Ginger Simpson's Blog, page 43

Life Behind Bars - A oldie but goodie from several years ago.

As I sit in the dank prison visitor's room, with a smudged pane of class between Carrie, my heroine from First Degree Innocence, and myself, I'm struck by the cold gray walls, the steel folding chairs on the visitor's side, and the lack of any hint of color to brighten the mood.  Nothing about this prison is inviting.  The smell of bleach mingles with food from past meals served, and instead of a sprig of parsley, I envision a individually-wrapped vitamin on each plate to keep the assorted germs at bay.  I wish I'd worn a plastic glove to handle the old black receiver I hold to my ear so I can hear Carrie's answers to my interview questions.  Lord knows who fondled the thing before me.

I turn my attention back to the wide eyes and cute face on the other side of the marred pane.  Under different circumstances, she'd be my next door neighbor's daughter.  Today, I decided to interview her in the early part of her story.  I'm not sure she knows I'm the author of First Degree Innocence or not.

Me:  "So, Carrie, what was your first thought when you arrived here?"

Carrie: "Holy shit, this isn't a nightmare.  It's real."

Me:  "You still claim your innocence?"

Carrie: "For what good it does.  No one believes me except..."

Me:  "Except who?"

Carrie:  "I'm not saying.  I don't want to get anyone into trouble, and I'm hoping that I'll get out of this hellhole pretty soon."

Me:  "I understand you were deemed guilty because there was an eye-witness who placed you at the bank the day it was robbed."

Carrie:  "That's the only reason they convicted me.  I didn't have an alibi.  They day they arrested me , I had called in sick from work, in fact, hadn't moved off the couch all day.  The detective didn't care what I had to say.  With the witness' ID of me supported by fuzzy bank surveillance, I suppose his word was stronger than mine, but trust me, I didn't have anything to do with the robbery.

Me:  "They identified your car, didn't they?"

Carrie:  "So, I have the same make and model car.  I'm sure I'm not the only one in the world.  My problem was I didn't have anyone to vouch for me.  Coincidence is a word for a reason and I got screwed by it."

Me:  "How has prison life been so far?"

Carrie:  *sits forward in her chair*  "How you do expect life is behind bars?  Take a look around.  It doesn't get any cheerier than this, and you're my first visitor."

Me:  "Have you made any friends on the inside."

Carrie: *chuckles*  "I guess you could call my cellmate a friend, although you can't ever be sure anyone in this place is being honest.  Suzanna sort of got railroaded too, and she's been a great comfort to me, but you always have doubts about everyone.  Jet especially."

Me:  "And who is Jet?"

Carrie:  "You know how you always hear about bullies in life?  Well, Jet is the bully that runs roughshod over everyone in here.  She seems to have found favor with the guards, and they look the other way where she's concerned.  For some reason, she's taken an interest in me...one that makes me very nervous."

Me:  "I feel a little responsible for the predicament you're in. You probably know I wrote your story, if not, I'll fess up.  Although I wish I could tell you how things will end, I can't give away the books ending.  I just wanted to meet with you today to give the readers a glimpse of where you are and how you're feeling.  I can tell you there's a light at the end of the tunnel."

Carrie:  "With my luck, it'll be a train."  *She leans back and sighs.  "I don't hold you responsible.  You're just telling...oh, excuse me, showing my story to your readers, and I can't fault you for that.  You get your inspiration where you can.  Just tell me one thing...is Jet a lesbian?  I'm a little worried about that...you know with this being all women..."

Me:  "That really the least of your worries as far as Jet's concerned.  Just stay strong."

Carrie:  "Gee, thanks for that bit of advice."

The sound of a buzzer echoes through the room and a voice booms over a loud-speaker, announcing that visiting hours are over.  Carrie rises, receiver in hand and looks at me with sad eyes.

"Just get me out of here,  please."

As I hang up the phone and scrub my hands down my pant legs, I feel a pang of guilt for the situation Carrie faces.  I know the ending to the book, but what happens between now and then isn't going to be easy for her.  I hope she can stay strong...and if you want to know more, too bad, you have to buy First Degree Innocence to find out.

The novel is published by Books We Love, and you can purchase it on Amazon for a ridiculously low price.

