Not long ago, my mother told my children a story that I had heard many times growing up. It concerned the time that she—19 at the time—and my grandmother decided to take the bus from New York City to Miami, Florida purely out a sense of whimsy. My grandfather had just died and I guess they needed a distraction. One hundred hours on a Greyhound bus? I’d call that a distraction. My mother grew up in Brooklyn, a multi-racial, multi-ethnic enclave in the late 1950’s. I don’t have a clear sense as to whether the races and different ethnicities mingled all that much, but I do know that there was nothing like what she and my grandmother experienced on their way down to Florida. My mother told my kids that once the bus crossed the Mason-Dixon line, the bus driver stopped the bus and forced a group of African-American children to go to the back of the bus where they would sit for the rest of the ride. My mother and my grandmother were shocked; in New York, sure there was racial tension, but African-Americans, for the most part, had the same freedoms as whites. (Oh, except for that pesky right to vote without jumping through ridiculous hoops. That would come later.) Even further along the journey, some place in South Carolina, the bus driver stopped the bus so that the passengers could eat lunch before resuming the trip. My mother and grandmother headed down the street, saw a diner, and walked in, preparing to sit down to order lunch. The lunch counter worker sadly explained to them that he wouldn’t be able to serve them but helpfully suggested an all-white diner a few doors down where they could get lunch. The diner, you see, was “colored-only.”
The memories of seeing the faces of the kids forced to the back of the bus and the people sitting at the lunch counter—looking at my mother and grandmother as if they were crazy even to enter a “colored only” establishment—have stayed with my mother all these years. She remembers segregated restrooms: men, ladies, and “colored-only,”—unisex, obviously; she remembers “colored-only” water fountains; and she remembers other forms of discrimination that were foreign to her. My mother and grandmother were quite sure how to act or behave in this alternate world, this bizarre society. They made it to Florida, encountered their first palmetto bug, and went right back to the Greyhound bus station, where they hopped the first bus that would bring them back to New York.
Despite its problems, their hometown city didn’t seem so bad.
My mother got married a few years later and would have her bridal shower in 1961 at my uncle’s house in Brooklyn. Her pictures from that day show a diverse crowd of women—there was Nasha, a gorgeous opera singer working part-time at Gimbel’s in sales to make a living. She was the daughter of Russian immigrants. There as my beautiful Aunt Dorothy, a Julie Andrews-lookalike who had the most mellifluous speaking voice, touched with an English accent. And there was Birdie, a stunning African-American woman in a black sheath dress and a chignon, who to me—a girl growing up in a lily white town—looked like an exotic queen with her high cheekbones and wide smile. And there was a Blanche, another co-worker of my mother’s from Gimbel’s, who like Birdie, was a fabulously-chic African American woman, dressed to the nines, as women did in the ‘60s, for this festive event. In one picture, Birdie and Blanche are smiling and holding one of the ridiculously-constructed bow hats that many engaged women are forced to wear at their bridal showers. I remember looking at the picture, and not having met any African-American people at this point in my life—it was probably 1970—I was struck by the friendship that existed between all of these women, from disparate backgrounds. This was not a “whites-only” event; it was an event that brought a group of joyous coworkers together to celebrate the special event to take place in my mother’s life. And there is no color—except maybe yellow or gold, the colors of joy—to describe this event and how the radiance of all of the guests jumped off the page and out of that photo.
At the time of the shower, neither Birdie nor Blanche had probably never voted given the disenfranchisement that was rampant at the time.
I think that experiences like the ones my mother had south of the Mason-Dixon line and in the diner in South Carolina change you forever. Sometimes they change you for the good, sometimes not. I’ve heard people say that Barack Obama is really biracial and perhaps not officially African American. All I can say is that as a child, he would have been forced to the back of the bus once it passed into Confederate territory, and he would have been allowed to sit at the counter at the diner in South Carolina, probably watching my embarrassed grandmother and mother slink out of the establishment, ashamed of their ignorance, but moreso, ashamed by their country.
It has been a momentous week and I’m not sure that the magnitude of what we have experienced has sunk in yet. My children were surprised, horrified, and not at all believing in the story that my mother had to tell. And I’m glad for all three of those reactions. Their disbelief is understandable because the world that my mother and I grew up in is one that was vastly different from the one they are growing up in today. Their horror at hearing how others were treated may lead them never to malign or slight anyone again, I hope. But most importantly, their surprise is best of all. Because in their world, there is no reason that a woman, a Jew, a Muslim, or an African American can become president. Some day, maybe we’ll look beyond sex, religion, and/or race.
