See the lovely bride? Isn’t her dress perfect? And the groom, such a handsome young man. The bridesmaids all look elegant in their charming formal gowns. And the flowers are just the final touch of perfection. NOT!!

After spending about twenty years  coordinating weddings, creating bridal and formal wear, and waltzing well over a thousand brides down every kind of aisle from cathedral to beach, I tell all comers, there is no such thing as a perfect wedding. Never will be. Plan though you will, double check as if the fate of nations depended on it, something will smash, fall apart, or fail to appear.

Let me give you a few examples. Lisa, who is the authority on what’s what in social events, went with her sister Belle, who admits she has no more social expertise than a barn owl, to make sure Belle’s gown was sugar-sprinkled, pink and white perfection. That’s what they chose. But the shop had a slight mix-up and somehow Belle went down the aisle of that little country church wearing a red suede cowgirl suit with a skirt as tight as paint on a pencil and slit just about holster high.  Belle survived, the marriage has lasted more than twenty years, but Lisa still ducks and runs every time somebody brings up Belle’s rodeo wedding.

And then there was Susie, sweet, shy little Susie. Never a more ladylike bride trod the scattered petals to Lohengrin and the Bridal Chorus. Just don’t ask about the butterfly tattoo concealed by her shimmering satin skirts. Or how every bridesmaid, all nine of them, wound up with a butterfly tat to match under their apricot chiffon. I think we blamed the margaritas.

Of course, we might discuss Chrissie, who could have walked out of a Rembrandt painting.  Didn’t want a full scale, three act wedding. Just a quiet gathering in the park, a few friends, and no big fuss.  She planned a simple event and chose a sheer white voile sundress and a wreath of daisies in her hair. MOTHER thought otherwise, and the voile sundress and daisies became white satin, a tiered veil, and seven attendants in blue lace. Imagine Mom’s surprise when Chrissie and her beloved sent regrets–from Las Vegas!

Pretty little Angela was a country girl raised in a family of brothers. When she and Sid announced their wedding date, all the brothers wanted to contribute to the event. Oldest brother Harv owned a little pool hall cum tavern on the outskirts of town and offered his place for the reception.  What a warm gathering; what a loving gift. And no one had the nerve to suggest that he might have closed the pool hall to the public the day of the reception. Perhaps someone thought the family punchbowl might have been put to better use holding the pink lemonade rather than the potato salad, but not a soul said so.

Every wedding is special and most of them are graced with love and good wishes from family and friends. But every one of them has a little quirk that makes it special and unique. In my newest book, CRY AGAINST THE WIND, fifth in the Santa Rita Series, there is a wedding, something of a spur-of-the-moment wedding. The bride has lived through grief, disappointment, and years of pain. She’s come to realize the man she loves has endured the same disillusion and despair. When they at last overcome the obstacles and choose to share their lives, there appears to be no way to celebrate the event with loved ones. But this young lady has–if not a fairy godmother–at least a pretty good substitute who makes it her mission to give a girl a day to remember. A display that’s over the top? Yes!  A Victorian fantasy? Why not? And while the representative godmother is whipping up  miracles, how about tossing in a blessing from the mother who wouldn’t let even death keep her from smiling on her daughter’s wedding day.

I love weddings, small and informal or cathedral-sized and elegant. But  I always tell my brides, be prepared. Something, some little thing that no one can imagine going wrong, will slip. When it does, I tell them, keep smiling. “Remember it’s all going to be just fine. And chances are, that one little slip will be the best memory. You’ll laugh about it when you tell your kids and grandkids that this was the best day of your life.”

Have any wedding surprises you’d like to share? I’ll tell you mine–an hour before the sit-down dinner, one of the busboys bumped into the table holding the wedding cake. Down came three tiers of raspberry filled lemon cake and across the floor spattered about seven pounds of white chocolate icing, as well as the shards of all three dozen blown glass swans that had supported the tiers and crashed with the fall. As a result, our ‘wedding cake’ was a hundred and fifty hastily purchased cupcakes dipped in whipped cream and decorated with a fat strawberry. Yes, I laughed about it–on our tenth wedding anniversary.  Not so much at the time.

Fleeta Cunningham

fgcunningham@yahoo.com

www.fleetacunningham.com

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’

BLACK RAIN RISING

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE

HALF PAST MOURNING

CRY AGAINST THE WIND  (released 6/14/13)

As you might expect, writers’ conventions can be fraught with tensions and jealousy. Just consider Romantic Times 2013. All that talent floating around, crowds of enthusiastic readers, fabulous workshops (and hunky cover models)…oh, the agony.

