Hooked on Podcasts
By Barbara J Eikmeier
I’ve become a Podcast junkie. It happened rather innocently when, last September, I had eye surgery. For the first 48 hours post-op I had to alternate ice packs 20 minutes on and 20 minutes off while awake. Then I switched to warm compresses for 20 minutes four times a day for another 3 weeks.
In the beginning I felt agitated thinking about all the work I had waiting for me. I would recline on the sofa and force myself to breathe in and out. With both eyes covered in ice packs I couldn’t even watch the clock, so I set a timer on Alexa. Then I proceeded to pester her by asking how much time was left on the timer.
I tried listening to music. At least the music calmed me. My eyes hurt, especially when I looked up to read a computer screen. Looking down, however didn’t hurt. That meant I could work at my sewing machine, which started a new routine, 20 minutes of sewing, alternating with 20 minutes of ice packs. I set the timer. It was a slow way to make a quilt with forced breaks for ice packs every 20 minutes.
By day three I had resigned myself to the fact that being home for three weeks recuperating was going to be a total bust in productivity. Then I saw an email from The Writer’s Colony at Dairy Hollow in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, (I read it on my phone with my eyes cast down during one of my 20 minutes off cycles.) I’ve had three residencies at Dairy Hollow and enjoy following them on social media and email. The message contained a link to their latest podcast, Write Now. By now I was onto the warm compresses, which, by the way, were much more comforting than ice on my eyes! With a podcast to concentrate on, the time seemed to fly. Before I knew it Alexa was chiming that my timer had ended.
My eyes are fine, my travel has resumed, my to-do list, as usual, has too much on it, but now, I have this new love of podcasts. I got a set of wireless ear buds and listen to podcasts on the stationary bike at home, or while walking the track at the nearby high school. I listen to podcasts while lifting weights at the gym, while sewing, and while waiting in airports. And I’m learning so much!
My favorite remains Write Now where I’ve “met” so many interesting authors. I especially enjoy the early episodes that aired during the “stay home” part of the pandemic. I recently listened to Stiletto Gang’s very own Bethany Maines in the Plotter vs Pantsers show down.
I’m learning French online through Duolingo. Now I listen to stories in French on the Duolingo podcast! I wish I could tell you it’s improving my French, however I listened to a great story about the most famous boulangeries in Paris! If I ever go I’ll take my French speaking 7-year-old granddaughter with me to do the talking!
I listen to podcasts about quilting, health and wellness and writing, of course, all during time that my brain would otherwise be idle. Do you listen to podcasts? Do you have a podcast? I’d love to hear about your favorites!
Barbara J. Eikmeier is a quilter, writer, student of quilt history, and lover of small-town America. Raised on a dairy farm in California, she enjoys placing her characters in rural communities.
Research Adventures: Starting a New Series
How is it that February is already in the books? 2023 is moving right along and we shared last month that we kicked off the new year by beginning to write a new mystery series. We also shared that the new series is not set in California like our Pampered Pets books, but since we both love the beach, we’re hanging onto the beachy theme.
And that’s where this research adventure begins…
After attending the NINC (Novelists, Inc.) conference in St. Pete last September we decided to research some Gulf Coast retirement communities as that is where we planned to set the new series. We’d already had great fun fleshing out characters, coming up with titles, and plotting murders on the drive down. (Side note: From Des Moines, IA to St. Pete Beach, FL is 1,380 miles or about 21 hours. A few more hours if you take time to track down a fabulous lobster food truck in Nashville, but that’s a story for a different day.)
We’d researched several possibilities that based on their online descriptions seemed to match what we had in mind. For the drive back we’d planned to visit our top four or five and check out some details. Now the books will be set in a fictional 55+ community but we’ve found we really need to have a feel for our setting as it plays such a strong role in a story – especially in mysteries.
- Stop 1 – Too fancy and almost hotel like. Not the right vibe.
- Stop 2 – More reasonable but surrounded by a residential neighborhood. Not the close-knit community feel we were looking for.
