August--So Busy!
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| This well-loved goat belongs to a 4-H kid (pardon the pun). |
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| Tomato powder |
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| Grapes of Wrath |
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| NHS Class of '67 in front of the Idaho Hotel in Silver City, Idaho |
August--So Busy!
![]() |
| This well-loved goat belongs to a 4-H kid (pardon the pun). |
![]() |
| Tomato powder |
![]() |
| Grapes of Wrath |
![]() |
| NHS Class of '67 in front of the Idaho Hotel in Silver City, Idaho |
By Caroline Clemmons
There’s a schmaltzy
old song (the kind I like) that includes the phrase, “Little things mean a lot.”
I imagine
you will agree with me that the sentiment is true. I can put on my big-girl
panties for major crises and disappointments—after all, they’re a part of life. What gets me through
tough times are the little things (that turn out to be big) my family and
friends offer day-to-day. Fortunately, I have a good support group, but I
wonder about those who don’t.
One of the
things I like about Facebook is that there are people who always have something
kind to say. I’m sure you have contacts who add a bright touch to your day—I won’t
name mine for fear I’ll miss someone. However, I want to mention Judy Esposito.
She is the first person I recall who posted a daily beautiful, kind thought. I
believe she started a movement, because now I receive many of them from a wide
variety of friends. Those small posts of encouragement get my day off to a
smile.
Do you send or do little kindnesses to others?
Stay safe
and keep reading!
Get it from Amazon https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B6YN6QHK
Here’s the blurb:
Sometimes the perfect match is
the one you didn’t expect.
But, a single woman can’t reside on a ranch where four men live without ruining her reputation. What’s a good man to do, except marry the woman when she arrives?
Heidi Roth has been spurned for being too plainspoken and too tall. In addition, her sister constantly makes fun of her for those reasons. That’s why—with many doubts—she’s willing to travel for months from Bavaria to Texas to marry a man who once lived in her town. When she arrives, she learns her prospective groom is dead, but left her a fourth of his share of a ranch. She has serious doubts, but agrees to wed Gentry to protect her reputation. Sure enough, from the next day, one event after the other happens. Is this the life she wants?
CORA LEE'S WAGER: AN EXCERPT
Cora rocked lightly as birds twittered and flitted about. A fox
trotted across her yard, and she smiled at the creature. Its red coat
contrasted with the green of the short grass and the orange of the Indian
paintbrushes that grew in patches.
This heavenly spot, ironically so close to hell on Earth,
couldn’t be duplicated anywhere else. It was one of the reasons why she’d
stayed and hadn’t sold the house after Butler had died.
She let out a sigh, sank deeper into the rocker, opened her
book and just enjoyed the morning. A half-hour had passed when she felt a
presence to her right. She turned her head, and her breath flew up into her
throat.
Graham!
He stood on the dirt lane that went by the side of her home,
his hands in his pockets, a guarded expression on his face. Their past
stretched between them.
In a second, every morning she’d ever spent with him flashed
before her eyes. They’d both loved the dawn. Those quiet hours before the world
started. And they’d shared them together in his father’s library or on the
porch just beyond the French doors.
And he must’ve decided to take a chance and see if she still
woke with the sunrise.
She managed to drag in a breath but couldn’t move. She needed
to get inside, hide herself from the pain he caused her. But her feet wouldn’t
listen.
With a tight jaw, he took a few steps, and now he was in her
yard, but still on the fringes.
He didn’t want to get close to her, either.
Well…
They’d sent her away, hadn’t they? She shouldn’t be surprised
he didn’t want to see her.
So why was he subjecting them to this torture?
“Good morning,” he rumbled.
Her stomach clenched at the sound of his voice. It was deeper
than she remembered.
“I need to speak with you,” he continued. He removed his hat,
revealing his dark brown hair that fell attractively over his forehead.
The suit he wore helped cut him into a powerful figure. She was
certain he was capable. Intelligent. Probably took care of things efficiently
and to his satisfaction, regardless of whom he hurt.
He was a man now. And she thrilled at the sight of him.
Panic gripped her, and she squared her shoulders instantly,
needing to get away from him, or she might beg him to explain what she’d done
wrong. “I doubt we have anything to say to each other.” She twisted her lips
into a sardonic smile. “You’re not someone with whom I choose to associate any
longer.”
Oh, praise the Lord! She’d found the Angel of the Acre, and she
would use her to block her desperation for this man.
He flinched and stiffened. “Look,” he growled, “I’ve got
important business with you, and—”
“I can’t imagine why.” She shrugged. “There’s nothing you have
that I could want, and I’m not interested in learning why you disagree.”
He curled his hands into fists, crushing the brim of his hat.
“Maybe not, but you could at least hear me out.”
She laughed as if she hadn’t a care or concern for him. “I
don’t think so. I only do business over a poker table.”
Disgust flashed in his eyes.
Good. Perhaps he would leave her alone now.
