The Countdown to Malice is on!

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By Lynn McPherson

Today marks only thirty days until Malice Domestic, the annual mystery conference. I can’t wait. I’ll be on a panel, too, which makes it extra exciting. For anyone who hasn’t been, I highly recommend it. I went last year so I know it is well worth attending. The conference is in North Bethesda, Maryland, not far from Washington D.C. I’m flying there from Toronto with fellow author Desmond P. Ryan. If the timing or location doesn’t work for you, there are lots of other fabulous conferences to choose from.

Here’s a list:

Left Coast Crime, Sleuthfest, Bouchercon, Thrillerfest, Crime Bake, Killer Nashville… I’m sure I’ve forgotten one or two, but it’s a start. As I menti

oned, I went to Malice Domestic last year. I was lucky enough to go to Thrillerfest in 2019 too. I was lucky enough to be on a panel there as well. It’s worth doing your homework to decide which conference works best for you. In the meantime, I thought I’d outline reasons for attending in the first place.

  1. It is a great way to meet fellow authors, readers, and industry professionals. Like a kid in a candy store, these festivals are perfect for anyone who loves mystery. Everywhere you look, you’ll be surrounded by other mystery lovers. What’s not to love?
  2. Networking. Love it or hate it, in today’s competitive market, it’s important to get your name out there. Mystery authors have a reputation for helping each other succeed. It’s nowhere more obvious than when you meet people in person. Author friends are fun because they understand what you do, they love to talk writing, and they will share tips about what works for them. It’s not always easy to put yourself out there but it’s worth the effort. What’s better than meeting a new friend who shares your passion? Maybe you could decide to cross promote or interview each other on your website or retweet good news. That’s all networking is–making friends and helping each other succeed. Not so bad, huh?
  3. A chance to get out of your comfort zone. As writers, it’s important to engage in the world. See how others think, behave, move. Why not do it where you can learn, have fun, and be inspired? Simple.

There you have it, folks. A few reasons to take a chance and attend a conference. Is anyone else planning to attend Malice? If so, hope to see you there. Please come and find me if you do!

Lynn McPherson is the former Vice-Chair of Crime Writers of Canada, and a fan of all things cozy. She is the author of the Izzy Walsh Mystery Series, and has a new book coming out with Level Best Books in 2024. She also has a book under the pseudonym Sydney Leigh coming out next spring with Crooked Lane Books. You can find her at www.sydneyleighbooks.com

When Will We Learn? by T.K. Thorne

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It felt like a blow—what the woman beside me was saying.

Questions flicked through my mind: Was this what happened? How could I not remember that? Why did I not remember what had triggered the entire thing?

Circa 1980:

My partner and I went into a well-known restaurant in Birmingham, Alabama to eat dinner. We were working the Evening Shift (3-11 pm). Though we were both young female officers in the Birmingham Police Department, the shift sergeant had put us together to work a beat that included two housing projects, a couple of fast-food joints, and one “nice” restaurant—the one we walked into.

Females and black officers were a small population. My partner was a member of a smaller demographic as a black female officer. I was a minority of “one” as a Jewish police officer, evidenced by my engraved name tag.

My religion was not something I spoke much about, unless someone asked a question. Thankfully, I never encountered direct prejudice from fellow officers about it. Dealing with being a rookie and a female rookie was enough. But that is another tale.

This story began when we entered the restaurant and sat at a booth. One of us took the portable radio from her gun belt and placed it on the table, as was customary for uniformed officers when eating. The man in a booth behind us twisted around and asked if we could turn it off. I replied we would turn it down and did so. When he repeated his request, I explained we had to keep the radio on in case we were called or there was an emergency we needed to respond to. Again, we adjusted the volume as low we could and still hear it.

This did not satisfy the “gentleman,” who stood and snarled at us.

I have always remembered what he said as being something that included the “N” word; he got loud in the restaurant with his remarks; and we arrested him for Disorderly Conduct or (possibly) Public Drunk, not without some trouble. After being told he was under arrest, he became passive-aggressive, sitting down again in the tight booth and refusing to stand up. It took several officers to carry him to the police car.

Forty-plus years later at a retired female officers’ luncheon, I sat next to the woman who had been my partner that night, the first time I had seen her since those days. She told me the story as she remembered it. Her recollection, though similar in the basics to mine, contained a particular addition that stunned me. After twice requesting that we turn off our radios, the man stood and said, “What do you expect from a ‘N-word’ and a Jew?”

