Autumn 2012

Dear Readers,

I hope that from reading my books, you’ve figured out by now that I like people in general but most especially men in particular. And that’s a good thing, I’m thinking, considering I’ve been living in an all-male household for over thirty years. I’ve recently started getting some estrogen thrown into the mix from my sons’ girlfriends, and boy, have I learned a lot from these young ladies; anything from much-needed fashion help to what’s going on in young women’s minds today. (Which is another good thing, since there’s a danger I could have my heroines thinking like fifty-um-something grandmas.)

You also may have noticed that I have a tendency to populate my stories with characters of all ages, because I like children and old people, too. And animals; cats and dogs and horses and birds—especially crows—and wolves and panthers and orcas and … well, you get the idea. Weather often seems to be an ongoing character in my stories, likely because it plays a pretty big role in my own life. Outdoor activities such as hunting and fishing and snowmobiling and camping sneak into my books, as do some interesting careers, a little science, and a whole lot of Mother Nature.

But magic is my vehicle of choice for bringing you along on my journey into the realm of possibilities. I often compare telling a story to packing an SUV with my hero and heroine in the front seats, the back seats filled with a large cast of characters as they all head off on a road trip through a particular segment of their intersected lives. What’s going on outside the vehicle—oh, say the weather, terrain, other travelers they might encounter—certainly has an impact, but the real story is what’s happening inside that truck.

Ever find yourself trapped in a vehicle with someone you didn’t particularly like? Someone who scared you? Someone you hadn’t realized didn’t like you? How about being trapped with someone you thought you absolutely adored only to discover they weren’t exactly what they seemed? Yes, there’s nothing like a nice long road trip to slowly melt away the masks we all hide behind. (Trust me; Robbie and I spent five weeks trapped in an SUV and small camper with two teenagers headed from Maine to Alaska. We made it as far as the Canadian Rockies and turned around; my dear sweet husband saying Alaska would still be there when the boys finally moved out.)

I digress, but it was a very … memorable five weeks.

So back to my books and the role magic plays in my stories; I’ll admit I have a tendency to get a bit outrageous—say, like when I rearranged the beautiful state of Maine to create an inland sea—but there is a method to my madness. You see, I want to make you stretch really far to suspend your disbelief, so you’ll consider the everyday magic you encounter in your own lives to be real. Sound convoluted? Good, I got you!

The magic is real, people; as real as the sunrise, the ebb and flow of the tides, the haunted call of a loon, that unseen fish tugging on the end of a line, the birth of a baby, the death of a loved one. The problem, in my opinion, is that these things seem so everyday ordinary that we forget how extraordinary they are.

What guarantee do we have that the sun’s going to rise tomorrow? We assume it is, because it’s risen every day for the last … what, four and a half billion years? But what if it decided not to make an appearance tomorrow morning? What if the oceans stood still? What if every last loon on the planet suddenly lost its voice? What if babies stopped being born? What if we stopped dying?

What if we woke up tomorrow morning and simply decided not to get out of bed?

That’s what my stories are about; getting out of bed every morning—even on days we don’t want to—and seeing the magic around us instead of … well, I’m not sure what the opposite of magic is. Maybe hopelessness? Despair? Indifference?

As the god behind the machine of my stories, I refuse to let my heroes and heroines give up. If they find themselves stuck in a vehicle with someone they don’t particularly like, they’re going to have to deal with it. Nobody’s going to swoop in and rescue them by pulling that bogeyman out of the truck, or come along and change that flat tire in the pouring rain, or turn all the traffic lights green, straighten out all the curves in the road, and roll back gas prices to a dollar a gallon.

(Well, okay; Maximilian Oceanus could, but he’s not really real. I just made him up to make a point that you will have to figure out.)

And since I’m writing romance, I like for my hero and heroine to realize that if they would just team up, they could conquer the world. Or at least control—maybe even vanquish—most of those demons sitting in the seats behind them. (Didn’t I have one of my characters—a hero, I think—in one of my stories say his mom or gram told him that a problem or burden shared was cut in half?)

And the ‘love conquers all’ equation doesn’t always have to be between the hero and heroine, either, as we learned in Charmed by His Love; Duncan MacKeage’s love for young Jacob Thompson certainly had the power to vanquish little-boy demons.

We’re all in the vehicle, people; every one of us is on the same amazing journey and we’re on it together. Our hopes and dreams and struggles and disappointments are shared by the people in our homes, living next door and down the street, and on the other side of the planet. And like my heroes and heroines, if we would just realize that by teaming up we could conquer the world … well, woudn’t it be a truly wonderful world to wake up to tomorrow? So share the love; in your home, down the street, and across the world, then see if a good number of demons don’t suddenly disappear and burdens get cut in half. I promise it’s a gift that will keep on giving, and you’ll discover that smiles really are contagious.

