Happy Birthday!

It's the granddaughter's Big 0-6 Birthday today. How in the world can she be SIX already? She was just a baby the other day. Experience tells me that in no time at all she's not going to want to play "Big Cinderella and Little Cinderella" anymore. She has quite an imagination -- don't know where she gets THAT.

We two Cinderellas have had some exciting adventures. Imagine my surprise one day when we were pretend floating in our pretend boat (read: couch) down the pretend river in our beautiful pretend pink and blue satin dresses, not to mention our pretend crowns and jewels -- on our way to a dance at the castle so we could meet the Handsome Prince -- when she suddenly announced that we had to deal with a bunch of Vikings. (I'm not sure if they were Norsemen or football players.) Either way, the Vikings were no match for us (Girl Power!) and we arrived at the castle still gorgeous with hardly a hair out of place. We met the Handsome Prince and broke his heart when the clock struck midnight and we had to dash away. (He's still not over it.) That's the good thing about pretend satin princess dresses -- you can dash all you want.

I asked her last month what she'd like for her birthday. "Pink," she said. She doesn't care what it is. It just needs to be pink. (If only the boys were that easy.)

So. Happy Birthday, Sweet Girl! Big Cinderella loves you.

The Harlequin Calendar and Harking Back

Harlequin sent me a very colorful, high-quality 2009 calendar in celebration of their many years of publishing romance novels. Each month has a vintage Harlequin cover, and this particular one is the one that caught my eye. Why, you may ask? Because the nurse's cap looks like my nurse's cap. Back in the day, when nurses still wore caps, every school of nursing had its own distinctive headgear, whereby those in the know could immediately identify from what school a nurse had graduated -- and some caps had a lot more prestige than others.

I was always partial to the (Charlotte) Presbyterian Hospital School of Nursing caps. They looked like tiny pleated birds. This calendar one looks like a Rowan Memorial Hospital School of Nursing cap. The student nurse uniform (if that's what it is) is similar, too, except ours were short-sleeved and blue and white striped. And, unlike the Harlequin heroine's, they were one-piece, i.e., the apron didn't detach. They were so heavily starched you could actually stand them on the floor. The collars and the edges of the cuffs on the sleeves made your skin raw. We used to rub them with Ivory soap to blunt the scraping. Even so, I had calluses on the backs of both my arms and a streak on my neck for at least a year after I graduated because the constant rubbing.

We also had the same kind of navy blue and red cape. (I say "we," but I don't mean me. They were "extra" and so expensive I couldn't afford to buy one.)

I scrounged around and found an old, back-in-the-day photo of either my or my roommate's cap. It's hanging on the mirror. The cap holder thing was made out of a strategically bent coat hanger that had been wrapped in wool yarn. I remember that, but I don't remember who made it. The cap hangers were very handy, though. See how similar the caps are?






Now I'm going to give you a glimpse of what the dorm rooms looked like. None of them were air-conditioned, and they were all the same except for the wall color. My first year, the walls of my room were the color of very weak chocolate milk. Clean bedspreads were provided once a month, and as often as not, the ones my roommate and I were issued were a lovely shade of battleship gray. It was...depressing, but since neither of us had much of a cash flow, we were stuck with it. After my probie year, I got to move to the second floor, and I was assigned a room that was robin's egg blue instead of...whatever that color was. Gray bedspreads didn't look nearly as bad in that room -- when we got them. In the blue room, we usually got beige with brown stripes.

Here are the photographs. You'll have to use your imagination: Robin's egg blue walls. Bedspread, beige with brown stripes. In the second picture, you can almost see the framed photo of the dh, then boyfriend, who was in the army. He was out of basic training by that time and learning to build bridges so he could blow them up:





































I'm surprised by how fuzzy the nursing school memories have become. What do I remember clearly about the student nurse time in my life? Anybody could hit you who wanted to.

Update Time

In case you're wondering:

- My mom is back safely from Cleveland. She had a wonderful time -- except for the very cold, cold.

- Our World Traveler is safely back at school. He, too, is likely undergoing a climate readjustment. You should see the silk scarf and the Fes porcelain he brought me. Beautiful and beautiful.

- If you have my email address because I have your email address, it's very likely I no longer have your email address. Most of the address book was lost in the recent and unfortunate iMac crash and burn, despite the back up hard drive. So. If you want me to have your email address again, I'll need you to send it to me, using whichever of my email addresses you have, otherwise I can't tell you anything I need/want to tell you. (You are following this, right?)

