Memories

Words, Words, Words

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I love words. I’m sure every writer does. I am a word freak, a  language maven, a…a vocabularist, if you will. Okay, so maybe vocabularist isn’t actually a real word, but it should be because it describes me to a T. I am fascinated with language and how we use it, especially regional or quirky terms.

As a writer and an editor, I have a passion for learning new words and using them. I got it from my mom, who also loved language and insisted we choose our words well. She spent serious time increasing our vocabularies with word games like Scrabble, Boggle, and Probe and crossword puzzles. To this day, family gatherings always include word games. I adore discovering new words and finding ways to use them in my writing.

One of the things I am learning as I make the switch from small-town romance that happens in the Midwest to Montana cowboy romance is how language is different from one area of our country to another.

I’ve lived in the Midwest my whole life and there are things that we say that have unquestionably shown up in my River’s Edge books. “You betcha,” comes to mind. So does, “For cryin’ out loud” and “Slow as molasses in January” and talking about corn being “knee high by the Fourth of July.” (It’s always way higher by then, btw.) I remember my grandpa saying something moved “like a bat out of hell,” which always conjured the picture of a flock of bats darkening the sky and sometimes gave me nightmares. When Mom tucked us in at night, we were “snug as a bug in a rug,” and I recall my grandmother saying, “If I had my druthers” when she wanted us to know what she wanted to happen in any given circumstance.

But, the lingo out West comes from a different history and has lingered in the vernacular in Montana, Texas, Wyoming, and other ranch and cowboy states just like words have stayed in the Midwest. “Skedaddle” and “Ornery” and “Hold your horses” are all words/phrases that come from life on the cattle trail or ranch life. “Howdy” instead of “Hello” and someone who looks like a cowboy, but has no experience is “all hat and no cattle” are terms you don’t hear much in the Midwest.

Some of the terms around horses I already knew because we had horses for sixteen years, and I think barn slang is pretty universal in the US. “Barn sour” is when a horse is too eager to return home and a term I learned when I was first riding. But calling horses “critters” isn’t part of the cowboy vernacular according to my editor, when she queried the use in my first book, Forever Cowboy. (See what I did there? A link to the book is what I call ninja promo—my own term.) “Hightailin’ it” and “Tinhorn” are terms that might show up in Western romance. My hero in Forever Cowboy was originally from Boston, so he got a little pass when it came to cowboy speak.

Another difference between my Montana cowboys and my Indiana winemakers, government analysts, firefighters, and attorneys is how much they talk. One of my critique partners has always told me that my heroes talk too much. Maybe they do, but I live with and raised men who ruminate and discuss and share their feelings, so my heroes probably do talk too much–just like the men in my real life. Not so much my cowboys, though. They keep it short and simple with Yup and Nope and dropping the g from the end of their verbs. They’re goin’ and ridin’ and fixin’ and of course always lovin’.

You can show exactly who a character is simply with the words they use… so authors choose their characters’ words carefully as they build their arcs and tell their stories. Remaining as true as possible to where your character hails from helps readers stay in the story.

Where do you come from? Are there words or phrases that are especially peculiar to your neck of the woods. Share with me, won’t you? There are a couple of e-book copies of my newest cowboy romance, Help Wanted, Cowboy (ninja!) up for grabs for two lucky commenters.

Stay well and Keep Readin’!

The Power of Letters

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There is something so deeply and profoundly personal about a handwritten letter.

Long before text messages, emails, and quick comments on social media, people poured their hearts onto paper. They wrote of ordinary days and extraordinary hopes. They shared news, whispered dreams, confessed fears, and carried love across miles, months, and sometimes even years.

A letter could be a promise, or a confession, a lifeline, or part of a legacy.

The power of letters has been on my mind as I’ve worked on the Petticoats & Patriots series, especially with For Liberty and Love and Declaration of Love. Though the stories are set 250 years apart, they are connected by more than history. They are tied together by courage, devotion, sacrifice, and letters.

In For Liberty and Love, Lucy Carlson lives in Philadelphia during the summer of 1776, a time when every spoken word could carry danger and every written message might change a life. Secrets mattered. Loyalty mattered. Love mattered. For Lucy and Branch, words were not casual things. They held meaning, risk, longing, and hope.