I roomed with Pam Crooks, who was ABM’s January guest, even though she is a gorgeous, tall brunette. But I got my revenge in this picture of her at our Club RT table. Of course, she’s sitting and and I’m standing. But I still look taller. (Check out Pam’s new book, The Spyglass Project, under her alternate name, Frankie Astuto.)

We shared our table with Kate Maddison, pictured to the left, whose steampunk YA romance, ‘The Incredible Charlotte Sycamore’ just came out in March.

Several of my RWA chapter mates also attended RT this year. Cheryl St. John, Sherry Shackelford, Eve Savage , our lovely ‘alumna’, MK Meredith were part of the Romance Authors of the Heartland who got together at the Seymour Literary Agency’s event. Lynette Austin, our table hostess, gave us a big Texas welcome.

And I was able to sign books at RT’s Giant Book Fair. This was a wonderful experience – besides talking to readers like fan extraordinare Kimberly Radicy Rocha, who took this picture, several book bloggers stopped by. It was a pleasure to meet them, along with several other writers at my table.

Some of my other favorite moments from Kansas City:

Best Fangirl Moment: Meeting Patricia Rice in the elevator! Her ‘Rebellious Sons’ historical romance series has become one of my favorites! Thankfully, I didn’t squeal like a teenager.

Best Goody Bag: Seymour Literary Agency – we got wine! YES!

Best Swag: Victoria Alexander’s leftover coozie. The background here is that while chatting with her, she mentioned that she has no use for them. As someone who can nurse a drink along for hours, I love them. On Saturday, she kindly found me at the Book Fair and handed me one that she’d gotten & wouldn’t use. It now has a happy home in our coozie collection.

Can’t wait for next year in New Orleans!

Till next month,

Ann

When my number one daughter was very small, I was bitten by the quilting bug. Now all the women in my family quilted to some extent by necessity. I had grown up watching ‘nine-patch’ squares turn into bed-sized blankets. I’d been fascinated by the colors and the optical illusions that came together in their skillful hands. Somehow I’d not quite come to the realization that I could make that happen, too, though I’d been sewing since I was a child. Then the bug bit me. I had all the scraps left from making toddler pinafores and summer play clothes. I had tons of remnants from stitching up garments for myself. A good many scraps had gone into miniature gowns I created for a museum display when I copied the gowns worn by figures in a collection of portraits. Somehow I hadn’t latched on to the idea of turning those varied scraps into a crib-sized quilt. But the moment came. And it came with a little family history that my beloved Little Grandmother shared. When she was a young thing, and a number of suitors came to call, one in particular caught her eye. As he nudged out the competition and she began to think of making that relationship permanent, she also began to think about a wedding dress. White satin and orange blossoms didn’t come easily to hand in the dusty small town in the Panhandle of Texas where she lived. Young ladies, for the most part, made their wedding dresses out of the prettiest and most durable fabric available. In Little Grandmother’s case, it was a bolt of cherry red gingham. The young man proposed, was accepted, and the date set. Little Grandmother cut and stitched, hemmed and tucked, and finished her red gingham dress in time for the early spring wedding. And so she and her handsome cowboy were married.

In due time, of course, the couple became a family, first a boy, then another boy, and at last, the girl Little Grandmother had hoped for. Baby Girl grew from tiny baby to toddler, and Little Grandmother wanted to dress up her little girl in something special for Easter. Times were hard, the market had crashed, and banks were failing. Not much money for buying pretty dresses. But Little Grandmother didn’t give up easily. She looked through her own things and saw the red gingham dress in her wardrobe. She’d worn it a lot, and the durable cotton had begun to show a bit of age. But the wide skirt had good fabric in it. With careful snipping, there would be enough yardage to make a new Easter Dress for Baby Girl. And so the second generation wore that cherry red gingham.

Years passed and Baby Girl grew to adulthood, and as is wont to happen, she married and produced a Darlin Girl of her own. It was war time and fabric was scarce, especially something suitable for a tiny child. The young wife looked through the things she’d had in her early life and found the little red gingham dress her mother had made for her. There wasn’t a lot of fabric there, but there was enough to make a nice skirt. With a bit of solid red to make a top, Darlin Girl would have something pretty to wear when Daddy came back from the war. And so a third generation wore that soft bit of gingham.

