Sunday, December 5, 2021

Brief History of Christmas Trees by Rosemary Morris

 

To learn more about Rosemary please click on the cover.

Brief History of Christmas Trees


 Whatever their size Christmas trees topped with a star or an angel and bright with baubles, lights, tins and other decorations make my heart glow.

 Prior to bringing a tree indoors, pagans and Christians decorated their homes with holly, ivy and other greenery. During the winter the solstice reminded pagans that spring was near. The Romans brought fir trees into their temple when they celebrated Saturnalia. Christians believed greenery at home and in church represented life everlasting in heaven with God.

 It is said that on a night before Christmas day, the sixteenth century preacher, Martin Luther, walked through a forest. When he looked up through the branches, he saw stars shining brightly and wanted to share the experience with his family, so he brought a tree into his house and decorated it with candles.

  Germany has the credit for the  tradition of bringing Christmas trees indoors and decorating them with delicious gingerbread, gold-painted apples, and little ornaments made by glassmakers.

 However, the claim that Queen Victoria, and Albert, the Prince Consort, a German, were the first to install a Christmas tree in England is false. In the 1760’s Victoria’s ancestress, George III’s German wife, Charlotte, decorated a Christmas tree with her family. A tree was also set up in the Queen’s Lodge in Windsor where she held a party for children of noble families. Soon some rich families also installed decorated trees in their houses; and in 1848, the widespread tradition was created after The Illustrated London News published a drawing of the Christmas Tree at Windsor Castle.

 In 2004, Pope John Paul declared the Christmas tree is a 'symbol of Christ. He said that “this ancient tradition exalts the value of life and reminds Christians of the 'tree of life', which is found in the Bible's first book, Genesis”.

 Whether the trees are real or artificial many 21st century people still take pride in a beautifully decorated one which fills their hearts with joy.

 

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

 

rosemarymorris.co.uk

 


Saturday, December 4, 2021

Vinegar Pie for the Holidays, Anyone? by S. L. Carlson

I am S. L. Carlson, a proud and grateful BWL Publishing Inc. author. My books can be viewed and purchased by visiting https://www.bookswelove.net/carlson-s-l

 



 

Being in the midst of (or between) holiday cooking and eating, of course, I need to address the issue of food, both in reality, but also in stories.

 

Throughout my books, people eat. So do unicorns and trolls. But what food do they eat, you may wonder? Would it taste delicious? Bland? Awful?  Writing/Reading about sensory experiences help to remove the reader from their reality and place the reader into the novel’s presence.

 

Here is from War Unicorn: The Ring. Aldric is our hero; Neighbor is the unicorn.

 

“Aldric, stop.”

“What?”

“Your wish did not come true.”

Aldric froze, thinking about that for a moment. He released a mighty sigh and dropped cross-legged on the ground, slapping his palms to his cheeks and elbows to his knees. Neighbor yanked more grass and chewed it. His own stomach growled. He pulled up some grass himself and chewed it, spitting it right back out.

“How you can eat that stuff?”

“Carrots taste better,” Neighbor answered.

“Maybe I should wish for carrots, then. Is that a wish that would work?”

Neighbor shook her head and neighed a laugh.

  

What memory of a taste is vivid for you? What delicious food would you wish for? For me, it’s my grandmother’s lemon meringue pie.



My grandmother made the best lemon meringue pie I have ever-ever tasted. Ever since she died, I’ve tried eating and making dozens over the years, always hoping for that precious Grandmother’s Lemon Meringue Pie Taste. Grandmother was a farmer’s wife, plump and jolly. She was not a cookbook cook. She was a cook-and-taste-it cook. So, following her death, I continue my trial-and-error quest for that most tasty memory.

 


Interesting fact: Pre-electricity/refrigeration, citrus fruits were not available year-round in history, nor, naturally, in fantasy worlds, if you follow the rule of science/nature. So what did people actually use in pies when lemons weren’t in season? In case you skimmed over the title of this post: THEY USED VINEGAR!

