Peg Herring's Blog, page 16

30 Days of Christmas Day 25: Her Royal Highness' Christmastide

My old friend Simon,
I have thought of you often in recent days. It has been some years since we last met and I sent you off to Scotland. I am certain you have grown ancient, for I myself am old. It came to my mind to write to you of my days in Christmastide. Perhaps you will in turn tell me of yours.

We are keeping Christmas now, since it is December 24th. The next twelve days will be busy ones, with parties each day until the last and largest one on Twelfth Night. Much of it is silliness, with men dressing as women and women as men. There is also gambling, which some abhor, but I believe life must offer good times to balance the bad ones we cannot avoid.

I have ordered the cooks to spare no expense in feeding the household, so we shall dine on meats of all kinds, marchpanes, pies, custards, frumenty, plum porridge, and much else. I look forward to the Christmas pie of neat's tongue, eggs, sugar, lemon, orange peel, and spices. As I told you when last we met, sugar is a wonderful food, and very healthful, too, I'm told.

Several pageants are planned for the holidays, and I believe tonight's is the tale of St. George and the Dragon. I am at Greenwich Palace, which, though small, is my favorite place for the celebration. It is decorated with holly, ivy, box, yew, bay, laurel, holm, and oak branches, any that can be found that are still green. The Yule log has been chosen, and tonight the men will go forth, cut it, and drag it to the hall fireplace. A bit of last year's log has been preserved to light this year's version, and if it burns all night long, that will signal prosperity for our land in the coming year.

It was suggested to me that this year we might set an image of the Christ child on the chapel altar. I see nothing wrong with that, for we must be reminded that despite all the banquets and dancing, this is a time for reflecting on God's gifts to us all.

Write me if you can, Old Friend, and tell me news of your family and your activities at Christmastide.


Her Royal Highness Elizabeth
 (though you, of course, may call me "Highness")


So now is come our joyful'st feast,
Let every man be jolly.
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
       Though some churls at our mirth repine,
        Round your foreheads garlands twine,
        Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.
            George Wither (1588-1667)

