The Lipstick Chronicles

A Small World, or Bob's Your Uncle

by Heather

Once upon a time, Florida had a governor named Bob Graham. My name is Graham, so that is rather cool. Now, I knew we weren't related--my dad and his family just came from Scotland while the Graham family that the Governor came from had been in the country--even in the South Florida area--for decades. But I really liked Governor Graham.

He was decisive. And my favorite stance he took was when the then-governor of Alabama wanted the Florida panhandle. Now sometimes it's true that the Florida panhandle is called South Alabama. And that's okay. We like our neighbors and it's delightful that Louisiana and Alabama friends come to the panhandle beaches. 

But it's our panhandle. To me, Florida is the amazing, quirky state that it is because we have areas that are so vastly different. The north of the state is Deep South, St. Augustine is the oldest city continually inhabited by European settlers in the U.S., the center of the state is theme-park-ville and the south of the state has become completely international; Spanish is the dominant language, while you'll hear Brazilians who hail largely from mother Portugal, Slavic languages--we have a nice population of Russians--and the occasional German, French, and Italian.

We have the Keys, where you enter another world, and you have the west coast, and the magic of Sarasota and the Ringling mansion and so much more.

To get back to the point, it was rather an incident. The governor of Alabama really
wanted to panhandle. And Bob Graham was fierce in defending it.

We in Florida 
came together--no one is getting our panhandle!

So, to try to make a long story a bit shorter, I really liked this man, though I didn't know him. I thought he was great for my state, and I love my state. He went on to serve longer in politics.

When I would go to a restaurant, I never lied. But when people asked me if I was related I would try to pretend that I just didn't want to say so, or use our affiliation. I always got seated quickly, and people were so nice!

As I write this, I'm getting ready to leave Thrillerfest, an amazing experience all on its own. I got to "date" Harley Jane Kozak at the banquet where she was up for an award. I posed with R.L. Stein, Jon Land, and F. Paul Wilson with a smart car for Reading is Fundamental. 

And I met Bob Graham. Yes, my favorite governor has now written a thriller. So, T-fest was a real thrill--Bob and I now have a picture together, and we have decided that surely, somehow, we are cousins! 

And what about you? Ever meet a stranger who shares your last name? And did you claim them or disown them?

 

Happy Birthday, Baby!

by Heather

When my birthday rolls around these years, I try to kind of slide by it. But my little great-nephew is turning the grand age of 4 on Tuesday. That’s a big, big, big deal!

So, hmmm, I've written two lines and I have to check the words already--this computer is in the business center at the Nickelodeon hotel in Orlando and I think too many little fingers have worn off the letters. I'm hoping for the best.

It's been a strange trip. This little boy, and his baby brother, Noah, are the babies of the family right now. And we love them and do our best for them because their dad is the most amazing, been-through-the-most human beings I’ve ever met. His mom--my sister--got sick one Mother's Day. At the beginning of the year, everything had been fine. By September she was dead. My brother-in-law passed away 7 weeks later from a  heart attack. In a year, DJ, their only child, lost his entire family.

But now he has Franci and the two boys, and that makes them all very special. So, back to the point. We're going to take off to the Nickelodeon hotel because it's a great place to bring a four-year-old.

But we can’t drive because--Arggh!--I don't have time to get glasses. I had Lasik, damnit!         But the truth is, I can't see signs at night. Dennis couldn't go, one of my daughters is ill, the other not licensed, and the friend not insured. I don't want to kill us all, so . . . Amtrak!

Amtrak turned out to be a blast. I’d taken the train to California from NOLA with my daughter Chynna a few years ago when she had an ear infection and couldn't fly, and that had been a blast, too. I didn't think we'd do so well for our six-hour trip but we ate, we played gin, we laughed, and we got to Orlando happy. Something to be said for that, if you've ever seen I-95 traffic down here.

However, it's 7:30pm when I get in the winding check in line. I'm there half an hour.  8 at night, and our room isn't ready. I'm not a confrontational person; I loathe arguments. Hard in a family with Irish/Italian tempers, so I avoid confrontation like the plague. But--

I'm calm at first. The two little ones meet up with us when we arrive. Auntie Heather should have the place ready for the little guys to come in and crash, but I don't get the call that the room is ready for an hour. By then, they're sleeping on the chairs in the "mall," the central area.

In the morning, still irritated, I call for the manager. I'm told I've already called the manager. I assure the young woman that I haven't called anyone yet. The manager is busy, I’m told, but he'll call me back.

