thought was, should have joined the typing class instead, easier credits and way more females in the group. We had to sit for the first half of the class and write. I remember the first few days about the girl in front of me, how boring the white walls were and by the end of the class pounding several pages and taking the writing pad home and pounding out several more.

Okay I've exposed verbally too much now and need to save something for next months blog, titled: How Do I get the monkey out of the tree and drinking lattes Instead.

OH, I forgot, Automotive tip. The reason the dashlights are called idiot lights are this. The oil light on most cars, are fed off of mainline oil pressure, so when the pressure has dropped below a set value, the light comes on. By this time you usually have about one or two cups of oil in the oilpan instead of five liters (or pints) depending on where you live. The damage is already done about two weeks before this, so check the oil regularily or give me a call at work and I'll gladly give you a quote on a new engine.

And as for Robert's Book, he sold 5 million copies to 121 publishers and I got bored after about page 50 or so. So there's no telling what people will buy these days, hey ask what's her name with the several colors of overcast sky. Man, why didn't I think of that book?

PS. Next month I'll give you a few wine making tips, I've run out of time here and Jude is giving me the evil eye, I'm well past the allotted two paragraphs. Wait until next month. Okay I change my mind; blogging is kinda cool, like verbose writing without the pencil.

Sincerely

Frank Talaber

http://about.me/ftalaber

https://www.facebook.com/ftalaber/author

http://www.readwave.com/frank.talaber/stories/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8092362.Frank_Talaber

https://www.authonomy.com/user/34247e0c-bcc7-4cfc-8d5a-41ab1b79532e/

http://bcbooklook.com/about/whos-who/

http://www.cyclamensandswords.com/frank_talaber_aug_2012.php

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Frank-Talaber/805296946204873

How does an author hook readers in today’s fickle world? by Sandy Semerad

 The great writer John Steinbeck has been quoted as saying, “If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced that there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes but by no means always find the way to do it.”

            Steinbeck’s eloquent quote explains why I write. I have an aching urge to communicate.

But is my aching urge a formula for success in today’s fickle world with its fierce competition?

Book marketers say no. They say there are too many books vying for attention. Authors can’t afford to wax poetic for pages and pages, painting the scene, stroke by stroke, as Steinbeck did, and expect to hold a reader’s attention.

Readers are not only fickle but impatient, they say. Today’s writer must hook the reader from the first sentence. Writing a great book, doesn’t equal a best seller anymore. 

Whenever I’m in a book store, I try to observe and learn. I want to know what makes a reader buy.

I’ve learned most consumers examine the front cover, read the blurb to see if the story sounds interesting and then turn to the first chapter to read the first sentence or two.

I’m no marketing expert, but they claim author popularity is the number one reason why a book sells. Also the first sentence must hook the reader.

So I thought it might be fun to see if you’d buy the following books after reading their first sentences.

“To the red country and part of the grey country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth.” (From John Steinbeck’s masterpiece, Grapes of Wrath, published in 1939).

“The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw.” (From White Oleander, by Janet Finch, published in 1999).

“On a chilly morning in February with a misty rain shuttering the windows, Devin and Rosie Cauldwell made slow, sleepy love.” (From The Search by Nora Roberts).

“Barry Fairbrother did not want to go out to dinner.” (From The Casual Vacancy by J.K. Rowling).

“The tumor in my father’s pancreas was removed last week in an operation that lasted five hours and was more difficult than his surgeons had expected.” (From Calico Joe by John Grisham).

“Deputy Keith Clayton hadn’t heard them approach, and up close, he didn’t like the looks of them any more than he had the first time he’d seen them.” (The Lucky One by Nicholas Sparks).

“Fiona Carson left her office with the perfect amount of time to get to the boardroom for an important meeting.” (Power Play by Danielle Steele).

“The first hail of bullets was fired from the house shortly after daybreak at six fifty-seven.” (Deadline by Sandra Brown).

“In those days cheap apartments were almost impossible to find in Manhattan, so I had to move to Brooklyn.” (Sophie’s Choice by William Styron.)

“There are four acknowledged ways of meeting your maker.” (Simple Genius by David Baldacci).

“When he was nearly thirteen, my bother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.” (To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee).

“I’ve always wondered what people felt in the final few hours of their lives.” (The Neighbor by Lisa Gardner).

To play fair, I have included the following first sentences from my books:

 “On a snowy morning in Atlanta, Carrie Sue rummaged through an old cedar chest, searching for a journal.” (A Message in the Roses).