You know what happened. Darlin Girl grew up and what do you think? Into her life came Angel Girl. And there I was, a young mother trying to juggle college, a house, a husband, and a baby. We counted pennies from pay check to pay check. But I wanted to make my angel child a quilt. Little Grandmother was visiting, and she offered to help me over the hard spots. So I pulled out all the scraps, put this and that together, and somewhere turned up the red gingham skirt my mother made for me when we were waiting for Daddy to come home. When Little Grandmother told me the history of that bit of red gingham, I knew it was meant to be. What could be more appropriate? I snipped and stitched and created that first-ever quilt for the little girl in my life, the fourth generation to share the dress that Little Grandmother made so many years before. Now Angel Girl has a Precious Girl of her own. And I’m glad to say the quilt, and its red gingham squares, has gone to one more generation.

I treasure the story of the red gingham dress and the cowboy who loved the girl who wore it. And I understand the longing and uncertainty of the young wife waiting for her husband to come back from the war. I like to think that some of their dreams and hopes linger in the bits of faded red stitched into that quilt. Like putting together the patches for a quilt, using the bits and pieces left from other projects, when I write a story I’m using the bits and pieces, the hope and dreams, of those who came before me. Maybe somewhere in time to come, someone will read something I wrote, faded and worn thin by time, and hear an echo of the cowboy, the war bride, or the college wife, and be comforted by the story as my special granddaughter was comforted by her quilt and the memories it held.

Fleeta Cunningham

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’

BLACK RAIN RISING

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE

HALF PAST MOURNING

CRY AGAINST THE WIND (to be released in June, 2013)

www.fleetacunningham.com

fgcunningham@yahoo.com

Meow!

Moonlight Kitty here to announce the winner of the March Giveaway. Congratulations to Caroline Clemmons. Caroline was the winner of a $25 on-line gift card sponsored by Linda Carroll-Bradd. Please contact Linda at l.carrollbradd@gmail.com to claim your gift card!

Another card is up for grabs for April. Be sure and leave comments all month long to enter. The more comments, the more your chances!

And keep an eye out. Our Summer Solstice Bash will be returning in June! Sounds like the Moonlighters have all kinds of purrfectly delicious ideas on tap. You won’t want to miss out a single moment!

I was having lunch with my significant other, Herbie, at our favorite old-time diner on Main Street of our little town today. We’re not exactly of the twenty-, thirty-, or even forty-something set. There’s a good reason I write about the 50′s. I don’t have to do much research, just open a diary or high school annual, and ‘remember when’. We were waiting for our lunch–old fashioned meatloaf, green beans, and mashed potatoes–and chuckling over the displays of Coca-Cola memorabilia that decorate the place. I pointed out a sign that advertised fountain Cokes at five cents and remembered the shock waves that went through my family when our favorite soft drink DOUBLED in price. My gosh, how could our family afford to pay ten cents for a six ounce bottle? Somehow that comment led us back along the old ‘Did You Ever” road. Remember playing out in the evening with about fourteen cousins, running under brush and behind fences for hide-and-seek? When no one worried if you were safe? You were okay and they knew it. Remember Saturday afternoons, having a quarter for the movie? A movie that included a cartoon, a newsreel, a thrill-packed serial, and a double feature–one of which would be a hard-riding Western starring Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, or Hopalong Cassidy. And if you had saved your allowance, you might have a spare quarter for a hamburger and a drink at the Hi-De-Ho afterward. I remember when Grandmother got a new refrigerator and I was given the box it came in. That box became Sky King’s airplane, Sargent Preston’s Yukon sled, an Indian canoe, and the Green Hornet’s speedy car Black Beauty. It was the greatest toy ever and cost my parents nothing.

Mentioning the Green Hornet of course led us to a quick review of all our favorite radio shows. We both listened avidly to The Shadow, Inner Sanctum (with the eery creaking door), Fibber McGee and Mollie, and The Great Gildersleeve. Sunday afternoon always meant a sack of apples and peanuts and a session with Bulldog Drummond, Gang Busters and the Lone Ranger. It took a moment to recall the radio actor who was the voice of Matt Dillon in Gunsmoke. I’d almost forgotten it wasn’t always James Arness who played that role. The original sheriff was William Conrad. I still think he was more impressive.

Life, at least in retrospect, was simple. You ate your vegetables, said ‘Yes, ma’am’ and ‘No, sir’, came home when you said you would, and remembered to do your homework before you went out to play. And no one had to tell you to go outside and play. Unless it was raining cats and kittens, or the snow was too thick to see the house across the street, or (in our case) the wind and sand would flatten you if you stepped off the porch, you were already outside. Your friends’ parents knew yours; your sisters, brothers, and cousins were your first friends; and heaven help you if you sassed the teacher. Mom would hear about it before you got home and there would be consequences.

