Something that has always troubled me is the physical distance between myself and my grown daughters. Each one of them, as soon as they were able, left our quiet little town in the dust in their rear view mirror and found their life elsewhere. (One has since returned, now that she has children and finds that small-town atmosphere nice for raising them. Yay!)

One went off to join the Navy and saw the world before she met her husband (also Navy) and had three wonderful children before settling in Pensacola.

One went off to learn about the world of environmental education and had gigs on the shore of Maine, on an island in Puget Sound, and finally in the high desert around Lake Tahoe before settling for her family home in Reno.

One went off to discover the mysteries of spun sugar and the chemistry of baking, and is now a pastry chef in Asheville, in the Smoky Mountains.

All are too far away.

When daughter #3 announced she was going to visit daughter #2 in Florida, the rest of us began to conspire to join them. We hadn’t all been together in the same place in perhaps ten or twelve years, and I couldn’t see waiting another ten for them all to come home. So we did it.

It was awesome.

We cooked together; Kim and her partner Lexi made their professional-grade coffeecake, Beth’s husband George made biscuits from scratch while Donna made sausage gravy, we made vegetable salad and fruit salad, and Megan taught us all how to whizz up healthy fruit/veggie smoothies for breakfast.

We went to the white sand beach of Pensacola, and the Black Water River State Park. The kids loved both places–well, except for the one-year-old, who decided sand and wind were not to her liking. Period.

Or grass in the yard either, for that matter.

We even managed to get in some adult relaxation time at some local restaurants, while the kids played outside at the playground. (Don’t worry, I was the designated driver!)

But the best part of all was when we could just sit around and talk. We remembered old times, we shared new times. The girls talked about issues they had with their children and I got to sit back and laugh because they’d gotten babies just like themselves. We got what we’ve missed for years–intimacy and love. Social media, Skype, all that does replace it in some way, but it’s just not the same as hearing your child’s voice at your shoulder and feeling them in your arms, even if they’re grown-up and mothers themselves now.

It was the sort of opportunity that doesn’t come around often enough in life for most of us, and I am so glad I seized it. Carpe diem, as Mr. Keating says in Dead Poets Society. You never know what’s going to happen next. Illness, accident, some horrible tragedy like what hit Boston this week–we all have to sift through our busy, overcrowded lives and discover what truly matters to us, then hold on with the 2,000-lb. jaw grip of an alligator until we make it our own.

You know the characters we love are those who are most tenacious, who prize family relationships, who look out for one another and care for each other. Why should our personal lives be any different?

Who are you missing at this time in your life? Can you make a plan to get together–hopefully soon? Don’t wait for that chance to pass you by, and love will be your reward!

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

We think of traditions as being time-tested and venerable, and that’s true most of the time. But every once in a while, something happens – maybe just by accident the first time (e.g. the dog eats the turkey on Thanksgiving so you end up grilling burgers) – and maybe because it feels right that first time, then is a wild success. In any case, as much as I love old traditions, I’ve seen some new ones being born recently and it’s fun witnessing the process.

Some of the new traditions at our house are being born of necessity. My daughter has developed a gluten allergy/intolerance, to the point where even a hint of wheat dust can almost knock her off her feet. It was diagnosed last summer, so Thanksgiving 2012 was our first test case.

Let me just say that I inherited a great stuffing recipe – foolproof and yummy. But it starts with bread.  Likewise, we have a Christmas cookie tradition that everyone salivates over, but again, white flour.  We made gluten-free stuffing this year, trying to substitute gluten-free bread into my existing recipe, and it was pretty good. We think we can get it right, but it will take a few more tries. So in that sense, I feel like I’m seeing a new family tradition taking hold. And the cookies? Well sadly, there’s really no way to duplicate that one, so we’ll look for something completely different.

The biggest casualty by far, however, is the Easter bunny cake. It starts with two round white cakes – one makes the head, the other is carved up into ears and a bow tie. Then you make boiled meringue-like frosting, coat the whole bunny, then cover everything but the bow tie with coconut flakes. The bow tie gets polka dots (jelly beans) and then the mouth gets jelly bean eyes, nose and mouth.

I’ve chronicled my adventures with that bunny on my live-journal blog for years because I have horrible luck with boiled frosting (you haven’t lived until you glue a spoon to a pot). But I love that cake, mostly because my mother-in-law made it every year when my husband was a kid, and every year thereafter until she passed away, so taking up the tradition was a no-brainer.

