Mary R. Davidsaver's Blog, page 11
January 3, 2018
Traditions & Another Recipe
I’ve spent a fair amount of time over this past holiday season thinking about family traditions. My new daughter-in-law had asked me to tell her about my family’s traditions. She wanted to include them when we all got together.
My first reaction was, “What holiday traditions?” I honestly couldn’t think of one special family thing we did every year while I was growing up. We had Christmas trees. I imagine most were bought. Once, when my mom was older and living on the river, she and I went out searching the wild space between a field and a creek to find a likely specimen to cut down. Can’t get any fresher than that. But by that late date most of her fancy glass ornaments, the ones I remembered as a kid where gone, broken. Too many moves. Too much rough handling by a clumsy kid, who I’d rather not name. And some cats. Cats do love climbing trees and fragile glass objects don’t have much of a chance. Then there was the 1993 flood. Mom saved her photos and genealogy notebooks, but not much else. I guess I do have the last ornament, a glass ball with three faded stripes.
Then something clicked, and I went to my recipe box, a relic from my high school Home Economy class, and found a favorite card. Judging by the ink I used and the sad condition of the note card, it had to be one of the earliest recipes I collected—closing in on fifty years old. It came from my sister. At that time, she would have been a young farm wife who was out in the barn milking a cow every day. Scalding the whole milk would have been an important step. Her eggnog was wonderful and when I started my own family I began making a big batch every year. That tradition waned as the kids left home and, at some point, stopped all together. Store-bought eggnog filled in the gap until counting calories became more important.
So, I had a recipe card that I hadn’t looked at for years and I tried making a big batch like I remembered doing—it was a total flop. Weak and wimpy, the only saving grace was using it steamed in a cappuccino.
I sat down to read the recipe card, really study it, because it didn’t make any sense. I remembered that I’d condensed the directions, so they would fit on the card. I didn’t remember all the mistakes, spelling and otherwise, I’d made. But there they were. I honestly don’t know how I managed working from this card all those years ago. I must have been good at improvising.
I passed on attempting any more Christmas eggnog, but I didn’t want to give up. There was New Year’s Eve to consider. I searched the internet, such a great thing to have, and found a recipe that had the essential spirit of my sister’s original recipe. I made a small batch and it was perfect.
My thanks to Alton Brown for a great recipe. It provided the last minute save for this one family tradition.
Find Alton Brown’s recipe here:http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/eggnog-recipe2-2013745
My first reaction was, “What holiday traditions?” I honestly couldn’t think of one special family thing we did every year while I was growing up. We had Christmas trees. I imagine most were bought. Once, when my mom was older and living on the river, she and I went out searching the wild space between a field and a creek to find a likely specimen to cut down. Can’t get any fresher than that. But by that late date most of her fancy glass ornaments, the ones I remembered as a kid where gone, broken. Too many moves. Too much rough handling by a clumsy kid, who I’d rather not name. And some cats. Cats do love climbing trees and fragile glass objects don’t have much of a chance. Then there was the 1993 flood. Mom saved her photos and genealogy notebooks, but not much else. I guess I do have the last ornament, a glass ball with three faded stripes.
Then something clicked, and I went to my recipe box, a relic from my high school Home Economy class, and found a favorite card. Judging by the ink I used and the sad condition of the note card, it had to be one of the earliest recipes I collected—closing in on fifty years old. It came from my sister. At that time, she would have been a young farm wife who was out in the barn milking a cow every day. Scalding the whole milk would have been an important step. Her eggnog was wonderful and when I started my own family I began making a big batch every year. That tradition waned as the kids left home and, at some point, stopped all together. Store-bought eggnog filled in the gap until counting calories became more important.
So, I had a recipe card that I hadn’t looked at for years and I tried making a big batch like I remembered doing—it was a total flop. Weak and wimpy, the only saving grace was using it steamed in a cappuccino.
I sat down to read the recipe card, really study it, because it didn’t make any sense. I remembered that I’d condensed the directions, so they would fit on the card. I didn’t remember all the mistakes, spelling and otherwise, I’d made. But there they were. I honestly don’t know how I managed working from this card all those years ago. I must have been good at improvising.
I passed on attempting any more Christmas eggnog, but I didn’t want to give up. There was New Year’s Eve to consider. I searched the internet, such a great thing to have, and found a recipe that had the essential spirit of my sister’s original recipe. I made a small batch and it was perfect.
My thanks to Alton Brown for a great recipe. It provided the last minute save for this one family tradition.
