Holiday Traditions? Plus Exclusive Excerpt of Secret: At HL Woods

Happy day-after Thanksgiving to all who celebrate this holiday, and for those who don’t, Happy Friday to you and yours: ) The weather is turning colder in Southwest Michigan, good for campfires, which I had today with my grandson. Always good times when sharing moments with family; )

So, tell me, are there certain family traditions you follow on this special day?

I’m always curious about traditions. I grew up with them…but things changed when I had my own family. I didn’t want to deal with traditions, things we do the same every year, but little did I know that I was actually making my own traditions. LOL Like celebrating the holiday on the Friday after:)

~.~.~.~

There is an amazing dish that my mom-in-law made for the holidays – Apple Pie Slices, which my brother-in-law named Pink Sh*t – because of the pink frosting on top. It’s like apple pie flattened onto a cookie sheet and topped with frosting – s-o-o-o yummy! We haven’t indulged in this dish for a number of years, but this year I made it for my family. I guess some traditions hang on whether you want them to or not – they become part of who we are.

~.~.~.~

So tell us about your favorite tradition for the holiday/s? Who knows, maybe it will become a new tradition for someone else.

~.~.~.~

While you’re here, I’d like to share a short excerpt from my soon-to-be-released book - Secret: At HL Woods – YA Paranormal Romance scheduled for release January 2018.

Unedited Author Excerpt - 1^st part of chapter one:

“What the—? Ugh!” Air exploded out of my lungs as I face-planted in musty dirt and leaves. A little fur-ball chipmunk had scurried across my path and should be a smear on the bottom of my tennis shoe, but I’d dove over it like diving off the raft. Air wheezed back into my body on gulps of mortification.

“Holy crap. Kyle, did you see that agile ballerina move? It’s none other than the dark witch-girl, Bri Lancaster. You know, the very one that unveils morbid goth clouds wherever she goes.”

Max. My worst nightmare. No, no, no. Don’t look. Do not raise your head. I did, coughing and sputtering dirt from my mouth. Kyle, the guy that lived next door, ran full bore toward me, while Max struck a pose, laughing. A deranged hyena came to mind. What the heck were those two doing this far into the woods? They’d never been in this area of the forest, at least not for the past three months I’d been jogging here.

“Are you hurt?” Kyle kneeled next to me and extended a hand.

I got to my feet on my own, brushing dirt from the front of my T-shirt. “I’m fine.” I glared at Max, who was still a distance away laughing his butt off. How mature.

“Max. It’s not that funny.” Kyle unfolded himself to stand beside me. His ice-blues twinkled from the sunlight filtering through the tree branches. “Are you sure you’re all right? That was quite a tumble.”

Stop staring at him and respond. A slap on my shoulder shoved me into Kyle. I nearly knocked him to the ground. Somehow he righted both of us.

“Get a grip, Goth-girl. He’s not into you.” Max jerked me away from Kyle and completed my humiliation. “You kissing the dirt made a perfect Snap Chat expose, my evil one.” He flashed me the picture on his phone. “Today we get to enjoy black spiky hair tipped in fluorescent fuchsia. What happened to your eyebrow stud?” He blinked his eyes and grinned, most likely for effect.

As if on auto-mode, my hands curled into fists with a deep-seated urge to punch his face. My hair wasn’t spiky, just short, and how he got his phone to grab a close up of me on the ground was beyond me. I hate him.

Grandpa’s words about hate rifled through my head, “Don’t hate the haters, it’s normally a traumatic experience that created their outlook, or exterior programming from parents that went through the trauma. Not their fault.” Well, I didn’t see anything but red whenever I looked at Max’s smug face.

Without a word, I ran toward the mound of wild rose vines and thistles, where Kyle and Max had stood a moment ago.

A black man and white woman shimmered into view beside it, arms around each other, both staring at me.

I stopped so abruptly I almost lost it again. Apparitions.

“Martin, look at her. She’s seein’ us.” The woman’s distinct southern accent caught me, but what set off my cursed paranormal spidey-sensors was their clothing…straight from the 60’s, according to some of the old romance books I’d read from Mom’s stash.

