Write a cozy? Me?

 

Sometimes the universe converges and the stars align.

I’d been writing hard-boiled mysteries and I thought any lesser character than say, Mike Hammer, just wasn’t going to cut it in the mystery marketplace. That’s when my wife caught me off guard.

“Honey, you’re through with your latest blood-spattered thriller. Why don’t you write one of those British-style mysteries, the ones where someone dies, maybe by poison, but the author doesn’t dwell on the murder. The book is devoted to solving the mystery through shrewd policework, rather than following bloody footprints until the shootout in the end.”

I seized up. A British-style mystery? A cozy? Me?

Still pondering the prospect of writing a cozy, I ate lunch the next day with a group of friends. Brian, a jovial fellow, enjoyed joking with me about becoming the next Arthur Conan Doyle. He cornered me after lunch and asked a simple question, “Have you ever considered setting a mystery in my hometown, Two Harbors, Minnesota? There are lots of colorful people and I’d be happy to help you with settings and background.” I laughed, thanked him, and moved on. I’d never been to Two Harbors and knew little about the town except it was nearly tied with Frostbite Falls as the coldest spot in Minnesota.

My wife and I were dealing with another non-urgent emergency related to the custodial care of her mother, her aunt, my father, and my uncle. We’d run the gamut of issues and had gone from groans and eye rolls, to chuckles as the situations became inane. The latest was a call from my father. “You’ve got to move me. Someone ate my dinner brownie while I was in the bathroom and I can’t stay in a place where people don’t respect your right to have your brownie left alone until you return from the toilet.”

That night was my convergence. I sat down and wrote a chapter of a cozy, set in a Two Harbors senior residence. I brought it to lunch the next day and handed it to Brian. He munched on his sandwich as he read, his eyes twinkling. He pushed it back to me and said, “Nice start. I’ll bring you more fodder tomorrow.” The next day he arrived at the lunch table with a one-inch stack of recipe cards. He split them into two piles: characters and locations.

Months later I had a draft of a cozy. I’d incorporated what I thought was tasteful humor, but I had no idea if “it worked.” A dear retired friend, Nancy, has read all my books and is an avid reader of anything hinting of mystery. I emailed the computer file to her and asked for her opinion. There was an email in my inbox the next evening with the subject line, “WHEN’S THE SEQUEL?” I called and asked if any of the humor had resonated with her. Her response, “I spent the whole night mopping my tears of laughter. Yes! I love the humor!”

The protagonist is Peter Rogers, the recreation director of the Whistling Pines Senior Residence. The supporting characters include an understated police chief, an elderly neighbor who shoots at “vermin” in her urban yard with antique guns, and a host of senior citizens who, through their everyday lives, cause Peter no end of grief.

My most recent cozy, published this past October by BWL Publishing, is Whistling up a Ghost. (Spoiler alert) Peter is now married to his long-time girlfriend Jenny, and they’re moving into an old mansion given to them as a wedding gift. Eerie footfalls in the attic drive Jenny’s eight-year-old son to their bed the first night in the new house. The ghostly encounters continue to vex the newlyweds, who are convinced there is a worldly answer to the seemingly otherworldly events.

Meanwhile, the town finds a time capsule during the demolition of the bandshell. When it’s opened on live television, a gun, a poem, and a newspaper clipping spill out, providing hints about a 1950’s murder, an event that every Whistling Pines resident recalls. Not surprisingly, each resident also has an opinion about the murder and murderer. Peter is asked to sort the swirling Whistling Pines rumors from the facts, sucking him into the middle of a mystery as he and Jenny try to prepare their haunted house for their first Christmas as a married couple. Between the ghost, the antics of the city band, the Whistling Pines residents, and Jenny’s usually reserved parents, Peter and Jenny work through the ghost and time capsule mysteries. Just when they think all the mysteries have been solved, the ghost makes one more appearance on Christmas Eve.

Although I readily admit to skepticism about writing a cozy, I now know they’re fun for both the reader and the writer. In some ways, writing a cozy more challenging than a darker mystery, having to dance around the issue of death while still writing a murder mystery. Creating the senior citizen characters is a riot and my friend, Brian, has a never-ending stack of note cards with more characters, plot ideas, and locations. When I finished Whistling up a Ghost, I thought it would be the last of the series. It isn’t. BWL is publishing Whistling up a Pirate later this year.

Please offer you thoughts and comments about Whistling up a Ghost, the Whistling Pines series, or cozies in general. I’d love to see your responses.

A Legacy

 

https://books2read.com/Her-Scottish-Legacy

 As defined in the dictionary, a legacy is a gift, by will, especially of money or other personal property; something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.

I’m not sure that today’s generation feels the same way about legacies as those of generations past. Our lives today seem more filled with disposable things and things not meant to last. As I look around my house, it’s certainly not filled with antique furniture from my grandparents or pictures that once hung in the parlor. I do have a small packet of letters that my dad wrote my mom back in 1946 when he left for Germany a month after they were married. When my parents died, they left the grandkids money, which according to definition is a legacy, but it’s not the same as something lasting such as jewelry, a pocket knife or a small memento from a life well lived.