30 Days of Christmas Day 24: The Blizzard & Mrs. Beard

The Blizzard and Mrs. Beardby Peg HerringI slid the holdup note and a plain cloth bag across the counter toward the teller and watched her professional smile turn to a grimace of fear. “Put $10,000 in the bag or I’ll shoot the place up good.” I was proud of the note: succinct but definitely informative.The woman looked fearfully at me, or rather at the persona I presented. A heavily padded overcoat made me look twenty pounds heavier, cotton balls in my cheeks rounded my face to a moon, smoky-tinted glasses hid my eyes, and a dark wig with a knit cap pulled over it covered my real hair. Her mascara-laden eyes searched the place helplessly. I had all the advantages, and she had none. It was a small credit union with no security on site, and outside there was a blizzard. Even if she rang her supposedly secret buzzer, it would be a long time before help arrived. The sheriff’s officers were all out helping honest citizens involved in fender-benders and worse as the storm raged.“I don’t--we don’t have that much money here,” she began, but I cut her off.“Yes, you do. I’ve done my homework, and I know how you folks do business. Now get my money.”The teller next to mine, a blond with that hairstyle that looks like the person plans to join the circus right after work, gasped involuntarily. She’d overheard us, and I saw her eyes go big. Pulling the gun from my pocket I set it on the counter, laying my hand over it after I was sure they’d both seen it. “Stay where you are,” I told my teller. To the other one I said, “Get me $10,000 in twenties and fifties, or she’s dead.”The woman hesitated only a second. “Don’t hurt her,” she begged. “I’ll get it right away.”“Good. Don’t speak to anyone else.”  She nodded and took off at a near trot.As good as her word, within a few minutes she returned with one of those zipper bags with the credit union’s logo on the side. I saw one of the other employees start to speak to her, but she shushed him and glared a warning. He froze when he followed her glance and saw me standing there. I shot him a threatening frown, and he hunched behind his computer like a snake slithering between two rocks.Teller A handed me the cloth bag after transferring the money into it. “Thank you, ladies. I won’t say that we’ll meet again, but you’ll remember me.” I made my voice gravelly. I didn’t know either of them, but no sense taking chances.I turned to go, feeling pretty satisfied until I saw the police car pull up outside. Why could I never count on luck unless it was the bad kind? I turned accusingly back to the tellers, but they’d both disappeared, probably huddled on the floor behind the counter. Swearing softly, I considered my options.I really had done my homework, so I knew the layout of the building. There was an employee exit at the back. What were the chances that two sheriff’s cars were available in this blizzard to respond to the silent alarm? The back door it would be then.I peered outside before exiting the building. It was a nightmare: blowing snow, lots of the stuff already on the ground, and wind that shrieked around corners like a broken Irish whistle. I couldn’t see ten feet, but that meant the cops couldn’t either. On foot, I’d be more mobile than they, and the wind would cover my tracks in minutes. I took off across the parking lot, the bag flopping at my side and the gun once more concealed in my pocket. As I passed a dumpster a block away from the credit union I shucked the coat, hat, wig, glasses, and cotton balls. Now I looked like Tim Mills and not Brando’s Don Corleone.I had planned to move up Pine Street for two blocks and then cut back to the car I’d stashed on the cross street, Rose. Now I had to circle around, but I wasn’t worried. There were hardly any cars out today due to the storm, and with the terrible visibility, I’d be pretty much undetectable.The second glitch in my plan came when I got to my vehicle. The county, zealous as usual about keeping the roads clear, had plowed Rose Street, and in the process buried my car. I kicked the tire angrily: the old Chevy wasn’t much, but it was my ticket out of this stupid town. Now my ticket was under a ton of snow. It would take hours to dig it out, and I didn’t even have mittens, much less a shovel. My mind cast about for alternatives. There was no airport or train station in our little burg, and the bus stopped Mondays and Fridays, not today. I had to grimace at the irony: I had my $10,000, but I couldn’t get started on the new life I’d promised myself because of the storm I’d thought would be my protector.The scenario at the credit union played in my head. The tellers would jabber their story to the sheriff, and he would go looking for the culprit. If he saw me in town in this weather, he’d wonder why, even if the description didn’t fit. I had a long history of conflict with authority, starting when I was eleven and keeping a steady pace over the last nine years. The only thing in life I’d been successful at was getting into trouble. I had to get out of sight. I noticed that my hands, although used to normal cold, were getting numb. My body, clad only in a marker-decorated denim jacket and ragged blue jeans, shivered, and my hair was frosted with snow.Moving in a bent-over slouch, I made my way back to Main Street. The dark-sensitive lamps had come on, trying to pierce the late-day gloom, but their glow was pitiful against the gray-white curtain that loomed over the area. An orange shape appeared out of the white, its rumbling engines almost unheard under the roar of the winds. A plow truck, probably the same one that had buried my car on an earlier pass.After the plow there was nothing. Cars would be few and far between, and I peered into the driving snow anxiously. I had to find a place to hide out for a while, until the