“By damn, she does see us.” He stepped closer to me with the woman at his side. “You can see us.”

“I can, yes.” Holy crap, I just said that out loud. My whole body tensed. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Kyle and Max still roamed face-plant alley. A shiver shook through me. They’d left.

“We need your help, Missy.” Martin’s brows arched, his head tilted. “Please tell us you can help us.”

The woman turned to him and patted his cheek. “It’s gonna be all right, sweetie. We ain’t botherin’ this fine woman with our problems.” She turned to me. “It’s okay, darlin’, you never mind us.”

“Why are you both here?” Wherever I saw spirits of the dead, it usually meant they were connected to something in the area. I considered the mound, seeing something metal and rusty underneath all the greenery. “You should have crossed over, into the vortex of light…unless you’re meant to go to the dark plane.”

The woman gasped and clung to Martin.

Maybe I’d said too much. I yanked some of the vines away, getting scratched and poked from the effort.

A car, green, ancient. No wonder it was tough to see.

“We want justice, but we aren’t able to leave this spot. Something’s holding us here, like some kind of barrier.” Martin’s lips pinched together, his head nodding. He looked at the woman as if to confirm. She nodded also.

I scanned the area thoroughly to make sure Kyle and Max weren’t lurking behind a tree to get a shot of me talking to air. I’d dealt with Max enough during school to last a lifetime; his nasty pranks didn’t need to scar my summer too.

Thankfully they’d really left.

“You fancyin’ one of those boys?” The woman smiled.

“Gloria, now don’t you be puttin’ on with this little lady. She won’t want to share her life with the likes of us.” Martin embraced Gloria, kissing her forehead.

I chuckled at considering either Kyle or Max as anything more than what? Simply guys in my grade? No one knew me here and I liked it that way. Moving from Marshall before the end of my junior year was the worst thing to happen in my life, well besides Dad leaving once we settled into the house here. Plus, Luke lived in Marshall. I shook my head. “No. Neither of those guys is into me, and I’m definitely not into them.”

ENTER OUR HOLIDAY CONTEST FOR A CHANCE TO WIN an Alcatel A30 e-Book Tablet and your choice of 6 e-books - http://bookswelove.net/bwl-holiday-magic/

DK Davis writes YA sci-fi, supernatural, and fantasy with a good dollop of all the relationships woven in between. When she’s not writing, editing, or reading, she’s hiking, RV’ing, fishing, spending time with grandchildren or her favorite muse (her husband) in Southwest Michigan.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/DKDavisBooks  

FB: https://www.facebook.com/dk.davis.92    

Website: http://suda788.wixsite.com/dkdavis

BWL Publishing Inc. Author Page: http://bookswelove.net/authors/davis-dk/  

You Just Gotta ask Yourself, What If?

You Just Gotta ask Yourself, What If?

You Just Gotta ask Yourself, What If?

The first ever Chilliwack Independent Film Festival was held this weekend, organized by Taras Groves, originally from London, England. A film director whose movie “Nowhere” took me by surprise. A short film about a down-and-out street bum, yet when he speaks, eloquence flows from his mouth. And I think; what made this man the way he is, and how? Someone who has nothing in his life but goes out of his way to help another soul in distress. These are the things a writer should think about and ask themselves.
So many of the other short, low-budget films did the same. The film about shoe-shiners made me realize they are people with hearts and souls; the story of a man alone after the holocaust who seems to go insane and I wonder if that atrocity would do the same to me. Or a film about a young girl, an only child with parents that fight all the time, who finds a scruffy toy to befriend. A rich kid, from the feature film RAW, that has wasted his life with drugs and must now pay the price if he is to grow up. These films raise issues, make me ask the age-old question that as a writer I always ask, the question that made me a writer and I’ll never stop asking it. What if?
What if this man in the movie didn’t make those decisions? What if he doesn’t help another person when he has nothing? What if the rich kid doesn’t make the right choices?
Then my mind begins to roll and the pen doesn’t sleep.
If a film or a book does that, then it has done its job for the writer. If the same film either makes people laugh, cry or wonder ‘hmm’, then it has done its job to entertain. If a book does the same, it has also done its job. There is a great thrill internally for me and, I would think, all writers, to know they’ve lived up to their soul’s driving need. But the true gift, the return for all the hours spent making the book as perfect as we can, is to have someone say you made them laugh or cry, or made them think of something they never thought of before or take a different look at life. Yeah, that’s the payback for me.
As for me, it made me walk up to a young man I’d seen nearly every weekend for the last year or so, playing his guitar. He’d sit in the strip mall beside the restaurant my wife and I frequent. He plays beautiful ballads, has a wonderful singing voice and smiles, even on the coldest day. It dawned on me I didn’t even know his name.
I learned he is Rain August, part native, part Norwegian. Yes, there’s a whole new possibility for a character there.
So next time you get a chance to go to a film festival or some local artistic event, do it. Let it entertain you and make you think or ask that age-old question. What if?
Then the internal magic takes over.