- Stop 3 – Almost there. Nice community feel, but no people out and about doing things.
- Stop 4 – Bingo. There it was. A great gated 55+ village with a community center, indoor pool, golf, shuffleboard, walking trails. There were people out walking their pets and a wonderful friendly feel as the walkers waved at us. And there were plenty of places to hide a dead body. A very important detail.
Success! We found our fictional Shady Palms and were able to take some photos, research details, pick up some materials on the floor plans, download the layout of the neighborhoods, learn the flora and fawn, and so much more. Feeling good that our mission was accomplished we decided to backtrack and have lunch at a Greek restaurant we’d passed a few miles back. What a great choice. (Well, it wasn’t a lobster food truck but it looked promising and also seemed very busy which is always a good sign, right?) It was amazing. We highly recommend Mr. Souvlaki’s. If you ever get the chance to dine there, you are in for a treat. And no matter how full you are, you must finish up with the Loukoumades – fluffy clouds of pastry with honey & cinnamon. They are to die for! Definitely worth a thousand-mile road trip and we’re trying to figure out if we use them in the books if they can be considered a tax write off. All in the name of research, of course.
At this point, we’re feeling great, though a bit overstuffed. It’s time to head north and so we leave the more scenic itinerary and move to Interstate travel. But first we need to stop for gas so we can get back on schedule and make some time. Our first stop was a Starbucks (big surprise) with a nice gas station nearby. But wait, they are out of gas.
But what’s an adventure without a little conflict?
Oh, did we mention that there was a hurricane by the name of Ian bearing down on the Gulf Coast? No problem, we’ll navigate to the next nearest option. It’s not far. But all the pumps are bagged. You guessed it – out of gas! It took three more stops and finally following a fuel truck back to our first gas station, but we finally got a full tank of gas and we were back on the road. Heading north and praying for everyone in the path of the hurricane.
We are continuing to research and build the story lines as we work on this new series. We’re loving the new characters who continue to evolve and make us laugh. We hope our reader enjoy the fictional Shady Palms and the new stories as much as we’re enjoying writing them!
If you’d like to keep in touch with us and get updates about the new series, please sign up for our newsletter here: SparkleAbbey.com
Sparkle Abbey is actually two people: Mary Lee Ashford and Anita Carter, who write the national best-selling Pampered Pets cozy mysteries series. They are friends as well as neighbors so they often get together and plot ways to commit murder. (But don’t tell the other neighbors.)
The love to hear from readers and can be found on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest, their favorite social media sites. You can also follow them on BookBub to be notified when there are special offers. Currently Downton Tabby is a featured deal at 99 cents in all ebook formats.
In Downton Tabby, Caro Lamont, amateur sleuth and well-respected animal therapist to Laguna Beach’s pampered pets, works with office mate and tech wizard, Graham Cash, whose beloved Scottish Fold tabby cat, Toria, is purported to have anger management issues. But when Caro drops by the charming Brit’s Tudor-inspired mansion to return Toria, she finds his business partner dead and Cash missing.
Caro is left with the cuddly cat and a lot of unanswered questions. Is Cash the killer, or has he been kidnapped? What’s up with the angry next door neighbor? And what about Cash’s girlfriend, Heidi, who isn’t sharing everything she knows with homicide detective Judd Malone?
Suddenly there are more secrets and intrigues than there are titles in England. Add in a stranger in a dark SUV stalking Caro, feisty senior sidekick, Betty, hiding in restaurant shrubbery, and wannabe investigative reporter Callum MacAvoy who seems to be constantly underfoot, and you’ve got a cat and mouse mystery of the first order.
Three —T.K. Thorne
Three is a magic number.
Can you hear your mother counting down the time left until unnamed but dreadful forces will compel you to do what you haven’t done yet? Your personality might have made you immediately hop to at “1.” Or (like me) you might have waited until the last possible moment before her lips formed that dreaded last number—
—Which was, and will remain for all time, the number three. “1 . . . 2 . . . 3!”
Never has a mother anywhere given four seconds or five.