Our history is also being lost because of technology. We don’t write letters; we send emails which are read then deleted to make room for more. We don’t have to write diaries or journals for those who come later to know our history. Everything you ever wanted to know is posted on multiple sites on the internet. While information is readily available, it has lost the personal element of the writer who took the journey. If you are one of the few who journal, you have a legacy for your children and grandchildren. You don’t have to have done something incredible like bicycle across the country or climb the highest mountain and then write about it to leave a legacy.

While the definition I found tends to make one think of tangible things, a legacy can certainly be intangible. I was brought up in a strict household where you said “yes, sir” and were expected to do your best – in school or at a job. I tried to instill those same attributes in my children. I can remember once when my high school daughter not so jokingly said “damn your work ethic” because her friends were playing hokey from work and she couldn’t make herself call in sick to her work place.

My love of writing a good story is another legacy I hope to pass down, although it has apparently skipped my children and gone directly to my grandchildren. At age “almost 13”, my granddaughter has been writing stories for several years, some with quite involved characters and plot lines. My 10 year old grandson prefers his stories full of monsters and explosive action, accompanied with original drawings of said exploding universes. That same grandson has my father’s surname as his middle name…another legacy from the past.

Do you have legacies – things passed down to you? Are they from more than one generation in the past? More important, do you know the stories behind them?

Writing “Her Scottish Legacy” led to quite a bit of mystery in the process of Heather and Hunter discovering her legacy, left undetected for over twenty-five years. Available as an ebook at any of your favorite online retailers https://books2read.com/Her-Scottish-Legacy and in print through Amazon. Her Scottish Legacy: Baldwin, Barbara: 9780228616153: AmazonSmile: Books  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did while writing-- especially all the Scottish history and learning about the textile industry of the time.

Wishing you a creative and healthy New Year,

Barb Baldwin

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

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

 

 

 

 

Margaret Hanna Guest Author - Finding Mary’s Voice

Visit Margaret's BWL Author Page for book and purchase information

In case you hadn’t notice, I write. At least, I try to write. It isn’t easy, not for me, anyway. Questions abound – What do I write about? Will it make sense? Is what I’ve written what I really want to say? Will anyone read it? Will anyone care?

The pundits say, Write for yourself and the readers will come. Perhaps they’re right.

As of now, I am writing (trying to write) an historical novel, except it isn’t really a novel. Like many movies, it is “inspired by . . .” because it is more or less the life of my maternal grandmother after she immigrated to Canada from England in 1912.

The facts are no problem. Creating the scenes around the facts is not too much of a problem. Finding Mary’s voice is the problem.

Unlike my maternal grandmother, who died when I was eight, I knew my paternal grandmother, Addie Hanna, very well. I had no problem finding her voice when I wrote "Our Bull's Loose in Town!" Tales from the Homestead. Check it out, but be prepared to meet an opinionated woman who doesn't hesitate to tell it like she sees it.

The story is presented through Mary’s diary so finding her voice is essential. I have several letters that my grandmother wrote so you would think that finding her voice would be a snap – just copy her style.

It isn’t that easy. I struggled but what appeared on my computer screen just didn’t sound like her or at least how I imagined she would write. Then someone suggested I uncap my good old fountain pen from my high school days (no ball point pens back in 1912) and write something by hand. With ink. On paper. As Mary would have done.

I couldn’t believe it – Mary’s voice appeared like magic. It’s almost, but not quite, a stream-of-consciousness voice and why not? This is a diary, after all, and a diary is where you pour out your heart and soul.

I wrote the first several diary entries by hand with fountain pen and then transcribed them to computer. Her voice is now ensconced in my head so I can write most diary entries directly on the computer but whenever I run into trouble, when her voice eludes me, I go back to fountain pen and paper and, lo and behold, she is back with me.

This isn’t the first time I discovered the mind-hand connection can be messed up by technology. Back in university days, I wrote my term paper drafts by hand and then typed them (anyone remember typewriters?) before handing them in. One day, I had a Eureka moment – why don’t I “write” the drafts directly on the typewriter before doing cut-and-paste the old-fashioned scissors-and-tape way. I inserted the first sheet of paper into the typewriter, rolled it through the platen and poised my fingers over the keyboard.

Nothing! That piece of paper stared back at me and dared me to put a single letter, never mind a word or sentence or paragraph, on it. It was as if the neural circuit connecting the words in my mind to my fingers above the keyboard had suddenly been disconnected. That first draft was a struggle to put on paper but eventually the new mind-hand circuit grew and it was no longer so difficult.

Then came the computer era. I acquired my first computer in 1982 – two floppy disk drives, 64K memory, 84-character green screen and a word processing program that required embedded dot-commands to format the text. Transitioning from typewriter to computer would be a piece of cake, or so I thought.

Ha! The first time I tried to write, that dratted green cursor blinked back at me, daring me to put a (virtual) word on that (virtual) paper. I could hear it laughing at me. Once again, it seemed as if the mind-hand circuit had been disconnected and, once again, I had to build a new one.

Now, it is normal for me to sit at my computer and type away. The words flow with little effort (okay, not always, but mostly) from what’s in my mind to what appears on the (virtual) paper.

Which brings me back to my recent discovery, that the technology I use has helped me find Mary’s voice. Why is that?

