BEST EVER HOLIDAY MEALS  

I love turkey anyway. Not just the bird in all its glory when served with all the trimmings, but all the various ways to use leftovers as well. But there was one turkey sandwich that will forever remain in my memory as the best turkey sandwich I ever had in my life.

My youngest daughter was born on Thanksgiving. I woke in labor before the sun was up, but in spite of this being my fourth pregnancy, my labor was doomed to be very long. My husband was antsy about getting to the hospital on time, but the contractions were weak and far apart so I told him it wasn’t time yet. He eventually convinced me to at least head over to my mom’s house where we were expected for dinner later on anyway so at least the kids would be where they needed to be when the time came. Dinner came first, but being in labor, I knew I should not be gobbling down a heaping plate as usual so I picked, tasting a bit of this and a bit of that. Finally, by mid-afternoon the contractions had steadied to five minutes apart and I conceded.

Off to the hospital we went in anticipation of being parents again by supper time. NOT! It was a good thing I’d studied the relaxation techniques of Grantly Dick-Read because I never would have lasted using the Lamaze method. The hours stretched out as contractions came and went, my husband offered nearly continuous massage and doctors and nurses checked in and left again. Shortly before midnight, Lori finally decided to make her entrance, three minutes before the end of Thanksgiving. She was beautiful and healthy and all was right with my world.

Until the hemorrhaging began. It was my husband’s night from hell and I’m sure my physician was not happy to be dragged back to the hospital twice in the night either. Before dawn that crazy Friday I was in surgery. For four hours. And as anyone who’s had major surgery knows, afterwards they keep you on first a liquid diet, then a bland one. I had so been looking forward to having that plate of turkey as soon as everything was over. Friday and Saturday brought nothing but jello and herb tea and equally flavorless fare. But Sunday I was finally allowed to order off the regular menu.

My Mom, bless her heart forever, arrived during the lunch hour with a fat, luscious looking turkey sandwich. I tucked into that sandwich like I hadn’t eaten in weeks and it was the very best sandwich ever. I’ve since tried to duplicate it. I put all the same things into the sandwich my mom did, but never has one tasted so incredibly delicious. I still love turkey sandwiches and always will, but in my mind, that one can never be beat.

Want to hear about some other great holiday menus and meals" Check out some of these:

Marci Baun  http://www.marcibaun.com/
A.J. Maguire  http://ajmaguire.wordpress.com/
Fiona McGier http://www.fionamcgier.com/
Judith Copek http://lynx-sis.blogspot.com/
Diane Bator http://dbator.blogspot.ca/
Beverley Bateman http://beverleybateman.blogspot.ca/
Skye Taylor  http://www.skye-writer.com/
Ginger Simpson http://mizging.blogspot.com/
Victoria Chatham http://victoriachatham.webs.com/
Margaret Fieland http://www.margaretfieland.com/blog1/
Rachael Kosnski http://the-doodling-booktease.tumblr.com/
Anne Stenhouse  http://annestenhousenovelist.wordpress.com/
Heidi M. Thomas http://heidiwriter.wordpress.com/
Helena Fairfax  http://helenafairfax.com/
Kay Sisk http://kaysisk.blogspot.com
Rhobin Courtright http://www.rhobinleecourtright.com/

Who doesn't love men in kilts?            or bagpipes and music?                          Craigmonie Hotel,

                                                                                                                    Inverness, Scotland                       

My bio boasts that I like to think of life as adventure and I haven’t passed up too many opportunities that have come my way, but some of the craziest adventures happened when I least expected.  One of these was in the lovely, and fascinating city of Inverness Scotland.

My sister and I arrived in Inverness and were lucky to have prebooked a room at the Craigmonie Hotel, because as it turned out, we arrived there at the end of the National Mod and the city was hopping, the hotels all booked. A mod is a festival of Scottish Gaelic song, arts and culture, and Inverness was overflowing with men in kilts, bagpipes, bands, dancers and the lilt of Gaelic being spoken everywhere. Everything that is romantic about the Scots in one place and we were there to enjoy it.

After a day of exploring the sights and sounds, we dressed up to go to “high tea” in a cozy little place near St. Andrews Cathedral. As we were leaving, we noticed that across the hall from the tea room, there was a small bar where a man playing the accordion. We moseyed on in and sat down to enjoy the music, but before we were even halfway through our first mug of beer, he stopped to whet his own whistle. So, my sister headed over to ask if he was done playing for the night and returned to our table with the man right behind her inviting us to join the party celebrating the finale of that year’s mod.

Now we were overdressed considering everyone else was wearing Jeans so we said we’d be back and hustled up the hill to our hotel to change. As we left, we mentioned to the desk clerk that we were headed to a party and he told us to have a good time.

And we did.

Until four o’clock in the morning.

We didn’t pay for a single drink but we consumed way more than we should have. We were encouraged to join in Scottish dances we had no idea how to perform, but somehow it didn’t matter that night. We heard some really great music and partied very hearty. What a fantastic night we had with a most welcoming and talented bunch of Scots. And it was all quite by chance. (See what I mean about not passing up opportunities that came my way?) But the adventure was only beginning.

As I said, we had imbibed rather more than either of us was used to, so the walk back to our hotel was more of a wander. The most exciting part of which was the trip across the River Ness on the walking bridge that swayed in the wind. Or was it us that swayed. In any case, it was an achievement to reach the other side still standing.

