Spotted on back roads leading to Daughter #2’s voice lesson (her wonderful voice teacher lives about an hour distant in the countryside…well worth the trip!) The sheep looked content…and curious.
After this first pic on the left was snapped (at a Stop sign), the two sheep in front, who had been grazing when we first pulled up, raised their heads and stared at us. We “spoke” for a bit and then we continued on our way. 🙂
This was done my first year at college, when I came home on break…
Reminiscing Halloweens past, and the decorating we used to do at the Homestead with all homemade materials. All the pictures in this post are from the 80’s (as the clothing and hairstyles will attest, LOL)!
Cutting jack-o-lanterns with Pa and Ma. Ma is having a bit of fun with her pumpkin. 🙂
Admiring the finished products with Pa
And finally, sitting atop the little shelter Pa built for us to stand in while we waited for the school bus at the end of our long driveway…sharing the space with a giant pumpkin Pa grew, and a little orange cat he and Ma took in.
Happy Halloween!
I enjoy home improvement shows. I particularly like those where renovations happen to bring a “bargain” purchase up to modern speed…but my “weirdness” comes in during the first look at the “before” aspects of the homes.
It almost always makes me feel a little twinge of poignancy. A pang. A bittersweet sense, of nostalgia for those times and places gone by.
Beautiful 1950s kitchen
I can’t help envisioning, sometimes – especially with the kitchens – the happy times, the meals cooked and eaten by countless people, the gatherings enjoyed, and holidays and birthday celebrated. It can be places from times long before I was born; it doesn’t matter.
Kitchen from around the time I was born in the 1960s
The room(s) that hosted those events is being cleared out, emptied, stripped down. That wallpaper or those cabinets and countertops so lovingly selected in 1957 or 1963, or 1990 are nothing more, now, then a mark of a bygone era, and the people who chose them and lived there have moved on, literally or figuratively, to greener pastures.
It makes me kind of…sad.
peeking into a lit window at a cozy scene
Perhaps my feeling is connected to the game my mother and I would play (and that I still do sometimes even now, I confess) when we’d be driving somewhere, especially at night, and I could glimpse through some open shades or curtains a lit room or two in a home as we passed by. I was always fascinated by that, imagining the people who lived there by having that quick look. What were they like? What were their hopes, dreams? Were they happy or in the grip of a tragic or challenging circumstance? That “What if?” game led to me writing novels, I’m sure – but it’s also part and parcel of what niggles at me during those home improvement shows.
I’m pretty sure that makes me weird (so if you’re akin to this, or even understand what I’m talking about here, please chime in through the comments, so I know I’m not alone, LOL)!
Do YOU ever get a bittersweet sense of poignancy about something that doesn’t have personal meaning to you?
It’s been awhile since I blogged. Much is happening with some family members and other elements of life outside of teaching and writing that has been taking up more of my time that usual. Punctuating this is a fall I took on the ice that caused me to crack my head hard enough to require a trip to the ER. Ultimately, I’ll be fine, but I’m not as young as I used to be, and the goose egg on my head and lower spine, combined with lots of achy stiffness, is slowing me down.
But this is a pic I snapped this morning on my way out the back door to drive to my teaching job 30 minutes away. The “rising sun” sky here looks a lot more gold than it looked to the naked eye: it was much more crimson and ruby, and the old saying sprang into my head. “Pink at night, sailors delight. Pink in the morning, sailors take warning.”
Of course this means we’re supposed to watch out for bad weather. I don’t think there is any in the forecast until Saturday, but I guess I’d better go check.
What do you think of old sayings? Do you have any favorites or any that seem to be more “true” than others? Please share in the comments – and thanks for stopping by! 🙂
This feeling can sometimes overwhelm (for those of you who’ve read Moose Tracks on the Road to Heaven, Pa called it the “black cloud” in the final letter of the book, in the Epilogue).
But I try to remember this sentiment, also, that my dear mother has always told me.
Sometimes easier said than done.
Can anyone else relate?
PS: I love how the color schemes of these two pictures reflect the moods of their messages (I’m holding on to the fact that blue is my favorite color). 🙂
First Moose Tracks book signing, 2/21/15, with a few of my older titles off to the side
One of the perks of being a published author – for me at least – has always been book signings.