Similarly, everyone engaged in moving something heavy, hoists together, not on “1” or “2,” but “3.” Without argument or consultation, “heave” happens on “3.”
Goldilocks is confronted by the three bears with their three bowls of porridge at varying temperatures. Only with the third does she find the perfect one.
The very bad wolf huffs and puffs and blows down two of the pigs’ homes before being foiled by the solid brick structure of #3.
The prince makes two failed tries up the ice mountain before rescuing the princess on #3.
Two of Cinderella’s sisters fail at getting their hefty feet into the glass slipper, but on attempt #3, Cindy slips it gracefully on.
Three is a triangle with three points and three sides. The formula for a right triangle is the basis for the pyramids of Egypt.
For Pythagoras, famous ancient mathematician, the number three was the key to all the hidden mysteries of the universe.
Isaac Newton: The Three Laws of Motion
Isaac Asimov: The (original) Three Laws of Robotics
No artist would be happy with two elements in a grouping.
The Oxford comma rule requires commas when the grouping reaches three items. (See next sentence.)
Three is:
- the family—mother, father, and child;
- the Three Wise Men who visited the infant Jesus (with their three gifts);
- the Holy Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; and
- the three primary gods of Hindu mythology—Brahma, the creator, Vishnu, the keeper of reality, and Shiva, the destroyer.
The multiples of 3 come up 3 times in each set of 10 (3,6,9, etc.) And 3 x 6 (another multiple of 3) is 18, a special number in Judaism.
All of life depends on three types of molecules—DNA, RNA, and proteins. The structure of DNA is made of three combinations of molecules.
All this “three” stuff began when I randomly noticed there are three beautiful shells in my home that are special treasures.
One, from a dear friend, lives in my newly created little pond, nestled among stones and an old water pump.
One was a spontaneous gift from a Bahamian woman I met years ago in her little island home, who told how she had almost drowned at the age of 84 and had to swim two miles in the strong currents to survive.
The third shell is the one that sat on the glass top of my grandmother’s porch coffee table for most of my early years of life. I never failed to lift it to my ear when I visited Granny, listening with wonder to the mystery of the whistling wormhole to the sea.
So, that led to the ruminations on the magic number three, which is imprinted into us, perhaps in our cells, and which every writer worth her salt knows is important in telling a satisfying story.
T.K. Thorne writes books that take her wherever her imagination flies. TKThorne.com
Scams, Spams & Caveat Emptor!
Two years ago, when we moved from New Jersey to Tennessee, my husband and I cut the landline cord. We’d only kept our landline for as long as we had because cell service in our NJ home was spotty at best. If I had to guess, I’d say that at least 75% of the calls that came in on the landline were from spammers and scammers. Now, instead of receiving at least half a dozen spam and scam calls a day, I receive one or less a week.
I never answer the phone unless I recognize the caller’s name or number. Most spammers don’t leave a message because the calls are robocalls made by bots. Answering the phone alerts the call center that the bots have struck gold and they’ve got a live person on the line. If you’ve ever answered one of these calls, you’ll notice a short pause between saying, “Hello” and someone on the other end responding. That’s the time it takes for the system to switch over to a live operator.
Scammers, on the other hand, are usually people, not bots. If you don’t answer, they’ll leave a message, often an intimidating one that threaten you with criminal action if you don’t return their call because you either owe money to the IRS or are a wanted felon. Once you return the call, you’re told they can make the problem go away by paying a fine—in the form of a gift card. Amazingly, too many people fall for this.
A few weeks ago, I received an unusual scam call. Three calls came in within a few seconds, all from the same number, supposedly originating in New York. I didn’t answer, but the caller left a message between the second and third calls. In a very thick Indian or Pakistani accent, he said he was trying to reach Lois Winston, author of Guilty as Framed, because he wanted to invite her to a book festival his company was putting together in a few months in Los Angeles. If I was that Lois Winston, I should call him back as soon as possible for more information.
In the background, I heard lots of chatter. The caller was obviously calling from a call center, and I seriously doubt the call came from New York, no matter what the display on my phone read. New York City real estate is too pricey for call center operators.