To our total dismay, when we reached our hotel, it was locked up tight. Having stayed in a number of bed and breakfasts and guesthouses, we thought perhaps our room key would open the door. That was not the case. So, while my sister continued to knock on the door, hoping that someone in management would hear and come to let us in, I hunted for another door that our key might work in. None was to be found, but just as I came around the last corner, I noticed a window placed low in the stone building with a neat round hole cut in it. God only knows why, probably had something to do with my inebriated state, but I reached in and discovered the window was not locked and opened easily. It was dark as sin inside so I had no idea where it opened into, but without any other options, my sister and I checked to make sure no one was around and wriggled inside. Thankfully, before we fell into who knew what, our feet touched down on the stainless steel counter of a commercial dishwasher.

So, now we were inside, and we were in the kitchen but where to next? We could see absolutely nothing. Hand over hand, we made our way along the walls until we finally found a door. We only knew it was the dining room by a faint shaft of light glinting off the crystal chandeliers. But at least there was enough light now guide us onward. Emerging into a carpeted hallway, we booked it up the wide curving staircase to the rooms above, praying not to get caught, and arrived at our room and flung ourselves inside. I stood with my back to the door, my heart pounding and my head spinning not quite believing what we'd just gotten away with.

Looking back on it in a more sober frame of mind, I still don’t know what else we could have done at four o’clock in the morning. It was pretty chilly in Inverness in early November, and besides, we’d paid for our room and we’d even told the clerk we were going out partying. Why hadn’t he told us the place would get locked up at some point? It wouldn’t have been so amusing if our mother had received a trans-Atlantic call to inform her that her daughters (who were old enough to know better) were in a Scottish lockup, being held for breaking and entering, but it sure was an adventure while it was happening.

                                                 Uquart Castle ruins on Loch Ness

I’ve been told that allergies can be acquired at any point in life. If that’s the case, then I am definitely allergic to winter.

You have to understand. I grew up in New England. I spent my childhood winters frolicking in the snow. I even carried that well into adulthood. I enjoyed snowball fights, downhill skiing, cross country skiing, coasting and pretty much everything but driving in the stuff, although I learned how to do that pretty well, too.

Cold never bothered me all that much either. I just donned more layers of clothing and stepped out regardless of the temperatures outdoors. Getting cozy with a hot cup of tea, a book and a crackling fire was pretty sweet, almost as sweet as curling up under a mountain of quilts, down comforters and flannel sheets.

But something happened to me along the way. Looking back on it now, I have to guess it was my decision to join the Peace Corps in 2002. They sent me to the South Pacific where my initial reaction was “Good God it’s hot here!” But over the two years I spent working and playing there, my body must have adapted. It was probably a good thing that I arrived home again in May. I had the summer, however short it is in the state of Maine, to adjust back to my former self before the ground froze solid and the wind chill sucked all the mercury out of my thermometer.

I think the first hint that I might no longer have what it took to live through a northeast winter might have been after I adopted a new dog. First thing every morning and then again when I returned from work, he needed to be walked, and as he sniffed and moseyed his way along, the artic chill would shove its unwelcome fingers down my neck until my muscles were so tense they would begin to cramp.

The other thing that I always thought picturesque and cozy was the return to standard time. Driving home in the dark with lights glowing from homes along the way seemed to make nighttime feel friendlier somehow. But after my return from the South Pacific where the winter days and summer days had been very similar in length, the ever-shrinking daylight hours grew more and more depressing. Not only was it dark when I drove home, it was dark when I got up to go to work in morning, as well. After two years of learning first hand what cabin fever was all about, I escaped for a vacation in St Augustine Florida when an endless March stretched ahead of me and my home was still held fast in winter and would remain so until sometime in May if I was lucky.  The rest is history.

I’ve lived here in St Augustine for six years now and never looked back. I could write several blogs about my new hometown, but they can wait. For now, I’ve discovered I’m allergic to winter. At the first reminder that we would be turning our clocks back, I began to whine and dread the loss of evenings filled with enough light for a walk on the beach. Then came this blast of cold that moved in over the weekend. My nose began to itch and the sneezing fits started. Next came the endless dripping like a leaky faucet. It got worse today when I had to wear a sweatshirt to walk the dog and put shoes on my feet. Then the photos began appearing on Facebook. Photos of Gillette Stadium in Foxboro Mass having snow removed before the Patriots game began and highways covered with snow from the midwest to Maine. I shivered and sneezed and dug out a new box of tissues. This has to stop. It’s only November.

My daughter suggested that it might be something in my air ducts considering I’d turned the heat on, but those are the same ducts that convey cool air when the AC is on so I don’t think that’s my problem. Perhaps something growing outside? But that’s unlikely considering that St Augustine is not tropical and we do have a winter here when trees and grasses do not bloom and spread pollen everywhere. Next will come a scarf, my wooly hat and a jacket. So, the only logical conclusion I can draw is that I have grown allergic to winter. I don’t recall having this problem in the South Pacific so now I’m wondering . . . maybe I’ll have to consider moving to the Keys . . .

P.S. I still know how to drive in snow, it’s the idiots who think 4-wheel drive means they can stop as quickly as they get going that scare the crap out of me now. 

