My Father by Bea TIfton

 I got the call at 2:00 in the morning. Phone calls at that time of night are never good, and this one was devastating. My father had passed away in the hospital from complications of Parkinson’s disease.

When I was a little girl, I idolized my father. He went out of town for his work as a defense contractor and I anxiously awaited his return. Each year we went on vacation. We loved going to San Antonio, but we also went to Washington, D.C., California, Arizona, New Mexico, among other states. Dad often went to Europe for work and one year we went with him, visiting Germany, Italy, Switzerland, and England. Dad wanted us to experience every country we could, even if it was just for a day.

When he was younger, he loved to sing silly songs around the house, off key but with much enthusiasm. Before we went on vacation, he would always sing, “We’re on our way to somewhere, the three of us and you.” My favorite was “Be Kind to Your Web-footed friends, for the duck may be somebody’s mother. Be kind to your friends in the swamp, where the weather is very, very, dawmp.” I’m not sure where he got some of his little gems, but I just loved them. And I can’t hear Peter, Paul, and Mary’s song, “Lemon Tree” without hearing his voice singing it. Now it makes me tear up.

One day, out of the blue, when Dad and I were the only ones home, he asked, “Want to make popcorn balls?” Of course I did. He didn’t use a recipe; we made popcorn and he made syrup to coat them. After we had shaped the popcorn balls and triumphantly placed them on waxed paper, my mother came home. As she surveyed the piles of dishes and the counter that we had effectively shellacked, she gasped and clutched her pearls. It‘s a good thing she didn’t have a weak heart or we would have lost her. Cleaning up the kitchen wasn’t as fun as getting it dirty, but the popcorn balls were delicious.

Dad loved to fish. Being a rocket scientist can be a stressful job, but when we were on the water he just let all that stress go. I didn’t fish and my mother sat and read. I looked for turtles, watched the birds, and just looked around at the peaceful lake. When Dad was through fishing, he would take a couple of laps around the lake and I loved that more than almost anything. We saw some amazing things when we were in the boat. When we lived in Florida, we saw a manatee and Dad carefully maneuvered slowly around him. And once we rounded the curve of the lake and an entire flock of flamingoes took flight. I still remember the sense of wonder as I watched the magnificent birds fly away.

Dad had an amazing life. He was extremely intelligent, and his interests included history, paleontology, archeology, especially of the Anasazi culture, Biblical archeology, history, astronomy, and meteorology. He would patiently answer my questions and he just knew a lot about a lot of things. He couldn’t talk about everything because of his high security clearance, but he still had plenty of anecdotes. He walked away from two helicopter crashes, he walked off one flight as some highjackers walked on (no one was injured on the flight and they went to Cuba), he had several patents for things that were used in his work and he actually invented a cow EKG to discover why cattle were dying on cattle trucks. He was headhunted to work for NASA for the first trip to the moon but he didn’t want to move to Houston. He was always fascinated with rockets and I wondered if that was why. And some fun things are he worked at the radio station in Lubbock when his classmate, Buddy Holly, came in to record. He rode on one flight with Elvis. Dad didn’t try to push through the entourage and talk to him but he said a woman sat in Elvis’ lap the entire way.

There are already things I wished I had asked him, stories I’ll never hear. I think, “Oh, I need to tell Dad,” or “Dad and I can watch that movie together.” Then I remember.

I love you, Dad. And I know you loved me, too.

 

 

Photo Credits: 
Dad with a baby Bea, personal collection
Manuel Munoz "Lemons Growing on Tree Under Sunlight" Pexels.com
Dad with a good catch, personal collection
Shuttercraftsman "Beautiful Flamingos in Turkish Wetlands" Pexels.com
Lilburn Smith 1937-2025

Holding On, Letting Go — and Finally Choosing Me ~Sherri Easley

Most of my life, I’ve been someone who holds on to things that do not serve me.

I hold on to people long after they’ve drifted or betrayed me. I hold on to jobs that drain me. I hold on to routines, roles, and responsibilities out of loyalty, out of love, out of the fear that if I let go, I’ll lose part of myself.

Maybe you know that feeling—that stubborn ache in the chest when something isn’t working anymore, but you just can’t bring yourself to walk away. We’re taught that letting go is failure. That endurance is noble. That the more we sacrifice, the more worthy we are.

But what they don’t tell you is that holding on is its own kind of prison.

You wake up one day and realize you’ve stayed for the title, the paycheck, the history, the shoulds. You look around and the spark is gone. Not just in the thing you’re clinging to—but in you.

And so, after years of giving, building, proving, and staying longer than I should have, I’m choosing something different- I am choosing me.

I decided a couple of weeks ago to give up my corporate job at Boeing. I owe them a lot. I literally started my life over- at least financially, 10 years ago with nothing but my education and experience and my work with them has allowed financial stability, a home, and has allowed me to build a small business around my sewing and embroidery.

Retirement, for me, isn’t an ending. It’s a return. A return to curiosity, creativity, and quiet mornings and snuggles with my pets. To projects that don’t come with deadlines. To joy that isn’t tied to productivity. To the version of me that existed before I became what society required of me.

