Monday, June 11, 2018

Yes, There is a Sperm Bank for Honey Bees by Karla Stover


Wynter's Way

Click the covers to visit Karla's author page and find out more about her books
 
The poet Emily Dickenson once wrote that, "to make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee.  One clover and a bee . . ." but, what if there isn't a bee? Though honey bee populations have been in decline since 1977, it wasn't until 2005 that environmentalist began taking note of the really steep decline in their numbers. Let the blame game begin. After considering all kinds of factors, even the rise in cell phone use, scientists have pretty much named pesticides as the culprit.
     Now it might seem  reasonable to bring in healthy bees to bolster populations while pharmaceuticals begin the work of coming up with bee-friendly products.. But that's against the law. In 1922,tracheal mites began killing bees on the Isle of Wight, and to keep the mites out of the United States, Congress passed a law making it illegal to import live honey bees. The immigration ban worked until 1984, Then, in 1987, bees were given another death blow--Varroa jacobsoni. It was time for etymologists to take on the problem.
    

                                                      Sperm bank to the rescue.

     In 2008, the USDA gave Washington State University a permit to import honey bee semen for breeding purposes, subject to strict virus checks. According to WSU research associate Susan Colby, the semen is easy pretty to collect, it comes out when a drone is pushed on its tummy. It's collected with a syringe and can be frozen or used immediately to artificially inseminate a queen. Currently, WSU is using semen from the eastern section of the Alps, and from Georgia, a country in the Caucasus region of Eurasia. It is also looking to diversify the gene pool. It seems like a lot of work for an animal (insect) that isn't even native to the United States, but we have grown dependent on the little critters so it's a case of needs must. How the drones feel about this change to their sex lives isn't known. For them it's the ultimate sacrifice--they die.



   bwlauthors.blogspot.com
   Karla Stover on Facebook 
 



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Saturday, June 9, 2018

What happens when you just can't reach that goal?

 ~ Last month I talked about setting goals … and the three simple steps of setting a goal and achieving it.  Setting a goal is important – in every aspect of your life.   But what should you do when you realize a year has gone by and you haven’t reached your six-month goal?

  It only makes sense … if you can figure out why the thing broke-down, you’ll have a much better chance at making it work the next time you try.  Well, the same can be said for setting and achieving goals. When you know the main reasons why people don't reach their goals, it’s much easier to find success with yours.

Why do we sometimes fail in accomplishing our goals?


The main reason is we are setting unattainable goals ~ Don’t set your goals too high. Creating goals that are unreachable not only makes it impossible to accomplish, but it also steers you away from setting goals. When you set goals too high and you never reach them, you can easily come to the conclusion … setting goals don’t work … they just add to the frustration.

Another reason goals fail is you’re setting unchallenging goals ~ Say what?  It may seem strange – but when you set an unattainable goal … it hinders your success.   When your goal is set too low, there’s no motivation to work hard. Therefore, you don't have to work that hard to reach your goal, and most likely you don't really care if you reach it either.

When you set a goal, make sure it's going to take hard work to achieve it … and remember – it must be challenging.  Setting goals too low decreases motivation and energy.

If you failed to reach a goal … ask yourself, was it unattainable or set too high?  Or was your goal too easy and unimportant to me?


Take time to think a goal through … and make sure it’s a goal that will motivated you to work hard and then … once you’ve accomplished your goal … be ready to feel the rush of success and knowledge …. I can accomplish anything if I set goals!

When BWL Publishing asked me to turn my one-book idea for Tango of Death into a trilogy ... I choked back my response .. You want what?  So what appeared as a daunting task was attainable ... because I set goals ... step-by-step ... and a single book - that I'd always wanted to write, turned into a trilogy.  I have to admit, had I not been challenged to write them ... they wouldn't exist.   And if I'm honest, I coudln't have done it without setting goals.  And I'm so proud of each story....

Book 1–Tango of Death Series - Gypsy Spirit is a story of the driving spirit of a Gypsy girl, who took it upon herself to document the truth. Her strength and determination brings to light a story of altruism, fears, and atrocities such a Gypsy girl might have lived through.
Book 2 – Tango of Death Series - Poland 1943-During WW II - Partisan Heart tells the story of a Gypsy girl who follows her beloved into the forests of Poland and the Ukraine.  Their partisan group is willing to risk their lives blowing up train trestles, attacking SS killer squads, and to infiltrate Nazis intelligence to destroy Nazi Germany.  Resistance does exist.  If nothing else, to die with dignity is a form of resistance.