Find Alton Brown’s recipe here:http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/alton-brown/eggnog-recipe2-2013745
December 22, 2017
Recipe for Swedish Visiting Cake
It's the Friday before Christmas and I'll be making another one of these. This time with gluten-free flour, almond flour, and very little lemon zest. But always with real butter and sliced almonds. Do sprinkle the top with a little extra granulated sugar before baking for a nice glaze. I use my largest glass pie pan and it turns out as a cross between a cake and a giant cookie.
I had my first one ages ago as a gift from a Bishop Hill neighbor and always remembered how soft and tasty it was. Last year, I used the internet to finally track down the recipe. Enjoy.
Swedish Visiting Cake www.fransfavs.com
Ingredients 1 cup sugar, plus extra for sprinklingGrated zest of 1 lemon (use ½ lemon or none at all)2 large eggs 1/4 tsp. salt1 tsp. pure vanilla extract1/2 tsp. pure almond extract1 cup flour (optional: add ¼ c. almond flour, see note below)1 stick (8 Tbl.) unsalted butter, melted and cooledAbout 1/4 cup sliced almonds (blanched or not)
Directions Center a rack in the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a seasoned 9-inch cast-iron skillet or other heavy ovenproof skillet, a 9-inch cake pan, or even a pie pan. You can use a 9-inch cake or pie pan and put parchment on the bottom. Butter the parchment paper.
Pour the sugar into a medium bowl. Add the zest and blend the zest and sugar together with your fingertips until the sugar is moist and aromatic.
Whisk in the eggs one at a time until well blended. Whisk in the salt and the extracts.
Switch to a rubber spatula and stir in the flour.
Finally, fold in the melted butter. Scrape the batter into the pan and smooth the top with a rubber spatula. Scatter the sliced almonds over the top and sprinkle with a little sugar if using. If you're using a cake or pie pan, place the pan on a baking sheet.
Bake the cake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until it is golden and a little crisp on the outside; the inside will remain moist. Remove the pan from the oven and let the cake cool for 5 minutes, then run a thin knife around the sides and bottom of the cake to loosen it. You can serve the cake warm or cooled, directly from the skillet or turned out onto a serving plate.
If adding ¼ cup ground almond flour, increase baking time to 30-35 minutes.
I had my first one ages ago as a gift from a Bishop Hill neighbor and always remembered how soft and tasty it was. Last year, I used the internet to finally track down the recipe. Enjoy.
Swedish Visiting Cake www.fransfavs.com
Ingredients 1 cup sugar, plus extra for sprinklingGrated zest of 1 lemon (use ½ lemon or none at all)2 large eggs 1/4 tsp. salt1 tsp. pure vanilla extract1/2 tsp. pure almond extract1 cup flour (optional: add ¼ c. almond flour, see note below)1 stick (8 Tbl.) unsalted butter, melted and cooledAbout 1/4 cup sliced almonds (blanched or not)
Directions Center a rack in the oven and preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Butter a seasoned 9-inch cast-iron skillet or other heavy ovenproof skillet, a 9-inch cake pan, or even a pie pan. You can use a 9-inch cake or pie pan and put parchment on the bottom. Butter the parchment paper.
Pour the sugar into a medium bowl. Add the zest and blend the zest and sugar together with your fingertips until the sugar is moist and aromatic.
Whisk in the eggs one at a time until well blended. Whisk in the salt and the extracts.
Switch to a rubber spatula and stir in the flour.
Finally, fold in the melted butter. Scrape the batter into the pan and smooth the top with a rubber spatula. Scatter the sliced almonds over the top and sprinkle with a little sugar if using. If you're using a cake or pie pan, place the pan on a baking sheet.
Bake the cake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until it is golden and a little crisp on the outside; the inside will remain moist. Remove the pan from the oven and let the cake cool for 5 minutes, then run a thin knife around the sides and bottom of the cake to loosen it. You can serve the cake warm or cooled, directly from the skillet or turned out onto a serving plate.
If adding ¼ cup ground almond flour, increase baking time to 30-35 minutes.
December 15, 2017
A Panel of READERS
One of the best ideas to come my way popped up at a recent MWC, Midwest Writing Center, programming meeting. MWC wants to put together a panel composed only of READERS who will give writers and authors a chance to learn, first hand, what it is that READERS want. Sounds rather Freudian doesn’t it?
But, psychology aside, it is a solid concept and worth pursuing. Because I’ve been on the receiving end of this equation for three years now. I’ve written before about the benefits of joining LIBRARY book clubs.
My first reason for joining book clubs was to let someone else choose new titles for me. I’d done a round of reading first novels by mystery writers and I was ready to move on, but wasn’t sure how to go about it. So … let someone else pick. LIBRARIANS are a natural. Plus, book clubs sponsored by libraries are, like, FREE for card holders. It was a total win, win situation.
Then I discovered something else. Another freebie. If I went in to a book club meeting, made a few remarks about the monthly book or short story, and then sat back to LISTEN to what the others had to say—I LEARNED something—every time.