 

Now your first reaction is probably similar to what my first reaction was -- vinegar: ugh! But in light of having written vinegar pies into one of my historical novels, I do what I always do. I make the dish so I can taste it and then describe it better in my novels than just using my imagination; for my first imagination-thought of vinegar pie was ugh!

 

It took me about twelve tries, tweeking here, tweeking there, to come up with a vinegar pie recipe which I really, really and actually do like. And today I will share it here with you readers because I really, really and actually do like you.

 

If you are brave enough to try this recipe, let me know if you love the pie or go ugh. I’m counting on the former. Happy holidays, with wishes for tasty treats.

 


S. L. CARLSON’S VINEGAR PIE RECIPE

 3 eggs                                                  3/4 cup granulated sugar

3/4 cup brown sugar                              1 stick melted butter

1 Tbsp cornstarch                                  2 Tbsp vinegar


1 Tbsp vanilla extract                             dash of nutmeg


                                1 unbaked 9" crust

 

Preheat oven to 300°. Mix eggs with butter. Add sugars and beat until

light and fluffy. Add and mix in remainder of ingredients. Pour into pie

crust. (Can add meringue.) Bake for about 75 minutes or until firm.


 

S. L. Carlson Blog & Website: https://authorslcarlson.wordpress.com

BWL Inc. Publisher Author Page: https://www.bookswelove.net/carlson-s-l


Friday, December 3, 2021

Happy National Peppermint Latte Day! ... by Diane Bator

 

 Happy National Peppermint Latte Day!


Yes, it's for real! (https://web-holidays.com/blog/2018/11/04/national-peppermint-latte-day/) 
Did you know that there is a holiday for nearly every day of the year? I discovered that a couple years ago when one of my co-workers decided it would be fun to have something to celebrate every day. I never really put much thought into that until this year.

The world has been a tumultuous place the past 2 years. We've been locked up, had shots we never thought we'd need, and discovered sources of anxiety we never thought we'd have. Truly, who would've thought we'd be afraid to be in the same room as other people?

When I was asked to write a blog for the holidays, my first thought was Bah-humbug. What's there to celebrate? Not even the characters in the Christmas book I'm working on seemed concerned about the holiday season so why should I?

Then I discovered that anything can be a source of celebration.


Even Peppermint Lattes.

So, how does this relate to writing? Procrastination for one. I found digging into what December celebrations made the calendar a pretty steep rabbit hole to fall into. Along the path, I also found inspiration in the form of Peppermint Latte Day which resulted in two of my characters discussing murder over Christmas cookies and a latte in my newest Sugarwood Mystery, Dead Man's Doll, coming in September 2022:

Sugarwood, Ontario was known for two things:  maple syrup and our Christmas tree lighting festival that always went off with a variety of creative challenges but never failed to impress. I just hoped we didn’t end up finding a body on a bench like we had during the town’s Halloween bash. Since we had four days to go, I’d taken to crossing my fingers whenever I thought about it.

“Do you think we have enough decorations?” Merilee Rutherford, my partner both in Stitch’n’Time and crime solving, had circled November twenty-seven with a fat, red marker weeks ago.

I gazed around our craft shop. Large shiny balls hung from the ceiling, strands of garland draped over the top of every cupboard and cabinet, and a four-foot tree glistened in the front window. We’d spent hours wrapping empty boxes to pile underneath and added a few needlepoint kits, fabric swatches, and sewing kits to attract customers.

I grinned. “I think Santa would feel right at home in our workshop. All that’s missing are the milk and cookies.”

Drake, my Golden Retriever-slash-Husky raised his head.

“How about a peppermint latte and cookies,” Merilee asked. “I could run up to the bakery and grab lunch complete with dessert.”

“Santa’s going to have to bring me a whole new wardrobe at this rate.” I tucked a thumb inside the waistband of my pants. They were getting snug already and it wasn’t even December. I started to tell her to hold the latte. No way was I giving up cookies before Christmas. In the end, I kept my mouth shut.

While Merilee was gone, Drake returned his attention to the heat vent while I finished hanging one last string of lights around the inside of the front window swaying to the soft Christmas music we’d already started to play.

Outside the gloom of the day was brightened by the swirling blue and red lights from a passing police car. Since there was no way anyone could be speeding on the roads given the current conditions, I had to assume the police were on their way to an accident.