And look at that: we already have.
Let us with a fixed, firm, hearty, earnest, and unswerving determination move steadily on and on, fanning the flame of true liberty until the last vestige of oppression has been destroyed, and when that eventful period shall arrive, when, in the selection of rulers, both State and Federal, we shall know no North, no East, no South, no West, no white nor colored, no Democrat nor Republican, but shall choose men because of their moral and intrinsic value, their honesty and integrity, their love of unmixed liberty, and their ability to perform well the duties to be committed to their charge. (From a speech delivered in 1872, by Jonathan J. Wright, Associate Justice of the South Carolina Supreme Court.)
Maggie Barbieri
Introduction to the WOOF Pack
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangWhatever!
Some of us are hounded by middle-age. We’re dog-tired, Wrinkled as a Sharpei and barking like a bitch. Enter: WOOF: For the over-50 woman itching to howl at The aging process.
From issues of graying hair, expanding waistlines and Wrinkling tattoos, to embracing triumph over personal Tragedy, WOOF raises four paws to our past Accomplishments, present realizations and future dreams.
Are you up to it…dogtrotting alongside this sisterhood Taking the second half of life by the tail? We know you Are. After all, the past 50 years you’ve gained freedom! You’ve gained power! You’ve gained wisdom!
(Don’t tell us you think weight is the only thing you’ve Gained. Oh, you so need WOOF…)
“A howl a day keeps the scowl away!”
d.d. dawg, Milkbone, Mad Dog
(Diana Black, Mary Cunningham, Melinda Richarz Bailey)
[Note from the Stiletto Gang – Join us all weekend for new posts from the WOOF Pack!]
Little Miracles
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangI’m the person whose fast food order is never right. I used to love McDonalds’ coffee – the kind they served after the lady burnt her thighs and before the Starbuck’s wanta-be varieties appeared at the Golden Arches. I especially liked their coffee after they began putting the cream and sugar (i.e. Equal) in the cup for you. And surprisingly, they usually got the number of creams and sugars right – for a large coffee, I preferred 3 creams and 3 Equals. Most of the time I got 3 of each. Then as seems to be normal, all good things come to an end. McDonalds added café lattes and cappuccinos’ to their menu and the staff could no longer count. I never know from one day to the next how much, if any, cream and Equal will end up in my coffee.
Life is full of disappointments. I can’t abide Thousand Island dressing on anything, much less my Reuben sandwich. By the way, who thought of doing that? Did someone just wake up one day, find their mustard jar empty, and improvise? I ate Reubens for years without a hint of salad dressing. Then seemingly all at once, restaurants started dumping copious amounts of the pink stuff on my corned beef and sauerkraut. Every once in awhile when I’m feeling lucky, I take a chance and order a Reuben asking for no – absolutely no – Thousand Island dressing. My success rating at getting it the way I want it is about 30%.
Little miracles happen every day… I guess. They just usually don’t happen to me. Or maybe they do and I don’t know it. Is it a miracle if you don’t know it? Kind of like if a tree falls in the forest and no one… Well, you get my meaning.
Last night I spent about 3 hours on the floor running my fingers through the carpet in my living room. I’d lost a contact lens. I wear rigid gas permeable lens and no, they are not the disposable kind – they are the “$190 a pair” kind. I looked until I couldn’t look any more without giving into the urge to vacuum. Nothing like staring at dust bunnies at eye level to get you in the mood to clean! But I didn’t. Pulling out the vacuum would have been abandoning all hope. Instead I did the CSI thing – using my one good eye, found a flashlight, turned out all the lights and searched for a glint – a reflection – something that didn’t’ belong on the dark carpet. Nothing. Well, at least no contact lenses. I did find a missing sock under my computer desk and several ink pen caps.
At 11:00 pm I gave up my quest for the missing lens, left a message on my optometrist’s voice mail, and began going through my old lenses hoping for one I could still see something through. Reading … Distance… something. Found one that had me able to see general shapes if not faces. It would have to do.
The next morning I went to work and managed to squint my way through eight hours of mining business.
