Sample Saturday is Back

I've been dealing with winter storms and power outages and 18-20 inches of snow piled up around my place, so I am treating myself to a bit of diversion by bringing back Saturday Sample today.

Here's a tidbit from a piece I'm working on that I hope to publish later this year.

Julia Helm wiped the streaming tears off her cheeks, then climbed up onto the wooden spring seat of the farm wagon weathered almost white. Jonathan's firm hand on her elbow steadied her some, but the overwhelming sadness that had brought the tears remained. She looked at the stone house, the wooden barn with its wide doors, the early spring fields smelling of molding corn stalks. Why this sadness? I'll see it all again in two months.
She pulled her brown wool cloak more tightly around herself and wrenched her gaze from the house. Couldn't she just tell Jonathan she had changed her mind? Tell her brother to unhitch the team of gray horses while she ran back inside the house and into her small, cozy room to curl up in the comfort of Papa's upholstered chair? Cousin Camilla didn't need her help to prepare for her wedding. Virginia was so far away. The trip would take two weeks! Two weeks of travel behind the rumps of the horses, being jostled and jolted until her young bones couldn't stand another yard, let alone another mile. And all for what? Camilla's gratitude? The chance to see Aunt Susannah again?

The wagon groaned and creaked as Jonathan climbed into the wagon seat on the other side, pausing before he lifted the leather lines to lean over and tuck a brown woolen blanket under her far knee. "Mind you tell me if you get cold," he said, and grinned at her like a crazy man, his breath clouding around his ruddy face underneath his knitted cap.
~~~

What do you think? Does it engage your interest? Tell me if you know who the characters are.

Until the next time, stay warm and healthy!

Book Trailer: Tornado Warning, by Tamara Hart Heiner

The true story about seven ordinary women and one extraordinary event...

Spring is on the brink of turning into summer, and the residents in Joplin, Missouri, anticipate the rush of freedom and activities that will follow: graduation, summer classes, vacations, overflowing gardens, family time, and plenty of photo opportunities.

What they don't anticipate is the mile-wide tornado that will devastate the town on May 22, 2011, in the middle of dinner preparations, visits to friends and family, and graduation ceremonies. The tornado kills over a hundred people in the deadliest tornado disaster in a century and leaves thousands more homeless.

In the face of this tragedy, seven women must gather their courage and hold their families together. Each makes different choices to protect their loved ones and strangers as Joplin recovers from the winds of destruction.

Tornado Warning

Tamara Hart Heiner

Available May 6, 2014 from Dancing Lemur Press
Print ISBN 978-1-939844-03-3 eBook ISBN 978-1-939844-04-0

Day 6: Get to know me for Blog Book Tour

Today's stop on the Spinster's Folly Blog Book Tour is over at Shaunna Gonzales's blog where she has interviewed me. Thanks, Shaunna!

Don't forget, tomorrow is the big Book Release Party over on Facebook (unless my power goes off due to the expected storm). Come on over! We'll have lots of prizes and fun!

Author Interview: Patrick Dearen, author of To Hell or the Pecos

Author Patrick Dearen wears two hats. As a historian and folklorist, he digs deeply into the lore and legend of the West and produces books that appeal to both scholars and general readers. As a novelist, he draws on this reservoir of knowledge and crafts stories of people interacting with a harsh and yet beautiful land.

Dearen was born in 1951 and grew up in the small West Texas town of Sterling City. He earned a bachelor's degree in journalism from The University of Texas at Austin in 1974 and received nine national and state awards as a reporter for two West Texas daily newspapers. He is the author of nineteen books.

An authority on the Pecos and Devils rivers of Texas, Dearen also has gained recognition for his knowledge of old-time cowboy life. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, he preserved the firsthand accounts of 76 men who cowboyed before 1932. These interviews, along with decades of archival study, have enriched Dearen’s ten novels and led to nine nonfiction books.

His newest novel, To Hell or the Pecos, is based on actual nineteenth-century incidents along the Butterfield and Goodnight-Loving trails. His other novels include Perseverance, set along the rails in Depression-era Texas.

Dearen has been honored by Western Writers of America, West Texas Historical Association, and Permian Historical Association. A backpacking enthusiast and ragtime pianist, he makes his home in Midland, Texas with his wife Mary (managing editor of the Midland Reporter-Telegram) and their son Wesley.