We go off to breakfast with Spongebob. We go through the 30-minute line for those with reservations, and then we're told just a minute, they're wiping the table. It takes them another 30 minutes to wipe the table. But the manager has called me and apologized, and will pick up our character breakfast for me. That was all that I wanted--and acknowledgement that not getting into a room until 9PM was not an acceptable practice.

So, we go on and have fun at the pool. It's Cancun/Spring Break for 4-year olds, Chynna tells me, and I agree. Wall-to-wall people. But I laugh at the "sliming" and go down a trillion slides with Graham and help Noah up on the baby slides, and we have a great time. At night we head off to the Magic Kingdom.

Life is good when you're four, and I hope we can keep it that way for the little                                        ones for a while.

We all know that far too quickly, we have to grow up.

And now, I'm actually glad I'm  not driving home. Yeah, Amtrak! Thinking of a pleasant gin game--already, my daughters and friend Kelsey get a little crazy--and I arrive without cursing   I-95. I think I like this plan!

 

A Memorable Memorial

HANK: Happy Memorial Day, dear Tarts! And we hope you are celebrating in the way you love best. For me, Memorial Day has always been about two special sounds.

 One, Taps on a bugle, of course. Those haunting notes that can leave a huge crowd in utter silence. My father--who is healthy and happy with a wonderful wife and I can't even count how many grandchildren--was taken prisoner in the Battle of the Bulge. My little cute Dad! Who loves music and philosphy and dance and good food, and who carried a book of poetry with him in the war "to remind me there is beauty in the world." Yay, Dad. And thank you.

The other sound--the roar of 33 engines of the cars in the Indy 500. I grew up in Indianapolis, and not a person in the city didn't stop and listen the race. For years, it was only on the radio,and we'd sit in the back yard, all of us five kids and my mom and step-dad, and imagine how it looked. Even now, as a (?) grown up, I have to watch the race. I have no idea about auto racing, but you know, that's just what ya do on Memorial Day if you're a Hoosier.

 So here we are--a geographical triangle on Memorial Day--Harley in CA, Heather in FL, and Hank in MA.   And hurray, we get to share it with you!

Favorite Memorial Day tradition?

 HANK: Vroom vroom. VROOM. Press accelerator, keep turning left. And then have a cookout.

HARLEY: It used to be Topanga Days -- in my old ‘hood, a 3-day Woodstock-like event with a lot of beer, banjoes, hippies, and heat stroke. But I was pretty much over it after the first two years, and now it’s like penance. I’d rather go visit a cemetery.

 HEATHER: I think our Memorial Day tradition is a bit different. Both my dad and my stepdad (my mom was a widow who remarried a super-great guy at the tender age of 70) were in WWII, navy and air force, respectively. I never bring my dad's grave flowers--we all remember when he sick and someone brought him flowers and he said, "Hey, guys, come on, I'm not dead yet!" But I did share coffee with him constantly.

We'd go out mornings for coffee, and I guess that was when I really bonded with him. So, Bill (stepdad) was a great deal like him and a wonderful guy. We go, and think about the amazing things they said over the years about war--and pour coffee on the graves.

Since cooking out is so traditional: One Grilling secret.

HARLEY: Here’s my secret. Have a barbecue and invite a friend who likes to grill, and hand them the utensils and show them where the grill is.

HANK: Yeah, that's mine, too. Get Jonathan to do it.

HEATHER: The meat--always have quality meat. Or, in Harley's case, the vegetables. The freshest, best veggies and meats available. And a touch of olive oil in a bit of a marinade. Yeah, throw in garlic, too. And supply mints.

 

For extra credit: Gas or Charcoal? Top on or top off? Lighter fluid or newspaper?

 HEATHER: Charcoal. Top off.

 HANK: Lighter fluid is the scariest thing. The whole deal is scary. I don't even know how people grill without going up in flames. Jonathan loves it. LOVES it. Fine. I hide.

 HARLEY: Do I look like someone who would know the answer to these questions?

Because Harley's twins turn nine today--Happy Happy Birthday Birthday--One Memorable childhood birthday.

 HARLEY: When I turned 10, my big sister made me a chocolate cake and then dropped it. But she “mended” it with a few hundred toothpicks and a lot of frosting, the Elmer’s Glue of the baking world.

HEATHER: Oh, Harley and twins . . . happy birthday!

