tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90339518867627741212024-03-13T04:51:28.732-07:00Random NatteringsCarla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-9055542313414778692014-09-25T08:12:00.002-07:002014-09-25T08:12:37.865-07:00What mattersI've found something else fascinating about Idaho Falls, where we have lived since April 30 of this year: the paper has great obituaries. What I mean is that the people who write obituaries for their loved ones are really on to something.<br />
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I don't always read obits, but I'm never disappointed when I do. What good obituaries do is melt down into a single nugget those things in life that were most important to the person who has passed on.<br />
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For example, here is one about an 81-year-old gentleman from St. Anthony, Idaho. The obit states: "He spent his entire life managing and working on the family farm in Wilford, Idaho. They started farming with horses, raised cattle, chickens, pigs and sheep. He grew potatoes for 60 years, as well as wheat, barley, hay and peas." I love this. I know precisely what this man did, and how he and his descendants felt about it, because they list the crops, right down to peas. I'll bet he was good at it, too.<br />
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Farming and ranching being what they are, he also was a foreman at a potato warehouse and worked for 27 years for the state of Idaho as a potato inspector. His hobbies included woodworking, fishing, gardening and fixing anything that was broken. All any woman wants in a husband is someone who is capable. This man was.<br />
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<i>He could fix anything that was broken</i>. I'll bet he was good with his kids. Sometimes people get broken; sometimes children get overwhelmed by life and bullies and events. This man was a nurturer, raising crops and animals, and probably tending to people, as well. As it happens, he was a busy member of the LDS Church. The obit lists some of his church callings, and also states, "[He was] a well loved home teacher."<br />
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Home teaching has been a staple of Mormon life for 100 years at least. It used to be called ward teaching, or block teaching. Basically, a man and his companion are given the responsibility of visiting and looking after a set group of families. At the least, it means monthly visits to the home to provide a spiritual message, and ask if they can be of help in any way. More often, it means helping out when people are broken, or life is tough, or the house burns, or flooding destroys dreams, or a woman finds herself alone with kids to raise. Home teaching means pitching in there and remembering that we are indeed our brother's keeper. And he was a "well loved home teacher." That little phrase speaks volumes about his character.<br />
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Lest you think this good man was an Idaho hick, the obituary reminds us that he was no such thing. He and his wife traveled through the United States, Europe, China, Japan, Germany, France, Spain and Italy. He saw the world, and then he came home to little St. Anthony, Idaho.<br />
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St. Anthony is not a big town. It's the sort of place where people know each other and help out where needed. In the greater scheme of things, it's Nowheresville, USA. St. Anthony was the center of this man's life with his wife and their two children, five grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren, "which are the light of their lives," as the obit states.<br />
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Greatness isn't the exclusive property of kings and rulers and inventors and thinkers. It can be found all over this country, and all over the world, in the quiet, courageous lives that most of us lead. I've often joked that you can tell how good a person really was by how many folks attend his/her funeral. I'm betting the St. Anthony Second Ward will be packed on September 27 when folks say goodbye to a friend. <br />
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What else matters?Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-27827795987836040552014-09-11T06:13:00.001-07:002014-09-11T06:13:48.275-07:00Remembering September 11 - The power of booksWe all have our memories. On September 11, 2001, I was working at Fort Union Trading Post National Historic Site on the Montana/North Dakota border. I was on the later shift that day, so I was in my car about 8:45 a.m., listening to NPR's Morning Edition. Some guest was speaking, when Bob Edwards interrupted almost apologetically, saying something like, "It seems that another airplane has hit the Twin Towers." When I got to the fort, all the other rangers were upstairs, gathered around the one television set. And there it was, buildings on fire and if I recall correctly, one of them about them about to collapse.<br />
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Through the day, we were quickly informed that the National Park Service had put every monument, park and historic site on high alert, because no one knew what would happen yet. By then, we were joking a bit about how they should send the president and other important folks to Fort Union because a) we had a 14 foot wall around the whole thing b) we were so isolated no one - not even visitors - could find us.<br />
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We carried on as everyone did all week. My position at Fort Union was such that I worked a week on and a week off. I happened to share a house with the chief ranger, an old friend. He had no television, so our news came from the radio and that TV at the fort. On Saturday, I drove home to Valley City for my off week. The very first thing I did after getting home was go straight to my fiction bookcase and pull out one of my favorite books, "The Lawrenceville Stories," by Owen Johnson. I just stood there and held the book, because books comfort me.<br />
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That was it. I felt better and reshelved the book. I looked through the mail then. At the time, we were Newsweek subscribers. I picked up the issue that had come when I was over at Fort Union, ruffled through a few pages, then set it aside. Nothing in that issue had any relevance to what had just happened that week. We were in new, uncharted territory and last week's news was less than useless.<br />
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For the next month, Fort Union did as all government facilities did and flew the flag at half staff. Some of us chose to put a piece of black tape on our badges. I did.<br />
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Here was the worst part: as one of our daily duties, the first ranger on site had to raise the flag. No biggie, except that month, we had to raise it to half staff, which is done properly by raising the flag to the top of the pole and then lowering it to half staff. On the mornings I was on first, I had to do that. It's a hard and sad duty, and remains my strongest memory of September 11.<br />
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Books to comfort me, and flags at half staff.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-35390804904708034782014-08-26T16:08:00.002-07:002014-08-26T16:08:51.159-07:00Time fliesI realize it is bad form to begin a blog with an apology, but I have one. At the end of April, we moved from Wellington (Carbon County), Utah, to Idaho Falls. "A simple matter," you say, and you would be right. We were smart enough this time to hire a moving van for the job, and boy, that helped. Now if only I could have gotten Amber and Tyler to write the rest of my book, too.<br />
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We love Idaho Falls. The idea to move started percolating last October. I was wasting time one morning on the Interwebs and came across an article called, "Ten greatest small cities to live in." Number 2 was Idaho Falls. I have no idea what Number One was, because I stopped at Number Two. And then when I looked at available real estate, that cinched it.<br />
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We'd been thinking about moving for a while. Carbon County, Utah, is a good place, but we needed something a little larger. Besides that, our children who lived in Utah all bailed out and went elsewhere. Why stay there? Maybe this brands me as hopelessly shallow, but it's such a treat to have 22 movie screens to choose from, versus four, and cool stores with stuff in them. Huckleberry lemonade doesn't hurt, either. Doctors and dentists are plentiful, and there is the beautiful Snake River flowing along. On a clear day, you can see the back of the Tetons in Wyoming, and Yellowstone's West Entrance is two hours away.<br />
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Probably my favorite guilty pleasure has been the hot springs in the area. We're not all that far from Yellowstone, and the thermal activity in this area means opportunities to sit and soak the old bones in hot water. I enjoy stuff like that. Some of the hot springs are sulfurous, but I don't mind smelling like a boiled egg.<br />
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It's hard to move and write. I had the best of intentions to put my shoulder to the wheel and power through a bunch of chapters, but we discovered an unexpected bonus in living barely off I-15: visitors. We've had more company this summer than we had in at least two years in Utah, and it's been such a pleasure. Since we have twice the house now (four bedrooms, three bathrooms, huge family room), it's a good place to welcome guests.<br />
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What I'm saying is that Martin and I are no experts in retiring. We moved around so much that there never was a place designated as Home for All Generations. Our kids were a bid wary at first, but the ones who have seen our new area are pleased. I guess we're better at re-retiring.<br />
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But the book is done, and will be out November 11. It's called<i> Softly Falling, </i>and is the story of the winter of 1886-87 in Wyoming Territory, when the range was overstocked and unfenced, and the blizzards never stopped. Although Cedar Fort is the publisher, there is no mention of Mormons. I had asked the publisher is it was ok to not write about things LDS, and that suited him fine (and allows for a wider readership). The theme is one I enjoy: ordinary people finding themselves in extraordinary situations. Lily Carteret, daughter of a British remittance man (read: lifetime loser), has come to Wyoming after her father's glowing accounts of his ranch. She arrives to find there is no such thing. In a bit of stupidity, he has gambled away the ranch to the foreman of nearby Bar Circle Dot, one of a series of ranches owned by a consortium of British and Scottish wealthy men. What's a girl to do? Lily is resourceful. Stay tuned.<br />
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Just out is Book Two of the Spanish Brand Series, called Marco and the Devil's Bargain. It's the further adventures of Marco Mondragon and his clever wife, Paloma Vega, this time involved with a mysterious physician and a smallpox epidemic.<br />
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And that's the fun of writing: Put your ordinary people in the middle of a mess, and see what happens.<br />
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Next up? A short story for the Timeless Romance Anthology, which will be out January 15. Another short story to Harlequin (now HarperCollins), for next year's Christmas anthology. A third installment in Spanish New Mexico with Marco and Paloma. Something else for Cedar Fort; not sure what.<br />
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I shouldn't have saved this for last, but I have a new and wonderful website at www.carlakellyauthor.com. Tamara Cole is the web designer and she is without equal. Take a look at the site. Be sure to click on the cat, the photos, and even the paper clutter in the garbage can. We're still getting out the kinks, so if you see something that doesn't work, please let me know at mrskellysnovels@gmail.com.<br />