Book 3 – Tango of Death Series, JEWISH SOUL. Mayla Sucuri’s world is falling apart . . . no Gypsy is safe in Hitler’s Germany and Mayla refuses to turn down the opportunity to take notes and bear witness to the atrocities happening at the concentration camps. Will it get her killed?




 

Friday, June 8, 2018

A Princely Hand by June Gadsby




Storylines aren’t always made up from imaginary situations. A lot of my books contain cameos from my own life, embroidered into the pattern of the story – factionalised. Here are two cameos that I would love to include in a book someday, if only I could think of a storyline to go with them.

Meeting VIPs -  from famous footballers to royalty - was a part of my life that has left me with many a memory that is still great to share with guests at the dinner table. Back in the UK my husband was the director of Sir Peter Scott’s Wildfowl and Wetlands Park at Washington [north-east England, rather than the USA]. Sir Peter was the son of the famous Scott of the Antarctic. HRH Prince Charles is the President of the charity and I had the pleasure of meeting him twice. On both occasions, he came to my rescue.

One incident was when Prince Charles came to open a new wing at the Washington centre. It was a freezing January morning and a group of us who were chosen to be introduced to the prince were lined up by the official photographer. I was to be the first to be introduced [don’t ask why, but I was rather pleased about that]. We stood there waiting for about an hour, frozen stiff, with the photographer constantly rearranging the group – mostly my position. It was a case of: “Mrs. Gadsby could you move back just a little please?” After the third time of asking, I suddenly realised that I was balanced at the very top of a flight of stairs, the heels of my shoes nearly hanging over. I felt very unsteady – more so when Prince Charles arrived and signed the visitor’s book right next to me, saying: “I can’t join up my letters this morning.” Then I was introduced and had to curtsy as we shook hands. I teetered on that top step, bending my knee and having visions of falling backwards with HRH on top of me. But he tightened his grip and I was saved the embarrassment of appearing on the front pages of Britain’s newspapers. He then made an apology to the group for having a bad cold, which he claimed he had caught from his son. William was then only a year old.

 

Another saving experience took place when we attended the AGM at Slimbridge, the headquarters of the Trust. Lady Philippa Scott asked us if we would like to be introduced to Prince Charles, and of course we would.  We were the last in line and Lady Scott apologised profusely, saying that there wasn’t time for us to meet the prince after all as lunch was about to be served.  We were left standing only a few yards behind Prince Charles, who was conversing with Sir Somebody on one side of him and Lord somebody else on the other. They ended their conversation and the two men departed in different directions, leaving Prince Charles standing alone, everyone having disappeared into the dining hall. HRH spun around and saw us standing there, strode up to us, hand outstretched.  Brian introduced himself as the Director of the Washington branch of the Trust, then turned to me – we weren’t married at the time – and simply said: “And this is June.” The Prince shook my hand with a broad smile and said: “Hello, June.” He and Brian exchanged a few words, then HRH looked pointedly at me and asked what I thought was needed to improve the north-east of England. Well, that was unexpected, but I managed to pull out, hopefully, the right answer: “We need more culture,” I told him. “More art and music.” He just nodded and smiled and I hoped that he agreed and might do something about it.
 
The dinner bell sounded again and Brian reminded the prince that lunch was being served. We walked hesitantly with him, completely unaware of the required etiquette. And he knew it, for he placed a hand on my back, leaned down to me and whispered: “You go first and I’ll follow.” All I could say was a simple “Thank you” and led the way into the dining hall, with Brian bringing up the royal rear. I was immediately pounced on by all the women there who were desperate to know what we had been talking about.  I smiled and shook my head, leaving them to wonder.

Today, the north-east of England [Newcastle and Gateshead in particular] has become a real cultural region. It’s taken over thirty years, but I like to kid myself that my few words to Prince Charles on that memorable occasion had helped in some small way. 

