I Not a Father’s Day post

I didn’t post on Father’s Day about how great my Dad was. Not because he wasn’t, but I didn’t call him Dad, I called him Father.

As in my father was the disciplinarian. “Just wait until you’re Father gets home,” Mom said when I was bad.

Or “Ask your Father” when I begged for something special.

So he was “Father” in my mind.

I was his favorite when I was little. How did I know? It was that magic children have about who loves them. I would run to him and he’d pick me up and spin me around until I was dizzy with laughter.

My Father read to my sister and I every evening from the classics. The joy of books is a wonderful part of my memories of my Father. I heard the classics, Tarzan, Tom Sawyer, A Christmas Carol. He also ingrained in me the need for education since he and my Mom never graduated from high school.

Walking me down the aisle.

He wanted to be an author, so I guess his gift to me was the same goal. And here I am. My book, Ancient Blood is number five.

Thank you, my Father. You gave me such great gifts.

June Fair

My sister was born the day the World’s Fair opened in New York and my mother wanted to name her June Fair. They lived in a small house that backed up against the fence around the fair grounds. I don’t recall that house. I remember the ceiling above my crib and the window curtains next to my bed.

Patricia Anne was a pretty girl with thick dark brown hair that I envied over my own blonde straight locks. Mine was always cut short, but Mom would brush hers to keep it neat. Although she was four years older, we were close. We shared a room and an old double-bed.  She comforted me when I was frightened. Encouraged me. Loved me.

She got really sick when she was fourteen and dropped into a coma. Diabetes was the diagnosis and the family routine changed. We went to the hospital often and Mom cooked healthy food for her, something we all ate since she refused to cook two meals.

The wedding party
Robert and Patricia Nadeau

Pat married a good man named Robert. She had two boys and adopted a lovely blonde girl before the disease disabled her. Diabetes can be terrible. Her vision failed and she could no longer read the books she loved. Her kidneys failed and she needed dialysis. I would walk her around her yard, describing the flowers she had planted that were a blur.

Loving her family, she held on for five years. They wouldn’t use my kidney for her: I had children of my own to care for. When she went into the hospital that last time, I visited daily. She told me how much she loved her husband. Through all the medical expenses, the illnesses, everything, he always made her feel loved and that she was never a burden. For that alone, Bob deserves a seat in Heaven.

So, Patricia Anne Nadeau died at the age of thirty-five. I woke up screaming at three am and knew she was dead.  My sister, my friend.

This is to celebrate her life, not her death.

Traveling to Greenville, S.C.

We didn’t choose Greenville, South Carolina to stop for any
special reason. It was on the way North. This lovely Southern city was a pleasant
surprise. Furman College provides a spark of energy and the downtown is
crowded with boutiques, coffee shops and great restaurants.

Downtown Greenville

Falls Park is in the center of downtown. A pretty waterfall
drops over water-scoured boulders, colorful flower beds line paths, benches
provide restful seating, and an impressive suspended bridge stretches overhead.

Greenville, SC suspension bridge

I loved the Confederate Museum and Library’s wonderful
collections. Due to the limited number of volunteers, the place is open on
Monday and Wednesday only.

Confederate Museum and Library

The items are carefully displayed and labeled. It includes
uniform buttons, guns, small cannon, photos, and more for the Civil War buff’s
interested in the period. An authentic battle shirt displayed how the soldiers
dealt with the heat.

There were only a few items about the females of the era,
but a series of daguerreotypes were interesting to study.

I wanted to spend time in the library, but knew I’d never
leave if I started. There is a broad collection of books available to find
information on The Confederacy and its military.

This is a place I want to visit again.

The Wild Rose Press Retreat in Asheville

Booting Promo Butt

Panelists discuss promotion on the web, from websites to Shelfari, to blogs and loops, a wide- ranging presentation of what’s available for free. Besides addressing questions, a CD with a variety of articles on “how-to” will be given to class attendees.

If you know me at all, you know I am the worst internet user anywhere. I’m afraid of computer–they tend to die sudden and awful deaths at my hands. I can’  remember my own email address or if I remember to answer the ones sent to me. My efforts on the web to do promo have been hit or miss, along with disaster, calamity, chaos—

So why did I volunteer to do a class on promo? Because I’m so inept.

I can tell you every error to avoid, shortcuts to make it easier and what I found a total waste of time. I hope the attendees have a bunch of questions. I am armed and dangerous. 


May 27 is the Big Day

The prize in My May Contest is a copy of Ancient Blood by Barbara Edwards

Paranormal, strong romantic elements, sensuous

Lily Alban escapes a murderous stalker, but his vicious attack leaves her with the ability to see auras. She finds safety in the tiny hamlet of Rhodes End where a stranger stands out like a red light. Try as she might to deny her growing desire for Cole, she seeks his help but soon discovers the man she loves is not a man at all.

Werewolf Cole Benedict resists his attraction to Lily. A botanist researching the healing herbs to find a cure for Lycanthropy, he’s determined to protect Lily from her stalker as well as himself even in human form, but instinct takes over when he changes to his inner beast.

Together they must use their extraordinary gifts to catch Lily’s stalker before he attacks again, but revealing their secrets to one another could destroy their growing love or save them both. 


“Lily?” His strong hands gently cupped her shoulders.

“Don’t, please don’t.”

She pulled away, fully intending to flee. Her resistance shattered, and she turned into his embrace. It was too late to escape. Pressing against his strength, she wound her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. His erection prodded her stomach, and she moaned. A heavy groan filled his throat as he lifted her from her feet. He kicked the bag aside as he sat her on the counter.

“I can’t wait,” he growled. His flaring aura spiraled with colors she couldn’t name. She caught her breath. One hand burrowed through her hair, keeping her still as he stepped between her thighs. “You’re all I could think about all day.”

Clasping her bottom, he slid her to the edge of the counter. With his lips claiming her mouth, he unbuttoned her slacks, than lifted her slightly to push them down and off.

The cold surface only made her more aware of his scorching heat. His rough denim pants scraped her inner thighs in contrast with the silky hair under her palms. Her pulse leaped, and she gasped. His male scent mixed with hints of the wild forest filled her nostrils. When his fingertip explored the heated moisture gathering at her juncture, she tightened her thighs around his hips.

Barbara Edwards

The Wild Rose Press: Ancient Blood, a Black Rose


How does my garden grow?

Any gardener knows the value of mulch. Mulch cools the roots in the summer, shelters small plants, smothers weeds and warms during the winter. Mulch can add color as well. The right type can decompose and feed the plants. The variety available is amazing: rocks, wood chips, plastic sheets, shredded tires,

So why discuss mulch? It occurred to me that the right ‘mulch’ helps me write. Yep. Picture me as a plant wanting to blossom, in other words an author writing a book. What do I need?

Protection from the elements, maybe a quiet corner.  How important have you found that small special place to spread your writing roots? I usually need my own desk, a comfortable chair, my computer to settle, but there have been times when a beach chair and a legal pad worked. I surround myself with that blanket.

Stimulation?  We need mental nourishment. Do what ever is necessary to fire up the fires of imagination. Go to a movie, read a book, knit a sweater, take a nap. Wait, nap?  Einstein slept in short naps and look what he did.

Food? Maybe. I’ve cut back on snacking because of the secretary spread, but I do indulge in hot tea, a piece of fruit or whatever I need for comfort food. Writing can be an emotional drain.

Plants don’t need exercise, but people do. I just learned its better to move for five minutes every hour than to wait and do twenty minutes after four hours of sitting. So stretch those leaves and roots frequently. It gets the sap flowing.

Think about your needs and use the best mulch for your garden.