 HANK: I have absolutely no memory of any childhood birthday. So I thought, when I heard this question, maybe I'll call Mom and see if she remembers. Luckily, I stopped myself. Can you imagine THAT conversation? When I'm SURE she worked and worked to do wonderful things for little me...and I have NO memory of it at all. What can we learn from this?

 Memorial Day Mandates: what is a seasonal must-do this weekend?

HANK: I always say I'll do it later, but those winter clthes were taunting me. So I put them all on the third floor mothball room and brought down the summer stuff. And I am wearing FLIP FLOPS! And, we have switched to gin and tonics. Diet tonic, HIGHLY recomended.

 HARLEY: Survive it. And change the outfit on Bob, our dining room mannequin, from his winter tux to his swim trunks and tank top.

HEATHER: I think that has to do with the year--this year? MUST finish Civil War vampires. Yes, Civil War Vampires. Have to save DC from the scourge before Monday night.

HANK: Heather, you're too funny. Good luck with that.

 

Do you wear white shoes all year? How about white jackets?

HEATHER: I'm from Florida. I didn't know that you were supposed to change your sandal color by the season. I never wear white jackets. Black is my color--five kids, something spilled on you constantly . . . black just cleans the easiest, and thats the way it goes! Oh, I have one pair of black and red boots that I love. I'm not sure where the black shoes came in . . . I guess they just go with the other black.

HANK: No white shoes til Memorial Day. Do I even have any white shoes? I don't have any white shoes.  (Although I like those above..hmmm...)White jackets--always. White wool is a lot different than white linen.

 HARLEY: Nope. I’m a classicist. Summer only. Unless they’re running shoes, of course.

 The real Memorial Day--who are you remembering today?

 HANK: My Dad. See above. Memorial Day really gets me. Boston Common is covered in American flags today. Twenty-thousand of them. All those sons and daughters.

 HARLEY: My dad. Rest in peace, Joe.

 HEATHER: I think about my family, of course. And I also think of friends gone, our soldiers out on the field now, and those who fought before. I'm amazed to think of the Revolution and the Civil War, and all those men who walked right into blazing cannons and bullets being fired directly at them. I know that I'm a terrible coward, and I'm incredibly grateful for those who fought for me. And I think about the founders of the country, too--men who signed the Declaration of Independence, knowing they'd fight a war against incredible odds, and be hanged if they were caught.

 And I think of my mom and her family, and how much it meant to them to move to this wonderful country. Yeah. We have our problems, but we get to voice our complaints out loud with no fear, vote and campaign for change, and talk about our leaders.

And we'll leave it to dear Heather to wrap up:

HEATHER: No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed, it has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.Of course, that quote is from Sir Winston Churchill but it sums it up nicely. Memorial Day--Thank you to all the heroes and heroines who have fought for us.

 So--you don't have to answer them all--but hey, tell us about your Memorial Day!

Paradise

By Heather

One of the great benefits of living in South Florida is the Keys. Now, the rest of the state, the Keys change as you drive along them. Key Largo . . . ah, yes! You've left the mainland behind. You'll find dive boats and fishing charters, charming little mom and pop inns and bed and breakfast establishments, and ritzier accommodations as well. But it's still rather populated; there's a mammoth Publix (where shopping is a pleasure) and other stores, so . . . though you've left the mainland behind and you're all happy about that, you're still kind of close to the mainland and there's a touch of it that follows behind. But getting there was great--you either came by Card Sound Road or US1, and you passed signs that warned "Alligator Crossing" and "Lake Surprise" (were they surprised to find a lake?) and all the little road markers that told you where you were--countdown to 0, of course, when you reach the southern-most tip of the United States, Key West.

But that's halfway there. Key Largo is the destination for many a Miamian out to pretend for the weekend that they really get to live among the icy drinks, tiki huts, sand, and sun. (Of course, some do!) Heading a bit further south, you find more great places passing Islamorada and other islands in the upper Keys. The further south you go, the further slightly more primitive it may be, excepting Marathon, a nicely populated area that hosts The Dolphin Research Center, and downtown area, and other features. All along are spectacular places where there are gorgeous birds and isolated areas where you can camp and swim and play. Onward . . . pass the little islands where if you're lucky, you'll see a little tiny key deer, Stock Island--yes, they kept stock there--and you wind up in Key West.

I went down for two reasons; a friend in law enforcement was giving me a hand with some Federal research, and to take a walk through Fort Zachary Taylor again. 