I’ve known many authors who have been ripped off by unscrupulous people out to make a buck off them. I have no doubt this was just another scam in a long line of scams that have preyed on authors and would-be authors over the decades.
Back in my early days of writing, before I sold my first book, I even fell for a scam. I had queried a literary agency about my manuscript and received back a response stating that they were interested in seeing the first three chapters. Within days of sending the chapters, I received a note saying my manuscript needed polishing, and if I paid fifty dollars, they’d provide me with a professional critique of the pages I’d sent. If I followed their instructions from the critique, they’d consider representing me.
What I got back were two or three penciled comments, all of a personal nature and having nothing to do with my plot, characters, or writing prowess. One of the comments I remember was, “I knew a person like this.” I later learned I wasn’t the only person to fall for this scam. It was a family operation, and some of the members wound up serving prison sentences.
Unfortunately, scammers have become much more sophisticated since the onset of the Internet and social media, and many of them operate overseas, out of the reach of US law enforcement. Caveat emptor is a Latin phrase that means “buyer beware.” There’s also a saying in English: “If it sounds too good to be true, it usually is.”
I have no idea how the book fair scammers planned to relieve me of my hard-earned dollars, and I wasn’t going to return the call to find out. But I’m sure they had a script filled with carrots to dangle in front of me. And unfortunately, there are probably some authors out there who are at this moment falling for their scam. In the age of spam, scams, fake news, and now ChatGPT, more than ever it pays to be skeptical. Caveat emptor!
What about you? Have you ever fallen for a scam or know someone who has? This month I’m giving away several promo codes for a free download of the audiobook version of Revenge of the Crafty Corpse, the third book in my Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Series. Post a comment for a chance to win.
~*~
USA Today and Amazon bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is a former literary agent and an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry. Learn more about Lois and her books at her website www.loiswinston.com where you can also sign up for her newsletter and follow her on various social media sites.
Fences
by Saralyn Richard
Do good fences make good neighbors? In the past few months, I’ve gained new neighbors on either side of my house. There’s a brand-spanking-new fence between my yard and that of the neighbor to the north. There’s no fence between my yard and that of the neighbor to the south. I love both sets of neighbors. We’ve shared lots of visits in our front yards, several barbecues and parties, baked goods, pets, children, home improvement advice, and more. They may be pine, and I, apple orchard, but I enjoy spending time with them and being part of their community.
Robert Frost’s MENDING WALL is one of my favorite poems. His last line is the source for my opening question. I find a lot of wisdom in this poem:
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
The same analogy applies to my relationships with fellow authors in The Stiletto Gang. I may be police procedural and they cozy writers, but we have much in common, and we can help each other every time we meet to walk the line and re-build the wall (which might just be the website). I’m grateful for my neighbors, my Stiletto Gang colleagues, and everyone who reads this post. May all your walls be mended, and may all your neighbors be good.
Galveston Author Saralyn Richard
Award-winning author and educator, Saralyn Richard writes about people in settings as diverse as elite country manor houses and disadvantaged urban high schools. She loves beaches, reading, sheepdogs, the arts, libraries, parties, nature, cooking, and connecting with readers.
Visit Saralyn and subscribe to her monthly newsletter here, or on her Amazon page here.
The Tenth Child
By Barbara J Eikmeier
I have eight siblings. The nine of us were together recently for my dad’s funeral. It was a bittersweet day. My dad was 92 years old and yet, despite the wind, rain, and mud, over 350 people attended his service.
The church ladies served lunch at the church hall. They came out in full force to support my mother who, for 25 years oversaw the funeral meal program. And they brought food: Potato salad dotted with black olives, deviled eggs, sprinkled with paprika, and delicious fried chicken. There were cookies, pies, and cakes. I grabbed the last piece of cheesecake and handed it to my older sister – I think it’s the only thing she ate that day. She was busy greeting people. Without planning, we nine children spread out in the hall talking to as many visitors as possible.