When I came home I took another quick look on the patch of carpet in the target range.
Nothing.
I ate dinner then settled in front of my computer. I need to write a blog for Thursday. It was gong to be on the topic of lousy customer service – see my first two paragraphs above. Then it happened.
I looked down at my feet, pondering the spelling of sauerkraut (just ask my co-author, spelling is not my strong suit.) And there it was.
Right where I’d looked a hundred times.
A little miracle.
I can see again.
Life is good. Tomorrow I might even get a cup of coffee the way I want it.
Or not.
Evelyn David
A New Day Is Coming
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangNot long ago, my mother told my children a story that I had heard many times growing up. It concerned the time that she—19 at the time—and my grandmother decided to take the bus from New York City to Miami, Florida purely out a sense of whimsy. My grandfather had just died and I guess they needed a distraction. One hundred hours on a Greyhound bus? I’d call that a distraction. My mother grew up in Brooklyn, a multi-racial, multi-ethnic enclave in the late 1950’s. I don’t have a clear sense as to whether the races and different ethnicities mingled all that much, but I do know that there was nothing like what she and my grandmother experienced on their way down to Florida. My mother told my kids that once the bus crossed the Mason-Dixon line, the bus driver stopped the bus and forced a group of African-American children to go to the back of the bus where they would sit for the rest of the ride. My mother and my grandmother were shocked; in New York, sure there was racial tension, but African-Americans, for the most part, had the same freedoms as whites. (Oh, except for that pesky right to vote without jumping through ridiculous hoops. That would come later.) Even further along the journey, some place in South Carolina, the bus driver stopped the bus so that the passengers could eat lunch before resuming the trip. My mother and grandmother headed down the street, saw a diner, and walked in, preparing to sit down to order lunch. The lunch counter worker sadly explained to them that he wouldn’t be able to serve them but helpfully suggested an all-white diner a few doors down where they could get lunch. The diner, you see, was “colored-only.”
The memories of seeing the faces of the kids forced to the back of the bus and the people sitting at the lunch counter—looking at my mother and grandmother as if they were crazy even to enter a “colored only” establishment—have stayed with my mother all these years. She remembers segregated restrooms: men, ladies, and “colored-only,”—unisex, obviously; she remembers “colored-only” water fountains; and she remembers other forms of discrimination that were foreign to her. My mother and grandmother were quite sure how to act or behave in this alternate world, this bizarre society. They made it to Florida, encountered their first palmetto bug, and went right back to the Greyhound bus station, where they hopped the first bus that would bring them back to New York.
Despite its problems, their hometown city didn’t seem so bad.
My mother got married a few years later and would have her bridal shower in 1961 at my uncle’s house in Brooklyn. Her pictures from that day show a diverse crowd of women—there was Nasha, a gorgeous opera singer working part-time at Gimbel’s in sales to make a living. She was the daughter of Russian immigrants. There as my beautiful Aunt Dorothy, a Julie Andrews-lookalike who had the most mellifluous speaking voice, touched with an English accent. And there was Birdie, a stunning African-American woman in a black sheath dress and a chignon, who to me—a girl growing up in a lily white town—looked like an exotic queen with her high cheekbones and wide smile. And there was a Blanche, another co-worker of my mother’s from Gimbel’s, who like Birdie, was a fabulously-chic African American woman, dressed to the nines, as women did in the ‘60s, for this festive event. In one picture, Birdie and Blanche are smiling and holding one of the ridiculously-constructed bow hats that many engaged women are forced to wear at their bridal showers. I remember looking at the picture, and not having met any African-American people at this point in my life—it was probably 1970—I was struck by the friendship that existed between all of these women, from disparate backgrounds. This was not a “whites-only” event; it was an event that brought a group of joyous coworkers together to celebrate the special event to take place in my mother’s life. And there is no color—except maybe yellow or gold, the colors of joy—to describe this event and how the radiance of all of the guests jumped off the page and out of that photo.
At the time of the shower, neither Birdie nor Blanche had probably never voted given the disenfranchisement that was rampant at the time.