I've been heading there ever since I can remember. My dad was huge on water sports, swimming and diving, and so, when I was little, we always found the out of the way place with one little dock, fishing poles just handed to you by the old tar who owned the place, a spit of beach, and some laid-back time for my parents. But it always included history. Fort Zachary Taylor included. 

Yes, Key West is where folks come for bachelorette and bachelorette parties. Duval Street cranks it up every night with music, and this island--once, in the great days of salvage divers, the rich per capita city in the US--definitely makes half its money off the liquor sold. But, if you're thinking about coming . . .

Fort Zachary Taylor is now home to incredibly well-preserved cannons from the Civil War. The Union holding Zachary Taylor meant that the blockade squadron was able to stop supplies from reaching the Confederacy, and had a lot to do with our great divide coming to an end without a year of battle and a 100,000 deaths. But before that even, pirates had ranged the area, and when the Union went in with "mosquito squadron,' pirates became a thing of the past in the region. The richest per capita meant that there some of the most spectacular Victorian era houses to be found in a concentrated area, and when the Spanish American War erupted, Ft. Zachary Taylor came into use once again. 

I love Key West. No one can understand when I'm willing to take the Conch Train again for the umpteenth-million time, but I love the island. I love the history. I love studying about pirates, the Rebs and the Yanks, the salvage divers, and the Conch Republic itself. Yes, the island did secede on its own once; a blockade in the not so distant future was about to starve out the tourist-hungry island once again.

And when that's over, my God. There's the sunset. Amazing seafood, fruity drinks, a cool breeze, and a sunset to die for! You've got to come on down. Everyone there is your friend.

A few years ago, I wrote a paranormal/suspense/romance series Ghost Shadow, Ghost Night, and Ghost Moon.

This time, researching for a bit of Bride of the Night. (Civil War vampires, yes, really.)

And the new Krewe of Hunter series, starting next April, Darkness Falling.

~Heather

 

 

Planet Nine

by Heather

          Life gets complicated when you have five children.

         Last week, the Romantic Times Convention took place in Los Angeles. I've done this convention from the onset--which is far more years than I care to mention! But, it's fun, sheer fun. I was so excited that the convention was going to be in Los Angeles because it meant that I was close to my youngest daughter, Chynna, who goes to school at CalArts. My kids are not fond of all my conventions, and they've all been to most--that's what happens when you attend a lot of events and have small children. Okay, they're not small anymore, but they were when I started, and they were hauled one place or another because when you have five, it's really hard to get anyone to watch them. [that's me as Marilyn Monroe in the photo, with my daughter Bryee, along with Kathryn and Jo Carol, who are RT] 

            But this convention, they all love. It's because I host a vampire party with Helen Rosburg, we put on a dinner theater, and what money we make from raffles, etc, goes to the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric Aids Foundation. If you're going to have five kids, you try to make use of them, so they all take part. 

            But go figure. Chynna is a theater major, and though the convention center was a half hour away, the rehearsals for her show conflicted with ours. I honestly think God loves me, so maybe He was just trying to put me in my place!

            Still, the show must go on, minus Chynna. We have a cast of thousands--okay, nineteen people, and this year the show was Zombie Dancers from Planet 9. The zombies on Planet 9 are running out of food, and therefore must find new worlds where they can dine. Preparing for domination of that planet called Earth, they studied earthlings and discovered that they liked entertainment, reality TV, soaps, movie, dancing . . . and so on Planet 9, the Starfleet Commander (F.Paul Wilson) and his crew of writers and directors hold a casting session, complete with casting couch. TLC's own Harley Jane Kozak came out to audition as a dramatically emoting Shakespearean actress; we also had writer Beth Ciotta as a magnificent mime, Alexandra Sokoloff as a pole dancer, with her own pole-- Zach Bolden who is a millimeter shy of 7 feet tall. He was wrapped in silver. My son Shayne made an appearance as Zim Zorrison for a rousing rendition of “Light My Fire,” and son Jason made a fantastic Zobbie the Zobot. My friend Rich Devin was a Hollywood agent for a while, and Lance Taubold is still an entertainer in Vegas. Debbie Richardson and I fought it out with a cheery tune from The Toxic Avenger--“Bitch, Slut, Liar, Whore” and naturally, the entire cast--including Juan Roca, Kathy Pickering, Mary Stella, Scott Perry, Connie Perry, and Caitlin Richardson, Helen Rosburg and husband, James--finished with “Hooray for Hollywood.” The show is always a disaster waiting to happen, and therefore, as they say in Shakespeare in Love, a mystery and miracle!