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And now it's back to making hand cream. I'll be selling books and hand cream at the annual Heritage Festival in Fillmore, Utah, the weekend after Labor Day. Stop by, if you're in the neighborhood. The Oct. 9-11 I'm writer in residence at an ANWA Retreat in Anacortes, Washington. Then on Sept. 24 or so, it's off to Kanab for a writer's conference. Then I'll stay home and write, because that's what I do.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-14086002505779371982014-04-01T19:56:00.001-07:002014-04-01T20:27:45.604-07:00A Writer's Life for Me, or, Muchas gracias, Tamara and Dave Brown!Ah yes, I am the worst blogger ever. I wait too long between blogs because I'm busy writing, or living, or doing something so fabulous that it has taken me this long to put it into words.<br />
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I got lucky in early March, but the story begins last fall, when Tamara Brown posted a comment on <i>Random Natterings</i> and invited me to come to Colonia Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico, to present a bookclub talk. "Are you serious?" I responded in an email. She was. Tamara and Dave Brown ranch south of the southwesterly part of New Mexico, in Chihuahua. The ranch has been in the Brown family for many moons, and now I need to explain something about Colonia Juarez and the Browns and the other people I met a month ago.<br />
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In 1885, the Mormons in Utah Territory were in terrible turmoil. The federal government had effectively shut down the territory over the issue of polygamy. Many church leaders were in prison or hiding. To avoid some of this terrible strain, groups of Mormons went north to southern Alberta and settled. Others went south to Chihuahua, Mexico, with the blessings of Porfirio Diaz, Mexico's long-lived president/dictator. Browns were among those who went south, along with Whettons, Cardons, Bentleys and most well-known, Romneys. Through some trying years, they dug in, starved, hung on, and created a lovely society in Colonia Juarez (located some 100 miles into Chihuahua's interior, not the Juarez next to El Paso); nearby Colonia Dublan; Colonia Diaz, quite close to the SW New Mexico border; and three or four mountain colonies west of Juarez and Dublan.<br />
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With stately brick homes, and beautiful apple orchards, and ranches, the hardworking Mormons turned that bit of Chihuahua into Victorian Utah. It was lovely and prosperous, and came to a crashing halt, starting in 1910, with Mexico's <i>ejido</i> revolution. Diaz had been in power too long and landowners owned huge ranches, with little for the commoners. The old man was exiled, and Madero installed as president. Madero was weak, and other guerillas rose to denounce him, including most famously, Pancho Villa. The Mormons in the colonies were told by church leaders in Salt Lake to remain strictly neutral, with the result that they were preyed on by all factions and all sides.<br />
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It finally became too dangerous, and in early August, 1912, the women and children were evacuated. The men followed a week or so later with whatever colony horses and cattle they could take. A small percentage returned, and only the colonies of Juarez and Dublan remain today.<br />
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I wrote a novel ironically titled <i>Safe Passage</i>, about those dangerous times in 1912. Tamara thought I ought to take a look at the colonies today, and I did. Tamara and Dave met me in Deming, NM, and I went across the border with them. Tamara's from Arizona, and Dave was raised in the colonies. Like many colonists, he has dual citizenship, and he's completely bilingual. Mexico is home, even though the last ten years have been frightening, with drug lords battling it out for control of Chihuahua. Some of the colonists have endured kidnapping and there have been some tragic deaths of members caught in the crossfire. But they're brave folks and they endure. The Browns and others bailed out for a time until things quieted down a bit, and now they're back. The future remains uncertain.<br />
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I won't deny that I was a bit uneasy to make this visit, but I reasoned that the Browns would take good care of me, and they did. So did Dave's sister Vonnie Whetton, <i>directora</i> (principal) of the elementary school in Colonia Juarez,which is run by the colonists for their own children and other children as well. There is also the well-known Academia Juarez for kids 7-12 grades, with its excellent reputation for education probably unrivaled in Mexico. The deal in Chihuahua these days is to travel during the day, and stay indoors, or in the colony, at night. People go about their business, and trust in the Lord, a combination that has worked well in the colonies since 1885.<br />
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The Browns and Vonnie Whetton took me through Colonia Dublan, and then a lovely hacienda, built in 1902, that has been restored by one of the Whettons. The colony itself is in a lovely valley, which was pink with peach trees in bloom. The next day, Vonnie invited Tamara and me to her elementary school, where the 90 students, K-6, presented their weekly assembly, complete with a 6th grade color guard bringing in the Mexican flag to a drum accompaniment. The children sang a verse of the "himno nacional," and then a pledge of allegiance, and then their school song. I was touched and delighted and honored. We visited the classrooms briefly, and then paid a quick visit to the nearby Academia, built in 1904.<br />
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Vonnie became my guide. She drove me around town, then took me to nearby Hacienda San Diego, where an important part of <i>Safe Passage</i> takes place. I had written the book using a lot of Google Earth, and pictures of Chihuahua, including San Diego ranch. And there it was, sadly crumbling now, but still impressive. The area is the cradle of the Mexican Revolution. Madero himself gathered troops there at San Diego. I was delighted to actually see what I had written about. I'll never forget Hacienda San Diego, with its imposing house, stone corrals, and stone outbuildings. I never thought I would ever be there, but thanks to Tamara, I was.<br />
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We went next to Mata Ortiz, a small town renowned today in Chihuahua for its pottery. In 1912, when my story takes place, it was called Pearson, named by "Lord" Pearson, a British entrepreneur who ran a lumbering business and a sawmill. It was from Pearson that the Mormon women and children gathered to take a precarious train ride to the border and safety in 1912. The depot is still there.<br />
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That night, I spoke in the old elementary school to a wonderful group of 38 ladies. I talked about <i>Safe Passage, </i>and other of my books,which many of them had read. I don't think Colonia Juarez gets a lot of visitors. It's not a tourist area, and people don't really go there unless they have colony connections. What I really wanted to do was have the ladies tell me about their lives in that unique place. It was calm and dark and quiet at night, and I could have stayed much longer. I felt like I came to the colony knowing no one, and left with many friends. It's that kind of place.<br />
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So this is one perk of being a writer: sometimes you get really, really lucky, and meet wonderful people. I'll never forget my visit. I'm smiling as I write this, because it was an honor to accept Tamara's kind invitation, an honor to rub shoulders with brave people living good lives. I told Tamara in an email later something like this: "I think I left a piece of my heart in Colonia Juarez. No need to send it to me. Just leave it there, please."Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-71869972456117772192014-02-13T08:53:00.000-08:002014-02-13T08:53:12.283-08:00Hard lessons in snow, that white fluffy stuff So so late to write my blog. Mostly I have fun, briefly, on Facebook, between writing bouts. The one nice thing about my sporadic blogs is that you know when I'm not writing one, I'm writing something with more length to it. I just finished a 15,348 word short story called "Break a Leg," for Heather B. Moore, and her partners in crime (Tee hee, Heather). Heather et al. have been producing quarterly anthologies. Heather asked me to participate in an anthology of Western short stories. I know that she,Sarah Eden, Liz Adair and Marsha Ward are participating (maybe others, too). I believe this will be out in June or July. "Break a Leg" is set at Fort Laramie, a venue I know well, in 1882, when things were slowing down there and boredom threatened (as well as fort closure). With a title like that, you know an actor is involved. This anthology will be available in ebook format, and perhaps paperback. I'm not sure. I've already agreed to write a Regency short story for a 2015 edition.<br />
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Right now, I'm reading for research for my next novel, and it's painful. I just finished <i>The Children's Blizzard</i>, a horrendous history of the Jan. 12, 1888, blizzard that struck the Great Plains as children were either in school, or just starting out for long walks home. Some 250-500 people perished, many of them children.<br />
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Author David Laskin did a good job. He starts out with several chapters on the many immigrants who came from the Ukraine and south Russia, home to many Germans from Russia who now/still populate North Dakota. The book bogs down a bit there, but moves on to more chapters on the infancy of weather forecasting, then under the control of the U.S. Army's Signal Corps. We meet, in particular, 1st Lt. Woodruff, a West Pointer from the Fifth Infantry who left his regiment to become a "weather indicator," as meteorologists were called then. He was worked in St. Paul, Minnesota, and noted a huge storm headed to the Great Plains. Trouble was, no one then had the scientific weather knowledge to truly grasp just how terrible this was going to be. And communications being what they were back then, the word got out just before the storm hit, which gave no one time to shelter, after an abnormally warm (for the plains) day.<br />
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What Laskin describes, from Woodruff's notes and others' information, is a polar vortex, which made its appearance in our own land not so long ago. Luckily, eastern Montana and what is now North Dakota escaped most of the 1888 storm's fury because it struck in the early morning hours when people were home anyway. As it roared east with inadequate warning, the storm landed with ferocity on what is now central/eastern South Dakota, western Minnesota, Nebraska and Iowa.<br />
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Country schools were just that: schools in the middle of farming communities with their 160-acre farms. A walk home of a quarter mile to a mile was nothing to these children. When the storm it, they were frozen, blinded by flour-fine snow, and beaten down. Some survived through sheer luck or amazing courage. Others tried, and died. Some died with their teachers, who did their best to shelter them. Others died with fathers who had come searching. Others died alone. It's hard to imagine a more tragic set of circumstances.<br />
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When I moved to North Dakota in 1997, I heard of Hazel Miner, a 16-year-old student from Center, North Dakota, who sheltered her two young sibs under her own body during such a blizzard and died saving their lives. This one happened in 1920. Compound that by hundreds, and you have the Children's Blizzard of 1888.<br />
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I think one reason this book was so hard to read is because, for just a few desperate moments, I had a similar experience. I will never forget my own terror.<br />
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It was in 2001 or 2002, and I was working as a seasonal ranger at Fort Union Trading Post NHS, smack on the North Dakota-Montana line. It's an isolated place, about 24 miles from Williston, ND. The fort has white palisaded walls and sits on a bluff overlooking the Missouri River. There is a long, sloping walk from the fort to the first parking lot. The other lot is even farther away. In the winter when there are few visitors, we tended to park in the closer lot, which was still not close to the fort.<br />