And maybe you get a chance to get on the red carpet

With the Festival's Director, Taras Groves

With Canadian Film Producer, David Strasser, his Featured Film, RAW

Buy At Amazon

The Stillwaters Run Deep Series: Canadian West Coast Urban Fantasy At Its Best.

Buy At Amazon



Like me on Facebook under my Authors Page
https://www.facebook.com/FrankTalaber/

Or like my Short Stories Page
https://www.facebook.com/franktalaberpublishedauthor/

Buy At Amazon

What Food Will be on Your Table This Thanksgiving? by J.Q. Rose

Find J.Q.'s mysteries at BWL Publishing.

Hello and welcome to the Books We Love Insiders Blog!

Thursday is Thanksgiving Day in the USA, otherwise known as Turkey Day. Turkey is traditionally served at Thanksgiving because the Pilgrims and their Wampanoag Indian guests probably shared turkey and deer at their harvest feast at the First Thanksgiving in 1621. No one knows for sure if turkey was served, but wild turkeys were abundant in the Plymouth, Massachusetts area.

Happy Turkey Day!
Photo courtesy of Pixabay

My husband, raised on a turkey farm, had his fill of turkey when a boy. He's not a turkey fan. But since it's part of the traditional meal, he'll eat turkey on that day and the day after and the day after that if we have plenty of leftovers! He's in charge of preparing and baking the festive bird.  

Historians don't believe the First Thanksgiving menu included sweet potatoes and cranberries, or even pumpkin pie. Perhaps some form of squash, but not as a pie. Sweet potatoes were not food eaten by the colonists. Cranberries may have been served, but probably not as a relish or sauce.

Cornucopia (Horn of Plenty)
Photo courtesy of Pixabay

In an article by Joanne Camas at the Epicurious site, culinary historians stated they believe "the table was loaded with native fruits like plums, melons, grapes, and cranberries, plus local vegetables such as leeks, wild onions, beans, Jerusalem artichokes, and squash. (English crops such as turnips, cabbage, parsnips, onions, carrots, parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme might have also been on hand.) And for the starring dishes, there were undoubtedly native birds and game as well as the Wampanoag gift of five deer. Fish and shellfish were also likely on the groaning board."


So why do we Americans serve these traditional foods? According to the Washington Post, "In the mid-1800s, a popular magazine editor named Sarah Josepha Hale read about the 1621 feast and decided to use it as a model for an annual holiday. She published recipes for turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie and started traditions that had nothing to do with the colonists."

Click here to read the entire Washington Post article 

Do you celebrate Thanksgiving by serving the traditional Thanksgiving menu?What's on your Thanksgiving Day table? Please leave a comment below to let us know.  Thank you. 

We have a lot in common with the Pilgrims and their guests at the First Thanksgiving, not only enjoying delicious food, but also taking the time to be aware of our blessings and to be thankful for them.

Happy Thanksgiving!!

Click here to connect online with J.Q.Rose 

The Hardest Thing About Writing by Stuart R. West

Click to purchase!

Everyone loves lists, right? So who am I to stand in the way of love? Here we go...