In this case, letting go isn’t a weakness. It’s wisdom. It’s recognizing that growth requires space—and sometimes that means releasing the things (and people) that once rooted us, so we can rise.

So here’s to the art of knowing when to hold on—and the courage it takes to finally let go.

I’m not done dreaming. I’m just dreaming differently.

And it feels like freedom.

WHERE THE WAGON TRAIN BROKE DOWN By Caroline Clemmons

One of my favorite songs opens, "Summertime and the livin' is easy...." In spite of that, summer is my least favorite season. Please give me spring and fall with more moderate temperatures.  I donate my sunscreen lotion to the sun lovers while I choose to remain indoors with a good book and soothing music.

That's what I'd choose, all right, but life doesn't work that way, does it?

Once we had a dark blue car with the same color leather seats. We kept towels in the vehicle to sit on when wearing shorts. We also threw a towel over the steering wheel if we had to park in the open. Nothing like fastening a molten metal seat belt buckle over a child, right? Car manufacturers have caught on since those days, and the interior of modern cars are not quite the roasting pans of the past. 

I live in North Central Texas, and we have many extremely hot days. Once when friends from Tampa visited, the temperature was 113F, unusually high for us. Their ten-year-old son asked me, "Why do you live here?"

My usual reply to this complex question is, "This is where the wagon train broke down."

I'm still not a fan of summer. 

Procrastination and Obsession

I've been procrastinating something for a very long time, and when I finished it this week, it wasn't all that hard. Because of course. 

I think because my day job (I work at an elementary school) is so emotionally draining, that I procrastinate the creative stuff. Then when I finally buckle down and do it, I get mad at myself since it was never as big or bad as I thought it would be.

And on that note, I sent off my novella to my formatter! She's going to make it pretty and I'll get that baby uploaded ASAP! I'm listing it as free for the first week it's available, but I'm not telling anyone except my newsletter subscribers, so sign up now if you want to be one of the first to get it! It'll be one whole dollar after that first week, so jump on it!

Sign up for my newsletter here

I recently started watching My Demon on Netflix. It's a K-Drama about a demon whose powers get accidentally transferred to a woman who has an assassin out to get her. The thing is, she thinks he's a weirdo who won't leave her alone so she wants nothing to do with him. But! He's constantly saving her life, so he needs to stay close to her. OMG it's forbidden romance, it's enemies-to-lovers, it's Paranormal Romance, and it's hitting all the right notes for me. So, that being said, feed my new obsession! Send me either book or show recs that fit this Paranormal Romance vibe! Please and thank you!

Look at him all broody

Look at them all being enemies and stuff

And now look at them battling their attraction...Swoon...

So yeah, watch it, send me recs, you know what to do!

Summer Sundown by Liz Flaherty

In a town close to where we live, the arts council hosts the Summer Sundown series, where music is played for an hour each Sunday night. You take your lawn chair and sit and watch. You drink the complimentary water, get a free ticket to win a go-cup (which I haven't won) and you listen and applaud and talk to the other people there. Sometimes, like this past Sunday, it was so hot I was whining almost as loud as Sarah and Ron Luginbill were singing. (Sarah was hot, too--it wasn't just me.)

Now--surprise, surprise!--I am not a summer person. Once I no longer had kids in summer sports and activities, I was done with it. I just stay in the house most of the time, and hurry between it and the air conditioned car if I have to leave it. I consider any temperature above 80 degrees to be wholly unnecessary, high humidity to be a death threat from a ticked-off Mother Nature, and summer storms to be ... well, exciting, but also scary. 

Regardless of my complaints (which are fully justified), I have to admit that Summer Sundown is a delight all its own. Not just the weekly event in Logansport, Indiana, where we move our lawn chairs over and over to avoid the attack of the slowly falling sun, although there's a specialness to those performances. But no, it's the sundown itself. The few moments in time that make you say oh, look and stand in silent amazement until the sun slips into the horizon. While I have always been a sunrise person, the end of the day brings something with it. 

We talk about closure a lot, and it gives us that. We search for beauty in every day--it gives us that. For those of us who draw life and joy from color, the night sky and the summering of the earth gives us both strength and succor. Summer and its glorious sunsets bring us ice-cream days, baseball games and swimming pools, and gatherings when we revive, renew, and share memories with friends and family we don't see often enough. 

We share music and fireworks, water fights and slow swinging on the porch, lightning bug watches and strawberry moons. Did I say I wasn't a summer person? I know I did, and I really do like spring and fall better, but that does nothing to take away from the year's middle months and its sundowns.

As a writer, I have to laugh about the seasons, because writing usually doesn't "land right." Here at the end of June, I'm finishing a book in the Christmas season. What I write in December often follows a summer romance. Many times, I write about summer and fall together, because I love the transition time, but I actually am not sure when I write them. 

Right now, in a Book Funnel special, The Summer of Sorrow and Dance, is on sale for 99 cents. It's one of my favorite summer stories ever, and I'm sure Dinah and Zach enjoy more than one Summer Sundown.