            Also at the conference. Harley was a red carpet escort for the Cover Model pageant and I was called upon to judge male flesh. There was a fairy ball, a "Bollywood" night, and Harlequin Publishing threw a Night of the Stars. Oh, and a Saucy Sirens from History party--very fun. I was asked by dozens of friends why I wasn't there, but I was at the first table fulfilling my dream of being Vivian Leigh as Scarlett O'Hara. 

            Party, party, party. But . . . I also spent time with the FBI, local police, and the ATF. There is something for everyone at RT.

            I'm still in California. We waited, of course, to see our baby go up as Georgette, Queen Bee, in “The Life of the Bee” presented at CalArts. I was the usual mom in the audience, tears stinging my eyes because my baby (okay, she's 21 and 6 feet tall) was so poised and talented on stage, belting out an aria from “Carmen” and saying her lines. 

            Hung out R Bar with Scott Perry and his friend, Eric Curtis, certainly one of the world's finest young photographers. I was able to see early shots of some of the picture books they are doing, and they are amazing. 

            If you're from Florida, they teach you that California is going to drop off the continent and fall into the Pacific Ocean. I guess it will happen one day, but I think Florida will be flooded by then anyway.

            It's my last day here; one more viewing of “The Life of the Bee” and we take off tomorrow. Easter is coming up, and it's a huge family affair for us. Except, once again, I'll be missing my Queen Bee. CalArts just will not accommodate my schedule!

            Ah, well. Life gets complicated when you have five children.

 

So Sue Me

By Heather

The answers, please . . . .

The other day, I noticed a strange piece of news. A convict in Ohio, condemned to death for murder, had gone to the chamber for lethal injection. The executioners had difficulty getting the needle into his arm, and the execution was halted.

Now, the condemned man is suing the state of Ohio. Obviously, he’s still alive.

I admit, I’m not a lawyer. And I thank God that I am an American, even though I know that our laws can be strange and faulty at times. Our efforts are to preserve the rights of each individual. Human rights—which, of course, must be upheld. We were founded on this principle, and I’m a believer. We all know that torture is wrong, the innocent can be accused, and that the law is a game that only the most learned (and sometimes well-spoken, charming, and manipulative) should play.

But, you can’t help but stop and say, “Huh?” that this man can sue.

My mom, dad, sister, brother-in-law, and step-father all died after or in hospital care. They needed IVs at various times; heck, I’ve had IVs, and many a time, the healthcare professional had to poke and poke to get a needle in. I’ve seen bruises all over the arms of those in the hospitals, and, of course, most of the time, it has nothing to do with cruel and unusual punishment, but rather thin veins. When there is trouble, nurses will stop and bring in someone who is an expert. But that doesn’t change the fact that a good percentage of Americans has had a bad IV at one time or another, and I’m willing to bet, 97% of the innocent-in-the-hospital did not get to sue over a problem with an IV. We all had our inalienable rights, and did not sue.

But, that’s not really my dilemma . . . .

I noted the incident on my Facebook page, and my question was, can we really allow the convicted man’s lawsuit to go through? What happened to the human rights of his victims?

I received an indignant answer. Of course, he can sue. If he can’t, we’re denying him our constitutional rights. To me, that begins with the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Okay, once you’re incarcerated for murder, the liberty part is really not quite there anymore. And it’s unlikely you’re going to wake up happy in a prison cell, though people do come to peace and learn how to live—and even grow and help others—in prison. In prison, you’re not at liberty.

Back to the victims. What the hell happened to their inalienable rights? Did they have a chance to think about suing the state while they were being raped, tortured, beaten, or murdered?

 On a lighter note (if the death penalty can be a light note) we now have lethal injection as our main means of execution in Florida. (No Florida bashing here, please, folks. We are working on the voting issue, I swear.) Previously, it was the electric chair; every Floridian has heard the words Old Sparky, and old Sparky was kept at Sparks, Florida. A prisoner went to the electric chair and his hair caught fire. (Why he hadn’t had a clean-shaven head, I don’t know.) People were outraged that this happened; he had killed five people, including a pregnant woman and child. But we don’t believe in torture, and we didn’t mean to torture him.