I imagined what Lucy might write to Branch. What she would say to the man who had changed her life in the middle of such uncertain times? Or what Branch might write to Lucy. How he would put into words the ache of missing her, and the fragile hope of a future neither of them could yet see?

There is something that feels almost magical about a written letter, especially when we write from the heart, preserving what we might not say aloud.

Letters give our feelings a place to rest, and allow love to linger long after the last word is read.

That same emotional thread carries into Declaration of Love, the final book in the series. This time, the story unfolds in Holiday, Oregon, as America prepares to celebrate her 250th birthday. Kate Barton (a descendant of Lucy and Branch) arrives in town for what she believes will be a temporary stop for the summer.

As part of the celebration surrounding Declaration of Love, I’ve been creating a series of postcards from Holiday. Each one offers a little glimpse of the town, the story, and the heart of Kate’s journey.

Postcards are such small things. Just a picture on one side and a few lines on the other. But they can carry so much.

Postcards remind us that even the briefest message can create connection, like a simple note of “I’m thinking of you.” A few handwritten lines can bridge distance, spark memory, and let someone know they matter.

From Lucy’s letter in 1776 to Kate’s postcards in 2026, the heart of these stories is the same: love leaves traces, whether they are found in silver lockets or faded ink.

 

One of the things I love most about the Petticoats & Patriots series are the traces of love left behind with each story. The locket passes from one heroine to the next, but it carries more than metal and history. It carries memory, choices, and the courage of women who loved deeply, stood bravely, and left pieces of their hearts for the next generation to discover.

Letters do that, too.

They become little time capsules of emotion. They tell us who we were, what we cherished, what we feared, and who mattered most. They remind us that ordinary lives are filled with extraordinary moments of dreams, hope, and love.

I think that is why old letters are so precious.

In a world that moves so quickly, handwritten words feel especially meaningful because they ask us to slow down. To think. To choose each word with care. To leave behind something tangible, something that can become part of a legacy.

As America celebrates 250 years, I find myself thinking about all the letters that must have been written across those many generations. Letters from soldiers and sweethearts, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, friends and neighbors. Letters filled with longing, courage, worry, faith, humor, hope, and love.

Those words helped carry people through uncertain days. In many ways, the letters that remain still do.

So perhaps today is a good day to write a note. Send a card. Tuck a letter into the mail that offers encouragement.

Because love written down has a way of lasting.

And sometimes, the smallest message becomes the sweetest legacy.

Do you have a handwritten letter, card, or postcard you’ve saved because it meant something special to you?

Share your comment for a chance to win a copy of Lucy’s letter to Branch, a handwritten note from me, and some other fun swag!

 

A Gateway to Summer – Recollections of the Screen Door

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“If the old screen door could talk today, what do you think that door would say? All the laughter, the loving children at play. All the squeaks, slams, and knocks, the old screen door can’t say.”

After a rainy and cool Memorial Day weekend, summer has come to our little part of North Carolina. With brilliant Carolina blue skies and expected temperatures in the 90-degree range, the hum of air-conditioners in our cul-de-sac sing their tune in harmony with the crickets and katydids.

Yet there’s another summer song I recall from my growing-up years…the slam of the screen door. Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s (yes, I’m that old!) no one in our family or circle of friends had air-conditioning in our homes or cars. But every house had a screen door that turned the inside into the outside, invited the fresh air in while keeping out the mosquitoes and flies. That half-barrier told my young cousins the door is shut, and we stay inside. But it also said to our neighbors we’re home, “come on in.” The screen door rendered life airy and bearable through the long, buggy evenings of summer.

History

People had been working on wire window screening for a long. Past civilizations used fabric screens that kept out the bugs fairly well. However, they restricted air circulation and dimmed the light. Early European settlers to Boston worried about “the three great annoyances of Woolves, Rattle-snakes and Musketoes.” The first two critters could be kept out by physical barriers, the last demanded something better. Settlers discovered that cheesecloth allowed air to circulate, but it was delicate and easily torn.

During the Civil War, a Connecticut sieve company, Gilbert & Bennett worried about what to do with the screening for sieves that built up in warehouses when the company lost access to Southern markets during the war. An employee of the company came up with a new idea…coat the wire cloth with paint to prevent rust and sold it for window screens. The idea became so popular the company made wire cloth a major part of its business, and it became a major manufacturer of screens for doors and windows.