storm cleared and I could either get to my car or hitch a ride somewhere.Ten miserable minutes later, two dim circles poked through the gloom. A car crawled toward me, wipers flapping frantically, wheels crunching on the snow that was fast refilling the plowed strip. I didn’t hesitate. As the car slowed to make a curve, I ran up, pulled the passenger door open, and leapt in. Folding myself under the dashboard, I snarled, “I’ve got a gun. Keep driving or I’ll shoot you and leave your body in the street.”There was a stunned silence; then the car rolled slowly forward. From my crouch I saw a black wool coat, sensible black boots with Velcro closures, and a pair of wrinkled, arthritic hands. A low, carrying voice said, “I’ll drive, Timothy, but I don’t believe you would ever shoot me.” With dread that I hadn’t experienced since ninth grade, I looked up into the steely eyes of the only person who insisted on calling me Timothy, my former English teacher Mrs. Beard.Without further conversation, we proceeded to Mrs. Beard’s driveway. The plow had left her a gift too, a foot-high, three-foot-wide pile of snow across the span. I held my breath as she, apparently unfazed, turned the wheel and gunned the motor at the same time. The rear end of the car slewed wildly for a moment, but then the front wheels made it through the piled snow and pulled us ahead. One spot in the drive was drifted too, but Mrs. Beard simply gunned the motor again, and we shot through, ending up so close to a shed at the side of the house that I thought we might park on top of it. The car stopped with a jolt, however, and she turned to face me for the first time. “Now let’s go inside, Timothy, and you can tell me what you’ve been up to.”The wind whipped against me as I exited the car. Mrs. Beard fought to open her door, and instinctively I hurried around to help her. She held out a bag of groceries, and I was embarrassed to find I still held the gun I’d threatened her with. I stuck it hurriedly in my jacket pocket. She gave me that reproachful look I remembered so well but said nothing, merely bent her head against the wind and started for the house.     We entered the covered porch and I pulled the storm-door closed against the bitter wind. Mrs. Beard led me into her home through an unlocked door, stopping in the entry to remove her boots. I hesitated for a second and then toed off my tennis shoes. My socks were wet from my trek through the snow, and I was embarrassed to see a hole in one toe. She appeared not to notice although in my experience, there wasn’t much she missed.     First she made tea and sliced some banana bread for the two of us. Then we sat at the kitchen table together and she pulled the whole story out of me. Mrs. Beard was one of those teachers everyone admired and feared at once. She had such high expectations for all of us it was terrifying, and yet in your heart you wanted to please her by reaching those heights she envisioned for you.     I’d come into her classroom a rebellious kid who hated everyone and everything, particularly everything at school. Other teachers either disliked me or ignored me. Many were just as happy if I didn’t show up for class, so I happily obliged them. Only Mrs. Beard ever asked me where I’d been after an absence. When I told my lies, her lips got that pursed look and her eyes dropped from mine, disappointed with me again. It was in large part her ability to make me feel responsible for my life that had led me to quit school as soon as I hit sixteen. Other teachers I could ignore, blame, and ridicule. Mrs. Beard I respected too much for that.     So now, sipping weak tea and between bites of excellent banana bread, I gave my excuses again. How I’d asked nicely at the credit union for a loan of $10,000 to get a new start somewhere outside Darwin, Michigan, and how they’d turned me down, not with a polite, “Sorry, sir,” but with a snide Who-do-you-think-you-are? attitude. How I’d needed that money and, being offended by their snootiness, consequently gone in and taken it. “I wore a disguise,” I assured her. “They won’t know it was me.”     “Drama club, right? You were quite good in the one production you were involved in before you quit school.” Her tone was even, but I heard accusation anyway.     “I meant to come back, or at least get my GED--” I couldn’t finish that lie.     “I tried to contact you, you know.”     My friends had told me. “Mrs. Beard was really unhappy when you quit,” they’d said. “She wants to talk to you.”     “I knew you were mad at me.”     That little frown that never left her face got deeper. “Timothy, I wasn’t mad at you. You never could figure that out, could you? I was upset that I couldn’t reach you. I’d failed somehow to show you how much potential you had. Have,” she amended.     I rested my head in one hand, elbow propped on her immaculately white tablecloth. “I’ve never been able to get it together, you know? I keep screwing up.”     “You can fix this, Timothy. Go back to the credit union and return the money. Tell them you’re sorry. I’ll speak for you at your trial. You’ve never been arrested for a serious crime, have you?”     “No, some little stuff, but nothing serious.”     “Well, then.” She glanced out the window, where the storm had pretty much buried her car. “That’s what you must do, first thing in the morning, when this storm has blown through and the roads are clear.”     She rose from her chair. “You can’t stay in those wet clothes. I think some of my late husband’s things will fit you.” She refilled my teacup, encouraged me to have more banana bread, and disappeared up the stairs. In a few minutes she returned with corduroy pants, an oxford shirt, and one of those Arnold Palmer sweaters that no one wears any more. At her urging I went into the bathroom and tried them on. They fit all right, but I sure didn’t look like myself.     