A local paper ran the headline, “Electric chair deemed dangerous!” Some of us scratched out heads, thinking we’d been aware of that fact.

We halted executions until a decision could be reached. I believe you now have a choice of how to go when you’re on death row. (I might be wrong on this; fellow Floridians--or anyone--feel free to correct me.)

Ah, but is lethal injection cruel and inhumane?

Should we bring in the guillotine? That was certainly quick . . . .

Do we abolish the death penalty nationwide? With this question comes another—are we capable of keeping men and women who admit they will kill again in prison? I mean, what is this? Twenty years for white-collar crime and fifteen for murder?

Or, at heart, do we, as human beings, want a man like this ripped to shreds? Or, in our heart of hearts, do we believe more in Dexter—is Jeff Lindsay’s success with his series of books partially due to the fact that we, as a people, can’t help but feel that such criminals deserve to die?

I don’t have the answers . . . I hope someone does!

 

 

Haunted Book Trailer

 

On  the 7^th of February, we took over the Myrtles Plantation in Louisiana. It’s reputed to be a most haunted plantation.

 

We had a mission -- my three available children, husband, and several friends -- to film a trailer for a series of books I have coming out. They’re like Criminal Minds meet up with Ghostbusters. They take place in different areas of the country, and the second venue is a haunted plantation.

In order to film on the property, you rent the entire estate, which worked out well. We had four members of the Peace River Ghost Trackers, our videographer, Phin, Bridget from the PR company, and our cast of thousands. Okay, our cast of ten. The idea was to do little vignettes—about fifteen seconds each—on each of the mysterious circumstances. I’d written the script, I had Connie Perry and her miraculous costumes, and I was all set. Except for getting the cast in order.

We are from Florida, and the boys felt it would be a betrayal of their state to be Yankees at a plantation. “The North won! And it was a good thing!” I reminded them. Yep, yep, and that was all good, but . . . .

Worked out okay. I had our dying Confederate surrounded by his friends -- and the Yankees had already gone.

Our fabulous waiter, Ginger, who is also an amazing drag performer, got in on the fun. I needed the fellow who proves to be the father of descendents in the story; Ginger was happy to be him. “Now, the black man doesn’t get bumped off in the first pages, does he?” she asked me. I was able to say, “No. He’s actually the hero.”  Ginger was ready for the challenge.

I’d asked my husband Dennis to take part, assuring him he didn’t have to say a word. “Who am I?” he asked. I hesitated for a minute. “Jack the Ripper,” I told him.

He made a frighteningly good Ripper.

Then there was the senator’s wife, dead from a fall from the balcony of her French Quarter house; she had to die with her eyes open. I picked on Jason’s girlfriend and my fellow FRW friend and member, Kathy DePalo.  She lay uncomplainingly on the brick for quite a while . . . staring. She was brilliant. I was worried. It was freezing while we were there!

I really couldn’t figure out a way to make any of the boys be stripped naked and covered in blood, so we employed an axe and a lot of food coloring and Vaseline. It worked.

The most fun, of course, was when the entire group, including Connie and Kathy Pickering--who had come to take some quick shots and document—dressed up in period clothing and did the “ghost” walk to the camera. Everyone looked wonderful. Incredible. And Phin is amazingly talented, with great ideas. (He’s now off to work in Cairo; I fear for him. Worked with him before, and love him to death!)

First walk was fine. Then, in twos and threes, people were supposed to disappear. We all kept losing track of our numbers. We made the walk from the house, and then from the bridge, and by the third time we tried it all from the bridge . . . .

Thank God the sun set!

We headed out to dinner, giving the waiters in St. Francisville a bit of a twinge when we came in twenty-four strong. Had to eat, though. It was going to be a long night. So, a fun dinner en masse, and it was back to the Myrtles with the Peace River Ghost Trackers. They’re my favorite group; they’re out to dispel ghost stories as much as they are to prove them. But Scott, Sprout, Debbie, and Toni were in for more than they had bargained for; others knew about the expedition and piled back to the plantation.

No self-respecting ghost would have been caught dead in that crowd.

Seriously, they won’t know if they have anything until they’ve studied their tapes and their recordings.

I will say, I was enchanted and I fell in love. It was like taking a step back in time. The Myrtles is owned by a charming woman, run by another charming woman, and Mr. Moses is the caretaker and cook. Most amazing grits ever! Everyone there was great, fun, and helpful. 