“So I’ve learned,” he spat. “Gambling is an abomination.”
She smirked. “And one I adore. There’s nothing like discovering
your opponent’s weaknesses and taking him for everything he has.”
She’d never willingly done that. Or she hoped she
hadn’t. She couldn’t control a man’s behavior or choices.
Graham let out a noise of disgust. “Fools. All of you.”
She shrugged. “At least we’re having a good time.”
Something shone in his eyes that she couldn’t name, but she
didn’t want to look too deeply anyway. She needed to get him to leave. “Your
errand is more foolish than any wager I could make,” she told him. “Best be on
your way and find someone else to have your discussion with.”
He glared at her for a few silent moments. “Are you telling me
that you truly only conduct business at a poker table?”
She grinned. “It’s no fun otherwise.”
With a frustrated exhale, he shoved his fingers through his
hair.
Her heart flipped at its mussed state. My God. He’s
gorgeous.
When he faced her again, she schooled her features back into a
careless mask.
“Fine,” he ground out. “I’d like to enter tonight’s game.”
She laughed. “You can’t be serious?”
“If that’s the only way I can speak to you, then it’s what I’ll
do.”
The crone of cultural folklore is a great woman indeed. The crone was defined as a symbol of wisdom, a woman who has lived a life composed of love and hate, sorrow and joy, and has come through it all with a dignity and strength of spirit that only time and a life well lived can achieve.
Wow. I hope that I can make it to crone someday. Crones were the matriarchs, the seers, the healers.
So as you go through your life and you become a "woman of a certain age" ( whatever that means), celebrate being older and wiser. After all, we crones must stick together.
Crone: Katja from Pixabay
Crone: Stefan Keller from Pixabay
Woman with Crystal Ball: Brigitte Werner from Pixabay
Aged Cheerful Women in Elegant Outfits Together: Anna Shuets from Pexels
I'm filling in for Beth Trissel.
Moist, and other words.
Words are beautiful. You can have a bunch of words and turn them into a lush and descriptive sentence. You can evoke a scent, a memory, an entire world with words alone! They can turn you on...
And they can turn on you...
I noticed the other day I had no other word to use at work than moist. Mmooiiiisstttt. I swear this word has texture and heft.
One coworker cringed,and the other said she doesn't get why everyone hates that word? It got me to thinking, I don’t really know either? Are there more words like moist that we don’t like? Is anything worse than moist? My teenagers tell me moist is the cringiest word. So I did what any well-adjusted adult would do. I asked Twitter.
These are all answers I got that were mentioned by two or more people:
Phlegm.
Spunk
Damp
crusty
oozing
spurt
Soggy
squelch
gushy
soppin
turgid
The number one word is so gross I won't actually post it, and it did actually have several mentions.
I noticed most of the words people don't like either have to do with being wet (heh moist), or both sound gross, and mean something gross (phlegm).
So share with me your cringeworthy words. Do you agree/disagree with the list I so scientifically compiled through my Twitter ;)
And I absolutely promise, I don't use the word moist at all in my books!
Check them out here on my website www.laurahunsaker.com
by Judy Ann Davis
Summer of Sorrow and Dance is not a book that has come easily--although not very many of them do, do they?--and I'm so ready for it to be done. There's another one on the back burner whose flame is brighter, hotter, and looks like more fun.
It used to be that 10K words was a week or so...maybe 10 days if the words were being argumentative or sticking in the keyboard's throat. It's not that way anymore, and I know I've got some time to put into Dinah's story before she's ready to finish telling it to me. But sometimes 10,000 words might as well be 100,000. They are just stuck. The black moment is meh, such a light gray it doesn't even show up on the planning wall. The plot point I want in Chapter Twelve should have been foreshadowed in Chapter Three and Chapter Seven, the conflict is laughable, and I have twice as many characters as I should.
This is not a repeat blog post, by the way; however, I do still whine about the same things as I crawl through the last few chapters of every book. I also use the words I hate this book! complete with the exclamation point numerous times. I wonder whatever made me think I could be a writer. I must have been insane.
It's not true. I love the book. I love Dinah and Zach and the five children they have between them. I love Fallen Soldier, Pennsylvania, and Cooper Lake, which forms its edge before you get to the mountain road. I love that Captain Jason Benteen, a Vietnam vet, shows up in each of the three books in the Second Chances series.
Last night, as I drove home from a writers' group meeting, I thought about the last 10,000 words and about Dinah and Zach, seeing them my mind's eye. I thought about how they've come to know each other, how one of them will sense the other's pain and the other is reluctant to accept help. I thought about the grief one of them is suffering and suffered it myself.
What a gift to a writer the ride home is. While I didn't get home with the whole last 10K planned out, I filled in some gaps, found an aha moment or two, and darkened the gray of that culminating moment up a bit. I figured out how to tie up a few strings while leaving a few others fluttering a bit. Just in case I want to go back to Fallen Soldier sometime. I'll give that some thought later, on another ride home.