For Hamilton's Birthday/Nevis, 1957

  It was 1957 when Mom and I traveled to Nevis.  It was January, which is the best tourist weather in the Caribbean, with lots of sun. We flew up from Barbados to Antigua and then on to mountainous St. Kitts on the old British West Indian Airways aboard a  D.C. 3. We trundled along slowly, carefully skirting majestic cumulus.  Flying was a less exact process in those days, and deep in the innards of those big clouds, dangerous turbulence could be hiding.
I was pretty excited, because we were going to see the place where my hero, Alexander Hamilton, had been born.  Mom said there probably wouldn’t be much to see but the island itself, however, she too was curious about this (then) rarely visited speck in the West Indian sea. Honoring Hamilton, I knew, was a kind of family tradition. My Grandfather Liddle--who was  a college professor and sort of the Obi Wan Kenobi of the family--particularly admired this Founding Father. After a foray into the musty interior of a used book store, my mother had been approving when I’d arrived at the cash register with Gertrude Atherton’s 1902 “dramatic biography” (a.k.a. heavily fictionalized) of "Great Alexander" in hand.   The elegant Edwardian prose went straight to my head and I was soon convinced that Alexander Hamilton was the most romantic, as well as the smartest, hardest working man among those geniuses who’d shaped our early republic.
On our way, we'd stayed overnight in St. Kitts.  I remember that as one of the coldest I ever spent in the West Indies. Our plane was supposed to leave in the afternoon for Nevis—there were two ways to get there—on a ferry or in a small plane—but I was famously sea-sick. The plane was the smallest on which I’d ever flown. A full load was four passengers and a pilot.  
We arrived at the airport–which was just a tin-sided, palm-frond-roofed shelter—and then waited and waited. The little plane (probably a modified Super Cub) was in parts in a shed next to the runway, because “somethin’” was not right”. My mother and I both grew anxious, as you might imagine. I sat on a wooden bench cradling Mrs. Atherton’s book.  I was by now well on the way to memorizing it.
Finally, we took off, even though the sun was going down. The other passengers, used to West Indies travel, made graveyard jokes, but falling out of the sky into the ocean didn’t really seem possible to me, not when I was on the verge of my Nevis epiphany.  Half an hour later, we arrived—landing on an island which is little more than a mountain whose cloudy head juts from the sea. 
 

The runway was grass. Men holding poles with flaming, kerosene-soaked rags wrapped about the tops illuminated our landing area.  A couple of bounces later, we were down. Then another wait, until a couple of taxis appeared to take us all into Charlestown.  
At the guest house, lit by kerosene lanterns, the gray-haired proprietress, looking as if she’d stepped out of the 1920’s, in a dowager’s ankle-length dress and long pearl necklace, took one look at us and said she didn’t allow children—“especially not American children” in her house. Looking around the room, with lots of antimacassar-backed chairs and delicate side-tables, every surface of which was covered with china figurines, I had a notion of what she was worried about.  Mom put on her most glacial demeanor and said that I was a perfectly well-behaved only child who spent all her time reading and who would certainly never enter the good parlor unless invited to do so.  “And besides,” she added, “I have brought her all this way from New York State to see where her hero, Alexander Hamilton, was born. Show her your book, Judy.”
I held out the beloved book for the old woman’s inspection.
“Ah,” she said, examining the cover. “Why, it’s Mrs. Atherton!"
“I can’t stop reading it," I said. "Hamilton goes with me everywhere.”
For the first time, she smiled. She extended her hand and said, “Come with me, my dear, and I’ll show you my very own copy of that book.”  And sure enough, she had the only other copy I’ve ever seen. Now, we were welcome, for our hostess proceeded to explain the kerosene lamps which lit the scene.
“From 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. we have electricity; afterward we use these. It makes for early nights.” I've learned since that Nevis had acquired its first generators in 1954, just three years earlier. What seemed like scarcity to us was luxury to these islanders.
The next day, we contemplated a heap of stones by the harbor said to be the remains of the Hamilton house. We bathed in the hot springs in our swim suits where you paid the man who hung around there. After, he'd walk you to the hollows where the water steamed, warning you first about which pools would scald you. The gravel-bottomed ponds were shaded by a grove of towering palm trees. The brilliant green ferns and delicate flowers clustering about the “baths” were the lushest I’d ever seen.
One day, we traveled up the mountain to see the ruins of some of the old plantation sugar mills. We particularly admired one that had been turned into a hotel. Here we met the owners and enjoyed lunch. Clouds regularly gathered around the top of the mountain every afternoon. We were up so high here that when these soft clouds enveloped us, we were at once bathed with a surprisingly cool tropical rain.

On other days, we went swimming from a beach of brown sugar sand. We weren't keen to swim too far out into that mysterious gray-blue water, either, as there was often not another soul around for as far as the eye could see.  

It's been a good many years since that visit, and Nevis is no longer so far off the beaten-tourist-path.  Alexander and now his beloved Betsy too are remain with me. I'm more than happy to revive (and share) memories of that mysterious, cloudy-headed island and of this long ago visit.