She threw the contents of her salad bowl at him.

I don’t know and didn’t ask if the lettuce connected, but I assume (and hope) so.

Apparently, he had spoken loud enough that others heard him and, according to my partner, something like a bar brawl ensued, with people taking sides, and I called for backup. Several went to jail. In court, the judge required him to make contributions to a charity of our choice (a unique sentence, but one that seems aligned with the principles of justice).

What disturbs me is not that I forgot many of the details—I have forgotten way more than I remember about the past—but that I forgot the “. . . and a Jew” part.

Did I just pass it off as a drunk idiot, and it faded from my mind? This seems odd, since I distinctly remember the first and only time someone called me a “kike” (a derogatory slur for a Jew) in middle school. It stunned me. It is one thing to know intellectually that some nebulous people hate you, another to hear it from the mouth of your peers.

So why did I forget?

I don’t know the answer. But I know that anti-Semitism has increased 500% over the past decade in the country I call home. And it is still on the rise.

And that makes me profoundly sad . . .  fearful . . . and angry at those who spew hatred and spread conspiracy lies that have roots hundreds of years old.

I have researched and written about the Civil Rights days of my city. I know that the movement for Black rights—to vote freely, to sit in the restaurant of their choice, to go to a school with White children, etc.—was decried as a “Black-Jewish Communist Conspiracy.”

Blacks and Jews have their own stories, their own histories, but we are particularly linked.

In a deeper sense, the entire human race is linked. As Dr. King wrote from the Birmingham Jail in 1963, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

And from a song of my youth: “When we will ever learn? When we will ever . . . learn?”

T.K. Thorne writes stories and books about whatever moves her and wherever her imagination flies.

 

 

 

 

 

T.K. Thorne writes stuff and books wherever her imagination flies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Teaching Creative Writing

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Teaching Creative Writing

By Saralyn Richard

I always wanted to be an author, but I was sidetracked into teaching by my parents, who felt writing was not a real job. I didn’t mind that much. I loved teaching, too, and when the opportunity arose for me to teach creative writing to high school students, I was in heaven!

I had a slew of very talented and creative youngsters, as well as some who elected to take the class in order to get out of writing a term paper in the more academic English classes. Many of the students took creative writing for two years, so I got to know them well. As a bonus, the creative writing classes were responsible for producing the school’s annual literary magazine. The magazine was technically an extra-curricular activity for first-year students, but the second-year students worked on the publication during class and took editorial roles.

Many of my students became writers or teachers of writing, a fact that continues to thrill me. They remain part of my writing community.

After I left the high school classroom, I started teaching creative writing to senior citizens, ages fifty and older. Our venue was the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. Most of the learners there had retired from a wide diversity of careers, not writing. They wanted to give writing a try.

Here are some insights I gained from teaching in these different age groups:

High School Senior Citizens
Had trouble coming up with subjects to write about. Had so many subjects to write about, hard to pick just one.
Target audience was typically narrow, other teens. Target audience was broad and diverse.
Limited in their reading experiences Extensive reading experiences made for better vocabulary and development of ideas.
Harder to find a point of view and voice Easier to conceptualize POV and voice
More imaginative and willing to take risks More likely to follow traditional patterns of writing
More curious and willing to explore new avenues Less willing to “break the rules”
Great storytellers Great storytellers

Many of the lessons I taught to both groups were the same:  writing with specific details, imagery, figures of speech; dialogue; how to write exposition, narrative, and description; creating characters and settings; point of view; stylistic devices. All of the classes were super-fun, and I learned as much as I taught.

Have you ever taken or taught a creative writing class? What was the most valuable lesson you encountered?

 

Saralyn Richard is the award-winning author of the Detective Parrott mystery series, BAD BLOOD SISTERS, A MURDER OF PRINCIPAL, and NAUGHTY NANA. Check out her website at saralynrichard.com, and sign up for her monthly newsletter for fun content, contests, and opportunities to connect.

Book news

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Hooked on Podcasts

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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.

photo of Rosemary Beach Florida Gulf Coast

Research Adventures: Starting a New Series

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by Sparkle Abbey

photo of Rosemary Beach Florida Gulf CoastHow 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.Poster for Heavenly Puffs

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.

book cover for Downton TabbyIn 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

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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!

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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
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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

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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.