Inspiration from Real Life, Murder and Mystery by June Gadsby


VISIT JUNE'S BWL AUTHOR PAGE FOR BUY LINKS TO HER BOOKS


They say we should write about what we know, but a lot of us would be struggling if we didn’t use our imagination. Even imagination can be limited, but I’ve drawn not only from my imagination, but from my memories and from characters and events in my own life that would have some people shaking their heads and having their hair stand on end. Friends who know me well have been known to say that if I ever wrote my auto-biography nobody would believe it.
As a small child, I used to go shopping with my grandmother, mainly as a support because she was given to ‘bad turns’. This wasn’t exactly a happy situation for me, a shy and nervous child, who had no idea what to do if my grandmother actually did have one of her ‘turns’. One day, it wasn’t my grandmother who nearly fainted, but me, from fear of the unknown. My grandmother suddenly pulled me off my feet and shot across to the other side of the road saying: “Oh, there’s your Uncle X!” No explanation, but the elderly man to whom she was referring did seem awfully odd. He was gazing up at the sky and muttering to himself. I knew nothing about this man, but when his name was mentioned in our house it was always whispered and it was a bit scary when, looking at a painting I had done, someone said: “Oh, she takes after her Uncle X.” Since there was a great mystery tinged with fear surrounding this member of the family, I couldn’t help wondering just how I took after my great-uncle. There were, indeed, two beautiful oil paintings on the wall of my grandparents’ house, which disappeared when we moved house, much to my regret. My grandmother was well known for her habit of throwing things away, like her brother’s [X] leather-bound, gold-leafed books which were donated to the rubbish bin.
A few years later, when I was a young teenager, my mother looked out the window and gasped: “Oh, God, it’s your Uncle X!” A tap on the door and she opened it, white-faced, but forcing a smile. She even invited him in. This was the old ‘tramp’ I remembered being dragged away from by my grandmother years before. But he was no longer dressed like a tramp or acting like a ‘crazy’ man. He was smartly dressed and had a head of snow-white hair and a pink and white complexion. While my mother served him tea and biscuits, I sat at his feet, fascinated to hear him talk, his voice soft and his accent betraying a gentle Northumbrian burr.  We talked about art and he told me that he played the flute. He was a lovely man, but remained the black sheep of the family until recent years. All I knew of his past was that he had spent some years in a mental institution. He seemed perfectly normal to me and far more sophisticated than one would expect of an ex-miner. I could have listened to him for hours.
The next time he called, my mother told me, with panic in her voice, to hide, and didn’t open the door to him. It wasn’t until many years later that she told me that X, my gentle, white-haired great-uncle, artist and reader of philosophy, had served eight years in prison for murdering his fiancée. There are two different versions of the story. Fiancée or wife, who was heard laughing behind his back and consorting with other men so he got mad, grabbed at her throat and fractured her larynx, which the autopsy confirmed had already been fragile. Or, he had found her in their bed with her lover and thrown them down the stairs, which had broken her neck. I tried to research the details, but everything regarding the trial in Durham gaol, I was told, had been erroneously destroyed in a fire. I assume the verdict was manslaughter, as he was only sentenced to eight years, but he was later transferred from prison to the mental ‘asylum’ as they were called in those days, his mind affected by what he had done. The judge who sentenced him, I was told, was very emotional and sympathetic. The last time I saw Uncle X, he was in his late seventies, dying in a hospital bed and the family went to visit him. Many years later, when my grandmother died, I was given a framed photograph of myself as a child which had hung on her wall for as long as I could remember. I don’t know why I did it, but I took the back off – a stiff piece of card – and when I turned it around I found a simple, but pretty painting of daffodils, painted by my uncle.   I created a novel around this biographical story, but did nothing with it. However, it did encourage me to write sagas – and maybe I’ll re-hash Uncle X’s saga one day.