I know it’s kind of a dying form; large, multi-author signings are still popular at annual writing/readers conferences and the like, but there are less and less bookstores to host individual signings. Also, I know many authors who dislike them (and I must admit I’ve had a few “interesting” experiences as well – I remember one notable occasion at a Barnes & Noble many years ago, where the only person to stop at the table and chat was someone who wanted directions to the rest room!)  🙂
But I generally enjoy them because it gives me a chance to meet people and talk about books – and not always my books, either, but books in general. Sometimes people who stop by want to know about writing itself, or how to do it, or they want tips for how to get published. I try my best to address all questions and inquiries to the best of my ability – and I’ve met some really interesting people along the way.
Because Moose Tracks isn’t put out by a traditional publisher, the opportunities for book signings this time around will likely be limited. Chain bookstores won’t carry print copies of it, and only independent book stores who have a reason to carry it would likely go through the process to order (if they have an account with Baker and Taylor, I understand they can get copies through the print publisher, Create Space).
I was happy to have a signing last weekend, therefore, in nearby bookstore: a great little shop called Mysteries on Main Street. It was a lot of fun and I met some new readers, in addition to getting to chat and visit with some I already knew. A photographer from the local paper even stopped by and snapped a few pics.
Signing a book for a friend who stopped by while the news photographer sets up shot
I think if I hadn’t been an English teacher and writer, I would have/should have been a bookstore owner, employee, or a librarian. I love books! I love being around them. And the two hours I spent at this signing flew by, not only because of the activity of people coming in to buy and have me sign a book, but also because the atmosphere of the bookstore just soothes and delights me.
If you’re an author, how do you feel about book signings? If you’re a reader, have you ever been to one – or would you ever attend one? Why or why not?
I’ve had a few limbs break off behind me. I’m still pumping my wings like mad to keep from hitting the ground, though every now and again, an updraft helps lift me up.
Sometimes it’s an unexpected, nice comment or even a review of one of my books. Sometimes it’s a hug, or seeing something beautiful out in nature or the world. Sometimes it’s a piece of music that seems to pierce in a wonderful way to my inner soul. Sometimes it’s a cup of tea and a quiet night in, with the wind howling around the house while I’m snug inside.
What are your little updrafts, when you’re pumping your wings to stay afloat? 🙂
Now that Moose Tracks on the Road to Heaven is published, I’ve been thinking about some of the “behind the scenes” and inspirational  kinds of things I enjoy reading about/seeing when it comes to novels I’ve read by other authors – and so I decided to do a post of this sort today, for anyone who might be interested.
We were pretty materially poor when I was little. So much so that when my father married my mother (it was a second marriage for them both, and she already had my five older sisters) there was a carpet pad instead of a carpet for quite a few years, and some furniture that was extremely threadbare (like in this picture, taken from inside our living room, in our little house near the lake).
Pa took this picture, I’m certain, as he was the camera-expert in the house, and I only found it recently, on a slide he’d given me years ago. I love it, actually, because of the ragged carpet pad and chair. I felt so much love and nurturing in my young life that I have no memory or distress at having so little in a material sense. My parents ensured that we had plentiful, wholesome, homemade food (with one of Ma’s delicious desserts every night!) and plenty of sturdy, warm clothing and shoes; we were living on my father’s salary alone with many mouths to feed, and we didn’t have a lot of frills, but we always had more than enough in that regard. I felt then and still feel I wanted for nothing.
I’m sitting in the pic above with my hands uncharacteristically folded and a solemn expression on my face. Here’s another one on the left of my more usual, energetic demeanor, and on the right, from a professional photographer about six months earlier. 
I was two years old in the picture on the right and about three in both of the pictures taken at home – a happy, exuberant kid. However, my parents often told me that I was also a child who would sometimes retreat into a profound stillness and deep thoughts. When I had the kind of expression I’m wearing in the pic above – the one with my hands folded – my mother said she always wondered what I was thinking, and people often said I spoke and seemed far older than my years. I wasn’t so still and quiet very often, but I had the makings of a bookworm/thinker even then.
I’ll finish this post with some final, visual examples of the kind of happiness and love I experienced as a young child – the foundation of the life and family atmosphere that would inspire my writings so many years later. These pics are from my first birthday and were taken in the Homestead’s kitchen, next to my father’s chair (empty in these shots, as he was taking the photos), back in the winter of 1967. I am the sixth of seven daughters, but my parents ensured that each daughter was recognized in her own right, with attention, conversations, and of course recognition of us as individuals on our birthdays. Pa was at the ready with his camera, and we always had a cake baked for us lovingly by my mother (who is a wonderful cook, even today, though she is in her 80’s now).
Life was good in the purest and best sense…filled with ups and downs, conflict and struggle, but also filled with the kind of warmth and nurturing that helped a little girl understand what’s really important, far above and beyond material goods.