Awesome Is Hard Work by Joan Reeves

Good morning! If you knew everything I've been called upon to do in the last 2 weeks, you'd understand why I'm posting late today.

We attended two graduations out of town, then a funeral in west Texas, then a reunion in Louisiana. All of that was exhausting, but then everything hit at once. 

BRIEF RECAP

1. We signed a contract to sell property in another county which necessitated our presence for various meetings with the buyers, inspections, and arranging for a few things to be done there. All of that took several trips there and back (240 miles round trip).

2. After much arguing back and forth discussion, my Darling Husband convinced me to put our current house in town up for sale. Reason? He wants a much bigger lot with a much bigger garage. Me? I'm okay with where we are, but happy husband = happy, uh, can't think of anything that rhymes with husband. (Saying happy wife = happy life is much easier.)

3. Spent an entire week removing everything from bookshelves, cabinets, etc. so the furniture could be moved to allow the painters access to the walls.

4. We packed about a million books it seems along with stuff stored in the cabinetry that was to be moved. 

I decided there was no way I wanted to put all that back in place if we were going to sell the house so we rented a storage facility and moved what seemed like hundreds of boxes into storage.

5. Darling Hubby decided he wanted to also store the pool table because "looking Lous" always seem to want to roll the balls on the pool table.

He's protective of his Olhausen so he deconstructed it and got a strapping young man to help him move the slate, etc. into storage.

6. All paintings, etc. were taken from the walls and rugs rolled up. 

7. We finished all of that deconstructing this morning—minutes before the painting crew showed up.

Now, I'm in my office, which was painted a year ago and isn't part of the week's painting adventure, but there are paintings stacked against the walls, a half dozen lamps on the floor, and other hazards.

I have just enough space to walk from the door to my chair in front of the computer. I'm praying this will all be finished by Friday.

MORE TIME SUCKS SCHEDULED

Of all times to have a tooth that needs to be crowned! Had a day of dental anguish to get the tooth prepped for crown. Permanent crown scheduled for July 3.

The rest of this month and into July is filled with more of the same because this next weekend we must arrange for movers to remove everything from our house in the country and into storage. 

I'm exhausted just recounting all of this.

To make matters worse, I have a July deadline to upload my new book, OLD ENOUGH TO BE BOLD. I'm concerned I may not complete everything that needs to be done to make it publishable.

That means I haven't promoted it other than mentioning it in a few places.I had extended the release date twice already, but the universe keeps throwing curve balls at me. I'm worried. If I have to change the release date again, I'll be penalized by Amazon and banned for 1 year from setting up a pre-order. 

Yikes! But if I have to extend again, I'll just have to live with the consequences. I'll blow up that bridge when I come to it.

LIFE GOES ON

I'll keep writing and trying to be "awesome" —whatever that means—and get the book done. In the meantime, I have 2 books on sale for 99¢. Both are guaranteed to give you heated romance and lots of laughs.

THE TROUBLE WITH LOVE  is a spicy Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy set in a small Texas town. Just click the link to learn more about it.

You can also read it with Kindle Unlimited.

There's an audio book of it too for those who love to listen to a good book, but the audio edition is not  on sale.

Also on sale is SCENTS AND SENSUALITY which is also on Kindle Unlimited. This spicy fake boyfriend RomCom is part of the Love, Laughter, and Shenanigans series.

Click the link to learn more about this hugely popular RomCom that's been on the UK romance bestseller list since January. (I love that it's also selling in India and France—the USA too of course.)  

Scents and Sensuality is also available as an audio book too.

By the way, on the audio book link, you can listen to an excerpt which is entertaining in itself.

So that's my frantic, frazzled life since May. How are things in your Life? I certainly hope it's more serene and peaceful than mine.

Enjoy the rest of June. Here in Texas, July means the door to the furnace will probably be blocked open. See you then!

(I'm online: SlingWords * Website * Facebook * Romance Gems...Authors & Readers Meet.)

Want advance notice of sales and new releases?

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45 Pounds Down and Still Not a Fashionista ~ Sherri Easley

I thought losing 45 pounds would feel like a victory parade. Cue the glitter, the applause, the breezy montage of me tossing old clothes over my shoulder and strutting into a dressing room like a woman reborn.

Instead, I found myself in a department store three-way mirror, wondering if I’d wandered into a circus funhouse.

Here’s the thing no one tells you: when your body changes, your style doesn’t automatically download a new user manual. I’m not a fashionista. I like to write about strong women and overcoming obstacles, not crop pants and rise lengths. And when it comes to jeans? I’d rather wrestle a love triangle than figure out if I’m “curvy high-rise” or “straight ankle-cut.”

I stood there in the dressing room—half undressed, fully confused—staring at a label that read “slimming stretch.” Lies. The only thing it slimmed was my patience.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of the work it took to lose the weight. But in that moment, all I wanted was a pair of jeans that fit and didn’t try to gaslight me with a size number that made no sense. I miss the elastic waistbands. I miss the yoga pants. I miss not caring!