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I usually just worked there in the summers, but Richard Stenberg and I had been put in charge of an Elderhostel program, which meant I had to make some winter planning visits to Fort Union from my Valley City home, some 370 miles east. That day in November, I was at the fort for a meeting scheduled in Williston later in the morning. It was snowing hard when I left the fort and headed to the parking lot. We usually took the back gate, because it was a shade closer to the parking lot than the more-impressive front gate.<br />
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I couldn't see anything because of the snow. The path from the fort's "back door" starts out as gravel, which I could feel under my feet, even through the snow. I had made this walk hundreds of times. I knew that in a bit I would come to the wide concrete sidewalk that winds up to the fort's front gate. Sure enough, I soon felt the concrete and knew I was on the actual sidewalk.<br />
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I knew how it sloped toward the parking lot, but by then, it was getting harder to feel anything but snow under my feet. I followed what I thought was the sidewalk, and discovered, to my irritation and then terror, that I was walking on grass and had no idea where I was. I was as lost as if I had been in the middle of a great plain.<br />
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I couldn't see the white-walled fort, and wasn't even sure of its direction anymore. Snow can be really disorienting, as I discovered. I took a few more steps. Grass under my feet. I truly panicked. There I was, between the fort somewhere and the parking lot somewhere. It was cold, but not horribly cold, and I couldn't see a thing. Where was the parking lot?<br />
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I stood there a few moments and forced myself to remain calm. When I could breathe regularly again, I turned around and tried to retrace steps I couldn't see anymore. Suddenly, I felt the concrete of the sidewalk again. I had not followed the contour properly. I continued down the sidewalk, and in minute or so, felt the curb drop-off to the parking lot. By then I could see dark shapes of cars of other employees. I was safe.<br />
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I cleared off my car and just sat in it for a while, relieved beyond words. Surprisingly, as soon as I negotiated the park road to the main road, visibility increased hugely. I made it safely to town. When I returned later that afternoon, all was clear. That is the fickle nature of snow and storm in the Dakotas.<br />
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My "ordeal" lasted only a few minutes, but I have never forgotten that feeling of utter terror. And reading about children who wandered the prairie in a polar vortex for six of seven hours makes my heart just ache for them and their families. Because the day had started out strangely warm, many had not even bundled up as usual. I can barely wrap my mind around the set of circumstances they faced.<br />
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My next novel will be about The Big Die-off, that winter of blizzards in 1886-1887 which was the beginning of the end of the open range in Wyoming. My heroine is a school teacher from England quite unfamiliar with winter on the high plains of eastern Wyoming, an area I know well. I have another snow story about that, but it'll keep. When I write about that 1887 winter, some of what you read will be firsthand experience. It cuts almost too close to home.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-50126015562820777742014-01-01T08:36:00.000-08:002014-01-01T08:36:40.794-08:00Don't judge this book by its coverHappy New Year first. That's more important than anything that follows in this blog. We have a shiny new year in which to be tried and tested and occasionally found wanting, I am certain. There will also be moments of near-nobility, I am equally certain. Our New Year's Eve followed its typical pattern. We watched <i>The Sting</i> (always on NYE), ate popcorn and were predictably in bed by 10:30. We can only assume that someone rang in the new year for us. Whoever you are, thanks!<br />
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Harlequin strikes again. Right before Christmas, my editor forwarded this cover for my book that comes out in mid-March. I stared at it, shook my head, and wondered what on earth? No one on the cover resembles anyone in the story, which is about a dour and extremely veteran frigate captain who has been granted shore leave for the first time in forever, now that Napoleon is on Elba (we know how that turned out, eh?), and peace might actually be breaking out. He and his young son are headed home to Scotland for Christmas. Enter Mary Rennie, who is a nice lady on the verge of spinsterhood, who has been sent by her relatives to track down four fruitcakes that were mailed to long-ago friends. One contains a little ring that Mary's cousin threw into the batter because it was a paltry ring from her fiance. One thing leads to another, and Mary has to find that ring. And so on.<br />
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I have no idea who these people are on the cover, and so I emailed my editor. She put on the sad face (via email from London), and couldn't imagine why I was disappointed. I replied that the cover bears absolutely no resemblance to anyone in the story, not even any characters I might have written and then edited out. This email was met with the note that everyone in England is now on vacay and won't return until January 2.<br />
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It does matter a bit, because <u>my</u> captain has a peg leg. The guy on the cover has both legs, and even more, looks as though the only trouble he has ever encountered might have been the occasional bad hair day. Sigh. At least my other publishers like to work with me and get covers that actually have something to do with the story.<br />
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I shouldn't be such a complainer. I was whining about this to Diane Farr, a lovely writer, who told me that Signet once put a homely lady, a guy and a dog on one of her covers.When she complained that there isn't even a dog in the story, the editor replied, "Readers like dogs, so we put a dog on the cover."<br />
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My daughter Liz came up with the perfect solution. "Mom, just ask them to send you the cover first, and then you can write a novel to fit the cover." I call that brilliant, and I will suggest it to my editor when she returns from vacation. I should have known that a perfect cover, such as the one for last year's <i>Her Hesitant Heart</i>, was a one-time event. Oh well. You'll still enjoy <i>The Wedding Ring Quest</i>. Appropriately enough, the ebook comes out on April Fool's Day.<br />
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I just read a wonderful book, Michael Zuckoff's <i>Frozen in Time</i>. It's a true story about crashes, death and survival on Greenland's forbidding ice cap during World War II, and a 2012 expedition to locate one of the crash sites. I couldn't put it down, so it was a good thing I had just emailed Book Two of The Spanish Brand series to my editor at Camel Press. I recommend <i>Frozen in Time</i> heartily. I've already loaned my copy to a friend, and it'll make the rounds. My son Jeremy sent me the book for Christmas. We send each other books for Christmas. I usually read the ones he sends me, then send them back to him so he can read them and keep them. I may hang onto this one. It'll go onto my shelf next to another book called <i>Frozen in Time</i>, this one about the ill-fated Franklin Expedition of 1845 or so, when three Royal Navy ships are trapped in the Arctic in pack ice. It's also paired with a recovery story, which is astounding.<br />
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So it goes. We're well-rested on New Years Day (refer to first paragraph), and thinking about turkey for lunch.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-70781908207491278602013-12-18T04:34:00.001-08:002013-12-18T04:34:22.300-08:00Grapefruit Moon, One Star ShiningAuthor Anne Gracie gets full credit for this column. She's a Facebook friend (and a writer I admire), and she posted the Tom Waites song with the lovely photo of our current huge worldwide moon. She'd noticed it while coming home from dinner in the city. Anne lives in Australia. The comments that popped up were from all over the world, of course, as we all admired the same moon.<br />
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I've been admiring that grapefruit moon from my hemisphere. I was coming home from a booksigning on Saturday. It was still light out, but right after I passed Soldier Summit (at 7,000+ feet the highest point on the trip), I noticed the moon peeking coyly between two mountains. It was pale then and not in charge yet, because the sun as still up, but there it was, ready for an entrance. Made me smile.<br />
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I woke up early this morning, because the cat must've pushed open the door, and decided I needed a visit. The cat and I got up because that grapefruit moon was so bright and irresistible - in charge now and hugely visible.<br />
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And all over the world, we're watching. Last night, our bookclub commented on "A Christmas Carol," our reading for the month. We also had our Christmas potluck. We do a good one. It's not one of those you-bring-this-and-I'll-bring-that kinds of potlucks, but a true take-your-chance potluck. The carnivores ruled, with several kinds of meat. I made cheese grits and hot sauce - total comfort food - and an angel food, raspberry, powdered sugar, Coolwhip, sour cream thingee.<br />
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Then we watched the Gorge C. Scott version of "A Christmas Carol," my personal favorite.<br />
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I was thinking about Jacob Marley this morning. When I read Anne Gracie's comment about the full moon, and saw the posts from literally everywhere, I couldn't helping thinking about Marley's "Mankind is my business." With Marley, is a lament, because he never thought about anything except making money. After his death, he learned, to his horror, that mankind should have been his business. Mankind is most emphatically our business; we ignore that to our peril.<br />
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There we are, all admiring the same grapefruit moon. We're all involved in this world. Do something nice for someone today, ok?Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-503182592723011252013-11-28T06:08:00.003-08:002013-11-28T06:08:53.736-08:00In praise of bold travelersFirst of all, Happy Thanksgiving. I never fail to think of my father on Thanksgiving: He loved pumpkin pie, and he had a pilgrim story from Bangkok, Thailand.<br />
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Part of Dad's Korean War was spent in Bangkok, back when a lot of us called Thailand, Siam. He was part of a squadron of Navy airedales who took a carrier-load of planes to Thailand. Essentially, they began the Thai Air Force. At the time, Dad was a chief, which meant he knew everything about his job and could do anything. He was always that way, though. (If you sense some daughterly admiration, you're on the money.)<br />
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In that hot and moist climate, Thanksgiving was still coming anyway. One of the Thai workers who spoke English asked Dad about Thanksgiving, so Dad gave a lengthy explanation about pilgrims and a first hard winter in a tough place for beginnings (New England), and the Thanksgiving feast the following year, when the toehold had turned into survival and there was food.<br />
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After Dad's explanation, the man just shook his head sadly. "We can't have Thanksgiving here."<br />
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Dad asked him why not, and the Thai said, "No pilgrims ever came to Bangkok."<br />
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Thanksgiving came anyway, of course, as it does anywhere Americans gather. We're grateful for that toehold in a new world, for subsequent survival, and eventually, our nation. It's as meaningful to me as the Fourth of July, as I praise bold travelers.<br />
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The extreme isolation of such people in a new land came home to me 12 or so years ago. It was early December, and I had gone to Charleston, South Carolina for Jeremy's graduation from the Border Patrol. The newly minted agents flew out that same day, so I had a few days to kill in South Carolina. What I did was point my rental car south.<br />