Such as:Character was primary to most readers.Keep the plot moving.Write well.Magical realism is a tough sell.So is too much sex. Characters must change and grow.Don’t kill the dog.Not everyone will like the book or story.
These topics are familiar subjects of workshops and conferences, but it’s good to hear about them firsthand from knowledgeable, and prodigious READERS. These are the folks we are after. The ones who might buy the books we write. Who will certainly talk about them to their friends. Who will follow our development as authors.
Like I said, a panel of READERS and LIBRARIANS handling questions from an audience of writers and authors is a great idea.
And just to be clear—don’t kill off that dog.
But, psychology aside, it is a solid concept and worth pursuing. Because I’ve been on the receiving end of this equation for three years now. I’ve written before about the benefits of joining LIBRARY book clubs.
My first reason for joining book clubs was to let someone else choose new titles for me. I’d done a round of reading first novels by mystery writers and I was ready to move on, but wasn’t sure how to go about it. So … let someone else pick. LIBRARIANS are a natural. Plus, book clubs sponsored by libraries are, like, FREE for card holders. It was a total win, win situation.
Then I discovered something else. Another freebie. If I went in to a book club meeting, made a few remarks about the monthly book or short story, and then sat back to LISTEN to what the others had to say—I LEARNED something—every time.
Such as:Character was primary to most readers.Keep the plot moving.Write well.Magical realism is a tough sell.So is too much sex. Characters must change and grow.Don’t kill the dog.Not everyone will like the book or story.
These topics are familiar subjects of workshops and conferences, but it’s good to hear about them firsthand from knowledgeable, and prodigious READERS. These are the folks we are after. The ones who might buy the books we write. Who will certainly talk about them to their friends. Who will follow our development as authors.
Like I said, a panel of READERS and LIBRARIANS handling questions from an audience of writers and authors is a great idea.
And just to be clear—don’t kill off that dog.
December 8, 2017
My Bishop Hill Collection
I’m a SAVER. (It’s not just part of my name.) I’m a saver of the sorts of things that clutter up shelves, fill boxes, and overflow closets. The kind of saver who occasionally has to sort through piles of stuff to find the top of the desk.
I’m not a hoarder. I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve moved too often and too recently to qualify for that title. Every move, you see, demands reorganization and therefore some jettisoning of acquired material possessions. A brutal process to be sure. But the absolute essentials always make it through. The essentials in this case are items of my collection of Bishop Hill memorabilia.
It’s like I always knew I’d need them for give-away contests.
The most recent additions to my collection are going to be used first. I shopped for these last February at the Colony Store. They are the crochet snowflakes handmade by Bishop Hill’s favorite Swede (in my opinion), Ulla Voss. Not to be confused with Ulla Olson, a character from my novel. I needed a U name for a plot point and couldn’t think of a better name to borrow. I bought six of Ulla’s snowflakes and decided to give the first four away in pairs. The others will be partnered with some cute keychains and a fox.
Why a fox?
I’m glad you asked. Years ago, when I still lived in Bishop Hill, I was up in the middle of a winter’s night with a bad cold. When I wasn’t coughing, I heard the most horrendous sound coming closer to my house. I watched out my window as the noisy culprit revealed itself to be a lonely fox walking down the street calling out for company. That was memorable. So was reading The Fox Hunt by Sven Nordqvist. Both experiences influenced me when it came time to write my own version of a Swedish fairy tale that’s in Winter Worlds: Three Stories. So, it’s all good.
After those items are gone, I have more in reserve. As I said before, I do like to save things.
Such as:Illinois road maps from 2008. That would be the year of the action in Clouds Over Bishop Hill. Did I plan that? No. I saved those maps because the governor at the time was in trouble. Y’all remember Rod R. Blagojevich?
Some target silhouettes of a squirrel. Those date from the time a black squirrel decided to live in, and chew on, Bishop Hill’s wooden water tower. I wrote about it for the Galva News. I won an award for the photograph of the resulting monster ice cycle. The paper targets are suitable for framing.
Oldest by far are a few copies of the Bishop Hill Children’s Activity Book created by Sherry Cosentine and Deborah Rickman in 1980. These came from someone else’s cleaning binge. I’ll gladly share.
So, let the contests begin.
I’m not a hoarder. I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve moved too often and too recently to qualify for that title. Every move, you see, demands reorganization and therefore some jettisoning of acquired material possessions. A brutal process to be sure. But the absolute essentials always make it through. The essentials in this case are items of my collection of Bishop Hill memorabilia.
It’s like I always knew I’d need them for give-away contests.