But maybe that’s the lesson. We’re all in transition—whether it’s our bodies, our stories, or our characters. And just like romance, sometimes you have to try on a dozen awkward fits before you find the perfect one.

For now? I’m celebrating my size-uncertain hips and my unapologetically soft style. If my heroine can slay demons dressed in leathers and face paint, I can survive shopping for new clothes.

Maybe…

Meanwhile, my writing is as unpredictable as my shopping- Here is the next part of chapter one: 

I remember nothing of life before Master Faren. It was as though I’d sprung to life at five winters old—filthy, barefoot, and half-starved—appearing on his doorstep with nothing but a soot-streaked face, a bag of rune stones and a strange black quill clutched in my hand.

I was just a little mortal girl with a strange mark on her left shoulder, raised and pale like molten wax hardened in the shape of a flame and a quill. A mark that prickled during storms and that sometimes, in the stillness between heartbeats, hummed.

 No name. No origin. No recollection of my past.

With hair black as a raven’s wing and eyes the color of storm-soaked earth, I stood out among the flaxen-haired, fair-skinned villagers who prized sameness like a virtue. And in a place where uniformity was sacred, I was an unforgivable deviation.

Whispers followed me through the narrow lanes of Dalswyth. Some claimed I was a changeling. Others swore I’d crawled from the underworld. Children ran from me. Old women crossed themselves.

I wasn’t a monster, though; I was just different.           

At first, the rejection stung—sharp as frostbite, and just as numbing.

Master Faren always found me. He’d wrap me in his arms until the tears dried, then sit me in the crook of his armchair and read to me about ancient legends until the ache in my chest dulled into something quieter. Something bearable.

But pain taught me something else: how to disappear.

By the time I was older, I’d stopped trying to belong. I’d started to climb.

When the village boys chased me with sticks, yelling names I didn’t understand—old slurs for changelings and witch-born things—I didn’t fight back. I didn’t have to. I could vanish when it suited me, slipping through broken fences, up drainpipes, into attic beams or beneath crumbling stone.

It became a kind of game… one I always won.

I could scale rooftops before I knew how to braid my hair. I moved through spaces most people never noticed—low windows, high ledges, the hollow between walls. I could land without a sound. Breathe like I didn’t need air.

The townspeople whispered that I had no bones. That I was half-spirit. That I climbed like a cat and fell like a leaf.

And maybe… they weren’t wrong.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

How is your Summer writing coming along? 

DON'T SQUEEZE THE CHARMIN

 

 By Caroline Clemmons

Recently my youngest daughter and I were talking about the lack of cute commercials currently on television. Our discussions are frequently on deep, critically important  subjects of this type.

You know, with the overabundance of drug and insurance commercials, there aren’t many of those or of others which stand out in my memory.  At least not recently. At the risk of sounding like the old-timer who walked to school uphill in both directions through deep snow, here are some I do remember fondly.

My all-time favorite commercial was when Coca Cola featured a group of carolers singing “I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.” Isn't that timely for our current situation? In my opinion, no one will top that one!

Another was the Alka-Seltzer cartoon boy Speedy that sang plop, plop, fizz, fizz and jumped into a glass of water.

Who can forget the little boy singing he’d like to be an Oscar Myer wiener?

David Naughton wanted to be a Pepper for Dr Pepper, my choice of soda—the cherry flavor. He put a lot of talent and energy into his invitation.

I have to say seeing Mr. Whipple squeezing the Charmin was far, far more appealing than blue bears discussing “going.”

I admit every time I heard Sam Elliott speak about Dodge Ram trucks I wanted to rush out and buy one. Never did. Wouldn't he be a great narrator for an audiobook?

Working in an advertising agency must be extremely stressful. All the same, I often wonder who approved some of the commercials we see. Many actually repel me rather than tempting me to buy the product. So much expense deserves better results.

What’s a commercial you remember fondly?

The Book Signing Was A Success! by Laura Hunsaker

 My local library held a book signing last weekend and it was a roaring success! 

I've attended a few of these Local Author Showcases and they are always so well done.

I have such a supportive library here in town, and I couldn't ask for a better community!

I sat next to a friend of mine, author Katie Salidas, who writes Urban Fantasy with a hint of Romance. The two of us always try to sit together because our books complement each other pretty well.

Here we are being cute :)

One thing I focused on with this event was my Hockey Romance written under the pen name Kenzie MacLir. While my team (Go Knights Go!) may be out of the running for the Stanley Cup, we can still enjoy hockey! If you haven't read The New York Empires series, you really should. It's slightly paranormal, fully romantic, and so much fun!

Amazon  |    | Barnes & Noble   | Kobo   | iBooks  | Smashwords   | Google Play 

There are 3 authors per book, and I'm Kenzie MacLir in this collection. I have a co-writer (Heather Lire) for all things Empires, and we are deep in the middle of a new anthology. Heather's and my story is called Breaking The Ice and it starts with a charity bachelor auction. You guys, this series is so fun! Each author has a story that surrounds this charity auction, and while you can read each as a stand-alone story, it definitely is more fun to get the whole event through each of our characters' points of view.