Components of a Screen Door

Comprising little more than wire mesh, a wooden frame, and a handful of hardware, a screen door creates a barrier and an invitation, and an unmistakable sound that says summer. Here are a few examples from the Sears Roebuck & Company Catalogue (1895)

   

My maternal grandparents lived on a dead-end street in Rensselaer, NY, just over the Hudson River from Albany. I spent countless summer days there, picking blackberries, trailing after my grandfather in his garden, and watching him and my grandmother play pinochle at their kitchen table in the evenings. Their screen door led straight to their kitchen. It was painted a deep forest green with rusty hardware and a black screen. That door kept out the green pollen, Catalpa pods, maple helicopters, and dandelion fluff in the spring.

While the other doors were burdened with locks and deadbolts, the screen door had only a simple catch. And if Grandpa had to lock it–what a foolish notion since any one of us could poke a hole through the screening with a finger–he would use a hook and eye. Which someone, who shall remain nameless, pulled at the door and accidentally ripped the eye right out of the wooden jamb!

But that was the screen door’s purpose…to open easily, letting in people, the wind, the sounds, and scents of summer. Even now, whenever I hear a door squeak on its hinges or hear the slap of the screen door as we go in and out, I’m transported back to that carefree time. 

We have our own screen door, except that it’s white vinyl, not wood. For us, it’s a piece of nostalgia, yet, taut and true with its modern mechanisms. It’s a boundary between inside and outside. Between present and past. Between open and closed.

If you have a memory of a screen door, I’d love for you to share with us.

 

To stay up to date on our latest releases and have some fun, too, join our Facebook Reader Group HERE!

 

Unexpected Joys

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I’ve admitted before I’m weird, but here is further proof: I awaken almost every morning with a song playing in my head. It might be a hymn. A song I was thinking about the previous day. One tied to my book in progress. On random occasions, the song will be a blast from my past. A song I haven’t heard or thought of in ages.

One Thursday morning, I woke up to find myself humming “I Can See Clearly Now,” by Johnny Nash. In case you aren’t familiar with it, it’s a great song that released in 1972.

I got ready for the day, still humming that song, turned on my computer, and began reading through my emails to discover one of our Pink Pistol Sisterhood authors had to drop out of the project. I was so sad by that news. She’d planned to write a book set in the 1970s.

Huh.

Was that a bit of a coincidence the song I woke up to that very morning happened to be one from 1972? One I hadn’t thought of in years and years.

I don’t think it was. I think it was one of those Godwink moments that just gives me goosebumps every time I think about it.

Within minutes or reading the email, I could hear a little voice whispering in my ear to offer to write a story during that era.

That voice was nuts!

I already had far too much on my plate. I’m way behind in my writing schedule. I couldn’t possibly consider writing this book. If I did, I’d have to jump into it with both feet and whip it out ASAP.

I couldn’t do it.

Or could I?

That little voice was very persistent throughout the day. It kept whispering “write the book,” and I kept trying to bat it away. Then I talked to Captain Cavedweller about it. I prayed about it. When I turned in for the night, I knew what I wanted to do. The next day I started writing Lucky Shot.

The story is set in the Boise, Idaho, area (the small town of Star is where our hero lives), and takes place during the summer of 1972.

Although I was a baby then, it was an amazing stroll down memory lane for me as I looked at the fashions from that era (thanks to an online Sears catalog I found from the spring of 1972), listened to music from 1972, dug out my grandma’s old 1960s vintage Betty Crocker cookbook and got down to the business of writing this story.

Writing Lucky Shot really did come at a perfect time for me, not because I had time to write it, but because I was working on it as I approached the three-year anniversary of my mom’s passing and immersing myself in all these things that reminded me of my early childhood made Mom feel so near. I almost cried the day I found a dress I remember her wearing often in that Sear’s catalog. It was just such a sweet thing for me to have that connection to her in a time that is before my memories.

So, although this book was unexpected and written on a fast timeline, it was definitely a joy and a blessing to me to have the opportunity to write it.

I hope you’ll enjoy reading it, dear reader!

 

What’s a girl to do when her aim is true?