Drake got up to amble toward the door.

“Do you need to go out?” I asked.

Rather than paw at the glass, he sat and yawned.

“Good to know it’s not an emergency.”

Less than a minute later, Merilee bustled through the front door carrying a cardboard tray and a paper bag. Drake stood as a string of drool seeped from the corner of his mouth.

I laughed. “You smelled cookies. What a surprise."  

And who says a character has to celebrate a traditional holiday? 


In the writing world we do this exercise every November called Nanowrimo. A short way of saying National Novel Writing Month. One of those events that is so crazy it requires an entire month rather than a day. What normal person would set a goal to write 50,000 words in 30 days? Of course, most writers celebrate Nanowrimo starting December 1st when we hibernate for about three days to catch up on sleep and ease the cramps from our fingers!

Here's a fun thing to do. Go to https://web-holidays.com/ , find your birthdate, and see what else you can celebrate along with it. Mine is National Cavier Day among others. 

If you do check out the daily list and run out of favorite things to celebrate in December, please keep in mind this is also National Eggnog and National Fruitcake Month. 

Cheers!

Diane







Wednesday, December 1, 2021

EBOOK READER GIVE AWAY CONTEST

 

 EBOOK READER GIVE AWAY CONTEST 

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FILL OUT THE CONTEST ENTRY FORM AND ENTER OUR CONTEST TO WIN AN EBOOK READER AND 3 HOLIDAY BOOKS

Every week we will draw three names from our Contest Entry form. Each name drawn will receive one of the three holiday ebooks . Once those three winners have acknowledged receipt of their ebook prize they will be entered into a Grand Prize Drawing for a Kindle eBook reader, to be drawn on December 15th.

     
 
     


Tuesday, November 30, 2021

What's Under the Bridge by Eden Monroe

 


 Books by Eden Monroe - Visit her BWL Author Page Here

I love Saint John, in fact I was born there. But that’s not why I chose it as the primary setting for my novel, Dare To Inherit. I picked Saint John because of its cool factor, and I’m not talking about ocean breezes and the refreshing spontaneity of sea fog. It’s just the vibe of the place in general. With a population of just over 70,000, this stalwart little city has been around for a while, once a major player in the era of tall ships. Located in beautiful southern New Brunswick, the picture province, it also happens to be Canada’s oldest incorporated city (1785).

Founded by British supporters from the American Revolution, Saint John has a distinctly colourful past, including quirky legends about the city itself and indeed the ocean that almost surrounds it. I’m thinking of one legend in particular, and that’s the one about the largest whirlpool that swirls menacingly under the Reversing Falls bridge. That’s where the St. John River passes through a narrow gorge before emptying into the cold deep waters of the Bay of Fundy. It sounds like a simple enough natural event, but catch the twice-daily tidal action that consists of two low tides and two high tides, each cycle being about twelve hours and ten minutes in duration, and that’s when things get really interesting. At some point the Bay of Fundy tide, the highest in the world by the way, actually pushes a powerful 673 kilometre river backward, churning otherwise quiet waters into dangerous rapids. It’s quite a sight, and people travel from all over the world to witness this tidal phenomenon. Incredibly treacherous, it’s been called the world’s greatest example of tidal impact on a river, and is in fact a natural wonder.

The only time it’s safe for a boat to pass through this chasm is during a very tiny, twenty-minute window between tidal extremes called slack tide, although there’s still that whirlpool….

(Photo credit: David Goss)

I personally went through these rapids at high tide, a passenger in a jet boat that circled, foolishly in hindsight, that dreaded whirlpool. I felt it was quite a feat for a Saint Johner to do that, having grown up hearing the nasty legend that there was once a man who fell into said whirlpool and came out with his hair turned snow white because of what he’d seen down there. I heard that story many times as a child, and it has never really died away because I still hear it repeated from time to time to this very day. It would be a lot closer to the truth to suggest that if someone went into the whirlpool, they wouldn’t be coming out alive. Like a black hole in space whose energy can suck in objects, a whirlpool operates on the same principle.