I've seen Patrick Dearen over the years at Western Writers of America conventions, and we made a connection, discussing social media methods, at the one I attended last June. Welcome Patrick. You've been a journalist for a large part of your life. What attracts you to write Western fiction, and non-fiction dealing with the West, as well?

Perhaps my deep roots in West Texas are to blame.  My forebears came to this region in 1887, and I remember as a child asking my pioneer grandmother for cowboy items that had been my grandfather’s.  Right now, his 100-year-old quirt hangs within arm’s reach of my computer.

As a young reporter for two West Texas daily newspapers, I traveled a region as large as the state of Ohio and heard legends and frontier tales that intrigued me.  My earliest writing about the West came in the form of newspaper articles.  It was a natural progression from there to nonfiction books and novels.

You wrote your brand new novel, To Hell or the Pecos, as a tribute to the late Western writer Elmer Kelton. Tell us about your relationship with him.

Although born 25 years apart, Elmer and I shared roots (West Texas), a journalism professor (DeWitt Reddick, University of Texas), a training ground (San Angelo Standard-Times), and a mentor and dear friend (Paul Patterson).  It was the latter connection that carried us beyond a professional friendship into a personal one that I valued.

Elmer was kind enough to write forewords to my first two nonfiction books, and provided blurbs (endorsements) for three other works of mine.  But as superb a writer as he was, I remember him most for his humble and gentle ways.  He was one of the few truly great men I’ve ever known, and we should all learn from him.

I agree with you. My relationship with Elmer was to admire him from afar (or a-near, depending on how closely together we sat at a writers' convention or on a bus tour). He reminded me greatly of my father. Why did you determine to write a novel to honor Elmer?

As I made the three-hour drive home from his funeral in August 2009, I pondered how I could best honor this special man who single-handedly lifted West Texas out of a literary desert. I decided there could be nothing more appropriate than to write a novel about the region he and I both loved, and to dedicate it to him.

A good choice. You're a busy man with many interests. I read that you had been immersed in a huge research project. How did you find the time to write a novel, too?
That was the tricky part — stealing time that wasn’t there.  My only free time each day was devoted to my four-mile walk.  So immediately upon my return from Elmer’s services, I grabbed a pen and a few sheets of blank paper and headed out for my daily exercise.

I soon learned that I thought better while walking.  Maybe not faster, but better.  I developed my own new measurement:  WPM (words per mile).  Over the next 289 days, I averaged 35 WPM as I stayed immersed in the Pecos River country of 1886 while hiking under a blazing Texas sun and through winter snows when the chill factor hit 26 below zero.  Try writing about characters facing heat stroke when the ink in your pin freezes!

The short days of winter were an enemy, but I donned a headlamp and kept at it.  On those occasions when I was out of town, I continued to write longhand — in airports and speeding cars, at the home of friends and along backpacking trails in the hostile Chihuahuan Desert. I never missed a day.

By the time I wrote “The End,” 1,200 miles had passed under my boots, far enough to carry me from West Texas to the Pacific.

I sometimes have trouble just doing the walking part. I love details of how things get done. How does one write as one walks, physically?

First, don’t get run over! I only crossed one busy street in my typical walk, but each time, I had to drag myself out of 1886 and back into the 21st century.

There’s also an art to wearing reading glasses and walking, but I learned to hang them on the lower part of my nose and use peripheral vision to gauge my next step. Probably the biggest challenge was in deciphering my chicken-scratching as I input my week’s work each Saturday.

Thanks for the back story! When you write fiction, how do you come up with the story ideas?

As much as possible, I draw straight from history and actual geography. I’ve written nine nonfiction books about early West Texas, and also interviewed 76 men who cowboyed before 1932. These represented the last generation of men who cowboyed before mechanization. So I have a wealth of material on which to base fiction.

To Hell or the Pecos grew out of three actual incidents in the Pecos River country of 19th century Texas. In 1867, the Joel D. Hoy party was besieged by Indians at Horsehead Crossing on the Pecos. One person died and four others suffered wounds in a three-day ordeal. About 15 years later, a drifter abducted a teenage girl and fled to Horsehead, where several men overtook him and rescued her. And in 1890, two cowboys chased Mexican bandits across the same stretch of Butterfield Trail that I write about in To Hell or the Pecos. It ended with the death of one of the cowhands.

That's rich material. Sell To Hell or the Pecos to me and my readers. Why should we buy and read it?