- Five months or so and counting for the release date of The First Boy I Loved and The Marine. Hopefully, I'll see the covers ere long -- which I'll post here and on my website the moment I get my hands on them. And hopefully, both sets of galleys aren't going to show up at the same time with a three-day turnaround. "I" think these two books are some of my better efforts, ergo the anxiety regarding their release is beginning to rise...

That's all for the moment, I think. I'm planning on going to see my granddaughter do the cheerleading thing tomorrow. I know I'm going to love this -- 5-year-old cheerleaders are so adorable.

All of you take care...

It's Pinto Bean Pie Recipe Day

This isn't a recipe from the Methodist Church Lady cook book, though it very well could be. (I've said before that the Methodist church ladies of my childhood could make something edible out of just about anything.)

This recipe comes from "The Grange Range -- Favorite Recipes from the St. John's Community." It was a Christmas gift from a patient's family a couple of decades ago, and it's a wonderful collection of recipes, including ones for unusual pies like "oatmeal" or "mashed potato" and of course, "pinto bean."

What with the beans and the eggs, I would call this pie a high protein dessert. And no, I don't know if you'll need "Beano."

So, if you're feeling rather daring today, here it is:

Pinto Bean Pie

2 cups cooked pinto beans
2 cups sugar
3 Tbs. chocolate*
2 Tbs. self-rising flour
1/2 cup margarine
4 eggs
2 tsp. vanilla

2 unbaked pie shells.

Place beans in a large mixing bowl. Mash until smooth. Stir in remaining ingredients and mix well. Pour into unbaked pie shells.

Bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes.

(*I'm pretty sure "chocolate" means "cocoa.")

Enjoy!


(I should use this recipe in a book.)

THE PRISONER -- and Visual Writing

I'm a visual writer, that is, it helps me to actually see the place I want to write about, whether it's literally or through photographs or drawings. What I have learned is that if it's real to me, it's going to be real on the page -- and "seeing" makes it real.

One of the more enjoyable aspects of the writing process -- my writing process -- is going on a quest for settings. If I can, I go to the actual place and take photographs myself. If not, I use other sources. VICTORIA magazine in its heyday was a wonderful source for "mood" photographs of houses, interiors and gardens. NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC is, too. Basically, I look for an image that will convey whatever it is I need to "feel" about the story I want to tell, and I keep that image where I can see it throughout the writing of the book. I never really know what that unnamed "something" is going to be, but I always know it when I see it.

I used a particular Salisbury historical landmark, known locally as the Hall House, in my first book (my first book, not my first published book -- it took a while to get THE PRISONER on the shelves). In it, the house is always referred to as "the Doctor's house." General George Stoneman and his officers really did billet there when he and his cavalry raided the town in April of 1865. My fictional "Amanda" stayed there, too -- but only inside my head.


The following photographs I took over a decade ago -- maybe even longer than that.

Here's the actual Hall House:




This was taken during an annual October Tour of Salisbury's historic homes, but it's open to the public all during the year.


I think of this next shot of the house as my "ghost" photograph. It's strangely eerie-looking -- as if the house were melting away, but the trees look fine. It had nothing to do with camera settings. I took all of these with a 35mm Canon Snappy. There was nothing to set. Also, there were a many, many people around, but somehow I only managed to get one in the frame.






Here is one of the interior shots -- the bedroom where I imagined "John Howe" was taken after he was wounded:



And this is the dining room. It had a more important role in the second half of THE PRISONER. Only the first half of the book was published. The original manuscript continued the story of "Amanda Douglas" and Captain "John Howe" until he was in his forties, but that part didn't make the cut. I still get reader email about the book -- halved or not.






During this particular October Tour, there was an Civil War reenactment group on hand. I'm going to show you photographs of them, too.


In this one, the Yankee invaders come pouring in...


And they were very scary. I can't begin to imagine the number of hours these men (and women) put into "getting it right" and making history live again.

The thing I liked about this particular group was that they stayed in character between events. If you encountered one of them on the way to his car to get something, he still spoke to you as if he were a 19th century entity, or if you happened to come near to a pair of them in conversation, they wouldn't be talking about the Dallas Cowboys. Like as not, it would be about rumors of when the war would end or where the fighting was at that moment.





Part of the reenactment took place in the National Cemetery, which was the location of the Confederate prison during the Civil War and where a large number of unknown Union soldiers who died there are buried. The stone monument behind these two ladies is a memorial erected by the state of Pennsylvania to honor their dead. A coworker of mine, who was a nurse during the Vietnam War, is buried directly across from it. My late father and two great uncles are also buried here, as are a number of World War II nurses I knew and worked alongside when I was a "probie."

