All roads lead here and there

You hoo? Anyone there? I doubt I have any readers left, since it's been so long since my last blog. Before I left on my trip three weeks ago, I was finishing a historical mystery set in n/e New Mexico in 1780 called The Double Cross. So I was, uh, too busy writing to write. My editor at Camel Press in Seattle likes the book, so with a few changes, we're good to go. Not sure yet when that one will be available as paperback and ebook. It was glorious fun to write. I like to think of Marco and Paloma Mondragon as the Nick and Nora Charles of the 18th century.

But I'm still writing Regencies. Next one is due to Harlequin in June 2013, which I will probably start in February. (I'm thinking about another sea story, so you've been warned.) The project on deck now is a novel for Cedar Fort (yes, there are pesky Mormons in it), set in 1916 Mexico, just after Pancho Villa and his guerillas attack Columbus, N.M. John Pershing was commanded to organize a punitive expedition into Mexico to harry and hopefully capture Villa. He didn't succeed, but this little quasi-war involved trains, and cavalry troops, and airplanes and automobiles. It also involved scouts hired from the Mormon Colonies in Mexico, because they knew the territory, were tough men, and spoke Spanish like natives. Glendon Swarthout wrote a book called The Tin Lizzie Troop about the punitive expedition. I'm currently reading The General and the Jaguar, by the excellent Eileen Welsome, about the same event. Good stuff. I love the research part of writing.

My trip. On Sept. 24, I took off for southeast Wyoming (with a shoutout to Julia and Mr. Otto, of course), then western Nebraska (a favorite cousin), northwestern Nebraska (a favorite National Park Service boss), back to Torrington, Wyoming to discuss a life history a friend wants me to write. It was this kind of do-it-on-a-whim trip: on the way, I finally stopped in Rawlins, Wyoming, at the old prison, active from about 1901 to 1981. (Not to be confused with the state-run Territorial Prison in Laramie.) Anyway, I'd been driving by the pen in Rawlins for years, so I decided to stop.

I recommend it. The tour was well-run, with a super guide who knew all the ins and outs of that tough place. Cell Block A was enough to scare anyone straight - three levels of cells with little or no heat (remember, this is Wyoming), and a bucket in the cell, which could be emptied in the morning into a trough running the length of the cell block. Our guide pointed out that even after 80 years (the old sanitary system was done away with years before the prison closed), there is still an aroma. Hard to imagine how pungent that was during a summer in say, 1905. Great tour. It also included maximum security, a look at the old hanging method, and then the new, improved gas chamber. One of the visitors on the tour wanted to close the door on himself and have his wife take his picture through the peephole. She vetoed that strenuously. In 1981, the new state pen was located south of Rawlins, so the old one remains a cautionary tale.

Then it was "ahhhh" time at the Wyoming State Bath House in Thermopolis. What a bargain. The therapeutic pools (one indoor, one outdoor) are free, provided you have your own suit and towel. If you have to rent theirs, it's only a buck, so it's still a bargain. I don't think another state has a bath house, the result of an agreement and a sale between the state and the Shoshoni-Arapaho Nations. I went in twice, and smelled like sulphur for days. I doubt the fragrance will even leave my swimsuit, but I don't care. Sitting in 104 degree water is worth it. I'd been planning that return visit for two years, and I'm already looking forward to the next time, as soon as I can concoct a flimsy excuse.

I went through Yellowstone to visit another Park Service colleague who is a back country ranger based at Old Faithful District. It was a better year; no tourists were eaten by bears (last year's score was Tourists: 0, Bears, 2). I got to watch Old Faithful erupt, and it was impressive.

Next stop was Choteau, Montana, a lovely little town with the stunning Rocky Mountain front range out the back door. I met Helen "Gus" Miller, A.B. Guthrie's daughter, for dinner, and she told me stories about her father, who was one of my favorite writers. Gus was a Genuine Article herself, with great stories, a penetrating stare, and an amazing laugh. She knew everyone in the restaurant. I was a total fangirl.