My daughter wanted me to make it anyway. She even reminded me that she wasn’t a huge fan of it, other than for sentimental reasons, because she doesn’t like sweeten coconut. I always left one ear un-coconutted just for her. But that Bunny isn’t really just a desert, he’s kind of a centerpiece, and since the rest of us are trying to lose our winter hibernation layer of fat anyway, we skipped it this year.

And that felt right too. Because traditions are really all about love and family, and we really do love that crazy kid!

I hope you’re enjoying old traditions and creating new ones too!

Kate

p.s. The dog eating the turkey? True story, luckily from another family. And since then, they always have turkey and turkey burgers, in honor of that famous event that will live in their family chronicles forever.

When I was a little girl, we didn’t have a lot of family around. My dad was in the military and spent most of his career stationed at Offutt Air Force Base, just outside of Omaha, Nebraska. Dad’s family lived in New York, my mom’s in Virginia. I can count on one hand how many times my grandparents visited. Each time, it was a big event, and I was scared to death. I was extremely shy, terrified of strangers, even the ones related to me. Eventually, I would warm up enough to talk and laugh (and show off a little bit), but soon they would leave, and I would go back to my scaredy-cat ways. I even had a hard time talking to my grandmother on the phone, but I never shied away from writing her letters.

With a pencil and notebook paper, I could be brave. I could be funny, and charming, and sophisticated. I could tell crazy stories, share my wildest dreams, and ignore my fears. I could erase my mistakes. Granny always wrote me back, page after page of beautiful cursive handwriting, each word an expression of love, encouraging me to write again.

Though life has made it difficult for us to continue exchanging letters, I still write for my grandmother. Every character I create, every story I dream up, every book I publish, I dedicate to her.

Excerpt of Millie’s Rose:

“Your memories are everything, kochanie,” Stacy said. “And those pictures are treasures.”

“Treasures?” Dan laughed bitterly. “They’re not treasures. Those pictures are time stopping. They’re reminders of everything that will never happen. I can’t look at them and say, ‘Oh, wow, look how happy we were that one day,’ because you know what? We were so damn happy every day that I can’t get her out of my head! I don’t need to look at pictures of her, Stace. I need to forget she ever existed!”

“You don’t need to forget her, dupek,” Stacy insisted. “You need to grieve.”

“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing?”

“You’ve been hiding.”

“Bullshit!”

“You’ve shut down all of your emotions and refuse to talk about her with anyone! Even me! Don’t you think I would love to talk about Millie with you? I can’t because anytime there’s even a hint of Millie in the conversation, you shut down.” Stacy took a step toward him, but he moved away. “We’ve both been dealing with her death alone, Dan, but you’re alone by choice. I’m alone because you refuse to let me in.”

She took another step toward him and he started pacing again.

“I’m sorry, Stacy, but I can’t,” Dan said. He knew she was alone. He knew she needed him, but he was in too much pain to do anything about it.

“Yes, you can,” she said.

“No,” Dan insisted.

Stacy grabbed his arms, forcing him to stop pacing and stand still.

“Do you know what I do every night before I go to sleep?” she asked. “I look at this picture you took of her and me decorating all those cakes for that library fundraiser. Do you remember that? We have those ridiculous aprons on, frosting and flour and sprinkles all over the damn place. She has a streak of pink along her cheek and her hair tied up in that crazy purple bandana. Do you remember?”

“No,” he lied, but he did remember. He remembered everything.

“Every time I look at that picture, I remember exactly how I felt, at exactly that second. I felt loved by Millie. I miss her too, Dan. Probably more that you’ll ever realize. Just like you, I will never have another Millie in my life. She was one in a million. If I lost any of those little moments, it would be like losing a little bit of myself.”

“Maybe that’s the difference between you and me, Stacy,” Dan said. “I’ve already lost myself. I’m nothing without her.”

He turned his back and walked away, leaving her standing alone. This time, she didn’t try to follow.

Donna Sturgeon lives and writes in rural Nebraska. Her first novel, MILLIE’S ROSE, was released in May 2011, followed by OLIVIA in March 2012. For information on upcoming releases and events, follow on Facebook, or at donnasturgeon.wordpress.com

Smith Family Reunions have always been a special time in our family. Every year we tried to get the entire family together to eat and visit. Everyone brought a dish or two and it was always a feast. In our earlier years, I was probably five or six, I remember meeting at my grandparent’s home in Birome. She had a huge kitchen with a big table. At least it seemed big to me.