After that Mrs. Beard showed me to her guest room, where she’d already laid out the late Mr. B’s pajamas and even a robe. “Rest tonight and don’t worry. You can make things right in the morning.”     The day dawned sunny and bright, as is often the case after a blizzard. Mrs. Beard was cheerful as she made me pancakes and sausage, orange juice and coffee. She assured me that a man she had hired would come and shovel her out before noon, but she insisted I get to work on salvaging my life right away.After we’d eaten she made me write a note of apology to the credit union management. “You never know,” she insisted. “They might be moved to drop the charges if the letter is well-worded--with correct spelling and punctuation, of course.” She stood over my shoulder, giving advice and making “Ah-ah!” sounds when I messed up. It was a lot like ninth grade all over again, but I didn’t mind too much. The letter, when I recopied it onto a fresh sheet, was pretty impressive.     At a quarter to nine Mrs. Beard found me an old but beautifully made cashmere coat and, most miraculous of all, a pair of boots only about one size too big. The boots weren’t dressy enough for the coat, she said, but I’d never had any so warm, so I assured her they were fine. “Thanks for everything, Mrs. Beard. I really appreciate what you’ve done for me. Not just now, but back then, too. I knew you really cared about me, I mean, us kids.”     She smoothed the coat collar and patted my arm. “Timothy, I’ll tell you a secret. Very often there is one student that a teacher, despite her best efforts, likes better than the others. When that student’s life is hard, she wishes she could take him into her home and make the world better for him. We can’t do it, of course. We can’t even show those students how special they are to us. It wouldn’t be fair to the rest.”     “Really?” Was she saying that I was one she’d considered special?     “It isn’t very professional, is it? But it’s how we feel.”     I was embarrassed and happy at the same time. Mrs. Beard had asked about me after I quit school. She’d taken pains to let me know I was missed, encouraged me to do my best. I even remembered a lot of what she taught, Shakespeare and all that.     A few minutes later I waded through the end-of-the-driveway drift and reached the now-plowed road. With a shovel borrowed from Mrs. Beard’s shed in hand, I trudged toward my car. It was right where I’d left it, looking sad and abandoned. The plows had cleared the area around it, leaving the car itself in a mound of snow with another pile of the stuff on its roof. I cleared one door, slung the bag inside the car and turned the ignition on to let it warm up. While it idled and warmed, I used the shovel to clear the tires. As I climbed into the car I felt the stiffness of the folded apology letter in my new coat’s pocket. I took it out, tore it into very small pieces, and threw them into the wind. Three miles out of town, I ran into the police blockade. Because of the plowed banks of snow on either side, there was nowhere to turn off, no way to avoid the authorities ahead. My bad luck had returned, because it was the sheriff himself who stood in the road, wiggling his fingers importantly as if he could literally pull me to him with a gesture.“Tim, what you doing out and about?”“Just going up to Mansfield to do some shopping, Sheriff.”“Shopping, huh? You come into a little money?Why hadn’t I said I had a doctor’s appointment?He had me out of the car in thirty seconds, feet spread, hands on the cold metal roof. I had tossed the gun, which was only a toy anyway, but there on the seat was the bag with all that money. I glanced at it nervously, another mistake. The sheriff’s gaze followed mine, and one eyebrow rose like the curtain on opening night.“Over here, Billings.” A deputy who had just released the car ahead of me came over and reached in to get the bag. When they asked in pseudo-polite voices if they could look inside, what could I say? The sheriff’s expression turned downright smug when the zipper parted to reveal stacks of cash. The deputy put on a pair of gloves and then pawed through the bag like a gerbil in a corner.“So where were you yesterday at around 4:00, Tim?” the sheriff asked.“I was visiting a friend.”“Your car was on the street overnight. Did this ‘friend’ let you sleep in her bed?”“Well, technically, yeah, but not the way you’re thinking.”“I’ll bet. I’m going to want to know the name of this friend. She could be an accessory to a crime.”“Sheriff,” the deputy had been consulting a clipboard.“Yeah, what?”“This isn’t the money.”“What?”Billings brought the clipboard and the bag over. “There’s only two thousand here, not the ten that was stolen. Besides, the serial numbers don’t match.”“Don’t match?”“None of them.”  Billings looked me up and down. “And this guy isn’t at all what the teller described.”“So where did a loser like you get two thousand in cash?” the sheriff asked. I could tell he was not a happy enforcer.“Apparently he borrowed it. From a Mrs. Andrea Beard.” Billings handed over a note, and I tried to read it upside down as the sheriff read it right side up. “I owe Mrs. Andrea Beard $2000, which I will pay in monthly installments once I get a job somewhere outside Kelly County. Signed, Timothy Mills.”“So Mrs. Beard helped you out, did she?”“Y-yes, sir.”“The old lady should know better than to throw away good money, but I suppose it’s hers to do with as she wants.” He lost interest in me and my future almost immediately. “You can be on your way, Timothy.”I went, and quickly too. As I drove away I knew that now I had to make that new start so I could begin repaying the two thousand. When someone who knows you that well trusts you that much, you have to believe, for the first time in your life, that she was right all along.