 If there’s a neuroscientist out there reading this, perhaps she can explain.

 I certainly can’t.

How do you say Snow? by J. S. Marlo

 

J. S. Marlo's BWL Books

I have often heard that Inuit people have more than 50 words for snow. It's not quite true, but they do have many words for snow.

Back in November, I was checking the weather, and one day I saw a term I'd never heard before: light snow grains. The grains threw me for a loop. I was taking a long walk that morning, and the white stuff resembled prickly snow, so once I got back, I googled snow grains. From there, since I like for my stories to take place in the winter, I looked at how many different kind of snow term I could find in English.

Snow: Frozen precipitation in the form of white or translucent ice crystals in complex branched hexagonal form. It most often falls from stratiform clouds, but can fall as snow showers from cumuliform ones. At temperatures > than -5 °C, the crystals generally cluster to form snowflakes.

Wet snow: Snow with a high moisture content.

Dry snow: Snow with a low moisture content.

Snow grains: Frozen precipitation in the form of very small, white opaque grains of ice. The solid equivalent of drizzle. Their diameter is generally < 1 mm. When grains hit hard ground, they do not bounce or shatter. They usually fall in very small quantities, mostly from Status clouds or fog and never in the form of a shower.

Snow pellets: Frozen precipitation of particles of either spherical or conical ice; their diameter is about 2 to 5 mm. They are brittle, easily crushed, and unlike hail, when they fall on hard ground, they bounce and often break up. Snow pellets always occur in showers and are often accompanied by snowflakes or raindrops when the surface temperature is around 0 °C.

Blowing snow: Snow particles violently stirred up by wind to sufficient heights above the ground to reduce visibility to 10 km or less.

Snow squall: A heavy snow shower accompanied by sudden strong winds.

Frost: Frost is the condition that exists when the temperature of the air near the earth or earth-bound objects falls to freezing or lower (0 °C). Alternately, frost or hoar frost describes a deposition of ice crystals on objects by direct sublimation of water vapour from the air.

Hail: Precipitation of small balls or pieces of ice with a diameter ranging from 5 to 50 mm or more. Hail is generally observed during heavy thunderstorms.

Ice: The solid form of water. It can be found in the atmosphere in the form of ice crystals, snow, ice pellets, and hail for example.

Ice crystals: Precipitation in the form of slowly falling, singular or unbranched ice needles, columns, or plates. They make up cirriform clouds, frost, and ice fog. Also, they produce optical phenomena such as halos, coronas, and sun pillars. May be called "diamond dust." Precipitation of ice crystals in the form of needles, columns or plates sometimes so tiny, they seem suspended in air. They are mainly visible when they glitter in sunshine and occur only at very low temperatures and stable air masses.

Ice pellets: Precipitation of transparent or translucent pellets of ice, which are spherical or irregular shaped, having a diameter of 5 mm or less. They are classified into two types: hard grains of ice consisting of frozen rain drops or largely melted and refrozen snowflakes; pellets of snow encased in a thin layer of ice which have formed from the freezing of droplets intercepted by pellets or water resulting from the partial melting of pellets. Ice pellets usually bounce when hitting hard ground and make a sound on impact. They can fall as continuous precipitation or in showers.

Freezing rain: Rain, the drops of which freeze on impact with the ground or with objects at or near the ground.

Freezing drizzle: Drizzle, the drops of which freeze on impact with the ground or with objects at or near the ground.

Can I tell the difference between  all of them when I'm outside? Most of the time, but I oblivious didn't know about snow grains LOLOL

One thing I can say, it's how cold it gets in my northern corner of the world.  

It's so cold...we had to chop up the piano for firewood.  Ya, we only got two chords.

It's so cold...grandpa's teeth were chattering.  In the glass!

It's so cold...eating ice cream was knocked down to #4 in the "Top Five Ways to get a Brain Freeze".

It is so cold...we can toss a cup of hot water in the air and hear it shatter into ice crystals.

Happy reading! Stay Warm & Safe!

Many hugs!

JS

 

J. S. Marlo's Website

Sleigh Ride! by Eileen O'Finlan

 

Click here for purchase information

Click here to visit Eileen O'Finlan's website

I can't believe I've lived in New England all my life and I've never been on a sleigh ride. Well, it will have to go on my bucket list. Especially after the fun my characters, Meg, Kathleen, and Nuala had when they indulged in a sleigh ride. Meg, Kathleen, and Nuala are domestic servants in Worcester, Massachusetts in the 1850s. Irish immigrants, they all came from the horrible starvation of An Gorta Mor, the Great Hunger. They were lucky to survive. But now they have new lives in America. It's not all fun. They work hard sun-up to sun-down and then some. But unlike their lives in Ireland, they are able to earn good enough livings to send money back to their families, save for their futures, and partake of an occasional indulgence. Usually it involves clothing that mimics that of their employers. But on a day in February they decide to find out why the children of their employers are so fond of sleigh rides and pool their money to hire a sleigh and driver for themselves. Here's a peek at what happens:

Blankets and foot warmers in hand, the three bounded out the door. Two large chestnut horses trotted up the street, stopping in front of the house. The sleigh driver was the same Irishman who had taken the Claprood girls and their cousins for a ride.