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First stop was St. Augustine, Florida, for a spot of research at Castillo de San Marcos National Monument. It's a wonderful, well-nigh indestructible fort built by Spanish engineers (they were good), to maintain power in their toehold of Florida. Eventually, the English came into possession, then the Spanish again, and finally the Americans. During our Indian Wars, it housed some Plains Indians, sent there to be reprimanded for objecting to folks taking their land.<br />
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After that, I drove back to St. Simons Island, Georgia, where I used to live as a kid. Superb area. I also visited Fort Frederica National Historic Site. It was a fort built by Georgia's colonizer, James Oglethorpe, between 1736-1748, essentially as a buffer zone between those Spaniards I had "visited" earlier in the day, and the prosperity of the English colonies in the Carolinas.<br />
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It's another great historic site, with a moat (now a gentle swale), and buildings made of tabby (stone mixed with shells). Nothing is restored, but the stabilized ruins are impressive. I walked through the town, and past the fort, and stood looking at the water. It was a cold day, for Georgia, and no other visitors were in sight. I watched the water quite a while, as the soldiers most certainly would have done.<br />
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It came home quite forcefully to me that these little toeholds on the edge of an amazing continent had to be a bit frightening, in that if trouble came, there was no help in sight. You were it; do your best.<br />
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And so I praise bold travelers. Without them, we wouldn't be gathering families and friends today and gorging on turkey and cranberries and three or four kinds of pie (or more), and the "inside of the turkey," as my daughter Sarah called stuffing, when she was a little girl. I always take a moment to remember what it felt like to stand alone, gaze across a portion of the Atlantic Ocean, empty too, that day, and honor that kind of courage.<br />
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Thanks, you men, women and children. I praise you today.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-52445178886745259282013-11-09T13:23:00.002-08:002013-11-09T13:23:36.248-08:00One reason we write: the readersI participated in a booksigning for<i> The Double Cross</i> at the Costco in Lehi last Friday. The whole thing was to have happened two weeks ago. Everyone knew about it, apparently, except that Costco in Lehi. So it goes. No harm, no foul.<br />
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The one yesterday was that mix of busy and downtime that booksignings often are. My niece Amy dropped by on her lunch break, and so did her mom an hour later. Other friends, readers and fellow writers dropped by, bought books and chatted. Then there were those stretches when I had to work at convincing folks they really really needed to read this story about Paloma and Marco Mondragon, and care about New Mexico colony at the time of Comanches and Spanish. Must've convinced enough folks, because the books all got sold.<br />
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In the course of sitting at Costco, I did my usual informal-survey-keep-your-mind-busy tactic. According to my survey, most people are in Costco to buy 30 rolls of toilet paper at a time (I did the same), milk, and birthday/party cakes. Oh, and lots of disposable diapers, which went along with the numerous women I saw with little kids in the cart, and another on the way. It was totally Utah country.<br />
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Then something touching happened, which even now is making me tear up a bit. An older lady stopped by to tell me that her daughter owns and has read nearly all my books. I told her that I bet she didn't have this one. She agreed, and had me sign it for her daughter.<br />
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Nothing unusual there, eh? Then she said, so serious: "My daughter is far from home and going through a nasty divorce. She tells me that when she feels low and down, she reads your books over and over until she feels better."<br />
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Wow. I'm going to be thinking about that mother and her beleaguered daughter for a long, long time - maybe every time I sit down to work on another chapter. Yeah, it's historical fiction with usually a bit of romance - fluff. Yeah, when I start each book my mantra is, "This isn't Hamlet and you're not Shakespeare." But now and then, I am reminded that what I do matters to more than just me.<br />
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You other writers know exactly what I'm talking about.<br />
<br />Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-404840993993666092013-11-05T05:48:00.001-08:002013-11-05T05:48:47.636-08:00Books and covers<br />
Yes, yes, I'm well aware that I'm the worst blogger in the history of, well, blog. I also run into people who want to know when my next book is coming out, and why can't I write faster. Plus I sometimes have to do booksignings, which are sometimes quite fun, and other times are a bit frustrating, as I try to convince people that they really ought to try my books. And I take trips and visit friends - you know who you are - and just generally have a life. Blog comes about last, and I do apologize.<br />
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And I do enjoy reading other's books. Case in point: I was a huge Tony Hillerman fan, from the beginning to almost the end. Tony died a few years back, and I, like many, mourned his passing. He was a great journalist, pretty good writer, but the best guy at taking a subject few knew about - the Navajo Tribal Police - and giving them, and their nation, the credit they deserve. His name will long be honored among crime fiction readers, and people who love The People.<br />
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I'll admit to a tad bit of skepticism when I read that his daughter Anne Hillerman decided to carry on Tony's tales about the Navajo Tribal Police, specifically, Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee, plus a great addition, Officer Bernie Manuelito, Jim's new wife. Anne's father had introduced Bernie a few books back, but by then, I must say that his novelist's powers were greatly diminished. His last three books had none of the power of the first dozen.<br />
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I am a skeptic no more. I read Anne Hillerman's Leaphorn/Chee book, called <i>The Spider Woman's</i> <i>Daughter</i>, and I am hooked. I want to contact Anne and tell her to writer faster, because I want more of Jim and Joe and Bernie. If you enjoyed Tony Hillerman's work, give Anne Hillerman a try. I doubt you'll be disappointed.<br />
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I especially enjoyed this latest entry because this summer I took one of those trips to Navajo Country with my daughter, Mary Ruth, and her dear friend, Renee, who is now my friend, too. We went down to Gallup for the Intertribal dancing and drumming, held annually. After a brief overnighter in Santa Fe (do eat at The Shed if you go), we spent a few days in Gallup. Renee raised her family there, and Mary Ruth taught there for a few years, so it was fun just to drive the streets and listen to the two of them remember good and bad times. We visited the flea market and bought jewelry and I bought a lovely skirt, a twirly skirt. I'm in heaven.<br />
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Driving home north through the great Navajo reservation was also wonderful, a chance to see the great outcropping and rocks (Shiprock being one) that define the borders of the land of the Dineh. All this made Anne Hillerman's book extra special.<br />
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But to books and covers: I'm writing Book Two of the Spanish Brand Series, and reading for research, too. I came across a novel called <i>The Staked Plain</i>. It takes place in the area of West Texas called Llano Estacado, because it is so trackless that supposedly early Spanish explorers drove stakes in the ground at intervals so they wouldn't get lost. I found the old paperback via Amazon with that title, by Frank X. Tolbird. First published by Harper & Brothers in 1958, I have a 1962 paperback edition with a positively lurid cover - tall white man standing with a rifle over a winsome Comanche (I suppose) woman. There's an obnoxious blurb on the front cover that reads, "Peyton Place on Horseback - or a Kinsey Report on the Comanches of West Texas in the 1860's and 70's."<br />
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Absolutely nothing could be farther from the truth. <i>The Staked Plain</i> is based on a true story about an interesting fellow named Llano Estacado (Staked Plain) Nabors, who actually lived the life written about. It's a wonderful story and I am learning so much about the people and the area. Unfortunately, the print is so tiny, and the pages so yellowed that I can barely read it.<br />
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So I ordered a larger copy this morning. This one is published by a university press, with forwards and afterwards by distinguished writers and historians, giving the book its due. But oh, that original cover! That's what writers have to put up with, at times. But we love to write, so we get over it.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-76211337368440876242013-09-25T11:47:00.000-07:002013-09-25T11:47:01.847-07:00Wazzup?I've always just sort of stumbled into things in my life. Sometimes I think when I wrote <i>Miss Whittier Makes a List</i>, I wanted to be an organized chick like my heroine. Naturally, things didn't work out anything like Hannah's list (stuff has to <i>happen</i> in fiction, after all), but there <i>was</i> a bit of wishful thinking on my part.<br />
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My husband retired from a North Dakota university in 2009 and we moved to Utah. As it turned out, he's the only one who retired; I've just gotten busier, and it's my own darned fault. Luckily, writing is something I can do anywhere, and which still allows me to wear my beloved thrift store clothes to work. Brushing my hair is optional. I love a job like that.<br />
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Part of what goes along with writing books are booksignings and talks (or at least, that's the route with me). I have two booksignings this Saturday, September 28. The first is at Seagull Books on Redwood Road in Salt Lake City from 9-11 a.m. The second is at Seagull in Spanish Fork from 2-4 p.m. Later in October there is one at the Costco in Lehi, Utah, and another at The King's English in Salt Lake.<br />
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Then, oh goody, I'll be on the road for two weeks. I enjoy this. I'll be speaking at the library in American Fall, Idaho, on October 1, and the Malad, Idaho, library on October 2. Then I'll be at Old Faithful in Yellowstone National Park to visit a ranger friend. We generally get together in October. I get to hear wonderful stories about back country rangering (mainly on horseback), and just how scary urban tourists are. The next morning, I'll meet another ranger friend in Chico Hot Springs for breakfast. Randy and I first rangered together at Fort Laramie National Historic Site, then later at Fort Union Trading Post NHS. I'll hear more good stories.<br />
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Then I'll be on the Montana/Alberta border visiting son Jeremy. This will include a booksigning in Cardston, Alberta, always a pleasure. Then I'll head south to Billings to visit cousins, and then to Nebraska to speak to English students in Morrill, Nebraska. After that, there's a booksigning at the Mountain & Plains Book Expo in Denver, followed by a visit to Palo Duro Canyon near Amarillo, Texas, which was a favorite spot for Kwahadi Comanches. (Book Two of the Spanish Brand series takes place near there.) After that, I'll spend the night in Salida, Colorado, where hopefully I can replace a cool piece of pottery that my clumsy cat destroyed. Then home.<br />
