Dirt Road Diaries

A Tradition I Could Do Without

2012-02-03T11:52:00.002-05:00

It wouldn't be February without our annual vet call for a cyst under the hoof. Different horse each time, and two weeks earlier than last year, but the same problem for the third year in a row. Dr. Ryker couldn't find the cyst, but he agreed with me that it's probably the reason Remi is hobbling on three legs and holding the fourth like a ballet dancer about to go en pointe. It's the most common problem equine vets see.

Remi is confined to his stall with his foot wrapped up in the poultice that will hopefully soften the hoof and let the cyst drain. We'll see how it's doing in three days.

By the way, Remi is a "barn" name, short for B.A. Reminiscence. Sounds more like the CEO of some company to me. You know, good ol' B.A., the president of Reminiscence Sprockets and Gears.

Writing Research

2012-02-01T15:48:00.001-05:00

I've had to Google various topics in the past couple weeks while writing my next book, among them, medical examiners and morgues, exotic insects, front end loaders, and how to catch bull snakes.

I love my job!

Vole Story

2012-01-25T20:49:00.007-05:00

This little guy is a vole. Isn't he cute?

Not in your house, he isn't!

The other day I let Frieda outside. Not ten seconds later, before I'd even walked away from the door, she wanted back in. I assumed it was because TC was on the porch, in a pissy mood. But as soon as I closed the door behind her I saw why she wanted in - she'd stolen his vole. And now it was in my house. Alive.

I ordered her outside. She ran upstairs and hid behind a toilet. I nudged her butt out, and she took off downstairs with her vole, his little vole legs kicking frantically. We repeated this in a few more rooms, until she finally found safety beneath a chair and put her vole down. And the real game was on!

We couldn't find him. Not me or Frieda, and not Harley or Penny or Ella, all of whom are strictly indoor cats and thought this was the best game we'd ever played. I did the only thing I could do - I left the experts alone and waited.

An hour later I heard soft growling in the family room. TC walked in there with me to see what was going on. In the center of the room, Ella was facing down Harley and Penny with the vole hanging from her mouth, still kicking. TC went, "Hey, I recognize that vole!" Ella, knowing a real threat when she saw it, dove under the rolltop desk, where she made the mistake of putting down her vole. Three cats went for it. The vole miraculously ran through the furry melee and darted across the room. I darted to the laundry room for a bucket, and came back to find the vole sitting up on his hind legs, back to the wall, facing down his four biggest nightmares. While they tried to decide who should make the first grab, I did. I scooped him up and carried him outside, releasing him in the dead marigolds where he promptly dove beneath the snow and disappeared.

I came back inside to incredulous looks from five cats who wondered how I could be so stupid.

Frieda
"You threw it out? Seriously?"

UPS Responds . . .

2012-01-19T14:21:00.001-05:00

. . . and redeems itself. Sort of.

Kelly from UPS called mid-morning today in response to yesterday's complaint (previous post.) Nice girl. She apologized for the driver not bringing my packages to the door, and said she's getting a lot of these complaints. Drivers leave packages tied to trees, on the ground, or whatever. (In trees? I was lucky.) She told me she'd put a note in my driver's box, and let him know that I want to be notified personally if he can't deliver a package to my door.

A couple hours later, I got a call.
"This is Jeff. I'm your UPS driver."
"Yes, hello!"
"I'm at the end of your driveway."
I look out the front window, a view to the road 700 feet away. Sure enough, there he is, backed in, which is not a positive sign for making it up to my house.
"I have a package for you. Is it okay to leave it where I did before?"
"Um. . ." How do I break this to him?
"I'm new on this route, and I'm not used to these roads and driveways."
He sounds timid and apologetic; damn. I believe him. I assure him his truck can handle it, it has many times in the past. Perhaps he can get used to driving the back roads very soon. Jeff agrees with that goal. Still, there's a whole inch of new snow on the driveway today, and Jeff has a big boxy truck and no confidence.
"You can leave it there today. Thanks for calling me."
We end the call with Jeff reassurred and me resigned. I am not hopeful - Jeff has my number, and he's not afraid to use it.

Perhaps UPS should look into hiring a few teenaged boys. They have no problem bombing around the back roads on anything with an engine.

UPS vs My Driveway

2012-01-18T22:33:00.001-05:00

I like a company that keeps track of your orders. When I had bookmarks made for my new Barringer's Pass series, Earthly Charms told me when it shipped - Monday - and when it would be delivered - today. UPS seemed to be running late, as it hadn't arrived by late afternoon. Then I got an email from the company - did I receive my bookmarks? UPS said they couldn't get all the way up my driveway and left it by a tree half way to the house. They wondered if perhaps deep snow made the driveway impassable.

I hopped in the truck to check it out - sure enough, there were two parcels wrapped in plastic and propped up by a tree. The other package was the edits from NY on my next book. If it really had been snowing, I might never have found them.

In fifteen years of living here, this is the first time a delivery didn't make it to the house. This is the treacherous driveway he couldn't handle. The package is at the base of the tree on the right.

A previous UPS driver had told me that company policy says they're supposed to park on the road and walk up to the house. Obviously, if he did that in my neighborhood where most houses are far off the road, he'd never get done. But that was the rule - walk it up to the house.

I went to UPS.com and used every character permitted to me to explain my dissatisfaction with their service. They're supposed to answer within twenty-four hours.

Italian Vacation

2012-01-17T10:06:00.000-05:00

Here's the picture of my latest book enjoying that promised vacation in Venice, Italy:

Thanks, David. Looks like SILVER SPARKS is having a great time!

Previous vacations are here and here . Is it weird to be jealous of my books?

Missing

2012-01-14T02:10:00.001-05:00

For eight days now my barn cat, Gray, has been gone.

Usually, he is there to greet me both morning and evening when I go to the barn. For months he hasn't missed one single visit. I'm sadly accepting that he has met his fate.

Twice before I've had wild cats appear who could be tamed enough to pet, but who could never give up their wanderlust. Those two, like Gray, were all older, and no longer spry when they disappeared. I fear coyotes.

Sophie is the lone barn cat now, with Zoe sticking to the chicken coop. We seem to have a vacancy for a young male cat. I can almost guarantee one will appear.

The Rest of the Story

2012-01-10T19:30:00.001-05:00

Did you notice the ruffled-looking patch of fur on the chest of the deer in the post below this one? My neighbor did, which is how she recognized her. She first noticed this deer two years ago in the herd that comes to eat in her back yard. This is how she looked then:

That gory tear in her shoulder is where an arrow went in. An equally gory hole on the other side of her chest is where it came out. She walked with her head down, glancing fearfully into trees, wary of another hunter in a deer blind.

My neighbor didn't expect the doe to make it through the winter, as her wound oozed and her skin hung in a raw flap. The other deer tried to drive her away. But by spring she was still there, beginning to heal. Two years later, she roams our area with the same deer herd, often hanging a little apart with another doe when I see her.

Maybe she really does have some hard-to-kill terminator parts. Or maybe just an indomitable will to live.

Deer?

2012-01-05T11:47:00.001-05:00

When I walked by the front door, it looked like the local deer herd was breakfasting on my front lawn.

But it wasn't them. It was . . .

Alien terminator deer!

Respecting the Muse

2011-12-31T11:56:00.002-05:00

I've written elsewhere about the contentious relationship I have with my muse. Frankly, she's . . . come closer, because I have to whisper this: She's a moody bitch with a poor work ethic. She prefers to inspire me two or three times a week, rather than daily, as I require. But don't tell her I said that.

Since I have deadlines that have to be met, we thrash it out on a regular basis. But I may have found a way to make her happy.

This is a Fairy Door. My daughter gave it to me, most likely for the benefit of her daughter who is still too young to understand the concept of fairies. But I am playing along. Since fairies are tiny, I decided it belonged near the floor, just above the baseboard, and since they're immaginary, I put it close to my writing desk, where the immaginary world intersects with reality. At least, when my fussy muse is working, it does.

Muses are fairy-like, in case you didn't know. And I think my little sprite must like having her own door to another world, because she's been hanging around more ever since I put it up. She hasn't been grouchy, either. (If you see her, just act like you didn't, because I don't want to mess with this delicate balance.)

I hope this bodes well for my next book.

In Defense Of Cats

2011-12-30T22:44:00.000-05:00

Cats love comfort. They also know a good thing when they see it. From this, they've somehow gained a reputation for being finicky, for shunning the cold, or the wet, and for not leaving their silk-tasseled cushions by the fire for anything less than food.

Don't you believe it. This is a picture of my barn cats Sophie and Gray, coming out to meet me in the morning. Yes, I have food. But they know darn well they could wait in the relative warmth of the barn, and get their food just as quickly. But they don't. Rain, snow, or shine, they come out to say hello. Just because. There's nothing wimpy about cats.

Contest Winners

2011-12-20T21:29:00.002-05:00

THE WINNNERS ARE: Heather Meloche and Maryanne! Please email me at starrambrose@gmail.com with your mailing address, and I will send you a $25 gift card to Amazon.com! Thanks for entering, everyone!

Naming Characters

2011-12-19T10:13:00.000-05:00

The heroine of my latest book, SILVER SPARKS, is named Maggie. It's a name that's probably been used a thousand times before, but it suited her character and didn't raise any pre-conceived, stereotyped images. No Maggies who shot a president or swindled people out of millions of dollars. I can only hope a childhood Maggie never pushed a potential reader in a mud puddle and stomped on their science project.

But my heroine didn't start out as Maggie. When I wrote the book, her name was Frieda.

I was just fooling around when I wrote the opening action-packed scene, with a feisty woman standing up for herself and igniting a tabloid scandal. Feeling whimsical, I named the heroine after the cat curled on my lap - Frieda Fuzzypaws. (Don't laugh - that's a literary name! My daughter named her after a cat in a children's book.) And when I gave character-Frieda two sisters, I named them after two other cats, Sophie and Zoe. Like I said, just fooling around, writing a scene. But it was a good scene, and it turned into a book, and Frieda was suddenly the engaging star of a lively tale filled with romance and danger. And my editor feared she had the wrong name. Since readers were not going to see it and be reminded of my feisty, fun-loving cat, she was probably right. So I changed it, and Frieda Fuzzypaws lost her shot at immortality.

But just for the record, here's the original Frieda. She could take on that jerk of a reality TV star in SILVER SPARKS with one paw tied behind her back, plus handle the subsequent pack of paparazzi and the hot, hunky cop who stepped into the mess. And decapitate a mouse at the same time.

So . . . would you have liked Maggie if she'd been Frieda? Are there any names you just couldn't stand for a hero or heroine? (And I really hope it's not Zoe or Sophie, because their books come next!) Leave a comment. This posting is part of a contest - two randomly drawn names from here or my facebook page will receive $25 gift cards for Amazon.com. I will announce the winners Tue. night. Good luck!

Another Book Cover

2011-12-17T09:56:00.002-05:00

I just ran across the French version of OUR LITTLE SECRET online, my second book. This was my least favorite book cover. I like the French version much better, even though the picture has almost nothing to do with the story. (When do they ever?) Except come on, France, couldn't you make my name a little bigger?

Who Should I Kill, and Does He Wear Medium or Large?

2011-12-15T15:46:00.002-05:00

I came out of my writing-coma long enough today to do some Christmas shopping. I was only partially successful - it's hard to dispel the voices in my head. They keep having conversations as I'm browsing the clothing department, trying out new plot directions. While I'm running down my gift list they nudge me and whisper, "What if you gave the hero a dog?"