“Where to?” he asked, jumping down to assist them into the sleigh.

“Anywhere you like,” Nuala told him. “We're out for enjoyment. It doesn't matter where we go.”

A flicker of recognition showed on his face as Nuala spoke, her brogue giving her away. “You lasses are the helps?”

“Aye,” said Nuala, “but today we're your passengers.”

Looking at Meg, he furrowed his brow. “Didn't I see you at the Claproods'?”

“You did. I work for them.”

A broad grin spread across his face. “This is a grand thing indeed!”

“What do you mean?” Kathleen asked.

“'Tis the first time I've driven Irish lasses. It's always Yanks that hire me. We're every bit as good as they are even if they don't know it, aye? One day we'll be as successful as them. Then you'll ride in sleighs and carriages anytime you want.”

They all giggled at the thought. Meg wondered if it could really be possible.

“What's your name?” Nuala asked.

“Seamus O'Herilhy, at your service, m'ladies,” he said, with a sweeping bow that from most people would have seemed mocking, but from their countryman held an air of genuine respect.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Seamus O'Herilhy,” Nuala responded. “I'm Nuala O'Flaherty, and these are my friends, Meg and Kathleen O'Connor.”

“A pleasure it is,” he said with a smile before climbing onto the driver's box. With a snap of the whip, the horses were in motion.

For the next two hours they traversed the hills and valleys of Worcester. It was obvious that Seamus knew the city well. They headed northwest to the Tatnuck section. Filled with meadows, pastures, and farmland, Tatnuck appeared like a fairyland. Last night's snowfall covered the landscape like a pristine white cape with a million glistening diamonds. Only where farmers had gone about their chores was the seamless white garment rent by plodding footprints.

Wind whipped their faces as the sleigh sped along, the horses picking up speed in the open fields. Meg gazed wide-eyed at the world of white domed by a clear blue sky. The easy glide of the runners with their accompanying whoosh made her grin so hard it hurt. She'd never before felt such exhilaration.

Nuala nudged her. “Aye, but this is exciting!” she exclaimed.

Meg nodded, the bracing air stealing her breath. She glanced at Kathleen. She, too, was grinning as she peered first one direction then another. The big draft horses kicked up sprays of snow as they ad-vanced, their bells resounding in the brisk air. The sleigh slowed as they crested a hill, then sped up again as it raced down the other side. The friends screamed with delight, falling into a fit of laughter upon reaching the bottom.

Public Domain picture

Knights in the Age of Chivalry by Rosemary Morris

 

For more information on Rosemary's books please click on the cover. 

Knights in the Age of Chivalry

 

My novel, Grace, Lady of Cassio, The Lovages of Cassio, Book Two, sequel to Yvonne, Lady of Cassio, begins in the reign of Edward III. It will be published in October 2021.

At heart I am a historian. My novels are rich in historical detail which requires intensive research, some of which I am sharing in this blog.

 

The Path to Knighthood

At the age of seven a knight’s son served in another knight’s household, often his maternal uncle’s, where he trained to fight, first with a wooden sword. At sixteen, he knew knights should be courteous to each other and had been taught the four cardinal rules of chivalry - piety, prowess, loyalty, and moderation. Before being knighted, he had learned the skills necessary for an expert jouster. As a knight his raison d’etre was to fight.

Prior to being dubbed a knight, a squire bathed him before he dressed in white clothes and a red robe. At night, he stood or knelt in front of the altar in the chapel or Church for ten hours in solitude and silent prayer. At dawn, he attended Mass before presentation to his lord by two sponsors. The lord presented him with the sword and shield which were on the altar during the vigil. After an older knight struck him on his neck or cheek with his hand or the flat of his sword, the young knight swore a holy oath to dedicate his sword to justice, piety, the orphaned, the oppressed, the church and the widow.

Tournaments.

In tournaments aristocratic knights fought for fame and glory.

Jousting was dangerous. A late 14^th century knight wore armour weighing 80-100 lbs. He sat on a high saddle, charging at a closing speed of 40 miles per hour on a destrier weighing 200 lbs. He bore a lance with which all the potentially lethal force was concentrated on a steel tip. Jousts of peace with capped lances were less dangerous although a knight might fall from his horse, die, or be seriously injured.

A Perfect Knight

Although a knight was a fighting machine, when he removed his armour, he was expected to be courteous, gentle, devout, and cultured. John of Salisbury, a cleric, listed some of a knight’s duty. To defend the Church, to assail infidelity, to venerate the priesthood, to protect the poor from injuries…to pour out his blood for his brothers (as the formula of his oath directs him).

Tenants in Chief

Lords who had been knighted held their principal estates from the king and were called tenants-in-chief. They received a summons to attend each parliament and constituted the House of Lords. They were bound to serve the king with their retinues at their own expense for forty days each year at home or abroad.

Household knights.

Household knights promised to serve an overlord loyally for life in peace and war, wherever he was needed. He would serve at his overlord’s expense, be clothed by him, and provided with a suitable horse.

Clergy. Military Orders

 

The Order of the Temple abolished in 1308) and The Hospital of St John of Jerusalem (Hospitallers) Orders of knights were originally established to protect the routes to the Holy Land.