As an author, the hardest thing for me is writing action scenes.

Wait. Scratch that...

To me, the toughest thing about writing is trying to pen something while imbibing. I know, I know, it's a bad idea, but the holiday season is upon us and pass the eggnog already! It's too bad I end up with writing such as the following: "He approached the basement stairs, felt a chill zip-line down his spine. With a flick of the switch, he hesitated, then set foot on the top zzzzzzkkkkkkkkkkkrrrrrrrrrr....." It goes on like that for a while, but you get the general idea. Usually I wake up with the keyboard imprinted upon my face and gobbledygook in my manuscript.

After that, the second hardest thing about writing are action scenes. Hold on... No, no, there's a new writing faux-pas to add to my list: Never, ever, ever, under any circumstances, write while nursing a hang-over. This goes hand-in-hand with the first item on the list, so naturally should ring in at item number two. Writing with a hang-over can be perilous to your tale. There's a thundering headache suggesting that you just wrap things up quickly. With a hang-over, any build-up of suspense is thrown out the window.

Let's journey back to my previous sample of writing, shall we? "He approached the basement stairs, felt a chill zip-line down his spine. With a flick of the switch, he hesitated, then set foot on the top step. Down below, down in the darkness, the moan continued. Fred tripped, tumbled down, and broke his neck. THE END."

See what happened there? Not much of an ending, but it's all the muse, Hang-Over, could tolerate that day.

Finally, the third toughest thing about writing are action scenes. Which is kinda weird since I write scenarios that involve them a lot. For me, it's hard to bring something new to the game every time you write a fist fight or a car chase. But I keep trying. I keep plugging away looking for new variations that will hopefully interest the reader and myself. In my new book, Nightmare of Nannies, I composed a chapter-long chase sequence involving a man's desperate quest to retrieve his stolen tear-away pants (it's complicated). I tried my best to make it breathless, non-stop, and funny. And, boy, was it ever tough.

Dialogue's easy. Just put yourself into your character's mind-set and it practically writes itself. But action? Going forward, I constantly feel the need to one-up myself.

If erotica authors work by that standard, I pity them. I mean, come on... What do you write to top the LAST sex orgy you just composed on your laptop? Let's pause for a moment and consider...

Whew. That was grueling. My imagination just doesn't bend far enough that way. I think we can all be grateful I'm not an erotica writer. Merry Christmas!

So. What have we learned?
1) Don't write while drinking;
2) Don't write while hung-over;
3) Action is hard to write;
4) Don't EVER encourage me to write erotica.

This has been a Stuart R. West PSA.

Click here for an erotica-free zone!

Christmas Short Story - The Star the Wisemen Saw - Janet Lane Walters #MFRWauthor #shortstory

The Star The Wisemen Saw

Hurry, hurry, thought Ruth Greer. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Traffic moved through town like the last drops of ketchup from the bottle.

Rush, rush. Why did I invite both families to Christmas dinner? I must have been out of my mind,

Bob’s parents are nice. It’s my family who’ll act like I’m the idiot child. Marcy’s house is spotless and she never gets in a flap. All my life I’ve heard, “Hurry, Ruth. If you would plan, you would get things done.”

It’s Christmas Eve and five o’clock, she thought. I’ve just finished my Christmas shopping. I promise and I promise. Never again. The promise doesn’t work. Every year, I have to shop on Christmas Eve.

“Hey, Mom,” shouted Timmy in his loudest voice. “Why can’t we see Santa? There’s so much I want to tell him.”

“Me, too. Me, too,” shouted the three-year-old twins.

Bother Santa, thought Ruth. I’d like to send him to the moon.

“I want a robot, a sled, a new bike, a racing car set and some of those trucks that run by them selves,” shouted five-year-old Timmy. “I’ve got to tell Santa.

“Me, too. Me, too," shouted the twins.

“Would you sit still and shut up,” said Ruth through clenched teeth. There is no Santa, she wanted to shout. He’s someone made up to drive parents crazy. I wish there wasn’t a Christmas. I wish I didn’t have a mother and a sister who keep perfect homes.