The most recent additions to my collection are going to be used first. I shopped for these last February at the Colony Store. They are the crochet snowflakes handmade by Bishop Hill’s favorite Swede (in my opinion), Ulla Voss. Not to be confused with Ulla Olson, a character from my novel. I needed a U name for a plot point and couldn’t think of a better name to borrow. I bought six of Ulla’s snowflakes and decided to give the first four away in pairs. The others will be partnered with some cute keychains and a fox.
Why a fox?
I’m glad you asked. Years ago, when I still lived in Bishop Hill, I was up in the middle of a winter’s night with a bad cold. When I wasn’t coughing, I heard the most horrendous sound coming closer to my house. I watched out my window as the noisy culprit revealed itself to be a lonely fox walking down the street calling out for company. That was memorable. So was reading The Fox Hunt by Sven Nordqvist. Both experiences influenced me when it came time to write my own version of a Swedish fairy tale that’s in Winter Worlds: Three Stories. So, it’s all good.
After those items are gone, I have more in reserve. As I said before, I do like to save things.
Such as:Illinois road maps from 2008. That would be the year of the action in Clouds Over Bishop Hill. Did I plan that? No. I saved those maps because the governor at the time was in trouble. Y’all remember Rod R. Blagojevich?
Some target silhouettes of a squirrel. Those date from the time a black squirrel decided to live in, and chew on, Bishop Hill’s wooden water tower. I wrote about it for the Galva News. I won an award for the photograph of the resulting monster ice cycle. The paper targets are suitable for framing.
Oldest by far are a few copies of the Bishop Hill Children’s Activity Book created by Sherry Cosentine and Deborah Rickman in 1980. These came from someone else’s cleaning binge. I’ll gladly share.
So, let the contests begin.
December 1, 2017
Holiday Cheer
I’ve sat at a small table in the Colony Blacksmith Shop on two recent occasions: Ag Days, and the first Weekend of Christmas Market. Those Bishop Hill events are also known as Jordsbruksdagarna and Julmarknad. No matter what you called them, or how you spell them, they were a treat to experience this year. Not for old time’s sake, but for the new.
My “new time” involves having that small table loaded with copies of my book and talking to people about it and Bishop Hill. It’s easier to talk about Bishop Hill first. Turns out, I have a lot of experience to share about living there and about working in the Blacksmith Shop. I loved pointing to the massive timbers overhead and describing how difficult it was to pound a nail into them. Modern nails are no match for age-hardened walnut. Fortunately, the Blacksmith Shop has been retrofitted with modern amenities on the inside leaving the outside still as it was in the mid-1800s. Adaptive reuse at its best.
The highlights of last weekend were:
First, talking to the people who were totally new to Bishop Hill. It was their first trip and I got to plug the Olof Krans paintings. That’s a natural, since they are a vital part of the plot for my mystery. I directed the newbies down the street to the world’s largest collection. Hope they got there.
Second, listening to the young woman from Kewanee who made it a point to buy books written by local authors. Love her.
Third, the big guy who walked by and said over his shoulder, “You wrote a good book.” Simple, direct, and now etched into my memory.
I’ll be at the Blacksmith Shop for this Saturday’s round two of Christmas Market. It will be my last time this year.
I’ve always liked St. Lucia Nights, but the drive back to Iowa in the dark is just too daunting for me these days. Deer and headlight glare are obstacles I’d rather not take on. Which is too bad, because the village takes on a lovely glow in the dark. With a touch of snow and no wind it becomes the perfect event. But do dress warm.
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ONE AND ALL!
And HAPPY NEW YEAR!
My “new time” involves having that small table loaded with copies of my book and talking to people about it and Bishop Hill. It’s easier to talk about Bishop Hill first. Turns out, I have a lot of experience to share about living there and about working in the Blacksmith Shop. I loved pointing to the massive timbers overhead and describing how difficult it was to pound a nail into them. Modern nails are no match for age-hardened walnut. Fortunately, the Blacksmith Shop has been retrofitted with modern amenities on the inside leaving the outside still as it was in the mid-1800s. Adaptive reuse at its best.
The highlights of last weekend were:
First, talking to the people who were totally new to Bishop Hill. It was their first trip and I got to plug the Olof Krans paintings. That’s a natural, since they are a vital part of the plot for my mystery. I directed the newbies down the street to the world’s largest collection. Hope they got there.
Second, listening to the young woman from Kewanee who made it a point to buy books written by local authors. Love her.
Third, the big guy who walked by and said over his shoulder, “You wrote a good book.” Simple, direct, and now etched into my memory.
I’ll be at the Blacksmith Shop for this Saturday’s round two of Christmas Market. It will be my last time this year.