 

www.rosemarymorris.co.uk

 

http://bookswelove.net/authors/morris-rosemary

 

Writing and Working from Home with Cats by Diane Bator

 

Writing and Working from Home with Cats

Every book I write, I create with a partner. Usually my cat Jazz who has become like a barnacle at my side daily and hates when I have to get up for any reason.

I am one of those people who have been working from home for the past nine months. There are a lot of good and bad that go along with that. For example, I’m thrilled to finally have a home office, but that only happened because my youngest moved out mid-pandemic. I also love that the bathroom is so much closer to my new office—but so is the kitchen. Rewarding myself for doing a good job has meant I wear yoga pants to work daily.

I have also had to juggle work and writing with two cats. While they weren’t too impressed with me being home every single hour of every single day, they seem to have adjusted. I can no longer sit in the livingroom during office hours. I can’t even go outside for a walk or run to the store without a lecture when I get home. Since my older cat Jazz is part Siamese, he can become very vocal.

Considering my normal job is selling tickets for a live-stage theatre, things were pretty quiet at my desk. Things have picked up a little now that we’ve moved to online performances. Still, there are days where I don’t have a great deal to do but stuff envelopes or help troubleshoot—and keep my cats amused.

So here are my top 10 ways I’ve kept busy over the past nine months:

1.  Cleaned and set up my new office.
2.  Rearranged my new office because there is only one set of plugs in the room.
3. Added a throw blanket and a rug under my desk because there is no heat vent in my office.
4. Weighed the pros and cons of moving the coffeemaker to my office from the kitchen which is ten feet away…then considered the lack of empty surfaces to keep said coffeemaker and the creamer. There may or may not be a hoarding issue in that room.
5. Added a second chair to attempt to keep my cat Jazz off my desk.
6. Stocked up on wipes since Jazz still feels the need to walk on the four inch path between me and my laptop at least twice during every Zoom meeting and leaves a trail of white hair behind.
7. Added another rug for my other cat Ash after stepping on her when she took to sleeping beneath my desk on the first rug.
8.  Started taking lunch breaks in the livingroom because Jazz feels the need to get away from the computer for several hours a day to have my undivided attention.
9. Started wearing slippers because Ash has claws and loves to play with my feet under my desk.
10.  Occasionally getting actual work done once Jazz and Ash are fed and appeased. Considering moving their food dishes ten feet closer to my desk…

I’m happy to say I have accomplished a little writing in between meetings and moving the cat off my desk. This year I have two new books coming out as well as a novella I wrote some time ago. I’m looking forward to another productive year. It helps to keep things light. A great sense of humour goes a long way!

                                                                     

By the way, Jazz has now become an honorary member of our staff as well as a couple writing groups I belong to. He loves to see who is on the screen during each meeting and sleeping next to me no matter what I do.

Ash is a lady of leisure. She prefers to keep her distance and join us at her own discretion.

As for me, I’ve been out of the office for the holidays. I’m currently organizing my calendars for 2021 and writing in my livingroom soon…

Happy New Year, everyone! 

 Diane Bator

 http://bookswelove.net/bator-diane/

The Man With The Hat

 

 

The Man with the Hat

Buying a first home is exciting at best. Our purchase was just that. An older home, needing much work, but it was ours. The first night my husband went back to work after we moved into our almost century old home, I went to bed exhausted, but happy.

Just as I dozed off, a noise came from the basement.  Our dog started barking. Scared half out of my wits, I picked up the phone and called my sister, who lived two streets away. She sent her husband over to check things out.

Doug looked around the house and didn’t see anything unusual. However, my dog refused to come into the dining room.  She stood in the hall growling and barking. Normally, a quiet dog, this was unusual for her.  Doug called her from the kitchen. She didn’t move. I called from the living room. She refused to come to either one of us. Her gaze focused on something across the room. Neither Doug nor I saw anything. Surely, if it was a mouse, she would have chased it. Her actions perplexed us.

Doug, seeing my fear, suggested we pack up my kids and spend the night at their house. I’m sure he just wanted to go home to bed.

In the morning, we returned home and all seemed normal. All day our dog ran through the house with the kids. Nothing distracted her.

That night the same thing happened. This time, as Doug started down the basement steps, he stopped, came back, and took a knife out of the kitchen drawer.

He swore someone was watching him. He checked out the basement and everything seemed normal. Again, we spent the night at their house. 

This went on for several nights. Doug came over and took us to his house.  The nights Roger was home we didn’t hear anything and the dog remained calm. Roger insisted it was my imagination, but Doug confirmed the actions of the dog.

When Roger went to work, it happened again. This time Doug brought a tape recorder to our house and set it up in the dining room before we left.

The next day, we played the tape.  Sounds of our dog growling and barking were predominant, but in the background were other sounds that we couldn’t identify. Sounds like chains being pulled across the floor and others noises sounding like scratches and moans.

No doubt, Doug was getting tired of picking us up every night, and I’m sure my sister, although she didn’t say anything, was tired of us intruding. Besides, I I wasn’t crazy about waking my kids every night. Eventually, I’d have to stay home. Noise or no noise. I’d just have to get used to it. This was our home after all. Somehow, I tuned out the noises, quieted the dog and managed to sleep.