Hopefully you'll check out our hockey team The New York Empires, and I hope to see you at my next book signing!

MAY - DRESSED IN HER FINERY

                                by Judy Ann Davis

It’s May, the queen of all the months, who assumes her reign amid colorful blossoms and shades of green. Above, in the blue sky, the merry warm sun dips down to awaken the daffodils, violets, bursting buds, and earthy grasses. Spring rains softly blanket the deciduous trees unfolding their delicate leaves while above in the branches, birds chatter, scold, and sing.

I always think of May as the beginning of summer, despite the real date of June 20^th. It’s the time when we shed our coats and head outside. Around us, the soft breeze carries the fresh scent of blooming flowers and wet earth. At nightfall in the northern regions, we always get the joyous sound of spring peepers calling out from the wetlands.

Every year, my husband and I tell each other that we’re going to cut back on the flowers we are going to buy, hang, display, or plant.  It’s a pointless threat. The other day, we went on our yearly search of four ferns to hang on the patio, along with other potted plants and flowers to make the area more colorful and cozier. We arrived home with more than enough sunlight to glance at the vacant beds we also plant with annual flowers and chuckled. We know we’ll be scouring the greenhouses for more vegetation.   

May is also the time we take the time to visit the Memorial Day services at Historic Crown Crest Cemetery in Central Pennsylvania where the American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) take turns each year having a ceremony in honor and memory of all those who served and are no longer with us. I am part of a four-generation military family with my husband and son having served, and my husband’s late grandfather and late father also having served. It’s a chilling and heartbreaking sensation to stand in the cemetery and see the rows and rows of American flags flying from the graves of those who have served at one time in their lives. 

As we move through the month of May, named after the Greek Goddess Maia who symbolizes nature and growing plants, let’s bask in her finery, the warmth of the weather, and the rejuvenation of the living world around us.   

                                              99 Cent Sale All Week - May 24-31st

                                           UP ON THE ROOF AND OTHER STORIES

I'm Still Here by Liz Flaherty

Late again, but a good reason, I promise! I had surgery Friday, a serious but textbook removal of a carotid artery blockage. It went well, although it came with surprises. It was worse than expected. More than expected. I came home late the next day, feeling pretty good, pretty proud I'd gotten through it all easily.

Then, on Sunday, my oxygen saturation tanked and my lungs developed a grouchy crackle and slurped up more fluid than to which they were entitled, and back to the hospital I went. Not the same one--a smaller satellite of the same group. 

My care was great, staff was great. Even the food was good. After two days, I came home. I have family support, love, and care. I have quite literally no complaints.

But I'm feeling strange.

I take medicine for blood pressure, for cholesterol, for depression. Small dosages that keep me level. I wish I didn't need them, but there you go. I also take vitamins and calcium and a few other supplements. 

But over these past days, I've been filled with medication. With anesthesia whose contents list went on forever. With stuff to make me pee. Stuff to allow me to clear other things. Stuff to help my lungs get back to normal. Stuff to keep my oxygen on track. I've done very, very little for myself. My husband even brings me my laptop when I need it. I haven't cooked or done laundry. I emptied the dishwasher this morning and felt like Wonder Woman. 

I feel pretty well, although heavy with what is still in my head, in my arteries. My wrists and the insides of my elbows are still bruised from needles. I've laughed with others about my now having a dramatic story to tell. But I'm slow. I can't think of words. I'm ... well, vague. If any of you remembers Marion Lorne, I have her persona down pat.

I am ... oh, so very happy to feel well, so grateful to the ones who've helped me on that path, but I'm anxious to have myself back, too. I want, when I say or write those words I'm still here, to be sure of who I am and where here is.

I'm not back to writing yet, but my Harlequin Heartwarmings are on on sale. If you've never read one, I hope you'll give them a try.

Thanks for coming by! 

 

Wallflower of Wildflowers by Joan Reeves

I'm a bit late in posting today because I just arrived home from a few days in the country.

The wildflowers are blooming in the fields around our house there, but I was a bit dismayed in how many bull nettles have popped up.

Like wallflowers that no one wants to dance with, these wildflowers are the ones no one wants in their landscape. Why? Because everything about the plant except for the bloom is covered with stinging little spiny things.

If you ever touch or brush up against a bull nettle, you'll always remember to be careful around them in the future.

Why so many this year? Because we had feral hogs using our land as a playground back in the winter. Their hooves dig deep in soft earth and their snouts do even more damage.

Where the soil gets torn up, bull nettles follow. 

My first inclination was to put on my jeans and boots and dig up as many as I could. However, the blossoms on top of the 2 foot tall stalks are pretty. Usually these over-sized blossoms droop rather than stand straight up.

I never knew much about this Texas wildflower so I decided to learn something about them before I decimated their number.