My uncle once told me that during the Second World War he watched someone throw an empty oil barrel into that whirlpool and minutes later it popped up to the surface further out in the bay. So whatever is down there, it’s sure not the tunnel of love.

The Reversing Falls bridge spans the approximately 200 metre-wide gorge. It could also be called the suicide bridge because of the countless people over the years who have taken the 135 foot (at high tide) plunge to their death in the icy waters below. I was just a little kid in the family car crossing the bridge one Sunday, when an obviously distraught  young man ran toward the railing and tried to jump, but fortunately pedestrians walking nearby managed to get him stopped. I can still see the look on the guy’s face; hear my mother scream, not wanting her children to see such a thing. A very difficult memory about what we came to know as a dangerous place.

Onshore, Saint John is known for the striking brick and stone architecture in its historic district. Two-thirds of the city was destroyed in the Great Saint John fire of 1877. Subsequent to that, an army of architects, masons and carpenters were summoned to Saint John to rebuild from the devastation, on a much grander scale, and they certainly were able to accomplish that. Germain Street, located in that Trinity Royal Heritage Conservation Area,eritage is a pretty, tree-lined thoroughfare, featuring shops, restaurants and heritage buildings. It’s also a popular tourist attraction for those who enjoy a pleasant stroll, and the location of Aunt Feenia’s lawyer’s office in Dare To Inherit.

            “The sun made a bold appearance early the next morning, not at all apologetic for its long absence in what so far had been an unnaturally gloomy fall. There was still a bite in the air though, and the wind had refused to subside altogether. Just before the appointed hour Chloe managed to snare the last parking space within two blocks of Ronald Stewart’s downtown office – a fourth floor walk-up in a red brick heritage building on Germain Street.

            “Once inside, in single file they climbed the stairs that were varnished a rich coffee brown, and worn bare in a center dip from countless footsteps seeking the upper stories. Suite 401 was easy to find because the name Ronald J. Stewart, Barrister & Solicitor, was boldly arranged in scripted black letters on a frosted half-glass door.”

There are many fascinating points of interest in Saint John, indeed too numerous to mention here, including the Saint John City Market in business since 1876, and narrowly escaping the 1877 fire. Not far away, tucked into a steep hillside, sits the Old Burial Ground, Saint John’s original cemetery where a number of the city’s United Empire Loyalist forefathers lie in, hopefully, peaceful repose. This unique uptown green space is not without its own particular attraction on a chilly autumn day, no matter the reason for passing through it.

 

“If she hadn’t been so single-minded of purpose she would have appreciated what remained of the glorious canopy of gold, orange and fiery red autumn leaves overhead - and those that crunched and crackled on the brick walkway under her suede boots. But Jocelyn was headed for the bus stop on Sydney Street and the No. 5 that would take her to the west side of the city and a liquor store where she was not likely to run into anyone she knew. Just picturing the deep amber glow of the 40-ounce bottle she would buy there quickened her step.”

While not exactly an attraction beyond its utilitarian purpose, the Saint John Airport on the eastern outskirts of the city greatly increased its size and runway capacity during the 1960’s. Now what’s this you might say? Eden, you’re going to talk about an airport? Sure, because I was onsite as a kid for at least a tiny part of that expansion, accompanying my father (us four kids each had a turn one day when he passed by our house) for a bumpy ride in the cement truck he drove, pouring the concrete for new runways during that sweltering summer. Dad was proud of his significant contribution to what at the time was a major infrastructure improvement, and a pretty big deal. It’s always fun to look back at stuff like that.

As an adult I’ve come and gone from that small airport countless times, and more than once in fog so thick you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face, as they say, but never, regrettably, to meet a sexy cowboy. Not like Chloe did in Dare To Inherit, when Ty came to town. Now that turned heads.

            “Chloe’s heart had started to sink but then she spied her handsome cowboy filling the doorway. Seeing Chloe he made a beeline across the room. Heads turned at the sight of Ty in his boots, levis, fleece-lined jacket and Stetson, but oblivious to the interest of onlookers they embraced and held on.

            ‘You’re on my turf now, Cowboy,’ she whispered playfully against his ear.”