A few days later, my three daughters played upstairs in their room.  They screamed and ran down stairs.  “There’s a man up there,” they cried in unison.

Since we’d been home all day, it was impossible. But to appease them, I went up to check.  They insisted a man with a hat had been watching them.

Of course, no one was there.  I explained it was a shadow of a bird going past the window.   Although the room felt much colder than normal, and I had an eerie feeling.

My daughters described him clearly, a tall man, in a brown suit coat, wearing a hat. They couldn’t make out his face, but they said he watched them play.

After that, they refused to play upstairs, and I often had a hard time getting them to go to bed at night.

Up until then things had been normal during the daylight hours. Now it seemed our nightly visitor had decided to appear when it was light out, too.

Also, until then, Roger thought it was my vivid writer’s imagination.  That is, he did, until one day, he was working in the basement.  He came upstairs, white faced.

“What’s wrong,” I asked.

“I just saw a man wearing a hat watching me. At first it was a shadow. But as I stared at it, his form became clearer.”

That shook me up. He described the man the same as the kids, we had a ghost. Roger now realized the noises weren’t my overactive imagination

I finally met some of the neighbors and told them my feelings of being watched.  I didn’t mention the man.

One neighbor said it was probably our nosy neighbor looking in the windows. I knew this wasn’t the case, but didn’t elaborate.

I asked another neighbor about the people who lived there before us.

“Oh, a nice old couple lived there. The wife died a long time ago. Her husband, John lived alone for a long time,” she said.   

Later I found out John died in the very bedroom I slept in.  Eventually I told my friend about some of the things that were going on. I asked about John and she said he was a nice old man, who kept mostly to himself. “He loved to work in his garden and yard. Funny,” she said. “He always wore a brown suit coat and a hat.”

John was our ghost. He appeared many times after that. Roger often saw him, especially when we remodeledthe kitchen. One of my sons said John used to sit on a chair upstairs and watch him play.

I never saw John, but I heard him and often smelled cologne or after shave. Several years later he simply disappeared.

You can find all of my books here. 

BWL Publishing Inc. New Releases January 2021

 

Just like jumping out of a plane without a parachute while holding a one-year-old baby in her arms, Janet and her husband, Ted, leap from the stability of family, friends, and financial security into the uncertainty of fulfilling their dream of owning and operating a floral business. Going against the norms of 1976, believing a woman’s place is in the home, she spends sleepless nights wrestling with how she can balance motherhood with the demands of working outside the home.

 With no knowledge or experience operating a business or selling fresh flowers, can they safely land on their feet? The shop owners, Nellie and Jack, whom they’d just met, assure Ted and Janet the flower business is healthy, and they will help them learn how to run the operation. But can they be trusted? Janet and Ted face the monumental task together to nurture their baby daughter and their new business.

 Follow their inspiring story, filled with the joy and triumphs and the obstacles and failures experienced by these blossoming entrepreneurs as they travel along the turbulent path of turning dreams into reality.

A Harrington House New Year’s Eve by A.M.Westerling

 

https://bookswelove.net/westerling-m/ 

Sleet and howling gusts of wind battered the windows of Harrington House but inside the drawing room, a fire crackled merrily in the grate and candles set in freshly polished silver sconces cast a golden glow throughout the room. Lady Evelyn Harrington wandered about the room, fingering the beribboned evergreen boughs and adjusting the sprig of mistletoe hung in the doorway. Nothing must be out of place, everything must be perfect. She lifted her nose and inhaled the spicy fragrance of fresh cut evergreens. New Year’s Eve, seeing out the old year and bringing in the new, was quite the event in the Harrington household. Her teenage daughters, Sophie, Leah and Catherine, enjoyed it as much as Christmas.

Footsteps clumped down the hall and in strode her husband, Lord Oliver Harrington. “I see you’re making sure all is set for the evening’s festivities.”

She nodded then dropped into the nearest armchair. “Although I am rather afraid the weather has hampered our guests as they’re late. I do so hope nothing has happened to them.”

He winked at her. “Invitations to your evenings are highly sought after. Only out and out disaster would stop people from coming.”

A warm flush spread through her and she knew if she looked in a mirror her cheeks would be crimson. “Really, Oliver. You speak too highly of me.”

“Am I? I think not.” He crossed over to her and dropped a kiss on her nose before making his way over to the side table to pour himself a cognac. He sat down across from her and raised his glass before taking a sip.

Evelyn nodded. “I look forward to spending the evening with Vicar Sinclair and his wife and daughter.”

“Very thoughtful of you to invite them, my dear.”

“And it will be lovely to share our New Year’s Day feast with them tomorrow. House parties are delightful and it’s been far too long since we’ve held one.”

Her husband shook his head. “Yes, it shall be nice to put our troubles aside for awhile. The estate hasn’t been productive this past while but in the new year things shall be better, I’m sure. I’ll hire a new estate manager.”