Truth is always more powerful than absolute fiction, so I believe the novel's basis in actual events is a plus. But I think it’s my probe of the ethos and egos of the characters that stands out. Here's the story. For twenty years, Tom Rowden has been haunted by the memory of killing his wife at Horsehead Crossing to spare her from Comanches. Now Tom is dying, and he is riding back to Horsehead to make final absolution at her grave and join her.

But Tom’s plans are sidetracked when Mexican bandits burn a ranch house, abduct a young woman (Liz Anne), and flee for the Pecos. Tom now sees an even better way to find absolution — he joins up with cowhand Jess Graham and three other men to try to rescue Liz Anne, whom Jess loves.

Jess, too, is haunted. As a boy, he stood by without intervening and watched his father commit suicide. Now as Jess sees hints of suicide in Tom, he feels he has a second chance to right a terrible sin of omission.

Before any of them can reach the Pecos, they face a 79-mile stretch of desert more trying than anything they’ve ever known.

Powerful stuff! Did I read somewhere that there is a book trailer for To Hell or the Pecos?

Yes. It can be viewed on YouTube, and also on my website, patrickdearen.com .  Not only does it include photos of historic sites mentioned in To Hell or the Pecos, but also a stand-up I did at Horsehead Crossing, scene of the novel’s climax.  I think it gives a potential reader a good sense of the novel.

It does, indeed! I got shivers just watching it. We heard a lot at the last Western Writers of America convention about using social media to attract new readers. You have a website. Do you also have a Facebook presence?

I do. In fact, I’ve posted a 10-part series on the historical background for To Hell or the Pecos on my Facebook author page: http://www.facebook.com/Patrick.Dearen.author.

It's a wonderful overview. I enjoyed reading it. Where is To Hell or the Pecos available?

It can be purchased through Texas A&M University Press (1-800-826-8911). It’s also available through major online sellers such as Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Books-a-Million.

Thank you for the interview and being my guest today, Patrick.

Thanks so much, Marsha.

Special Offer: The Owen Family Saga Sampler

It's been a tough couple of months, trying to move and keep life going at the same time. I'm into my new home, but there's still a lot of stuff in the old one. Winter came and brought a couple of snowfalls, which makes it difficult to move things.

Anyway, as a reminder that I'm still here, I'm making a special offer:

From now until December 31, 2011, The Owen Family Saga Sampler is free at Smashwords.com. It contains three chapters each from the first three novels in The Owen Family Saga, plus a bonus look at the forthcoming Book 4: Spinster's Folly.

One reviewer says about my work: "Marsha Ward really does write Westerns with heart. And her Owen family saga is among the best you'll ever read. Learn what our ancestors did to build this land. Like the Man from Shenandoah. Highly recommended." ~Chuck Tyrell, author of The Prodigal

To get the free e-book, create a free membership at Smashwords.com, then use Coupon Code QL37G at checkout.

Shopping Miracle

I really lucked out last week.

Since I'm going on a road trip sometime in the future, I needed to find a long-sleeved, light-weight shirt, preferable white, preferable gauzy (because I like gauzy fabrics, and they're usually wrinkle-free). This is because long hours spent traveling in a car can cause significant arm sunburns if you take certain medications. I take one such medication, and was just about to tear out my hair. Why?

All the catalogs from which I buy clothing are into summer clothing sales. Summer clothing includes shorts, peddle pushers, and sleeveless tops, all of which I abhor, and some three-quarter-length-sleeved shirts, which don't suit my purpose of covering my arms sufficiently to prevent sunburn on them.

Then, on a day trip to the Valley, I spotted the perfect solution: a white tab-sleeved shirt (you roll up the full-length sleeves and use a little tab with a button to keep them at 3/4 length) in seersucker. I bought it a size big so I can used it to layer over another top or blouse, and now I have my wonderful skin-saver. Huzzah!

Weather Report - First Snow

I woke up this morning when my phone rang. It was someone from my church, telling me that due to the heavy snow fall, and the icy road conditions, church services would be only for one hour, and they were optional, if I didn't feel it was safe for me to venture out.

I looked out the window, saw a scattering of snow on the ground (from 1/4 to 1/2 inch) and none falling, and called back to let the caller know the situation here.

While I was in church, another inch and a half fell, then it stopped for a while. Now it's starting to snow again.

I'm ready with all my tools. I even bought a new snow shovel yesterday. So far, so good. I'll let you know how it goes.