As a registered nurse at the Boise VA Hospital, Grace Marshall is devoted to her patients, but some wounds require more than medical care. A patient too stubborn and angry to accept the help he needs storms out of her exam room, ruffling her feathers. Yet, when the man returns to apologize, something about him tugs at her heart.

Levi Gibson left for war young and idealistic but returned from Vietnam with physical scars and a haunted soul. He tries to banish the darkness brewing inside him with hard work on his family’s potato farm, but it’s a young nurse’s kindness that brings unexpected light and joy into his life. If Levi can open up to Grace and let her see his pain, could she be the key that unlocks a future full of hope instead of mere survival?

After her father sends Grace a legendary pistol, target practice provides an excuse to spend time with Levi during the summer of 1972. As his shadows overwhelm him, it will take far more than a lucky shot for Grace to hit love’s mark.

What about you?

Has anything unexpected every popped into your life and brought you joy or blessings?

 

 

Keeping the Lights On

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I love decorating for the holidays both outside and inside. Pulling out the decorations every year always fills me with joy. Every item has a story attached to it. My music box snowman reminds me of my boys. I still remember finding it at a small local shop right after Christmas. The three little snowmen immediately reminded me of building a snowman (the few times there was enough snow in Dallas) with my three boys and my hubby. I don’t recall the price, but I remember the piece was expensive enough on sale I thought long and hard before buying it. I wandered around the shop and kept circling around to look at the music box before I finally picked it up.

Other pieces remind me of the person who gave me the item. The snowman and penguin spelling snow was a gift from my Aunt Wanda and Uncle Erlin. The geese came from my Aunt Mugs and Uncle Wayne. The crystal angel, the large size not the small, came from my BFF Lori. (She pointed out I got the larger one as did her mother and sister, while other friends got the smaller angel. ?) When I put out these gifts, I smile, think of these incredible people, and say a prayer of thanks for the difference they’ve made in my life.

Snow blocks

 

 


I put lights everywhere starting with my mantle and the behind the sofa table. The Christmas tree in the entry way adds a sparkle there. In the family room, I have candles, the penguin (that I bought because my youngest loves penguins), and another snowman with lights. My favorite thing to do during the holiday season is light the candles, turn on the other lights, turn off the overhead ones, and watch a Christmas movie.

The downside of having all the decorations and the lights is taking them down. Not that I don’t like and have connections to the items I have out the rest of the year, I do, but somehow removing the holiday décor makes me a little sad to return to the everyday. I guess that’s it. Taking down those decorations mean we go back to our everyday lives filled with work, responsibilities, and day-to-day activities. Too often it feels like the joy and wonder of the season gets packed up in the boxes along with the decorations and we go through the  post-holiday blues. Add winter to that with its shorter, colder days (however as I’m writing this it’s 68 degrees here in Dallas) and it’s a double whammy. But this year, I’ve realized it doesn’t have to be that way, and I’ve decided to make a change.

I’ll take down the Christmas trees and some of the decorations. But this year, I’m leaving up the lights/garland on my mantle and sofa table. I don’t know yet if whether I’ll replace the holiday with my non-holiday items or leave the snowmen out, but put away Santa and the stockings. I’ll see what speaks to me when I get started. The snowman and penguin lights could stay for a while since they’re wintery too. Hmmm, maybe I’ll switch from Christmas decorations to a winter theme at least until the end of February. I kind of like that idea. Hopefully it will help me hold onto the joy and light of the holidays longer. I want to embrace the hope that Jesus’s birth gives us, how His light that can shine through us, and can cut through any darkness.

Happy New Year and may your 2023 be blessed and full of memory making moments!

Giveaway:  To be entered in today’s random giveaway for wrist wallet and a signed copy of A Cure for the Vet, leave a comment on how you fight the post holiday blues.

Rachel Fordham Finds Treasures of the Past

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While researching a book, I came across several accounts of hidden money sewn into clothing, hat brims, or fake compartments in luggage. I didn’t end up using everything I’d discovered in my novel, but it did send my mind racing and ideas spinning. We are so used to electronic funds, checks, and secured shipping that we don’t often worry about traveling with the family’s heirloom jewels or your life savings, but times used to be different.

During the prime stagecoach and railroad days people often traveled with money or valuables. Robbers knew this, which is why we have so many accounts of stagecoach robberies and trains stopped by bandits and looted. Some passengers took to hiding money in their clothing, sewing it into the hem of their pants or skirt, or stitching it into lining of a jacket.