I’ve always liked St. Lucia Nights, but the drive back to Iowa in the dark is just too daunting for me these days. Deer and headlight glare are obstacles I’d rather not take on. Which is too bad, because the village takes on a lovely glow in the dark. With a touch of snow and no wind it becomes the perfect event. But do dress warm.
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ONE AND ALL!
And HAPPY NEW YEAR!
November 24, 2017
DPL’s Indie Author Day
This link leads to two recordings made on the INDIE AUTHOR DAY sponsored by the Davenport Public Library and held last Oct. 14 at the main library downtown Davenport.
The first is BUILDING YOUR BRAND presented by poet and novelist Jodie Toohey of Wordsy Woman Author Services. Toohey gives a practical look and concrete goals for the necessary steps all writers and authors must face as they promote their work and gain visibility in a crowded market place.
The panel on THE EDITING PROCESS gave all the panelists a chance to talk about their experiences with the many kinds of editing available, and to offer pertinent insights and suggestions on how to make the process work for the writer at any stage of their career. 30 minutes.
http://indieauthorday.davenportlibrary.com
The first is BUILDING YOUR BRAND presented by poet and novelist Jodie Toohey of Wordsy Woman Author Services. Toohey gives a practical look and concrete goals for the necessary steps all writers and authors must face as they promote their work and gain visibility in a crowded market place.
The panel on THE EDITING PROCESS gave all the panelists a chance to talk about their experiences with the many kinds of editing available, and to offer pertinent insights and suggestions on how to make the process work for the writer at any stage of their career. 30 minutes.
http://indieauthorday.davenportlibrary.com
November 22, 2017
Maps
I was stuck. And being stuck in the middle of NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, slows down the race for the 50,000 word count—not a good thing.
I was stuck because I couldn’t nail down what exactly happened at my crime scene. That was important info to have. Writing a mystery involves essentially coming up with TWO stories: the one that happened and the one that appears to have happened. Or so I was told early on.
For my first novel, Clouds Over Bishop Hill, I was the classical PANTSER. I constructed my plot, found my story, and developed my characters as I wrote. I wanted to do it differently for the second time around. It became very important for me to figure out who was who, who was where, how they got there, and where did they park those cars.
To that end, I spent an afternoon digging through my stash of Bishop Hill maps. I’d started a collection many years ago just for a day of need like this.
I found what I wanted and taped four sheets of paper together to give me a nicely laid out Bishop Hill of a size that would be useful. I raided a Bananagrams game for letter tiles, and voila, I had a way to move characters around to test out likely meet ups and such.
So, I say, when imagination and mental agility fails--do go back to the basic visuals.
Note: the map in the upper left shows how Bishop Hill was originally laid out. There are sections of village streets that are now grass covered and still passable. A lot of streets never made it past the mapping stage.
I was stuck because I couldn’t nail down what exactly happened at my crime scene. That was important info to have. Writing a mystery involves essentially coming up with TWO stories: the one that happened and the one that appears to have happened. Or so I was told early on.
For my first novel, Clouds Over Bishop Hill, I was the classical PANTSER. I constructed my plot, found my story, and developed my characters as I wrote. I wanted to do it differently for the second time around. It became very important for me to figure out who was who, who was where, how they got there, and where did they park those cars.
To that end, I spent an afternoon digging through my stash of Bishop Hill maps. I’d started a collection many years ago just for a day of need like this.
I found what I wanted and taped four sheets of paper together to give me a nicely laid out Bishop Hill of a size that would be useful. I raided a Bananagrams game for letter tiles, and voila, I had a way to move characters around to test out likely meet ups and such.
So, I say, when imagination and mental agility fails--do go back to the basic visuals.
Note: the map in the upper left shows how Bishop Hill was originally laid out. There are sections of village streets that are now grass covered and still passable. A lot of streets never made it past the mapping stage.
November 11, 2017
I Must Share This List
What’s not to like about a list? Lists are so popular. They’re everywhere and about everything. I came across this one on Facebook. Loved it. Well, liked it enough to save, respond, and share.
Ten novels agents have seen so many times before it makes them nauseous.
Fun to peruse—UNTIL—I found a couple that actually affect me and the NaNoWriMo novel I’m working on RIGHT NOW!
The LIST:
1. The Axe to Grind Novel: Okay, I like my villains. They came first. Such strong personalities. But I didn’t mean to grind axes. You gotta believe me.
2. I Didn’t Ask for This! Okay, my protagonist is a little reluctant. But come on, she’s only twenty-two. She’s not a fully-formed adult yet. Cut me some slack.
3. Strange But True: I did this with a photo and a short story. Will it be okay if I promise to be extra careful in the future?
4. You Can Trust Me: No you can’t. I only know three things, for sure, at any one time. Those three things can change. I know it, and now you do too.