So Herbie and I were thinking back, how blessed our young years were. How lucky to have extended family that lived within walking distance. To have had granddaddies who were our refuge, friend, and mentor. To have grandmothers who introduced us to the pleasure of tomatoes filched from the garden, the mysteries of homemade biscuits, and the wealth of stories handed down generation to generation. I know my grandchildren are blessed with great parents–after all I raised those parents, how could they be less than perfect? The kids have good health, sensible diets, cultural exposure, and diverse friends. They’re smart, beautiful, well mannered, and greatly loved. But did they ever play hide and seek in the moonlight or float down an imaginary river in an Indian canoe made of a refrigerator box and paddled by a discarded broom handle? No? Well, maybe it’s not too late.

Fleeta Cunningham

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’

BLACK RAIN RISING

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE

HALF PAST MOURNING

CRY AGAINST THE WIND (available for Kindle, hard copy in June)

www.fleetacunningham.com

fgcunningham@yahoo.com

I am so excited to introduce to ABM a new author with a great debut novel. Lael Neill now lives in Central Texas but her roots are in the Northwest. Her book, STONE DREAMING WOMAN,  from Wild Rose Press, has already received high praise on the Amazon.com reader review. It is available as an ebook now and will be out in hard copy in March. I asked Lael to tell ABM readers about her book and how a Texas gal wound up writing about Mounties and medicine women of the early Twentieth Century. This is how our visit went.

FC:  Your story STONE DREAMING WOMAN is set in the period just before WWI in Canada. What inspired you to use that time and setting? Do you have a strong personal interest that suggested the story?

LN: The very first romance that ever caught hold of my imagination and my heart was MRS. MIKE, by Benedict and Nancy Mars Freedman.  I fell in love with the hero, so I wove a story of my own about a Royal Northwest Mounted Police officer and a woman whose background was about as far removed from his as I could imagine.

I grew up in Tacoma, Washington, only about an hour and a half from the British Columbia border.  I am very familiar with western Canada, and I originally imagined setting the story there.  However, the Mounted Police did not have jurisdiction over British Columbia until much later, so I was faced with a choice.  I either had to move the timeline up or I had to reset the story in a different area.  Moving the timeline would have reduced the impact of the basic theme of the story (gender bias), so changing the setting seemed the more logical course to take.

The period before WWI was a real watershed concerning the role of women in society.  They had fought for and won the right to vote, and were crusading for reproductive rights and gender equality.  The resistance at that time was much greater than during or after the war.  In Jenny’s case, the lack of physicians stateside and the demands of the Spanish Flu epidemic created a vacuum that would have sucked her into a medical practice somewhere out of people’s sheer need and desperation, hence the necessity of setting the story before the war heated up.

FC:  Your heroine Jennifer is a medical doctor in a time when few women, certainly not women with social stature, dared enter the medical profession. And your story shows a lot of medical knowledge. Do you have a medical background? Or did you build the character based on research? The details in your story are impressive.

LN: I do not have a medical background, but my education included detailed a five semester hour honors course in human anatomy.  It both fascinated me and provided enough basic grounding that I could expand my knowledge and understanding on my own.  I also have a trick memory for trivia.  If it’s something I’ll absolutely never have any possible use for, I’ll remember it.  For instance, the little bony bumps we sit on are called ischial tuberosities.

I did have to conduct a boatload of research for the story, though.  Most of it had to do with the state of medical practices and knowledge of the time and if, how, and when things like surgical gloves and stethoscopes changed over the years.  I also had to research firearms of the period and, of course, fashions, though I had some expert help in that regard.

FC:  What led you to set the story in Canada? Surely that made heavy demands on you as an author. The setting is a major feature of the book and contributes to the conflicts the characters face. You weave it seamlessly into prose. Did you know when you started the story that the place would influence the story so much?

LN: The story had to be set in Canada because you don’t find Mounties anywhere else.  And yes, I did know that the setting would influence the story.  Local color is one of the best ways to achieve realism.  Until I moved to Texas I was an outdoors girl, which included fishing, camping, hiking, scuba diving, target shooting, and skiing, so describing the woods, the mountains, the rivers, the salt water, and the seasons comes very naturally.

FC:  I’ve heard it said that one good story opens the door to many more. Will there be more stories with this location and time? Maybe centering on characters we meet in STONE DREAMING WOMAN?