I think that experiences like the ones my mother had south of the Mason-Dixon line and in the diner in South Carolina change you forever. Sometimes they change you for the good, sometimes not. I’ve heard people say that Barack Obama is really biracial and perhaps not officially African American. All I can say is that as a child, he would have been forced to the back of the bus once it passed into Confederate territory, and he would have been allowed to sit at the counter at the diner in South Carolina, probably watching my embarrassed grandmother and mother slink out of the establishment, ashamed of their ignorance, but moreso, ashamed by their country.
It has been a momentous week and I’m not sure that the magnitude of what we have experienced has sunk in yet. My children were surprised, horrified, and not at all believing in the story that my mother had to tell. And I’m glad for all three of those reactions. Their disbelief is understandable because the world that my mother and I grew up in is one that was vastly different from the one they are growing up in today. Their horror at hearing how others were treated may lead them never to malign or slight anyone again, I hope. But most importantly, their surprise is best of all. Because in their world, there is no reason that a woman, a Jew, a Muslim, or an African American can become president. Some day, maybe we’ll look beyond sex, religion, and/or race.
And look at that: we already have.
Let us with a fixed, firm, hearty, earnest, and unswerving determination move steadily on and on, fanning the flame of true liberty until the last vestige of oppression has been destroyed, and when that eventful period shall arrive, when, in the selection of rulers, both State and Federal, we shall know no North, no East, no South, no West, no white nor colored, no Democrat nor Republican, but shall choose men because of their moral and intrinsic value, their honesty and integrity, their love of unmixed liberty, and their ability to perform well the duties to be committed to their charge. (From a speech delivered in 1872, by Jonathan J. Wright, Associate Justice of the South Carolina Supreme Court.)
Maggie Barbieri
Veteran’s Day from a Veteran Wife of a 21-yr. Navy Man
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangLousy title, I know–but it more or less sums up what I have to say.
Though my husband was in the Seabees for 21 years and proud of his duty served all over the world, Spain, Cuba, Greenland, Alaska, and three tours in Vietnam during the war, he never goes to Veteran’s Days Parades–nor does he talk much about his service except to other vets. No, he doesn’t belong to the VFW or other veteran’s organizations and hang out. He does belong to the Fleet Reserve but again, goes to no meetings.
Being a wife of a Seabee was difficult at times–mainly when he was gone, and downright scary when he was in Vietnam. By the time his 21 years was up, we had five kids and guess who did most of the raising?
During the war, we lived near enough to the Pt. Hueneme Seabee base to do our shopping on base and use the hospital facilities–great savings for families who hardly made any money at all. Usually I had some kind of job to help out, either full or part-time, and divided whatever pay I got with the babysitter.
The pay then was so poor that we could have received welfare, though we never did. I bet there are places today where service families qualify for welfare.
And of course, the country wasn’t nice to the men when they came home from Vietnam. (Thank goodness, that’s changed.) No one ever thanked my husband back then–more apt to spit on him–now if he happens to be wearing his Seabee hat, strangers thank him for his service.
It was tough being a service wife–I had to make all the decisions when hubby was gone, then when he came home, he expected to be the boss. Being me, I told him once he might be the Chief in the Seabees, but I was the Admiral at home. Helped a bit.
All the crises happened while he was gone–of course. He wanted to stay in for thirty years, but by that time we had a houseful of teenagers and I said, “Nope, I’m not doing this alone anymore.”
In his retirement, things have gotten better. We no longer live near a base so we don’t go shopping or to the doctors there. However, we have great medical through hubby’s retirement and can go to the doctor of our choice. Something the government finally did right.
I have a granddaughter who is married to a Sergeant in the Army, getting ready to go to Iraq. She has two little kids. She came home to be near her mom in order to have some support. I feel sorry for her. The separation is not good for marriages or for kids.
Make an old vet feel good–thank him or her for his service and while you’re at it, thank his or her spouse.
Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com
To Honor those Who Serve
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangWe know that is true for the young men and women who are returning home from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Soldiers tell of the horrors they’ve seen, and the emotional scars of carrying those memories. No one is unscathed from their service. It is their courage, selfless commitment, and determination, in the face of dangers seen and unseen, that we must honor.
In the current economic crisis, the new administration will have to make some brutal budget decisions. Programs will be cut; services will be reduced. But let me add my voice to the call for honoring the debt we owe to our vets. We must invest in our VA system to fulfill our promise “to care for him who shall have borne the battle and his widow and orphan.”
Here are four critical veteran issues that demand immediate attention.