West Lebanon, Maine is close to the New Hampshire border and deep in the woods. US Highway 202 runs through it with a gas station, general country store, post office and not much else strung along its length. That’s all there was when I lived there back when my children were small. It’s possible I wouldn’t recognize the place if I were to return today, but according to Google maps not much has changed. Most of the town is populated by tall spruce trees, dense forest and the occasional open fields of farmland. Houses are set far apart, for the most part out of sight of neighbors. Street lights were rare and on my street non-existant.   

My nearest neighbor and only friend in the area owned three horses and she taught me to ride. My son loved the sandpile left behind by the pouring of my foundation and my daughters were happy to have each other for company. Our four-footed, furry family member was a Newfoundland named Bosun. Otherwise we were quite alone, but very much enjoyed our little haven in the woods.

But that's where the scariest adventure of my life happened on a moonless night in the late fall. I was already in bed, but as usual, had a great book to read. Bosun, who was curled up on the rug beside my bed, suddenly began to bark. The next thing I heard was the patter of stones hitting the side of my house. I should probably mention here that I had yet to landscape the yard and most of it was nothing but dirt and rocks. I dashed to the window and threw up the shade, but even with my flashlight I could see nothing in the shadowed yard beyond its feeble beam.

With my heart racing, I put on my coat, snapped Bosun’s leash on him and we ventured out to see what had made disturbance that woke Bosun from his sleep and scared the bejeezes out of me. We circled the house together and while I prodded the darkness with my flashlight hunting for anything out of place, Bosun put his nose to the ground and sniffed carefully. When we came round to our starting point, we came inside, none the wiser. I climbed back into bed and tried to get immersed in my book again, while Bosun promptly fell back to sleep.

My ears were on high alert and I confess I did not remember a single word of the book I was trying to read. About forty-five minutes into my vigil, I heard gunshots. A hunter I tried to assure myself. But hunters don’t usually empty a clip. Nor do they hunt at midnight. Not legally anyway. Bosun lifted his head, but seemed sublimely uninterested. He went back to sleep, or at least his eyes were shut. Another fifteen minutes crept by while I tried to find sensible reasons why anyone would be in the woods somewhere within hearing range, shooting in the dead dark of night.

Suddenly Bosun growled low in his throat, but before he could start barking and scare off what or whoever it was, I clamped my hand around his muzzle. This was in the days long before 911 and besides we lived a long way from any reasonable police presence. Then I heard it. Something was walking around in my back yard. Hard to tell given the stony surface. Could have been a man. Could have been an animal. But do deer make that much noise? I slipped from my bed and lifted the shade once again.

And there, big as life, was a horse’s back end mere inches from my bedroom window.

The rest was rather anticlimactic. After my heart stopped pounding I called my neighbor to report that her horse was AWOL, then got dressed and went out to secure the rascal. By now the batteries in my flashlight were totally dead, but I found her by the light from my bedroom window munching on a few hardy bits of grass that had managed to thrive in my barren yard. The harder part was leading her back around the house to the street. It was as dark as the inside of a black velvet bag outside and once beyond the light from my garage, I had to walk down the middle of the street to keep from falling off the pavement. My neighbor met me about half way to take her escapee into custody and I went back to bed. I never did find out who was shooting a gun in the middle of the night. One other neighbor also heard it so the sound was not the product of my overwrought imagination. But whoever it was never confessed being out there. Possibly someone who’d had too much to drink or thought jacking a deer would be good sport. That part of my scary night will forever remain a mystery. One thing I am sure of, having a dog with a major sized bark is more reassuring than any burgler alarm.

Join the Round Robin for other scary life stories....

Heidi M. http://heidiwriter.wordpress.com/

Anne Stenhouse  http://annestenhousenovelist.wordpress.com/

A.J. Maguire  http://ajmaguire.wordpress.com/

Rachael Kosnski http://the-doodling-booktease.tumblr.com/

Margaret Fieland http://www.margaretfieland.com/blog1/

Geeta Kakade http://geetakakade.blogspot.com/

Marci Baun  http://www.marcibaun.com/

Beverley Bateman http://beverleybateman.blogspot.ca/

Victoria Chatham http://victoriachatham.webs.com/

Diane Bator http://dbator.blogspot.ca/

Fiona McGier http://www.fionamcgier.com/

Ginger Simpson http://mizging.blogspot.com/

Rhobin Courtright http://www.rhobinleecourtright.com/

   Peace Corps Tonga, my group of volunteers off on our new adventure

My parents brought me up confident in my ability to do anything I wanted and equally confident that I was smart enough to make things happen. Ask anyone who knows me, I don’t lack for confidence . . . most of the time, anyway. In the second half of my life I chose to leave everything I knew behind and join the Peace Corps. Some of my friends thought I was crazy, others though I was brave. I didn’t think I was either. I was looking for an adventure, and I was confident I’d find it if I put my heart and soul into making it happen.

So, off I went. My dad took me to the airport and he so wanted to help me carry my luggage inside, but I reminded him I’d have to start hauling it myself soon and I might as well start now. I flew from the East Coast to Seattle where my group had their staging. It wasn’t really training so much as a chance to get to know the rest of the group. There were thirty of us, ages 21 through the early 70s. So, turns out I wasn’t the oldest one after all. The next leg of our trip took us to Hawaii, but the plane we were to be on from there to Tonga was grounded. We had a layover of twenty-seven hours and were given a hotel room and meal vouchers by the airline.