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Besides the friends, family and readers, here's what's fun for me: Tuna fish sammiches. I love them, especially with dill relish. Invariably, I'll make myself tuna fish sandwiches so I don't have to stop for lunch. I may change it up with canned chicken. I'll put cucumbers in my drinking water, and eat grapes and apples. Gone are the days when M&Ms were my travel food of choice. Also, I have a stash of audio cds from the library that come along for the ride. Mostly it's crime fiction - Johnathan Kellerman and Elmore Leonard right now for sure - and history lectures, 18 hours of the Emperors of Rome this trip. I can hardly wait for those ol' Romans.<br />
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What a great time of year to drive through the Intermountain West. It's cool and maybe sn**y (you never say the word), and there will be cattle drives. I never mind waiting for cowboys and cattle. I have a few favorite restaurants, including one in Choteau, Montana (home of the great A.B. Guthrie), and Old Faithful Lodge, which I figure I can afford once a year. I see relatives and friends (I hang onto both a long, long time - boy howdy, I am a good friend). I'll visit my daughter Liz in Lafayette, Colorado, and drop off a plant or two from her dad (provided they survive the trip that far).<br />
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I never used to do this, but I'll bring along books to sell. It's better than snake oil. Which reminds me: I'll probably haul along some of my homemade hand cream, too. It makes great gifts. I subscribe to the Lewis & Clark Method of Traveling Amiably - always have useful goods to hand out to the natives. H'mm. It worked pretty well until Lewis shot a Blackfeet Indian.<br />
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If I can, I'll go a bit out of my way to Thermopolis State Park and the Wyoming State Bath House. I love that place, even though I'll reek of sulfur. Who cares? When I run out of Elmore Leonard, I'll drag out my cds and sing at the top of my lungs.<br />
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Gee, all this fun, and my mileage is tax deductible. Does it get any better?Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-24547463112871377162013-09-09T18:09:00.000-07:002013-09-09T18:09:22.530-07:00I'm such a fan girlI don't watch television. No time, really, and I don't like vulgar comedy. The only thing I watched last year was <i>Downton Abbey</i>, and I'm not even convinced I want to see this year's episodes that start in January. I mean, really, was it necessary to kill Matthew? I will watch Netflix now and then and other dvds (always watch <i>L.A. Confidential</i> at least once a year), but that's it. TV is too much bother.<br />
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Silly me. I was nosing around on instant Netflix on my iPad late one night, and my goodness, I happened onto <i>Ripper Street</i>. As soon as I noticed that the BBC series (first season) starts six months after the last "visit" by Jack the Ripper to Whitechapel, I knew I was hooked. Crime fiction is my escape reading, and I decided that Victorian crime fiction on the telly was worth a look.<br />
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My goodness, I loved it, all eight gritty, gory, violent episodes. The casting is amazing, with Matthew Macfadyen as Inspector Edmund Reid, who in fact handled the H Division located in Whitechapel, one of London's seamiest slums. His gruff and tumble sidekick Sgt. Bennett Drake is played by the excellent Jerome Flynn. Rounding out the ensemble is Andy Rothenberg as Homer Jackson, a former Pinkerton/U.S. Army surgeon and general, all-around bad boy, who supplies the technical know-how in an era just dipping into technology. There are ladies, and bad girls, and a Jewish orphanage director, and assorted flats, cheats and dangerous creeps. Be still, my heart.<br />
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The set is dressed amazingly well, with a scrupulous eye to detail, especially in the period clothing and manners. Maybe the stories strain credulity a time or two, but did I care? Not a whit. I even ordered the dvd of Season One on Amazon this morning (which I plan to loan to you, Bob Kisthart, when I see you in Yellowstone in a few weeks). Apparently Season Two was in the planning before Season One even came out. It's that good.<br />
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If you're not a fan of violence, heavy accents, bloody swash and nonstop action, don't watch. But if you enjoy impressive eye candy in a rough-hewn way, excellent acting, and something a bit different, tune in. I believe the new season starts in November. I can barely wait.<br />
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Now to something different - A few weeks back, I spoke to a library book club in Emery, Utah, about <i>My Loving Vigil Keeping</i>. The group calls itself the Page Flippin' Divas, and they are a fun, well-read group. Pretty much every group I speak to wants to know which of the characters in the novel are real (most of them), and how I did my research. I'm happy to talk about it, if they'll willing to listen.<br />
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When the meeting was over, I chatted with the ladies. One of them - she might have been in her 80s - wanted to tell me about her father. His last name was Hansen and she was the oldest child. She went with him everywhere, and grew up hearing him say "Diolch," in place of "thank you." In that way of children, she never questioned him about it, because she knew he was saying thank you. She did wonder what the language was, but never asked him.<br />
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She told me that not until she read <i>My Loving Vigil Keeping</i>, and saw that word in the book, did she put two and two together and realize that her father, a Hansen, was saying thank you in Welsh. "My younger brothers and sisters don't remember him saying that," she told me. "Maybe by the time they came along, he was just farther away from the word."<br />
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Since her father's last name was Danish, I had to ask her about her mother. "Her last name was Oliver," she said. Bingo. Welsh. We had a little laugh, and she said that the book brought her closer to her father, because of that simple word.<br />
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And that's the fun part about writing, and the total payoff: visiting with readers and hearing <u>their</u> stories.<br />
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Now, how many days until Season Two of <i>Ripper Street</i> starts? I am a fan girl.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-70181728237006917372013-08-13T10:53:00.002-07:002013-08-13T10:53:44.067-07:00I'm still hereMy apologies for such a delay between blogs, and I don't know where all the photos vanished. It's probably part of a new improvement that I missed out on. Well, tough.<br />
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July was a hard month. My husband had a stroke. He probably got lucky, though, because it only involved three of the five major symptoms of stroke: a sudden, stabbing headache, loss of balance, and loss of vision. He spent four days at the University of Utah Medical Center in Salt Lake City, undergoing a raft of tests. His vision returned, except for the rare odd flash of something or other. His balance is fine now, well sort of. Two or three weeks after the stroke, he was out on his usual walk, didn't lift his foot high enough to get to the curb, and did a face plant. The result was a broken nose, and the broken humerus bone about 2 inches below his elbow. (H'mm, look at those two words. Guess I never noticed how closely related they are.)<br />
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Luckily again, the break was such that he has a splint, rather than a cast. The doc let him take off the splint, and he'll probably be doing some rehab time in physical therapy.<br />
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Naturally, during all this the basement remodel began. It's a week from being done now, so all is well.<br />
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The surprises continue. I was supposed to take part in a booksigning at Brigham Young University during Education Week next week. I was informed yesterday that I have been uninvited. When I asked the publicity guy at Cedar Fort to find out why, he learned it was because I also write for Harlequin. I have to wonder which of my Harlequin Historicals they read to make their informed decision, but they probably read none of them.<br />
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This sort of broke my heart yesterday, but today I'm seeing the funny side. One of my Facebook friends suggested that I dedicate my next Harlequin to BYU, and I'm going to do just that. It'll read something like this: <i>To Brigham Young University, my alma mater, where I studied history and learned some shocking things you can't write in books, apparently. Thanks for your support</i>. The book is called <i>The Wedding Ring Quest</i>, and it will be out in March.<br />
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I do give props to BYU's excellent history department, where I learned a lot about research and thought, as well as "the hot poop," as my favorite teacher there used to say. Well, when next I go on campus - we like to see plays there - I'll probably have to wear a scarlet A.<br />
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Now to the funny stuff. I was shopping yesterday and noticed that Air Wick has come out with a National Parks line of air fresheners. So far, the four choices are Zion, Acadia, Cape Cod, and Rocky Mountain. As a former ranger in the National Park Service, this gave me the giggles. Personally, I think Rocky Mountain National Park air freshener should smell like mosquito repellent. If they every do Fort Laramie National Historic Site, where I worked, it'll have to smell like stables and old saddles. Fort Union Trading Post NHS, where I also worked, is a reconstruction of John Jacob Astor's 1828 fur trade fort. Historical research has determined that there was no evidence anywhere of privies, in the fort's 38-year history. I guess that air freshener will have to smell like, well... you get the gist. I worked at Yellowstone National Park in a private capacity, years ago. The predominate odor there is most definitely sulfur, from all the geysers and hot pots.<br />
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I guess it's a good thing that Air Wick didn't hire me as their Park Service consultant.<br />
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As for writing, T<i>he Double Cross</i> and <i>Safe Passage</i> are out now. I'm working on Book Two of the Spanish Brand Series. So far, I'm calling that book Son of Double Cross, because I don't have a title yet.<br />
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So cheerio to you all. I'll be better about blogging in the future.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-45003071820195252842013-06-23T19:37:00.000-07:002013-06-23T19:37:22.894-07:00Down time is creative timeI know. I know. If there's a worse blogger in the known world, I wouldn't know who it is. I do what I can.<br />
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Housekeeping: This Friday and Saturday (June 28-29), I'll be in Malad, Idaho, at the annual Malad Welsh Festival. This year I'm selling my books and Mrs. Kelly's Novel Hand Cream. I have 19 different fragrances, one of which I developed for the Welsh Festival called Oatcakes'n Honey. It's a good conference, sort of a modified eisteddfod, with singing groups young and old. There are talks on a variety of things Welsh, other Celtic music, displays, and lots of kindly folk with Welsh ancestry (including <i>moi</i>). It's great.<br />
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But this is down time for me. I just finished a novel for Harlequin, which I titled, <i>A Wife Like Mary</i>. No telling what Harlequin will rename it. I'm due to start Book Two of the Spanish Brand Series. The first book will be out August 1, although I hear that some of the Barnes & Noble stores already have it. I enjoyed every minute of writing The Double Cross, and look forward to the next book, which I'll begin August 1.<br />
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Actually, it's far from down time. What I'm doing is research, which means reading about Comanches, and smallpox, and those primitive inoculations which preceded Edward Jenner's vaccination, and <i>comancheros, </i>those bold and brave New Mexicans who traded with the Comanche<i>. </i>It was a tough time and place that makes me feel a bit guilty when I whine about getting a paper cut. But I love that northeast area of present-day New Mexico around Cimarron. I'll be down that way in August.<br />