I chatted with Janet in front of the photo display – she lived with my parents her senior year. She said, “I visited your dad a few months ago. I asked if I could go upstairs and see my room.” She was like a tenth child. In fact, she’s always claimed that status. But then there’s Ed. Younger than all of us, my dad took a liking to Ed and encouraged him when he started a goat dairy. Some of us even call him our little brother. I knew about these two claims for the tenth child position but was surprised when Sara, a family friend and my dad’s god daughter, asked to take a picture of my mom with the nine of us. She then jumped between two brothers and said, “Now let’s get another with me in it, after all, I’ve always felt like I was the tenth child!”
Later that evening, back at The Dairy, as we call my parent’s place, we siblings exchanged stories about the day. That’s when I learned there are others who claim to be the tenth child. The common thread was, “He treated me as if I was a member of the family.” My own best friend since the 6th grade recalled, “I would just come in and sit down at that big ole farm table and eat dinner as if I lived there.” Neighbors who spent summers on the farm said, “He treated me like I was the tenth child.”
I don’t share DNA with any of the tenth children, but I’ll share my family with them. After all, as my mom would say, “When you are already cooking for eleven people, what’s one more?”
Someday I may be able to write about some of the more poignant moments of my dad’s final days and his funeral, but for now I’m finding comfort in the fact that so many people thought so much of him that they wanted to be his tenth child.
Do you have self-adopted family members?
Bob and Doris Martin and their 9 children
Barbara J. Eikmeier is a quilter, writer, student of quilt history, and lover of small-town America. Raised on a dairy farm in California, she enjoys placing her characters in rural communities.
A Sneak Peek into HOW THE MURDER CRUMBLES
By Debra Sennefelder
January is now behind us and I’m settling into February quite nicely. Last week I finished the first draft of the next Food Blogger mystery and now it’s set aside for about a week while I turn my attention onto my next release, HOW THE MURDER CRUMBLES. I’m so excited for this release because I love the story so much and I love, love, love the characters who populate the charming town of Wingate, Connecticut. The one downside to this book while I was writing it was that since it featured a cookie baker, I always wanted cookies. I thought today, I’d share an excerpt from the book with you. In this snippet, Mallory is leaving work and heading home to get ready for date night with her boyfriend.
With her apron off, she grabbed her cookie mug prototype for Gil’s company. On her way to the back door, she picked up her backpack. When she reached her bike, she set the cellophane-wrapped mug in the basket and then unlocked the bike. So many things had changed when she made the move from Manhattan to Wingate. She had traded her one-bedroom with a Hudson River view for a cottage. She had swapped her beloved high heels for supportive shoes. And her commute had gone from subway to bicycle.
A lot of changes in a short period for someone who craved stability and had an aversion to making spontaneous decisions. But it had seemed that the stars had aligned a few months ago. A lost promotion, a merger that made her position at her company vulnerable, and a backstabbing colleague had Mallory craving career independence. Then her aunt had called with the news that she wanted to sell her bakery, the place where there were so many memories of her childhood. By the end of the call, Mallory had said she would buy the bakery. Over the following weeks, she had pulled together a business plan and shared her vision of what she wanted her bakery to be. Then, with her aunt’s approval, she went for it. She’d never felt so exhilarated and scared to death at the same time.
She hopped on her bike and cycled down the driveway along the two-story building that housed The Cookie Shop. On the second floor was a studio apartment that was currently between tenants.
Then she turned onto Main Street. The winding street was Wingate’s central hub of activity and was postcard-perfect from one end to the other. Century-old lampposts dotted the long stretch of sidewalk where historic brick-façade shops mingled with Victorian painted ladies and stately Federal period buildings. Once a manufacturing town, Wingate was now known for its shops, restaurants, and galleries. Being named one of the Top Ten Shopping Destinations in the state for eight years running by CT Life and Style magazine, the town had become the place that had something for everyone—from thrifty shopper to antique connoisseur to weekend explorer.
