St. Patrick's Day part 2 by Bonnie Le Hamilton

 

Last week Konnie writing about St. Patrick’s Day traditions brought back some memories. Starting with Jon must have pinched her in third grade, or she didn’t remember the whole deal because in fourth grade (our last year to attend that school) between Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day Jon repeatedly told everyone he’d learned that non-Irish folks were supposed to wear YELLOW on St. Patrick’s Day, and such folks could get pinched if they weren’t.

Now personally, I wondered why he kept stressing the wearing of yellow since our own shared grandmother was of Irish descent complete with an Irish maiden name. And I really should have said something to him about grandma’s Irish heritage, but I didn’t. My mistake.

Now, I’ve rarely ever worn green, and that year I didn’t have anything at all in my wardrobe which at least some green in it (not even in the dirty clothes). Momma fixed that by making a shamrock out of green construction paper and pinning it to my blouse.

If I recall correctly, she did the same for Konnie, and our brother.

Upon entering school, Jon did sneak up on us, and he might well have gotten Konnie before she got her coat off, but he got me while I had my coat off my shoulders, thereby with my own shamrock in full view.

The jerk defended pinching me on the grounds I wasn’t wearing yellow. I punched the idiot and reminded him of our shared grandmother’s name, which also happens to be the middle name of all our aunts and uncles on that side, so there was no way he didn’t know.

Our brother, noting that Jon was wearing yellow, not green pinched Jon, then proceeded to tell the all kids in the school that our family, the side we're related to Jon on, is of Irish descent, meaning our cousin was inappropriately dressed for the day.

And yes, that school did ban pinching after that, because Jon went home black and blue at the end of that day, far too many of our fellow classmates were sick and tired of Jon’s excessive pinches on St. Patrick’s Day, and way more had been pinched by him that morning than previous years because very few were wearing yellow.

And, like I said, I did punch the idiot. I actually punched him about the time the teacher came to see what the hullabaloo was out in the corridor. She witnessed it, but I didn’t get in trouble because the pinch marks on both mine and Konnie’s arms and the fact that we are of Irish descent, and the teacher, who clearly knew both our mothers knew full well what their full names were.

Jon does have younger siblings, and two at least were in school, but if I recall correctly the older of the two was wearing something which had both green and yellow in it because I remember talking to her about how wise she’d been, but I can’t remember for sure about the younger ones.

Anyway, Jon had most defiantly pinched way too hard every year on St. Patrick’s Day (which was why we were so adamant that we needed to wear green that morning), but I have no idea when the tradition changed from pinching those that didn’t wear green (or yellow as the case may be). I only learned about this Leprechaun hunting shtick a few years ago when a young mother mentioned playing tricks on her daughters for St. Patrick’s Day.

At any rate, I applaud doing away with pinching. I applaud making it just something fun to do. Chocolate gold coins and leprechaun traps are a whole lot more fun.

It’s great to know no more kids are going to wake up on the St. Patrick’s Day and panic because they have nothing green to wear. No more kids are going to fear what will happen when the known hard pincher at school sees them without green.

Anyone know when this started? And where?

I’m not saying I’m sorry the pinching tradition is over; I’m actually quite glad no more kids have to endure any more bruising pinches like Jon always delt out, I’m just curious where and when it started is all.

Certainly not at any time while I was living at home. And nobody told me about it for that short-lived period when I did have children in my home. So, I’m guessing it’s a 21st-century thing. I did not have any children in this century.

I clearly remember my panic that morning back in fourth grade. Mine, and Konnie’s, and Bryon’s. That’s why Momma came up with the construction paper shamrocks in the first place.

Well, happy writing everyone! 

Of Traditions by Konnie Enos

I can remember, somewhere in the very early 70s when I was in grade school, walking into the school and stopping in the hallway by the row of hooks there to hang up my coat. It wasn’t quite yet spring weather yet therefore I had on a nice warm coat.

Before I even had it unbuttoned, my cousin came up to me and pinched me hard enough I yelped. A teacher came out to find out what happened and we told her. At this point, I still hadn’t gotten my coat off.