Added: It's snowed a bit more, with maybe 1/2 to 1 inch of accumulation. I'm glad to report that my cobweb removal tool (a rounded brush on an extension pole handle) works fine to remove snow from satellite dishes. :-)

Veterans Day, Resolution and Other Things

Andrew Malcolm's take on the history of Veterans Day in the LA Times, plus Pres. Obama's speechifying in Korea.


For some reason, I'm not handling past traumas well this year. Therefore, I think I need to make a resolution not to blog, tweet, use social media sites, initiate or answer email, or otherwise interact with human beings I don't want to hurt or offend on any of the days that might trigger depression and bad memories for me.

Sheesh, that includes a lot of birthdays, death dates, anniversaries, holidays, etc. I had a particularly bad meltdown on my wedding anniversary, so I think I'll spend it in bed in the future. I could certainly use the sleep! Just checked my calendar for the next possible bad day. It shows that I'm supposed to travel and attend a board meeting. Not good.

In other news, I finally changed the low battery in my phone answering unit, so you'll hear my voice again. I was delight to find that the screw opening the compartment holding the battery was attached to the cover. Nice! It's awful when you lose a tiny screw as you open something.

Another cousin joined Facebook and found me.

Last night was quite cold. Fall weather, with most of the leaves off the trees already, has morphed into winter weather.

I saw a squirrel on a walk yesterday. This is "destecable" because it was so close to me, and seemingly unafraid. Should I, therefore, be afraid? Was it possibly rabid? Or was it simply used to humans?

There's apparently no Spanish/English cognate for the verb destecar and its relatives. I guess destacable as I used it above means "something that stands out," "notable," or "newsworthy" in English. It's a little weird that, even after 40 years, sometimes I need a foreign word to express my precise meaning.

Something, something, something undoubtedly quite brilliant, but lost forever because it didn't stay long enough in the forefront of my mind. Lately, ADHD is a terrible pain!

My computer is making strained noises. I think another fan is giving up the ghost.

I haven't yet found the electronic device in my house that is chirping. It probably wants a new battery. If I could find the device, I would put a new battery in it.

Enough trivia. Have a good day, and for all you writers out there doing NaNo or a BIAM, write hard!

Twilight

The other night I traveled home from town during twilight--that magical hour between the time light fades and darkness descends. It's somewhat dangerous in my neck of the woods. My drive home is into the mountains. This means that at twilight, noctural wildlife is venturing across the highway to find dinner. It's also the time when the car's headlights don't quite work as well as they will come full dark.

I also have a lengthy construction zone to contend with. A two-lane stretch about three miles long has become a speed-reduced zone while preparations go forward for making this segment a divided highway. The preparations have included logging (with the resultant large trucks bearing logs pulling into the roadway), grading, earth-moving, and hauling of various materials.

An additional four miles of divided highway are marked for reduced speed, either as a run-up to the two-lane section, or further on, where a bridge repair has necessitated using only one side of the divided highway for two-way traffic. Fun!

Not that heavy vehicles have been scarce before. This state route bears traffic from I-40 south to Mesa, Arizona. Not only do 18-wheelers abound, but it is the route of choice for winter visitors driving large motor homes, as they come to and go from Arizona.

Road wear has run rampant in the original two-lane area, both because of the addition of all the heavy trucks hauling logs and materials, and due to winter weather. This wear is spelled g-i-a-n-t p-o-t-h-o-l-e-s.

Back to my trip home. Not only did I have to keep one eye peeled for small scurrying creatures darting out in front of me, but for larger quadrupeds of the elk and deer persuasion. The other eye had to view the road ahead to help me in trying to avoid the large chuckholes in the pavement. You can imagine how fun that was. Conjure the image of me with white-knuckles on the steering wheel.

I eventually arrived home, very glad to be safe and sound. Although I hit a fair amount of potholes--some of them are just plain invisible at twilight--I did avoid making contact with elk, raccoons, and skunks. Whew!

Now it's time for my every-six-months alignment.

Going the Extra Mile

Last night it started to snow again. By this morning there was an accumulation of a couple of inches here--nothing much for those used to driving in snow, but enough to make me ask myself if our church meetings would be canceled because of the unique circumstances of members of our congregation.

Our boundaries are long and thin, extending over twenty miles along a state highway. Our church building is on my end of the highway, so it's not usually a big trial for me to get to church in iffy weather. I could even walk there, if I really needed to.