But most distracting of all, they experiment with the climactic ending. This is my own fault - I wrote my whole synopsis, except for the very end of the book. Then I went shopping. Stupid move! I've set up several characters to be the ultimate bad guy, and now that it's time to reveal him, I'm not sure who it is, and how I will dispose of him. I can pretend to take a break, but my mind won't let go of this problem.

So next time you're standing in Target selecting new pj's and the person next to you is staring at the racks, lost in thought, it might not be indecision over what size to choose. She could be thinking about how to kill someone.

SILVER SPARKS in Venice

2011-12-14T16:15:00.000-05:00

My latest book is traveling to Venice for the holidays - lucky book! The trip is courtesy of my friend David, head of international distribution. The division is looking mighty sinister this year with those leather gloves.

I wonder who will pick it up in Venice, and if some tourist will carry it with them to a new city? I should put a tracking chip in these things!

It Must Be The Economy

2011-12-09T19:54:00.000-05:00

Nikita is a saver. If she were human, she'd have a nice passbook savings account and a 401K. Since she's a dog, the most valuable things she owns are treats. When we leave the house and lock her in her cage, she gets a dog bisquit. It's always there when we get home.

Then it vanishes. But I soon found where she banks her treasures - in my furniture cushions. This is the chair in my living room. Notice the back right corner.

And the chair in my family room, same place:

This one I can't explain. I saw the broken piece of bisquit on the floor, and tossed it onto the pillow with the other one. Nikita came by a minute later, examined the arrangement, and moved it right back to the floor where it had been. I'm obviously missing some instrinsic value here, but it might have something to do with diversifying her portfolio. Everyone knows you shouldn't put all your money in one place. Or all your bisquits.

Hot Enough For You?

2011-12-04T11:06:00.001-05:00

Ah, the expectations of reviewers when they open a romance book! It's a mysterious thing.

The love story is a given. The variable is sex. More politely, the "level of sensuality." Translation: Will they kiss with flushed cheeks and yearning in their hearts? Or will their naked, sweaty coupling knock the pictures off the walls and violate state ethics laws, possibly before exchanging names? There are no guidelines. No scale that says if he puts his tongue in her mouth it's a 4, and if they invite the neighbors to join them, it's a 9.

So let's be daring and quantify it. On that imaginary scale of 10, I'd say I come in at a 6. But that's just my interpretation. Here are a few reviewers' takes on my newly-released book, SILVER SPARKS:

"Hot."

"Would have liked the heat level to be turned up a couple of notches." This reviewer laments that there is no sex until the middle of the book, and then "they never really did it again." I disagree, but let's just say she obviously subscribes to the Bill Clinton definition of sex.

"Plenty of sizzle."

"It didn't get steamy towards the middle overall."

"The sparks fly...it will have you wanting an icy cold drink nearby."

"Ambrose is excellent at the love scenes without making it erotic."

So do you get an idea of what to expect? Not sure? Don't blame the reviewers, they can only judge based on their own expectations. You'll just have to read it and decide for yourself. (Golly, who would have guessed I'd come to that conclusion?)

Sincere thanks to the many reviewers for telling readers about SILVER SPARKS! Whether they yawned through the sex scenes, or fanned themselves vigorously, they all loved the book, and I love them in return!

Wham! Hello Winter!

2011-11-30T22:15:00.001-05:00

When I went to bed, the lawn was green and the trees were brown. When I woke up, the world had gone brilliant white:

But if you asked the chickens, they wouldn't agree. Snow clings to chicken wire, turning their world dark. This is what they saw when they looked into their yard:

I left the light on all day for the chickens. For the horses, snow on top of dirt that hasn't had a chance to freeze, equals mud. Every step will churn it up more.

I might be the only one who thought the first snow was pretty.

Watching the Watch Dog

2011-11-23T12:05:00.003-05:00

That's Nikita in her cage, with her cat buddy, Harley the Fearless The cage is a permanent fixture in my family room. This is NOT my idea of chic home decor.

Nikita's not there because I told her to go there. She likes her cage.

When we adopted Nikita at one year old we were her fourth home. She was insecure, ignorant of boundaries, and only half-housebroken, and had to be confined when left alone, like a puppy. I thought it would be a temporary situation. Hahahaha, I can be so naive!

Whenever I put my shoes on or jingle my keys, Nikita runs to the cage. If I don't get there to close the door soon enough, she bounces back out, watching me and making false moves toward the cage, tail wagging. Making sure I don't forget to lock her in. Because my job is to protect her.

But if anyone ever breaks in, man, watch out for Harley. She's tough, and she's not locked up.

Writing, with Restrictions

2011-11-16T15:20:00.000-05:00

Writing chapter two with TC. If I just avoid using P,O, K, L, and M the story moves along fine.

MRI of an Author's Brain

2011-11-15T00:02:00.002-05:00

I haven't been posting. I haven't done much of anything, due to one all-consuming obsession - I've started a new book. (Bet you thought it was another Rock!)

This is how the process works for me. I figure out who the main characters will be and what their conflicts are, both with each other and their own internal conflicts. Then I plot a story around that. It's all pretty vague, and the whole mess churns around in my brain until I have a feel for what the first scene will be. Then I start writing. That's where I am now, fifteen pages into it.

If you could see inside my mind, it would look exactly like this:

That swirling fog is trying to coalesce into a story. See the dark spot on the left? That's chapter one. It's solid and sure - stuff happening, characters interacting, tension set up. It's reaching short tentacles into the confusing mess behind it, trying to find the right elements to pull together for chapter two.

See the small yellowish dot in the lower right portion, the itty bitty spot that's barely visible in my mind? That's the rest of my life. Thanksgiving and Christmas are in there, along with family obligations, house cleaning, cooking, and my perpetual list of errands. Embarrassing, but true. As that solid core of story gets larger, and the churning mass gets smaller, the tiny yellow spot will grow. By next April the yellow spot might fill half of my brain and I will be able to pass as human for short periods of time. Until then, please bear with me.

Summer of Hawks

2011-11-05T17:27:00.003-04:00

Early this summer I noticed a man I didn't recognize walking down our road, camera in hand. A few days later I saw him again on the same stretch of road, just a few houses from mine. Then again, and again, always with a camera. He was too obvious to arouse suspicion, but still, it was odd. He didn't live there, and there's not much to take pictures of except trees and the occasional turkey or deer. I finally stopped and asked what he was doing.

His name was Dale Hoffman, he lived a mile away, and he was watching two Cooper's Hawks build a nest at the top of a pine tree just off the road. He pointed it out to me, a huge mass of sticks crowning the tree, but shielded from view by the branches of a larger, dead tree. He intended to photograph the hawks from egg laying through raising their babies to adulthood.

He was also standing guard. The road commission was trimming trees along the power lines, and the hawk's nest was close to where they would be cutting, just when the pair was laying eggs. Fearing they would abandon the nest, Dale made sure the tree trimmers skirted the area until the young hawks were grown. They'd have to come back in two months. He got no argument - Cooper's Hawks are protected in Michigan.

I saw Dale all summer as he kept a daily log in photos of the hawks raising their brood of four chicks. It turns out Dale is a pretty good photographer (in addition to having long hair, a rugged physique, and abs of steel - or so he says. He knows I write romance!) He allowed me to share his photos here.

The adult's wingspan is from two to three feet, the female being larger than the male.

All four babies made it to adulthood.

"I don't get it - they look like worms!"

2011-10-30T17:38:00.000-04:00

Bodice Rippers

2011-10-24T12:03:00.004-04:00

So. . . I dove into that stack of books pictured in the previous post, and OMG, what a shock! I rediscovered why I used to absolutely DETEST romance novels.

USED TO, I said. I love them now, and am proud to say I write them. The heroines are strong and smart, and the heroes admire them for it.

Not so twenty-five years ago. Heroines were naive and weak, apparently even the ones who ran successful businesses. Small businesses, of course - let's not get carried away here. They might know their customer base and marketing strategies, but still can't see the glaringly suspicious behavior in bad guys that even my dog wouldn't miss. No wonder the hero is so patronizing. Little Fluffy-head needs someone to look out for her.

But here's the really bad part, the part that I would never want a daughter of mine to read for fear she might think it was an accurate portrayal of romance - sexually, the stories were just like this picture. (With the exception that Fluffy would not put her face there without a full page of horrified blushing.)
Women were submissive. They might even need to be physically dominated first, because they're going to like it, they just don't know it yet. They'll thank him later. As I said, OMG! If a man in one of my stories treated the heroine like that, he'd be reaching down his throat to retrieve his nuts after she kneed him in the groin. Then shot him. It's called rape, sweetheart. Honestly, I had to keep setting the book down until I stopped seeing red.

These pictures were actual book covers from romances. I won't name the titles or authors, because it doesn't matter. Authors don't choose their cover art. But they do write the content, and that's where you have to remember that WRITING IS A BUSINESS. Authors write what sells. The particular book I read is not pictured here because I happen to know the author is quite good, and her current books do not reflect those attitudes. She wrote what I'm sure her publisher wanted at the time. I'm just angry that it helped perpetuate an abusive myth.

Those old romance novels are the reason I used to snub my nose at the genre. Thankfully, some authors refused to let their heroines take crap from men, and refused to let their heroes confuse force with affection. Readers agreed, and publishers got smart about selling to those readers, and we now have heroines smart enough to track down terrorists or kick vampire butt - whatever's needed. And to be their partner's equal in the bedroom. Or the crypt; one never knows when the mood will strike. But wherever, she'll be his equal in every way.

Unless of course, she likes force, but I don't write those kinds of books.

Like Having Dessert

2011-10-22T17:55:00.001-04:00

I spent the past week finishing up my e-novella, proofing, and sending it off to my editor. Who, it turns out, is on vacation. Hurry up and wait!

And now I'm on vacation. With no deadline looming, I get to indulge myself with a pile of books. And it just happens that the past two days was the big book sale at my library. I opted for the $5 bag of books and picked these up today - mostly romance with a little mystery thrown in. YUM! Can't wait to dig in!

Story Ideas

2011-10-14T00:57:00.006-04:00

There's one question writers get asked above all others: How do you get your ideas? I got that one again just a couple days ago. I usually shrug and say I dont know. But honestly, I have to ask: How do you not get ideas?

This tree is up the road from my house. Doesn't it make you think of one of those Disney cartoon trees, where limbs suddenly become arms and knot holes become faces? Because I'm certain that late at night this old guy pulls his roots out of the ground and stalks the neighborhood, blood dripping from his shattered stump of a neck as he looks for his head. What, too gory? Okay, maybe in your story he's planting acorns and returning baby birds to their nests. (And just so you know, that makes you a wimp.) But he's more than a tree, right? That makes him a story.

Or this: This car is in our barn. A guy my husband worked with years ago needed a place to store it. He said it was his dad's car, and he wanted to restore it, and he would pay us for temporary storage. Okay. He brought it over and put the cover on it. The car has now been here for 13 or 14 years. He's never done a thing with it. Never comes out to check on it. Never asks about it. Sends a check once a year.

I call it the murder car. You can't tell me there's not blood in the back seat and a body in the trunk. Whatever happened involves corrupt politicians and mob money and bribery, and all it costs them to hush it up is a paltry storage fee. Forget you ever heard about it, and no one gets hurt.

If your mind didn't go there, well, why not? Because I don't understand how you can not see the untold stories that are all around you, every day. And if you do, maybe you should be writing them down. I do!

That Chicken Attitude

2011-10-08T18:29:00.002-04:00

You lookin' at me?

Huh?

YOU LOOKIN' AT ME?

Your Federal Tax Dollars At Work

2011-10-07T13:45:00.002-04:00

Say hello to the Emerald Ash Borer. Pretty color, huh? Some time during the 1990's this little guy hitched a ride from Asia to the U.S., saw all the lovely ash trees, and said, "Yum!" Then he and his larvae went to work - one more illegal immigrant making good in America. And boy, did they ever.