SURPRISE! WRONG NAME

I learned that the plants in my field were probably not Texas Bullnettle aka Cnidoscolus texanus, a spiny, deep-rooted, herbaceous perennial in the Spurge family. They're probably the White Prickly Poppy aka Argemone albiflora, a nettle-like spiny plant that also grows tall.

White Prickly Poppy has spiny prickles, but it's not the stinging hairs that cause severe irritation like those on the Texas Bull Nettle, renowned for its stinging hairs that can cause a painful rash and irritation upon contact. (I shudder to think about what a real bull nettle might feel like.)

Taken at Johnson City, TX

Both plants have striking green foliage with jagged leaves and they bloom in the same time period, April through September with pretty blossoms. The true bull nettle flower isn't as showy as the prickly poppy.

They have a strong taproot system so can survive drought and hard winter freezes. Livestock will not eat either of these plants even in periods of drought because they're so prickly.

Quail and dove eat the seeds of the prickly poppy, and native Americans used it for various ailments, but it has to be expertly used because it can be toxic.

The bull nettle seeds are edible when ripe and were eaten by native Americans. The root is supposedly edible, but I don't plan on digging a plant up and boiling it like a potato unless we descend into a post-apocolyptic era. 

The plant has medicinal uses, and Native Americans have used it for various ailments, but it can be toxic if not used properly.

LEARN SOMETHING NEW EVERY DAY

I became fond of these 2 native plants—yes, I have both varieties in the fields—and I decided to leave them alone. They look a little strange growing almost 2 feet above the other wildflowers, but I imagine them as sentries, looking out over the field of flowers, keeping watch for danger.

I'll love them from afar because I'm not getting within a foot of either of these plants. I learned my lesson long ago when I wanted to pick them for a bouquet. Outch! Ouch! Ouch!

WANT MORE WILDFLOWERS?

My friend Kara O'Neal has a wonderful series, Wildflowers of Texas. Check out SUNFLOWERS FOR HER, a new release that is Book 4 in the series. 

I think you'll love it.

SPECIAL DEAL FOR READERS

I have another special deal for readers this month.

I've been running Facebook ads in the US and in the UK which is why I've been making the first book in a series on sale.

Last week I started an ad campaign for another of my romantic comedy novels, THE TROUBLE WITH LOVE.

REVIEW

"ENCHANTED AND THOROUGHLY DELIGHTED" 5 Stars. A thoroughly delightful romance. The story of not one but three separate and equally lovely couples. The first is Suzannah and Hogan. An FBI agent and a beautiful Deputy Sheriff enbroiled in a little drama, that deftly introduces the second pair.

Rory, Suzannah's mother, a recluse from a bad young marriage and Walter a long time widower and Mayor, Hogan's step uncle. 

They in turn bring in the third grouping Yvonne, Hogan's step-mother and an aging Jewel thief, of English/Scottish orgins called McConnell.

What a merry chase this story is. I absoluted loved how it all wove together to create a satifying and lovely romance.

THE TROUBLE WITH LOVE is on sale for 99¢ or read it "free" on Kindle Unlimited.

Thanks for dropping by today. I hope you found the wildflower post interesting.

Have a wonderful May. I'll see you again next month.

(Find me online: SlingWords * Website * Facebook * Romance Gems...Authors & Readers Meet.)

Joan participates in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, affiliate advertising designed to help websites earn advertising fees by linking to products on Amazon. If you click an Amazon link in her post, she may receive a small commision at no extra cost to you.

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Trauma Diaries~ Sherri Easley

 

So last weekend, I was getting dressed to go watch my grands play soccer, feeling kinda cute in my new Spring clothes and I decided to wear my contacts. I wear my glassed 99% or the time.

Oh my! I had no idea my face, especially under my eyes, was so wrinkled- probably from the magnified sun through my glasses all these years!

I immediately got online and ordered every Mary Kay product with retinol and vitamin C I could find, but I am still a bit traumatized.

I will say though, the quicker remedy was just to remove the contacts- now I can’t see the wrinkles (or much of anything else) - problem solved.

Okay, so real work (or therapy in my case)…

Last month I talked about changing things up on my writing so my daughter "might" read something I've written. It is really hard to dedicate a novel to someone who won't read it. I am not sure why I was shocked that this is the type writing she likes, after all, I took British Lit and several other literature classes as electives for my degree in Math.  

So, here is my shot at Romantasy –

The opening to Chapter 1- (of 35). It has been rewritten no less than 10 times and I keep having to undo my doing. It is possible to overwrite I am learning … repeatedly.

Chapter One: The Scribe

I used to think ink was safe—less dangerous than blood, less binding than prophecy.

That was the lie I fed myself every time I dipped my quill. That if I kept my head down and my hands busy, the world wouldn’t see me—and the only trace of me would be in the words I left behind.

My writing was good, not fancy, just plain, precise, and legible. It lacked the extravagant flourishes favored by nobles and the courtly elite, and that was by design. Not because I lacked the skill. I could craft letters with as much gilded flair as any palace-trained scribe—but I chose not to. Simplicity kept me unseen. Safe.