The highway, however, winds over hill and dale, through forest and glen, over several two-lane sections interspersed with divided highway. For the next two years, there is a seven-mile section of reduced speed for major construction. There are several long grades, and places where the roadway ices up. In inclement weather, it may be closed until the plows come along.

I called my "home teacher," the man who, with his wife, has a special interest in my welfare (The LDS Church is famous for its home teaching and visiting teaching programs that aid members in looking out for one another). I inquired about the possibility of our meetings being canceled. He said he would check into it.

A few minutes later, another member, who lives in my area, called and offered me a ride to church. I gratefully accepted, as their vehicle has four-wheel drive. The members who live on the other end of the highway were told that if they didn't have four-wheel drive, they should attend the church service in Payson. We had a shortened church schedule--just the worship service--and returned home.

When the family dropped me off at home, the husband got out of the car and shoveled the snow off my deck before he let me get out of the car. He didn't have to do that. The snow would have melted in a couple of days. He didn't want me to slip, though. He went the extra mile to bless me. (He also asked me to speak in church next week!)

How many times do we go the extra mile in our relationships with other writers? How do we give help to those who are beginning their writing journey? When I was a beginner, many people in the writing community went out of their way to guide me through the pitfalls and snares of the world of writing. In gratitude for that assistance, I have dedicated many hours of time and much effort to aid other writers. Some of this is invisible, some is evident for all the world to see.

I know other writers who feel the same way I do that we have a duty to help others. You will see the evidence of that when you attend the 2010 ANWA Writing Conference on February 27. Eight wonderful writers are sharing their experience and knowledge. Your time and money will be well spent partaking of the joys of that Conference.

What do you, as a writer, do to help other writers?

Winter is Here!

From time to time in the past I've mentioned that I have to shut down my computer and get off the Internet. This usually occurs in the summer when I see lightning or hear claps of thunder. I don't want my electronics to get fried or to get a nasty loss-of-power surprise.

In winter--which, incidentally, came in with a flourish this week--it's a different story. During snow storms, power lines, wherever they run through the forest, are subject to ice coating, and that sometimes brings them down. Other times, I fear the best of connections must fail, and the lines in my neck of the woods have been around for some time. I don't know how often they receive maintenance. On private property, things can get chancy, especially in places like mine where mobile home owners don't have control of the situation.

Here's an illustration of why I sometimes lose power in winter:



See the ice-laden line in the center of the photo? That's the reason.

I finally did something about the situation this year. I purchased a UPS, an uninterruptible power supply unit, into which I plugged my computer and monitor. This will keep me online until I either let the software shut down my computer (I'll get around to installing that someday) or I do a manual shutdown.

Here's a shout-out and sincere thanks to utility linemen and women who venture forth in all kinds of weather conditions to restore power and phone service when the lines go down or other calamities need fixing through their hard work.

I Survived the Storm

Whew! That was something. Two days without reliable power. A day without phone service. Water leaks coming through a light fixture. I was terrified all night.

Despite all the promise of snow, we didn't get too much here. It was the wind that caused much of the trouble. Trees are down everywhere throughout the forest. A tree even killed a hunter when it crashed into his tent and hit him on the head.

However, I'm still here! Thanks be to God for his goodness.

And how cool is YOUR June?

Believe it or not, I spent a few moments looking for a light sweater just before I sat down to write this blog post. May was unseasonably cool, with an amount of rain showers we don't often see in that month, and June continues the cooler trend. It's so cool that I still haven't put away my electric blanket. It can be quite a comfort on chilly nights.

I'm hearing of snowfall in Colorado and Montana, even eastern Washington. Are you seeing weather anomolies in your area? Please describe what's going on in your part of the world.

Lessons I've Learned from Winter

I grew up in the desert in a hard-working family, and I'm sure opportunities to go play in the snow were few and far between. In fact, right off the top of my head, I can't remember doing so as a child. That entertainment may have been deferred until I had my own family.



Since moving to a place where snow does fall in the winter, I've learned a few valuable lessons, to wit:

• It is better to slog through calf-deep snow than to step onto a cleared path that is icy.
• Black ice can take you down quicker than you can bat an eye.
• Good snow boots are essential outdoor gear following a storm.
• An abandoned 36-inch long, 3/4-inch diameter curtain rod makes an excellent walking stick.
• The sun shining on frozen snow creates a scene of heart-breaking beauty.