Evelyn bit her lip and considered her husband’s words. Poor weather this past year and a shoddy performance by their previous overseer had affected their harvest. The man had been let go for thievery some weeks past but not until the damage was done. Although Oliver had posted notices to fill the position, no one in this isolated corner of Cornwall had responded, leaving Oliver to deal with the daily matters of running the vast Harrington estate. It filled his days until late in the evening.

The patter of soft soled slippers on bare floors almost drowned out the hubbub of girlish voices before their daughter Sophie burst through the door closely followed by her sisters. “Leah and Catherine are determined to see who stays up the latest,” she announced. “But it shall be me as I am the eldest.”

“If you stay up the latest, then I shall be the one to cream the well.” Leah cast a triumphant glance towards her elder sister.

Catherine, the youngest, said nothing, just looked at her both her sisters. “I don’t understand the fuss over drawing a bucket of water from a well,” she said finally. “It sounds like dreadful work to me.”

Evelyn chuckled. “None of you shall cream the well. That is only for young ladies looking to snare a husband and none of you are of an age.  If anyone is to cream the well, it shall be the vicar’s daughter. Gossip has it that the new constable is courting her. No, we’ll have no drawing of water” she continued. “Rather, once our guests arrive and before we usher out the old year and ring in the new, I should like Catherine to play Auld Lang Syne on the pianoforte accompanied by Sophie and Leah.”

The girls responded with a chorus of “Yes, Mama.” Leah and Catherine settled themselves on the settee but Sophie remained on her feet and twirled about slowly, inspecting every detail. “The drawing room looks ever so festive,” she said before dropping into the nearest armchair.

Evelyn leaned back against the thick cushions and regarded her daughters: Sophie, the independent one who preferred riding and outdoor pursuits as much as she enjoyed making her own decisions; Leah, the prim and proper miss who spent many hours with her poetry but had recently become obsessed with marriage; and Catherine, the quiet one who played the pianoforte beautifully but consequently spent many hours on her own. The eldest two were tall and dark like their father; the youngest blonde and curvy like Evelyn. She shook her head, marveling how she and Oliver had produced three wonderful, yet entirely different, daughters.

A knock sounded and Montgomery, the butler, inserted his balding head. “I’m afraid I have rather bad news for you, my lord.”

“Oh?” Oliver swiveled his head to regard him.

“It’s the weather, sir. The vicar and his wife have sent their regrets. Do you wish to send a response with their man servant?”

“I suppose I can’t really blame them.” Evelyn tried to keep her disappointment in check. The party was meant to lift Oliver’s spirits. It appeared disaster had happened after all for their guests to cancel. They would have to make the best of the evening on their own, she decided. “Do send the poor fellow to the kitchen to warm up and make sure he gets something to eat and drink. I’ll send them a note in a day or two to reschedule.”

The butler nodded and withdrew from the room.

“Ha. Then I shall be the one to cream the well after all.” Satisfaction filled Leah’s voice.

“It’s silly anyway. Who cares if you’re the first to draw a bucket of water,” Sophie sniffed. “Besides, it’s a useless endeavour for to be truly effective, one’s sweetheart must drink of the freshly drawn water.” She slanted a glance to her sister. “You don’t have a sweetheart.”

“Oh, there’s still good use for the first bucket. We’ll set you to washing the cow’s udders with it,” teased Evelyn. “To ensure they give plenty of milk in the new year.”

A horrified look cascaded across Leah’s face. “Oh no,” she said. “I’ll not touch them.”

Another knock sounded on the door and this time Montgomery stepped fully into the drawing room. “The hearths are clean and all ashes, scraps and rags consigned to the dust bin. Cook has done her best to clean out the larder and there will be a fine supper later. Whatever she can’t use will go to the household staff and tenant farmers.”

“Yes, a thorough cleaning invites good luck for the upcoming year.” Evelyn nodded. A spot of good luck is just what we need, she thought. She glanced over at her husband. Although he tried to put on a brave face, worry rimmed his eyes and deepened the creases on his cheeks. Did she imagine it or did more streaks of grey lighten his brown hair? The situation with the estate manager had affected him more than he wanted to admit.

“Then as midnight approaches, we shall sit in a circle and Papa will open the front door to welcome the new year and Montgomery shall open the back door to usher out the old.” Leah clapped her hands.

“The cold winter air is invigorating.” Sophie smiled. “I love it. It clears one’s head.”

“Hmmph. Cold air makes it difficult to work one’s fingers on the keys.” Catherine frowned then brightened. “But I accept the challenge.”

Dear girls. They’d tried to keep things as normal as possible for them even though recently Oliver’s time of necessity was taken with managing their affairs meaning he hardly saw his family at all. Evelyn understood this but sometimes children didn’t.

The grandfather clock in the corner struck seven, its chimes crashing through the air as heartily as those of the many church bells in London. Evelyn loved the sound. It reminded her of their courting days and wedding – they’d been married in that great city. “It’s a bit early,” she said, “but why don’t we arrange our seats in a circle already and play a round of Cross Questions and Crooked Answers while we wait for our dinner?” Soon laughter, jests and shouts rang through the room as they played the game and time passed quickly.

At nine pm, a line of footmen brought in platters of food which they placed on the side table. The Harringtons helped themselves to a fine repast of baked fish, sliced venison, lamb cutlets, beetroot, peas and asparagus, salad, cheese, nuts and buttered bread, followed by chocolate cream and a trifle.