Her next turn took her down Lilac Lane, a residential street where front yards bloomed with bright spring colors, and birdsong filled the air as she pedaled along the road. At the stop sign, she made a right onto Old Lantern Road, and within a minute, her rental cottage came into view.
Her for-now home was a hodgepodge of architectural styles—part cottage, part Craftsman, part Victorian. The sage green dwelling with a picket fence was utterly delightful. When she found it, she hadn’t hesitated to write the check for the deposit and one month’s rent. She also wasted no time in purchasing an Adirondack chair to sit by the pond where she could ponder her life-changing decisions. Unfortunately, though, she’d yet to have time for the reflective exercise.
I hope you enjoyed this sneak peek into the book. To pre-order, please click here.
Now, I’d love to know what your favorite cookie is. Mine is oatmeal raisin (which is one of the recipes in the book).
Debra Sennefelder is the author of the Food Blogger Mystery series and the Resale Boutique Mystery series. She lives and writes in Connecticut. When she’s not writing, she enjoys baking, exercising and taking long walks with her Shih-Tzu, Connie. You can keep in touch with Debra through her website, on Facebook and Instagram.
When Walls and Water Speak
One day, I looked at an area along the brick walkway in the front of my house and realized I needed to do something extreme. Despite having spread grass seeds more than one season, only weeds grew in the shadow of a magnificent weeping yaupon that arcs over the sidewalk and shaded a crescent-shaped area.
I looked at it with despair and frustration.
(How many times have I looked at a blank page without a clue what words to paint on it?)
Suddenly, I saw a garden in that crescent-moon space. In a previous post, “Goddess in the Garden,” I wrote about its transformation into a moss-garden.
But nature had other ideas. When it rained, water caught in the yaupon’s draping branches, streaming down them in torrents that hit the ground and tunneled trenches into my creation.
(How many times have the words I carefully crafted looked very different when I returned to them later, requiring I rewrite them or throw them out altogether?)
I tried to repair the craters, but each time it rained, the holes and mini-gullies returned. The space was not happy. I was not happy. But I had put in so much work!
It was not fair.
I grumped. And repaired what the water had torn up.
Until it rained, yet again . . . as it is wont to do. And again.
Finally, I surrendered.
“What do you want to be?” I asked my garden.
(Once, I wrote about a blank wall speaking to me, eliciting mockery from a local radio host, but the wall wanted something, and I listened.)
“I want to be a pond,” my garden said. “I want the water.”
“What about little rocks?” I mused. “Can’t I just put pebbles down where the water flows?”
The garden’s reply was a definite, “No.”
So, I began to dig. It hurt to dig up what I had painstakingly planted, what was beautiful just as it was, for something new.
[How many times do we have to start over in our lives, to force open scars, so new love and light can enter?]
I dug for days. Frogs came to visit. One cutie in particular dove into my hole on three occasions, probably looking for a place to hibernate for the winter. I took him out each time and asked him to be patient.
Finally, the hole was done…I thought. Then came the Plastic War. Instructions on lining the pond sounded very simple.
Not.
One of our horses, who should be named “Curious George,” made an appearance to help out, but alas, was not equipped. Hubby helped with the large rocks I coveted. It was a great feeling when they settled into place!
The rocks came from the streams and creeks on our property. My husband became accustomed to having his truck appropriated for rock gathering expeditions.
My fear was that the black lining would show along the steep sides in the deep end. I had never done anything like this and had no real plan other than the foundation rock placements.
(How many times have I started a book with only a few words, just a sketchy idea of my characters, and no idea what happens next?)
I tempted the creative muse yet again with my crazy pond idea. Yet, she didn’t fail me.
My biggest fear was the sides of the deep end. How would I keep from having gaps that showed the liner?
As I worked, I realized the edges of the stones placed on edge along the bottom provided a shelf for another layer and so on. Each stone had to be fitted for shape and stability. They let me know when it wasn’t the right place for them.
When I thought I was finally finished, the water said I was not honoring its flow, and I had to tear up and redo a section.