1. Allocate the necessary funds to provide the healthcare that our veterans have earned. More than 5 million vets receive healthcare from the VA — but the system is stretched beyond capacity and the wait for care is intolerable.
2. Reduce the backlog of VA disability claims. There’s more than a six month backlog of claims. Veterans shouldn’t have to wage another battle to get the benefits they’ve earned.
3. Support Advanced Funding for the VA medical budget. Currently, the VA budget is approved annually — but in 13 of the past 14 years, political bickering has delayed approval. Advanced Funding for the medical budget would mean the VA would know its funding a year in advance and could plan personnel, equipment, and services.
4. Support diagnosis and treatment of traumatic brain injury, post-traumatic stress disorder, and depression. VA must continue to improve accessibility to mental health care services for all veterans and that takes adequate funding for research and treatment.
Parades are nice; stirring speeches make us proud. But let’s make sure that our veterans receive, in a timely fashion, the benefits they’ve earned.
With love and gratitude to Captain Carol Edelman, Major Melvin Borden, and all the brave men and women who have served our country.
Evelyn David
Veteran’s Day from a Veteran Wife of a 20-yr. Navy Man
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangLousy title, I know–but it more or less sums up what I have to say.
My husband was in the Seabees for 21 years, and served on both coasts and all around the world: Cuba, Spain, Greenland, Alaska, and three tours in Vietnam during the war. (I never went with him out of the US because his tours were to short to take family.)
We lived close to Port Hueneme Seabee base for many years and were able to use the commissary, Navy exchange and base hospital which certainly helped financially. We made so little money that we could have gone on welfare. (I bet it’s the same for some of the service families today, depending upon where they live.) Most of the time (when I wasn’t having a baby) I had a part-time or full-time job so we could eat–sharing half my pay with a babysitter.
During the Vietnam War, civilians were ugly to service men. No one every thanked my husband for his service–more likely they spit on him. Things have changed–now when hubby wears his Seabee cap, people stop and thank him for his service. The wives ought to be thanked right along with the men.
We had five children, and while hubby was serving the U.S., guess who raised the kids? Guess when all the crises happened? Guess who watched the news about the war and when hubby’s base was hit, wondered if she still had a husband?
None of these separations are good for marriages. While hubby was gone, I made all the major decisions, took care of everything–when he came home he wanted to be the boss. Finally I told him he might be the Chief in the Seabees, but I was the Admiral at home.
He wanted to stay in the Seabees for 30 years, but by this time the kids were all in the teens, or nearly there, and I put my foot down. It was time for him to give up his uniform and become an active duty dad.
Because we no longer live near a base, we don’t shop or go to the doctor there. Fortunately, the government has come up with a medical plan for vets that works and we can go to any doctor of our choice.
Hubby never attends Veteran Day parades or hangs out with vets. He does like to talk about how wonderful the Seabees are and watch war movies.
Aubrey Hamilton
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangAubrey Hamilton began reading the adventures of Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, Cherry Ames, and Donna Parker at an early age and became enthralled with the mystery literary genre and its many subcategories. A long-time member of and occasional poster on DorothyL, she also reads manuscript submissions for Poisoned Pen Press. She lives in northern Virginia with several cats and thousands of books.
At last month’s Bouchercon in Baltimore, I attended a forum on historical mysteries. One of the authors on the panel mentioned that historical mysteries didn’t sell much before 1989. which struck me as odd. Have we only been reading historicals for 20 years?
I checked the index on Stop! You’re Killing Me to establish the entrance dates for some of the long-running historical series: The first of Edward Marston’s many series was published in 1988; Australian flapper Phryne Fisher solved her first case in 1989; William Monk, the Victorian police inspector, made his bow in 1990; Gillian Linscott’s books about a suffragette in England began in 1991; the first adventure of Gordianus the Finder was published in 1991; Dame Frevisse first appeared in 1992; Laura Joh Rowland’s samurai series emerged in 1993; the Pennyfoot Hotel opened its doors in 1993; Sister Fidelma debuted in 1994; Bruce Alexander immortalized Sir John Fielding in 1994, and Daisy Dalrymple joined the journalistic corps in 1994.