It was snowing lightly when Ruth pulled into the driveway. Nearly six o’clock. Two hours behind schedule. I might be finished by tomorrow morning. I’ll be glad when Christmas is over.

“In the house, kids,” she said and grabbed two bags from the seat beside her. She dropped them on the kitchen table and hurried out for the rest.

“Out,” she shouted at the boys. They were standing on chairs lifting packages from the bags. “Outside and play. Daddy will be here soon.”

“I want to help,” said Timmy.

“Me, too. Me, too," echoed the twins.

“Come on, kids. Outside,” shouted Ruth over their voices. “Please.”

The door slammed behind the three boys. Ruth slumped in a chair and rubbed her forehead. She was getting a headache and she didn’t have time to nurse it. She shouldn’t be sitting here.

“Mind over matter, “she mumbled. “Think positively.”

But she couldn’t. There were groceries to put away, pies to bake, cranberry sauce to prepare, the turkey to stuff and start baking. Last minute purchases to wrap and the tree to trim after the kids went to bed.

I’ll never get done, she thought. All those jobs suffocated her. She looked at the clock. Bob’s late. Dinner’s not ready. The guest room beds had to be made.

She threw some hamburgers in the oven and dashed upstairs. I’ll make the beds up. Then I can spend time with Mom and Dad Greer when they arrive. They’re darlings. They won’t mind if everything’s not perfect.

Only Mother and Marcy will be looking for what I haven’t done. When they come tomorrow, they’ll try to take over. This time I’m going to refuse.

The bottom sheets were on the bed when Ruth remembered the groceries hadn’t been put away. She dashed downstairs and stopped short. Muddy footprints and clumps of snow left a trail across the clean kitchen floor.

What have they done now, she thought. The trail led to the table. Oh, no, they’ve drunk the whipping cream. Bob’ll have to go to the store for more.

Ruth took a deep breath. I don’t have time to cry. She jammed things into the refrigerator and cupboards and set the table. As she called the children, she sighed. I haven’t played with them all week. Why is tomorrow so important to me? Why does it matter what Mother and Marcy think? It does. I’m tired of being Miss Scatterbrain.

When Bob came in, she had supper on the table. “Traffic’s fierce,” he said and kissed her. “You’re tense. Stop worrying about tomorrow. It’s just another day.”

Ruth began to cry. “It’s not just another day. It’s Christmas. We’re having company and the children drank the whipping cream.”

Bob laughed. “Is that all? I’ll go to the store after supper.

The house was silent when Bob and the boys left. Ruth wished she could relax but there was too much to do. She had mixed the filling for the pumpkin pies while Bob and the boys ate. She rolled the crusts and set the pies to bake. While she was cleaning the cranberries, the phone rang.

“Ruth, dear,” said her mother. “Would you like me to come over and help? I know how frantic you get.”

“Everything’s under control,” said Ruth. “Just a minute.” She turned off the water and scooped the cranberries back into the bowl. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mother.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me?”

“Perfectly sure.”

The back door opened and the boys dashed in. They waved candy canes. When they hugged her they left sticky imprints on her arms.

“Santa. Santa,” shouted the twins.

“It really was Santa,” Tommy said. “He gave us candy. He said we were good.”

“Good. Good,” echoed the twins.

“Quiet,” shouted Bob. “Upstairs and get undressed.” He shook his head as they ran off. “Had to get a can of cream. They were out of the other.”

“Those darn kids’ said Ruth.

He pulled her close. “Don’t take it so seriously. You’re been frantic all week. Mom and Dad don’t care what we eat. They want to be with us.”

“It’s not your parents. It’s Mother and Marcy. They act like I’m a goof.” She sighed. “Most of the time they’re right.”

“If you’re a goof, that’s the way I like you.” He kissed her on the forehead.

“Don’t make jokes,” said Ruth. “I can see Mother and my sister when they come in. ‘Ruth, dear, is there anything we can do? Your pies are watery. Are you sure you baked the turkey long enough?’ Just for once, I would like to show them.”

He kissed her again. “You do just fine. I’ll get the kids ready for bed.”