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This is the challenging time for a writer of historical fiction - trying to figure out the bones of a story, and stay true to history. I have no doubts that ignorance is bliss, but I always want my stories to be accurate. It's doubly tricky when writing about some branches of the Comanche who were so elusive. There was no more ruthless Indian nation than the Comanche; they asked no quarter and gave none. For some 250 years, they owned Texas and wore it out with repeated raids and depredations. Can I make these folks appealing? You bet.<br />
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So why in the world would a writer set a series about a brand inspector right on the edge of Comancheria? I've been told that my novels are good, in part, because of my realistic and compelling characters. And nothing reveals character more than adversity. I like a writing challenge. I like putting all the pieces together in a logical way. To me, that's the great challenge of writing. Put people in a dangerous place - some will live and some will die. Mostly I hope you care about Marco Mondragon and his wife Paloma, and their sort-of ally, Toshua, a Kwahadi Comanche on the outs from his own tribe. He's also Paloma's protector, whether she wants his protection or not.<br />
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That challenge of putting the pieces together is evident in my next Cedar Fort novel,<i> Safe Passage</i>, which comes out August 15. It's set against the backdrop of the Mexican Revolution of 1910-1920. The Mormons had established a series of successful colonies in Mexico, starting in 1885. When things went terribly wrong, they were forced to flee in 1912. The story of their exodus from Mexico is compelling enough, but I decided to give it another twist. How about a young man estranged from his wife for two years, who learns from his father-in-law that his wife didn't get out? Someone has to go find her, and he's elected. He also wants to see if he can make things better between them. He has his own conflict, in addition to the above: he's born and raised in Mexico, and he really doesn't want to leave at all.<br />
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Maybe it's just me, but what I hope comes through in this story for my readers is my great love for Mexico and its kindhearted people. The more I wrote, the more I felt it.<br />
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So right now it's back to Comancheria and a brand inspector and his sudden wife. I've given myself until the end of December to write this second book in thee series (no name yet). And then I'll be researching an area I've visited a time or two - southeast Wyoming, but in 1887. What's the conflict here? A really, really bad winter.<br />
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Well, excuse my rambling thoughts. I certainly have a writer's mind, but I don't entirely understand it. A writer's life is a hard slog, at times. But at all times, it's a total privilege to create people that linger in the mind. Mine, anyway, and maybe yours, too.<br />
<br />
Back to Comanches. I'm in writer heaven.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-70827101386779409752013-06-03T09:49:00.000-07:002013-06-03T09:49:04.379-07:00Now Hear This!This is terribly short because I'm headed to Cedar City to see niece Terri Metcalf-Peterson play the role of Dolly Levi in "Hello, Dolly." She has a magnificent voice, is a lyric soprano professional, and it will be terrific.<br />
<br />
The news: <i>H<b>ere's to the Ladies: Stories of the Frontier Army</b></i> is now in ebook format! This is my collection of Indian Wars army stories that was published in 2004 by Texas Christian University Press, better known as teacup.<br />
<br />
It's a collection that means so much to me, because I started writing those stories when I was a ranger at Fort Laramie National Historic Site. I still remain in close contact with the gentlemen listed in the dedication, except for the one who is now in Fiddlers Green (army jargon for passed away). Two of these short stories won Spur Awards from Western Writers of America.<br />
<br />
These short stories launched my writing career. Is there any wonder that I have such affection for them?<br />
<br />
Anyway, I'm tickled.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-86296580153691298992013-05-28T15:57:00.000-07:002013-05-28T15:57:05.882-07:00BookExpo AmericaThis is a commercial. Cedar Fort is flying me to New York City on Thursday to participate in <b>BookExpo America</b>. I've never been before, but I do know it's a super-duper, big deal of a book publishers/sellers' convention. Cedar Fort is expanding and looking for a wider audience, and this is one good way to do it.<br />
<br />
The event takes place at the Jacob Javits Center in Manhattan. On May 31, Friday at 2 p.m., I'll be signing my books at the Cedar Fort booth. On Saturday, I'll do the same at 10 a.m., then catch a plane for home that afternoon.<br />
<br />
This'll probably a noisy, crowded, above-all interesting event, and I'm looking forward to it. We lived in Brooklyn, NY, from 1969-1972, while Martin earned an MFA in directing from Brooklyn College. We were poor students at the time, but we did manage to see the major sights in the Big Apple. I wish I had time to visit the Frick Museum again on this trip, and go to Coney Island for Nathan's hot dogs, but I doubt it's possible. (And I doubt Nathan's Famous is still 50 cents.) I'm supposed to attend a party for Harlequin on Thursday night, but we'll see. I'm not the world's greatest mingler. Still, I can probably leave anytime I want.<br />
<br />
It'll be hard to top last weekend in Washington, DC, when I saw a niece get married, visited with my two sisters, had a delightful day of sightseeing in the Blue Ridge Mountains (Appomatox Courthouse and Lexington, VA) with my brother-in-law and 2 beagles, and toured Ford's Theatre in DC. Good cake at the wedding, too. And what could be cooler than the Star War's Victory March used as the recessional?<br />
<br />
I do like a good time.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-60696326952123626272013-05-15T04:55:00.001-07:002013-05-15T05:00:33.193-07:00Whitney is becoming a favorite nameThere's a point in awards ceremonies where I always ask myself, why do this? I can eat chicken and mushrooms at home, and I can avoid rolls at home. Then I ask myself, should I really just take one bite of the chocolate mousse pie and give the rest to my husband, because after all, I probably won't win a Whitney this year, since I won one last year? And gee willikers, I paid a lot for food I'm a) either not eating b) or I could cook at home. (This is how nervous nellies think. It's not a pretty sight.)<br />
<br />
But I was a good enough girl. I passed up the roll, didn't eat all the mashed potatoes, and yes indeedy, handed over that chocolate mousse pie to Hubby, after one - mebbe two - bites. Then I waited through interminable comments by presenters until we arrived at the historical fiction category, where <i>My Loving Vigil Keeping </i>won best Historical Fiction of the Year at the 2012 Whitney Awards.<br />
<br />
I happily accepted the Whitney Award in memory of "my guys," the 200 men and boys who died in the Winter Quarters Mine Disaster in 1900. They were on my mind anyway, since it isn't that long since May 1, when the Number Four Mine blew up and killed the morning shift. Quite a few guys in the connecting Number One died, too, of afterdamp. That's only part of the story, of course. Novels are built of more than that.<br />
<br />
Three days before the awards ceremony, I went up to Scofield for a visit. Going to the cemetery makes me sad, because they all died too young, and generally with large and hopeful families. And some of them were buried so far from previous homes in Finland, England, Wales, Scotland, you name it. The sadness passes, though, and I feel the peace of the place. Eagles swoop and soar overhead. The logical side of my brain tells me they're only on the hunt for the cemetery's gophers. The other side suggests to me that they're looking after my guys,too.<br />
<br />
Time passes. In a few weeks, there will be a paper flower on each grave. The Price <i>Sun-Advocate</i> began a project a few years ago called "No grave left unadorned." Scores of folks make paper flowers, which are put on each grave in Carbon County. Once a year, someone leaves a paper flower for my guys. But I go up several times a year, walk the rows, and think about lives cut short, hard-working men, and what compels people to leave their homes in other nations or states and follow the coal veins to Utah. For some, it was religion, and probably the hope of better lives for their children. For others, it was just the latter, or better lives for themselves.<br />
<br />
I've noticed that sometimes others leave flowers during the year, so I know these men are remembered. I remember all the time.<br />
<br />
---------------------<br />
<br />
Now a little housekeeping- If any of you live in New York City, you're welcome to drop by the Jacob Javits Center on May 31 at 2 p.m., or June 1 at 10 a.m., where I'll be signing books. It's part of the annual Book Expo America. Cedar Fort is flying me there, and I'm totally jazzed about it. I've never been to BEA, but I hear it's a great place to meet authors and snag free books. I'll also drop by the Harlequin booth on Friday morning, and maybe the Signet booth, because I have some interests there, too.<br />
<br />
<br />Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-15660696565088025812013-05-07T11:43:00.005-07:002013-05-07T11:43:57.722-07:00Readers make my day<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"><i>A month or so ago, I received a forwarded letter that had been sent to Mills & Boon in London. It was from Joan in Dubbo, New South Wales, who had some kind things to say about The Admiral's Penniless Bride. It's fun to hear from readers, and doesn't happen all too often. Thought I'd share it with you. It's my birthday today and I can do what I want. I looked up Dubbo, NSW. It's a small town on the Macquarie River, sort of west by northwest of Sydney. Ironically, it's close to Wellington, which is where I live, but 15,000 or so miles away on another continent. Joan is forever etched in my heart for two reasons: I really enjoy readers, and I especially enjoy readers who know how to use a semi-colon, which she does. Goodonyer, Joan!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;">To Harlequin/Mills & Boon</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"> Would it be possible for you to e-mail or Fax my regards to Carla Kelly? I have just finished reading 'The Admiral's Penniless Bride' and I can honestly say I have never enjoyed any book as much as I did this one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"> The sense of humor comes across beautifully. In fact I cannot recall <u>any</u> Historical Story with humor like this one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"> As I have read hundreds of Mills & Book books over the years and hope to have many more years left to enjoy even more; I hope there will be more from this author especially if it contains the same type of humor. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"> Many of my friends also enjoy these books and we pass them backwards and forwards between us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"> These include my mother-in-law -- aged 86 this year and a good neighbour aged 84 this year.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"> My age is 72 and many of my friends are in this age bracket.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"> At our ages we have the time to sit & read (& enjoy) a good romantic story.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"> As I am computer illiterate I cannot write to Carla myself so will hope you can forward this to her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"> Thanks so much for such a varied range of reading matter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;">Yours sincerely,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"> Joan</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif; line-height: 115%;">7 May 2013</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Dear Joan,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Harlequin /Mills & Boon
forwarded your kind letter to me here in Utah. Thanks for your words about <i>The Admiral’s Penniless Bride</i>. I have to
tell you – the germ of the idea came from our move to Utah from North Dakota.