There have been other times in history when hiding money and valuables became the norm. During and after the Great Depression there was a general mistrust of the banking system. Our grandparents and great-grandparents (depending on your age) may have been some of those that weren’t quite ready to trust their hard-earned savings to an institution.

Rather than sew their money into their clothing (though, some of them might have), they could have buried it in the backyard, under floorboards, behind the mantle, in the piano, and even in the outhouse (gross).

There are fantastic stories of people buying old homes and finding “treasure” hidden in the floorboards or in the rafters of the attic. I can’t help but wonder how many homes have been torn down with their treasure never found, or items of clothing discarded that held a secret. The author in me wonders the circumstances that led to someone hiding away their money—were they saving so they could reach for a dream? Preparing for a rainy day? Hoping to give their children a better life?

When my husband and I moved to Buffalo, New York so he could attend dental school there, we bought a small, OLD home. I asked the neighbors about it and learned as much history as I could about the charming little place. It had once housed a large family. (Where they all slept, I will never know.) I tried to visualize them and often thought about those that had lived inside the walls of my beloved first house. At one point we decided to add more insulation. (Those Buffalo winters are brutal!) While working we discovered a small box tucked way back in the eaves.

I was not an author at the time, but I still had a vivid imagination and can still remember my heart beating a little faster when I reached for the box. It didn’t contain any gold, no rare coins, or fine jewels. But it did contain handmade Christmas ornaments from decades ago. As a lover of history and stories, I found my discovery fascinating. Holding those ornaments in my hand made it easier to picture the big loving family that I had only heard a few scattered details about. I confess, I still think it would be fun to prowl through an abandoned house and discover treasure, a journal, or any other fascinating piece of history. Wouldn’t it be so fun to sneak around a ghost town…sigh, someday!

Whether hidden to avoid bandits, or fear of a depression, or simply an accident, the pieces of the past we discover tell us a little about those that came before. I wonder what the next person to live in my beloved Buffalo house learned about me. We were students and had no money to hide, but there is a bird house my son made with his grandpa and nailed to the back fence, scratches in the floor from a baby walker, and probably a few missing socks behind the washing machine. (It’s been a decade, so maybe those are gone by now.)

And now after writing this and thinking about hidden treasure and stories, I am convinced that all writing retreats should take place in very old houses or near other prime locations for treasure hunting. Maybe we would all find a story worth telling!

 

Rachel Fordham is giving away a copy of her latest novel Where the Road Bends. To be entered in the random drawing, leave a comment for Rachel telling her if you’ve ever stumbled across a treasure or family heirloom.

Other Obsessions: Fishing!

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I don’t know why I love it. I grew up in the suburbs. My mother’s idea of camping was a 4-star hotel, and my dad bought a weber to grill, and used it ONCE in my lifetime.

But there was a creek across the street from us, and I’d buy hooks at the dime store. And one memorable day, I even caught a catfish on a safety pin and a hot dog.

It wasn’t until I was grown and on my own that I fished again.

My husband and I belonged to a motorcycle club, and there was a weekend at the Kern river near Bakersfield, California, every year. We stayed at a hotel on the river. My girlfriend Pam and I were sitting on the patio with the water rushing under us, when she asked me if I liked to fish. We went across the street to a gas station and rented fishing poles, and she even caught a 5 inch trout. Then she asked me what I thought about fly fishing.

Our husbands bought us fly rods, reels, and fly fishing lessons for Christmas, and that was the beginning of my addiction.

One of the trips we made every year was to Kennedy Meadows, a remote area, high in the mountains. A river runs through it (sorry, couldn’t resist) and another friend, Chris came fishing with Pam and I. We had a blast, and returned for several summers. The die was cast. The Kennedy Meadows Hookers were born.

One of the early years

The three of us have taken a fly fishing trip somewhere, almost every year since. Yellowstone, Mammoth, Ca, Oregon, we’ve been all over, and had a blast, every time. Fishing with them is great, but the nights are even better – like high school sleepovers with your best friends – only with WINE!

We’ve got tons of stories – like the year I broke my leg (just a hairline fracture) and I insisted I wasn’t missing Jacuzzi time, so they wheeled me down on a luggage cart (wine was involved, but it was medicinal)….to the year I REALLY broke my leg on the last day of the trip, and the Sherriff’s dept had to send a boat to rescue me.