I eventually arrived on the Canadian border, where my son lives. I spent most of the time reading about Pancho Villa, then did two booksignings - one in Cardston and the other in Calgary. The high plains of Alberta made me super-homesick for North Dakota, but oh well. Good booksignings- Canadians like to read.

Then I was invited to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving with some of my son's friends. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, so it was fun to start celebrating early.

I came home via I-15. Supreme irony: I had been traveling some seriously questionable back roads for two-plus weeks with nary a windshield ding. About 10 a.m. near Sandy on the Interstate, someone's car kicked up a stone and killed my windshield. I watched in horrified amazement as the crack went from tiny to "you're gonna have to replace me" in just nano seconds.

Still, it was a great trip. Now it's back to writing, once I finish The Tin Lizzie Troop. I have a booksigning this Saturday, October 20, from noon to 3 at the Seagull Bookstore in Spanish Fork. I can hardly wait. At an Orem booksigning on the 13th, a kind lady told me that the best thing for my thinning hair is to start taking prenatal vitamins. Maybe someone will give me a cure for flat feet next week. H'mm, she didn't even buy a book.

I don't make this up, guys.

The Big Pay Off

The big reward for writing My Loving Vigil Keeping came yesterday on Goodreads. Goodreader Lana from Virginia wrote a review of the book, and included some priceless information for me. She's a descendant of Samuel Padfield, who died in the mine disaster. Sam was married to Cassie Evans, the daughter of William Evans, who was brother to Richard Evans, an important character in my book. Lana said her 96-year-old great-grandmother, daughter of Cassie and Sam, was born in Winter Quarters coal camp, and read the book and loved it.

I started up a little comment conversation with Lana, and she wrote more about her great grandma's memories of the charming Welsh accent, and the Welsh wives who were such immaculate housekeepers and good cooks. This is such fun for me, because writing about real characters is generating more information. It's a delicious slice of social history that just makes me practically purr.  If anyone is interested, go to Goodreads and look up Lana's conversation.

In the works, hopefully this month, is a visit of several readers to the Scofield Cemetery  in Scofield, Utah. We're working on arranging this.

More fun - I just finished The Double Cross, first volume in my Spanish Brand series. That's why the dry spell between blogs. I just run out of time for blog stuff when (as Sherlock would say) "The game's afoot." I need to be writing. I have to polish and shorten it, then shoot it off to the Seattle publisher. I already have an idea for book two (a smallpox epidemic in 1780), but that won't happen until I start and finish my next book to Cedar Fort, about the Mormon Exodus from the Mexican Colonies in 1912, and a regency I owe to Harlequin after that. I've been a bit too busy this year. Next year, I'll only write three books, hopefully.

Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand is now available as a reprint through Cedar Fort now, and hopefully on ebook soon. It's a favorite of many, and my first Rita Award from Romance Writers of America. Cedar Fort is now preparing my newspaper columns in a volume called Stop Me If You've Read This One Before: Prairie Lite.

Also, my lovely kitchen is done now - see new photos. And not a minute too soon, because it's canning time. So far, I'm putting up green beans and chili sauce. Oh, that chili sauce. It smells divine. We've steamed/juiced some grapes for grape juice, and I'm planning on bottling peaches, too.

And the title battle continues with Harlequin. My book, The Hesitant Heart, set at Fort Laramie in 1876, will be out in May, 2013. (It is one of my favorite books.) My London editor says she will be sending title suggestions. In no uncertain terms, I told her to leave that title alone. It comes directly from an officer's wife's memoirs from the Indian Wars and is "romancy" enough. I'll be ignored, of course, but I will tell my editor that if they change that title, my next two Harlequins will be the last I ever write for them. I'm tired of being jerked around by their titles. Nuff's enough.

Dear Carla

I'm certainly not the world's most prolific blogger, mainly because I'm too busy writing to, uh, write.

I received the most wonderful letter a few days ago from Amy in Mapleton. I attended a book club meeting a few months ago in Mapleton, and we all had a lot of fun. Amy sent me this letter, and it made me laugh, so I have to share it.