Twenty years later, the result is hundreds of millions of dead and dying ash trees. On our five and half acres alone, that amounts to a dozen or so mature trees, and several dozen half-grown trees. They're our problem to deal with. But along our tree-lined road where dead trees stand close to power lines, it's the county's problem: take down the trees before they take down the power lines. That's a pretty damn expensive problem.

Here's where the Federal government comes in, with a grant to cut down the dead ash trees that are near power lines. Only ash trees - don't mess with that government money and try to get your dead oak taken down, because these guys know the difference. Two of these trucks were working in front of my house today, chain saws and wood chippers roaring. They left me a pile of ash logs that, I have to admit, will make nice firewood once we cut them into shorter sections and split them.

As a result, there is now a much smaller chance that my cable, phone, and electricity will be taken out by the next big wind storm. Plus, I get some free firewood. So thanks for that, American taxpayers.

And f-you, emerald ash borer. I'd rather have my trees back.

Autumn Nudity in the Hen House

2011-10-05T10:59:00.002-04:00

This is what I saw when I opened the door to the chicken coop this morning. Looks like a massacre!

Nope, just the stupid fall molting season. Stupid, because they wait until the first cold weather hits, then go, Oh yeah, I need a new coat for winter. Then they ditch the old one. Most of that's from just one chicken, one of the leghorn girls.

This one:

She doesn't look too happy about it, either. I heard her grumbling, "Damn it, do you have to take my picture when I look like this?" Then she came over and pecked my camera. And the buttons on my shirt. And my knee. Because you never know when something might be edible. So I turned over some dirt and let her eat her fill of a chicken delicacy - worms. Ugh.

After they pass that cute fluffy chick stage, there is nothing nice about chickens.

Regular Food

2011-10-03T00:03:00.001-04:00

My horse, Fritz, is Quaker's Oats' best customer. Ever since the dental nightmare when he lost most of his teeth, I have mixed his Equine Senior with oatmeal to make a more easily chewed, palatable mash. He loves the stuff. He goes through a 42-ounce carton of oatmeal ever 6 or 7 days, and is thriving. Each carton costs $4.99 at my grocery store. He's well worth it to me, but that doesn't mean I won't jump at a chance to save money. This week the large Quaker Oats cartons were on sale for $2.79, a savings of nearly half! I bought four. (I'd gladly get 40, but my cupboard space is limited.) It happens that I also bought prunes that day because I like them and we were out. So this is what went through the check-out lane:

See where this is . . . ahem . . . going?

I live in a small town. Peole who don't know me by name likely know me as "that romance author." So I can only imagine the whispers going around now about poor Starr's staggering problem with irregularity. Or rather, former problem, because obviously this would have been enough to fix a horse.

Dog Heroes

2011-09-29T13:20:00.001-04:00

While my Rock flipping waits for drier weather and man-help, there's something else I've wanted to post for a long time.

We have owned and loved seven siberian huskies over the years. Two of them had the privilege of saving lives, many times over. They were blood donors.

Never heard of it? Neither had I, until my vet held a testing clinic to find volunteer donors. Not all dogs can do it - they have to have the right blood type, and they have to weigh at least 50 pounds. That ruled out most of my dogs, but two qualified.

Lasher was the only dog we've owned with a championship pedigree. I mean the kind you'd brag about if it were yours. Like, mommy was Queen I'm-So-Perfect, and daddy was King Big Shot. But in dog terms. Literally every last pooch on his family tree had earned a "Ch" in front of its name. Except Lasher. He was considered too big for the show ring. Size discrimination!

But he made his life count for more than any fancy title.

Juneau was a rescue dog, about four or five years old when we got him. How anyone ever lost him is a mystery to me, because he'd stick close to us, and get anxious if I left him. A real sweetie. The Siberian Husky Rescue League pulled him out of a pound and kept him in a foster home in hopes they would find someone who would take an adult dog. Best move we ever made. He had ten more years of love and devotion in him, and we got it all.

On average, Siberian huskies don't usually have the universal donor blood type, but Lasher and Juneau both did. So we signed up, and every few months someone would call and ask if we could come in to donate blood. I admit, the boys were reluctant heroes - Juneau lay stoically on his table while blood was siphoned from his jugular vein, with an expression that clearly said, "I'm only here because you made me do it." Lasher resorted to pathetic whines, the big baby, but he got through it.

Lasher and Juneau donated until they were ten years old, when it was considered best that they stop. But the program goes on - in my area it's called Buddies for Life, and is run out of Oakland Veterinary Referral Services - www.OVRS.com . If you have a healthy dog that meets the qualifications, they would like to hear from you. It's a small sacrifice on your part to take them in when called, but a warm feeling you will never forget when a thank you card comes in the mail from the family of the dog whose life was saved simply because your dog donated blood. Heroes.

De-skunking

2011-09-21T15:15:00.001-04:00

Nikita got skunked last night.  I knew it from the first vague whiff, without even opening the back door and being felled by the odor. It had to be the dog. We're pretty far off the road and there's not much traffic, so skunks never seem to get hit by cars. Dogs are about the only other thing that pisses them off.

Cats know enough to stay away; in fact, cats aren't eager to meet any wild animal unless they intend to kill it.  It's likely one or two of my cats saw this skunk last night and crouched in the weeds, muttering, "Crap, it's you again. Get out of my territory. And wash yourself, why don't you? You stink." Cats are smart.

Dogs, on the other hand, will dash up to any critter just to get a reaction, the more startled the better. Sort of a tag-you're-it mentality. Wonderful fun, if you're another dog. Not so much if you're a deer or a rabbit. But if you're a skunk, then you're the one thinking, "Crap, it's you again. Get out of my territory." And then you raise your tail and make it happen.

Some dogs learn their lesson. Mine don't. So here's what I've learned: Tomato juice turns your dog pink. A pink, stinky dog is offensive in two senses. Vinegar makes your dog smell like . . .well, really bad.  Like pickled skunk. Whoever came up with these solutions had a light case of skunk odor and a black dog.

I rely on chemicals that claim to neutralize the scent. Claim, because I've never achieved total neutralization. They contain hope-inducing ingredients like citric acid and pine oil extract, and "fragrance." I'll have to trust them on that last one, but I wouldn't call the result fragrant.  After a good dose, Nikita smells like a combination of modeling clay and Old Spice, heavy on the clay. Not great, but better than skunk. And she's not pink.

Rock # 2, The Big Brother

2011-09-19T23:54:00.003-04:00

They look so cute when they're sleeping don't they?

This is Rock # 2. He woke up grumpy when we tried to nudge him out of his hole. We made a little slope to help him out and got a really big strap, and decided to see just how big he was. Turns out he was hiding some weight under there. Also, I think, some claws that he used to dig into the ground and hang on.

It's hard to tell from the pictures, but this guy is bigger than Rock # 1. We tried to move him - a brief video is below.

The stubborn little bugger stuck his nose in the dirt and refused to move. I don't think my truck would have been up to the task anyway, seeing how hard it was just to tip his rear end out of the dirt. This calls for heavy equipment. And of course, I've decided he would look best in the front yard, which is at least 400 feet away. For now, he's going to have to look good right where he is. I still have to figure out how to flip Rock # 1.

Also, I have a novella to write before Nov. 1st.

Rock, Part 6 - Moving Day!

2011-09-19T01:06:00.007-04:00

Finally, my project to dig a simple hole is nearly over! After the Rock shrugged off our tow straps, stubbornly refusing to move, I spent a week pondering my options. True nerd that I am, I ended up going with something I learned from the History channel. It was a show about how Stonehenge may have been built - a bit more ambitous than my goal, but if anyone knew how to move heavy stones, it was those guys. Basically, they rolled them atop a series of logs. I didn't have logs, but it made me think that I might be able to slide the Rock along planks. Like this:

I wedged the planks under the bottom, gave a pull with my tow rope and super-tough nylon straps, and . . .

It tipped over. But it stayed wrapped in its nylon web, which is more than we'd been able to achieve to this point, so I went with the inelegant solution - drag it.

And it worked. Man, those ancient Brits would have loved a few 4x4 trucks. The Rock scraped a trail through the lawn, but the grass will recover. And the Rock is unscathed - a far easier ride than the trip it took by glacier.

There's only one problem - It's upside down. Not that there's a "top" side, but I've grown fond of that scared, cracked surface, and I want to see it. If I was able to tip it once, I should be able to tip it again, right?

That's my last remaining goal for the year, as far as my Rock is concerned. Next spring I will have to dig out sod and landscape around it, making it feel at home while it gets acquainted with my other cool rock. I moved that one from the pasture several years ago - this craziness has been going on for some time.

And there is still one more rock out there. We spent some time working on it today, and I'll tell you about it tomorrow. For now, I have good news and bad news: Its bigger than we thought. That's good! I love big rocks! And it's heavier. That's bad, for obvious reasons.

But my insanity knows no limits! Plus, I know a guy with a bulldozer.

Rock, Part 5 - The Long and Winding and Scratchy Road

2011-09-14T18:10:00.001-04:00

The Rock is ready to move, but it has to wait until this weekend. So in the meantime, I have a special treat for the nerds amongst you. Yes, it's geology! (wild cheering!)

With the dirt scrubbed off by rain, it turns out the Rock is showing its age, crisscrossed with wrinkles:

Those white lines are gouges, up to a quarter inch deep, left from the torturous journey inside the Wisconsonian glacier that dumped it in my yard. Glaciers might be slow, but they don't fool around. This one dug out the great lakes, then filled them with meltwater - that's some serious gouging. Probably some hard jolts and extreme pressure, too, as evidenced by a huge crack down the middle. It runs right through that "wound" in the center. What a story my Rock could tell! It was a long trip, too - the rocks that were left here when the glacier retreated were most likely carried down from the Upper Peninsula or Canada.

Hey, Canada - thanks for the great rocks!

You might have noticed Rock # 2 in the background. I've done enough digging (come on, you knew I wouldn't leave it alone!) to get an idea of its size. Rock # 1 measures 48 x 38, nose to tail (you figure it out.) Rock # 2's exposed surface measures 47 x 42. Uh-oh. Another big guy!

Horses on Wheels

2011-09-10T10:36:00.002-04:00

Our farm has lost two animals. No, no one died. My daughter went to college and took her cat, Sally. Nice cat, but socially dysfunctional since a previous owner cut all her toes off. (They call it declawing - a neutral word, like "enhanced interrogation." It's still torture for the one on the receiving end.) The other cats threw a party when she left.

Also, our boarder horse, Code Red, has left. He'd been here two years, since his owner adopted him from a rescue group. He's a good horse, but stubborn about the one thing he hates - getting in a horse trailer. It's not an unusual problem, but one his owner needs to solve. She's been trying for two years, but Code Red objected. Strenuously. Now he's at a stable where a trainer will work with him.

I have mixed feelings about trailering horses. Even though I did it for years, my sympathy is with Code Red. Horse trailers don't ride like your comfy car - they're noisy, with no real suspension, so every bump in the road is a jolting bang. Four-legged animals aren't made to balance while the earth shakes beneath them, especially in the head-forward position we often ask of them. They do much better if they stand sideways and can brace themselves without pitching head first into a wall.

But we need to be able to move our horses. For us, it was purely for pleasure - my daughters did horse shows and the high school equestrian team. At first we hitched a ride with others, then borrowed a very old trailer. I shudder to think how we squeezed Laurel and our friend's horse Magic into that little red box. We literally closed the door on Magic's thoroughbred butt.