~~ Juliet Waldron

See my historical novels at:  http://www.julietwaldron.com
and
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004HIX4GS
 

Sunday Snippets by Ginger Simpson....sorta #sundaysnips

 The Moment We Met


Tension filled the air.  I recognized the feeling that something important was about to happen. My shoulders tensed and I kept my hands fisted in my lap.  I sat in an uncomfortable chair, my eyes wide, my heart pounding.  Why had I agreed to this?  I never was one for stress, nor did I handle it well.  I wondered if I should have stayed home.
What should I expect?  Would we get along?  Oh, I knew I was meeting someone of the male persuasion for the first time, but I had no idea about those things most people want to know: how tall he'd be, how much he'd weigh, what color hair...did he even have hair?  Images of me being swept off my feet boomeranged through my mind, and I imagined I’d have quite a story to tell.  Besides, I’d discover the answers to all those burning questions I’d be asked.
Time ticked by.  I probably could have left several times, but I really didn’t want to.  In my mind, today was a special day and I was so ready for it...at least I thought.  Before long, a nicely dressed man entered the room.  He was quite handsome, I thought, and my heart fluttered when he signaled for me to join him.
 "Stand right here," he said, and moved closer to the only other woman in the room. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I followed his instructions and stood, my legs wobbly, my hands shaking.  I guess I was expected to do something since I showed up.
It didn't take long before I knew I'd made the right choice.  I was so glad I came.  The doctor turned from my daughter-in-law's side and placed my new grandson in my arms. "Here you go, grandma." 
Turning pinker by the moment, the baby didn't cry, he didn't fuss, instead Spencer's gaze searched my face despite the overhead hospital light shining in his dark eyes, making them look like ebony gems.  Although they say newborns don't smile, I swear his tiny lips curled as if to say, "I'm here, and I know you'll love me so much your heart'll hurt.  You know what?  He was right?  The minute I first saw him my love blossomed and it's grown stronger ever day since that moment thirteen years ago.  My Spencer! My Love!  And the fact that he’s been diagnosed with Autism, just makes me love him more and I praise God for the moment I met my grandson.  That moment will always be a cherished memory and I thank my kids for allowing me to share it.
Spencer and Dad
*********I promise next week to have a snippet from Sarah's Soul...I'm almost finished and then I plan to work on my mail-order bride story....and I'm not forgetting Deceived.  I just have to make a deal with God to live long enough to finish everything.  :)
While I'm healing from my relapse of Pneumonia...please hop over and check out my blog buddies.
http://connievines.blogspot.com (Connie Vines)
http://yesterrdayrevisitedhere.blogspot.com/ (Juliet Waldron)

http://triciamg.blogspot.com (Tricia McGill)

Come back next week for more. Oh...checkout my Amazon page to see my available books.

To Tweet or Not To Tweet by Ginger Simpson

Twitter seems to be the biggest enigma of the promotion options.   If you read the tweets that are "trending"daily, unless you're a celebrity who is doing nothing worth noting, ask yourself why you bother.  Kim Kardashian shared a picture of her newborn hooking fingers with his older sister, North; Kate Mansi, An actress  on the soap, Days of Our Lives, is leaving the show, Anne Heathaway shared a picture of her in a bikini while pregnant with her first child.  Who cares?  I'd much rather read about me and my books selling.  *lol*

Then there are articles about sites like Triberr that make you question whether or not you time is being wisely spent by sharing posts of tribemates who don't bother to share your's  If they do share, and you aren't "trending," does anyone read the tweet?  Can we compete with Mark Zuckerberg's announcement for his personal challenges of 2016?

For the sake or educating those who have no idea what I'm talking about...Posts  at triberr are "blog feeds."  You set up your blogs to feed to Triberr daily with the hope that your fellow tribemates will mark them as shared so they will be tweeted widely.  For those who don't aren't familiar with Triberr, it's a tweeting site where you join 'tribes' that fit your needs.  For example, I belong to Historical Fiction, Fiction, Romance, and a few others, but then I read that there are folks who decide whether or not your blog posts fit their "agenda."  Some don't want to be associated with Porn, and of course non-writers care nothing for author's blogs.  That's why you need to pick your tribes carefully.

 I recently discovered that if you hover your mouse across a poster's picture, stats appear, and you can see whether that person is sharing your posts or not.  Today, I decided, if you aren't sharing mine, I'm not sharing yours.  Sadly, I hid more than I shared.  Why do I feel guilty?

For author's, finding inexpensive promotional sites is really important.  Those reviews that used to be easy to come by have become elusive and hard to acquire.  One of the reasons...most reviewers volunteer their time in exchange for free reads, and there are far more authors out there than ever before.  Choices are staggering, and unless you write a blurb that reaches out and nabs attention, your book is going to sit forever.  While I'd like to think my blurbs are real grabbers...they obviously aren't.