It’s finally here…and after five + years in the writing, another six months in editing and production, and two months in pre-sale mode, it feel very good to say that Moose Tracks on the Road To Heaven is now available for purchase in eBook or print TODAY! 🙂
You can purchase the eBook in these places:
| Amazon | B&N | iBooks | Kobo | AllRomance | GooglePlay |
PLEASE NOTE: If you’d prefer a PRINT copy of the book, at this point it can be purchased here, from: Amazon
It will be available in print from Barnes and Noble and other sellers within a few days (there is a lag in terms of publisher availability).
It will also be available from some independent book stores, either in stock or upon request, including Mysteries on Main Street, in Johnstown, NY.
From Moose Tracks on the Road to Heaven, available for preorder now for Kindle and Kobo, and for sale in print and all other venues on February 3, 2015.
     The first time Elena saw Jesse James Wilder she was up to her elbows in
dirt and a rotting layer of last autumn’s leaves. She was a definite outdoors
girl, tall for her age and in the habit of running free all day each summer—
sometimes playing with Jen (less often Zippy or Patricia) or maybe the
across-the-field-neighbors Lisa and Debbie. But lots of times she just
rummaged around in the woods by herself.
     She could spend hours looking at plants, collecting feathers,
pretending to be a pioneer or an Indian, and finding dead birds and other
animals to bury in the little animal graveyard Pa had helped them lay out
behind the camp’s outhouse. She’d be the first to admit that with only one
bathroom at the homestead, the outhouse could be useful in a pinch, even if
it was stinky and dark.
     She felt safe playing outside by herself all day. Ma had never had
to worry about weirdos trolling the streets and byways for kids to pick up.
Not in rural areas like Moose Junction, and certainly not out in the acres of
woods behind their house.
     On the rare occasions when Elena went with her sisters on the ten minute
bike ride down the highway to the lake (from which the nearby
town of Lake Pines derived its name), they’d all stuck together. The older
girls watched out for the younger ones, and bad drivers were more of a
concern than kidnappers.
     All in all, Elena relished those summer days of freedom, coming
home at dusk and covered in dirt, and, more often than not, with twigs and
even burdocks tangled in her hair.
     As it was already nearing suppertime on that particular day, she
looked quite a sight as she crouched in the dappled light, trying to scoop a
half mummified chipmunk carcass into an improvised Maple bark coffin.
She’d been concentrating so hard that she hadn’t been paying
attention to her surroundings. So when Jesse Wilder surprised her by
stepping into her little clearing with his size thirteen feet, snapping twigs
like a black bear, she’d lurched to a partial stand and nearly clocked him
with the stick she’d been using to dig at the dirt around the dead chipmunk.
In fact, she swung her improvised weapon within a few inches of his head
at the same time that she pretty much growled at him.
     Both of his big hands shot up in front of him in a fist-clenched,
defensive pose as he yelled, “Holy shit!” But the terrified look on his face
immediately made her feel a little better, considering her temporary lapse
of attention to her surroundings.
     “What the hell!” he added as his fists slowly came down, but his
shock was still apparent by the way his voice cracked on the last word.
Elena’s mouth turned down at the double profanities. She gave him
a quick onceover, none too impressed. First of all, he was obviously a city
slicker, and second of all, he was a boy (a.k.a. an alien species). A tall,
wiry boy, sporting a shock of honey-colored hair streaked with blond, and
staring at her through narrowed blue eyes.
     She finally let out her breath, standing up out of her stooped
position. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to use that kind
of language?”
     “My mother died when I was six.”
     That kind of set Elena back on her heels. “Oh . . . sorry.”
She didn’t really know what else to say. The truth was that she
didn’t know anyone on a personal basis who didn’t have a mother. The
thought of what it would be like not to have Ma, with her soft hands, sweet
smile, and gentle voice (except when Trish, Zippy, and Elena had been
squabbling so much that they’d driven her up one wall and down another)
took away some of the sting of indignation she’d been feeling.
     But the temporary peace lasted only as long as it took for the tall,
scrawny blond kid to open his mouth again, right after he returned the
favor Elena had given him with a disdainful onceover, his expression
having shifted by now from his initial shock to a look of cool mocking.
“What are you, some kind of crazy mountain girl?” His sarcasm
was only fair considering the way she looked, she supposed, but she didn’t
much care for logic at that moment. She snorted, taking in his Jordache
jeans, Nike sneakers, and perfectly pressed Ralph Lauren shirt.
     “Yeah. Just like you’re a walking billboard for name brands.”
     He did something Elena didn’t expect then. He laughed.
M. Reed McCall, Author 