Only a half dozen of those I looked up were published prior to 1989: Peter Lovesey’s Victorian detective duo in 1970; Amelia Peabody in 1975; Brother Cadfael in 1977; Thomas and Charlotte Pitt in 1979; and Max Allan Collins’ Depression-era PI in 1983. Oldest by far was Judge Dee, the Chinese magistrate from the 600s, who appeared in print for the first time in 1952.
So I asked myself: what was I reading before the deluge of historical mysteries? I distinctly remember working my way through Margery Allingham, Ngaio Marsh, Erle Stanley Gardner, and the stray unread Christie. A librarian in Louisville introduced me to the classic series by Patricia Moyes, Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö, Emma Lathen, Sara Woods, and Gervase Fen. “Merry-Go-Round”, a short story in Fen Country, is one of my all-time favorite stories even now.
I stumbled on Richard Stark’s professional thief Parker in graduate school, when I picked up a paperback of Slayground. The concept of the anti-hero was new to me and I was enthralled. Seldom do I remember how I discovered a series but that one was so utterly unlike anything else I had read that the memory has stayed with me.
I was a huge fan of Elizabeth Linington’s police procedurals. My mother first discovered the Luis Mendoza series through that Halloweenish entry, Coffin Corner, about an indigent family who took a creative approach to avoiding burial expenses and passed it on to me. I was elated to learn that Linington wrote similar procedurals under other names and I carefully acquired every title in each series, which I still have. Sadly, these books did not stand the test of time. Linington recreated the Los Angeles of the 1970s so vividly that it is hard to read past the anachronisms to the sharp plots and careful characterization.
Unlike Linington, Richard Lockridge created an almost timeless character in Merton Heimrich, a New York State police detective whose stories could have taken place any time in last half of the twentieth century. I preferred reading about Lt. Heimrich to Lockridge’s better known characters, Pam and Jerry North. The same is true of John Creasey, who wrote prolifically under many names, but I liked his Commander Gideon of Scotland Yard’s Criminal Investigation Division the most.
Of course Sharon McCone, Kinsey Milhone, Carlotta Carlyle, and their sisters began to appear in the 1980s and my attention was diverted to them. I was delighted by Charlotte MacLeod’s gently ditzy stories with clever plots that materialized about the same time.
I suppose the real question is not what I was reading before the onslaught of historical mysteries, but what happened around 1990 to suddenly make historical mysteries so popular?
Any ideas of why 1990 is the turning point for historical mysteries?
Aubrey Hamilton
Intersecting Traditions
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangFor years we put together a pot-luck dinner at the office – cleaning, moving tables, and decorating for days. Eventually as all of us got older, the work involved outweighed the fun. We started going to restaurants for our luncheon. There are not that many to choose from in the area where our field office is located, and none that made the occasion special. We briefly went back to the pot-luck dinner.
One day we discovered, by word-of-mouth, an Amish family who prepared meals for groups. You have to make a reservation several weeks in advance and you have to have a large party. We tried it and enjoyed it so much we’ve done it every year since. Our catered meal at an Amish farm has become a tradition that everyone looks forward to.
For $13 per person, we are served “family-style” roast beef, ham, hot rolls, Tapioca pudding, home canned green beans, corn, mashed potatoes, gravy, slaw, iced tea, coffee, and two kinds of pie. It’s all you can eat and the best food I’ve ever tasted.
We eat in a simple one room building lighted by gas lamps. Hand-made quilts, jams, and food stuffs are displayed for purchase on tables near the open kitchen area. Long tables line the rest of the room. The food is prepared and served by reserved women wearing white muslin bonnets and long aprons. They welcome us with cheerful expressions and a calm manner seldom if ever found in traditional restaurants.
Each year I wonder what our hosts think of our loud, boisterous group comprised of people of many faiths. I wonder if they resent our presence; if they resent the need to feed outsiders in order to supplement their income. They’ve never indicated by word or deed that they are anything but happy to host our luncheon each year. But still, I wonder and feel a little awkward even after all these years.
Today, we’ve chosen a date for this year’s luncheon – December 2. My office manager will call a business where the Amish family receives messages (they don’t have a telephone at their home) and leave a message. In a few days we’ll get a call back, confirming the date and we’ll continue our tradition.
Maybe in some small way our tradition supports our hosts’ tradition.