“Bed,” shouted Ruth. “The guest room beds aren’t made yet.” She started to the door. “I can’t leave this food. What am I going to do/”

“Relax,” Bob said.

“How can I when everything’s getting out of hand.” Ruth heard water running. “See what those kids are doing.” They would decide to take a bath tonight when I spent two hours cleaning the bathroom.

As she melted butter for the stuffing, she felt like she was missing something. I don’t know what, she thought. I feel so empty.”

The phone and the front door bell rang at the same time. Why can’t everyone leave me alone, she thought as she grabbed the phone. “Just a minute,” she shouted. “Someone’s at the door.” Marcy’s mocking laughter followed her down the hall.

“Mom, you’re early,” she said.

Mrs. Greer enfolded Ruth in her ample arms. “We made good time. Dad’s bringing our things in. Where are the boys?”

“Bob’s getting them ready for bed.”

“I’ll run up and help him.”

Ruth remembered Marcy and hurried back to the kitchen. The awful smell of burning butter greeted her. She ran to the stove and turned the burner off. Tears stung her eyes when she picked up the phone. “I’m here.”

“Poor little sister,” said Marcy. “Everything in a mess?”

Ruth counted to ten. “No. Bob’s getting the children ready for bed. When the phone and doorbell went off together, I had to get both.”

“Mother called and suggested we come over and help.” drawled Marcy. “I’m sure you need us. You do want to impress your in-laws.”

“I don’t have to impress then,” said Ruth. It’s you and Mother, she thought.

“Maybe we’ll have a relaxed day at your house for a change. Going to chain the kids?”

“You don’t have to come.”

“I wouldn’t miss it, little sister,” said Marcy. “See you at church tonight.”

Ruth stood and stared into space. She’d forgotten about church. There was a sitter coming in three hours. I’ll have to be ready. Last year, Marcy had entertained on Christmas Eve, gone to church and had a perfect meal at two the next afternoon, but Marcy didn’t have children.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t have children, thought Ruth. Then she gasped. What am I thinking? It wouldn’t be a home without the boys even if they do make messes.

“What’s the matter, Ruthie?”

Ruth forced herself to smile. “I was just wondering if I was going to get done.”

“Sure smells good,” said Mr. Greer.” Even the burned butter?”

“Didn’t notice that. I’ll run these things upstairs.”

Ruth returned to the stuffing. I’d better chop the onions and celery before I melt more butter. As she chopped the onions, tears streamed down her face. She could hear laughter from upstairs. I’m missing the best part of Christmas trying to impress Mother and Marcy when I know it can’t be done.

“Ruth, the boys are ready for their story,” called Bob.

Ruth took the stairs two at a time. The boys looked so sweet she wanted to gather them into her arms. She would rather have them and a messy house than an empty perfect home like Marcy’s.

“What story?” she asked.

“The Wise Men and the star,” said Timmy.

“Star. Star, echoed the twins.

Ruth sat on Timmy’s bed. The twins snuggled on either side of her. Mom and Dad Greer sat on the bed with Timmy between them. Bob leaned against the wall.

“Behold, three wisemen came to Herod…”

When Ruth finished the story, she sat quietly for a few minutes. She had missed so much of Christmas these past few days. What did a perfect house have to do with the season?

She got up and walked to the window. She pressed her face against the pane. A few snowflakes drifted lazily down. The sky was full of stars but one appeared brighter than the rest.

“What do you see?” asked Bob.

“Come here,” she said. When Bob and the boys had gathered close, she pointed to the brightest star. “Maybe that’s the star the wisemen saw.”

She and Bob tucked the boys in bed. When they started downstairs, she turned to Bob. “Mother and Marcy will have to be happy with our house as it is. I lost the meaning of Christmas trying to impress them. I’m going to be me.”

Bob squeezed her hand. “That’s my girl.”

“No,” said Ruth. “Your scatterbrain.”

The odor of pumpkin pie and stuffing filtered up to her. I’m glad I saw the star, she thought. Christmas is for family and love. I have both.