I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to take over the Myrtles again, but I’ll definitely head back. If you’re ever in the mood for some real Southern hospitality, stay a night or two. And opt for the ground floor suite! (Dennis aka Mr. Ripper had me scared; I slept down with Connie and my daughter Bryee in their room on the 1^st floor!)

And what about you? Got ghosts?

~Heather

 

CRUISING. I mean, WORKING

By Heather

I spent several days last week on a cruise. Our cruise was actually a conference, but somehow, it was much, much more. 

It was our third cruise as a group and we guiltily referred to it as work--and it is, we have workshops--but the most important part is playing with a hundred best friends while the sun shines and the dolphins follow the ship--and all that.

I bring my family on this cruise, those who can be gotten. So I'd spent several weeks prodding to make sure that my children, nephew, in-laws, family friends all had their passports. They did.

I did not.

Somehow, I'd lost it--something discovered when I went to find it where I keep it in a drawer. ALWAYS keep it in a drawer. Well, always, but not this time. So, in the twenty-three hours between taking my daughter Chynna back to LA and the cruise itself, I sat in the Miami passport office. 

That meant I never unpacked, so I had a huge bag full of clothing--except for makeup and underwear. I'd taken those items out, needing clean underwear, and using the makeup for the passport picture that still makes me look like I should be locked up. It did feel a bit ridiculous to have seven sweaters and no toothbrush or undies.

We get to the ship, and all is a little confusing, because the woman at check-in doesn't want to let me have as many children as I do, but she's finally convinced that I did procreate a lot, and we all get on the ship. 

I should say that the great thing is the people we get to go with. Our Florida group is made up of a group that’s incredibly supportive, and better still, we have editors and agents on board we truly know and love--we love them even if they've rejected us or made us do the rewrites from hell several times over. 

The ship is not the best ever, but who cares when you're all aboard? We started with the signature sail away drinks the first night, and somehow, argh! make it to karaoke and then the casino. Okay . . . even I, who love a good karaoke night, crawled swiftly into the casino. I love a good slot machine, too. And the slots even liked me back that night.

Key West, Blue Heaven, and meeting up with a musician friend at Hog's Breath, and back on the ship. Mexico where our favorite (group favorite) bar lurks, and our entire group, including our amazing agents and editors, wind up in ridiculous balloon hats and we take our traditional picture shot in one of the two bathtubs that sit facing the water. And it's amazing. Because in this world, people do matter. Getting to know one another lets authors know if they believe in an agent, and an agent know if they like what an author has to offer. Editors may hear the best story in the world when they're wearing balloon hats and eating tacos and imbibing in a few margaritas.

I had my nephew, niece-in-law, and two little ones on board. I did feel a bit like a character from "Sweet Home, Alabama." I was watching them with Auntie T and Uncle Stu when Stu, who had had a pacemaker, had a little bout. They had to head back to the infirmary, just when little Graham suddenly said, “I have to peepee, Auntie Heather,” and I looked around at the carriage and the bags and the baby . . . but we made it to los banos. We were to meet the others at the bar, and so we headed over. A baby! In a bar! Oh, two of them. But, at this bar, there were children all around. All wearing balloon hats.

It's the best time, really. I can't wait to do it again! Ole!

 

Christmas Past

by Heather

And now it’s Christmas Past!

The Christmas rush was on . . . how does it happen every year? It's not like I don't know that Christmas is coming. Maybe it's part of the total lack of organization that has sadly been part of me since birth. (Yes, trust me, I know I was a disorganized infant.)

Maybe it's that in my mind--lacking drawers and file cabinets--everything must be done at the last minute. Or maybe I just didn't realize that if I moved the obvious dust, more bunnies would fly in from everywhere!

Perhaps it's because I'm blessed with a lot of people in my life. So that's something like fourteen stockings, secret Santa gifts, tons of stuff in the house before I start to clean it.

But I did try.

Somehow, I managed to wreck a good vacuum cleaner, so all the vacuuming went to naught. I really cleaned one room, only to pile it up with all the junk from the other rooms.

I realized dusting is a full time job.

Each year, I swear I will not be in a mall on Christmas Eve—each year, I am.

Time marches on, whether we’re ever “done” or ready for the future to become the present. And then, in the rush of it all, nothing done or not done, dust or piles of junk, mean anything at all.