LN: I ’m working on a sequel right now involving Jenny’s younger cousin Elizabeth.  Without giving away too much, the hero is Sergeant Paul Weller, the best friend and sidekick of Jenny’s love interest in STONE DREAMING WOMAN.  Elizabeth and Paul are coming through as a well defined characters in their own right and their story is clamoring to be told.  At this point the working title is SAND ISLAND DIARIES.

FC:  Your first book is a vintage romance. Do you write about other times and places? Can you give us a hint where we might find you next? What audience will you be writing for?

LN: I have a story all but finished, but since I did it as a point of view exercise, it needs a complete rewrite before it goes anywhere.  It takes place in and around New Orleans during the period between the Louisiana Purchase and the War of 1812, the sunset of the age of Caribbean piracy.  The heroine is the daughter of a British naval officer and an aristocratic lady from New Orleans.  Marianne has the temerity to fall in love with her father’s worst enemy, a privateer sailing under Letters of Marque from France.  The target audience for MAGNIFICENT PIRATE is, of course, the same audience who will enjoy STONE DREAMING WOMAN and SAND ISLAND DIARIES.

Even though I am exploring the world of romance writing now, I have always had an abiding love of fantasy.  A huge and very different “swords and sorcery” trilogy lurks in my computer, hopefully to find a publisher someday.  In it, two powerful and very different men on opposite sides of a rebellion forge an unlikely friendship to bring peace to their war-torn country.

FC:  What book/books first inspired you to tell stories?  What story elements did they have in common? All romances? Adventure? Strong and unconventional heroines? Do you remember the first story you created?

LN: The book that first inspired me to tell stories came my way when I was eight years old.  Those of us “of a certain age” remember the WEEKLY READER and JUNIOR SCHOLASTIC magazines we purchased through our schools.  I had never found it easy to go to sleep, so when I read one of the letters to the editor from a little girl who said when she could not sleep she told herself a fairy tale, I decided to try her tactic.  After going through CINDERELLA and SNOW WHITE ad nauseam, I thought, “Well, how boring is this?  Why don’t I tell myself MY OWN stories?”  Thus a writer was born.

I played with writing until I started high school, and when I had a little maturity under my belt the bug bit seriously.  Then at Central Washington University I had the rare privilege of studying creative writing under Dr. Harold L. Anschutz, a totally brilliant professor who loved his subject and loved his students.  He was also my faculty advisor, so after worshiping at his feet for four years, writing was so deeply ingrained in me I knew, like Lady MacBeth, I would never be able to wash it from my hands or out of my soul.

I became deeply involved in skiing and alpine racing then, so naturally my main characters were skiers.  The stories were both romances and adventures, with brave heroes and strong heroines who knew their own minds and were not afraid to go for broke.  Some of those characters from way back when have survived and cropped up in a Vietnam-era romance I have tentatively called GOING PRO.  It concerns a sheltered young man who retires from the Austrian Olympic team, comes to the United States to manage a ski school, and encounters American culture.  It is a very long and very complex story that may or may not see the light of day.  Writing is like that.

FC:  Will you give us a short scene from STONE DREAMING WOMAN? Something to whet our appetites.

They finished their food, and he helped her clear the table.  She discovered they made as good a team doing something as mundane as picking up dishes as they did saving a life.  She rinsed the bean pot and the bowls, then put all the dishes in the pot and covered them with water.  Then she dried her hands on the flour sack towel and anointed them with her favorite Honey Almond Cream.

“There.  That’s good enough.  We’ll do them with the breakfast dishes in the morning,” she said.  He had moved behind her to return the butter to the cooler, and when she turned she bumped into him.

“Sergeant!  Excuse me!”  A toucher, she laid her palms above the breast pockets of his tunic by way of apology.  Impulsively he covered her hands with his.

“Miss Weston, I can’t thank you enough for what you did today, for being kind enough to come to North Village with me, and for saving Jimmy’s life.  He’d have been in dire trouble without you, Miss Weston…”  He paused awkwardly, stumbling over her name.  “No, I… Doctor Weston?  I’m not certain how I should address you now.  After today, ‘Miss Weston’ sounds so frivolous…”

“ ‘Jenny’ will do quite nicely, Sergeant.”

His gaze leveled on her, and he gave her a deeply searching look that was all grey eyes and hugely long lashes.  “I have a first name too, you know,” he said softly.

“Touché.  Shane.”  She smiled and felt her cheeks flush.  “Then have a good night.”