Which brings us to the drummer boy. I asked him if I could take his photograph. He very shyly, very politely gave his permission. I think he's very much like "Tobin" from THE PRISONER, except "Tobin" was a bugler.




And this is a photo of the "enemy camp." (That would be "Them," not "Us.")




One of the reasons I wanted to show you these is that Salisbury is having a big "tourism" push. If you're ever in the area, I thought this blog post might entice you to come see history -- and several of my book settings. The NC Transportation Museum is also nearby -- in case you need some kind of authentic transportation for your next movie. (This is where, it just so happens, George Clooney got his railroad car for LEATHERHEADS.) The museum is a nice place to come and look at vintage trains and automobiles. Some days you can take a short train ride around the yard with former railroad men volunteers, who help keep their particular corner of history alive.

So go to the Visitor's Center and tell them Cheryl sent you. At which point they will frown, look at you blankly and say, "WHO?" (These people, bless their hearts, are very difficult to impress.)

Almost There...

The countdown clock is ticking...

In less than 12 hours the New Year will be here. (How did it get to be 2009?) Of course, it already is 2009 in Australia, but either way, the time for decision is upon us. (Read: me.)

And I absolutely refuse to make any kind of New Year's Resolutions. I don't need to be a "resolver." I need to be a "decider."


So.

What to do? What to do?

Should I try to figure out a way to recover my disappeared 401K?
(Santa was no help. I think I may have been on that other list.)

Or...should I move from my long held position in the Mac fold over to a PC?
My suggestion re: a rebuttal to the old and stodgy "PC" character vs. the young and hip "Mac" character TV commercials would be to show what happens when you need a young, hip Mac repair. There are only two Mac retail stores with the "Mac Genius Bar" in the whole entire state. TWO. And no independent Mac repair people in my area as far as I know. Of course, some people may like making a 100 mile round trip on a bad interstate highway that is essentially a parking lot traveling 80 miles an hour. Surrounded by 18-wheelers. In the rain and fog. With your hair on fire. Twice. (It shouldn't take six days to replace a hard drive, should it?) I have always been a Mac devotee, but this is the kind of adventure I can do without. The Dell factory is only 48 miles away, and think I can hear it calling my name. Or what about HP? I have HP peripherals -- they have prompt email support and seem to care if the printer won't print because Apple made me upgrade something.

(Yes. It's true. I am still in a South Park Mall Apple Retail Store-slash-iMac computer snit.)

(Maybe I should just retire altogether and not have to worry about computer repairs.)

(And maybe I'm not much of a "decider.")

Even so, and moving right along, here is something I can and will do during this coming new year -- regardless of what the previous paragraphs might suggest.

Whenever I think something is a "good thing," I'll say so. More of that, less criticizing and whining -- unless it has to do with my livelihood.

A few years ago, my editor at Harlequin gave me a souvenir card from Ireland on which was written a number of prayerful guidelines for not becoming an old poop in one's "Golden Years." The guidelines were written by a nun, and I found them very pithy and something to aspire to. In addition to that, my late sister-in-law told me something shortly before she died. She had come to realize, she said, that people "don't know," i.e., they don't know what you like about them if you don't tell them, or even if you like them at all. They need to be told, she said, and she was going to do that.

All of these these notions -- the nun's and my sister-in-law's -- worked for me, so much so that verbally appreciating the "good things" has become more or less automatic. The other day, while I was waiting in the doctor's office, I could see through the sheer drapes a man outside washing their very big, very tall windows. He worked the whole time I was waiting. After I'd seen the doctor, when I came back into the waiting room, the sheer drapes had been opened. The sun was shining. The huge, plate glass windows looked spectacular. So, without really thinking, I noted that the window washer had done a really good job. What I didn't know was that he was sitting a few feet away, waiting to be paid. He was both astounded and grateful to have had the results of his efforts complimented by a total stranger. "It's never happened before," he said. I think it made his day. I know it made mine.

Here's what the 16th Century nun had to say:

Lord, Thou knowest better than I know myself, that I am growing older and will someday be old.

Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion.

Release me from craving to straighten out everybody's affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but Thou knowest Lord that I want a few friends at the end.

Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point.

Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing, and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others' pains, but help me to endure them with patience.

I dare not ask for improved memory, but for a growing humility and a lessing cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.

Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a Saint - some of them are so hard to live with - but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil.

Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places, and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.

AMEN

Merry Birthday, Rosie!