My husband bought a house that was a total wreck. I had remained behind in
North Dakota because I was a) packing b)
finishing up a history of Fort Buford for a publisher. I didn’t speak to him
for a few days!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Luckily, we all survived. The
house was completely remodeled in stages, with the kitchen finished last
summer. This summer, we’re going to remodel the basement. Crazy. Since I’m a
writer, I naturally drew from my own experiences, although we never had a house
as erotic as the one Admiral Bright inflicted on Sally Paul. Well, almost not. My
dad was in the U.S. Navy, and we lived in postwar Japan for a while. Our first
house was owned by a Japanese writer, I believe, who had some oddball “western”
ideas. He had a huge statue of a naked woman by the front door. My mom was a
bit of a prude, and it gave her quite a jolt. I was 7 at the time, and my
sister was 9, and we thought the whole thing was hilarious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Maybe that’s part of being a
writer – we remember quirky events. At the time I certainly never planned to
write <i>anything</i>, much less a novel with
a naked statue, but it did come in handy, years later!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Here’s another chuckle about <i>The Admiral’s Penniless Bride</i> – every
few months, or now and then (it’s random), I get a box of 3 books which is a
translation. I can generally figure out the language, but “Bride” came a few
months ago in a language I had never seen before. It looked a bit Finnish, but
not quite. We finally figured out that the book had been translated into
Estonian. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">And yet, it’s not a funny book,
not at all. Some readers took me to task because they thought the admiral’s
reaction was extreme, but I never thought so. A man used to command and instant
obedience is not about to tolerate what he thought was a terrible coverup from
the woman he was now in love with. My
original title was “Admiral Bright’s Inconvenient Marriage.” But Harlequin loves to change titles, for
good or ill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">My most recent Harlequin is set
at Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory, in 1876.
I had been begging and begging to write something besides a Regency, and
<i>Her Hesitant Heart</i> was the result.
It’s just out, but doing well. I’m back to writing Regencies, though. Working
on one now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">The Fort Laramie story will
always be dear to my heart, because I used to work at Fort Laramie National
Historic Site as a ranger in the National Park Service. I love the place and
know it well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">And you’re from New South
Wales. We had to look up Dubbo on our atlas. I have to tell you, Joan, that I
have three favorite books, and one of them is Nevil Shute’s novel, <i>A Town Like Alice</i> (I believe it was
originally titled <i>The Legacy)</i>. Great book.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">I’m a bit younger than you. I’m
66 today, May 7. I write for two other publishers, besides Harlequin. If you
were computer literate, you could look me up on Amazon and maybe get some of
those books, too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Best to you, and thanks so much
for writing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Bookman Old Style', serif;">Carla Kelly</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle">
<span style="font-family: Bookman Old Style, serif;"><i>I think I might send her another book. I'll do that for someone who understands a semi-colon.</i></span></div>
Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-31691604808131819242013-04-18T05:27:00.001-07:002013-04-18T05:27:43.550-07:00Her Hesitant Heart<a href="http://www.likesbooks.com/cgi-bin/bookReview.pl?BookReviewId=9472">http://www.likesbooks.com/cgi-bin/bookReview.pl?BookReviewId=9472</a><br />
<br />
Had to include this lovely review for Her Hesitant Heart. After years of begging to write a Western, Harlequin Historical agreed to one. I'm back to a two-Regency contract, but this book will always be a highlight for me. Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-5770146919703118352013-04-16T10:10:00.001-07:002013-04-16T10:10:40.546-07:00The best of times, the worst of timesThere's really nothing to add to what happened yesterday in Boston. Throughout the day on Facebook, that wonderful Mr. Rogers quote popped up a lot, where his mother assured him that in any troubles, look for the helpers. They were there in Boston, too.<br />
<br />
I remember the flood of 2009 in North Dakota. Our little town of Valley City was evacuated, because of sewer collapse. We were wondering what to do, when a church friend called from Fargo, just out of the blue, wondering if we needed anything. Fargo had been through their bad flood days a few weeks earlier. We told him we needed a place to stay, and he invited us right over. We spent a few days there, enjoying their many kindnesses.<br />
<br />
Curious thing about those North Dakota floods - the Red Cross hurried in and set up shelters for people just like us. After a week or so, they closed them, because friends and neighbors and strangers were taking in those people who would otherwise have gone to shelters. That's the way of life up there, and apparently, in Boston, too. Probably all over America, because that's what we do.<br />
<br />
I'm reminded of something I heard from a policeman. "Whenever I speak to kids, I tell them that if they are ever lost, just to find an older woman who looks like a grandmother and go to her. She will always help." Nice to be in that demographic.<br />
<br />
Two closing thoughts. I keep these on my writer's board beside my computer. I look at them often.<br />
<br />
Will & Ariel Durant - Introduction to <i>The Age of Napoleon</i><br />
<br />
"All in all, in life and in history, we have found so many good men and women that we have quite lost faith in the wickedness of mankind."<br />
<br />
Ellis Peters - <i>One Corpse Too Many</i> - Brother Cadfael is speaking to sheriff Hugh Beringar<br />
<br />
"You did the work that fell to you, and did it well. God disposes all. From the highest to the lowest extreme of a man's scope, wherever justice and retribution can reach him, so can grace."Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-52373988474053134242013-04-09T10:53:00.000-07:002013-04-09T10:53:01.510-07:00Don't Poke the BearNow for something a tad more light-hearted, in its own way. I was culling stuff from filing cabinets last night and this morning, and came across a doozy. It's going in my too-crazy-to-be-fiction file.<br />
<br />
On July 2, 2012, the <i>Deseret News</i> published an article about a total whack job on I-80 in Wyoming, who pretty much terrorized the Interstate near Wamsutter, where, basically, nothing ever happens.<br />
<br />
Sorry Case (No real name; I don't want him looking for me) from Nameless Town, Utah, apparently was driving erratically, stopping cars, getting out, fighting with motorists, trying to break into other cars, chasing people, and just being a really bad a**. He managed to get into one car and swiped a semi-automatic handgun, which he immediately started firing from inside the car through closed windows. Luckily, the lady managed to bail out. He rammed other cars, broke out a truck's window, and stabbed some guy with an "unknown sharp object."<br />
<br />
I'm condensing this drastically. A few miles later, he got out of his car and stretched out on the highway, naked. He had somehow found a cane, and that became his weapon of choice when some truck drivers and motorists stopped to restrain him. By then, a highway patrolman arrived, and all of them struggled with this supremely odd individual. With the help of four people, the trooper got one handcuff on him. More officers arrived from Sweetwater County Sheriff's Department and bundled the guy off to the hoosegow.<br />
<br />
Whew. There he was in 2010 in Green River, under what the newspaper referred to as a "slew of charges." I have to list these, because it's a prime example of why it's not wise to mess with cops, or "poke the bear," as my Border Patrol son calls it.<br />
<br />
Are you ready? "Sorry Case was arrested for investigation of aggravated assault, attempted manslaughter, battery, driving while under the influence, driving on a suspended license, reckless driving, property destruction, criminal entry, larceny, felonious restraint, failure to report a crash, failure to maintain vehicle within a single lane, failure to yield right-of-way to a pedestrian, parking on a highway, resisting arrest and promoting obscenity." (I guess that last one covers nudity on an Interstate.)<br />
<br />
I can picture it: A whole bunch of peace officers thinking of every possible, well-deserved thing to throw at the man, and rightly so. They want to make darned certain that this guy doesn't get out of jail for a loooong time. Maybe until the 12th of Never. Crossing southern Wyoming is never a total treat, but it shouldn't have to be terror.<br />
<br />
I asked my son once if he'd like to be able to give a ticket that just says, "You're stupid. Here's a ticket." Oh, yeah.<br />
<br />
So if you're ever tempted to strip past your skivvies and stretch out on I-80 through Wyoming, don't. Just don 't.<br />
******<br />
My other favorite law enforcement stories happened in North Dakota, where cops impounded a chicken crossing the parking lot of a local bank in Valley City. Another one comes from Fargo, where a cop was investigating a report of kids trying to sneak into a drive-in movie. As he walked by one car, someone in the trunk passed gas and all the kids in the trunk got the giggles. Busted.<br />
<br />
Welcome to spring, the silly season.<br />
<br />
P.S. If you want to read other nonsense like this blog, my book, <i>Stop Me If You've Read This One</i>, should be available on Amazon soon. It's a collection of some of the Prairie Light columns I wrote while reporting for the Valley City <i>Times-Record</i>. I seem to recall one column about guys under some sort of influence stealing a flamingo from a zoo in Minot and eating it. Maybe they're related to the nude guy on I-80.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-68515377236843421752013-03-30T11:07:00.001-07:002013-03-30T11:09:01.227-07:00Sometimes the mountain talksIt's been a tough week in coal country. People turning on light switches in places other than Carbon and Emery counties probably have no idea how expensive coal was this week. While retreat mining, Elam Jones, continuous miner operator, died when part of the roof collapsed. His partner and friend, Dallen McFarlane, suffered a knee injury, but survived.<br />
<br />
It was the Rhino Mine, located up Huntington Canyon in Emery County. It's also not too far from Crandall Canyon, where 6 miners and 3 mine rescue team members died in 2007. Elam had been part of that rescue, so he knew the dangers first hand. All of them do, but they mine coal. It's hard and dirty and at times dangerous. It's also a generational thing around here. Elam was a third generation miner on his father's side, and a fourth generation miner on his mother's side. His mom, Julie, is a city councilwoman in Huntington. We know Julie.<br />