Dear Carla,
Your latest book has kept me up late and caused me to lose sleep. Your book has made me leave work early. Your book has caused me to neglect every earthly responsibility I currently have. Thank you so much for your book. I have loved it! Please keep doin what you're doin, you do beat all Carla.
Admiringly yours,
Amy B.

I wrote Amy back and told her she gave me a good laugh.

I'm in the home stretch on my historical mystery in New Mexico, then I'll start reading for research for the next book. In the middle of all this, we're doing the dread kitchen remodel, which is turning out not so dreadful, especially since we fell into the clutches of Stilson and Sons, general contractors from Emery County who are absolutely magnificent.

Royce is a cool guy in his mid to late sixties who is super-tall and super-organized. I know you won't believe this, any of you who have gone through any home remodeling, but Royce sets a time line, calls us to let us know who will be out to do what and when they will be there. He's even Ahead Of Schedule. Yes, yes, I know, sounds crazy, but it's true. He's scheduled to be done by the end of next week, and he may be done even sooner. We're already lining up another project with him.

The remodel is nothing extraordinary. It was a small kitchen to begin with, and it'll remain a small kitchen. What is will have is more cabinets, and a better arrangement of appliances. No granite countertops; that would be extreme overkill. It'll just be a great-looking kitchen.

The fridge is in the laundry room and the sink is in the bathroom, and we're eating microwave dinners and giving away a lot of garden produce. No complaints; I like not cooking.

And now back to "The Double Cross."

Boo, the thief

Housekeeping First



First, many thank yous to Marilyn Bown, her husband Gordon, and their lovely daughters and one daughter-in-law, who helped arrange a wonderful book club meeting last week in Salt Lake City. Some 30 bookclubbers (two clubs and part of a quilting book) showed up with their copies of Borrowed Light and Enduring Light. We chatted about the books. I shared some stories about how and why I wrote it, and talked about My Loving Vigil Keeping, which appears to be out already on Amazon. A quilter, Marilyn gave me two lovely pillow cases - with pillows, too - featuring that double wedding ring quilt pattern that Iris was making for Julia. I was stunned.  Thank you all.

Yesterday I had an enjoyable lunch/interview with Cathy Free of the Deseret News, who writes a column called Free Lunch. She wanted to know about my research for My Loving Vigil Keeping, so I brought along the 1900 Winter Quarters census, and a bunch of photos and anecdotes about mining in general and the mine disaster in particular. Let me put in a plug for the Gourmandie French Bakery, a delightful eatery in downtown Salt Lake City, where we had the interview. The food was good, and there were cases of Napoleons, eclairs, and other wickedness. The interview will be out in about three weeks.

And a book launch - apparently a booksigning on steroids - is scheduled for August 11 in South Jordan at the Seagull Bookstore in the South District  from 3-6. The other two authors are bringing along chocolates, and other extravagances. I opted for grapes and maybe those little grape tomatoes which are as good as candy. And there will be drawings for books.

Boo, the Thief



Now to the topic at hand - Boo, our thieving cat. Daughter Liz moved back a couple years ago to regroup, and brought along Flower Jane, a feline refugee from the mean streets of Midland, Texas.  Also in Liz's entourage was Mr. Pants, whose claim to fame is not brains, but a luxurious tail. Last fall, we added to the traveling circus by acquiring Boo, a mostly Siamese named thus because he arrrived around Halloween, and because he's skittish.

He's more than skittish. To quote a line from some stage play: "He would make coffee nervous." From his earliest kitten days, Boo liked to squirrel things away. Liz had a little stuffed Kermit the Frog. Had is the operative word, because Kermit was last sighted being dragged away to points unknown by a kitten not much larger than he was. Rest In Peace, Kermit, wherever you are.

We have our suspicions. Our basement is sort of finished but not quite. The room where Liz sleeps we have charitably dubbed a bedroom, but there is a need for better sheetrock, paint, a carpet, and clever ceiling work to disguise the ductwork. It'll be remodeled next year probably, after we recover from the kitchen remodel that starts any day now. Or never. You know how contractors are.

Boo has a hidey hole in the intricacy of the ductwork, where there is a little shelf. When the doorbell rings, he usually growls (or mutters) and hightails it downstairs to the hidey hole. I suspect that is where he stashes things.