Co-incidentally, I did have connections with another very nice, gentle man, who committed murder. By now you are probably thinking that I have an attraction to murderers, but when your own life is touched closely by crime it’s difficult to brush it away. We’ll call him J to protect his identity and he was a friend’s husband. They were a lovely couple and everybody liked them. For some reason, which I never discovered, J’s son was beaten up badly by a local gang, well known to the police. And the whole family was threatened. J and his wife lived every day in fear. Then I heard the terrible news that J had been walking through the town and came across the leader of the gang. Whether this criminal had done or said something to make J snap, we don’t know. J had a knife and stabbed the young man to death.  Everybody who knew J and his wife were in shock. How could such a lovely, gentle man do such a thing? He was, of course, found guilty of murder, but was exonerated and released 18 months later because of extenuating circumstances. He became depressed and a prisoner in his own home. New Year came around and I threw a big party, inviting my friend and telling her to bring J with her. She said he probably wouldn’t come, but he did and I danced with him and he ended up joining in the fun with my other guests. He and his wife told me they were so grateful for what I had done for J, bringing him out of that dark place he had found himself in.
Things settled down, then we had bad news. A knock at my friends’ door and J answered, only to be shot dead by members of the gang who had been at the centre of the problem. J died in my friend’s arms. The son who had been beaten up, for whatever reason, emigrated to America, and my friend was moved to a safe house to face her nightmares alone.
I don’t condone murder but without knowledge of the reasons that drive some people to do what they do, how can we judge them totally. These are just two crimes I have been close to and, as a writer who likes writing suspense novels, they may just find their way into my stories
Just two episodes in my life connected with crime. There are more real-life stories that I’ve clung to over the years, believe me, but that’s enough for now. 

In both cases there are questions that cannot be answered. The truth is blurred and there’s nobody left to say what really happened.
JUNE GADSBY
 
JUNE [Gadsby]
Artist/Writer
Find my books on Amazon.: historic & temporary romantic suspense, families at war and wartime thrillers. Read the reviews.

Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Early 14th Century Food and Drink.by Rosemary Morris


http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary-romance-historical-uk/



About Rosemary Morrie

I write historical romance rich in facts with themes that the modern-day reader can identify with. Two of the themes in Yvonne Lady of Cassio, are incompatible husbands and wives and that of an unwanted daughter.
Recently, I converted the smallest bedroom in my house into an office. The walls painted in the colour of pale honey, a predominantly red oriental rug on the honey-coloured laminate floor, an 8ft wide 6ft high waxed oak bookcase and a commodious matching desk, make it is a pleasure to write. Previously, I kept my large collection of non-fiction books and magazines throughout the house. Now they are all arranged in one place according to subject.
Whenever I pause to consider what to write next, I look out over my organic garden in which I grow herbs, fruit, vegetables and ornamentals. Beyond it is a communal green backed by woodland.
Time spent with my family and friends is important and I enjoy cooking vegetarian meals for them.

Early 14th Century Food and Drink.

A friend is reading my new novel Thursday’s Child, Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week, Book 5, set in the Regency era prior to publication in July. The mention of parmesan ice cream served at the famous confectioners, Gunters caused her to query the import of the cheese, not the type of ice cream, which could not have been more unusual to the taste buds than my experiment, avocado, chocolate, black pepper ice cream. Her question gave me the idea for this, the first of three articles about food and drink in the eras in which I have set my novels
Yvonne, Lady of Cassio takes place during the reign of Edward II, King of England, from 1307 until he was deposed in 1327. At that time, bread was everyone’s staple food but only the wealthy could afford the best quality white bread made from wheat. Breadcrumbs were used to thicken sauces and to stiffen custards. Gingerbread was made from a mixture of spiced breadcrumbs and honey. Cakes and buns were made from sweetened, spiced bread dough.
Fish was an important part of the diet. It was forbidden by the Roman Catholic Church to eat meat, eggs and dairy food on Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays and during Lent. Most people ate pickled or salted herrings. A popular garnish was fried parsley, and to make salt fish more palatable herb and spice sauces were served with it,
Only aristocrats who hunted the wild bull, boar and deer and could afford to eat every type of meat, and fowl which included doves kept in cotes and pheasant and partridge. At banquets, either peacocks or swans were dressed in their feathers, and served as a centrepiece. Every type of small bird was also served, sometimes as many as thirty dishes on special occasions.
Cows, ewes and nanny goats were milked. Cream, curds and soft cheese were made in nobles’ kitchens. Possets, caudles, cream soups and custards were made from milk and cream and cream cheese was used to make cheesecake, similar to the delicious ones my daughter-in-law serves.
Everyone ate pottage, either thick or liquid, made with ingredients the household could afford, meat, fresh vegetables and herbs, and root vegetables. It could be thick or the consistency of broth and made without meat.
Flowers such as borage, which I add to salads or freeze in ice cubes to make a decorative addition to summer drinks, primroses and violets were used in salads, to which pickled fruit and roots were often added.
People were suspicious of raw fruit, which they believed caused fever and diarrhoea, but they ate raw cherries, grapes, plums and damsons. Wardens, hard pears, and apples were usually cooked.
However, people were no more dependent on home grown food than I am on the herbs, fruit and vegetables gown in my organic garden, although they did not have as wide a choice of imported food, herbs and spices as I do.
Fresh lemons and Seville oranges were imported, so were sweet lemon pickles. Only the rich could afford to buy imports of currants, dates, figs, prunes and raisins which their food was filled with. The most luxurious foreign commodity were almonds, pounded to be used as a thickening agent, or diluted to make almond milk as a substitute for cow’s milk, which is now available from supermarkets.
Sugar, first tasted by the Crusaders, was so rare and expensive that it was treated as a spice and kept under lock and key – although I did allow the wise woman, Gytha, in Yvonne, Lady of Cassio, to use some to prepare the candied flowers she sold. And, it is worth noting that by this period rice was served by the wealthy.
Spices were important because they masked the taste of food past its best and added flavour to salted and dried foods eaten in winter. Mustard and saffron was grown locally. Pepper was imported in vast amounts and used by everyone, but they could not afford the cost of cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, nutmeg and mace, as well as spices uncommon today such as galingale, grains of paradise and cubebs.