When I was a little older and the number of children had grown, we met in Cameron Park in Waco. Always in the summer time but as kids, the heat didn’t bother us. Something I noticed is that the women always wore a dress and the men always wore slacks and a shirt.

When the grandparents grew older, we usually met at their house. Everyone brought a dish or two so Mama Smith, that’s what we called Grandma,) wouldn’t be over burdened. Card tables and other games were set up around the house and the men and children played while the women cleaned up. Not fair, is it? But, the women didn’t complain as they got lots of visiting done. And, it is just the way things were done back then.

In the 1960s, our grandparents passed on and for a while get-to-gathers slacked off. That was okay because we always met in Birome in July for the Birome Homecoming. Our grandparents and parents helped build the activity center beside the small church, and it was doubly special for us as both my mother and father’s families attended.

My Mama Smith is the lady on the right in the plaid dress.

May Daddy Smith is the first man on the left in the overalls.

Somewhere in those years someone suggested we get together at the Birome Community Center to celebrate Thanksgiving.  One of the aunts volunteered to bake the turkey and dressing and we’d add the side dishes. Everything was delicious but the desserts were heavenly. My aunts could really cook. A few times, instead of at the center, we’d meet at someone’s home, but as our children came along, we tried to find places that would provide entertainment for them. For some reason they couldn’t entertain themselves like we did back in the day.

Over the years we watched beloved aunts and uncles pass on and the duty to keep tradition going fell on my generation. But now our generation isn’t exactly young anymore, so our nieces have worked together to pick up the slack and they’re doing an excellent job.

Our annual get-to-gather is no longer at Thanksgiving, but usually at a time when it’s easiest for those nieces/younger sisters organizing the day. And that’s okay. We appreciate all they do and try our best to be there.

One niece, the oldest Smith niece, and her husband have the whole family at their house on Thanksgiving Day. They have a big house with a giant screen TV for the men, a nice play area in the yard for the kids, two eating areas and a huge kitchen where several people can congregate. The gathering isn’t restricted to just the Smiths, but includes her husband’s family, other in-laws and out-laws. It’s a special time for us all.

Thank you family for all the wonderful memories! How about you, do you have a special Thanksgiving tradition? If so, please share with us.

My latest novel, A Stolen Chance, is part of the Amazon’s KDP Select program. It’s on sale for $2.99.

Excerpt:

Susan lay stunned, flat on her back, her head throbbing from where it had struck the hard ground. A heavy weight lay atop her chest. Dang! What had happened? She lifted her head to see Hans stretched out on top of her. She wrinkled her nose at his stinky breath and the dirty odor of his coat. It’s time for a bath, buddy.

Reality hit. Hans! Dewayne shot him. She folded her arms around the animal and gasped with relief to feel his rapid pants. She stroked his side and whispered, “Lay still, boy. Play dead.” Maybe he’d think he got them both.

Susan slipped the .38 revolver from her coat pocket and eased it under her right leg within easy reach. The sound of running footsteps drawing nearer alerted her to Dewayne’s approach. Eyes closed, she tried to let her body go slack and pretend unconsciousness. No doubt he’d be able to see her erratic breathing under the animal. Willing it to slow, she waited.

This is it, Susan. Your chance to kill the man who beat you senseless, scarred your face, and caused all the grief you’ve suffered. The death of Lauren. Hate boiled inside and steadied her nerves. Slow breath, wait…let him think you’re dead or at least unconscious.

The sounds of Dewayne’s footsteps slowed, and then stopped. His harsh breathing was the only sound on the desert air. Evidently he hadn’t kept in shape and his run had winded him. Slight noises rustled from another direction. His position had shifted. Damn, he was suspicious and approaching cautiously. She forced herself to keep her eyes closed and still.

Cold steel touched her forehead.

Thanks for reading and writing!

Linda

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?

Hello!

I was so very ready for a new month when May popped it’s lovely head through. April be gone! No real tornadoes to speak of, though my hubs did get cornered at Walmart when one touched down in the large town nearest us (Norman) and within a mile of where he’d stopped to shop. No injuries, no deaths and some, but not much severe damage to buildings over all.

The storms that touched my life were within, and within my family circle. My seven-year old granddaughter broke both bones midway in her left arm falling off a gate she never should have been on. Kids… My older-by-2-years sister went into the hospital and has been diagnosed with severe vertigo due to inner ear nerve damage sustained as a baby.