Evelyn David
The Halloween Post-Mortem
/in Uncategorized/by Stiletto GangWe wave goodbye to another Halloween, although if you are like me, you’ve still got pounds and pounds of crappy drugstore chocolate in your houses. (Though I would wrestle you to the death for an Almond Joy.) We had a very successful Halloween around these parts: child #1 dressed as Charlie Brown and went trick or treating with a group of similarly-attired Peanuts characters; child #2 had the “best day ever” because his friend, B., despite being close to four years older than child #2, still trick or treats with him because as his mother says “it’s all about the candy for B.” At nearly 13, he doesn’t care about looking cool, or traveling with a pack of boys armed with shaving cream and silly string, or just being an all-around carouser. He wants to go house to house, charming the pants off of whomever is answering the door, and getting his fair share (or more) of candy. B. and my son know every house that gives out a full-sized candy bar, who gives out the bags of pretzels, and who will provide juice boxes to thirsty trick or treaters. They’ve got it down to a science.
If you’ve been a regular reader of this blog, or if you know me personally, you’ll know that I’m a little neurotic and crazily over protective. Halloween, in particular, brings out the worst in me. It brings back memories of razor blades in apples (which by the way, I’ve never encountered), roaming bands of zombies (again, never seen), and haunted houses (and…never been to one of those either). B.’s mother suggested that the boys hit the Halloween trail on their own, being as they would be in the general vicinity for most of the night. Although I knew in my heart that child #2 would be okay with B. in charge, I felt better when my husband said he’d “ride along.” And I’m glad he did, because he offered more insight into the trick or treating rituals of these two boys, which B.’s mother and I found hilarious. If only the boys brought this kind of intensity and planning to their schoolwork. The boys had a brainstorming session prior to hitting up the first house and decided on a two-pronged approach. The first approach was called the “traditional”: in the “traditional,” you walk calmly up to the door and ring the bell, plastering on your best and cutest smile. When the door is answered, you say, in unison, “trick or treat.” Charmed by your cuteness and good manners, you are handed more than your fair share of candy by the homeowner. “Bowling,” on the other hand, refers to uninhabited houses whose owners leave bowls of candy on the front porch. In “bowling,” you approach the house as quickly as possible and fill your candy bag with as much candy as you can before Jim, your chaperone, reminds you that you are not the only people trick or treating on that street.
The girls on the other hand, were more of a rag-tag bunch, wandering aimlessly through town with no plan as to where they would go, which houses they would target. Truthfully, I think they spent most of their time talking, a concept that the boys found ludicrous. There’s candy to be had! Suffice it to say that they came back a little lighter in the pillowcase than the boys who sported at least six and seven pound bags of candy, respectively. They looked at the girls’ paltry haul and decided that they needed more guidance next year so that they could maximize their intake.
We didn’t have as many children as we normally do this year, and considering that Halloween was on a Friday, I can only assume that a lot of people had indoor parties. We also have a couple of neighborhoods in town where kids congregate to trick or treat and which were overflowing with costumed ghouls, from what I’ve heard.
How many trick or treaters did you have? Did they seem to have an orchestrated plan of attack? And most importantly, what did you do with your left over candy?
Maggie Barbieri
Need Help Planning a Launch Party
/in Uncategorized/by The Stiletto GangIn January I’ll have a new book out–not one of my Deputy Tempe Crabtree books–this one is in my Rocky Bluff PD crime series. Not a cozy–but not really as edgy as many police procedurals. (I never use bad language or have explicit sex in any of my books.)
It’s difficult juggling two series. No Sanctuary will be published by a small independent press, of course. I want to give this book as much promotion time as my other series. I always have some kind of launch party–but not quite sure what to do for this one.
It’s about two ministers, and two churches and of course murder. A church might be a logical place, but I don’t think my son-in-law who is the pastor of the church I go to, would go along with the idea. I might broach it just to see. By the way, the churches in the book have no realtionship whatsoever to our little church.
I’ve had launches outside our local coffee shop (too cold in January), the local Inn, a recreation center (long gone), a gift shop (gone), used book store (gone), antique store, my house, art gallery (gone). Nothing lasts long in our little town–people start businesses who don’t know anything about running businesses.
Of course I’ll do all the usual Internet promotion, but I always like to give my neighbors and fans a chance to purchase my book first.
Any bright ideas about this? Feel free to post them in the comments.
Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com