Arizona Memorial            At the top of Diamond Head              Sky Tower, Auckland        Looking straight down 

An unexpected adventure. We filled those hours with as much as we could, starting with a trip to the Arizona Memorial. Then half of us hiked up Diamond Head for a spectacular view of Honolulu and finally just five of us ended our busy day with a swim at Waikiki Beach. Then it was back to the hotel for dinner before catching a late night flight to Auckland, New Zealand. By the time we got to Auckland it was the day before again – we’d crossed the International Date Line and it was morning. We had only an eight-hour layover this time, but once again, there was an opportunity not to be missed. Setting off for downtown Auckland, we headed straight for the Sky Tower and took the elevator to the observation deck. The view was magnificent in all directions. All of Auckland harbor and the islands that dot it as well as the city itself. There were even glass panels to stand on and look straight down. Just my kind of fun. After returning to ground level, we headed to the harbor and found dozens of neat places to eat along the waterfront. Then it was time to head back to the airport.

It was dusk as we landed at Fua’amotu International Airport on the main island of Tonga. Out the tiny of windows of the airplane we could see the graceful palm trees silhouetted by the setting sun. It was a beautiful sight. What was not so welcome was the heat that attacked us as soon as we stepped from the air-conditioned cabin of our Air New Zealand jet. I’d been playing in the snow with my grandson just a week earlier. Seattle had been chilly and damp. Even Hawaii was in its winter mode with seasonably comfortable temperatures. Tonga was south of the equator and in the middle of summer.

Landing at Foua'amotu Airport            Finding our luggage and clearing customs

Tonga does not boast an air-conditioned airport, nor jetways to get into and out of the plane. I climbed down the stairs toward that steaming tarmac, closer and closer to the heat that had been stored up there all day. The terminal was no better. Several big ceiling fans lazily stirred the air as Tongans hauled suitcases off the conveyor as fast as they appeared, piling them into a mountain in the middle of the room. One had to be half billygoat to find and claim your luggage. Then there was a very slow line to clear customs. Finally, after what felt like hours in a sauna, we emerged into the now completely dark night. The air was soft and welcoming, and that’s where my Peace Corps adventure began. Greeting us just beyond the barriers were dozens of smiling faces and we were adorned with kahoas (leis) fragrant with dozens of blossoms and lovingly made for us personally.

Piling into a bus like nothing I’d ever seen with seats that folded into the aisles once the permanent seats were full, we were soon on our way to the guest house where we would be staying for the next week. That night, as I lay spread eagle on my bed beneath a fan that was as lazy as those at the airport, I pondered how very far I was from home and how very different my life was going to be for the next two years. I was on the other side of the world, on the other side of the equator, in a culture very different than the one I was familiar with. It was hotter than anything I’d experienced before, but one thing was already clear – the Tongans were the most welcoming, happy people I’d ever met. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” played in my head as I fell asleep that night. The adventure I’d been seeking was already unfolding. 

My home Stay family       Sapa'ata, my first home   Vava'u - my home for 2 years 

For more about my adventures in Tonga, see the Peace Corps Tab at the top of the page  or click here: Peace Corps

Few romances would find an appreciative audience without a bigger-than-life hero. In all my years as a fan of romances, I can think of only two books, perhaps three, where the hero was not a bigger-than-life personality in one way or another. The first was Georgette Heyer’s The Foundling and the second was Pamela Morsi’s Simple Jess. I fell in love with both Gilly and Jessie Best in spite of their lack of stature and importance, or perhaps because they exhibited all the characteristics that I admire. (Both books well worth the reading so perhaps you should look them up. Both are still available in one form or another.)

But many authors choose bigger-than-life heroes who are wealthy way beyond anything the average reader can even begin to imagine. Some are wealthy and powerful, CEOs of big international companies, or high up on the political totem poles. Then there are the physically elite. Romances featuring Navy SEALS are popular these days, and close behind them are elite soldiers and Marines, and special ops agents both in and out of government. While I’m not knocking these guys – who wouldn’t want to be filthy rich, or powerful, or elite in any field? – but what about the other heroes in our midst?  

Firemen have recently joined the elite mentioned above. In my book, they have been bigger-than-life all along, but perhaps 9/11 has suddenly made us more aware of the dangers these ordinary men (and women) among us face when they pull on their turnout gear and jump aboard a fire truck. Once upon a time doctors were standards on that list of well-off, smart, better than the ordinary heroes, but now we’ve begun to see men who are EMTs in civilian life. The medics who ignore their own safety to run through a hail of incoming fire to the aid of a fellow soldier has his own elite reputation already, but now we are beginning to see men who ride the ambulance in Everytown USA.