Anything is possible in Saint John with its quaint east coast charm and tantalizing eccentricities, the fertile breeding ground for any number of authors. You’ll feel right at home there, the foghorn sounding its eerie warning at the mouth of the harbour on a cold foggy night, or is it a siren call to the sea…. And when you’re crossing the Reversing Falls Bridge, cast a glance or two over the side to a place where two ancient continents once met about 450 million years ago. There’s a lot going on, under the bridge.

Monday, November 29, 2021

Edge of the Frontier

                                             https://bookswelove.net/waldron-juliet/
 
                               "Red and White--at war in her world and in her blood."

Colonial America's early history tells the story of the--at first gradual, and, finally, as Europe burst figurative banks, the enormous wave of "people from over the sea" washed into what is today the U.S. 

I first became of aware of this history of colonization when I was seven, after a move from Ohio to New York State.  Mother relished history and so when she and my father house-hunted, she wanted to find as old a house as she could. I don't think Dad got much say in this, because he was all for "modern" anytime he could get it. Having been a teen through the Depression era had convinced him that electric lights, a furnace and flushing toilets were all desirable things

The house we moved into provided all that, although it had been originally built, near as anybody knew, a decade or so before 1800, probably during the time when newly independent Americans were spilling onto lands that had once belonged to the local and now dispossessed Iroquoian tribes.  Our house was small, a style that today is commonly called "Cape Cod" but it also had Dutch doors equipped with heavy iron hinges and which were locked with a bar. As this was near the Mohawk Valley, that the builders were Dutch and had been there before the War of Independence did not seem improbable. There was even a story about Indian attacks during the early days of the house, one which the restless spirits which we encountered almost as we took up residence did nothing to disprove. 


I recently took a New England trip to see an old friend and we decided to go a few miles north to Deerfield, to visit the National Historical site there. When I first saw those carefully preserved Georgian era Colonial houses along the main street, it seemed to me that this would be just another Tory New England town, one which was once filled with dour Calvinist merchants and landlords. I soon learned that during the Revolution, this town had remained loyal to the Crown. 

There were many reasons for this, one of which was that the original terms of the Massachusetts Bay colony. That stipulated that these Dissenters, freshly kicked out of England, could run the territory as a kind of fundamentalist kingdom, as long as they remained loyal and sent plenty of young men into the King's army whenever called upon to do so.  In this Puritan theocracy, citizens could be whipped (15-20 lashes!) and fined for not only more obvious Puritan sins like adultery and/or drunkenness, but for not attending the obligatory, (and endless) Sunday services. In many ways, however, in this period, local government was had many admirable qualities. The towns were administered by Selectmen, and legislation was by consensus instead of majority rule.  


          The minister's house, one of the largest in Deerfield, built for him by his flock.

When white immigrants first explored that area, they found an Algonquian tribe living in a stockaded town, while farming the rich bottom land around the Connecticut River. These were the Pocumtucks, and they lived (mostly) in harmony with their Algonquian relatives. At this time, European diseases, smallpox and measles, were already killing many Indians, while fighting over control over the fur trade increased every year, because those fabulous goodies like metal farming tools and cook pots, guns and wool blankets, etc. brought by European traders had opened a new world to a stone-age people. By the 1630's, these foreign trade goods were becoming indispensable.  

The Iroquois, fierce warriors, were "the enemy" for both the Algonquian tribes and the new immigrants alike. Their confederacy (Seneca, Onondaga, Cayuga, Oneida,) occupied New York State, but their war- path reach extended right across the Connecticut Valley and into Abenaki lands as distant as Maine. The Iroquois were always in the middle of any land or trade agreement, whether you were Algonquian, Dutch, French or English. They made war frequently in order to take captives, preferring to take children who could be assimilated easily. European or Indian, at this time you had to take the mighty Iroquois into consideration.

For a time, the Pocumtucks were able to deal with the whites, who were, initially, seen as just another "tribe" looking for land. Eventually, however, the Pocumtuck angered the Mohawks by killing one of their chiefs. After one swift punitive strike from the Hudson Valley, the Pocumtuck and their town by the river were no more.  