The following season we had our own trailer - roomier, but still that head-forward position, not to mention a bit claustrophobic. The only picture I have of it is when we were unloading after a horse show:

My horse Fritz has limited trailering experience, and is certain he shouldn't be in one. Smart guy. But when we moved here he needed a ride, so we used a 4-horse stock trailer. Using the divider to separate it into two compartments, the horse has room to stand any direction he chooses. They'll choose sideways or at an angle every time. So that's what we bought for our next trailer.

I can't say the horses liked it, but they loaded without objection. Better yet are the aluminum trailers that don't heat up like ovens in the summer. You see them a lot now, mostly slant-loads. Horses are riding more safely than they used to. But trust me, they could still use a horse version of Ralph Nader to reform the trailer industry.

Well-trained horses do what their owners ask of them, trusting they'll be safe, including stepping into loud, vibrating metal boxes that move. That's a lot of trust. Ultimately, Code Red is right - horses don't belong on wheels. Until we find a better solution, please drive carefully around horse trailers!

Rock, Part 4 - Out!

2011-09-07T01:52:00.005-04:00

TA-DA!

The Rock is out of the hole! That's as far as we got for today, because it turns out that getting it out and dragging it into the back yard are two different things. We must reassess and re-equip.

This is how it happened:

My rock-moving neighbors brought tow straps and a small truck that thinks it's a big badass truck and loves to jump into harness and show off. The process is in pictures below. It took more than one tug, but we always made forward progress. None of that Sisyphus shit I swore to avoid.

And all because I wanted some dirt.

Next is phase 2 - dragging it about 200 feet into the back yard. We have a tentative plan. But before we leave the south west corner of my property, let me take you back to when The Rock was still nestled in its hole, resting happily where the last glacier left it about 14,000 years ago. I took a picture looking across the top of it, to a spot about twenty feet away. Do you see what's poking out of the grass?

Yes, it's the barely exposed top of another large rock. Perhaps The Rock's little sister. Or . . . (cue the Jaws music) its Big Brother. Will we ever find out which? Oh, something tells me we will.

Goodbye, Borders

2011-09-05T18:33:00.002-04:00

No one will miss the large bookstore chain more than authors. For me, Borders represented a milestone, a mark that I had truly achieved my dream when my first book, LIE TO ME, appeared not only on their romance shelves, but on their New Releases table, right up front. And my very first book signing was held at the Birmingham, MI Borders, where they made me feel special by telling my husband and kids to order whatever they wanted at the cafe, gratis, while they set me up with a table and a small group of chairs for my little talk to fans before my signing. Coolest of all, I was featured on a sign on their front door, telling everyone that Starr Ambrose (Look! That's ME!) would be signing her book. It's deliciously spine tingling and jaw-dropping at the same time, one of those moments that stand out in the flashback review of your life. I may eventually sell more books through Amazon, but it won't mean as much to me as my "I did it!" moment at Borders.

I asked if I could keep the sign from the door. My husband framed it for me, and for several years it has had center place above my writing desk, flanked by framed covers from my books. Thanks, Borders, for everything you did to bring authors and readers together.

When You Just Have To Kill Something

2011-08-31T00:24:00.005-04:00

Cats are meant to kill things. Cat owners know this. We give them stuffed toy mice so little Fluffy can pretend to kill them. If our cats go outside, their owners are blessed with real mice on their doorstep, or pieces of them. Sometimes it's just a head. Sometimes a tail - it's a matter of taste.

Harley wants to kill things. Badly. But I don't allow Harley to go outside. She's little, which might make her vulnerable to predators despite her badass leather jacket and switchblade. Also, I have a large enough collection of headless rodents from the cats who do go outside. But toy mice just don't do it for Harley, not even the ones stuffed with catnip. In her heart, she knows she is made for tougher game. So she went to the basement to hunt . . . (ominous music) . . . something different.

And she found it. High on the storage shelves, standing on boxes of baby toys and Christmas ornaments, she found game so fearsome even the toughest cat might hesitate to rip into it - insulation. Pockets and pockets of it, stuffed between the floor joists along the top of the basement walls. For several weeks we've heard the plaintive meow that announces a kill as Harley comes upstairs dragging a mouthful of pink fiberglass.

I spent days cutting out squares of cardboard and fitting them over each space between the joists, covering the insulation. New hunting grounds were found, but after three or four weeks, the fiberglass kills stopped. That's when the potatoes started appearing. I keep my open bag of potatoes at the bottom of the basement stairs, where they stay cool. Harley has begun killing them. First the odd stray potato, then on a regular basis each night, carrying her potatoes upstairs and leaving her "kills" in the kitchen for me to admire each morning.

We're not talking cute little red potatoes. We're talking Idahoes, a good four inches and up, which is a hefty mouthful for a little cat. I've tried to get a picture, but Harley is a stealthy hunter, and doesn't announce her kills until she's ready to drop them on the floor. Then, you know how it is - who wants to pick up a dead potato? I can't even get her to pose with her trophy in her mouth. But she did show me how she beat one of them into submission, briefly re-enacting the death scene:

I believe that slightly insane look is normal when bringing down a wild potato.

Below: a rare shot of pink fiberglass in the feral state, alongside a dead potato.

Rock, Part 3 - Don't Be A Sisyphus!

2011-08-30T00:17:00.004-04:00

Are you up on your Greek mythology? Sisyphus was doomed to spend eternity rolling a big rock uphill, only to have it roll back down, forcing him to start over. I'm sure it's supposed to be an object lesson, or maybe a profound truth. Lately, it gives me nightmares.

I have my Rock and it's ready to roll uphill. Maybe. I'm not sure the slope is gradual enough - I'll have to check with my neighbor who owns the heavy equipment and has some experience with Sisyphus-like endeavors. I want to pull my Rock out ONE TIME, so I have to make sure I get it right.

This is how it looks now, with a section of lawn cut away, sloping sharply down to it. The back of the rock is more exposed so we can get chains around it, but you can't see that. My craziness stands on the brink of becoming reality! Maybe!

Mowing Grass, With Horses

2011-08-29T16:59:00.001-04:00

You can tell the lawn mower just went by the fence. Nothing better than having someone cut up your food and toss it in front of you, ready to eat. We don't use any chemical fertilizers or herbicides on the lawn, so when there's enough to rake, they each get a bushel-sized pile of clippings in addition to what shoots under the pasture fence.

Posting Comments

2011-08-26T13:03:00.000-04:00

Tried to leave a comment and couldn't? Guess what? Me, too. Blogger says I don't have a Google address. WTF? I do too, plus a blog. My research showed a ton of bloggers with this problem, and no posted solution.

This is the only thing I know that has worked - sign in with the profile "anonymous" or "name/URL". If that doesn't work, email me at starrambrose@gmail.com because I'd like to know so I can yell at someone. As soon as I figure out who.

Rock, Part 2 - Like An Egg

2011-08-24T21:14:00.003-04:00

Something has changed since I first started digging out The Rock - mosquitos. The manure-enriched weeds around My Precious harbor hoards of the hungry suckers, and digging requires a blood sacrifice. I'm not that generous with my vital juices, so I haven't made much progress. But I discovered one important thing - The Rock is not like an iceberg, with most of its mass still lurking below the surface. It's round like an egg, and I've uncovered the curve that proves it:

The shovel isn't stuck in the dirt at all, that front section has all been cleared of dirt. A flat rock would have been nice, but I'll take round over the monolith that could have been there.

Oh! But on the other hand, if it had been a monolith, and it started emiting a high-pitched whine, I'd REALLY be onto something epic! But then the government would get involved and you know what happened to Elliot and ET when the government stepped in, so I'm better off with my simple granite egg. No one's taking my rock from me.

(Above paragraph for me and the sci-fi geeks only.)

Weather reports promise cooler days the rest of the week. More digging ahead soon, I hope!

Putting Up Hay

2011-08-23T14:00:00.002-04:00

We've got a small operation, as farms go - no crops, just a few animals. So putting up hay for the horses for winter means taking my horse trailer out to Farmer Bob's REAL farm, and loading up bales of (mostly) second cutting hay. I make three trips and get about 80 bales each time, 70 in the 4-horse stock trailer, and 10 more in the pickup bed.

The horses LOVE seeing that trailer back into their barn with a full load of hay. They have free access to their stalls at all times, so they crowd in there and watch the whole unloading procedure. Fritz nickers about it, sort of a continual "Give me some. Come on, just a little," even though he can't chew it well with the few teeth he has left, and he'll mostly get hay cubes soaked in water - like eating hay mush. But he's still operating on memory, and he's always talked about his food. I recorded a bit of it, while Remi was crowded into his stall with his good buddy Fritz:

Coolest Gift Ever!

2011-08-21T00:33:00.003-04:00

I told you all in the previous blog what I wouldn't get for my anniversary, so I have to tell you what I did get, and I just hope I can convey how incredibly cool this gift was!

It relates to my novels - big points for hubby right there for understanding how much they mean to me. And I have to explain the context because the gift relates to novels that aren't out yet - SILVER SPARKS, to be released Nov. 30th, and the sequel, possibly titled GOLD FIRE, that even my editor hasn't seen yet. But my husband is my first beta reader and my number one fan, and he obviously pays close attention.

The first book opens at a swanky ski resort, the Alpine Sky, in the fictional Rocky Mountain town of Barringer's Pass, Colorado, and the resort plays a large part in the plot. In the sequel, the resort is trying to buy out an old honky tonk, the Rusty Wire Saloon, in order to build a golf course. The eager owner even has a clothing line ready to go, and a dark blue polo shirt bearing the resort's double-mountain logo has a minor appearance in the story. At the Rusty Wire, the wait staff is in casual dress - white T-shirts and jeans.

All fictitious places, but very real to me.

So this is what my sweetheart of a husband had made for me:

He even got the Alpine Sky logo right, exactly as I imagined it. And if I'd described the white T-shirts at the Rusty Wire, they would have looked exactly like the ones he had made! He gave me 4 different styles and sizes to be sure one of them fit. So I think when the books are released, I have the perfect prizes for a contest on my web site. I may even have more made up - I love these shirts! Love the man who gave them to me, too!

Anniversary

2011-08-19T16:33:00.003-04:00

I did a head count today of all the animals on the farm:
Horses - 3
Chickens - 4
Dogs - 1
Cats, both barn and house - 13

Every cat and dog was a rescue of some sort, either a stray that found its way here, or an animal I was handed and just couldn't say no to. Some have weird rescue stories - I'll save that for another day. It was enough today just to see that grand total and flinch. I am grateful we have the room to do this, and to my husband for putting up with my penchant for rescuing animals in need!

Yesterday was my anniversary, but my husband was out of town so we're celebrating today. Two things I KNOW I won't get: a kitten or a puppy. And that's okay!

The Burn Pile

2011-08-18T23:19:00.006-04:00

My ROCK should start a fan club. This past week I've been asked if I have my rock out yet, by people I didn't even know read this blog. What have I gotten into?

To dig out the rock, I need the trailer to put dirt in. Which means I have to get rid of the moldy hay currently in the trailer. Which means I need to throw the hay on the burn pile. The burn pile is in the pasture, so to make sure the horses don't get into moldy hay, I have to burn the whole pile right away. Easy, right? Ha! No.

If my husband did this job, he'd stuff some paper in between the dead sticks, throw the hay on top, and set it on fire. Whoosh! Twenty foot-high flames. A bit outside the fire code, but who around here really cares? No one.

Except me. That burn pile - two of them actually - have been sitting there for a year, drying out. The perfect shelter for bunnies, mice, skunks, and ground hogs. No way am I going to have toasted bunnies on my conscience. So I laboriously move every limb and tangled vine to a new pile, burning them as I go - a nice, responsibly small fire. (Yes, a girly fire. Girls are responsible; suck it, guys.) Going through both piles takes a good hour and a half, not counting forty-five minutes in the middle to recover from heat stroke.