Then if that wasn’t enough, we had to have my youngest daughter’s 12 yo dog aided over the Rainbow Bridge.

We bottle fed Dottie, and her litter of five, from the time they were three weeks old, loved her, miss her.

But there was happy events that month to celebrate. Said 7 yo granddaughter reminded me she turned 7 on April 3^rd. My only niece (or nephew for that matter on my side as opposed to hubs’s) announced she’s pregnant with their first baby! Due in December which is also my birth month. *picture me grinning very big here*

But with all the negatives last month I fell into a funk with writing. Understandable? Perhaps. It also made me completely overlook my regular post date here at ABM. So I thought I’d embrace the negatives and evaluate how I might bring myself out of the funk.

To begin with my publisher had a big series launch party on the wild rose press general loop. You can join here.

I contacted some editors who had partials I’d submitted previously and have not heard from in a long while.

One email followup resulted in a request for the full MS, and if that doesn’t cheer me up then I must be dead!

On the other hand, the second followup resulted in feedback contained in a rejection. I more or less expected that after no word for twenty-two months but-again- if that didn’t bother me, then I must be dead!

But either way- these responses show me that I’m still working, writing, submitting, trying. And that’s what gets me through my funks. Work. While I may not be able to put new words down during what I call my moping period, I’m still keeping my mind active on the craft.

What good is that you ask? Well, for me, it keeps me thinking about the writing and not as much on the dismal points. I am able to draw myself back into my writing easier because my characters continually speak…and I’ve been listening, even if it was with one ear. The result? I was able to finish necessary edits on the MS and then send it to Lyrical Press per the editor’s request. I have something out there again.

I was also able to add a few words to the cowboy short I’m targeting toward WRP and their newly launched Honky Tonk Hearts series which you can get here. Keep in mind that, while there are just two available currently, more will release each month. Two per month I believe.

So that’s my game plan. Leap into the new month to bloom like the Day Lilies in my flowerbeds. Kick April out with new projects in publisher-land and finish this dang cowboy’s story so I can submit it soon. Mostly I’ll look ahead and not back.

I’ll be back next month, or Friday, June 1 with my regular scheduled post!

Lyrical offered me a contract for the requested full over the weekend! I’m multi-published!!!

Springtime for parents of school-age kids, particularly those in grade school, brings thoughts of how nice it would be to have a clone. When my kids were young, April and May were months I endured rather than enjoyed. With end-of-year school concerts and field days, the last skating competition, the skating show, the dance recital, and spring activities for youth group at church, capped by a late spring birthday party to plan each year, by the time June rolled around all I wanted to do was spend two consecutive weekend days with an empty calendar.

Grade school days are long gone at our house, but this spring has a particular air of finality. Our daughters are graduating from college and high school next month, and we are performing the rituals of spring for the last time.

Yes, there will be another college graduation another year, God willing, and more than likely weddings and christenings, as the cycle begins for our girls. And I look forward to life unbounded by August to May and nine to three-thirty. But the role of Mom as my children grew up brought me more joy than not, and there is much I will miss: dinners together, and the pleasure of watching my oldest skate and my youngest dance onstage. Hilarious discussions of what would be the best way to fend off a baboon attack . (No, I’m not going to explain. You sort of had to be there.)

We can never be sure what the future holds, but I am encouraged. My daughters are ready to embrace life as college graduate and college student, respectively. I anticipate the freedom to attend conferences and maybe take an occasional road trip with my sweetie. I will always be Mom, but the role is changing. It’s sort of like stepping away from being chairman of the board and acting in an advisory capacity.

You don’t know how well you’ve raised your kids until they leave. I learned that with my oldest. As my youngest now plans to leave home and go to school several hundred miles away, I can only hope that her dad and I have done a good enough job preparing her for life outside the nest. We’re sure she’ll be okay, but there is always a worry that we missed something. In case of a real emergency, I’ve already noted which airlines can get us to her college town the fastest.

Our spring rituals will change after this year. I don’t know for certain what they will be, but renewal is the cycle of nature. Meanwhile, thanks for joining me as I reflect on a part I’ve loved playing for most of the last twenty-five years.

What are your best memories of spring? Something that happened once or a custom you enjoy every year? Let us know! Comments will be entered in the drawing for this month’s e-gift card!

Till next month,

Ann