We can all see heroes in these kind of men. But what about the incredibly supportive, loving and understanding guy who’s there for the woman he loves no matter what, but is otherwise not remarkable at all? Or the father who’s patient, loving and involved with his kids or the guy who’s great with kids that aren’t even his?  Maybe they don’t don an expensively tailored suit and work in a spacious office earning obscene salaries, but instead, wear jeans and steel-toed boots and lead a blue-collar lifestyle. Hard-hatted daredevils who work high above the ground might seem bigger-than-life, but what about the guy who wrestles heavy machinery for a living, or digs graves? What about the guy who drives a snowplow on treacherous roads for hours in icy darkness so you can get to work in the morning, or the fellow who crawls out of bed in the middle of the night to climb a telephone pole in wind and rain to restore your power and your heat? And as for the military – beyond those elite heroes we all love to read about, there are thousands of men who never make the heroic list except in their own homes, but without them the SEALS and Special Forces guys and fighter jocks could not do what they do. Men who pull kerchiefs over their faces and drive convoys over roads infested with IEDs, men who keep the engines running in our warships or wear the many designated colored shirts that keep an aircraft carrier’s flight deck running smoothly and safely. All these and so many more are all men we can admire and look to as heroes. But they seem to rarely make it into romance novels.

Years ago, The Jackie Gleason show featured a sewer worker and a bus driver. They were the heroes of the series, but it was a comedy and their ordinariness made them the butt of jokes. The big television heroes back in those days were Matt Dillon and Lucas McCain, two very different men, but both carried guns and were very much bigger-than-life.  We’re still in love with cowboys, be they rodeo riders or ranchers and I have to admit there’s something endearing about a man who can ride any horse however mean one minute, then tip his hat and address a woman as ma’am the next, but there’s more to what makes a cowboy a hero, just as it takes more than money, prestige and power. And it is those other things that create the heroes I want to read about and write into my stories.

To me, a hero is a man who is strong and capable, yet kind and gentle. A man who loves with all his heart, even if he’s not so good with words. He may be hurt inside, but he does not take that hurt out on others either verbally or physically. He may be broken and afraid to reach out, but that very brokenness is often what makes him appealing. He’s kind, thoughtful, generous, caring, honest, and steadfast. Two of my favorite heroes from recent literature are Jamie Fraser from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon and T.J. Callahan from On the Island by Tracey Garvis-Graves. Jamie, I’ll admit, is bigger-than-life right from page one, but T.J. starts out as a 16 year old kid recovering from cancer and over the course of 4 very difficult years, becomes the kind of man any woman could fall in love with. They both have all of the virtues I just listed. 

     Jamie Fraser            T.J. Callahan 

So, who are your favorite heroes? And what characteristics most appeal to you? Who is the most unusual hero you’ve ever fallen in love with and why? I’d love to know and for the best answer I receive, I’ll send you a copy of my latest book, Loving Meg. You just need to leave an email address so I can find out where to send it.

Halloween Scavenger Hunt: Win Prizes!

In order to celebrate the release of our dessert book, Bake, Love, Write: 105Authors Share Dessert Recipes and Advice on Love and Writing several of us authors are offering a scavenger hunt with lots of prizes!

 

 

From October 6th through the 23rd, over 30 authors featured in Bake, Love, Write: 105 Authors Share DessertRecipes and Advice on Love and Writing are hosting a Halloween Scavenger Hunt. 

 

Here’s how it works: Participants visit the website or blog listed for each featured author to find a Halloween graphic hidden on one of the website or blog pages. The more sites you visit, the more chances you have to win. There are over 60 prizes with multiple winners. The list of prizes and the dates they will be given away is here.

 

Authors participating include: Lois Winston, Brenda Novak, Caridad Pineiro, Jessa Slade, Kathryn Jane, M.L. Guida, Skye Taylor, Cathryn Cade, Victoria Adams, Sharleen Scott, Kathleen Kaska, Erin Farwell, Daryl Devore, Cynthia Luhrs, E. Ayers, Chantilly White, Helena Fairfax, Molly MacRae, L.C. Giroux, Stacy Juba, B.V. Lawson, Ruby Merritt, Kay Manis, Ashlyn Chase, Kitsy Clare, Elizabeth Rose, Liese-Sherwood-Fabre, Sloan McBride, Elaine Joyce, Debra Goldstein, Barbara Phinney, Alicia Dean, Haley Whitehall, Terry Shames, Melinda Curtis, Lynn Cahoon, and Renee Field.

 

Here’s what you need to do: On October 6th, visit Sloan McBride’s blog where she’ll have all the information posted, including links to the authors' websites/blogs and a link to a page to type all the answers. If you want to have a handy reminder, you can also download the page of authors, websites/blogs, and for typing your answers here. The page will give you the authors’ names and links to their websites/blogs where you’ll search for the Halloween graphics.  Rafflecopter will be used to determine prizewinners.

 

* Tip - you can find one of the Halloween Graphics right here on Barefoot on the Beach. 

 

Here's the IMPORTANT part -- once you've filled in your answers, you must email the document to Sloan at sloanmcbride@gmail.com.  She’ll review the answers and will enter your name the number of times that corresponds to the number of sites you visited and provided the correct answers.  

 

Today we are pleased to have Ben Cameron visiting with us at Blogging on the Beach. He is the hero of Skye Taylor’s latest book, Loving Meg and the third son (by mere minutes) of Sandy and Nathan Cameron of Tide’s Way, North Carolina. The baby of the family, Jake Cameron, was with us earlier this year when his book, Falling for Zoe, came out, and Will, Ben’s identical twin, will hopefully stop by for a visit next year when Trusting Will is released.

So - Welcome, Ben. We know you grew up in Tides’s Way and come from a big family, that you’re married, to Meg, of course, and have two sons, Rick and Evan.  But who is Ben Cameron? Tell us about yourself.