And how many bunnies did I find? None. But I did uncover one large garter snake that slithered farther into the pile before I could whip my camera out. To help you play Where's Waldo, I cropped out most of the burn pile. If you look closely you can see her yellow striped black body weaving through the brush.

So I sweated in the August heat for 90 minutes to save a snake. Was it worth it? Heck, yeah. (Hello, do you know me?) And now my trailer is free so I can start digging out that rock.

Rock!

2011-08-12T00:06:00.003-04:00

I'm writing, but well ahead of deadline and taking care of jobs around here. Hence, a story about today's project.

I needed dirt to fill the depressed areas of lawn around our silver maples, and I had two options: I could order a yard or two of topsoil, or I could dig up as much free black dirt as I needed from the bottom of my manure pile. Lovely stuff. Being cheap, I went with option two.

I scraped aside the weeds and loose wood shavings on top, then started digging. The first shovelful hit rock about three inches below the surface - not an unusual occurrence around here. I moved the shovel and tried again, looking for the edge of the rock so I could dig it out. And hit rock again. Moved the shovel again; still hit rock. Now, you'd have to be a total rock nerd like me to understand how my rock-senses started tingling. This was a big rock. A specimen rock of the type people set in pretty landscaped areas so other people can drive by and admire their big honkin' rock. I love those rocks. I began digging in earnest.

After moving four trailer loads of dirt, I hadn't uncovered even half of this rock. But it is MINE, and you may admire my rock in it's natural state:

Oh yeah, baby, that's what I call a rock! Here's a more seductive close-up:

Yowzers!

I might never be able to move this sucker, but I'm not giving up. I want this rock! If my pickup truck can't move it, my neighbor has heavy equipment that can. I have awhile to figure it out - the rock has been there since the glaciers melted, and isn't going anywhere.

Writer's Block

2011-08-02T15:30:00.004-04:00

I could ignore the furry body between the keyboard and the monitor - I'm used to writing like that.

I could even ignore the lazy change in position that put a foot on the corner of the screen.

But when TC decided it was bath time, it was too much. I called a temporary writer's block and took a break.

No Cats on My Hot Tin Roof

2011-08-01T12:31:00.002-04:00

They're smart enough to stay off it when it's a bright, humid 90 degrees outside. I'm not.

Our heat spell was broken up by a couple nights of torrential rain, enough to remind me that if I don't fix the leaks in my barn roof, I'll end up throwing away several bales of damp, moldy hay. So hot or not, I climbed up there with my tube of neoprene sealant and looked for holes - which don't exist. So I sealed seams that appeared perfectly tight, and covered nail heads that look flush with the roof, and got a fast 20-minute sunburn on my neck and arms. Because Tennessee Williams knew what he was talking about - tin roofs are HOT.

The horses were inside, hiding from giant, evil horse flies (see blog about them here), but got concerned about the footsteps overhead, and came out. I took a picture of Fritz and Remi from the edge of the roof. The hand-size swelling on Remi's side behind his shoulder is from a fly bite. He has several on his flanks, large lumps with a scab at the center. Just like with mosquitos and people, there's always some poor guy who gets twice as many bites as everyone else. That's Remi.

Romantic Death in the Afternoon

2011-07-28T21:10:00.002-04:00

Don't you hate when your meal is interrupted? Of course, it might not happen if you don't dine right at someone's doorstep. This guy decided to take his lunch date to the warm metal strip beside my patio doorwall:

The big guy is a bee killer fly, and his dinner date is a biting stable fly. The bee killer prefers honeybees, but you know how it is - sometimes you have to settle for less. So he's sucking the essense from his little friend, who you need not feel sorry for, since she's pretty vicious herself.

Sometimes dinner with a friend is romantic. Sometimes it's just dinner.

Traveling Books

2011-07-25T22:56:00.001-04:00

The Starr Ambrose International Division (my friend David) takes another of my books to another foreign country. This time OUR LITTLE SECRET (English version) visits the Louvre in Paris! Keeping me high class, as usual.

How To Scratch An Itchy Back

2011-07-17T11:25:00.003-04:00

First, lie down in a nice sandy spot:

Then flip onto your back, wiggling with all four legs in the air. Drag that tail in the dust, too:

Finish with a roll to the other side. Rise and shake. It works best right after a good hosing down, when the dirt sticks. If your people groan and mutter bad words, just ignore them.

Beginnings and Endings

2011-07-06T11:12:00.003-04:00

I finally wrote The End on the second book in my Barringer's Pass, CO series! (Wait, that calls for a few more !!!!!!! There.) I wrote it figuratively, anyway; they really don't want the words on the manuscript, but after 370 pages I have to have some reward. I write it, then delete.

I'd show you a picture, but it would be a photograph of my computer screen showing a 790 KB Word file. Yawn. So I have two photos of other beginnings and endings I found this week.

These cute little buggers are baby barn swallows, on their mud-built nest that hangs on the rafters of my barn. The nest was built last year, so I figure the parents are either lazy or smart, skipping the tedious step of patching together straw and mud.

I took this picture Monday as the babies crouched just beneath the metal roof, scarfing down bugs from Mom and Dad and thinking about flying. I strung a rope beneath the nest so they won't flutter down to the barn floor - cat territory. Tuesday they were gone and the parents were dive-bombing the barn cats, so the kids were obviously nearby. They returned that night.

This is, unfortunately, an ending. It's a luna moth, about 4 inches across, the first one I've ever found even though they're considered common. He was just inside the horses' run-in this morning, able to feebly move his legs, but nothing more. You know I had to Google him, so here's the relevant fact: lunas only live about a week. They have no mouth. Their only purpose at this stage is to mate, lay eggs, and die. I assume this guy wore himself out romancing the lady lunas and has laid down to die. It was about to be a horrible death by horse hoof, so I moved him to the side. RIP.

Life in The Trench

2011-07-03T12:30:00.002-04:00

For several weeks now my husband has been working on a project to fix the drainage problems with our sump pump line. It was backed up and gushing water along the foundation of the house. The assumed culprit is tree roots, since the first owner of the house planted a row of maple trees DIRECTLY ON TOP OF THE LINE. If he still lived here he could be cursing himself out right now. But don't worry, guy, we're doing it for you!

The easiest fix is to re-route around the trees. My do-it-yourselfer husband began by renting a trencher, then laborously adding a slope to the line by hand with a post hole digger. Since he can only work on it during weekends, it's become a lengthy project. And an obsessive one. All other chores must wait until The Trench Project is complete. There were unforeseen problems and obstacles, and completing The Trench has been like withdrawing from Afghanistan, with reported progress that's hard to believe because the thing is still there.

The latest news flash from The Trench is that MUCH progess has been made and the end is in sight. (If that sounds familiar it's because you've heard it from the White House for the past ten years. I'm trying not to dwell on that ten year part.) But water is beginning to drain downhill toward the pasture - our version of victory. Everyone will soon be happy, except, of course, for residents of The Trench. The thing has been there so long that frogs have moved in.

You know what this means, don't you? Now I have to be concerned that all these little lives are safely removed before The Trench is filled in. I can see it now - refilling will be a slow, careful job with me adding shovelfuls of dirt, making sure the frogs jump out of the way, as my husband walks away shaking his head.

Milkweed and Monarchs

2011-06-30T01:00:00.003-04:00

The green theme on this page is a bit overwhelming, but here's more chlorophyl for you - a post about another weed I allow to thrive in my pasture: milkweed.

Horses don't like milkweed any more than they like those daisies in my previous post. But monarch butterflies do. In fact, monarchs need milkweed. (Brace yourselves; science Googling ahead.) They lay their eggs on the plant, the caterpillar larvae feed on the plant, they form their coccoons there, and the butterfly sips its nectar, along with a few other flowers. In fact, the butterflies even gain a unique protection from eating milkweed as larvae - they take in cardiac glycosides, which makes them taste bad and is poisonous to birds. (I don't know how, but I'm guessing the cardiac part is a clue.)

Monarchs migrate, the only butterfly that does. Last year storms in Mexico killed many of the butterflies. It takes 2 or 3 generations for the surviving monarchs to get this far north, but I haven't seen a single monarch yet, and this is when they should be here. (Have you? Let me know!) For those who make it, I've got a smorgasbord of milkweed waiting in my pasture.

Daisy Days of Summer

2011-06-28T16:14:00.002-04:00

This time of year, wild daisies pop up all over the pasture. Apparently they don't taste good to horses, because they last for a couple weeks and come back a little stronger each year. I suppose I should try eradicating them to make room for more of that yummy grass, but they're so pretty I can't do it.

That's Code Red, up to his fetlocks in dasies.

What I Learned at the Shooting Range

2011-06-25T03:10:00.003-04:00

Yesterday I was writing a tense action scene that I can't give away, except to say it involved a shotgun. At least I thought it was a shotgun. Might have been single barrel, might have been double. Obviously something to research. But for sure, it was loaded. Might have been birdshot. Or buckshot. Or...what else do they shoot? And now that I think about it, which packs the biggest punch, and which might give the biggest kick, and is it enough to throw the shooter off balance?

The easiest answer was to call my daughter who has used a shotgun for target shooting. She was with her fiance, who knows even more about guns, and tried to help. As each question got more involved, he finally said, "Why don't you come over and I'll take you to the shooting range?"

Um...okay.

It turned out we couldn't use birdshot at the range, but we could fire all sorts of handguns. There are no handguns in my current novel. But sooner or later one of my future characters will pick up a handgun and shoot someone - it's happened in the past. And I'd have no idea what the gun will feel like or how to load and fire it. I had to fill in this gaping hole in my knowledge. So we rented a 9mm Glock, a typical policeman's gun, and 100 rounds of ammunition. And wow, the things I didn't know!

First, you know that acrid smell of gunpowder that's supposedly evident after shooting a gun? I never smelled it, not even with other guns being fired in there. And you know that bang-bang-bang you hear on TV when cops shoot at bad guys? Not even close to how loud it is, and I had earmuffs on. And I never saw spent shells flying around on TV, hitting cops in the head like they were hitting me. And those lady cops who impress their male partners with their shooting skills? They better have a lighter weight gun, because that Glock 9 kicks like an angry donkey. Admittedly, I'm not big, but I can swing a sledge hammer without embarrassing myself too badly, so I'm not a total wimp. But I couldn't squeeze off two fast shots without the second one zinging over the target's head into some theoretical innocent bystander.

So I learned a lot of things that I need to know. Also, spent bullet casings and shotgun shells on my writing desk give it a nice edgy feel.

Tall, Dark, and Handsome Dog

2011-06-20T01:09:00.001-04:00

My neighbor works with a dog and cat rescue organization. She will go on calls at a moment's notice, and sees things I don't even want to know about. Most of the neglected and abused animals she sees come from the nearby city of Pontiac, hard hit by the economic bad times. Ninety-five percent of the dogs are pit bulls, bred to fight. I neither support nor villify the breed, but I do take a definite stand on the people involved. I despise them. I will spare you the few details I've heard, but you should know that unwanted dogs are often disposed of by having their throats slit. Those are the lucky ones.

Except for the REALLY lucky ones, the ones who cross paths with my neighbor. They get to see a new world with people who care for them instead of abusing them.

We "babysat" one of her rescues today, a nice looking guy awaiting adoption. He spent a few hours in our back yard, just one of those handsome strangers who come through town and set every female heart aquiver. Nikita took one look and suddenly turned into a girl, all coy and flirtatious. "Oh, please be gentle with me, you big, strong, handsome man." Gag.