Speaking of reviews:  Now authors have to contend with what most refer to as "trolls."  These are people who leave snarky reviews that are usually a dead giveaway that they haven't even read your book.  The only logical explanation is that there are some authors trying to sabotage their competition, but this seems a little extreme.  Amazon is trying to remedy the problem, but is disallowing authors to review others authors the solution?  I may write books, but I also read them.  So far, I haven't had my reviews removed, but I'm aware of fellow authors who have...and they aren't happy.

Bottom line...whether we tweet, blog, or review, are we doing enough or are we spinning our wheels.  I'm always open to new ideas, so if anyone wants to share them here, please do.

It Began with a Pinterest Board by Connie Vines

It began with a Pinterest Board titled Poodles, Poodles, and more Poodles.  
Yes you guessed it--the sub heading is "How I spent my Winter Vacation".
It started when I was outlining one of my YA novels.  With a writer, everything seems to revolve around the written word, and this story features a poodle.  I was the proud owner of a poodle when I was a pre-teen.  I groomed, trained, and adored my pet.  But it had been several decades since my ownership, so needed to gather additional information.  I knew AKC standards and European judging standards and acceptable markings and colors have been revised.  I realized a Pinterest board would serve me well.
I checked out books from the library. . .and soon Pinterest was recommending links, friends were sending me information.  It was very long until I realized I wanted a poodle.  As a rule I adopt rescue dogs.  However, my poodle was a pedigree with 22 champions in his ancestry.  And I do adore the show cuts.  I did not however, wish to raise a puppy.  So putting this aside I got down to the business of Winter vacation.
But you know how the law of attraction works. . .a friend made me snickerpoodle cookies. . .I was sent a link to adopt a pet.
And poof!  A family member asked me if I'd like a poodle-mix?
Could you say no to such a little sweetie?  
I named her Chanel, after my favorite perfume.  Her mama. a white poodle was betrothed until a Romeo of a brown dachshund swept her off her paws!  
If you find yourself blessed with a puppy.
Be prepared.
Be flexible.
And learn to type with a puppy sitting in you lap.


Two pounds of puppy equals five hours of energy before a recharge (nap) is required.
Readers, are you dog fanciers?  Do you enjoy novels featuring pets?  feel free to send a comment.
Did you know there are doggie boutiques?
I thought I was bordering overspending when i bargain shopped at store especially for animals.Then I drove past a store featuring pet accessories (no, I did not go inside) of crowns and tiaras.
Thank you everyone for stopping by.  Please stop by again to read Ginger's and Janet's posts also.
Happy Reading! 
Connie Vines

Food Traditions at New Year

Hello, Dishin' It Out fans! Ginger has ever so kindly asked me aboard, so here's my first post for the blog.

As we are just through the Christmas/New Year's period of over-indulgence (urp) I thought I'd talk about specialty food traditions.



My husband remarked, long about New year’s Eve, "Where did all these different foods for good luck for New Year's come from? I don’t remember that being a big deal when I was growing up."  

We were down south this Christmas, where our kids and grandkids live, so everyone was chowing down on delicious pulled pork, black eyed peas and greens (either turnip/collard or today’s trendy rediscovery, kale). Pork, I always thought, was a southern favorite, but if you move north along the Appalachian mountains, you will arrive in PA where I now reside. Here, by German tradition, the New Year's dinner is pork and kraut. The greens (for money) and peas (for increase) come from the traditions of po'folks, both white and black. In PA, we were told that "the pig roots forward," leaving the last year behind him and boldly going into the future--although, once he's been through the smoker, he's not going much of anywhere except through someone's alimentary tract.

 
And yes, my husband and I are oldies, children born at the end of the baby bust of WW2, both in families who were not much interested  in any grander form of cooking than it took to get supper on the table 7 days a week, what cook book writer Peg Bracken—the Rachel Ray of her era, author of the funny “I Hate to Cook Book”--jokingly called “the rock pile.” My parents were WASPS, so their post-war/depression idea of a grand meal was pretty simple, either a roast turkey or a roast beef, the later served with Yorkshire pudding or popovers. There was always horseradish cream sauce on the side, and the meat was always served with potatoes and green peas.