I was content with the simple life I had, working beside Master Faren, the village historian. He and his late wife had shown me kindness when they had no reason to, offering food, shelter, and the warmth of a hearth for my help in transcribing dusty tomes and reading aloud to them from ancient texts.

Every morning, I started my day the same, sweeping ash from the hearth and stacking the day’s scrolls by subject: histories, hymns, political letters.

The Master liked to quiz me between sips of his spiced tea. He’d pause in the middle of copying a decree to ask about the Fourth Age rebellions or to recite a passage from the Book of the Flame. Our life was quiet, structured, and predictable—until it wasn’t.

My life was more than most orphans in Dalswyth could dream of. The others—those left to survive the streets—found work in the shadows. Their trades were built on deceit, survival, and compromise. I knew many by name, few by choice. I knew better than to judge them, for it was only by fate that we were on opposite sides of the glass.

I watched their world from my window, but I lived among the countless realms hidden within the pages of Master Faren’s sprawling library. While the seasons turned outside, I devoured epics and verses, memorized the wisdom of the old gods, and could recite the Exaltation of Inanna, composed by Enheduanna, high priestess of the moon god Nanna, in no fewer than three tongues.

I could do many things that most mortal girls of seventeen winters could not do. I could decipher runes, debate philosophy, and translate dead languages whispered only in temples long turned to dust.

And yet, for all I knew, for all I was, one thing remained forever out of reach.

My childhood.

 

What's your favorite?

By Caroline Clemmons

I just finished a book that will release this summer and am pondering what to write next. I thought you could help me decide.  The book I recently finished and sent to my editor is one of ten in a MAP (multi-author project) called Guns for Hire. Obviously it could be one of many time periods, but it's a sweet historical western. Mine is set in 1881 and takes place mostly in northeastern New Mexico Territory. The Title is SHAD and it is available for preorder here.

My questions are:

Do you prefer a series from one author or a M/AP? 

Do you read single titles or look for a series?

What is your favorite trope?

I'm in a quandary and really need your input. I have so many plots I want to write but can't decide which one to use. With the threats to our retirement funds, I need to keep the royalties rolling in. Okay, mine sort of limp instead of roll, but I still need them.

A $10 gift card to the person whose suggestion I use or whose suggestion most inspires me. ends 5/9/2025.

Thanks for stopping by.

A Character by Any Other Name by Laura Hunsaker

 Good Morning Readers! I have a book signing coming up next month, and wanted to share the whens and wheres. If you're in the Las Vegas area, I'll be at the Paseo Verde Library on May 17th. 

With that being said, I wanted to talk about character names. I was having a discussion on Facebook about how do authors name their characters. I mentioned that with my Time Travel romances, it's easier to choose names because I can pull up old censuses. When everyone is named William or Edward, it makes it easy. Finding a less commonly used name requires going into the census of which ever year you're using, and even then, you can still find some more unique names. In fact, did you know Tiffany (Tifanie) was first used in the 1200s? In fact there's a name for that example: The Tiffany Problem. It's where modern names sound out of place in Historical settings, but they are actually accurate. 

One thing I didn't see mentioned was are there any names authors stay away from? 

I do tend to steer clear of any trendy names. I love the fun names we are seeing in kids, but I don't love a thirty year old hero or heroine being named something that's trendy with the 5 year olds right now. I'm not saying that there aren't thirty year olds named Bryxxtonn, but I don't think it's super common among the men I know. 

I lean towards names like Kyle, Scott, Jason, Ryan...but not everyone is the same. What are some names you don't like seeing in books? And what are some names you've gotten from books that you love! Someone named their daughter after one of my characters and it was the most flattering thing I've ever heard! Have you ever done that? Let me know in the comments.

At my signing next month, I'll be selling paperbacks of the New York Empires series.

Hockey, Romance, werewolves...this series has it all!

Amazon

Memories

I forgot to post on my day this month--the 20th. I even told Joan Reeves that I forgot and would make it up, and then I forgot again. While this is disappointing, it's not at all unusual. Like my waistline, my hair color, and my wish (sarcasm) to cook every day of my life, my memory is just shot. 

But my memories themselves aren't. While I may repeat them too often, that is a small price to pay for having them. They are what made me who I am, and I'm glad for that. I'm also lucky that I have more good memories than bad ones. The gnarly things are still there and will jump out and cause pain from time to time, but mostly they stay locked away. The scar tissue over the wounds remains intact and something serves to remind me that Yes, I Can. 

Even if your hearing is compromised, you can still hear things from your past. We live over two miles from the school, but if we're outside on Friday nights in the fall, we can still hear the sound of the marching band on the football field. Every time I hear it, I can go back to the bleachers as both a student and a player's mom, bellowing the school song and the national anthem with all my might.

I remember Mom shouting NancyJoeTomDan! before she got to my name, the one she was trying to stop midflight in the first place. I reached a point where I didn't answer unless she called me by my right name. I doubt that that went particularly well, but I don't remember that. 😇

I remember the day Hilary Sares called me from Kensington and bought my first book, Always Annie, and so many days and moments from the year that followed. Although I take nothing away from indie-publishing, self-publishing, or any other kind of non-trad publishing, I will say there is nothing quite like getting The Call from an editor. 