I was so embarrassed for her - not exactly the strong type of woman I write about. But it was all an act. When he fell for it, she turned into a feisty little hellcat, with a lot of fake growls and pretend bites. He was swept off his oversized paws, completely smitten. Ah, romance.

Living in the First Draft

2011-06-15T01:58:00.001-04:00

My characters are busy wrapping up the plot of my latest book, bringing the good guys and bad guys together for the Black Moment, and setting up the emotional conflict so that it looks like there will be no happily ever after just before WHAM, there it is. It's complex, and occasionally they get it wrong.

Yesterday they acted out a scene, ending it with an insightful point to ponder. Blech. They should have ended it with a load of emotional angst, with undertones of impending danger. So as the director of this drama, I yelled cut, deleted a couple pages, and made them back up and take their conversation and their wandering hands in a different direction. Now the good guy is ready to rip the lungs out of the bad guy, while the girl is all torn up over the bad news she hasn't yet delivered to the good guy. Much better.

And that's when I thought how nice it would be if I could hit delete and re-write a few scenes in my own life. Like, every day. Then I could say all those clever things I think of two minutes too late.

If I Die, It Was The Chicken

2011-06-06T15:55:00.002-04:00

I'm getting close to writing the end of my fifth book, still untitled. That deserves a reward. At least, that's the excuse I stand by for buying fried chicken fingers at the deli this weekend. I know they're bad for my stubborn cholesterol level, but if I eat cardboard the rest of the day, I should be okay.

In the spirit of healthy eating, I pulled off a large piece of deep-fried coating and offered it to Nikita. This is the dog who thinks horse manure is the ultimate treat, so naturally I expected her to scarf it down and go wiggly with gratitude. She cracked her eyelids, sniffed the offering, then turned and faced the other way.

Crap. I ate something even my dog wouldn't touch. This can't be good.

Nikita, the Siberian husky, roughing it in the air conditioned house:

Sixty and Pregnant

2011-06-04T11:44:00.003-04:00

Not me! This lady:

According to the Almightly Internet, she's a Blanding's turtle, about 55-60 years old judging by size. She might live another ten years or more. The odds are good as long as she stays away from roads.

I met her a couple years ago, but posted it now because this is the time of year she came through my yard. It's also the time of year we commonly have to stop to move turtles out of the road around here. (Unless they're snapping turtles, in which case I just wish them luck. Not going near those suckers.) Turtles in the road are so common in June that I had to research this one. As suspected, they are most likely females, on their way from one pond to another to lay their eggs. (Mixing the DNA to avoid inbreeding - nature's smart that way.) This particular turtle has probably been doing it since she was between 14-20 years old, taking a quarter mile hike to the closest pond to lay her eggs. No small trip on turtle legs.

Every year! A quarter mile each way! What do you want to bet she's cursing the male turtle who knocked her up every inch of the way?

Writing by Bribery

2011-05-23T02:32:00.003-04:00

Writing can be fun. It's also work, and sometimes I'd rather call in sick. So I bribe myself with a little reward. If I get X-number of pages done, I can watch the Tigers baseball game. You'll just have to trust me that this is far better motivation than an ice cream sundae.

Saturday, for some reason that I'm sure is inadequate and completely unacceptable, the Tigers game was not televised. I was forced to follow the action with mlb.com's written play-by-play. On top of that, my family decided that no baseball game meant we should watch a movie. So I was reduced to sporadic peeks at the laptop to see how the game was going.

If you're not a fan, baseball can seem like a slow game. But trust me, things can fall apart fast. That's why, after not checking for a couple innings, I looked at the game in horror. And Penny had to check it out for herself, yelling, "They gave up HOW MANY runs? Let me see those pitching stats!"

Bio

2011-05-14T14:10:00.003-04:00

That's for Biography, not Biology. If you thought of the latter, congratulations on being an academic type, versed in both micro and macro. If you thought the former, you might be a writer, because that's what they make us put at the back of our books. (Or else you are job hunting and have been putting down way too much personal info on those resumes. They really don't care if you love water skiing.)

One part of the bio bugs me in particular - the part where you list your expert experience. Why? Because it can sell your book on the spot. If you pick up a book about mushroom hunting, you want to flip to the back and read that the author has stalked wild mushrooms from swamp to mountain top, eaten them, and never once had his stomach pumped. A book on flying? The author damn well better be a pilot. It matters.

But for romance novels? Hmm, well, let's just say that experience aside, THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. Fellow romance author Roxanne St. Claire said she was tempted to fill out a questionaire asking for her job description with, "I make shit up." Really, that's all you need - an imagination. But I've met authors who started out as lawyers and medical doctors, and you'd better believe that goes in their bio, whether it matters to the story or not. I assume the prospective reader is impressed that her Regency-era romance was written by someone who knows a tort from a tart. (Ha! That line made this whole post worth it.)

As you've no doubt figured out, I did not abandon an impressive profession to write romance novels. Not unless you are an obsessive shopaholic, in which case you can drool over my past work in the misses department at Kohl's, complete with employee discounts. Oh, yeah, I used 'em, too! I've also been a medical secretary and partner in a cleaning business. Unfortunately, no one is going to overheat at reading that. Even my english degree sounds like a dry afterthought.

So what to put down for my bio? Eh, I gave them the dry, boring stuff. But if I was honest, I'd say the best qualification for making shit up is having the time to do it. Time when the author's head is not cluttered with the concerns of patients or clients or those edgy bargain shoppers. If I'm honest, this is my best bio:

Up Close with Remi

2011-05-09T20:00:00.009-04:00

Most horses find people in their pasture interesting. They want to smell whtever is in your hand because it could be a carrot that happens to look like a camera. If you're in a truck, they have to sniff the truck bed and press their noses against the glass. Of our three horses, Remi is the most curious. I was in the pasture taking pictures and he followed me like a dog. When I stopped to shoot a picture, his nose tickled the back of my neck and sniffed my hair. I turned around and backed up to take this picture. He looked away, like, "What? That wasn't me sniffing your neck."

Spring Peepers

2011-05-08T23:30:00.002-04:00

If you're a frog, this is prime real estate, baby. Stagnant water, rotting vegetation - the perfect place to dine on bugs, romance a few hundred of your fellow frogs, and raise your tadpoles.

Flooded lowlands are common around here; this one is just down the road, a couple of acres of marshy wetland. Home sweet home for spring peepers. Forget daffodils and crocuses. This nighttime chorus is the true sign that spring is here.

Blogger makes it difficult to embed an audio file, so just play the video and turn on your speakers.

Triple Decker Cats

2011-05-05T13:44:00.002-04:00

Warm, sunny days at the cat tree by the front window. Good view of birds and bunnies right from your bed. Life is good. If I get reincarnated, I want to be one of my cats.

Spring Pond

2011-04-29T03:12:00.002-04:00

The land is a bit hilly around here, crossed by streams and dotted with ponds. The natural run off crosses our front pasture. In the summer when the ground is hot and dry, that low area is still moist and green. In the spring when the ground is saturated with rain, water gushes through the culvert under our driveway and spills into the pasture, and the moist low land becomes a pond.

Two days ago it poured, and our spring pond is back. A couple of mallard ducks decided it looked like a good place to settle down, maybe raise a dozen kids. They were out there all day, swimming and checking out their new digs. Good neighborhood, tasty weeds, lots of room for kids to play. If they decide sharing the pasture with three horses isn't a problem, they may stay.

Spring!

2011-04-27T18:46:00.001-04:00

And my header finally reflects it! If I see another snow flake, it had better be October.

Good news on the writing front - THIEVES LIKE US is a finalist in the Award of Excellence contest for best contemporary romance novel of 2010. Just being nominated is an honor - you can quote me.

I took a walk after a wild downpour today and found this broken egg shell on the lawn, blown from a nest:

It seems like the robins just got here a couple weeks ago, but they've already hatched the first babies. It's officially spring.

Mayapples and Research

2011-04-19T12:22:00.000-04:00

Rain overnight here, rain in the forecast today, rain tomorrow, rain the next day - time to get out the umbrellas. Which is exactly what nature has done:

This forest of little umbrellas popped up almost overnight. They're mayapples, and grow in the heavily-shaded area by our road. Some have one stem with what is essentially one big leaf. Some have a forked stem which will have little white flowers that turn into green poisonous seed pods, that turn into little yellow tasty (so I'm told) fruits.

No, I'm not the go-to nature lady. I looked it all up. That's what we writers do. For my books I've researched dozens of wide-ranging topics, from fossilized trilobites to the snocats used to groom ski slopes - both appearing in my next book, SILVER SPARKS. Shameless advance plug! For past books I've had to research uranium mines, guns, and explosives, which probably means I'm on some Homeland Security watch list, keeping the country safe from terrorists and writers. Most recently I've looked up sodium vapor lights and procedures for closing down a restaurant for health violations. A few more books and I'll be a walking encyclopedia.

Napping, Pro Level

2011-04-15T11:16:00.001-04:00

Horses don't sleep much, maybe 3 or 4 hours out of every 24. When they do nap, it's usually while standing. On a nice day, they'll lie down in the sun the same way a deer will, with their heads up. If they doze off, their noses dip toward the ground. Like deer, horses are prey animals, and have to be ready to jump up and run if predators appear. Consequently, I rarely catch my horses lying flat-out on the ground, completely vulnerable and oblivious.

Except for Code Red. When he naps, he's serious about it. Dead serious. I've learned not to get nervous if the dead body in the pasture is Code Red, because he's just enjoying a nap.

New Guy in the Barn

2011-04-10T02:07:00.002-04:00

This guy showed up sporadically, then apparently decided the accomodations were pretty sweet, and stayed.

I call him Gray. Creative, no? No wonder I'm an author. See, my husband has a Rule: no more cats. (God knows why.) In accordance with the Rule, if I see a stray, I can't name it because I might get attached. Hence, the generic gray cat. Except I start out saying, "Hi, poor little gray cat, you don't have to run away," and "Here's kitty food, gray cat." Then pretty soon it's, "You're not so scared anymore are you, gray cat?" and "See, petting feels good," and before you know it, it's "Damn it, Gray, get out of the way before I trip over you." Viola, new barn cat.

You Won't See This in the Store

2011-04-06T23:11:00.003-04:00

My four hens share a communal egg nest - their choice. This is what I found in the nest tonight:

Actually, just the green Aricauna egg and the little one. The other two are there to show that it's the little Leghorn egg that's a fluke. A mistake. And because I had to know, I broke it open:

No yolk. That's all albumen - the white part. So it was never a potential chicken. I'm disappointed. The thought of tiny little eggs hatching tiny little chickens is just too cute!

Fill 'er Up

2011-04-06T10:42:00.001-04:00

The propane truck came today, refilling our propane tank. In the winter when we're heating the house they come about every 5 or 6 weeks. We don't need it at all in the summer, as everything else is electric.

Natural gas lines don't come down our road, and probably won't any time soon. They'd have to get enough people willing to pay for it, and these aren't prosperous times. Natural gas is much cheaper than propane, but that initial hook up is a killer, especially when most customers have a lot of road frontage, and are at least 500 feet from the road. Nikita is the only one happy about it - the propane driver keeps dog treats in the back of his truck.

A Tail Tale

2011-04-02T00:56:00.001-04:00

Horses are herd animals - they don't like to be alone. A few years ago, Remi went to live at a trainer's farm, leaving Fritz as an only horse for a year. He was so lonesome he spent a lot of time standing by the fence along the backyard, where he at least got attention from the dog. Unfortunately, he was just a big plaything for Nikita. Her new favorite hobby was biting Fritz's tail and pulling out hunks of hair. I can only assume Fritz took this as attention, as he not only allowed it, he enabled her by standing with his butt to the fence so Nikita could reach his tail easier. She took off about 2 feet of tail and thinned the rest. The bad news is, tails grow in slowly. Three years later, it still isn't fully re-grown. And now I think it never will be, because today I saw him standing butt-to-fence with Nikita on her hind legs, biting out mouthfuls of tail. A pile of chestnut horse hairs was on the ground.