“My heart hammered a warning when I opened the door to leave the beach house.” (Hurricane House).

“If you had seen me on that day you would have said I was a hyper child, not the mother of a teenager.” (Sex, Love & Murder, previously Mardi Gravestone).

I must confess, I don’t worry too much about perfecting a first sentence until I’ve finished the first draft. 
     Writing a story is more fun when I can write freely, get the story out, before I have to go back, edit and rewrite.

     As to hooking a magnitude of readers in today’s fickle world, that’s my dream. 
     Although I kind of like what Steinbeck advised: “Forget your generalized audience. In the first place, the nameless, faceless audience will scare you to death and in the second place, unlike the theater, it doesn't exist. In writing, your audience is one single reader. I have found that sometimes it helps to pick out one person—a real person you know, or an imagined person and write to that one.”

I’m trying to follow his advice.

To learn more about me and my writing, please visit my website: www.sandysemerad.com

Or my publisher’s site: http://bookswelove.net/authors/semerad-sandy/

To buy, go here: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_13?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=sandy+semerad&sprefix=sandy+semerad%2Caps%2C236

click here to purchase from Amazon

Trees and History by Ginger Simpson

Cherry Tree

Now days most of us are only interested in trees if they fit into the scheme of  landscaping.  Some people don't like deciduous tree, others don't like pine needles, some branches don't bear wind well, others are too slow growing. Some want to grow their own fruit, while others want to grow wood to burn in their fireplaces in the wintertime. The list goes on and on when we consider planting.

I discovered more than I ever knew while researching my latest WIP, Yellow Moon, and thought it would make for an interesting blog.

The Cottonwood was the sacred tree used by the Lakota for their Sun Dance because of several reasons.  Known to withstand lightening and be strong, the tree has the same conical leaves after which tepees are shaped, and if you cut a larger limb crosswise, inside you'll find a perfect five-pointed star which represents the Great Spirit  Bet you didn't know that, did you?

Trees didn't only have a spiritual meaning for the Northern American tribes, most had a healing property of some sort.  Indians of the past didn't have doctors to run to, they counted on medicine women or men to gather healing herbs, berries and barks to ease various maladies. Here are a few I've read about.

Ash trees symbolize peace of mind and sacrifice.  Digestive system ailments are aided by the bark.

Aspen trees symbolize clarity of purpose, determining and aid in overcoming fears and doubts.  Those suffering from stress, allergies, eczema and neuralgia benefit from this tree.

Beech trees symbolize tolerance, past knowledge and softening criticism.  Here again is another tree that aids with the digestive system, and helps wounds, ulcers and sores to heal.

The Cedar symbolizes cleansing protection, prosperity and healing.  Those with respiratory problems find relief from the Cedar.

The Cherry tree symbolizes strong expression, rebirth, new awakenings and compassion.  Remedies made from the Cherry aids those who suffer from colds, flu, coughs, fever, headaches and indigestion.

The Elm is a symbol of wisdom, strength of will and intuition.  It provides healing salves for wounds.

The Oak symbolizes strength of character and courage, and helps blood problems, improves circulation and reduces fevers.

The Sycamore symbolizes ambition and acts as an astringent.

The Walnut tree symbolizes clarity and focus, the gathering of energy for starting new projects.  Skin problems, colds and flu are treated with medicines garnered from this tree.

This is but a few of the many named, and aside from the symbolization and healing properties, many trees were chosen to provide the wood for prayer sticks, talking sticks, and other items used in ritualistic practices.  Each creation was prepared with respect after asking permission from the tree spirit.  The Lakota, as well as other tribes, had a rich and abiding respect for all things earthly.  Until I started writing historical westerns, I never appreciated how easy I have it, nor did I realize how thankless I've been for all the riches the "Great Spirit" provides for us.

 I hope you've found this as interesting as I did.

Ginger Simpson's latest Native American historical, Yellow Moon is now available.  Click the cover to purchase from Amazon. Only $2.99, a terrific read for a very small price.  (Books We Love Ltd., Publisher)

 Purchase Yellow Moon from Amazon 

My Mother Went to Buy a Cow by Roseanne Dowell

One of my most memorable times growing up in a strict Catholic home during the fifties, with three older brothers, an older sister, and a younger sister, was the Catholic School we attended. It was across the street from our house and  my mother was very involved in both the church and school. She knew the nuns very well.  Our next door neighbor and Mom’s best friend, Rose, often drove them to the store, bank, or ran errands for them. Naturally, Rose knew a lot of what went on at school.