<br />
This just hurts. The Rhino Mine is the mine I was allowed to go inside, when I was researching <i>My Loving Vigil Keeping. </i>The surface superintendent is a church friend, and he kindly gave permission. I spent a few hours underground, just getting acquainted with a mine. I assure you that my friend is hurting in the worst possible way right now. MSHA has closed the mine while an investigation is ongoing, but it's a good mine, well-run. These are the risks inherent in digging that electricity out of the ground.<br />
<br />
Elam and Dallen were engaged in retreat mining. This is when a section has been successfully "mined out," and it's time to pull the pillars, get that coal out, and let the roof naturally collapse. When I say pillars, I don't mean skinny little faux decorations. These are massive. Retreat mining is a common practice, but it has its dangers, obviously.<br />
<br />
It's interesting what happens after a collapse. Mine rescue teams from all over the area converge, and the men go in to get out their buddies. Mike McCandless, economic development director for Emery County, said this is the March 28 <i>Deseret News</i>: "This work binds miners together and that brotherhood means they'll drop whatever they're doing at a moment's notice to find a trapped miner."<br />
<br />
Dallen echoed this: "Everybody is your brother. Everybody's got your back." And Dallen added, "Nobody here blames the mine, it was just a bad accident."<br />
<br />
Elam leaves behind a wife, Jaqlynn Jones, and two little boys, age 4 and 5. Sadly, they now belong to that miner's club that no one wants to join. But here's the thing: There were more than 1,000 people at Elam's funeral in the Huntington Stake Center of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. These tight-knit communities of miners, family and friends will keep the little Jones family close to them. It's a Welsh thing, it's a mining thing, it's what people do around here.<br />
<br />
I just wish it didn't hurt so bad.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-91001779803685949092013-03-14T18:23:00.001-07:002013-03-14T18:43:57.706-07:00The Old MillMy mother was the best kind of mom. She saved important works, including my very first fictional effort, a bit of deathless prose called <i>The Mystery of the Old Mill. </i>I've included the entire work here, so you can enjoy it, too. I was six years old, and plunked out the novel on her Olivetti-Underwood, a beast of a typewriter. H'mm, one incomplete sentence. Like this one. And a run on sentence, or maybe we could call that a comma splice, also a deadly sin.<br />
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Intermission here. Years ago, when it was all the rage, I tried to read Jean Auel's best-seller, <i>The Clan of the Cave Bear</i>. I didn't get too far, because the thing was crammed with comma splices. I didn't toss the book, so I can't really call it a wallbanger, but I most definitely stopped reading.<br />
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I also committed another deadly sin in my brief attempt at mystery writing; I used the word "very." I got out of that habit quickly in high school, when I came under the tutelage of Jean Dugat, Senior English AP teacher, sophomore English teacher and journalism teacher. I owe my writing career to Miss D, as we called her. She was an overbearing dragon and there were times when I hated her. By the end of my sophomore year, it occurred to me that if I paid attention to what she was teaching me, I'd be a writer.<br />
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Miss D loathed and despised the word "very." I distinctly remember her telling us that it was a useless filler word, and that we might as well write "damn," instead. Since then, I have been sparing in my use of the word. If you're ever supremely bored, just pick up a novel of mine and count the times I use the dread word. Generally, it's never.<br />
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All I can say in my defense of the V word in <i>The Mystery of the Old Mill</i> is that I was only six, and wouldn't meet Miss D until I was 14.<br />
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As you can tell from the cover, I spent more time drawing the old mill than I did writing. I'm no artist. The text inside has the promise of a story. I suppose I quit writing because I hadn't yet learned how to spin out a yarn. Someone wiser than I am once observed, "Writing fiction is just one damned thing after another." True. I was young and unwise in the ways of the world. Maybe I should have tried again when I was in the second grade. By then, I was more interested in reading, which is also a good thing for a writer.<br />
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Mom also saved my favorite book, <i>Ukelele and Her New Doll</i>. It was a Golden Book, published in 1951,and probably cost a quarter. I loved the story of Little Ukelele, who lived in the South Seas in a grass hut. She had a wooden doll her father made her. She could wash her doll in a shell bathtub, and feed her sand cookies.<br />
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"One day there came to the island a big, beautiful sailing ship to trade for coconuts," the story goes. One of the men from the ship gives Ukelele a china doll with real hair and blue eyes and lovely clothes. Ukelele loved her new doll, but she discovered that she couldn't wash her in the shell bathtub, because the water was bad for her. She couldn't feed her sand cookies because the sand stuck in her hair. The doll just wasn't a lot of fun. By the end of the day, Ukelele took her dear wooden doll to bed, "and hugged her tight until they were both fast asleep."<br />
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Lovely story. One thing about it strikes me: On the cover of that book is a sailing ship, probably a frigate similar to those I have been writing about for years. The navy men bartering for coconuts look like the men of the Royal Navy, another topic well-known to me and well-used in my novels. I have to ask myself: Did I subconsciously store up memories of that ship and those men from the little book I read when I was four?<br />
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I still love Ukelele, and I still write about the Royal Navy. In fact, I'm writing a novel about a captain on a lengthy shore leave for the first time in 12 years, now that Napoleon is on Elba. Maybe I'll dedicate this book to Ukelele.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-69441372174675524402013-02-17T17:18:00.001-08:002013-02-17T17:18:33.047-08:00Just a sampleWhew, Valentine's Day hit us hard here in Carbon County. First, daughter Liz's boyfriend got her a gi-normous Russell Stover heart, which we've all been encouraged to eat. (Gotta do what you gotta do.) The task was made simpler because there was one of those keys, which tells you what is what. With that much help and encouragement, the assignment to eat became simpler. I could avoid all the raspberry nougat centers hidden in chocolate coating. What a relief. And there was a truffle, just waiting for me.<br />
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When I was at my daily therapy session (i.e. water aerobics), one of my fellow swimmers mentioned Suzie's Candy Shop. Apparently Suzie had a candy store in downtown Price, Utah, at one time. She decided to pedal back a bit, and remodeled her garage to make a kitchen/store there. Armed with directions, Vondell (my swimming buddy) and I found Suzie on February 13. She was puh-lenty busy, but graciously added us to the list, if we could pick up the goodies on the afternoon of Valentine's Day. We each got the assortment - a sample of this and that - and were put on Suzie's mailing list.<br />
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Ostensibly, Suzie's assortment was for my husband, but again, we're all dipping into the chocolate. He very kindly got me a dozen roses that are multi-colored red and white. They're just fun to look at.<br />
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I got another sampler today. Bryony Green, my London editor with Harlequin Historicals, gave me the good news that the North American direct marketing group is going to include the entire first chapter of <i>Her Hesitant Heart, </i>as a sample<i>, </i>in a direct mail package that will reach some 320,000 customers between June and September.<br />
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People who respond will then receive the whole novel in their introductory shipment. I did notice on the cover of <i>Her Hesitant Heart</i> these words under the title: "New Beginnings." I gather this is an additional series that readers can sign up for. I hope they will.<br />
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I emailed back to say I'd be delighted to be part of the proposal. And I am. <i>Her Hesitant Heart</i> is a story dear to my heart. It's set at Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory, in 1876. I love Fort Laramie. I volunteered there for a few years, and then was a seasonal ranger/historian for a few more years from roughly 1973 to 1975. Fort Laramie was where I forged some friendships that continue to give me real pleasure. It's also where I started writing (and selling) what I call my Fort Laramie stories, short stories and novellas about the men, women and children of the Indian Wars era. The stories are set at Fort Laramie (Wyoming), Fort Bowie Arizona), Fort Buford (North Dakota), and Camp Ruby (Nevada).<br />
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The stories were eventually collected into one book, <i>Here's To the Ladies: Stories of the Frontier Army</i>, and published by Texas Christian University Press. It remains probably my personal favorite, although <i>My Loving Vigil Keeping</i> is following as a close second. Those ranger friends made it a favorite work. One has passed away (the Old Army used to call that 'going to Fiddlers' Green'), but I generally see the others every year or so at one conference or other. I do value my friendships, and none more than that bunch of fellow rangers who took great pleasure in sharing our country's history with visitors from all over the world.<br />
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And this was my little secret: The U.S. government paid me every two weeks for doing something I would have done for free, because I love it so much. I think everyone should have a job like that, at least once in a lifetime.<br />
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I hope you all had a lovely Valentine's Day.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9033951886762774121.post-5674838623767792592013-02-14T09:38:00.001-08:002013-02-14T09:38:30.592-08:00Here's the deal...This is really really short, because Cedar Fort wants me to add this promo for My Loving Vigil Keeping. It's good through February 28 - $2.99 for an ebook. Woo hoo! And it's a Whitney Award Finalist in the Historical Fiction category.Carla Kelly authorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18130429274244297360noreply@blogger.com2