30 Days of Christmas Day 23: A Happy Pet

Those of you who keep track of me might recall that about a month ago, my cat decided she needed to sleep on the computer desk, between me and the screen. It made her happy, but me not so much, since she'd playfully reach down every once in a while and swipe a claw at my swift-moving fingers.  Someone suggested I bring a second chair to the computer desk and make it hers. At first she wasn't sure (note the look on her face).
You want me this far away? Really?
Okay, I guess this is goodIt took a procession of pillows and blankets before I found one that suited her, and I had to block the chair so it doesn't swivel and make her feel insecure. Now she spends most of the day there, even if I get up to do something else.
Of course, there's a caveat. I have to lift her onto the chair. If I'm not around, she gets up there just fine, but if I'm working, I have to listen to her cry until I stop typing and settle her in.

So today's topic: What makes your pet most happy? Is it a place? A treat? Something you do?

30 Days of Christmas Day 22: Random Questions

1. Why are some words so hard to type? I invariably type Crhistmas and have to fix it. Also Goerge.
2. Why do we make stupid people famous?
3. Who decided that Christmas (or any holiday, for that matter) means going broke buying presents?
4. Who's Making Love to Your Old Lady (While You Are Out Making Love)?-- Sorry, it just came into my head.
5. What was I thinking when I planned a 30-day blog event?
6. What happened to being able to eat whatever I want and never gaining weight?
7. Where did I set my phone down this time?
8. Where can I find out if the 1998 Lincoln Continental had an escape button inside the trunk? (This is the kind of research question that drives authors crazy.)
9. When will I release my next book? (Only editors & cover artists know the answer!)
10. When will we learn that Peace on Earth is the only gift that matters?

30 Days of Christmas Day 21: IndieBrag Blog-Hop & Giveaway

Santa & Maggie Pill Santa was trying to get ready for Christmas, but things weren’t going well, and his droll little mouth pursed in frustration. He couldn’t find the fur-trimmed hat that went with his red suit. He needed a clean hanky to wipe away the ashes and soot after each trip through a chimney. And one of his boots had gone missing. Those were things his wife usually took care of, but she was nowhere to be found.Rubbing his little round belly, he looked in the kitchen to see if she was baking. Visions of sugar-plums danced in his head, but no. She wasn’t there.Was she in the laundry room, washing tiny elf socks and underwear? Scratching his snow-white beard, the jolly old elf peered into the small room at the back of the house. Nope.She wasn’t in the den taking a long winter’s nap, nor in the pantry sorting canned goods.When he finally found her, Mrs. Claus was in the den, curled up on the couch, reading a book on her Kindle. “What’s so interesting, dear?”“It’s called The Sleuth Sisters,” she replied. “It reminds me of me and my sisters when we were younger.” She sighed. “We were something else in our fifties, just like the women in the story.”Santa didn’t want to bother his wife when she was having such a good time, so he spoke not a word and tiptoed off. Mrs. Claus hardly noticed.“Instead of getting my clothes ready, I guess I could go straight to my work on the sleigh,” Santa muttered. That meant finding Elwin, the chief transportation elf. St. Nicholas went to the workshop, but it was empty. “Hmmm,” St. Nick murmured. Elwin wasn’t in the sleigh-port. The sleigh was there, but its runners needed cleaning before he could spring into it and drive out of sight. The bundle of toys sat off to one side, not yet loaded. He noticed a small box with Amazon printed on its side sat apart from the others, apparently not part of his scheduled deliveries. “I’ll have to ask Elwin about that before I leave,” he murmured. "Wouldn't want to leave anyone out." The corners of the workshop were dark and quiet, and Santa rubbed his broad face in puzzlement. “Elwin? El?”No answer. Dimples appeared as Santa twisted his head in puzzlement.Next Santa explored the front yard in his lively and quick manner. It was empty. He tried the side yard. Empty, too. That left the back yard.It was chilly outside (not that denizens of the North Pole mind that), and Santa’s cheeks grew rosy. His nose looked like a cherry in the middle of his round face.At the back of the workshop he found Elwin Elf, curled up on a snow-bank with a book in his hands.“Shouldn’t you be polishing up the sleigh?” Santa asked.Elwin looked slightly ashamed. “I promise the sleigh will be ready in time for Christmas, Santa, but this book has a couple of really cute dogs in it. One’s a Newfoundland like mine, and the other is a rescue dog. It’s also set in my favorite season, winter.”“My favorite season too,” Santa said. “What’s it called?”“3 Sleuths, 2 Dogs, 1 Murder. The dogs even got mentioned in the title!” Santa knew Elwin was as good as his word, and besides, he could see how close he was to the last pages. It wouldn’t be long before he was back to work.Santa gave a wink of his eye. “No worries, El. I’ll check on Rudolph and the crew.”When he got to the barn, however, it was completely silent--no prancing and pawing of any little hoof. Back outside he turned 180 degrees but saw neither reindeer hide nor reindeer hair. After a few seconds, Santa heard the tiniest sound above him and turned with a jerk. Nine reindeer were on the roof of his house, lying in a rough circle around the chimney with their legs curled up under them.Santa gave his team a whistle. “Rudolph, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen! What are you doing up there?” (Santa had learned over the years that it doesn’t do to single out one reindeer. If you spoke to one, you had to speak to the whole herd.)“Comet’s reading a book we downloaded to your phone,” Vixen replied.“It’s a mystery,” Blitzen added.“About reindeer!” Dancer was clearly excited about that. “We take turns reading. It’s jolly.”“Got it from the library,” Cupid said.“It’s called Murder in the Boonies.”“Did we say it has reindeer?” Dasher asked.Santa chuckled, and his belly shook like---well, you know. “You did say that.”“We’ll be down in a little while,” Rudolph called. “Just one more chapter.”Prancer nodded agreement. “We’d never be late for Christmas.”“I know you won’t,” Santa said, his eyes twinkling. “You’ve been completely dependable for centuries.”“And this year, Santa, we have a gift for you.” Donner looked smug. “Actually it’s three gifts, kind of the same but kind of different.” “We all got together to pick it out,” Rudolph said. “Mrs. Claus, Elwin Elf, and us.” The other reindeer grinned as he added, “You’re never going to guess what it is.”Santa was pretty sure he could have, but he laid a finger at the side of his nose, gave a nod, and kept quiet. Being the Spirit of Giving, he knew that the feeling of having the perfect gift for someone you love is the best feeling in the world. He didn’t want to spoil their surprise.“I can't guess,” he told his friends, but as he turned away he said under his breath, “but I hope it’s the audio version. That way I can listen to Maggie Pill all the way around the world. Ho, Ho, Ho!”
To continue on the IndieBRAG Blog-Hop and meet other great indie writers, follow this link: http://www.bragmedallion.com/Don't forget, you can get a FREE copy of A Lethal Time & Place at InstaFreebie until Dec. 18th. Also, anyone who comments on this blog will be put in a drawing for an Advance Review Copy of my next book!