Now our school did have policies about hitting and pinching so normally he would have been immediately punished for his infraction.

On this particular day, he was positive he wouldn’t be punished or even yelled at, not even when he’d done it as hard as he did.

I, on the other hand, was indignant at being pinched at all, let alone that it hurt and left a clear mark on me. I remember the teacher could still see the mark he left. I wanted vindication.

What did I get?

The teacher told my cousin not to pinch that hard.

That’s right, the teacher did not enforce any of our school rules.

I did not think it was fair and was rather upset about it. As I took my coat off and hung it up, with my back to the teacher and my cousin, I told the teacher I hadn’t been expecting to be pinched.

She told me I should have expected it and if I hadn’t wanted to be pinched, I should have prepared accordingly.

I then spun around to face them and said, “I did!”

With my coat now not covering the front of my shirt it was obvious I had indeed made appropriate preparations.

You see, it was March 17^th. The day for the wearing of the green. My outfit that day was, as I recall, a pantsuit. One whose most predominant color was purple as I remember. The only other thing I remember is neither my coat nor shoes were green.

I did, however, have something green pinned, quite prominently, to the front of my shirt. It was large enough to not be missed. It was also right where it could not be seen with my coat on.

Well at this point the teacher could not give Jon the usual punishment for pinching because it was a free reign that day, but she did reprimand him and told him he could not pinch anybody at all until after he’d made certain they had no green on, more specifically, their coats off.

Though I think it wasn’t long after this event when that particular school banned St. Patrick’s Day pinching altogether.

As widespread and common as this activity was when I was growing up, I’ve been amazed at the number of people I know who has never heard of it. I know most schools have banned it mostly because of how hard some kids would pinch, thankfully.

When my kids were in school they focused on “catching leprechauns” instead. Once one of my older girls asked me what kind of traps and such we had come up with to catch leprechauns when we were in grade school. I had to tell her none. I’d never even heard of making leprechaun traps until they were in grade school.

I can also remember people who weren’t of Irish descent NOT wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day. Instead, they wore yellow. However, I also remember that most non-Irish would wear at least a token bit of green because very few people bothered to find out if they were Irish or not before pinching them.

I don’t like the tradition of pinching others and I’m glad it’s being dropped for less offensive traditions. Of course, nowadays I doubt anyone would dare pinch someone not wearing the green. Not just because that tradition is disappearing, or even the issues with the current pandemic (though I’m positive it would be a deterrent), but rather because people are recognizing that even pinching can be as hurtful or traumatizing as hitting. This is a good thing.

 I can also remember wearing green to bed to prevent my brother from pinching me before I even got out of bed. I still did that as a young mother.

Now?

Since I’m staying in all day I doubt I’ll even worry about the wearing of the green. After all, my kids aren’t going to pinch me. Partly because I’m Mom, but mostly because they didn’t grow up with that tradition.

What St. Patty’s Day traditions did you grow up with and which ones do you still follow.

May the luck of the Irish be with ya.

Smile. Make the day a brighter day.

A Magical Book by Bonnie Le Hamilton

 

Last week Konnie did a book review and I’m going to do the same this week, but not for the same reason. In fact, I hadn’t planned it until this past Friday when I learned of this book, The Crooked Swan.

It started when I went to visit a friend of mine from church Friday morning before my stint of volunteering at the visitor’s center, and well, I noticed she had a stack of the same book on her bookcase. Understandably, I was curious.

It isn’t a big book, but she had more than half a dozen and she isn’t a writer, there had to be a reason. And there was. The tiny tome was written by my friend’s aunt-in-law. She and her husband had acquired so many copies so each of their children could have a copy of their own.

Even more intrigued, I asked if I could see it.

I read the blurb on the back, and I just had to read it.

Not a long story. Not even 150 pages.

She offered to let me borrow a copy, and I took it with me when I left to go to the visitor’s center. And it seemed kind of unreal, since I had planned to leave her house in time to head to the visitor’s center, I had already packed my lunch, my computer, and the book I was in the middle of to have plenty to do while I sat around at the visitor’s center, and here I was loaned yet another book.