I think I know why. Code Red is gone for ten days for a horse clinic, sort of like boarding school for horses. Fritz and Remi have each other, but it's not the same. I hope Fritz's tail survives another three days until Code Red comes back.

My Feed Bag Heritage

2011-03-27T15:03:00.001-04:00

I just bought a new bag of chicken feed, what they call "scratch." It's mostly cracked corn, with some sunflower seeds in the mix. They also get a granular "laying mash" to get better egg production. Both come in heavy paper bags like this one. Couldn't get more plain and practical.

Decades ago, feed for chickens and other farm animals came in cotton bags. Once manufacturers realized thrifty farm wives were using the material for clothing, they began using attractive prints (like those at the right) and smaller labels, or paper labels that could be torn off.

I don't know when the practice ended, but they were still doing it in the 1950's when my father took his new, city-bred wife to live in the country, where they kept chickens and rabbits. My mother never took to farm life and it didn't last long, but she lived there when she became pregnant with me. And though she never could stand to kill and dress chickens, she could sew anything. (Still can.) So she used the feed bags to make a quilt for her first baby, using the appropriate theme - chickens, with a quilted pattern of chicken wire, which you can see on the left side of the picture above.

When I had my first baby I tried my hand at quilting, but I'm afraid Mom didn't pass her sewing talents on to me. But my mother's baby quilt hung in my daughter's nursery, and hangs in my bedroom today.

The Most Fearless Cat Ever

2011-03-24T23:32:00.001-04:00

If you want to jump out and scare the bejeezus out of your sister, you hide in the last place she would expect to find you - in the closet with the Machine That Eats Cats. (Come on, it's OBVIOUS what this machine is capable of.) You must be willing to laugh in the face of death, to practically sit on top of the Machine That Eats Cats as you wait for your sister Penny to come up the basement stairs. You must be THE MOST FEARLESS CAT EVER.

That would be Harley.

Tranquilizers, Power Tools, Pliers, and a Horse

2011-03-21T21:34:00.003-04:00

You think you had a bad day at the dentist? Pull up a chair, son. Fritz would like to have a beer with you and tell you what a real dental nightmare is like.

Today was the annual spring vet visit. This is mainly for innoculations - rabies, Potomac horse fever, tetanus, and two varieties of equine encephalitis. All that is in two shots, placed on each side of the neck. They either take it stoically like Code Red, or they jump like a bee stung them - that would be Remi, the big baby.

This year we added floating Fritz's teeth, which generally means filing off the hooks and rough spots that develop as horses age and teeth keep erupting. However, it turned out to be a bit more. Because Dr. Ryker is a very understanding (and outstanding) vet, I have it all in pictures.

First, because Fritz objects strenuously to having someone yank his tongue aside and power-file his teeth, he had to be tranquilized. It only takes a few minutes to turn him into a drugged-out pussy cat:

Getting a horse to open wide is another matter. So once he's cooperative, Dr. Ryker and Jodi, a 4th-year vet student assisting him today, fit a device on him that prevents him from closing his mouth. I think it was designed by Hannibal Lecter.

It can't be comfortable, but those drugs are working, and Fritz just wants to catch a few Z's.

When we're ready to go, they prop Fritz's head on a support pole. Now, let's see what we have to work with, from Dr. Ryker's view:

This is not good. Fritz has already lost several teeth, and three more are loose. He can't chew comfortably with loose teeth any more than you could, so all three have to come out. The remaining ones will get their sharp edges filed down. The main dental equipment consists of this portable generator with an on/off foot pedal. The vet straps on the equipment that allows him to use different grinding attachments. I get to help - I hit the foot pedal on command while Dr. Ryker files the teeth and Jodi holds the dopey horse.

When the back teeth are done, it's time to pull those loose teeth. Imagine the pliers from hell...

It only takes a couple seconds to grab and pull...

...and they're out.

It's a little bloody after that, but Jodi gets to try her hand at finishing off some teeth because THIS IS WHAT SHE WANTS TO DO FOR THE REST OF HER LIFE. Well, this and other messy, difficult things that horse vets do. You gotta love horses to understand.

There's a little more grinding on the front teeth to ensure an even bite. Fritz will be on soft food for a couple days, then he'll get by on Equine Senior for the rest of his life because chewing hay with the few teeth he has left is a pretty futile effort. All in all, that's not bad for a horse who turns 29 in a couple weeks.

Now the last part - writing up the bill. Farm call, shots, and extensive dental work came to $385. I toughed out my part without tranquilizers. Fritz is worth it.

Horse + Dog + Fence = Repair Bill

2011-03-19T00:11:00.001-04:00

We had an unexpected fence repair today. Yesterday I woke up to Nikita's excited barking and looked outside to see...absolutely nothing. Fritz was dozing, while Code Red and Remi sniffed curiously at something on the ground. "Something" turned out to be about 50 feet of wire field fencing that had been pulled loose from the board fence where it runs along the back yard. Two other clues: Code Red was missing a front shoe, and his side was plastered top to bottom with mud. Whatever happened obviously involved a hoof getting hooked on the fence, and Code Red going down in the mud. It wasn't traumatic, because the horses merely looked puzzled. If they'd been scared they would have been a hundred feet away, nostrils flared as they snorted at the monster that had attacked them. But, no matter - it involved a horse going down, and if you're a Siberian husky, not far removed from your wolf ancestors, a downed animal is a your BIG OPPORTUNITY. Nikita was so delirious over her impending kill she didn't even notice that the wire fence keeping her out of the pasture was gone. I never said she was smart.

So today the fence guys came to do repairs, also replacing boards that were starting to rot. The fence is 15 years old, and the boards are oak, painted with an equine fence paint, which is quite thick, a lot like creasote. Not fun to apply, but it looks like I'll be doing some soon.

Sexy! Suspenseful! A guaranteed good time!

2011-03-16T18:24:00.002-04:00

A break in routine today - I have to review cover copy sent by my editor for SILVER SPARKS, my next book. That includes the back cover blurb written by the marketing people, the author bio inside the back cover, and quotes chosen for inside the front of the book - you know, those lines lifted from book reviews that make me sound like the most brilliant romance author ever. Snappy, sparkling, sexy, clever story lines...gosh, I'm blushing.

I don't think it has a parallel in any other profession. It would be like my engineer husband soliciting quotes throughout the auto industry on the wonderful work he's done in the past (His spec changes on sensors are inventive and fun! His release reports are riveting!) then submitting them to the client along with his new designs. I don't see it happening.

However, it would make for an interesting program meeting...

The First Potholes of Spring

2011-03-11T23:33:00.001-05:00

Or, Why it won't pay to wash my truck for the next two months. This is what the road looked like today directly in front of my house...

...and for miles in either direction. The closest pavement is over a mile away. That's two minutes in dry miles; ten minutes in mud miles. In town I drive by the two car washes and sigh, thinking how nice it would be to see the paint beneath the mud on my truck. But what's the point? By the time I got home it would be mud-brown again.

Tough Guys

2011-03-06T11:00:00.001-05:00

My WIP* has a fight scene coming up soon, and my hero is the one who has to break it up. Of course, it won't be that simple. It'll be two burly guys - or maybe more, I haven't decided. Gotta keep things tough for him. They're drunk, mad, and mean. But a hero can't hesitate to do the right thing, especially if others are in danger!

Still being my inspirational role model, TC demonstrated that a true tough guy isn't afraid of anything - not even snow or big dogs. That's his "Come on, get me. I dare you" move. It never works - my dog isn't brilliant, but she's not that stupid. Not when a cat is pointy-side up.

* Work In Progress

Someone Doesn't Like to Share...

2011-03-03T18:02:00.001-05:00

This is part of the local deer herd, nibbling on feed put out by our neighbor. One doe is a little bitchy about sharing, and a few of the others don't seem to mind giving her a hard time about it.

After the Fall

2011-03-01T14:57:00.002-05:00

The end result of the previous blog, looking from the other end of the barn. The posts in the foreground are 4 feet high.

A Crashing Thaw

2011-02-27T13:44:00.002-05:00

The only part I don't like about my barn is the roof. Metal roofs amplify raindrops until a light shower sounds like a pounding rainstorm inside the barn. An actual rainstorm is a deafening roar. And then there's the snow...

As soon as temperatures rise, snow slides off the metal roof. The underside next to the metal warms to near melting and carries whatever is above it to the edge - where it hits cold air and freezes again. It hangs there, hesitating, while more snow piles up behind the mini-glacier, edging it toward the big jump. This is how it looks:

You can already see a mound on the ground where the first part of the snow sheet broke off. When it falls, the icy weight of the bottom layer hits the side of the barn with a bang. Surprisingly, the horses are used to this sudden thunderous noise inside and rarely react.

In the pasture, it's a different story. The snow that slides off on that side is scary - they never know when it's coming, and seeing a big white thing crash to the ground is enough to send them running. By nature, horses are still prey animals, and any sudden movement nearby is cause for alarm. Run first, ask questions later, because you never know when it might be a cougar pouncing on your back. And even after the tenth time, when you're pretty sure it's more of that harmless white stuff, it's kind of fun to pretend it's a ravenous cougar. So for the next couple days, we will be having mock cougar attacks in the pasture until all the snow is off the roof.

Sick of Winter?

2011-02-24T22:26:00.003-05:00

Houses get sick of snow too. Sick to the point of throwing up.

Kissing and What It Has in Common with Dead Trucks

2011-02-22T12:09:00.001-05:00

My fictional heroine was just kissed by the hero, an eye-opening event for them both since she's on a date and he's not the one she came with. Uh-oh. So should I allow her to be dazed as she returns to her date, or should I have that poor schmuck catch them in the act? Definitely catch them! Rule One in writing a romance - if anything worse can possibly go wrong, make it happen. It keeps the story interesting, and makes the reader root for your characters. Like real life, but worse.

Like as soon as your lame horse is better, the dog develops an eye infection, and the truck decides that it might not start today. After it's already taken you to the store. My trusty truck pulled one of those today, catching and dying and catching and dying as I thought with a sinking feeling about the 18 degree weather and how long it would take a tow truck to get there. Then the ignition caught and held. I believe I have been warned. The truck will go see the truck doctor tomorrow.

And to whatever Fate is writing my life - I hope we don't subscribe to the same theory of writing.

Together Again

2011-02-21T21:51:00.001-05:00

Code Red's foot is all better, and he and his good buddy, Remi, are back together. They spent a lot of time hanging around together today, indulging in their favorite game of nipping at each other's faces. All kinds of fun if you're a horse. So exciting, in fact, that Remi occasionally reared, pawing the air. I wanted a picture of it, but every time I go outside with the camera they stop what they're doing becuase, hey, there's the food lady and she might have something for us. So I used a long zoom and took this from the house. Remi was just coming down from a rear, and lowered his back end down first, so from the back he looks like he's sitting up and begging. The goofball.

Veterinary Medicine - Duct Tape and a Baggie

2011-02-17T01:36:00.002-05:00

When I went out to feed the horses this morning, Code Red was limping, keeping his weight off his back foot as much as possible. This is probably the most common vet problem I see - sudden lameness from an abscess inside the hoof. Imagine an infection throbbing beneath your toenail, except the nail goes all the way around your toe and the irritated tissue has no way to expand. That's the pain Code Red was feeling.