Pottage
1 1/2 pints vegetable stock.
3 medium sliced leeks.
4 sliced celery sticks.
¼ shredded white cabbage.
2 sliced turnips.
2 sliced large carrots.
4 ounces white breadcrumbs.
A few strands of saffron.
Salt and ground black pepper to taste.

Bring the soup stock to the boil. Add the vegetables and simmer until the vegetables are soft. Stir in the breadcrumbs, saffron, salt and pepper. Bring back to the boil and cook for 2 or 3 minutes.

Abbreviated Extract from Yvonne Lady of Cassio

1314

   “The north wind hurled snow across the undulating downs, over the river and across the moat covered with opaque ice thick enough to walk on. In Cassio Castle log fires roared up the chimneys Simon of Cassio had been so proud of. Those enjoying the New Year feast at midday on the twenty-fourth of March were glad of the warmth.
   Nicholas sipped some clarry. The spiced wine, sweetened with honey, slid down his throat. Delicious!”
   “Sir Nicholas, you should be cheerful at table. Why do you sigh so sorrowfully?” asked Margaret Beaumont, the fair-haired lady seated next to him.
   “Please pardon my discourtesy.”
   “What troubles you?” Margaret asked.
   “Nothing, my lady.” Nicholas looked at their shared platter of chicken, stewed with dried herbs, white wine and onions. He must be courteous. “May I put some rice on your trencher? It is a rarity and looks tasty.”
   “Yes, it does, I think it is boiled with saffron and almonds. I would like some. Now tell me if you are glum because of the king’s writ?”
   She referred to the command for the magnates and their armed contingents to muster at Berwick on the tenth day of June.
   “No, I am not,” he replied. For certes he looked forward to training new men-arms in his father’s contingent after his return home in a few days. He resisted the temptation to speak of war, which might either bore her or alarm her. “Would you like some brewet?”
   No thank you, I can’t stomach it.”
   Nicholas sniffed the delicious aroma. “This is one of my favourite dishes.” His mouth watered as he ladled a portion of the brewet, with a consistency between meat and onion stew and soup, seasoned with salt, pepper, parsley and saffron, onto his side of the trencher.”

“At the high table. Yvonne accepted a piece of marchpane, part of a subtlety in the shape of Cassio Castle made to grace the feast.”

Novels by Rosemary Morris

Early 18th Century novels
Tangled Love, Far Beyond Rubies, The Captain and The Countess

Regency Novels
False Pretences, Sunday’s Child, Monday’s Child, Tuesday’s Child, Wednesday’s Child, Thursday’s Child – to be published in July 2018

Mediaeval Novel
Yvonne Lady of Cassio. The Lovages of Cassio Book One






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