Once I was sitting behind the desk at the center, I thought about reading my book but I found myself opening The Crooked Swan.

Now I’m a slow reader, always have been.

When my time was up and I went home, I was nearly done.

I cracked the book open just after 12 noon. So, between then and four-thirty, give or take a few trips to the restroom and the drive home, I read and finished this book.

It's sweet, compelling, and riveting!

This is actually a small chapter book, so perfect for children. I think any young girl, particularly, would love this story. The title character is a child, a child who wants to be a ballet dancer. The story is however in the POV of an adult who experiences the magic in this wonderful story.

The magic is the best part of this story, and I found the fact that the POV character didn’t recognize the magic from the start the best part.

Then again, I’m not sure anyone else would know the second the magic started in this story because I have such a tendency to “see” what is coming in a story or movie before they happen. Most infamously was way back when my family and I watched the fourth episode of the Star Wars series not long after it was released, ergo long before episode five was released.

On the ride home afterward, I told my family, “Just watch Luke and Lea are twins separated at birth.”

My family derided me and even told me Luke and Lea were in love and would marry and have children. “Nah. She’s going to end up with Solo.”

They didn’t believe me until they watched episode five.

I told you so.

But it isn’t just then.

The first time I watched “Where the Red Ferns Grows” without having read the book yet, I just knew where they’d find that Ghost Coon several minutes before the boys actually found it, and I knew the cougar was going to attack ahead of time too.

I do it a lot with books too.

I somehow just know what is coming, and I often know it’s coming before anyone else reading the same book. I learned that while I was attending the book club. I knew approximately what would happen in one book before the end of the first chapter, no one else in the group figured it out that soon.

I actually think that is why I like mysteries so much. I can’t seem to figure out who the bad guy is until he is revealed in the book.  I can still know when the POV character really shouldn’t relax their vigilance, but I’m always surprised in the end who did it.

Thereby to say I figured it out so soon in “The Crooked Swan” isn’t a bad thing. I figure it out ahead of time in like HP and every romance I’ve ever read.

That is just something I can do. I don’t know how.

Anyway, “The Crooked Swan” is a book you should consider reading. It was written by Julie Helm and you can find it on Amazon.

Get it, read it, enjoy it.

Happy reading everyone!

Of Reading and Great Books by Konnie Enos

 

As a normal rule, I read one book at a time. There are times when I will read one right after the other as they are all in the same series, but I have never had more than one book at a time that I was currently reading.

That all changed this week.

Several weeks ago I was able to not only replace, yet again, my copy of “The Chronicles of Narnia” but I was also able to get a new copy of C.S. Lewis’ sci-fi which I have not read in at least a couple of decades. (Easily more than three since I’ve been married 30 years and I’m almost positive I haven’t read it while I’ve been married.)

Since I finally had a copy, I was determined to read it again. I, however, ran into a problem. I could not see the printed word after sundown. I’m assuming this has something to do with my recent cataract surgeries because it has made my chronically dimly lit bedroom seem even darker still.

With nothing to do and wanting to read, though unable to read my physical book, I picked up my kindle. I finally selected one of my clean romances.

So during daylight, I was reading one tomb (which is a combination of three books) and at night I’d read on my kindle.

Now it may have ended with me reading just two books but it so happens I was introduced to a new fantasy book, as in one released just this year. Knowing the basic premise of the story, I wanted a copy. I was able to order it recently.

Since I was sure I would not be finished reading the sci-fi before the fantasy arrived, I figured I’d finish reading the sci-fi then pick up the fantasy.

It arrived Saturday.

What did I do?

Within minutes I cracked the binding and was itching to read it. I, of course, succumbed and read several chapters until it was too dark to see.

The next day I struggled as to which of the two books to finish. Logically I should finish the sci-fi, which I was about half finished with.