Two of my brothers were notorious for getting into trouble, always playing silly immature pranks. It wasn't unusual for them to receive a swat with a ruler.  Back then, corporal punishment was the normal manner of discipline. Mom wouldn't put up with disrespect or monkeyshines at home let alone in school. We were there to learn and we'd darn well better pay attention. 

So when she found out someone had gotten into trouble, and she always did, they paid for it at home, also.  We used to think she had eyes in the back of her head. Later we learned most of her information came directly from the nuns  themselves and sometimes from Rose.

We all knew it wouldn't take long for Mom to find out if we got into trouble.  It wasn't in my nature to misbehave – at least not much and seldom at school.  My brothers did plenty enough for all of us and I didn't care to be punished. Not that I was a perfect child, far from it, I got my share of spankings, but in school I tried to behave and do what was expected. Maybe because of a lesson I learned early on.

My dilemma began when I was in the first grade.  My teacher, Sister Roseanne, was a young and pretty nun. I loved her. Besides, she bore the same name as me, which made her extra special. I loved school and every morning I willingly followed my brothers and sister. Except for one day.

That day my sister, Mary, didn’t have to go to school. She had to stay home and baby-sit our younger sister. Not that this was normal, but whoever was supposed to watch my younger sister couldn't do it. At any rate, I wanted to stay home too. Naturally, Mom said no. I was angry and upset

So upset, in fact, I didn't even kiss Mom good-bye that morning, and off I went pouting, mumbling and grumbling about how unfair it was. My brothers laughed at me on the way to school, which made me feel worse.

 I’d never left without kissing my mother before, so, by time I got to school, I felt so bad that I sat at my desk and cried. Every time Sister asked me what was wrong I cried harder and refused to answer. Feeling worse by the minute my tears soon turned into sobs.  I couldn't even do my work and just refused to answer Sister. 

Finally, at wits end, she spanked me for my insolence. This, of course, made me cry harder, and my little heart was crushed. My beautiful sister, who bore my name, spanked me.

Since I still wouldn't stop crying, Sister Roseanne sent me for Mary, hoping I guess, to find out what had me so upset. By this time, I’d forgotten the reason for my anger and tears and completely forgot Mary stayed home. I stood outside Mary’s classroom, tears streaming down my face and knocked on the door. Sister Mary Francis answered my knock.

“Sister Roseanne wants to see Mary,” I said through my tears.

“Mary isn't in school today.” Sister Mary Francis gave me a quizzical look.  “Is she sick?”

“Oh, that’s right,” I wiped my tears, “I forgot she had to stay home to watch Gloria.”

“Oh and why is that?”

“Because my mama went to buy a cow.” I answered and hurried back to

my classroom, for some reason the tears forgotten. I made it through the rest of the day dry eyed, but I couldn't wait to get home to give Mom a kiss and hug.

Later that day I sat outside the window as Rose and Mom talked. I was worried, sure that Rose knew about the spanking. I hadn't told my mother, I didn't want her to know.

 “Wait until you hear what Sister Mary Francis said today.” Rose told my mother. “She said Rosi came to her classroom looking for Mary and told her the most fantastic tale. She could hardly stop laughing. Rosi told her that Mary was babysitting because you went to buy a cow.”

I held my breath, listening and waiting for her to get the part about the spanking as she told the story to my mother.

“But, Sister,I told her.” Rose continued, “ She didn't make that up. Her mother did go to buy a cow. Julia, you should have seen the look on her face when I explained about the freezer, it was priceless.”

I let out a sigh when my mother laughed. She never did ask me why Sister spanked me. Maybe she  thought I'd been punished enough. I never got in trouble or spanked in school again.

You can find Roseanne's books at Amazon  

Click to Purchase

Taking over the police chief’s job in her hometown should have been easy for Callie Johnson. At least that's what she thought. After working in a big city, small town crime would be a breeze. What a surprise when she arrives to find her grandmother, the judge, accused of murder. As if that wasn't enough she’s attacked while walking to her car. Between criminal investigations, her nutty family’s antics and her Aunt Beatrice Lulu's matchmaking, Callie definitely has her work cut out for her. Will her grandmother be exonerated? Can Callie ward off her aunt’s unsuitable suitors? What other surprises were in store for her? More importantly, can she find the person who attacked her?