It is the middle of winter. The plants I tried to save are hopefully sleeping. Some of the moss is thriving, even in the cold. The water is happy, flowing as it wanted to all along. The garden is something very different than it was and yet the same.
Isn’t that so of us, as well?
Every moment we are different, a memory of all the moments before spun into the illusion of a constant, just as the garden changes every moment—as water swirls, plants grow and rest, leaves fall and change form. Every morning when I visit, I and the pond are new and old. Sometimes I change it by way of a rock that needs adjustment, a tuft of moss to add, or a new idea of where a gift of crystal should nestle.
Sometimes I just breath in the peace of it.
(The tales I’ve told don’t change once they are printed, yet each time a reader opens the book, they come alive, changed by the perspectives and person who recreates them from a few words. The stories are the same and yet different, a joining of imaginations—theirs and mine.)
I am looking forward to the spring when I hope my frog friend will return.
T.K. Thorne is a retired police captain who writes books and blogs that go wherever her imagination takes her. TKThorne.com
After the Hurricane
By Barbara J Eikmeier
The Wood Stork lifts off from the edge of the pond. His long slightly curved beak points the way like a menacing weapon, and his shaggy head droops, in sharp contrast to his elegant body. My hostess calls him The Professor.
Wood Stork – image from stock photos
From the lanai I also see the Great Blue Heron, and the Tricolor Heron, his white belly flashing us as he takes flight. I’m impressed with the perfectly still, dark feathered Cormorant standing on the rock, with his wings fanned out. My hostess shrugs and says, “Oh he is quite common.”
I’m teaching for a week in Southwest Florida. In Ft Myers to be exact. The same Ft Myers where Hurricane Ian made landfall on September 28, 2022. I’m staying with my friend Bridget and peppering her with questions about the hurricane and its aftermath. The writer in me can’t help it.
If creating a setting or writing a dramatic scene featuring catastrophic weather, I’m not sure I could write a convincing hurricane. I can do flood waters from the creek rising after torrential rains. I can do a monsoon. I can do a tornado warning and get my characters to shelter before the funnel cloud touches down. I can even do a tidal wave warning. But my knowledge of hurricanes comes strictly from the weather channel.
Going to and from class today my driver toured me around Ft Myer, pointing out the canals that bring the water inland creating waterfront properties. Many homes and businesses are still draped in bright blue tarps. The palms lining both sides of McGregor Blvd are missing palm fronds, but otherwise are standing tall, new growth sprouting high above the ground. Three months of cleanup have already taken place. But then there is the marina and the topsy-turvy pile of yachts and smaller boats, twisted among huge chunks of broken up dock, bringing home the truth of what happened here. I saw a sailboat trapped at the base of a bridge; its silver mast tangled with the black post of a streetlight as if braided together. Another sailboat rested on its side, the mast pointing inland, the sails shredded to ribbons, fluttering in the breeze.
Restaurants are closed. Beaches are closed. A little island, seen from the bridge, has been stripped of vegetation.
Today the calm of my friend’s pond, is a different view from the story she tells of that day when she watched the water rise, saw it churn one direction, then change directions as the eye of the storm passed overhead. She exclaimed, “The wind, oh that awful wind that continued for hours, or rather for days.” And she describes the surprise of seeing whitecaps on her little pond.
I’m keenly aware of the devastation that happened here, but I’ve also seen the spirit of Southwest Florida in the people I’ve met. Seasonal residents have returned. Year-round friends greet them and immediately ask how their places fared in the hurricane. They are rebuilding and supporting each other.
Originally, I thought I’d make this trip part work, part vacation – after all, its Florida in January! Hurricane Ian changed things, but I still came. It turns out that I didn’t need that trip to the beach, and I didn’t need an excursion to Sanibel Island, but I did need to see the amazing strength of Southwest Florida in the people I met. After all it’s the human spirit that defines a place.
Image from Ft Myers tourism
Barbara J. Eikmeier is a quilter, writer, student of quilt history, and lover of small-town America. Raised on a dairy farm in California, she enjoys placing her characters in rural communities.