Logic prevailed long enough for me to read a chapter or two. At which point I was curious as to what happened next so I picked up the fantasy. Several chapters later it was again too dark to read. At the end of the day, I picked up my Kindle hoping to get a few pages in before I fell asleep.

I have heard the light from such technology can keep you awake. I assure you it does not do the same for me. After dropping, or nearly dropping, my kindle several times I gave up and went to bed after only a few pages.

Monday was a repeat.

Tuesday, I picked up the fantasy first. I eventually found myself so close to the end that I kept reading, even resorting to holding a flashlight so I could see the printed words.

Yes, I finished a 420 pages tomb in four days, while reading two other books, doing some household chores, running errands, looking for work, and dealing with our monthly budget (the next step is paying the bills). Of all the books I’ve read in my lifetime, relatively few of them have riveted my attention so completely that I could not put it down until I had consumed every last word. This is one of those stories. I’m sure, had I been able to concentrate on just reading this one book, I could have finished it in a day, flashlight in hand after dark.  

As I have said, this book would be listed under fantasy, a work of fiction with monsters, dragons, fairies, etc. liberally mentioned throughout. But the drawing point is that it’s a story of Arthurian legend. If you are drawn to stories of Camelot then you should check out “Gawain” by Paul McLerran. (Available on Amazon.)

If you enjoy the tales of Camelot and King Arthur, you should consider reading this tale. It has all the characters you know from other tales, but tells the whole story from a new angle, weaving everything we know and love about Camelot into this new story. Mr. McLerran (in the prologue) even explains all the sources he researched to keep his version true to the Camelot stories we know.

I can say nothing more or less than I absolutely enjoyed reading this book, so if you are looking for a great read, check it out.

Smile. Make the day a brighter day.

Signs of a Writer by Bonnie Le Hamilton

 

 

It is, at this point, seven weeks since I submitted my manuscript to Entangled Press. I still haven’t heard anything from them. And I’m still praying they’ll say yes.

The problem is, much better writers have been turned down way more times, so the chances of my story being accepted are slim. Ah well. Writing is hard, and trying to sell our stories is even harder.

But I do know that I am a writer.

I read an article the other day that I found on Pinterest which listed ten signs you are a writer. First off, the article was written in 2015 on a blog by The Writing Kylie, so it is on the old side, but very valid.

Let’s go over the list:

#1. You constantly dream about writing or about your story.

                        Definitely.

#2. You absolutely love to read.

Now we all know writers are readers, and yes, I love to read.

#3. You feel doubt.

I honestly couldn’t believe this was on the list, but well, the article put it simply – you only doubt when it matters to you. Boy, do I doubt!

#4. You lose track of time when you write.

And when I read. 😊 It doesn’t have to be a story I’m writing; it just has to be good!

#5. You feel like something is missing when you don’t write.

                        So, that’s my problem!

#6. You are better at working out your thoughts and feelings through writing than talking about them out loud.

Okay, this is not me, but the list isn’t one of those where you have to have all the symptoms either. However, I am way more erudite on paper than orally.

#7. You want to spend more time with fictional characters then you do with real people.

Come on, fictional characters are way easier to deal with, even when they are fighting your ideas for them.

#8. You can’t walk past a bookstore without going inside.

Actually, I can – I’m broke. I refuse to go in because I can’t afford to buy anything. But that’s new stores. I buy them all the time used (along with Nativities). Thrift stores are our friends, and don’t forget Thrift Books!

#9. Your favorite beverage is coffee or tea, preferably in abundance.

Okay, not me or Konnie. And not just because they are against our religion, I don’t like caffeinated drinks. Though I do sometimes drink herbal tea.

#10. You have more notebooks than sheets for your bed.

Duh! I only have two sets of sheets. That’s easy who can live with only two notebooks?

I’m just wondering if there are more signs that a person is supposed to be a writer.

For starters, I’d add to #10 by saying: you always have a notepad and pen with you no matter what.

Or maybe a sign could be that there are creative people all over your family tree.

I’m not talking just writers, but artists of all sorts. Konnie and I have a family tree full of creative people. Do you?