Until later from LakeWatch, you keep reading about life and love and happily ever after, and I’ll keep writing it.

Janet

P.S. My dad passed away last fall, but before you start worrying that I’m sad, please understand that I’m really quite happy for him. He was nearly ninety-four and actually quite eager to head off on a new, fantastical adventure. The only reason I’m even telling you is because at his funeral, Dad’s sister said she had discovered just last year—at the age of ninety-eight!—that she can write poetry. Of course I asked her to send me some of her poems, then asked her permission to share them with you—to which she kindly agreed.

So if the magic not’s real, then explain a ninety-eight-year-old suddenly waking up one morning a poet!

Poems by Ethel F. Taylor

(Went to Aunt Ethel’s 100th Birthday Party this past March! (2013) Spry as ever and still cracking jokes. Her granddaughter read one of her poems–which she is still composing.)

Crafty Gals

Laughter and jokes were being exchanged
And gaiety flowed all around
With blissful feeling I watched them
Wishing it need not end.

Families are so endearing
More so as time goes by
May we all meet together in Heaven
And never have to say goodbye.

I’ll hold this picture in my heart
When I’m once more alone
And cherish every moment
‘Til the day that I’m called home.

Then at last the evening is ended
And we’ve exchanged a good night kiss
One day may we all meet in heaven
And not one of our numbers be missed.

Alethea

Alethea is a beautiful maiden
With a heart as pure as the snow
She fell in love with a handsome Marine
Many long years ago.

Now she wears his engagement ring
And her heart is full of joy
She counts the months ‘til she graduates
Then she’ll marry her Marine boy.

With a bit of sadness
Dad looks at his little girl
He has given her to another
And together they’ll face the world.

The wedding feast has been eaten
And the guests have all gone home
Alethea and Steven run to their car
And the honeymoon has begun.

Mom and Dad wave their goodbyes
With a touch of sadness in their hearts
Their little girl has grown so quickly
And from her it’s hard to part.

They head across the USA
To their little home in the west
Where we all pray they’ll live happily
Like two turtle doves in a nest.

Red School House

The little red school house
Where I went years ago
Brings back fond memories
Of the days of old.

We walked to school in winter
Although it was windy as well
Then huddled round the heater
Until teacher rang the bell.

The Lord’s Prayer was always recited
Then Pledge of Allegiance too
Then out came our reading books
To show what we could do.

When the bell rang for recess
We’d all rush out of the room
The girls all played on one side
And recess was over too soon.

Beauty
The sun shone with an unearthly beauty
On the glistering trees below
One stood in awe at their majesty
And to think that God made it so.

If God makes such beauty here below
What splendor must be up above
Why are we reluctant to leave this place
And dwell with God above.

The snow will soon be melting
Then spring will once more be here
A time to get out and enjoy the sun
And see the stars so clear.

The birds will soon be singing their song
The grass will be turning green
God has given us so much beauty
Let us open our eyes and see.

Dear Readers,

I have found that sometimes Mother Nature simply refuses to be ignored, and that she’s not above screaming in our ears when she wants our attention. I was reminded of this early last fall, when I was developing my fifth Highlander book. A murder of crows (yes, that’s what they’re really called), nine to be exact, started screaming at me from the trees on my front lawn.

Snowblowing

One particular fellow (that I named Talking Tom) seemed to think it was his duty to sit outside my bedroom window and wake me up at 4:00 a.m., and he would caw, quite loudly and nonstop, until I got up, got dressed, and headed across the yard to my writing studio. (Which might suggest why they’re called a murder of crows. Not that I was ever tempted, mind you, but I can see how some people might be.)

It may have taken me the better part of three weeks, but I eventually realized that my crows wanted to be in my book. Or else the noisy buggers had been told I was a pushover, and they merely wanted free food.

Now I don’t know many people who feed crows, but I can tell you that once you’ve started, you had better not stop with the handouts. Which was why every morning for all of last fall and through the winter, I would get up at the crack of dawn, get dressed in multiple layers, and head outside to arrange dinner scraps and little piles of dry cat food on the ground as I made my way to work.

This seemed to appease if not to encourage my black feathered friends, and actually proved entertaining. But that entertainment often came at the expense of my husband, who was enlisted to snow-blow a circular path through the deepening drifts, right through the middle of our front lawn. When people asked Robbie why he was snow blowing his lawn, he would only mutter something about it being cheaper than a divorce.

