I'm standing in a corner of my local library--where it's warm, safe, and dry--to do a quick post. Below are some pics of my neighborhood, where we actually count ourselves lucky, considering the devastation at my beloved shore. We're without power, but we're unharmed. For that I am grateful. Please keep in your prayers those who were not so lucky, and if you are able, consider helping via the Red Cross. Bless you all!
We like to stretch out the summer as long as possible in my little state, and that includes visits to the shore well into the autumn. I had my last beach day recently when I visited Point Pleasant on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon:
Today is the National Day on Writing, and this year's theme is What I Write. So here goes: I write food and sisterhood. I write people I understand. I write stories that are familiar, stories of kitchen tables and the boardwalk. I write cozy mysteries with romantic interruptions. But all my characters have motives of one kind or another. 
I write women who are funny and smart and occasionally pissed off. I write men I'd like to be friends with, go out with, and maybe marry. (Oh, wait, I did marry him.) My romances are real, sometimes rocky, filled with recriminations--but satisfying reconciliations. I write Italian-flavored prose with tears in the middle and laughs at the end. Words that say who I am. I guess you could say I write me. And I hope I write you, too.
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After my last post I heard from my Aunt Barb, who still corresponds with her British pen pal. I'm happy to share a bit of her story in her own words: Just read your blog about the aforementioned pen-pals— just loved it. In the days before student exchanges and after WWII, we had a teacher exchange. When Sylvie's teacher returned to London she looked at the list she had acquired at Connecticut Farms School and told this young girl, “Look, this girl shares your birthday,” and so it began. Not only did Sylvie and I correspond, but our Mothers got into the action also. My grandparents were English, emigrating from England in the late 1800's. So with the war behind them and many, many needs post war, they began to send care packages to London, with things that were at the time unavailable, i.e.: tea, sugar, flour, etc. (Bisquick was a total mystery, lol!) 
And now to the present past. Bill and I left Florida the day after Christmas '11 for London, so that Sylvie and I could celebrate our birthday, the date January 3, 2012. I was 75 and Sylvie 77. We celebrate this year 65 years of friendship. She is truly my little English sister. Thanks, Aunt Barb, for sharing this wonderful story!
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I have been reading with great delight As Always, Julia, a collection of letters between Julia Child and Avis DeVoto. DeVoto's husband was a journalist who'd written a piece in Harper's which included a rant about the lack of good kitchen knives in the United States. Julia read it and sent him a knife that she described as "a nice little French model." Avis, who often served as her husband's secretary (though an editor and book reviewer in her own right) responded. Thus began a correspondence that bloomed into a dear friendship--long before the two women had ever met. 
Their letters are a delight, and got me thinking about friendships-via-words. My aunt began a pen pal relationship with a young British girl when they were both children during World War II. As far as I know, they still write to each other. My sister has a pen pal in Kentucky to whom she's written for more than 40 years; they've only met twice, yet consider each other dear friends. These days, paper and ink has given way to emails, virtual groups, live chat, and forum postings. We communicate with strangers, and from some of those connections comes the spark of true friendship. We hear each other's voices and answer in kind. Two women I consider dear friends began as my critique partners; we've met only a couple of times, but we sustain our friendships through words. So this post is dedicated to all my virtual pals, the women in my life who comment on this blog, exchange emails with me, share their writing joys and sorrows, and offer encouragement and a laugh. To the friends I haven't met yet (and those I have)--it's good to know you're out there.
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What John Keats called the “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” happens to be my favorite of the year. Here are only a few reasons why: ~Pumpkin muffins ~Crisp mornings and chilly nights ~The first fire in the fireplace ~Halloween decorations ~Visits to the farmers’ market ~Apples in season; apples in pies; apples in my lunchbox ~Comfort food time—break out the soups, stews, and chilis ~Flannel PJs ~Candy corn ~The last blaze of color before the snow
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The title of this post does not refer to the Christmas song, but to a familiar ad campaign in which parents are merrily buying their children school supplies, delighted that another endless summer is coming to an end. This summer I am facing the big boy version of that experience as we ready our two younger sons to go to college. Here is Son #2's pile of stuff:
Son #2 is the old pro. This is his third trip back to Boston, and he is more representative of the Stuff it All in a Bag School of Packing. Here are Son #3's accoutrements:
Son #3 was born with one foot out the door, so it's no surprise that he's been packed for days now. But that doesn't make it any easier to say good-bye to two of them. Here is what I tell myself: No morning lunches to pack. No more waiting up on those nights we want to sleep. (And no more waiting them out on those nights we don't.) Weekends away. Romantic dinners for two. A much smaller shopping bill. Ditto electricity and credit card. The second car back in the driveway. A house for grown-ups, at last. It's all about roots and wings, I tell myself. And then I whisper a prayer: may the roots hold. And may the wings bring them back soon.
1. Time spent at the table is never wasted. 
2. Everybody needs an extra kiss on the cheek. 3. Celebrate the body. 
4. The day is long. Take your time. 5. One helping is for sissies. 
6. There is beauty in unexpected places. 
7. The best wine is the one that's in your hand. 8. Life is loud and colorful. Live it that way. 
So despite a looming deadline on my first mystery, I find I need to take a break now and then for some fun summer reads. Here's what's on the pile and in the Kindle: 
Poetic Justice, by Alicia Rasley. I would love this book even if the image on the cover were not one of my all-time favorite paintings. It's a Regency romance that is smart, smart, smart. The story features a brainy, feisty heroine, and a dashing hero whose intelligence is as formidable as his fighting skills. At the center of the story is a collection of rare books that the lovers lust after nearly as much as they do each other. AND there are Shakespeare references. (Be still my heart.) Death at La Fenice, by Donna Leon. Friends who are rabid fans of her series featuring Venice police Commissario Guido Brunetti have been urging me to read Donna Leon for months. I have just begun this one, which opens with a dead conductor at the Venice opera
house--apparently someone has put cyanide in his espresso. I'm already hooked and looking forward to finding out who had it in for the maestro. 11/22/63, by Stephen King. My husband bought me this book for Christmas, but I haven't dared crack it open--I knew once I started King's latest, I wouldn't be able to stop. What baby boomer could resist the premise? An English teacher (an English teacher hero!) in Maine discovers a time portal in an old diner, and goes on a quest to stop the Kennedy assassination. But when he runs into a strange loner named Lee Harvey Oswald, things really get dicey. Saving this one for when I finish the first draft of my manuscript; I won't have a book to deliver otherwise! 