“You too.”  Her hands lay trapped against his Red Serge.  She turned them beneath his and held them palm to palm for a moment.

“Until tomorrow, then…Shane,” she said awkwardly.

“I look forward to it.”  Then he reluctantly let her hands go, drawing a deep, nervous breath.

“Jenny?  May I call on you, then?  With Richard’s permission, of course.”

“It would be my honor entirely.”  His hands went slowly to the points of her shoulders, and he drew her to him.  She closed her eyes and tipped her head back.  All her senses were full of him, from his warmth to the masculine scent of soap, sunshine, and the wool of his Red Serge.  She let her hands travel to his muscular shoulders, and as he gathered her into his arms, her left hand slipped over the standing collar of his tunic to the slightly long hair at the nape of his neck.  It felt soft, satiny, and much finer than her own.  Then his lips met hers, gently and tenderly, the stimulating touch of warm velvet.  As she flowed up against him, the night turned to fireworks.

The kiss was exactly what she would have expected from Shane: undemanding, powerful, and thoroughly exciting.  Then he held her close and pressed his cheek against her hair and she let her arms encircle his back.  He was a big armful for her.  His lips traveled across her cheek and he nuzzled into her hair.

“Oh, Jenny,” he whispered, sending a shiver from her heels to the top of her head.  Then they kissed again.  This time his red-clad arms engulfed her and she was lost in the incredible power that was Shane Adair.  She went weak all over and plastered herself against his chest.  She wanted to blurt out that she loved him madly, but that was a frightening idea.  She laid her hand against his cheek and backed up a few inches.  His face held high color and he was breathing hard through flushed, slightly parted lips.

“Do I owe you an apology now?” he whispered.  Her arms tightened about him.  Then she raised her head just enough to look up into his eyes.

“No.  That was just as much my idea as yours.  Don’t apologize to me unless it was just a one-time impulse and you intend never to repeat yourself.

He proved to her that he was up to her one-line stingers.  “Chèrie, I’ll kiss you goodnight every night for the next eighty years if you’ll have it,” he said softly.

“In eighty years I’ll be a hundred and five!  Who in their right mind would want to kiss a hundred-and-five-year-old woman?”  The grey eyes tilted again.

“A totally smitten one-hundred-eight-year-old man,” he whispered, holding her hands against his chest.  She laughed softly.

“I swear, one of your ancestors had to have kissed the Blarney Stone!”

“Just wait eighty years and you’ll know that I’ve never meant anything more.”

“I’ll check again tomorrow, thank you.”

“Tomorrow, gladly.”  He raised her hands to his lips.

“Then good night, Shane.”

“Good night, Jenny.”  He leaned down and bestowed a chaste peck on her forehead.

“Sleep well.”

“I don’t think I’ll sleep at all, after this,” he sighed.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”  She backed away from him, letting her hands run softly through his.  Then she was gone, leaving behind an aura of Honey Almond Cream.

I had the fun of reading STONE DREAMING WOMAN while it was still in draft form and know first hand what a great tale it is. I’m really looking forward to the sequel and keep urging Lael to write fast so I can see how it all comes out. Thanks for sharing your time and your ideas with us, Lael. Come back soon and keep us informed about your projects.

Fleeta Cunningham

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN

BLACK RAIN RISING

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE’

HALF PAST MOURNING

CRY AGAINST THE WIND (forthcoming)

The cold tail of December is upon us. That’s what I call that last week of the year between Christmas and the New Year. Christmas 2012 is a memory, 2013 is a future fraught with fiscal cliffs and the aftermath of two major snowstorms and some of the most horrendous news stories of the year. A lot of us feel like we’re digging out or hunkering down, physically and mentally.

Although shutting down emotionally may be a successful short-term coping mechanism, in the long run it doesn’t do us or our loved ones any good. One of the reasons I write romance is because I believe in the power of love. It may not pay the bills, but love gives us hope and strength, comforts us and keeps our hearts warm in an often cold and scary world.

Honest love doesn’t blind us to another person’s faults. We do ourselves a disservice when we lie to ourselves in the name of romance. Love enables us to see another person’s faults clearly, but helps us cherish them anyway — just as we hope to be cared for despite our own flaws.

Each of us has our own set of strengths and weaknesses. The things we love are a key to why we are here. Our passions can direct us to do a lot of collective good in the world. For me, writing is a gift, but it requires me to honor it by committing to improve it and work with it for hours each day. Writing is a way for me to help myself, my family and readers. It’s my way of throwing a little warmth into the world.