You know, my wife and I had a discussion about that not so long ago. She seemed to think that my job was who I was, but I think I got her turned around.  At least I hope I have. Meg is the light of my life. She has been since I first met her. She was my best friend’s kid sister, and I had to pretend we were just friends for the first few years because I was way too old for her. But it was worth the wait. We’ve been married for ten years come next June and I can’t imagine life without her. Being a dad is another big part of who I am. Until Rick was born I never had a clue how terrific fatherhood could be. I have a fantastic dad of my own, but being a dad is even better.

What do you do for a living?

I raise and train German Shepherds for police work. It does keep me pretty busy, but I love working with the dogs, and I love seeing them succeed. I’ve got a new project in mind, too. It’s a long story how I got involved, and I’m sure that’s not what you’re interested in here so I’ll skip to the punch line. I want to enlarge my operation to include training dogs to work with returned veterans who are struggling with PTSD and other disabilities brought on in their service to our country. It’s be awhile before I can get it up and running, but eventually I want to have a home where the veterans will come to be paired with their dogs and training can happen. From what I’ve discovered having a service dog often can make the difference that all the drugs and psychiatric work can’t in helping these guys get their lives back, and I can’t think of anything more rewarding that making that happen.

Didn’t Meg just return from Iraq. She’s been in the Marines for most of your married life, but this was her first overseas deployment. That must have been difficult for you and the boys. What was the hardest part for you?

All of it. (Ben shakes his head and a cloud passes over his face.) I hated watching the news. It just made me more afraid than I already was. I knew she was out there, accompanying conveys along roads that those bas— sorry, terrorists love to booby trap with IEDs. So, I didn’t watch the news, and I tried to stay busy and not worry. But the hardest part was probably the nights. She tried to call as often as she could,and she’d time it when she knew I was climbing into bed. I’d lay there in the dark, clutching the phone to my ear, listening to her voice and wishing desperately that she was laying next to me instead, and that the nightmare of her being gone and in danger was over.

Have you ever told Meg that?

Yeah. I’ve told her, but I’m not sure she understood how really hard it was for me being left behind while she went off to conquer her world.  I told Will, too. He’s my twin you know. He’s the other half of me. I told him everything. Or most everything.

What’s it like being an identical twin?

You mean being the other half of me? (Ben chuckles) Will says the same thing. He thinks I’m the better half and if only he could be a little more like me, he’d be a better man. But I think it’s the other way around. Will is a lot like Meg and I admire that – that ability to strike out into the unknown – to take on a task that seems far bigger than it might have seemed at the start. Something bigger than just themselves, but they stick it out. They put themselves out there and do jobs others can’t. Me? I’ve been on the same path all my life. Everyone, including me, knew where I was going with my life since I was just a kid. And there wasn’t anything dangerous or adventurous about it.

What started you on your path in life so early?

You sure you want to hear this? It’s not all that exciting. Not when compared to the places Meg’s been.

We’re sure.

Well, when I was maybe nine or ten someone gave my dad this dog, Taffy. We’d always had dogs as long as I could remember, usually more than one at a time, and Dad was always the one who trained them. But Taffy just seemed like she was going to break him. I think she was a golden retriever, but so inbred there’s no doubt where her less than stellar brain capacity came from. She had one ear that popped up and flopped over half way up – the other hung down like a retriever’s is supposed to. It gave her this really silly goober look. Very fitting, considering.

Anyway, one day Dad was trying to teach her to stay. He’d take her out to this spot about 20 feet from the front steps and tell her to sit. She was great at sit. Then he’d give her the signal and verbal command to stay and he’d turn his back on her and come over to the steps. By the time he got there and turned around she was right behind him grinning up at him as if he’d told her to follow instead of stay. Finally, I asked Dad if I could try. He handed me the leash and said go to it. Neither of us really expected much. But I walked out to the magic spot and told her to sit, put my hand in front of her nose and said stay as sternly as I could with my little kid’s voice and headed back to the porch. Dad was sitting with his elbows resting on the step behind him watching, but even before I got to him, he sat up and looked from me to somewhere behind me. I turned around expecting to see Taffy right on my heels like she’d been on dad’s every time. But I was gobsmacked. She was still sitting where I’d left her. I called her and she dashed toward me so fast she ran me down. And that was when me and everyone else knew I’d end up training dogs for a living.

Marrying Meg was another thing everyone knew long before it happened. Long before Meg knew it anyway. I grew up in my parents house by the sea and I told them I was always going to live there too. I saw this spot of land when I was still in college. I didn’t have scratch for money, but I begged my dad to give me the down payment and I worked two jobs all through college to make the mortgage payments. So, you see, Will and I are like the other half of each other. He’s Alpha. I’m Beta. He’s the adventurous one. He’s impatient to see new things, go new places, meet new people all the while I’m living the life I planned out years ago. I’m so settled down I can’t imagine life any other way. Will’s still trying out every new extreme sport that catches his fancy and dating lots of really nice ladies but not settling for just one. Although I really hope he finds his Miss Right. I’d like him to have what I have with Meg.

I know you’re a busy man with things to do and places to go, even if they aren’t far from home or dangerous, so I’ll let you go. But we’ve enjoyed having you. Thanks for coming.

It was my pleasure. Thanks for having me.