Christmas 2010 has come and gone, and I’m sitting here this morning thinking of how precious life is; we had a wonderful time being together. Christmas Eve was with our extended family (in-law-in-laws) and Christmas day I cooked at my nephew’s house, my nephew did the clean up, the little ones ran around and got exhausted and looked adorable falling asleep on their parents. The family played games and laughed and ate, and I thought of how very lucky I was . . . and, of course, I missed the ones not with us anymore.

Especially my sister.

I was always the disorganized one. Vickie was always in control. She was a few years older, the one who teased me mercilessly, and championed me against any hurt in the world. She was domestically talented, and made pretty things—and remembered all cards and occasions and kept our little family in order.

She came from a long line of incredibly strong women. My great-grandmother, who came to America with her children and grandchildren. My Mom—who always reminded me of the knight in Monty Python. She was brilliant—and could open any jar in the kitchen. And no matter how many licks life gave her, “it was only a flesh wound.”

I’ve missed my dad for a very long time, my father-in-law, my step-father, mother-in-law . . . so many people I really loved.  I miss my brother-in-law—I’d known him since I was fifteen, always had a key to his house, and he was truly a “brother.”

I really had a wonderful Christmas. I’m so lucky. And so scared. I miss my sister terribly. I’m the disorganized disaster, and she made things right.

She was meant to be the grand Irish matriarch of our generation. And this morning, while I’m thinking about how grateful I truly am, I’m also feeling the pinch of nostalgia. And I try to remember that I’m lucky, too, in my memories. On special occasions that are wonderful and painful, we do remember the wonderful people who were part of our lives, and to miss them makes us human, far more than an opposable thumb.

Hm. All this must be because another year is about to end. I hope everyone out there had a wonderful holiday season, and I wish you the best in 2011!

~Heather

 

 

 

 

Let the Caroling Begin

 

by Heather

I'm one of those people who do not like the fact that Christmas goes on sale the minute Halloween   is over--and I do mean before it's over. We were in New Orleans this year on October 21st since the Slushpile Band played at the Memnoch the Devil ball. It was wonderful because the city takes the holiday very seriously--Halloween is a week long affair. But, before the day was over, the chain drug stores were stripping the shelves--grinning skeletons replaced by grinning Santas.

But Thanksgiving is such a great holiday! First, there's the food. Then there's the fact that we know it's going to be on a Thursday and that there's a major four day holiday in there. That gives families a chance to get together.

I love Christmas. I really, really love Christmas. But I refuse to forget Thanksgiving--that day to be grateful to those close to us without having to give gifts.

I understand our dire economic situation, and so, I understand that commercially, we have to start Christmas as soon as possible. Or should I say, the Holiday Season that Brings in Money. But, for me, Christmas really begins as soon as we've celebrated Thanksgiving.

It's tradition that we go to Disney, our favorite hotel, the Dolphin. I have all five children, daughter-in-law, nephew, niece-in-law, grand nephews, and my sister-in-law-in-law's family. (That's not a typo; my sister has passed away, and so has my brother-in-law, and we share DJ). My son Jason's girlfriend, Kathy, has little ones too. Dennis and I majored in theater at the University of South Florida eons ago, and theater majors were often at Disney for projects, works, or classes--so we have known the Mouse a very long time.

Then, what is Thanksgiving without Kimono's--sushi and karaoke.

And yes, at midnight--Christmas songs began. I was proud of Dolphin because their beautiful tree didn't go up in the lobby until AFTER midnight on Thanksgiving.

I was in seventh heaven. I had my family. And a wonderful day, little ones crawling everywhere, room service to pick up everything, and a new game instigated by Bianca, Kathy's daughter. We came here for Easter, too, and played the egg game, and she loved the egg game. It's really hard to find plastic eggs at Thanksgiving, but I don't like to disappoint a young girl.

There was one flaw this weekend. I was heading into Animal Kingdom with my daughter to meet up with the others. After waiting in a ten-minute line to get in, my pass wouldn't work. I was sent to a twenty-minute line to get a new pass, and then had to get back in the ten-minute line. I had my phone with me, because I kept trying to explain via my cell phone what was taking me so long and . . . . 

No, Mickey did not mug me for my phone. But in all those lines                                  --and trying to be patient, polite, and still smiling--I set the phone down somewhere. In five minutes, it totally disappeared. Argh! I am phoneless.

But, that's okay, because I hear some really beautiful Christmas music in the air! Indeed, it's time to head home and start on Christmas.

Favorite carol, anyone?

~Heather