 

 

 

 

 

To THIS year, when I caught the biggest trout of my life! Had to be 10 lbs, around 28″. After the photo op, I let her go.

We’ve aged over the years, and we aren’t intrepid hikers anymore, but we still go, every year (except last year, danged Covid!)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2021 Hookers

So how about you? Do you like fishing? Have you ever been?

Healing Machines. Work of an Eccentric? Or a Genius? By Pam Crooks

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I recently read a fascinating story about an artist that once lived not far from me in the sandhills of Nebraska.  Emery Blagdon was born in 1907, the oldest of six children, and a farmer’s son.  He ended his education at a country school to work on the farm, but at age 18, he left home to drift around the country for ten years, riding the rails for adventure.

Once he returned home, however, he stayed home, surrounded by family. He never married, never had children.  He rarely bathed and wore his hair long, unusual for a man at the time, and donned baggy clothes that often needed laundering.  He chopped wood every day for heat, drew his water from a well, and grew all his own food.  Always a loner, his niece remembers him as being very kind, very gentle and quiet.  When his uncle died, leaving him the family’s 160-acre farm, Emery didn’t work the land but instead leased it, which provided him a modest income and allowed him to do what he loved best.

On the farm was a 800-square-foot shed that Emery devoted the next thirty years to making what he called “my pretties.”  He created metal sculptures using only what others called junk and a pair of pliers. Yet each creation, never measured, was symmetrical.  After the deaths of his parents, brother and sister from cancer, he hoped to heal people with the energy from his art.

Some called him crazy.  While the farm deteriorated from neglect, as did his personal appearance, neighbors couldn’t help but have reservations about him.  Yet inside the shed, which was practically falling apart around him, beams of light touched on bits of foil, wire, colorful beads, and ribbon.  Strings of blinking Christmas bulbs wound around the room.  Visitors report being light-headed, feeling overwhelmed, even out-of-breath.

Emery possessed books on science and physics yet depended on the elements for his energy fields, using ionic salts purchased from a pharmacy in North Platte, NE.  He befriended the pharmacist, and they became lifelong  friends.

Unfortunately, Emery succumbed to the cancer that took family members before him, and just as it seemed the healing machines he’d created to protect himself and others from illness would be dispersed and lost through an estate auction, his pharmacist friend bought the entire lot, including the shed, to preserve Emery’s works.

Over the course of several decades, Emery’s 600 ornate wire sculptures and 80 geometric paintings traveled the country and were eventually displayed in a New York gallery.  Pieces sold from $2,500 to $25,000. The remaining works, including the shed, was acquired by a foundation and donated to an art center in Wisconsin where they all remain today.

As far as the healing machines?  Did they really heal?  Well, they were indeed found to emit measurable electrical energy, but perhaps it was only the sheer rush of unexpected beauty that ripples through one’s body, giving him or her a dazzling hum of appreciation for Emery Blagdon’s passion.

Do learn more about Emery, you can watch a fascinating documentary about him:  http://netnebraska.org/interactive-multimedia/television/emery-blagdon-and-his-healing-machine

Have you ever known anyone who was a little odd? Crazy? Eccentric?

I can name several, but my favorite has to be the matronly elderly woman we all called the “Chicken Lady” in my hometown of North Platte.  I remember her still in her baggy coat and walking cane.  She truly seemed to love children and, eyes twinkling, always greeted them with loud squawks of “Bawk, bawk-bawk-bawk-BAWWKKK.”

I don’t recall ever hearing her talk normally to anyone, be it children or adults. Surely she knew words.  I don’t know – shrug – but I never knew if I should laugh or feel sorry for her.  One thing is certain, though.  I’ve never forgotten her!

Not Your Grandmother’s Farmers Market

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With spring’s arrival, my thoughts turn to planting a garden. I love gardens, and it doesn’t matter what kind: flower, bee, vegetable, whatever. I have fond memories of my Grandma Walter’s huge garden filled with green beans, potatoes, onions, cucumbers, strawberries, and what else I can’t remember anymore. Unfortunately, while I received her crafty, DIY, and gardening soul, I didn’t inherit her green thumb. My vegetable/fruit gardens have been dismal failures except for growing green beans.