Grandpa grew peas so we had fresh ones when they were, briefly, in season. He also grew horseradish in his garden, so he kept us provided with the stuff, put up in small "recycled" glass jars.  My parents ate that, but being a proper kid, I wouldn’t touch it, although with age I have learned better. Originally, I wasn’t a fan of winter's canned peas, either, which were an obligatory part of the meal, but in the era of frozen vegetables, I grew to really like green peas, especially if I was allowed to integrate them with the mound of creamy mashed potatoes and drown the both in pan gravy.
This is (Ye Gods and Little Fishes! as Mom used to say) 2016, though, so I went to the ‘net and dug around for New Year’s Day Food Traditions. There are, of course, zillions of pages of information, so here are a few of the details about New York based traditions which caught my eye. 

Apparently, the Hudson Valley Dutch were responsible for bringing us the tradition of open house on New Year's Day, one I do remember my parents honoring after we moved to New York State, where my Dad was in sales.  In colonial days, the men would go out visiting from house to house to visit family, friends and business associates. Here they drank hot punch, and ate nieuwjaarskoeken--which are basically a butter cookie flavored with cardamom, caraway, coriander and honey, and decorated with a press. Originally, these presses were wooden, and created outlines of flowers or leaves. Later, the presses sometimes depicted famous men. Post-American Revolution, cookies were often decorated with the august profile of George Washington. There were also the delicious hot and puffy oleykoecks, ancestors of the still-much loved doughnut, carried out fragrant and fresh from the fryer.


And where were the women? At home, of course, serving the food--sliced meats, cookies, hot breads and refilling the punch bowl or perhaps pepping it up with the addition of cherry bounce or whiskey from the nearest distiller.


I've written three novels which revolve around the Revolutionary War in the Hudson Valley, and have enjoyed discovering the different life-ways this immigrant group  brought to the United States with them. Alexander Hamilton married a lady from a respectable old Dutch family, and I've imagined her introducing some new notions as well as "new" food items to their ever-growing (8 children) family table. She no doubt had a hard time keeping her little boy's fingers away from the oleykoecks.



~~ Juliet WaldronSee All my historical novels at: http://www.amazon.com/author/julietwaldronandhttp://www.julietwaldron.com

Sunday Snippets from Ginger Simpson #sundaysnips

I've about run the gamut of published stories to tempt you with, so today, I'm sharing the beginning of a new WIP, Desperation's Bride.  I've always been fascinated about women with the strength and determination to become mail-order brides, so I decided to write my own.  I hope you'll encourage me to complete it:

So...the story starts:

Arizona 1862

Clare Sutton winced as she rolled onto her sore shoulder.  Her pillowcase, damp with tears, cooled her heated cheek from the overly warm room in the run-down shack she and her mother shared with her stepfather, Linus Crawford. His fondness for moonshine meant he turned meaner the more he drank.  Tonight had been just more reason for Clare to leave.  Linus' drinking and subsequent beatings had become far too frequent. 

After losing Pa and Clare’s baby brother to Typhoid, Ma married the first man to come along  who was willing to take on another man’s child.  When sober, Linus was quiet and kind, but as a drunk, his resentment against Clare was loud and clear. Without her, Ma’s life might be more tolerable. He never vented his anger toward her.

Nerves drove Clare to toss and turn, but the aching of her welted upper body kept her frozen in place.  Was becoming a mail order bride a good idea?  Might the man she married be the same as Linus?  She reckoned taking a draw from the deck of life was better than the card she was dealt when her Ma remarried
Doing an errand in town for Ma two weeks ago had provided an opportunity to mail a letter to Mr. Jason Pollett, a name and post office box Clare had obtained through the local minister. Although hearing sermons didn’t happen as frequently as when Pa hitched up the buggy every Sunday, Clare had spied an ad on the mercantile wall and hot-footed it over to the church.
“Of course, I understand why you can’t come every week,” Pastor Joe had said.  “Life changes in ways we never expect and I’ll be more than happy to help one of my favorite parishioners keep a secret.  I’ve read Jason Pollett’s letter and he seems like a fine fellow, and California isn't that far away.”
She'd clucked her tongue against the back of her teeth.  Linus Crawford had seemed like a good catch, too, but look at how that had turned out.  She'd swallowed her doubts and accepted quill and paper from the good reverend and written a letter of introduction to Mr. Pollett.
Now she waited.  She'd said nothing to anyone, and only the pastor knew.  Her nerves tensed at the thought of meeting a stranger for the purpose of becoming his wife. Was she crazy?

  The urge to fidget grew, but soreness kept her still.  Moonlight filtered through the window enabling her to stare at the low ceiling beams while hoping the reverend was a good judge of character.  He'd urged her to hurry and write because men in search of brides didn't wait long.  Hopefully Jason Pollett was a patient man.
*************************************I'd love to know what you think of my first draft.  Afterward, please hop over to my friends and check out their offerings:

http://connievines.blogspot.com (Connie Vines)
http://yesterrdayrevisitedhere.blogspot.com/ (Juliet Waldron)

http://triciamg.blogspot.com (Tricia McGill)



Oh...you can find my books on Amazon...my author's page.