• I live in a blessed land.

SNOWBOUND

This morning when I opened my front door, this is what I saw:

That put me in mind of a scene in my first novel, The Man from Shenandoah:

The weather grew steadily colder as the men continued with the logging. James found his creek, and started cutting logs for a cabin for Ellen. Carl chose the wooded bench with a natural clearing in the center for his home site. An artesian spring rose just below the clearing, which became the headwaters of a little stream that ran to join the creek far below his father's home. Carl had staked out a homestead that took in both sides of the stream and down into the valley. Ida would favor the cabin being surrounded by trees, snugly tucked into the forest.

The walls of both cabins were half way to the top, and the Christmas party was ten days away when the good weather broke in late afternoon. White clouds laden with snow rolled down from the mountain summits. A freezing wind blew from the north, forcing Carl, working alone at the cabin, to pull his gray coat collar up around his chin. He saddled Sherando, headed him south, and told the gray gelding, "Take me to Pa's, boy."

The horse started off into the driven needles of snow. Carl hunched his back against the wind, crossed his arms, and stuck his hands beneath them. After a while, the trail lay through the sheltering trees between his cabin site and Rulon's, but at the end, there was still the meadow to cross.

Carl halted Sherando before he left the trees to let the horse rest. He dismounted and stamped his feet to restore circulation, beating his hands together to warm them.

"Sherando boy, this storm can't last long. I've got to get that cabin built before Christmas." Climbing into the saddle once more, Carl urged the gray into the biting wind. "It's only a quarter mile," he told the animal. "It's mighty cold, but you're tough, Horse."

The moaning wind blew his words away as the icy blast hit them. On every side, Carl could see only swirling white ice crystals. He gave the horse its head, trusting its instinct to reach the cabin.

Sherando moved slowly, fighting the cross wind as he headed west up the meadow. The wind increased and tugged at Carl, almost dislodging him from the horse's back. Ice caked his hair and snow sifted down into his collar. Then they passed the bulk of Rulon's cabin on the right, and Sherando changed direction to cross the creek.

The horse paused at the log bridge spanning the water, and Carl saw that ice was forming at the sides of the stream. He shivered, and urged the tired horse to step onto the bridge.

"Come on, boy," he shouted over the keening of the wind. "Them logs are set solid."

The gray stepped tentatively onto the slippery surface of the logs, then skittered hurriedly across.

"That's a boy," Carl shouted triumphantly.

Snatched by the wind, his voice carried to his father's cabin, and a light shined out into the white yard as the door opened.

James blocked out the light as he came through the door and caught Carl, who was sliding off the gray's back.

James called out, "Clay, grab them reins and take care of the horse. I'll get Carl into the house."

"You're well nigh froze, son." His father helped James assist Carl across the doorsill. "That blow came up mighty sudden. It's a wonder you made it back here."

Carl shivered, then said, "It's my fault I got caught. I want that cabin up so bad, I let the storm take me by surprise."

***

Morning came without a change in the weather, and Clay had to lean heavily against the door to crack loose the ice binding it to the jamb.

"Pa, that storm's still a-blowing, and the snow's piled up next to the door. How am I going to get out to feed the stock?"

"There's always a way for a man to feed his animals." Rod went over to the door. He tugged it open and faced a wall of white. "Fetch me a stick," he told Clay. "Maybe it ain't packed down tight."

Reaching as high as he could through the doorway, he flailed the stick into the snow. "It's still loose. Get some pails, boys."

Rod buttoned on his coat while Clay and Carl brought the buckets. "Clay, keep that second pail until I need it. Carl, you empty the full ones into the washtub."

Rod scooped out a pail full of snow at the top of the doorway and handed it over his shoulder to Clay. Taking the other bucket, he scooped again. Repeating the process until he had a hole big enough to crawl into, Rod then wiggled his way out the door and entered the icy cavern. "Clay, give me that stick again." His voice boomed in the confined space. "We'll see how deep this drift is."

Thrusting the stick into the snow above him, Rod felt a light resistance. He coughed as a load of snow fell into his upturned face. "Get me a longer stick," he commanded, angry at the elements.

Carl handed him Julia's broom, and Rod took it with a jerk. He stabbed it upward and broke through into the howling morning. New snow burst into his cavern, blinding him for a moment. Then he broke loose more of the crusty roof, and packed the snow down on one side to make a ramp to exit the hole. Triumphantly, he pulled himself out into the storm, floundering in the cabin-high drift.