When my boys were young, planting a garden was a spring break tradition. Each kiddo picked what he wanted to grow and together we nurtured the small plot along. Again, as I said with limited success, but what mattered was doing the project together. Now that my sons are on their own, planting a garden isn’t the same.

My son Zachary and the carrots he grew one year.

With my grim gardening skills, I’ve started doing the next best thing to growing my own fruits and vegies. I shop Farmers Markets. By doing so, not only do I get fresh produce at a great price, but the farmer receives more for his product. A win-win! But these “farmers” markets have broadened their horizons. No longer are they a group of folks selling produce from the back of pickups along the roadside. A lot are big shopping events. Communities, apartment complexes, and mall parking lots now host these farmers markets. They still have tomatoes, peaches, apples, green beans, squash along with an array of other fruits and vegetables. But now, they have products you might be as surprised as I was to find. Here are some of my favorites non fruit or vegetable items.

  • Candles
  • Plants for my house or yard
  • Pottery (I bought my mother-in-law a cool mug with a bird on it for Christmas last year.)
  • Honey
  • Dog treats, dog bandanas and other dog related items (I buy something from these vendors almost every time because you know me…I have a house full of dogs!)
  • Lotion candle (I love these, but they’re hard to find. When the candle melts  the warm liquid is lotion!)
  • Jewelry
  • Bath products: soap, body wash, shampoo, lotion, lip balm, bath salts

                           

 

Talk about one stop shopping!

To be entered in the giveaway for the cool T-shirt, yes I have this one, too, leave a comment on this question. What’s the most unique or your favorite produce item to buy at a farmers’ market?

Texas Snowmageddon

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Hello from wacky weather Texas! The last of the snow melted here in Dallas on Friday. By Monday, our temperature was 81 degrees. Today as I write this, it’s 48, but that’s Texas for you. A weather roller coaster ride!

Here’s a picture of my view after the first snow.

 

What my family went through during Snowmageddon Texas Edition was nothing compared to what others endured. We only lost power for a day, and we never lost water service. Others were without power for a week or more. While our house pipes didn’t freeze, our pool froze over, though. My youngest son had fun doing a photo shoot with his penguin, Tama, to memorialize our adventures. The only damage we sustained was broken pool equipment pipes. Unfortunately, so many others have not been as lucky. Houses have been destroyed by burst pipes and for some safe water is still an issue.

   

My small adventure brought back memories of my grandparents’ northeastern Iowa farm and reminded me how difficult daily life could be in the past. My grandparents’ house had electricity but lacked running water and indoor plumbing. A gas heater warmed the downstairs. I can still picture it—a giant brown rectangle that stood in the living room. It had a glass window through which we could see flames. It was the monsterish kind that scared poor young Kevin in Home Alone. Upstairs we went without heat.

My grandparents’ farm in Decorah, Iowa

A simple task such as bathing a preschool me and my brother Saturday night to attend church on Sunday was a major project. My grandma would pull a dented round galvanized tub into the kitchen. Water had to be hauled from the pump by the milk house. After that, she boiled water on the stove to mix with the colder water to eventually get bath water. No wonder folks in the past only bathed once a week and didn’t have to worry about exercising! Daily life provided all the workout they needed. Sleeping upstairs in the winter meant wearing the warmest jammies possible and sleeping under mounds of blankets. And don’t even ask me about the outhouse…

I’ve always loved reading historical romances, but the recent snowstorm reminded me how we romanticize 🙂 the past. My small taste of life without electricity during Snowmageddon reminded me how past generations had to be strong, determined, and tough or they didn’t survive. Our favorite historical authors incredibly weave the feeling of the time period and daily life into their stories. They transport us to a time we often wish we could visit. After my recent short technology deprived stint , I’m thankful they don’t make the trip too realistic, and now I appreciate their talent of knowing what of past time periods to leave out even more. The past is a nice place to visit in a novel, but as for me, I wouldn’t want to live there!

Please continue to pray for those struggling to overcome the effects of the snowstorm. For many recovery will be a long, expensive process.

To be entered in today’s giveaway for the thankful, grateful, blessed sink mate and llama chip clips, comment on this question. What would be the toughest modern day item or technology for you to do without if you lived in the Old West?

Petticoats & Pistols