30 Days of Christmas Day 20: What's a Blog-Hop? & Bad Christmas Music

A Blog-Hop is a line of blogs put together so that readers meet new authors. A group that awarded their BRAG medallion to THE SLEUTH SISTERS, IndieBrag, has arranged one for the month of December, and I'm to be high-lighted tomorrow, Dec. 15th. I plan to share a Christmas story I wrote that will remind you of another Christmas tale, and I plan on giving away advance copies of my next book to some who visit either me (here) or Maggie (maggiepill.maggiepillmysteries.com). Be sure to visit!

 Today's topic is Christmas music. I love the classics, both religious and secular, but I have to admit I'm distressed by performers who shouldn't attempt them. Walking through the stores, I hear stuff and think, "Who thought this was a good idea?"

I found this site that demonstrates: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/12...

I have a soft spot for George Michael that I can't explain, but the rest? Shouldna done it!

30 Days of Christmas Day 18: The Cat's Christmas

They've started again with the cruel season. They put toys all over the house and then freak out when I play with them.
There's a tree full of shinies and danglies in the corner of the living room, but "NO! Don't touch!" happens when I get anywhere near it. I managed to get in a few minutes of exercise with several of the things they hung on it while everyone was somewhere else. First I had to un-stick the nice things from the tree, which was hard. Then I had fun chasing them around on the floor--at least until Dad came in and bellowed like an angry bull, "Mary! Come see what your cat did!"

They put pretty things on end tables and shelves too, but again, I'm just supposed to look at them. A grouping of half a dozen figurines in a little wooden shed sits on the coffee table. I knocked them onto the floor to see if they'd roll nicely on the carpet. Only one of them did, but that one was fun to bat around until it went under the piano too far for me to reach. Mom had to get the broom and use the handle to retrieve it, and she wasn't happy.

Yesterday Oldest Girl put some things under the tree wrapped in paper and decorated with bits of ribbon. The ribbon is fun to chew on, and the paper is easy to shred when you've got claws as nice as mine, but when she saw what I was doing, she swatted me! I had to escape up the tree, which set it to swaying back and forth, and then EVERYbody was upset.
Now I'm shut in the upstairs bedroom with just a window blind cord to play with.
I don't get this Christmas thing.