It did not take long for the land to be resettled, this time by an English plantation. Good farmland could not long be ignored by the settlers, but the site seemed cursed. Settlers were just eking out a living when King's Philip's War erupted. This conflict would be the last stand of the eastern Algonquian tribes against an overwhelming white incursion. 

An attempted retreat by the people of Pocumtuck, carrying away their newly harvested corn, ended in a massacre at a place now called "Bloody Brook," and made infamous by Puritan writers. Poor preparation by the militia contributed greatly to the disaster. The town of Pocumtuck hadn't even bothered to build a stockade, so the town was easily destroyed. During this war, one hundred and forty-five men were killed in the northern part of the valley, most of them settlers. Four other towns in the Connecticut Valley were also completely destroyed. The remaining five towns had all been attacked and raided for their corn and cattle. It must have been a grim winter, with families broken and famine on the horizon. 

It would take more than a decade, but the old Pocumtuck land would be resettled, this time called "Deerfield." The new settlers built a stockade. Farmers came to land, younger sons from towns like Northampton, Hadley, Hatfield and Springfield, all places south along the Connecticut River. 

Time would pass while the town grew again, but peace broke down easily. There were always inter-tribal wars as well as wars that originated in Europe to cause Indian raids, rustling and murder among the outlying farms. In the early 1700's, what is known as Queen Anne's War* broke out. The French joined forces with the Caughnawaga and Mohawk, raiding into northern New York and down into New England, even into Halifax near Boston. The Connecticut Valley became a battlefield again.

Deerfield begged for help with troops and arms, and a little arrived in late 1703. Deep in winter of 1704, a group of two to three hundred men on snowshoes came south from Montreal. Among them were French soldiers, coureurs de bois, and Indians, many of these refugees from King's Philips' War, the one that had broken the New England tribes. 

Drifts of snow helped the invaders scale the stockade while the watch overslept. Soon "they were fireing houses, killing all they could that made any resistance, also killing livestock." The Reverend John Williams who lived through a subsequent captivity to tell the tale said: "by their violent endeavors ... broke open doors and windows, with axes and hatchets..." His pistol misfired and he was quickly captured and bound. He watched the murder his youngest two children, a toddler and a six week old baby, as well as the children's black nurse. He and his wife (who would be killed at the start of their march) and five children were carried into captivity.    On the terrible winter march north, Williams would watch nine more people die--the young and the old. 

The sack of Deerfield had ended when men from Hadley and Hatfield arrived on the scene. Early on in the fight, a young man, John Sheldon, after binding his feet with strips of his nightshirt, had managed to struggle almost naked through deep snow for many miles in order to give the alarm. 

Of the 291 people who had gone to sleep in Deerfield that fatal night, only 133 remained alive the following day. Beyond the 109 people captured, 44 residents of Deerfield had been killed--ten men, 9 women and 25 small children. Seventeen of forty-one houses were destroyed. Reverend Williams would survive his captivity and eventually redeem four of his five children.* 

Driving through bustling Connecticut and into Massachusetts today, I can barely imagine this totally urbanized/suburbanized landscape as a frontier, one every bit as wild and dangerous as our more well-known "wild west." The early period of colonization was complex, filled with wars between Indians as well as wars between various groups of colonists as well as the more often remembered wars between Indians and Europeans. 

At the end of the school day, my friend and I paused in our visit to watch Deerfield's streets fill with BMW's and Mercedes as parents arrived to retrieve their children from the exclusive private prep school that shares grounds with the historical site. It was hard, watching that scene, to remember what a hard-scrabble, cold, tough, dangerous place the early New England world truly was.  




~~Juliet Waldron

Historical Novels may also be found here:

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/search?Query=Juliet+Waldron

https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Juliet+Waldron

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004HIX4GS

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Juliet+Waldron?_requestid=1854149


* The North American part of the European War of the Spanish Succession. .

* You can read about it in The Unredeemed Captive. Eunice, the youngest survivor of the Williams children, would become Catholic and marry an Indian. Reverend John Williams himself wrote the first text of the tale, the one upon which modern books on the subject are based.   



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