In direct disagreement with what I said above about gnarly things, I do remember the days when losses were life-changing. I believe the Kennedys' and MLK's assassinations changed the person I was. So did my grandfather's death when I was 13. My parents' loss of a three-year-old child long before I was born imprinted sadness in a place I couldn't reach and still can't. What would Christine have been like? Would she have liked me? Would my parents have been happier if she'd lived? 

I remember finishing a book--in 83 days!--and knowing it was different. For years, I called it the book of my heart knowing it was more than that because, honestly, they all are that. It was a book that got me two agents, that I honestly thought would sell the first time it hit a publisher's desk. 

It took ten years. 

But One More Summer is still special to me in ways I can't even put into words. It has created more memories than any other book I've written. It gave me a writing bar that I too often don't reach, but ... oh, I remember. The writing at three in the morning before I left for work at four. Waking in the night realizing that no, Grace wouldn't say that. The array of rejections that led to its eventual publication. 

There is an old Elvis Presley song written by Mac Davis and Billy Strange with lyrics that refer to memories being pressed between the pages of your mind. I think that's where mine are, and I love that the word pages is part of that reference. The pages of my books and of hundreds of others have created memories I cherish. More than having just read about them, I remember Jo March in the attic, Anne Shirley in the orchard at Green Gables, Betsy on Putney Farm in Vermont with the kittens in the hayloft, Trixie Belden's mysteries with the Bob Whites of the Glen. 

Sometimes, it doesn't matter what I forget. I am so very blessed by what I remember. 

There are many memories included in the A New Season series. I loved writing about Syd, Riley, and Dinah and the men they come to love. They're older, formed by the lives they've lived, and eager for the ones ahead. I hope you like them, too. 

My Word Is My Bond by Joan Reeves

It's ten o'clock on a Tuesday night, and I just remembered I needed to write this post for my blog day tomorrow, the 16th.

I groaned and collapsed on the bed. Torn between going to bed—which I really, really wanted to do—and fulfilling my obligation, I next began bargaining with myself.

Here's how it went.

I can get up early in the morning and write it. I need a good night's sleep. I'm too tired. I'm all written out. I don't know what to write. My brain is empty of words.

The counter argument went this way.

No, you're no longer a morning person. You won't get up early. It takes you a while to get going what with the eye drops, vibration plate, IR and NIR treatment, eating something so you can take ibuprofen for your wrist joint.

Finally, I told the slacker me to just get up and do it. Thus, I find myself at the computer, pecking away, and I'm happy to be doing it. Getting over that initial inertia hump is difficult but always worthwhile. 

OBLIGATION TRUMPS ALL

I find the one sure way I'll do something, even if it's something I don't want to do, is to commit to it. I made a commitment to blog here on the 16th, and, come Hell or high water, I'll always do it. 

I'm that way about everything. If I say I'll do it, I will. I've missed blogging 2 or 3 times in the past, and I've always felt terrible about it.

I finally decided to use that "reluctance to break my word" to my own writing. 

I promised myself I would write 2K-3K words every day, Monday through Friday. That's about the length of a chapter for me. I did this because I haven't published a new book since 2022. Shock! Right? Time just kind of slipped away in the presence of loss and grief.

(Note. I did write 3 books, but I just didn't publish them. Yet. Even getting them ready to publish seemed like a monumental task.)

I made that writing promise. I put it on a graphic and use it as the image on my monitor display, I told it to my husband, and my daughter, and now I'm telling it to you.

Of course, it took me the first 3 months of this year to actually make that promise to myself. I spent those 3 months getting my ducks in a row.

I'm happy to report that I am actually keeping that promise to myself. My new book is Old Enough To Be Bold and is set for pre-order now. It will publish on or before May 30.

PROMISE KEEPER

The surest way to unhappiness in any part of life is to be a breaker of promises. In the past, people proudly proclaimed, "My word is my bond." It meant something. It meant that they could be trusted to do as they said. There's tremendous power and integrity in that.

In today's world, it's increasingly rare to find people who can be that person. If you want to succeed and have the respect and friendship of others, be that kind of person.

MY SALE BOOK THIS WEEK

99¢ SALE, Heat Lightning, "A real page turner." —NetGalley.

Amnesia. Desire. Passion. Tessa knows those three to be true, but she doesn't know David, the man who says he's her husband—her protector. Amnesia has stolen her memories. 

David is a stranger, but when he touches her, desire flashes between them like heat lightning on a summer night. He wants her, but he doesn't say he loves her. Has Fate offered her a second chance at life and love?

Secrets. Lies. Danger. Why does David seem to hate her even as he pulls her into his arms? What is he hiding? How can she trust him when her gut says, Trust no one? 

She can't help falling in love with David, but her feeling of foreboding grows, as if something awful is about to happen. Will Tessa's lost memories be the death of her?

Wishing you a great second half of April. I'll see you in May!

JOAN ONLINE

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