I recently bought a "Draig" (dragon) necklace, to channel my inner Welsh. It seems like a nice thing to wear when I am feeling in need of a dragon, and I have the DNA and the bona fides to wear it. It came in a nice little red satin bag with a drawstring. I set it in a brass bowl on my desk where I keep paperclips. (See accompanying photo) The dragon was inside the little bag, and all was right with the world, until Boo jumped on my desk, took the bag in his mouth and started downstairs with it.

I stopped him immediately, and replaced it in the brass bowl. A few minutes later, Boo did the same thing. I wasn't paying attention until he was down the basement stairs. Fearing that my dragon was about to end up wherever Kermit was, I took off after him. He dropped the red bag by the bedroom where his hidey hole is, and I put the dragon away this time, since Boo was decidedly singleminded about the matter.

Maybe I should put a GPS device in the red bag with the dragon and let Boo have his way. I'm willing to wager that the dragon will end up next to the long-lost Kermit, and probably Jimmy Hoffa and Amelia Earheart, too.

Wanted: Readers

First, some housekeeping: Marilyn Bown, two ward book clubs, a quilters club and a single ward have invited me to their book club meeting in West Jordan on Thursday, July 26. Should be fun. I promise to behave. On August 9, from 6-8 p.m., I'll be schmoozing at the LDS Booksellers Convention somewhere in Salt Lake City. On August 11 from 3-6 p.m., I'll be participating in a book launch at a South Jordan Seagull Bookstore. I like Seagull booksignings. On Wednesday, August 15, from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m., I'll be at the BYU Bookstore signing My Loving Vigil Keeping, and whatever else the company puts on the table. And then I'll crawl back in my writer's hole for a while and- ahem - write.

Second, a disclaimer. There's someone out there named Carla Kelly who has written at least one vegan cookbook. It's not moi. I once went vegan for about 20 minutes, and that was enough. I looked on Amazon, and that Carla Kelly's cookbook is nestled 'mongst my books, or vice versa, depending on which Carla Kelly I am.

Third, my interesting friends and their way-out books. We're friends with Barbara and Gene Strate. Barbara is a marvelous little lady who does reiki, and tells way better stories than I can. Her husband, Gene, is the Carbon County Attorney. If you say, "Gene, who?" that's the right answer, because people with an up close and personal acquaintance with Gene have usually been, uh, prosecuted. It's hard to imagine a more kind, gentlemanly fellow than Gene, so he doesn't fit the blood-in-the-water stereotype of a prosecuting attorney.

Gene's a voracious reader, and also a lender of interesting tomes. I just finished his loan of Tales of a Rat-Catching Man, by David Brian Plummer, a Welshmen with the hobby of, eww gross, rat-catching. It's a classic of the genre and the first of many books Plummer wrote about dogs. I returned the favor by sending him The Tiger:  True Story of Vengeance and Survival, by John Vaillant. Published last year, the book tells the tale of a man-eater in that lawless, neglected area of Russia that sits close to China. That book scared the brown spots off my hands.

Gene and I will probably start to challenge each other on who can produce the more off-the-wall read. I'll save my master stroke for a strategic moment, and spring The Ascent of Rum Doodle, by W.E. Brown, on him someday. Written in 1956, this mountain climbing parody is achingly funny, and worth every penny of whatever you have to pay. My older son loaned me his copy. Jeremy and I keep each other in good books.

I don't think Jeremy will be able to "best" me this Christmas, when we do our biggest gotcha books. I finally found him a reasonably affordable copy of The Album of Gunfighters, by J. Marvin and others. Published originally in 1951, this beyond-cool book shows page after gory page of gun fighters - their lives, their deaths, etc. For whatever reason, after a bad guy bit the dust, the townsfolk would line him out on the sidewalk and call in the photographer. Maybe it was as a cautionary tale.  Some of those bad-a**es were drilled right between the eyes, a testimony to someone's sharpshooting. Then there are the photos of hangings. Boy howdy, what a mess. One of the gents lost his head...