5. Anything Zombies: I don’t do Zombies. I reserve the right to write about aliens and fairy folktales.
6. Greatest Hits: Not likely.
7. Picture Books for Adults: Not even remotely possible.
8. Eat, Pray, Whatever: So not going to happen. I’m keeping this stuff to myself. You’re on your own.
9. “Historical” YA: Also not likely. There are severe language issues here. Kids today talk in code. However, I reserve the right to mine my own history.
10. Professor Wonderful, i.e. Wonder Boys??? I have no clue what this is all about. The world is safe on this one.
Here’s where to find the real list:
https://electricliterature.com/10-nov...
Ten novels agents have seen so many times before it makes them nauseous.
Fun to peruse—UNTIL—I found a couple that actually affect me and the NaNoWriMo novel I’m working on RIGHT NOW!
The LIST:
1. The Axe to Grind Novel: Okay, I like my villains. They came first. Such strong personalities. But I didn’t mean to grind axes. You gotta believe me.
2. I Didn’t Ask for This! Okay, my protagonist is a little reluctant. But come on, she’s only twenty-two. She’s not a fully-formed adult yet. Cut me some slack.
3. Strange But True: I did this with a photo and a short story. Will it be okay if I promise to be extra careful in the future?
4. You Can Trust Me: No you can’t. I only know three things, for sure, at any one time. Those three things can change. I know it, and now you do too.
5. Anything Zombies: I don’t do Zombies. I reserve the right to write about aliens and fairy folktales.
6. Greatest Hits: Not likely.
7. Picture Books for Adults: Not even remotely possible.
8. Eat, Pray, Whatever: So not going to happen. I’m keeping this stuff to myself. You’re on your own.
9. “Historical” YA: Also not likely. There are severe language issues here. Kids today talk in code. However, I reserve the right to mine my own history.
10. Professor Wonderful, i.e. Wonder Boys??? I have no clue what this is all about. The world is safe on this one.
Here’s where to find the real list:
https://electricliterature.com/10-nov...
November 3, 2017
History: Part One
It’s NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, and I’m off and typing away.
Is it a completely new novel? No, not quite in the strictest sense. I’m bending the rules by working with last year’s NaNoWriMo’s product: a completely awful first draft that made a huge detour into Galva territory. My advantage, I hope, with this year’s effort is a five-page synopsis that’s the closest thing to an outline that I could come up with. It keeps me in Bishop Hill, and therefore writing a “Bishop Hill Mystery”.
There are two fun elements that I’ve wanted to work into the plot: money, and a wedding.
I’ll follow the money first.
Bishop Hill colonists acquired their own money, actual printed currency. (Not uncommon in a time without a strong, centralized banking system. Anyone with a little capital could print their own money.) The pages of bank notes bought from Western Exchange Fire & Marine Insurance Co., Omaha City, were dated Nov. 2, 1857. It’s lovely stuff. The intricately engraved images of Native Americans watching trains cross the prairie and hunting buffalo might not be accurate, but it’s true to the times in which it was created.
I knew that buying this currency for the colony had turned out to be a bad investment. There was a panic and they’d lost their shirts, so to speak. My research found the reason for the panic, or economic downturn, was an offshoot of the Crimean War. Ukrainians increased their exports of wheat. This wheat flooded the US market. The problem for midwestern farmers was their timing. They’d wanted to up their own production of wheat and had increased their investment exposure with bank loans. Prices for spring wheat fell and the loans couldn’t be paid back. Land prices dropped too.
The end result for the Bishop Hill colony was to take one step closer to eventual dissolution. However, they had a nice supply of useless, but lovely, money-like printed paper. The term for modern-day collectors is obsolete currency, and, 160 years later, that old “money” is finally worth something.
The wedding will have to wait for next week.
Is it a completely new novel? No, not quite in the strictest sense. I’m bending the rules by working with last year’s NaNoWriMo’s product: a completely awful first draft that made a huge detour into Galva territory. My advantage, I hope, with this year’s effort is a five-page synopsis that’s the closest thing to an outline that I could come up with. It keeps me in Bishop Hill, and therefore writing a “Bishop Hill Mystery”.
There are two fun elements that I’ve wanted to work into the plot: money, and a wedding.
I’ll follow the money first.
Bishop Hill colonists acquired their own money, actual printed currency. (Not uncommon in a time without a strong, centralized banking system. Anyone with a little capital could print their own money.) The pages of bank notes bought from Western Exchange Fire & Marine Insurance Co., Omaha City, were dated Nov. 2, 1857. It’s lovely stuff. The intricately engraved images of Native Americans watching trains cross the prairie and hunting buffalo might not be accurate, but it’s true to the times in which it was created.