It’s the 127th Annual Tournament of Roses Parade! ~ by Connie Vines

Tonight is New Year’s Eve.  Parties. Toasting. Watching the ball drop in New York’s Time Square.

Here in southern California—Pasadena, home to Dr. Edwin Hubble, Jackie Robinson, and Julia Child is also home to The Rose Parade.  It is also Rose Parade Eve.

Each New Year's Day, the world focuses its attention on Pasadena, California, USA, home of the Rose Parade and Rose Bowl Game. It is a celebration more than a century old – a festival of flowers, music and sports unequaled anywhere else in the world. It's America's New Year Celebration, a greeting to the world on the first day of the year, and a salute to the community spirit and love of pageantry that have thrived in Pasadena for more than 100 years.

While many people purchase tickets in advance, others spend the night (starting at noon on Dec. 31) claiming spots along Colorado Boulevard.  There is better way to experience the event before the big day (members of my family have been doing this for years).  Volunteer to decorate the floats with fruit, seeds, grasses and, of course, fragrant flowers.  On the other hand, you may stop by and watch the float decorators work.



Shhh. . .there is also a way for a ‘sneak peek’ when the floats are moved on New Year’s Eve from the decoration sites, via Fair Oaks Avenue.

I must admit, after seeing Designers’ renderings I do have several personal favorites (of course, Disney’s float is top secret).  South Dakota’s entry with Mt. Rushmore, PBS’s Downton Abbey, L.A.’s Discover Los Angeles, and Donate Life’s Treasure Life’s Journey are pure sensory decadence!
Let us not forget the musical mix of the Rose Parade.  Members of the bands will be marching along the 5.5-mile parade route.

I must confess I love the equestrian units.  This year’s 19 equestrian units will feature several new breeds. It will be the Budweiser Clydesdales (majestic, glorious animals) 59th trip down Colorado Boulevard. The Dakota Thunder Shire draft horses from South Dakota, and the Calizona Appaloosa Horse Club will be reflecting the traditions of more than a century ago.

Ginger Simpson may wish to catch the Wells Fargo event.  The featured stagecoaches were originally used to deliver mail between the East and West Coasts.


This will also be the final broadcast year (KTLA 5 here) of longtime hosts Bob Eubanks and Stephanie Edwards.

Are you more of a post-parade type of person?

The showcase of Floats are of public viewing, Jan. 1 (afternoon) until Jan. 3.  Tickets are about $10.00.

FYI: A rose's scent can change from hour to hour. It depends on the weather (current and recent), the stage the flower is in (younger flowers are better than older ones) and the type of fragrance associated with the rose. In addition, a fragrance can get stronger or weaker or leave a very different impression over time — say, going from a tea fragrance to a fruity one as the rose matures.

There are five English rose fragrances.
Myrrh: An aromatic, anise like scent; among roses it's found almost exclusively in English roses.
Fruity: Because the rose is related to apricots, pears, apples, strawberries and others, fruity notes often surface.
Musk: A romantic scent, it often comes from the flower's stamens. People are especially sensitive to the scent.
Old rose: The classic rose fragrance, it's found almost exclusively in pink and red roses.
Tea rose: A strong scent — like that of fresh tea — that often dominates a flower. Other fragrances can become evident over time.



Now for the football fans.  This year’s college game feature Iowa and Stanford.

If you are unable to watch these events in the chilly, but beautiful, city of Pasadena, CA.  Do not despair, the HD television coverage is almost as good as sitting on the bleachers.

Happy New Year and Blessing to you and yours,

Connie Vines

Can Reviews Confuse the Hell Out of You????