It's hard to imagine a more unpolitically correct book. I love it. Wish I had a copy of my own. I ordered it now, because I want to look through The Album of Gunfighters before I have to give it up for Christmas.

My very kind husband got me a great reference work yesterday from Deseret Industries for $50 , T. C. Romney's The Mormon Colonies in Mexico. As it turns out, it was the one book I have been needing to round out my research for my next novel. Thank you, Martin!

For fun and games, I've been reading Steven Havill lately, who writes about a crusty ol' undersheriff in a fictitious New Mexico county. Good stuff.

Yep, we love to read in our house. One thing makes me really sad: People who can read, but choose not to. I can't imagine that much poverty.

Proof

This is a cautionary tale, a warning for you not to be as stupid as I was. Once upon a time, Carla and Martin drove north to Montana to visit their son, who lives on the border...

Since Jeremy drives a pickup and my Subaru Forester was more comfortable, we went into Alberta, visiting Waterton Park one day, and then Crowsnest Pass (western Alberta) another. Fascinating place, with a great museum telling about the disaster at Frank, where in 1903, the face of a mountain slid down and buried part of a little town in the valley. Quite a story.

The next day, we decided to go to Head Smashed In Buffalo Jump. This pishkun (buffao jump) shows evidence of use for 5,000 years. It's a UNESCO world heritage site, and another great place to visit.

We're lucky we got to see it, because yours truly was stopped by a roadblock on the Kainai Blackfoot Reserve just north of Cardston. A simple matter, really. We were stopped, along with everyone else, and asked to show proof of insurance. My son, Jeremy, says that's a common procedure on reservations on both sides of the border, done in an effort to stop people from driving "rez rockets," cars with no insurance or current license.

No sweat. My son was driving my car and I was sitting shotgun. I opened my glove compartment and pulled out  my proof of insurance card. Uh, one problem: I didn't have my current one in my car. Doh!  I hunted deeper and deeper through the layers of other insurance cards, expired now, eventually getting down to the one on a clay tablet, but could I find the current one? Nope. Zip. Nada.

"Pull over here," the policeman said. He was a big, hulking member of the tribe (Blackfoot tend to be impressive). We discussed the matter. He wasn't about to let me go on, and he was completely right. Using my smart phone, I called my insurance agency in Price, Utah, and they said they could e-mail me proof of insurance. We waited and waited, and nothing came through on my phone. The cop came back several times, and all I could do was shake my head. And wait some more. Nothing. Finally, I called the agency back and gave the cop the phone, but what could he do? All he heard was someone on the other end of the line, assuring him I had insurance. My son took the phone and told them to fax the paper to his office, on the other side of the border.

So there we were. It was probably obvious to the policeman that I did have insurance, but no actual proof. Jeremy told me later that he certainly could have given me a fine, but probably not sent us packing back across the border. Jeremy's a Border Patrol agent and he knows the US rules, but he wasn't entirely sure about the Blackfoot Confederacy rules.

We were there at least a half hour, maybe more. I'm feeling completely stupid, and rightly so. Finally, the policeman came back and told me, "I'll let you go on. You might be stopped at another roadblock farther on. If you are, this conversation you and I are having never took place. Right?"

"Right," I assured him. "I've already forgotten it." He waved us on our merry way, and we did get to see the Head Smashed In pishkun. No more roadblocks.

When we finally returned to the American side, Jeremy got the fax from his office and I put that in my glove compartment. The e-mail never came through to the Canadian side, even though I could access it on the U.S. side when we returned. I dunno. Maybe my smart phone wasn't so smart. More likely, I just didn't know what to do.

So I owe a real thanks to that nice cop on the Kainai Reserve, who could have given me a ticket, but didn't. He taught me a valuable lesson. Wish I could send him a batch of chocolate chip cookies. I've spent a nice historian's career in recent years (when I worked at Fort Union Trading Post NHS) studying the Blackfeet Nation. They were among the fiercest of tribes that Lewis and Clark encountered, and spent a lot of years giving fits to moutain men and fur traders, and rightly so. It was their land, after all.  All I found was kindness. 