"By gum, Colorado does everything in a big way," he shouted down to his family. "I have never seen a blow like this before."

Of course my door wasn't iced shut, nor does the drift reach the door top, but we do have about two feet of snow in a location where four inches is considered a good snowfall . . . and it's still snowing. Now that my *power is back on, I thought I'd let you all know.

* Third outage in three days, two on Sunday, one today

Merry Christmas!

So I took my strained back on a walk (cold therapy, right), though the ice and snow drifts to the community mailbox array. On the way I dropped two garbage bags off in the park's collective bin (I'd call it a Dumpster, but that's yanno, a trademarked name). I didn't want to have them sitting around during the next storm, which I could see coming in from the west.

The mail had collected over the last couple of days, and since my box is the standard 4- x 6-inch slot, it can get filled up with junk mail pretty fast. I knew I had to make this trek, pain or not.

It was worth it. There was a key in my box along with sundry Christmas cards, ANWA renewals, and sad economic missives. In one of the big boxes reserved for packages, I found what I didn't expect to come until after Christmas: my Christmas present to myself.

Firefly!

I never saw the series until it was off the air, but my son converted me, and I've become a fervent fan since he did. After all, it IS a Western. With great writing.

I know Joss Whedon doesn't believe in God, but Merry Christmas to him and to all my friends everywhere.

(You may substitute your favorite seasonal holiday, but I'm a Christian, so "Merry Christmas" is my first choice of greeting at this time of year. Almost no one I know minds.)

First Snow!

Last night we got about a quarter inch of snow in Rim Country.

Snow mixed with ice on my deck. Note the snow shovel ready to go.

While it's not sticking in large areas, some more sheltered spots still have a sketchy white covering at 10 AM.

It's also cold.

The calendar doesn't agree, but for me, winter has arrived.

Something I must remember to do

Since I grew up in a place where the seasons are thought of in terms of temperatures--Hot! and Wonderful!--it's taking me a while to adjust to having four of them.

A couple of night ago I discovered that I needed more than just a light bedspread covering me at night. In fact, I was so cold that I had to get up and hunt down a quilt to put on top of me. A few nights later, it wasn't so cold, and I passed the incident off as a dip in the temperature resulting from the rain we've been having.

Wrong.

The lower-temperature-at-night thing is back, and I've even noticed that there are significant cold spots hiding in areas of my house. I've actually retrieved my lambswool slippers from under the bed to wear around the house at night.

Over the weekend I became curious to know if September is actually the month when the temperature turns downward. I found a website that chronicles the daily temps in our area, and searched for the last couple of years. Then I did an analysis.

Yes. September definitely brings cooler temps. I'll have to remember to exchange my electric fans for space heaters when September 1 comes around each year.

And break out the electric blanket!

Lest you get the idea that the above picture of a quilt-on-a-bed is an actual photograph taken in my house, please remember that I am a writer, and that I don't do housework unless it can no longer be avoided. Tables--yea, any flat surfaces--are for holding piles of stuff, not for flower arrangements and such things.

Of Melodramas and Mountain Storms

The last week of June, our small church congregation puts on an old timey melodrama for the surrounding communities. It's a lot of fun, and I've enjoyed my participation onstage in the past.

This year, I was content to take part in the background: distributing free tickets for the four performances, and playing the piano for "The Old Cookie Shop, or Nellie Was a Baker 'Cause She Kneaded the Dough." Soon I'm sure I won't be able to play "Sweet Annie O'Grady" in my sleep, or wake up hearing a barbershop arrangement of "Coney Island Baby" playing in my brain. I'll simply revert to Marsha Ward, the community hermit and writer.

And I'll be turning off my computer a lot more than in other seasons. How is it that I forgot our summer lightning storms that seem to blow up without warning? To preserve my data and prevent a catastrophic computer wipeout, I'll be closing down all my programs early each afternoon instead of leaving my baby running for weeks at a time. I'll have to write down on a pad what I was working on, or my ADD will keep me from remembering what tasks I need to complete. Oh well. That's just one of the complications of summertime in the mountains.

Strange Weather

Calendar - 2008 - check
Month - May - check
Day - Thursday - check
Date - 22nd - check
Weather - freezing rain, hail, snow, rain - check?
Music - Bolero, played at a deafening level to drown out the thunder - check