30 Days of Christmas Day 17: Giveaway

A Lethal Time and Place is an old favorite of mine, so I'm sharing it as today's giveaway.
It's a paranormal mystery set in Chicago in the late '60s, and you'll love the twist in the middle.
I think you'll also love the characters: they're weird, they're wonderful, and they will surprise you with their cleverness, their oddness, and their support for each other.



If you want to try the book, go to Instafreebie and download it in whatever form you need for your e-reader. Here's the link:    http://www.instafreebie.com/free/KqhUH   You've got one week.

Merry Christmas!

30 Days of Christmas Day 16: Pet Peccadilloes

A peccadillo is a behavior that is a little odd and particular to one person--or in this case, pet.
I've listed some pets we've had and their idiosyncrasies, and I invite you to share your list.

*A cat named Fred who went hunting with my husband, following at his heels like a hound whenever he left the house with a gun.
*A horse named Dolly who guarded the water trough and only let the cows and other horses drink when she felt they deserved it.
*A cat named Ching-a-ling who (somehow) climbed to the top shelf of a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and sat as still as a statue until just the right moment and then scared the bejeebers out of guests.
My sister & I with Laddie and Ching-a-ling*A dog named Laddie who stayed under the bed as long as there was thunder outside.
*A dog named Gertrude who slept on our bed without permission but never got caught. When you started up the stairs you'd hear a thump, and on the bed there would be a small imprint, but she'd be gone.
*A cow that absolutely hated one of my dad's shirts and would throw a fit if he came into the barn wearing it.
*A cat named Taz who sat on his rear like this--very undignified!
Taz

30 Days of Christmas Day 15: All Those Other People

At first, writers write in a vacuum. We go to whatever place works for us and we write--for hours, days, weeks, and months. If we’re lucky, we produce a book.That’s the last time we’re alone with it. If you like a book, here’s who to thank--in addition to the author.
The Beta Readers: Authors write from inside their heads, but beta readers help us see what needs more explanation or less. They find those crazy little factual errors that ruin a book. Their feedback turns one person’s story into something many can enjoy.
The Editors: A finished story needs content editing, copy editing, and line editing. In every case but one (long ago), I’ve been lucky to work with good ones. Sometimes it’s difficult. At first I skim the comments out of the side of one eye. Then I walk away for a while. Phrases like “How dare she?” come to mind, but after a day or two, I go to work to fix the manuscript.
The Cover Artist: Covers are supposed to attract a reader’s eye and give him a sense of the book’s genre, characters, and theme. If I made my own covers, you’d think a kindergartner was involved. So if the cover caught your eye, it’s the talent of some artist I’ve never met, someone who reads my words and turns them into visual art.
The Formatter: Formatting is the way the words look on the page: spacing, margins, chapter headings, etc. A skilled formatter keeps readers from noticing formatting, because if you notice, there’s probably something wrong.
 The Publisher: Sometimes it's the author, but other times there is someone who believes in a book's worth and facilitates its publication and promotion. Yay for them! 
The Book Reviewer: Readers want to know someone liked a book besides the author’s mother, and that’s where book reviewers come in. Reviewers are knowledgeable about books of a certain genre. They compare an author’s new book to others and give readers a hint about whether this is a book they might like. A trusted reviewer can interest many readers in giving it a try, and the author doesn’t have to scream, “Buy my book, it’s great!” The Book Blogger: Book bloggers sometimes review books, but other times they simply provide a place for authors’ works to be showcased. Some let the author do as she likes for a day, some ask interview questions, and some do almost everything, from hunting down cover art to seeking out an author's links to various social media sites.
The Book Promoter: As it becomes harder to keep up with promotion, authors have begun turning to book promoters. Some charge a fee, and some work for the love of reading. Either way, they’re invaluable for helping authors reach readers. I’m continually amazed by the methods these people devise to tell others about new books: bubbles, prizes, giveaways, and a hundred other ways they catch the eye in today’s three-second, fast-changing world.
All these people are wonderful, marvelous, and amazing, but there’s one remaining category, perhaps the most crucial of all--
The Reader.The number one reason people choose a book is because a friend recommended it. If you read a book and like it, tell your friends. Talk about it (no spoilers, please!) Loan it out (with your name written inside if you want it back.) Spreading the word is the best thing you can do for a writer, and it makes the work that all the people listed above worthwhile!