If any of my history teachers from all those years ago could catch a glimpse of where I’ve ended up, jaw-dropping, eyebrow-raising surprise would be their primary reaction. I was far better at math – where if you understood the concept, you could work your way through the problem. But memorizing anything was torture. Back then, in most of the classes I labored through, it seemed like there were always lists to be memorized: generals in a war, presidents of the US, major events in an era, or where and when treaties were signed. Back then history was old news, and I was still too young to appreciate the fact that what we don’t know about our pasts generally means making the same mistakes in our future. So, I left high school behind, happy to know I’d never have to labor through another history book.

But one thing I always did love was reading, and as a young adult, I discovered Georgette Heyer who at the time was the queen of the Regency romance market. Luckily for me, she was prolific and had been around for many years so it took me a while to plow my way through all her popular romances. Then I moved on to her other books, mysteries and historicals. And that’s when I discovered The Conqueror, one of Heyer’s historical novels based on real people and real events. Suddenly, William, the Bastard Duke of Normandy became a flesh and blood person to me and in all the years since I read that book, remembering his conquest of England on the battlefield of Hastings in 1066 has never been a problem. Nor were many of the other facts about that fascinating, powerful man. Soon, I was scouring the library shelves for other books about England’s history. At one point in my life, I could have reeled off the entire line of kings and queens from William I to Elizabeth II, and I can still probably come pretty close. How was it that this history-phobe had become a history nut?  

By then I was a mother of four and very caught up in raising my family. Otherwise, I’d likely have gone back to school and become a history teacher because I thought I had the secret to making history relevant. Heyer had recreated the world that William lived in and made him come alive for me and suddenly I cared. I wanted to know when he became king and how and I wanted to know so much more. My personal heritage includes a large chunk of English ancestors, but the Scottish ones fascinated me more, so I began to delve into Scottish history. William Wallace and Roy Roy were my heroes along with the long line of Stewart Kings, even though many were anything but heroic. The sad tale of Mary Stewart and her treatment by Elizabeth I was the stuff of legends, but Mary was pretty much the author of her own fate and I loved reading about the Scots right up to their sobering loss at Culloden in 1746. It was only thirty years later that America plunged into her own war of Independence and it occurred to me at this point that studying and understanding my own American history should become my focus.

But since it was a hobby and not a course of study with attendant tests and grades, I was free to pursue it whatever way I liked and for me that meant reading dozens of historic “novels.” Novels because the authors had injected thoughts and dialog into the telling, but with thorough research and diligent adherence to the true facts. The American history my many teachers had once tried to pound into my head became a part of me without all the effort and endless rote of memorization that had turned me off before. I admit I am still very much a hobbyist rather than a true student of history, and I tend to jump from one interesting period to another skipping the boring parts in between, but now when I visited historic sites I viewed them differently. As a child, I had visited the Custis Lee mansion that sits on the hill above Arlington National Cemetery and giggled helplessly as I rolled down that hill with my cousins. Today there would be no giggling, rolling kids because the eternal flame that honors JFK sits at the foot of that hill, but now I can imagine the generations of Lees and Custises and descendants of George Washington himself living in that stately home and understand some of the anguish that went with the creation of that cemetery. I won’t bore you with the incredibly long list of places I’ve been where history has suddenly become very real for me, but one thing is certain, once that spark of interest was created, the rest all fell into place.

Now my focus is on creating that spark for my grandchildren. Following my own circuitous path to an appreciation for history, I give them age appropriate historical novels where historic figures become real people with families and friends and pets and favorite meals. Then I take them on a field trip to the places they just read about. Maybe none of them will become history teachers or historians, but I hope in some small way to make American history come alive for them. To make them care about the frightened farmers who stood their ground on Concord Green. To help them understand the despair George Washington felt when he knelt in the snow praying for his soldiers at Valley Forge. I want them to know the value of the things so many have struggled and fought for over our country’s 200+ year history. How else can we place a value on what our country has become today?

My grandson and I watched a re-enactment at Fort Ticonderoga and got up at 4:00 in the morning to see a handful of “colonists” face the might of the British Army at Lexington. We visited Old Ironsides and learned what it was like to be a sailor in the War of 1812, we hiked up Bunkerhill Monument and visited Paul Revere’s house, Old North Church and Faneuil Hall and dozen’s more neat places. Now I’ve a new crop of grandkids old enough to capture their fancy with the right book. We’ve visited Washington’s Crossing in Pennsylvania, Valley Forge, the Tea Party museum in Boston and Mount Vernon and Williamsburg. And we’ve only just begun.

Since I moved to St Augustine, Florida, I now live in the oldest continuously occupied European city in North America. At every corner there is something of historic importance here, from the landing of Ponce de Leon to the takeover by the British, to Flagler and his hotels and the African American struggle for equality. One simply can’t move around the city without noticing it. But even if you could overlook the brick and mortar remnants of history, St Augustine loves to re-enact and celebrate everything. We have Sir Francis Drake plundering the city and pirates looting it every year on the anniversary of those events in history. We welcome Pedro Menendez de Aviles ashore every September and have Spanish Night Watch and British Night watch annually as well. It’s pretty much impossible to ignore the history of this little city and I’ve got a section of my closet where garments more suitable for the 1600 and 1700s hang so I can participate instead of just watch. I’ve worked as a 1740s Spanish tavern wench, dined at British Night Watch as a Scottish lady and attended Mass with Aviles and his entourage.