And let’s not forget that very famous writer I found on our family tree. A fellow by the name of William Shakespeare. 😊

Writing is in our blood.

Being creative is who we are. But of course, many writers are the lone wolf in their family, so what is another sign?

Could it be?

            They talk constantly about their characters as if they were real people.

            Who thinks of what happens to their characters or the characters in a story they are reading as being real? I remember once when Konnie complained that two of her daughters were talking about the characters in my manuscript (the one I submitted) so incessantly it was driving Konnie up the wall!

And the thing is, I've done that to some extent with either what I’ve read, or what I’m writing. Have you done it? Then again, isn’t that sort of what #7 is about?

How about, does anyone ever spend hours staring at a blank screen, trying to get the words to flow from your brain to your fingertips?

I hate when that happens, but I think only a true writer would suffer from the “blank-screen” syndrome because only a writer would have doubts and fears about picking the right words to fill it. Only a true writer would freeze when it came to starting a new story.

Don’t you agree?

I think another one might be that only a true writer will edit their work. Only a true writer knows that the first draft is rough and will need a lot of work, and only a writer will bother doing that work. Does anyone disagree?

What would you say is a sign of a true writer?

Anyway, happy writing everyone.

Of Muses and Other Fleeting Things by Konnie Enos

 

I had, after much musing on what I might write for this post, sat down at my computer and started typing. I did not finish.

Why?

Because my husband came in and insisted I immediately leave my computer and assist him with an issue. I attempted to find out what exactly he wanted me to do that required me to leave my computer.

He was somewhat clear in what he wanted but that didn’t really answer the question because I could not see how my going to the front room was going to affect the matter. I reluctantly went to the front room.

I’m pretty sure my husband was expecting my presence to result in the outcome he wanted. I was positive I would have no effect on the outcome and it wouldn’t be what he wanted.

Twenty minutes later and the culmination was pretty much what I expected.

I then, of course, return to my computer as I do need to get my post typed up.

I glance at the page. I’ve not only typed nearly 200 words, but I’d just started typing a word when my husband interrupted. At this point, I have no idea what word I had started to type.

I read the previous sentence. It doesn’t jog my memory.

I go over everything I had typed. Not only is it not jogging my memory. I can no longer grasp the trails of the thought I was attempting to put into words. Not just the missing word, but the entire theme of the post.

I stare at it for some moments but the idea is no longer there. The disturbance has completely erased it and I’m unable to finish the page, let alone the post.

After some effort, I determine to try to relocate my idea or find a new one.

I spend hours on this endeavor. Nothing is coming to me.

My only thoughts are my frustration at being interrupted in the middle of a word.

Every time I have to leave in the middle of a word I find I can’t even remember what the word was let alone the thought I was attempting to expound on.

It generally helps to just start writing, something. Even working on another story helps. So, in desperation, and hoping to release the flow of words, I open up a new document.

I take the time to format it.

I stare at the screen.

I try to think of anything pleasant or funny or important I could write about. I try to find the threads of what I had started to post.

I am getting nowhere.

I browse some more for inspiration with none forthcoming.

Now another thing I’ve been dealing with is Thursday evening my right wrist started hurting. It’s doing better now and I can take off the splint I was given for extended periods without pain.

Guess what? Typing aggravates it. I know how to touch type so, for the most part, it isn’t in my way to have the splint on, but it limits the range of my fingers and I have to move off the home keys to hit backspace, enter, or the shift on my right side. I also can’t hit the ‘/” without moving my hand because my pinky cannot move that far in the splint. If I try to hit the number keys at the top, my wrist is resting on the alt and ctrl buttons and the spacebar.

Yes, that can mess things up.

Now, after hours of fighting this, I’m tired and nowhere near finished with my post.

It is far too late to get my sister to substitute for me. Even if I could, I have no real excuse since I am capable of typing (with some minor accommodations).

I try to think of other options and come up with only one, stream of thought.

Fun, three pages of my ramblings about whatever it is I’m thinking about, but the only thing on my mind is my broken concentration and sore wrist.