My vet came out a few hours later, located the tender spot, and began scraping away layers of hoof on the underside until he exposed a small black spot. A couple more scrapes and a trickle of blood and pus drained out. A poultice will soften the hoof and allow the infection to drain over the next three days. This is as low tech as it gets - the vet slips a plastic baggie over the hoof with the poultice inside. To protect the bag from breaking, he wraps it in a heavier plastic, then covers that with self-sticking vet wrap (green in the photo.) To keep it all in place, he wraps it with duct tape, or in this case, the even stronger gorilla tape. If you look closely at the bottom photo, you can see the top of the baggie sticking up above the wrap.

Code Red has to hobble on this bulbous make-shift boot for the next three days. He's not going far - the improvised boot would wear off in a day if we let him walk around the pasture. He's confined to his stall, which is a bit like confining a toddler to a car seat for a three-day trip. Neither one likes losing his freedom. To keep him from going into a mindless horse panic by being left alone while his buddies go outside, I locked Fritz in the next stall. Now I have two pissed off horses. To make it worse, Code Red's grain ration is cut in half while he's confined. It's safe to say he's frustrated. Over the next three days I'll alternate locking Fritz and Remi inside while the other is free to go, but the fact is, with two horses inside, the third one will hang right by the barn door most of the time, if not inside the barn itself.

We'll remove the boot on Saturday, and if the foot is sound, we'll apply a smaller boot - more like a footie - that will keep iodine against the bottom of the hoof for a couple days to toughen it up before we finally let Code Red go outside again.

A Deer of a Different Color

2011-02-14T17:42:00.002-05:00

In my current WIP (work in progress), the heroine is most comfortable in business suits. Naturally, the hero is strictly cowboy boots and jeans. Without telling you anything about them, you have an idea of their personalities, because the outside reflects the inside.

Sometimes. And other times it's just a crazy mistake! This deer is part of a herd that visits my neighbor's yard daily. She snapped the picture on her phone.

I looked it up - the coloring is called piebald, the same term used for horses. They're just as rare as you'd think. She's pretty well camoflaged now, but I'm worried about when the snow is gone.

How Kindle Is Making Me Work Harder

2011-02-12T17:51:00.002-05:00

Yes, I've been lax with my blogs. I have broken the unwritten promise of delivering new Dirt Road nuggets on a regular basis. I accept your verbal abuse. I would promise to do better, but the thing is, I'm trying to figure out how to make more work for myself despite the fact that my creativity has obviously hit a wall or I would have been posting here.

My possibly-insane desire to create more work stems from a lunch this week with several other published authors and an industry professional. We were discussing the impact of e-books on an industry in a serious state of flux, and how we could best position ourselves to survive. (Did you yawn? This lunch was definitely a tax-deductible business expense.) Cutting to the basics: e-readers (Kindle, Nook, etc.) are growing fast in popularity. Owners of e-readers often skip the $7.99 downloads (i.e., our books) in favor of discounted or free books. To lure readers into springing for the bigger buy, authors are putting together short stories and novellas that tie in to their new releases, and offering them for 99-cents, or even free. If readers like it enough, they'll buy the full-length novels. Which means I need to come up with more fun plots so I can write some clever novellas that connect to my next series of books, and put them out there for little or no money in the hope of attracting new readers. But my deadlines don't change - I have to write those novels, too. So, more work in less time. In my possibly-addled state, I believe this is a good idea.

All that is to say it was a busier-than-usual week. It may turn into a busier life. And I thought it already was. So...tying this back to my humble farm life (didn't think I could, did you?), I vote with Fritz. Time for a nap.

Hello, Latvia!

2011-02-06T12:42:00.003-05:00

Fun with statistics (and you'll never hear that phrase come out of my mouth again): seeing the various countries where readers look at this blog. For instance, this past week, people who stopped by Dirt Road Diaries were from the United States, Russia, Latvia, Germany, Canada, Denmark, and France. I've also seen Japan and Korea come up frequently.

Latvia was a new one this week ... which means my first book, LIE TO ME, was finally released in Latvian! So here's a shout out to any Latvians who can also read English, along with readers in France and Japan, who can also buy LIE TO ME in their own language.

Here's the part that fascinates me - each foreign publisher chooses its own cover. It's all about marketing and creating a "brand" for the author. Simon and Schuster sees my books as fun, flirty, and sexy, and they do their best to show that on the cover. Other countries seem to see me differently.

LIE TO ME in France (here this would look like an Inspirational romance)

LIE TO ME in Japan (that chandelier hints at a little more excitement)

LIE TO ME in the United States, Canada, Australia

I haven't seen the Latvian version yet, darn it, but I know it's out there!

Paths in the Snow

2011-02-04T23:58:00.002-05:00

You know that saying, "What goes in, must come out?" That applies here. I wrote about clearing a wide drive out to the barn, but didn't show the shoveling I had to do on the other end of the barn. Because what goes in, has to come out - in more ways than one. I feed the horses, and they give back manure. It has to end up in the manure pile, which is behind the barn. I fill a twenty-gallon tub at least twice each day and pull it through the snow to the manure pile. Works way better than trying to push a wheelbarrow through snow. But it doesn't slide gracefully through deep snow - I have to dig a path. So the first thing I do after a snow is shovel a path from the back door of the barn past the chicken coop to the manure pile. That's my handiwork on the right, looking from just inside the back door.

I'm not the only one who uses the path. Little Zoe, the cat who sleeps with the chickens every night, spends most of every day in there, too, when it's this cold. It's her own private apartment. I leave the door cracked during the day so she can come and go for her potty trips. Yesterday she heard me outside and came out to say hello.

Plowing Snow

2011-02-03T16:29:00.003-05:00

If I wrote this scene in one of my books, the woman would probably be my heroine. Unfortunately, her husband would not be the hero.

The Prologue: According to Weather.com - and we all know if it's online it must be true - our town got 13.5 inches of snow. Enough to require some major shoveling. My little tractor can't pile it high enough, so for big snows I hire a lady with a big plow on her pickup.

Chapter One: I love this woman - she's careful, and a perfectionist. She plows nearly a thousand feet of driveway, and does a good job. But by the time she got to my house yesterday, she'd been plowing all day and her husband came to relieve her. Turns out he's not so careful - she told him to plow straight back to the barn, but he turned sideways about twenty feet in front of it and ran into the culvert, getting stuck in the drift. After watching him shovel around the truck from my nice warm house and seeing that he was still spinning his wheels, I walked out there. I told him I could use my truck to pull his out. The only problem was it was still in the garage with a 2-foot drift in front of it. So I pitched in and we hand shoveled a path for the truck (kind of what I was trying to avoid doing when I called them, but oh, well.) Then I backed up to his truck, he connected a tow line to each hitch, and as he floored the accelorator, I gently pulled. No movement. He urged me to give it a good jerk, so I backed up to put some slack in the line, then gunned it forward. He revved the engine and his tires slipped and slid, but couldn't hold. He urged me to give it an even harder tug. I did, knowing exactly what would happen - the tow line snapped. Not defeated, I pulled out my own tow rope and we hooked up again. Another rev and a big tug. This time the truck broke free and I pulled him out. He thanked me, rather tersely, not happy about the whole experience. (Ford F-150, one; Dodge Ram, zero. Props to my tow rope, too.)

I'd like to say he went on to do a good job plowing me out, but that wouldn't be true. He seemed afraid of the unknown dangers lurking close to my driveway and plowed a very narrow path to the road - not nearly the nice wide path his wife does for me. And being afraid of the culvert, he left a wall of snow in front of my barn door. Also, two minutes after I pointed out where a boulder was covered by snow, he ran his plow right into and over it, rearranging my landscaping with a loud scraping noise. The windows were down and I heard his wife say, "She told you it was there!" I have a feeling there was more conversation about the rock after they left.

If I need the driveway plowed out again, I'll specify that I want the wife, not the husband. I don't think he'd agree to come, anyway.

More Power, Scotty!

2011-02-01T22:50:00.002-05:00

Storms mean power outages. Power outages mean no water, since pumping it out of the ground requires electricity. No water means no toilets - now, there's a major irritation. So preparing for a storm like the one pounding us right now means checking the water supply. I keep six full 2-1/2 gallon jugs in the garage year round:

There are two more in the house, plus a few empty ones in the basement. If the power goes out we start filling jugs until we drain the pipes. With judicious use, that's a few days of washing up and flushing toilets. Ah, sweet civilization! In the summer, when a horse might drink 5 gallons of water a day, that's barely enough for one day, and forget the washing up.

Power outages also mean no computer, which means I am reduced to writing the old fashioned way with a pen and paper - in my opinion, one step above a stone tablet and chisel. To be prepared I usually print out the last 2 or 3 pages of my work in progress before the storm hits. That way I can review and edit, which helps me slip back into the story. My output suffers, but it's better than nothing. I'm hoping that doesn't happen with this storm, but with a foot of snow pulling down tree limbs and power lines, I can't count on it.

So... Water bottles are full. Pages are printed. Warp speed, Mr. Sulu, and keep those engines running, Scotty!

Preparing to be Snowed In

2011-01-31T13:11:00.001-05:00

Two days from now we'll get another foot of snow, so even before writing today I was out like everyone else, stocking up on gas, groceries, and grain. Before I left the house I got a timely call - I won the drawing at my local feed store for a "superbowl basket." It's a small basket of dips and mixes that are made locally by Country Home Creations in Goodrich. My basket included chili mix, fiesta nacho cheese dip, chile con queso dip mix, cheeseball mix, and chocolate covered cherry dip mix. Party in a basket! I can't argue with fate - I am obviously meant to ride out the storm in the company of tasty snacks. I immediately added pretzels, sour cream and cream cheese to my grocery list. Bring on the snow!

Snow Horse

2011-01-25T14:21:00.001-05:00

Not everything relates to writing. Sometimes a horse is just a pretty picture. This was Fritz eating breakfast yesterday.

Sensing the Heat

2011-01-21T19:10:00.001-05:00

If you're a writer, you've had it drilled into you: show, don't tell. Don't tell the reader it was cold outside, let him see the ice coating the trees, feel the bite of the wind, hear the crunch of footsteps in snow. No matter how many pretty adjectives you use, narration is boring. Writers draw the reader in by using the senses.

Now, to set the scene: This was a writing day for me, working on a story that centers around a honky tonk saloon in the Colorado mountains. It takes place in the summer - bright days, warm nights, green meadows. But I'm writing it in the grip of a ten degree day. The air here hurts. Summer in Colorado isn't enough to warm my bones. So hey, sorry sexy hero, but that saloon of yours is going to catch on fire. And you'd better believe you'll hear the crackle of flames, smell the acrid smoke, feel the searing heat that burns your eyes like you've been staring into the sun. The author needs to warm up!

The rest of the home pack used more conventional methods:

Play Day

2011-01-17T00:22:00.001-05:00

I don't usually write on the weekends, but this weekend I had several hours to myself with nothing to do, and my story kept running through my mind. I could have easily sat down and knocked out a few pages. But time off is important, and letting the characters play around in my head helps me know them better. So I read instead. For me, that's pure, carefree fun.

The horses took time off for play, too. They've been sticking close to the barn all week, trudging through the snow like kids who are bored and don't know what to do. But Saturday afternoon they got playful and took advantage of the full length of the pasture to stretch out and run. I got a short video of the sprint when they came back to the barn after the first lap. Code Red is in front with Remi right behind, and Fritz lagging far behind them. (At 28, I give him credit for even breaking out of a trot!). As they come back, Remi makes a wide circle just for the sheer joy of it, and my Siberian husky, Nikita, races Code Red along the fence line.

Sometimes it feels good to cut loose and run for no reason at all.