Title: First Degree Innocence
Author: Ginger Simpson
Publisher: Books We Love Publishing Partners
Buy Link
Rating: You Gotta Read (highest rating on site)
Reviewer: Val
Blurb:Carrie Lang’s sheltered life ends with a prison sentence for involvement in a bank robbery. Her arrest comes on the day she’s called in sick and stayed inside, so she has no explanation how an eye-witness describes her in great detail, down to the make and model of her car. A terrible mistake’s been made, and her insistence of innocence falls on deaf ears, even among her fellow inmates. A plan for retribution is brewing, and naive Carrie finds herself smack dab in the middle of an evil scheme concocted by the prison bully. A ten year sentence seems mild when she’s threatened with death for refusing to participate. Can Carrie find a way out of this horrible nightmare, or is she destined to spend her days locked in terror, isolation, and the cold gray interior of prison walls?ReviewCarrie's character is one that readers will easily identify with. Vulnerable to a certain point, we see Carrie coming into her own and becoming a stronger person as her jail time progresses. Her character will evoke just about every emotion, especially despair, frustration and finally hope.
When Seth's character was introduced, I wasn't sure if he was a good guy or bad guy. I won't tell you which and trust me when I say, you will be flipping the pages as fast as you can to find out. The interaction between Carrie and Seth gives depth to this book and the end .... well, all I can say is my mouth was hanging open. It was a very surprising ending that you just don't want to miss.
Then we meet the prison bully, Jet. With a score to settle, she will stop at nothing to get what she wants. Jet's character was exasperating. I found myself strongly disliking her and wishing she would get her due punishment. Ms. Simpson created the perfect villain in Jet, a true manipulator, while at the same time giving her some very real qualities that one minute had you liking her and the next wishing she would drop off the face of the earth.
First Degree Innocence is an extremely unique book in that it gives the reader a legitimate glimpse into the lives of the incarcerated while throwing several twists into the story. It was a riveting and highly entertaining read. Ms. Simpson writes about interesting characters and complex plot lines while at the same time drawing the reader in with each new page. This is one author who sure didn't pull any punches with First Degree Innocence and you will be immersed in Carrie's world within the first paragraph. This book starts out with a bang and continues through to the last page. First Degree Innocence is an exceptional book that will have you hooked right from the beginning. If you love to root for the underdog, look no further, you've found the perfect book.
NOW READ THIS!!!

Author: Ginger SimpsonGenre: Suspense / MysteryReviewed by: DawnColclasure
Received 2 Stars

Carrie Lang is wrongfully convicted of a crime and sentenced to 10 years in prison. Despite claiming her innocence, she is harshly treated by the prison guards – except for one she has her eye on, and who seems to have his eye on her, too. Targeted by the prison bully Jillian “Jet” Duke, sweet and innocent Carrie, who has never even had a parking ticket, seeks comfort and protection among the friends she makes with other female prisoners. Then Jet tries to set Carrie up, but is she willing to go through with the evil bully’s plan, even if it means death should she say no? Will she ever prove her innocence and be set free? And will she ever have a future with Seth, the prison guard she can only dream of sharing love with?


This story started out as it would for any innocent woman wrongfully imprisoned: Carrie is scared, humiliated, harassed and alone. She is naïve – and it would seem too naïve, as she trusts everyone so easily and is afraid to speak her mind. She’s afraid to show how she really feels towards her cellmates and afraid to stand up against Jet. Innocent or not, it would not seem that Carrie is that innocent, as she puts so much energy on thinking of Matron Ogden as the one with the “ugly face” and how she’d like to punch Ogden “in her ugly face” on her way out once she is set free. Carrie tries to adjust to prison life by joking around with her cellmate Susanna, and it would seem there is so much “sisterhood” between her and her other cellmates who she often plays bridge with during rec. It just didn’t seem realistic. Also, even when Carrie tries to act tough later in the story, she crumbles when it’s time to face the music. She talks the talk but she can’t walk the walk.

This book should have shown what life is really like for an innocent woman behind bars but I suspect it majorly fell short in that regard. Because Carrie is so spineless, naïve and unreasonable to even fall for a prison guard was a huge turn-off. She was not a likable character; I prefer a story with a leading female character who is strong, confident and smart. Also, the prison guard who falls for Carrie in return did not strike me as someone who could actually be a prison guard in real life. He is too emotional and lets his guard down easily – dangerous factors for a prison guard.

First Degree Innocence by Ginger Simpson was a lukewarm story that could have been better. The only thing interesting about it was the huge plot twist the author throws in at the end.

Note from Ginger:  Perhaps you'd like to read it for yourself and be the judge. *lol*  I also would like to point out that I was a Correctional Officer for a year and I have first-hand experience about how  inmates interact with one another.  You either acclimate, make friends, or become a loner who isn't treated very well.  I guess that's where the saying, "When life gives you lemons, you make lemmonade."  lol.  Amazing how people assume they know more than they do, but that's why everyone needs to make their own decisions and not be swayed by someone elses.