American history is rich and diverse and full of stories of gallantry and sacrifice. If, like me, you came to an appreciation long after you left off sitting at a desk in school, what sparked your interest? What caught your attention and wouldn’t let go? Was it programs like the multi-part series on the Roosevelts on PBS, or was it a story like Killer Angels by Michael Shaara who made so many of those who fought and died at Gettysburg become real people with loves and lives beyond the war and those horrible four days of battle. Leave me a comment below – I’d love to hear what fascinates you about our long and incredible history.

An elderly gentleman in my neighborhood stopped to chat on his early morning walk one recent morning. I don’t usually see him at that time of day because I’m usually still in the sack. The reason for my being up that day was a bulging disc complicated by some serious arthritis in my lower back and the resulting pain had been waking me up well before daybreak. So, when David mentioned that he noticed the sun had come up again, I glanced toward the gorgeously tinted eastern sky and thought, but of course it came up. It always comes up.

It comes up whether the sky is clear and we can see the resulting glory of its rising or not. It comes up even if our heads are still buried in our pillows like mine usually is. Of course it came up. Then it occurred to me that what David was saying was that it came up again for him. None of us are getting any younger and every new day is a gift. Such a huge and wonderful blessing and how easily overlooked. We chatted for a while longer before he went on his way and I turned to come back into my house to fix some breakfast. But somehow, that comment started a ball rolling for me.

For the rest of the day I noticed blessings in places I far too often overlooked, especially during the last two weeks of pain and sleepless nights. There were other neighbors also up earlier than my usual and they all called out a cheerful good morning as they passed. What blessing. I have wonderful neighbors. I fixed my bowl of cereal and carried it out to the deck to eat while I read the paper. But instead of reading the paper with it’s discouraging list of world problems and local mayhem, I watched the sea turn from the early morning pearl to bright blue as the sun rose higher in the sky. What a blessing to live here where I get to see this every day if I so choose.

As the day progressed there were more blessings. I have other neighbors who stopped long enough to say Hi and a dog who refuses to let me miss any such opportunity for socializing. I’ve a UPS driver who knows Duff by name and always calls out to him as he passes. Although that day he stopped to deliver a package. He called to Duff and told him to go get his toy, which Duff did, then he threw it for Duff to chase. Then he gave me my package, which turned out to be my box of author copies of my just released new book. I opened them right there while the UPS driver played with the dog and I showed him my book and gave him the elevator speech. Turns out his daughter served in the Army, in Iraq, and dealt with many of the same issues my heroine had. What a blessing to share that moment with this man who I know only by his smiling face and his job as my UPS driver.

There is a family of siblings whose mom used to live just down the street. They come from all over and even though she is gone, they still come to visit this wonderful little island. I wrote before in my blog about their habit of strolling down the road to the edge of the ocean to say goodnight, and it’s just as cheerful a sight today as it was then. Another blessing to my day to hear their loving, spirited chatter as they share those special moments together.

I got emails and FB messages from several friends who were checking in on me to see how my back was. Friends are a blessing and that they took time out of their day to think of me another blessing. I wasn’t so happy with the agent at my insurance company who blithely reminded me that there is generally a 5-business-day turn-around time on authorization for treatment. Didn’t she understand that I was in pain? But perhaps she did. She put me on hold while she took the time to check the status of my request and discover it had been processed. She advised me to have the doctor’s office call later for the approval. It was a blessing that she didn’t hold my pain-induced snippiness against me and that she took the time to check on it. It’s a blessing I have insurance in the first place, although that’s another thing I tend to overlook far too often. Along with a roof over my head and food in my fridge, a safe place to sleep at night and freedoms beyond the imagination of much of the world.

My son called me that evening to check up on me, too, and his wife did so via our family chat. They remembered me in the midst of their own crisis. Her father died unexpectedly and they had to travel a thousand miles away to deal with the crisis leaving their three kids at home because Noel’s mom is wheelchair-bound and was very dependent on Noel’s Dad. I should have been able to fly up and help out, but due to my back was unable to and it frustrated me no end. But even without me, Alex had back-up. His brother gave up his long weekend at the summer place to stay at the house and care for the kids along with his wife and daughters. My sister came down that first night the children would be on their own after the nanny left. My oldest daughter drove down to care for them at night the following week. The nanny, God bless her, kept life on schedule, marking important things like Natalie's first day of school. My middle daughter’s husband flew down in mid-week to help with the packing up of two lives because Noel’s mom couldn’t stay there on her own. He also drove the motorcycle all the way from Tennessee to Maryland and with plans to sell it for my son and daughter-in-law (it was just one of so many things they were dealing with and Joe opted to take that off their plate.)

In fact, as I thought about it, when Alex and Noel had to fly out to Tennessee with no forewarning and for such a difficult task, all their siblings pulled together. When I think of what a wonderful bunch of kids I have, I am humbled. They are truly the biggest blessings of my whole life.

Here's my biggest blessing a few years back                  They've grown in number too many to count

Bobbi, Jeff, Alex, Rebecca & Lori (in front)                      My kids, their husbands and wives, my grandkids, their 

                                                                                  sweethearts, and so many more...   

So, yes, the sun did come up that morning. And I was there to see it.