In 2013, I’d like to make my little part of the world a bit better, and I’d like to challenge ABM readers to do the same. It can be anything. If you love the environment, can you plan to run your errands on one route to use less gas? If you’re an animal lover, can you donate old clean towels or blankets to a shelter? Even something as simple as offering to pick up groceries for a relative or neighbor, when you go for yourself, will make their lives a little easier. I love to get good deals with newspaper coupons, so in 2013, I want to do that for the benefit of my local food pantry.

In the spirit of keeping our hears warm (and looking great while doing so), I’d like to give away a black, beige and silver shawl to one commenter on this post. Leave your comment  below, up to midnight Saturday, December 29th. I’ll announce the winner Sunday night between 11 p.m. & midnight, using Random.org.

Till next time,

Ann

Among the questionable pleasures of family life are the moments when one must deal with the detritus of either aging or late relatives. My children and I have had first hand experience with far too many of those moments this year. Most recently, after moving my parents–who are in their nineties–into a retirement home, we found ourselves with stacks of fading photographs, most of which were unidentified.  As I looked over the faded images, I felt both exasperated and amused. Someone had gone to so much trouble to pose, photograph, and save those moments in family life when the brothers, sisters, cousins, grandparents were briefly all together. And they are precious. In the mix are glimpses into life long past and faces to go with names that are now only ‘remember when’ legends. That dashing cowboy roping a steer–that’s Uncle Francis who worked on the XIT. I never knew him, but I know this is his picture because I remember Granddaddy told me about him. Wish somebody had written a note on the picture that said where it was taken and when.

Set to one side is a studio portrait of a lovely young girl, all in white lace, with a wide brimmed hat and a cat in her lap. I’m just about the oldest of the family now, so there’s no one to tell me who she was and what the occasion was for the portrait. She has dark hair and beautiful eyes. She looks like someone I’d like to know, but no one left a clue to her identity.

Tucked together in an old envelope marked 1928 I find a collection of family pictures all made at the same time on the front porch of a farm house. I suspect even the tiny baby the young mother in the porch swing is holding may well have passed on by now. It’s been more than eighty years if the date on the envelope is correct. Who was this family? Three generations stopped their visiting and working and playing together long enough to let the camera record six different shots of the event. Wish I knew what family it was. Were they related to me? Are the parents of one of my grandparents  sitting in that long ago afternoon surrounded by children now grown old or gone altogether? Can I see a family resemblance to my children and grandchildren? I think so but it may be wishful thinking.

After hours of sorting and comparing the curling and brittle pictures, I take a stack to my mother who probably has a better memory than I do and maybe recalls the people in them. Some she can put names to, but many came to her from my grandmother. “Why,” I ask, “didn’t somebody identify these folks? Put names and dates on these pictures?” Mom smiles, in her perfectly sensible way and tells me, “We didn’t need to, then. We knew who they were.”

Hours later, recounting this story to a friend, I realize that I, too, have stacks of photos from my school years, from the early years of my marriage, from adventures and visits, that I’ve never identified, because I KNOW who those people are. But one day my children and grandchildren will be doing what I am now. They’ll be looking at fading snapshots and curling, brittle pictures and saying, “Well, I think that’s Uncle Mike; he was the career army man. And this could be Aunt Joy’; she was the one who lived in the funky house.” I’d like my precious memories to pass on to my offspring of however many generations may come. I think I’ll invest in some albums and spend some time putting names and dates on those pictures.  Who knows, I might find material for another book in some of those old prints. At least I can make sure the kids can put faces to the family legends and keep some of the history alive.

Fleeta Cunningham

DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’

BLACK RAIN RISING

ELOPEMENT FOR ONE

HALF PAST MOURNING

CRY AGAINST THE WIND (Forthcoming)

Whether we are ready for them or not. I am always amazed when I get to this time of the season and I wonder what happened to the passing year. We are two short months away from arriving in 2013! Doesn’t seem possible. And with election (finally) over, we are ready to hit Thanksgiving , and skid into Christmas.

I’ve noted over the years how Thanksgiving always seems to get robbed. Not that I don’t love Christmas as much as the next person, but I do like to take time and reflect what I am thankful for. I didn’t participate in Facebook’s daily what I am thankful for posts, because basically…I am thankful for every day I wake up. I don’t think I need to post that on Facebook to be understood.