M.R.I.s and Martinis, by J.C. Kavanagh

Voted Best Young Adult book 2016

I've written before about the clicks and clacks of aging joints. My joints. And how I regularly convince myself that age is only a number... only a number. But the clicking and recurring pain in my joints, especially my shoulder, reminds me of that age number (DANG) and so at the insistence of my doctor, I agreed to an MRI (magnetic resonance imaging).

Have you been the subject of an MRI scan - the technique using magnetic devices and radio waves to generate images of internal components in your body? No? Then let me provide an insight.

Don't.

Unless you like:
a) lying in a closed coffin
b) pretending you're dead
c) the sound of seven trillion hammers simultaneously clanking around your head

So... I don't like any of the above. I wish someone had told me what to expect from this medical torture chamber. If I had known the discomforts involved, I would have had a martini. Or seven. That's my other insight to you readers: martini before MRI.

*Use caution when martini-ing before MRI-ing. No driving!

 

86 years young

It is with great delight that I share the news of me Mather's 86th birthday celebration - behind the wheel of a motorized vehicle! Well.... scooter! OK.... electric buggy! Just for fun, I convinced her to jump on an electric buggy at the local grocery store. She was only on it for a few minutes, back and forth a few metres, but oh, was she thrilled. It's a big accomplishment. Me Mather never obtained her driver's license. Can you believe it? Not even in Ireland, where she was born and raised. The last time me Mather drove a motorized vehicle was in 1949. She was 18 years old and attempting to learn the standard-transmission process. While grinding gears and jerking forward, her mother cowered in the back seat, Rosary in hand, muttering "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, save us!"

Shortly after, me Mather decided that driving was just not her cup of tea. Those were the days.

🗹 Check.
No longer on the bucket list - driving anything.
Happy 86th birthday, Mom!

Do something special today. And enjoy life!

Stay tuned for sneak previews of my upcoming book, The Twisted Climb: Darkness Descends.

J.C. Kavanagh

The Twisted Climb

A novel for teens, young adults and adults young at heart.

VOTED Best Young Adult Book, P&E Award, 2016

www.facebook.com/J.C.Kavanagh

www.bookswelove.net/authors/kavanagh-j-c-ya-fantasy-canada/

Twitter @JCKavanagh1 (Author J.C. Kavanagh)

The Golconda Diamonds

Up until the 1700’s, almost all the world’s diamonds came from the Golconda region of India. Located in the Deccan plateau of South India, some of the largest, clearest and valuable diamonds found their way from this area and into the hands of kings and noblemen in Persia, Arabia and Europe.

Marco Polo in particular mentions how Indians went about harvesting diamonds long ago.

“This kingdom (India) produces diamonds. Let me tell you how they are got. You must know that in the kingdom there are many mountains in which the diamonds are found, as you will hear. When it rains the water rushes down through these mountains, scouring its way through mighty gorges and caverns. When the rain has stopped and the water has drained away, the men go in search of diamonds through these gorges from which the water has come, and they find plenty. In summer, when there is not a drop of water to be found, then diamonds can be found in plenty among these mountains. But the heat is so great that it is almost intolerable. Moreover the mountains are so infested with serpents of immense size and girth that men cannot go there without grave danger. But all the same they go there as best they can and find big stones of fine quality. Let me tell you further that these serpents are exceedingly venomous and noxious, so that men dare not venture into the caves where the serpents live. So they get diamonds by other means. (Polo, 1958:246).”

Even today, when the mines of Golconda no longer produce diamonds, and the center of the mining industry has shifted to South Africa, Russia and Canada, Golconda Diamonds have maintained their mystique and desirability. In fact, these diamonds are so difficult to find, that the great majority of jewelers and gemologists will never hold a Golconda diamond in their hands during their careers, and thus, the world’s remaining Golcondas  keep attracting higher prices.

One of the reasons for this is the history and legends attached to these stones. Here are three legendary stones from the Golconda mines:

The Orlov Diamond: According to one account, the earliest known fact about the Orlov diamond is that it was set as one of the eyes of a Deity in a sacred temple in the south of India. A French soldier, who deserted and found employment in the neighborhood of Srirangam, learned that the temple contained the celebrated idol of a Hindu god, the eyes of which formed by two large diamonds of inestimable value.