“You’d scarce know the cook was using up the larder,” remarked Evelyn as she filled her plate. She returned to her chair and sat down, carefully balancing her full plate on her lap before unfolding her napkin and grabbing a lamb chop by the bone. She bit into the fragrant meat and savoured the flavour. No one could best the Harrington cook at preparing lamb.

“Mrs. Winston always fixes nice meals for us.” Sophie placed her plate on the arm of her chair and picked up her fork to stab at a piece of venison.

“It’s nice not to always be so proper,” Catherine chimed in. “I like eating with one’s plate on one’s lap. It’s like having a picnic indoors.” She finished her fish and tackled the asparagus.

“It can be rather messy, don’t you think?” Leah patted her lips with her napkin and placed her fork precisely in the centre of her plate.

“Oh, don’t be such a sour goose,” Catherine said. She waved her fork at her sister. “You can let your hair down every now and again, you know.”

Leah scowled. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

“Girls, this is not the night for your arguments,” interjected Evelyn. “Come, there’s still so much left to eat, let’s have another round, shall we?” She got to her feet and made her way to the table still overflowing with food.

By the time they finished their dinner, it was almost eleven.

“Should we play a hand or two of Speculation while we wait for midnight?” Evelyn looked around the room.

“Splendid idea.” Oliver pulled over a low table and positioned it between the circle of chairs.

Cards were shuffled and dealt and several hands played until Sophie was pronounced the winner. She sat back, a satisfied smile on her face. “That was fun, don’t you agree?”

“You’re only saying that because you won. You’d be pouting otherwise.” Catherine wagged her finger at her sister.

At five minutes to midnight, Oliver got to his feet and rang for the butler. “Time to open the doors.”

He returned just before the hands of the clock pointed to midnight. Twelve stately gongs rang out and they all got to their feet and raised their glasses in a toast. Thereupon, Catherine took her seat at the pianoforte and they joined in with Auld Lang Syne which ended with a burst of applause.

“Well, that should do it. All good luck through the front and bad luck through the back. We can shut the doors now.”

“When you return, we could play another round of Speculation. Or Charades,” suggested Evelyn. “It is New Year’s Eve after all. We needn’t end the party quite yet.”

Oliver nodded and left the room. The minutes passed and still he did not return. Despite the girl’s casual chatter while they waited, a frisson of fear scuttled across Evelyn’s scalp. What delayed him? She kept glancing to the door and was about to get to her feet in search of her husband when the front door slammed, rattling the windows and sending a gust of cold air barreling down the hall. The wind must have caught it.

Then the murmur of masculine voices drew closer until Oliver entered the drawing room followed by a tall, handsome, dark haired man with a rucksack slung over his shoulder. His clothes were serviceable yet clean, his boots new. A working man, thought Evelyn, but successful to sport such fine footwear.

The stranger bowed. “I’m afraid I’d hoped to be here sooner however the inclement weather slowed my progress. I saw your lights on and hoped you wouldn’t mind the intrusion at such a late hour.” He inclined his head. “Niall Smithers.”

“Mr. Smithers has come about the overseer’s position.” Oliver smiled. “It appears our new year is off to a lucky start.”

Leah’s eyes popped and she smoothed her skirts before her gaze wandered to the mistletoe hanging in the doorway. Evelyn shook her head. She knew exactly what her middle daughter was thinking: Here was a fine man to set her sights on. Mercy, she must have a word with Leah sooner rather than later about the proper comportment of young ladies around gentlemen, no matter their station. Sophie and Catherine, on the other hand, appeared immune to the man’s charms for the first idly flipped through a picture book and the latter stifled a yawn.

“How did you hear of us?” Evelyn asked. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you do sound Scottish. You are a long way from home.”

“My sister is married to one of your tenant farmers. She knew I was seeking employment and sent me a letter. Our parents are dead and she is my only sibling. I thought it a fine idea to move closer to her.”

Oliver held up a letter. “Mr. Smithers comes with the finest of references from the Duke of Abernathy. I offered him the position immediately.”

For the first time in weeks, his face lost that pinched look. Gratitude and relief flowed through Evelyn and she sagged back against the cushions. “So it seems these New Year’s Eve traditions do work.” She held out her hand and Oliver came over to grasp it and tuck it firmly in his fist.   “The Scots believe in first footing,” she continued. “The first visitor to cross the threshold after midnight on New Year’s Eve will determine our fortunes. One who is tall, dark and handsome is the best omen.” She eyed Mr. Smithers. “I should say that’s correct.”

“But it wouldn’t be complete without a fine bottle of whiskey for good cheer.” Smithers pulled a bottle out of his rucksack and placed it on the table.

“Then I should say a toast is in order,” Oliver said. “Here’s to better fortune for the Harrington estate.”

“I like the man,” Evelyn remarked later as she and Oliver readied themselves for bed.

“Yes. The Duke had nothing but the highest praise for Mr. Smithers. I feel fortunate to have engaged such a capable fellow. Already 1805 has taken a turn for the better.”

“Indeed it has.” Evelyn climbed into bed and held out her arms.