I knew that buying this currency for the colony had turned out to be a bad investment. There was a panic and they’d lost their shirts, so to speak. My research found the reason for the panic, or economic downturn, was an offshoot of the Crimean War. Ukrainians increased their exports of wheat. This wheat flooded the US market. The problem for midwestern farmers was their timing. They’d wanted to up their own production of wheat and had increased their investment exposure with bank loans. Prices for spring wheat fell and the loans couldn’t be paid back. Land prices dropped too.
The end result for the Bishop Hill colony was to take one step closer to eventual dissolution. However, they had a nice supply of useless, but lovely, money-like printed paper. The term for modern-day collectors is obsolete currency, and, 160 years later, that old “money” is finally worth something.
The wedding will have to wait for next week.
October 27, 2017
A Halloween Treat
When I interviewed a neighbor, a retired firefighter, to gain some insight on arson fires for a novel, we spent a lot of time on Davenport’s St. Elizabeth’s fire. It wasn’t arson, just a bad one. Local newspapers had reported on it a couple of times since I moved to the area. When I needed a ghost story for a local contest I mixed that story with my SEE YA Book Club experiences—this is the result.
The Last WatchBy Mary Davidsaver
It was the best Halloween party ever. Totally awesome. So what if I got home after curfew? Way after midnight. It was worth it. Even with my dad going all parenty about it. Going on and on about responsibility and the honor system. I would do it again if I had the chance—and he knew it.
I braced myself for the grounding. The extra chores. The “no computer time.” He threw a curve instead. He told me to pull on some sweats and get my warmest coat on. We are going out.
“What? It’s, like, 2 a.m. I have school tomorrow. What about that responsibility thing you were just talking about?”
“This is important. I’ll write you a note.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared me down. Sleeping in on a school morning that was sure to be a sugar-charged disaster had its appeal. I wouldn’t have any trouble catching up on homework tonight. I got ready to go out and met him in the car.
We drove through Davenport’s streets, past homes that were still lighted by Halloween decorations. I watched them go by without paying attention to where we were going, until we turned onto Marquette St. I guessed our destination would be the park and went back to staring at the passing scenery and sharing my dad’s stiff silence.
Instead of going into the park, we turned into the parking lot of Genesis Medical Center and parked in a remote corner.
I got out and followed along a couple of steps behind him hoping this would go fast. We’d meet up with whatever old loony pal he had up his sleeve, get my lecture, and then slide on back home. My warm bed was calling.
He stopped across the way from a small white building and checked his watch. “Not long now. He’ll show up at 2:40. Five minutes.”
“Ok, I’ll bite. Who are we waiting for?”
“Your great-grand father.”
I flashed on the old photo of me as a baby being held on his lap. I’m sure I was placed there for the photo op and then removed before I could do any damage to his suit. He looked ancient then.
I had to say the obvious, “He’s, ah, like, dead, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And he’s going to show up here. Next to the hospital parking lot.”
“He does it all the time.” As Dad looked at me the creases in his face seemed to soften. “We’ve all been here. It’s a tradition. And now it’s your turn.”
“But why …?” My question trailed off as the ghostly form materialized a short distance away.
“Because your great-grandfather was a firefighter and this here was his worst fire. It haunted him throughout his life.”
I looked around at the neatly mown grass. “There’s nothing here,” I said.
He swept his hand out in a wide arc. “It’s all here. Graves over there. Sixteen of them. St. Elizabeth’s was back over there. It burned to the ground on the morning of Jan. 7, 1950. Forty-one dead. Forty female mental patients and one nun, a nurse, Anna Neal.”
The apparition drew closer and became more solid looking. My father politely addressed it. “Granddad. This is my youngest.”
I could make out the old-fashioned firemen’s uniform. The cap set at the proper angle on his head. He was all spit and polish as he studied me. Then a crooked smile of approval crept over his face.
My nerves were getting to me at this point. “Is he going to say something, you know, profound?”
“No, none of them speak.”
“Them?” I stammered. “There are more … like him?”
“Yes, firemen, second responders, nuns. They all come.”
When a nun showed up next to my great-grandfather, I was still at a loss to believe what I was seeing.
“Is that the nun who died in the fire?”
“No. She helped to identify the …” Dad couldn’t finish the sentence. I knew his meaning.
“She didn’t die in the fire. And great-granddad didn’t either.”
“None of them did.” More men and women appeared around us and shook their heads.
“Then why are they here? Where are the ghosts of the women who died in the fire?”
“They are safe now.” Dad said.
“I don’t understand.”
“These spirits watch over those women who died in the fire so they can rest easier. So they don’t have to come back into this world and re-experience the tragedy. Granddad was always a firefighter first, and he chose to stay with them, the victims—to serve and protect—forever.” Dad paused. “Now you know why there are so many firefighters in the family.” Dad rested a hand on my shoulder. “Not everyone is up to the job. It’s your turn to decide.”