I hope you have a wonderful day and all your wishes come true. I know one already has -- we have our World Traveler home. It was clearly harder to get from Albany to Cleveland than from Casablanca to NYC, but he made it after many hours on tarmacs and an unexpected overnight in an airport on Christmas Eve -- his dad finally gave up on air travel and drove to Pittsburgh to get him. I'm not quite sure how he ended up in Pittsburgh -- at this point, he probably isn't, either -- but stuck there he was.

Anyway, celebrate to your hearts content, Little Sis, and eat lots of cake for me. (I'm sure it's chocolate.)

Cheryl and Her Christmas Cards

I've always loved Christmas cards, especially the ones with glitter. One cannot have too much glitter, in my opinion -- on anything. I may have said before that I even have a "glitter" lamp. Glitter floats up and down inside it instead of lava. (What can I say? Tacky or not, it's the way I roll.)

Anyway.





I'm also very partial the special handmade ones (see above). And the family photograph ones -- my nurse friend Jo always sends me those. And the ones from other countries. And the personally illustrated ones people make on their own computers (Linda and Deena do that kind). I love the ones from readers, too. I always feel honored that they would want to send me a card -- some of them have been with me from the very beginning of my writing career. (I'm talking about you, Murlene and Maureen B.)








The bottom line here is that have a really hard time getting rid of old Christmas cards. I look at them again and again, long after the holidays have gone. That's how much I like them. And also the way I roll.

I just wanted you to know that...

The Nutty Nutcracker Dance Recital and Bad, BAD Continental Airlines

One of the many things I managed to do in the past week or so was to attend my granddaughter's dance recital. She, of course, was adorable and did a wonderful job. I would show you a photo of said granddaughter being adorable (and wonderful), but as I've mentioned before, digital cameras and I are not a good mix. If I were psychic, it would help -- so I could snap the picture BEFORE it happens instead of forever thinking I'm going to end up with what I actually see. I did manage to get a shot of the beautiful and talented adult dance class strutting their stuff. (See above) They did the can-can and essentially brought down the house. Talk about "bustin' a move." These ladies were great.


Most of yesterday I spent either in Charlotte-Douglas International Airport or going to and from Charlotte-Douglas International Airport. My mom flew to Cleveland for Christmas on an afternoon Continental Airlines flight. Her luggage, however, flew to Houston, as did the luggage of most of the other passengers on her plane.

I have to say I didn't see much in the way of bad tempers during the long wait for her flight to arrive -- among the passengers, that is. They were a pretty jolly group considering the fact that at least one of the flights was going to be three hours late.

The Continental personnel were another matter, however, specifically the young man at the main desk whose life I ruined by asking for a gate pass so I could wait with my 88-year-old mother until her plane arrived. Given the delayed flights from the snowy Northeast and the uproar that caused, I had hoped it would be a good thing to want something he could actually do. I was wrong. He took me off at the knees -- something about how I didn't "need" anything and not doing something or other during Christmas travel. (Let me say here that the line was not that long.)

I like to think that I don't actually look like a hard-core trouble-maker. I had all the credentials and IDs (hers and mine) and the ticket paperwork (don't for one minute think that Continental's "Elite Access" status with the little gold stripes thing means anything in the real world) -- plus my sweet little tiny mother was standing right there in evidence. I asked for pass so I could get through security -- that's all I wanted. I don't know what he thought I meant or why the request was such a problem for him. But then he suddenly gave me the pass, so it all worked out. Except for my being annoyed enough to blog about him here. And the disappeared luggage, of course. Actually, these days I've come to expect disappeared luggage. What I don't expect is blatant and undeserved rudeness.

Okay, I am now getting down off the soap box. Really.

The bottom line here is that my mom arrived safely, and she's going to have a great, if under-wardrobed, Christmas with my sister and her family in Cleveland -- with our World Traveler. He'll be getting home from Morocco on the 23rd. (Yay!)

(I think he's flying Continental.)

Steady, Cheryl

I need to focus on this:

Softly lit, Christmas-y room.  Bubble lights bubbling.  Fireplace burning.   Christmas albums playing (some of the free LPs from the Library Book Sale).  Feel the Season, Cheryl.  And the Reason for the Season.  **deep breath** 

Merry Christmas.

(Okay, that's better.  Later, I'll whine about the South Park Mall Apple Store.  I want to whine now, but I'm not going to.  Santa's got that pesky list of his, and Gene Autrey says he's a double-checker.  Gene is not exactly Roy Rogers, but in this case I'll cut him some slack and believe him.) 

(You did know I was madly in love with Roy Rogers when I was four, right?)