According to the story, he made a plan to seize the diamonds, a feat which necessitated years rather than months of planning, since no Christian was ever admitted beyond the fourth of the seven enclosures. So in order to steal the diamonds, he embraced the Hindu faith and eventually obtained employment within the walls of the temple. By degrees he gained the confidence of the unsuspecting Brahmins and was allowed in as a frequent worshipper at the inner shrine (where the diamonds were located), because of his apparent veneration for this particular divinity. Ultimately, he secured the appointment of guardian to the innermost shrine within which lay the diamonds of his attention.

The Diamond passed through many hands and finally ended on the Sceptre of Queen Catherine the Great, and is now in the Kremlin.

The Hope Diamond

One of the most famous gems in human history, the Hope’s history is replete with wars, revolution, murder and greed. Purchased (or stolen) in 1666 by French gem merchant Jean-Baptiste Tavernier as the Tavernier Blue. The Tavernier Blue was cut and yielded the French Blue (Le bleu de France), which Tavernier sold to King Louis XIV in 1668. On September 11, 1792, while Louis XVI and his family were imprisoned in the Temple in the early stages of the Reign of Terror during the French Revolution, a group of thieves broke into the Royal Storehouse, and stole most of the Crown Jewels during a five-day looting spree. While many jewels were later recovered, including other pieces of the Order of the Golden Fleece, the French Blue was not among them and it disappeared from history. On 21 January 1793, Louis XVI was guillotined and Marie Antoinette was guillotined on 16 October of the same year. It was smuggled to Britain, and sold to American owners in 1911. It now is part of the collection of the Smithsonian.

The Kohinoor

Reputed to be the Shyamantaka jewel, mentioned in Sanskrit texts, it has a very ancient history. In the early 14th century, Alauddin Khalji, second ruler of the Turkic Khalji dynasty of the Delhi Sultanate, and his army began looting the kingdoms of southern India. Malik Kafur, Khalji's general, made a successful raid on Warangal in 1310, when he possibly acquired the diamond.

It remained in the Khalji dynasty and later passed to the succeeding dynasties of the Delhi Sultanate, until it came into the possession of Babur, a Turco-Mongol warlord, who invaded India and established the Mughal Empire in 1526. Shah Jahan, the fifth Mughal emperor, had the stone placed into his ornate Peacock Throne. In 1658, his son and successor, Aurangzeb, confined the ailing emperor at nearby Agra Fort.

Following the 1739 invasion of Delhi by Nader Shah, the Afsharid Shah of Persia, the treasury of the Mughal Empire was looted by his army in an organised and thorough acquisition of the Mughal nobility's wealth.

After the assassination of Nader Shah in 1747 and the collapse of his empire, the stone came into the hands of one of his generals, Ahmad Shah Durrani, who later became the Emir of Afghanistan. One of Ahmed's descendants, Shah Shujah Durrani, formed an alliance with the United Kingdom to help defend against a possible invasion of Afghanistan by Russia. He was quickly overthrown by his predecessor, Mahmud Shah, but managed to flee with the diamond.

He went to Lahore, where the founder of the Sikh Empire, Maharaja Ranjit Singh, in return for his hospitality, insisted upon the gem being given to him, and he took possession of it in 1813. Its new owner, Maharaja Ranjit Singh, willed the diamond to the Hindu temple of Jagannath in Puri, in modern-day Odisha, India. However, after his death in 1839, his will was not executed. On 29 March 1849, following the conclusion of the Second Anglo-Sikh War, the Kingdom of Punjab was formally annexed to East India Company rule, and the Last Treaty of Lahore was signed, officially ceding the Koh-i-Noor to Queen Victoria and the Maharaja's other assets to the company. The manner of his aiding in the transfer of the diamond was criticized even by some of his contemporaries in Britain. It now adorns the Royal crown of England.

Mohan Ashtakala is the author of "The Yoga Zapper" published by Books we Love.

www.yogazapper.com

www.bookswelove.net