Great-granddad led all the ghostly others: the firemen, the second responders, and the nuns back towards the graves. They held their heads high as they slowly faded into the night, to go on with their vigil.
Dad and I left. Dawn would come soon and there was school tomorrow. I think Dad was saying something about my getting some sleep. I knew I wouldn’t. I had too much to think about. I buried my hands in my pockets to warm them up. This was awesome. So totally worth it.
The Last WatchBy Mary Davidsaver
It was the best Halloween party ever. Totally awesome. So what if I got home after curfew? Way after midnight. It was worth it. Even with my dad going all parenty about it. Going on and on about responsibility and the honor system. I would do it again if I had the chance—and he knew it.
I braced myself for the grounding. The extra chores. The “no computer time.” He threw a curve instead. He told me to pull on some sweats and get my warmest coat on. We are going out.
“What? It’s, like, 2 a.m. I have school tomorrow. What about that responsibility thing you were just talking about?”
“This is important. I’ll write you a note.” He crossed his arms over his chest and stared me down. Sleeping in on a school morning that was sure to be a sugar-charged disaster had its appeal. I wouldn’t have any trouble catching up on homework tonight. I got ready to go out and met him in the car.
We drove through Davenport’s streets, past homes that were still lighted by Halloween decorations. I watched them go by without paying attention to where we were going, until we turned onto Marquette St. I guessed our destination would be the park and went back to staring at the passing scenery and sharing my dad’s stiff silence.
Instead of going into the park, we turned into the parking lot of Genesis Medical Center and parked in a remote corner.
I got out and followed along a couple of steps behind him hoping this would go fast. We’d meet up with whatever old loony pal he had up his sleeve, get my lecture, and then slide on back home. My warm bed was calling.
He stopped across the way from a small white building and checked his watch. “Not long now. He’ll show up at 2:40. Five minutes.”
“Ok, I’ll bite. Who are we waiting for?”
“Your great-grand father.”
I flashed on the old photo of me as a baby being held on his lap. I’m sure I was placed there for the photo op and then removed before I could do any damage to his suit. He looked ancient then.
I had to say the obvious, “He’s, ah, like, dead, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And he’s going to show up here. Next to the hospital parking lot.”
“He does it all the time.” As Dad looked at me the creases in his face seemed to soften. “We’ve all been here. It’s a tradition. And now it’s your turn.”
“But why …?” My question trailed off as the ghostly form materialized a short distance away.
“Because your great-grandfather was a firefighter and this here was his worst fire. It haunted him throughout his life.”
I looked around at the neatly mown grass. “There’s nothing here,” I said.
He swept his hand out in a wide arc. “It’s all here. Graves over there. Sixteen of them. St. Elizabeth’s was back over there. It burned to the ground on the morning of Jan. 7, 1950. Forty-one dead. Forty female mental patients and one nun, a nurse, Anna Neal.”
The apparition drew closer and became more solid looking. My father politely addressed it. “Granddad. This is my youngest.”
I could make out the old-fashioned firemen’s uniform. The cap set at the proper angle on his head. He was all spit and polish as he studied me. Then a crooked smile of approval crept over his face.
My nerves were getting to me at this point. “Is he going to say something, you know, profound?”
“No, none of them speak.”
“Them?” I stammered. “There are more … like him?”
“Yes, firemen, second responders, nuns. They all come.”
When a nun showed up next to my great-grandfather, I was still at a loss to believe what I was seeing.
“Is that the nun who died in the fire?”
“No. She helped to identify the …” Dad couldn’t finish the sentence. I knew his meaning.
“She didn’t die in the fire. And great-granddad didn’t either.”
“None of them did.” More men and women appeared around us and shook their heads.
“Then why are they here? Where are the ghosts of the women who died in the fire?”
“They are safe now.” Dad said.
“I don’t understand.”
“These spirits watch over those women who died in the fire so they can rest easier. So they don’t have to come back into this world and re-experience the tragedy. Granddad was always a firefighter first, and he chose to stay with them, the victims—to serve and protect—forever.” Dad paused. “Now you know why there are so many firefighters in the family.” Dad rested a hand on my shoulder. “Not everyone is up to the job. It’s your turn to decide.”
Great-granddad led all the ghostly others: the firemen, the second responders, and the nuns back towards the graves. They held their heads high as they slowly faded into the night, to go on with their vigil.
Dad and I left. Dawn would come soon and there was school tomorrow. I think Dad was saying something about my getting some sleep. I knew I wouldn’t. I had too much to think about. I buried my hands in my pockets to warm them up. This was awesome. So totally worth it.