Thanks, Mr. Kainai Policeman. Just so you know, sir, I have a new insurance card and it's right where it should be, in my glove compartment. I'v tossed out all the expired ones, incuding the one on a clay tablet, which I'll probably give to the British Museum...

Fire, fire, burning bright

First, the good news: my website is up and gorgeous, which means I didn't do it. Check out http://www.carlakellyauthor.com/. Cedar Fort created it, and they let me list other books, too. Daughter of Fortune and Here's To the Ladies also link to Amazon, etc. This blog is also on the new website, which appeals to the lazy in me. I write it here, and it shows up there. Magic. (I never said I was computer savvy.)

Several more of my early Signet/Penguin-Putnam regencies are now listed there, too, and available as ebooks. You're also welcome to leave any comments.

Yep, Daughter of Fortune is out now as paperback and ebook. It was my first novel, and it taught me a lot about the bidness. In The Double Cross, book #1 in my Spanish Brand historical mystery series, I "revisit" the scene of the action in DOF, but one hundred years later. Note to prospective authors: always write about places you love to visit, because then every visit you make is tax deductible. (I am savvy about that.)

Right now, the place not to visit is central Utah. Scary times here. We're now just a canyon away from the Seely Fire, and an hour through several canyons from the big Sanpete County fire. That's if we were inclined to drive to Sanpete County, which we can't do anyway, because all the roads from here to there are closed. There's been a mandatory evacuation of Scofield, so my mind and heart is on that little cemetery so full of "my" guys. Of course, there's no grass to burn in the cemetery, just sand and rocks. You can't get to Clear Creek either, that lovely little community with restored Finnish-style houses to the south of Scofield. Big sigh.

Ash is in the air, the sun went down red last night, the winds are starting to pick up, and the sky to the west, north and east are full of angry-looking, brownish smoke. All this reminds me of Nancy Caesar, MD, a neonatologist at Cox Medical Centers in Springfield, Missouri. I used to be a medical writer/PR person there. Nancy told me once that with all our modern science and cool gadgets, parents just naturally expect a perfect outcome when their child is born. As Nancy put it, we have lost touch with the idea that sometimes things can go terribly wrong.

So it is with fire here and floods in Florida, and other disasters. Sometimes our modernity lulls us into thinking that we're in charge. Guess what? We're not. Fires burn. I remember heated debates on this in the National Park Service, with rangers who want to accomodate tourists who expect a perfect visit in a national park, but who are also aware that fires are necessary. When fires burn, visitors want fires put out immediately. I understand this. What some people don't get is that fire is nature's way of tidying up. When things aren't allowed to burn and the dry and rotten wood piles up, it will burn at some point. It's hard to balance public use of land with the proper stewardship of that land.

The trouble with this, of course, is that we have moved ever closer and closer to forests as population expands, and people have more leisure time for cabins in remote areas, etc. We love our woods. Homes march up hillsides and into deeply wooded areas, often in defiance of the order of things.

We're never in charge, and this will never change. I have a healthy respect for fire. Let me recommend two excellent books on the subject: Young Men and Fire, by the marvelous Norman MacLean, and The Big Burn, by Timothy Eagen. MacLean was given a posthumous award from National Book Critics for his 1992 story of the 1949 Mann Gulch fire in Montana, where 12 smokejumpers perished. In his beautiful, elegiac prose, his subject is death - facing his own mortality - and the science and nature of fire. Magnificent book.

The Big Burn tells two stories: the August-September 1910 monster fire that roared through eastern Washington, through Idaho and into Montana, and the coming-of-age of the newly minted U.S. Forest Service. I used both books when I wrote Borrowed Light. My Wyoming monster range fire also took place in 1910. Julia discovers the terror of fire sucking all the oxygen out of the air, and the overwhelming urge to run in front of a fire, which cannot be outrun.

(Both books are available for cheap as used books on Amazon.)

I can't tell you how often in the last day or two I've thought of what Mr. Otto tells Julia (I paraphrase): "Watch the ridge. Watch the ridge. If the wind changes, watch the ridge. If you hear something that sounds like a freight train, run for the river and don't look back."

We're watching the ridge.