Ginger Simpson's Blog, page 43

It Goes On and On and On - Rerun #multitasking

I used to consider myself successful at multi-tasking, but now I'm beginning to question my capabilities. The more I do, the more I have left to do.  How does that work?

This morning I awoke to 300 emails, even though I'm on digest.  I skim the digests, but all I see in the subject line are: excerpt, promo, contest, new release.  OMG, it seems that everyone who was a "reader" when I first started this venture is now an author.  I spent several hours yesterday on Facebook and anything I posted was lost in the avalanche of book promos.  I pictured authors everywhere huddled at their computers, vying desperately for the attention of a "reader."  Yes, I know authors read, too.  I do, but I'm looking to tap into someone who isn't competition.  Is that selfish?  I don't think so. All who have books available are hoping to find the mother lode of readers and achieve a best-selling status.  Honestly, it's more like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

When I got to my individual emails, I found the usual few word posts: Thank you, I'm sorry, I forgot, I'd like to blog, put me down, happy birthday, happy holidays, condolences, and of course, I'm blogging at ______today, please stop by.

As much as I want to support my fellow authors, if I visited every blog or attend every FB event to which I've been invited, I would never get anything else done. So how logical am I if I expect my fellow authors to visit mine?

I've already given up Farmville and most other games on Facebook, taken a leave of absence from my critique group, gone  digest on most of my yahoo loops, and tried to find a new avenue of promotion on the Amazon Communities, only to be beaten to a pulp by some of the folks there who are very territorial.  It seems there are those who don't like authors who talk about their own work.  What's up with that?  If I don't, who will?  I still crave Farmville, but I'm staying strong.  I imagine my crops have all withered and died, and I've probably been reported for cruelty to my animals.  I'm sure my farm is generally in  bad repair, but there's no way I can have a look without wanting to fix everything.  At least I kicked the habit on my own and didn't even need counseling.
Honestly, the towel is looking pretty good lately.  I've considered throwing it in a few times, or at least waving a white flag, but I'm too invested in my love of writing to quit.  I keep visiting shared links and viewing success stories written by authors who had sold hundreds if not thousands of copies on Kindle. I want to post that announcement just once.

I have several works out now, so maybe one of them will be my ticket to stardom... or at least a few sales.  :)  You can find them all on my Amazon page, and I'm always working on something new.  Coming soon, The Pendant from Books We Love, Sarah's Soul from Books we Love (as soon as I finish it), and I'm working now on Desperation's Bride.

A Woman's Signature Fragrance--a Lasting Impression by Connie Vines

In my current anthology, Gumbo Ya Ya for women who like romance Cajun, one of my
main characters is a perfumer.  Since I have past experience as a fragrance in an exclusive perfumery, I thought I’d share some helpful times when selecting a signature fragrance.

Perfume Terminology (or ABCs)

Absolutes

Pure, natural extracts and oils from flowers and other vegetable materials. Very expensive for a small amount. Example: pure rose oil.
tuberose from Morocco
Note

An odoriferous element in the perfume or cologne. When we smell a composed fragrance, we smell different notes within it. When the first scent — or top note — dissipates, we smell the middle note, also known as the bouquet. As that fades, we are left with the basic note, which is the third element of a composed fragrance. It’s like a symphony.

*test by spraying a small amount of fragrance on your forearm.  It takes 20 minutes before the alcohol evaporates and you smell the ‘true’ scent.

Secret Number One: Don’t commit to a scent until you smell the final note.

my fragrance testing kit
What exactly is Eau de Cologne?

Eau de Cologne is three to five percent oil in a mixture of alcohol and water. It tends to be lighter and refreshing, typically with a citrus oil component.

Eau de Toilette
Containing about the same amount of perfume oil or a little more — somewhere between four and eight percent — than Eau de Cologne, Eau de Toilette is mixed with alcohol instead of water.

Eau de Parfum
A higher percentage of perfume oil — roughly 15 to 18 — mixed with alcohol makes up Eau de Parfum. It is more expensive than Eau de Cologne and Eau de Toilette.

Perfume
Perfume is 15 to 30 percent perfume oil mixed with alcohol. Because it contains such a high percentage of perfume oil, it is far more expensive than Eau de Cologne, Eau de Toilette, or Eau de Parfum.

I Wear Eau de Parfum and Perfume.

Fragrance Families for Women
fragrance family chart
Fragrances are classified according to predominant scent characteristics. Four basic families make up most feminine fragrances. Floral/Sweet, Citrus/Fruity/Fresh, Oriental/Spicy, and Woody/Chypre. Within those families, there are sub-groups. Aromatic Fougère, a masculine scent family, used to be its own category, but was recategorized as a sub-category in the 2010 change. It has notes of lavender, fresh herbs, and moss.

At the perfumery I tested each client’s pH level and selected fragrances from each family for the pH level.  Without knowing your pH level you will need try several scents from each family to see what scent appeals to you.

Secret Number Two: Floral and Sweet for daytime, and perhaps an Oriental/Spicy scent for date night. In cooler weather, stronger scents can be worn without overwhelming everyone around you. Conversely, lighter scents are better in warmer weather. Think of how summer smells like fresh cut grass and scoops of vanilla ice cream. December smells like evergreens and gingerbread. You can evoke those same wonderful emotions and memories with your own aroma.

Citrus/Fruity/Fresh
Orange, lemon, lime, grapefruit, and other citrus fruits. Apricot, apple, peach, etc. Clean, light, and invigorating.

Oriental/Spicy
Warm vanilla, spices and incense resins. Reminiscent of the Far East. Also ambery and musky. Kind of mysterious!

Woody/Chypre
Scents like bergamot, oakmoss, labdanum, and patchouli. Mossy and very earthy smelling.

Choosing The Perfect Perfume
Perfumes and colognes are made up of many different accords to produce a harmonious scent. Because our body chemistry is unique to us, the same perfume will smell slightly different (or completely different) depending on who is wearing it.

Further, it will smell different in the bottle or sprayed on a card than it will on your skin.

Secret Number Three: Spray it on a card first. After five or ten minutes, smell it again. See if it still speaks to you. Then and only then, spray it on your skin. Remember with will take 20 minutes before the fragrance will be true to you pH level.

Secret Number Four: Never spray more than 4 fragrances at a time for testing.

Have you ever noticed how perfumeries have tiny jars of coffee beans scattered here and there? Take a sniff. It serves the same purpose as sorbet between dinner courses and cleanses your palate — or olfactory perception — in between scents.

How To Wear Your Perfume

Never spray on your wrists and then rub your wrists together, never tip the perfume bottle onto your skin because your body oil spoils the properties of the fragrance oils.

Apply the fragrance to the base of you skull because the warmth of your body and the movement of your hair creates release of the scent.  Or one spray of scent to your abdomen.  Do not spray on the front of you neck as even high priced Paris perfumes have properties that, over time, can create a slight discoloration on your skin. Remember, your fragrance will last all day.  There is no reason to spray the perfume into the air and walk beneath it.  If my room needs to be scented, I light a candle!

Enjoy your perfumes.  Purchase a small collector bottle or s sample before committing to a fragrance.

Signature fragrances chance as a woman matures.  I wear Chanel no 5.

What fragrance do you adore?


My signature fragraance

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