Not anything to write about.

So my original idea is scrapped for lack of concentration and my replacement is just everything fleeting across my mind as I sit here trying to figure out if I can even write coherent sentences giving that it’s now the middle of the night and I need sleep.

The plus to typing this late is my family members are either asleep or being quiet so they don’t disturb my daughter, the one who is in bed by 9:30 every night. More specifically the one who has no problem expressing her extreme displeasure at her sleep being disrupted by our lights or talking.

Have you ever had days like this? I know I have.

Smile. Make the day a brighter day.

Twins and other things by Bonnie Le Hamilton

 

I am a writer, promise, even if most of the writing I’ve done this calendar year has been for this blog.

On the other hand, I am also an avid reader, and so far this year, I’ve read quite a number of books, which for me is enormous because I’m such a slow reader.

Though I have started working on my Sci-Fi again. And no, I don’t mean my sort of Sci-Fi Contemporary Romance, I mean my epic war story Sci-Fi, which is looking to be as big as Konnie’s epic war story Sci-Fi. And believe it or not, the only things those two stories have in common is they are Sci-Fi, they are about war, and their writers are mirror twins.

Oh, I almost forgot, we both have characters in our stories who are identical twins. But who can blame us for having twins in our stories? After all, we know a lot about twins.

Actually, I have both identical and fraternal twins in mine, though technically one of the fraternal twins died before my story begins. The heroine is taking care of her dead twin’s children at the start of my story.

In Konnie’s story, one of her identical twins is hiding just how smart he is, while most of the people around him consider his brother the better catch. In her story, Mr. Smarty-pants worked out a solution to what he considered a minor flaw in their ships engines and in the process eliminated a major disadvantage they had against their enemy, all while Mr. Supposedly-a-good-catch has to deal with more than one mighty big blow to his ego and do a whole lot of growing up.

In mine, what I’ve written so far, the hero and heroine are suffering from the delusion that their twins are better. He thinks his twin is smarter, wiser, and craftier, while she thinks her dead twin is better looking, though she also doesn’t consider all the things she can make means she’s gifted with talent, she considers everything she can do as just everyday stuff. She thinks she’s average.

So, I guess we have that in common in our stories too. We both have sets of twins that have very different personalities. Then again, we know from experience that even twins with a lot in common can have very different personalities.

We are a prime example of that.

I’m known for my temper.

When Konnie loses it; duck for cover! Better yet, pray she’s not mad at you!

The last time I saw her throw a snit, I scurried out of the house as fast as I could and stayed away for a couple of hours just to avoid her laying into me too.

And I think I’ve already mentioned that my (normally) gentle, easy-going twin has used a swear word a grand total of once, even if her kids insist, she never swears.

Once in fifty plus years is not never.

I can’t say the same.

There was a time when I made liberal use of such language. Right up until an English teacher told me that using swear words denotes a minuscule vocabulary.

Anyway, it got to me, because even way back then, I didn’t have a small vocabulary. Thanks to our big sister, nicknamed Dictionary, neither of us has ever had a small vocabulary.

Another difference in us is the men we picked to marry. My dearly departed husband once said he only got along with Jerry because he was married to my twin.

In other words, he forced himself to keep a civil tongue while around Jerry because of Konnie and me.

But Jerry drove Tom up the wall, and he could only stand so much of him before he had to get away from Jerry’s company fast! That is mostly because of how outgoing, and talkative Jerry is, but it also extends to the very different interests and hobbies.

Yeah, those two were like night and day. The only thing they had in common was marrying us.

In fact, Tom was a foot taller than me while Jerry is lucky he found a woman shorter than him to marry. Actually, he managed to find a wife so short that her standing next to him makes him look tall!

While me standing next to my husband would only accentuate how short I am.

And don’t think it hasn’t escaped us that our husbands are Tom and Jerry. We got that a long time ago. After I got over calling her nuts for planning to marry a Navy guy despite my four years of experience married to one.

And let’s not get into our pets or the difference in noise levels in our homes.

Anyway, happy writing everyone!