I got so crazy in fact, that I began devising elaborate menus. I begged for scraps from neighbors (though once they realized what the scraps were intended for, and not caring to be awakened at the crack of dawn on weekends, they suddenly ate everything on their plates), I brought home doggy bags from restaurants, and I even purchased canned dog food, knowing my pets needed plenty of protein in sub-zero weather.

Crows do not like canned dog food, I found out. They wouldn’t touch it. Heck, they took one sniff, looked toward the house, and start scolding. And they don’t like shrimp, or carrots, or overcooked broccoli. But they do like home cooking (smart birds). Broth-soaked beef stew was a winner, spaghetti and meatballs got scoffed up, and their most favorite food turned out to be steak (we ate the steak; they got to pick the bones). I also learned that crows like dry cat food, although my three confused cats couldn’t figure out why I had started feeding them on the front lawn.

But sometime in early December, my nine crows disappeared — right when I was shoulder-deep in my book. Suddenly, I was at a loss. I slept through the sunrises, and I awoke uncertain and directionless, unable to write. The noisy inspirations for my book — especially for one of my main characters, Talking Tom — had abandoned me.

But one week later, quite literally out of the clear blue sky, three of my crows flew in off the frozen lake and landed in a tree overlooking their old feeding spot. The pot-bellied squirrels had eaten everything I’d put out (who knew squirrels liked cat food?), and my crows started to make such a ruckus that I rushed out to give them the leftover stew we were supposed to have for dinner that night.

Lone Crow

My crows were back! My book was saved! I immediately headed to my studio and started writing again. And when you read Winter MacKeage’s story and meet Talking Tom, know that he truly does live — not only in my imagination, but in my dooryard.

So what is Mother Nature trying to tell us when she demands our attention? For me, she’s saying listen to the universe, for that is where inspiration dwells.

Sometimes I’ll hear only a whisper, or merely sense an unspoken urge, and sometimes I’ll be blasted with a deafening cacophony that demands I examine my direction and purpose.

Do you ever stop and listen? What do you hear?

Until later … keep reading! …
Janet

Dear Readers,

Summer finally arrived, but somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, it slipped by my notice! Already it’s September, and welcome cold-fronts are sweeping down from Canada on a regular basis now, giving us warm sunny days and crisp cool nights.

This is Maine at its best. The tourists are migrating home (we’ve enjoyed your company, and look forward to seeing you next year, but now it’s our turn to play), the pumpkins and apples are plumping with delicious sugars, and furry and feathered babies born mere months ago are quickly maturing.

Just yesterday, on an early morning kayak trip with Robbie, I came close enough to snap a picture of the young loon born in our cove this June. Dappled feathers have already replaced its soft bouyant down, and it has grown too big to hitch a ride on mom and dad’s backs. It can dive quite well now (in strong contrast to its downy-days, when it would try, only to pop back up like a cork from a Champagne bottle!), and our young loon can even catch its own meal of minnows, though it hasn’t outgrown begging for handouts from still attentive parents.

We’ve noticed small rafts of mature loons gathering already – most likely adults who didn’t bother nesting this year. Soon they will migrate south to the waters off the Carolinas and Florida, and the young loons of this spring will be on their own. They, too, will come together in feathered rafts, but will head to the Gulf of Maine to grow strong and beautiful on rich ocean fish. It is there they’ll find mates of their own, not returning to freshwater lakes for three or four years.

I am always amazed – if not awed – by Mother Nature. How can a young loon, not three months old, survive without benefit of its parents? And how, after a summer of loving attention, can a parent simply fly away?

It boggles my mind, considering I’ve had twenty-two years of parenting two sons, and I am still reluctant to cut ties. Instead of going our separate ways, the hint of fall in the air only urges me to gather my loved-ones close to the woodstove, and pretend our insular family will continue forever.

Wishful, motherly thinking. Life happens. Like baby loons, sons mature and must travel their own paths. And to be a good parent, that means taking a lesson from Mother Nature and continuing down our own path – which suddenly appears to be paved with the freedom of countless destinations.

So yeah, maybe my LakeWatch loons chose to nest in our cove this summer for a reason. Maybe, just maybe, they came to teach Robbie and me a much-needed lesson. “Let go,” they hauntingly call as we lie in bed wishing both our sons were under our roof, snug in their childhood beds. “Enjoy,” those wise old loons tremolo deep in their throats. “This is not the end, but the beginning of something even more wonderful.”

Yeah. . . well. . . we are humans, not loons, and advice is much easier given than taken.

Until later, from LakeWatch

Janet