I look forward to gathering around a big dining room table, a turkey, ham and a good bottle of wine the center pieces…but not the focus. Seeing my family and conversing….as well as listening, should always be the focus. There is nothing like the holidays for the family to gather and be thankful we are still able to get together for another year. Once the table is cleared, though, watch out! Beginning with Black Friday…we are off to the races for Christmas…followed by ringing in the New Year.

What do you look forward to in the holidays? Do you love the Christmas music? The family gathering time? Baking cookies and pies?

I’ll send you off with a great favorite recipe from Taste of Homes http://www.tasteofhome.com/Recipes/Deluxe-Pumpkin-Cheesecake:

Ingredients:

• 1 cup crushed gingersnap cookies (about 20 cookies)
• 1/3 cup finely chopped Diamond of California® Pecans
• 1/4 cup butter, melted
• 4 packages (8 ounces each) cream cheese, softened, divided
• 1-1/2 cups sugar, divided
• 2 tablespoons cornstarch
• 4 eggs
• 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
• 1 cup canned pumpkin
• 2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
• 1-1/2 teaspoons ground nutmeg

GARNISH: Chocolate syrup, caramel ice cream topping, whipped topping and additional crushed gingersnap cookies, optional

Directions:

Place a greased 9-in. springform pan on a double thickness of heavy-duty foil (about 18 in. square). Securely wrap foil around pan.

In a small bowl, combine the cookie crumbs, pecans and butter. Press onto the bottom of prepared pan. Place on a baking sheet. Bake at 350° for 8-10 minutes or until set. Cool on a wire rack.

This is one of those to-die-for pies! Happy Thanksgiving and may those gathering around your table this year be blessed.

Hi again! Thank you for joining me for my monthly post here at Authors By Moonlight.

I have tried to think of something “Autumn” to talk about and ran into a coupla problems. I know, what else is new, right? Be nice! It’s not my favorite season, but I like Fall well enough; relief from scorching heat as Patricia mentioned Wednesday, excitement of fall holidays leading to winter holidays. But Fall… Most people look forward to the food of the season. Not me, unless orange and brown candy corn and hot cider counts. I don’t like pumpkin food/drink of any kind and don’t understand the obsession food in general. I eat what is necessary to keep from starving to death and that’s about it. Lol Fall holidays? Not big on Halloween anymore, except for the candy. I don’t care for Thanksgiving at all. I do, however, look forward to Christmas!

But let’s go back a bit. When my three daughters were young Mitch and I embraced all holidays to the fullest extent. He got wood one year and we made painted yard decorations that lasted for years for Halloween and Christmas. Ghosts, RIP headstones, carolers with howling (singing) dog, who all stood around middle daughter’s pine tree in the front yard with lights and music, Santa climbing in the chimney as his sleigh and reindeer waited on the roof peak and a nativity our church borrowed for Christmas programs. All made with plywood, paint and love.

The second year, after making the decorations, they (hubs and girls) made a few additional items. One of those was a big black, hunched-back cat with shocking green eyes. For some reason youngest daughter’s dog hated that cat! When we pulled out decorations each year Dottie (I posted here in May of her passing) would growl and bark at the cat and run from it if we held it toward her. We never understood what it was about that cat she didn’t like. But if we turned it so she couldn’t see the black body or green eyes- it made no difference to her. She hated that cat. Funny since we had two live cats she liked, and though neither were black, my oldest daughter’s calico was mostly black. Still, it didn’t bother Dottie.

We don’t have any of those decorations any more, but they served our children, our family, church and neighbors, well for ten or more years. I loved those days, cherish the memories.

I miss those days. The girls are grown with their own families now and if it weren’t for fil and oldest granddaughter, of whom we have temporary legal guardianship of, living with Mitch and I, we would be empty nesters today- we’re both in the autumn of life now.

One daughter and her hubby took their two girls to Colorado this past June and writing this post  made me realize this is the first year, out of 28, that we’ll spend without all three of our girls with us. Without all four of the current grandbabies (number 5 is due to arrive in late January) laughing and playing in my house.

It will be different, but I have tried (as Peter Pan does) to look at life as the biggest adventure of all! That includes major family group alterations. I don’t have to like it- but I will accept it.

Call us pathetic, but oldest daughter called and we kept our phones on speaker for two hours as we watched the Presidential debates “together” from 900 miles apart last night.

What? I said I’ll accept, at no time did I say it would be with grace!

My question for those empty nesters out there is: How do you do it? I miss my kids so much when they aren’t within throwing distance. How do you survive when one or more of your babies moves so far away you only see them once or twice a year, if you’re fortunate?