Learning to Lie - by Roseanne Dowell

From my blog a while back, we know  ideas are all around us - From our workplace to our neighbors. From getting stuck in traffic to grocery shopping and thumbing through magazines to reading the classified, so let’s put it all together.
 You overhear a conversation in a restaurant. The woman is crying. You can’t hear the whole conversation. But, your writer mind begins
to ask questions - Is she breaking up
with her date? Is he breaking up with her?
Or maybe those are happy tears?  It’s not necessary to know the truth. Your writer’s mind starts working and you imagine what you want. You begin to formulate a story about it.  You begin to build a character in your mind. You can see her clearly. Can even hear his/her voice.
You don’t even need to describe the characters in your story as the same description of the people you see. In fact, if it’s someone you know, its better not to.  We don’t want to write about our cranky aunt and have her recognize herself through description.  Change her into the complete opposite of what she looks like. Age her, make her younger, but what ever you do don’t use her description. You should create your own characters. Certainly, I use people I know.  In fact, I have a list of friends and relatives with character traits - make a list of your own.  I add special character traits, like my husband and son have a habit of touching everything on the table and moving it from place to place while you’re having a conversation. (Truthfully, it drives me up a wall and I often grab their hands to stop them – they don’t even realize they're doing it)  But that’s a trait to add, it makes your characters believable. We all have habits. Some people twirl their hair, some chew on nails. Write them down; use them in your stories.
So, back to our original character, maybe this lady has jet black hair.  Your character may have gray hair or blonde. Short, long, straight, curly it doesn’t matter.  What matters is that you create her. Maybe she’s young, old, middle-aged. Again, it doesn’t matter. What matters is to visualize your character in your mind. And make notes!!!  As I said previously I use index cards.  I list the name of my character, age, color of their hair, height, character traits, who in their family they look like (especially if it’s important).
List everything you can to know your character better, even if you aren’t going to use it in the story.  The more you know about your characters the better and more believable they will be. Nothing is worse than reading about a blonde who suddenly has dark hair half way through the story.   And be careful with names too.  I wrote a story using the character’s name, Daniel Stephens.  Half way through I changed it to Stephen Daniels.  Fortunately, I always ask people to read my stories before I submit them and someone caught it.   I also use character work sheets; they include everything from my character’s descriptions to their favorite foods and colors. A lot of the information I never use, but it helps me know my character better. By time I’m done, I feel like she/he’s my best friend (or enemy).
And, of course, the senses, not just what we see, but what we taste, smell, touch, and hear.  These senses help your story come alive.  Take notes on them too. Become observant.  Touch that wood, feel the smooth finish, or the rough texture of a statue.  Listen to the sounds around you. Not the everyday sounds of traffic, although those are important too and sometimes we become so used to them that we don’t notice them.  But out of the ordinary sounds.  Listen to the birds early in the morning or the children playing in a park.
 These sounds and senses help make your story come alive. Use them.
All of these things combined contribute to good story ideas.  Sometimes we come up with an idea from something we touch or smell.  Something soft and smooth or maybe a bakery provokes a memory from the past. Use it.
Maybe it’s a restaurant,  a deli, or even a car dealership.  Take notes on all the places you visit.  Settings are often as important as our characters. Write down these settings, keep a notebook.  If a particular restaurant strikes your fancy, take notes. Who knows you may use it someday.  I wrote a scene in a restaurant we visited on vacation.  It was a quaint little place and I really liked
it, so I jotted down some notes and it didn’t take long for me to use it.  I visited another restaurant with friends and loved the place. It was a typical tearoom type restaurant, definitely for women.  It was also an antique store and quilt shop.  I just used it in a novel.   Even hospitals or doctor’s office, you never know when you’ll have call to use such a setting. Beauty shops and health spas, too.  Take notes every place you visit.
Which brings me to the last point, find a writing buddy!  Someone you can exchange stories with or someone whose judgment you know and trust. Someone you can brainstorm with and toss ideas around. Sometimes we get stuck and just
need to discuss the story. They may give us ideas but just talking about it with someone, sometimes gives you the idea on your own.
I strongly suggest finding someone who writes.  Only a writer can understand your frustration of a blocked mind or enjoy the feeling of an acceptance. And only another writer is honest enough to tell you what's wrong and right with your story. Often times, family and friends are afraid to criticize your work, afraid they’ll hurt your feelings. You want someone honest enough to tell you the strong points in the story as well as the weak points. Trust me, sometimes these critiques  hurt, after all you worked for hours to put these words to paper and you love this story, it’s a part of you.
 I often ask three people to read my stories.  If two of the three comment on the same thing, I know it needs to be changed. If only one comments on it and the others think its fine, then I leave it.  But the end decision is mine to make.  It is my story, after all.
But you want it to be the best you can do.  So DO keep an open mind. If you ask for someone’s opinion, respect it.  You don’t have to take all of their advice.  I once had an editor tell me to cut a whole scene. A scene I felt was critical to the story.  I had several writer friends read the story. After they were done, I asked if they thought I should cut the scene. They all said no, it was too important to the story.  Alas, I didn’t get the story published at that time, but it remained intact, and I’ve submitted it elsewhere and it was accepted.