Where is my librarian?

 

Not long ago I read a novel titled, The Personal Librarian by Marie Benedict, about a woman of color, who was “passing” and was the personal librarian to J. P. Morgan. Well, my library may not be as extensive as Morgan’s nor as full of rare editions, but tonight I feel like I need a personal librarian.

Jacob made three trips from the house to the cottage this morning to bring me big, heavy boxes (plus another trip with a case of tuna—but that’s another story). I was expecting twelve copies of the new mystery, Finding Florence, but I was unprepared for twenty copies each of reprints of three of my novels about women of the nineteenth-century American West. I knew they were coming, but the new editor at that publisher has been non-communicative, so I had no idea when to expect them. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve proofread all three books. But here they are, handsome paperback editions of Mattie, Cherokee Rose, and Sundance, Butch, and Me. All originally published in the 1990s.

Mattie is the first adult novel I attempted, and I’m pleased to say it won a Spur Award from Western Writers of America as the best novel of the year. One male WWA member protested, “But that’s always been a men’s action category!” The novel is loosely based on the life of Dr. Georgia Arbuckle Fix, pioneer woman physician who rode the plains of western Nebraska to treat patients, though I admit the background I gave fictional Mattie is purely of my imagination. But as authors often do, I worked some of my own life situations into the plot. It is the best-selling book I ever wrote, and I am delighted to see it have new life.

Cherokee Rose is loosely based on the life of cowgirl Lucille Mulhall. Tommy Jo Burns knew she was destined for greatness. Raised on an Oklahoma ranch where her father taught her to rope and ride, at fourteen she so impressed President Teddy Roosevelt that he dubbed her America's first cowgirl. Filled with dreams of joining a Wild West show, she left her parents to create her own family of friends on the road with Colonel Zack Miller's 101 Ranch Show. It was a new and exciting life, so she took a new name: Cherokee Rose. But it didn’t all go as she expected, especially the romance part.

And who among us didn’t see the movie, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, starring Paul Newman and Robert Redford (good heavens! Who needs to say anything more?). The movie resonated with me long after I saw it, immersed as I was in studies of women in the nineteenth-century American West, and I always longed to tell the story from Etta Place’s point of view. Once again, I made up a background for Etta, a brutal one in East Texas, but got her to the San Antonio brothel where history and/or folklore tells us she met the Sundance Kid. But note the title: it’s meant to subtly suggest there was a different but important current between Etta and Butch Cassidy, one of the kindest bandits you’llv ever meet. I am to this day enthralled by the story and delighted to see it back in print.

And of course, there were copies of Finding Florence, which may just have my all-time favorite book jacket face.

So I unpacked all these books. I know that copies of Finding Florence go to my children, the beta readers, the designer, and the two people who have responded to my freebie offer on my newsletter. But what to do with the others? My bookshelves are full. Do I need to add a lean-to to the cottage just for books? There’s no space for that. When I asked Jordan what I should do, she shrugged and said, “I have no idea.” Thank you, Jordan. Mary Dulle, the friend who helps me with my bookshelves, is out of town for two weeks. I am hoping that if Jordan looks at the overflowing coffee table long enough she’ll decide to do something about it. Unfortunately, patience is not my long suit.

And that reminds me: there’s a new issue of my newsletter out this week, with an offer for free copies of Saving Irene, the first Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery. If you’d like to sign up, please email me at judyltr@gmail.com

Now I’m going to figure out how to take a picture of all four books, without the stacks piled high. I’ve paraded the Finding Florence cover for a while, and I still think it may be my forever favorite. But these reprint covers are low-key, classy, and appealing.

I hope you all want to read a lot in this hot and dry summer. I read where a friend in Montana said finally the rains had stopped. Does she know what that did to my dry soul in this drought?

But this is where we eat dinner most nights.
What can I do with all these books?

MAGA (no, not that one!) and a new book

 

The first thing I do in the morning, once I settle at my desk with a cup of tea, is to read emails. I have two addresses—one at TCU that I have had for forty years and prefer to use; the other with groups.io. When Yahoo Groups disappeared, two writers’ groups I belong to—and treasure—switched to groups.io, but TCU did not like their security certificate (who am I to understand what that means?) and would not talk to them. So son Jamie opened a gmail account for me to communicate with those groups. This morning the TCU site was out of control.

There were thirty-five Facebook messages from the Mothers Against Greg Abbott page. The thread was about the firing of James Whitfield as Heritage High School (Colleyville) principal on the grounds he taught CRT, which the school board admits he didn’t. A conservative, right-wing gentleman, formerly on the school board, Stetson Clark, accused Whitfield of disrupting and destroying the districts by encouraging systemic racism. It’s no coincidence that Whitfield is black and married to a white woman.

The posts this morning were in support of Whitfield. Earlier students staged a walk-out in support of his leadership. At the board meeting, many parents spoke out in support of him. The Grapevine/Colleyville Independent School District board voted unanimously to fire him—they put him on administrative leave through August 2023; he gets paid but forfeits the pay if he accepts another job. I expect he’ll get many job offers—probably not so much from Texas—and has a good future ahead of him.

But what struck me this morning was the outpouring of support from across the state. In spite of our reputation as a deep red state, there are good, sane people in Texas, people who are outraged by much of what is going on. Representative Matt Krause, running a deep red campaign to replace Ken Paxton as Attorney General (which might be out of the frying pan and into the fire), announced he is examining over 800 books in school libraries to see if they are inappropriate. Not to be outdone, our governor announced he is investigating “criminal pornography” in our schools. Let those words sink in—criminal pornography. To me, that means administrators, teachers, and librarians deliberately introduced salacious literature with the intent of corrupting our students. I am appalled, scared, and worried about my grandchildren. And I am a strong supporter of Mothers Against Greg Abbott (after all, banning books is just one of his attacks on freedom which include women’s rights, voter suppression, etc. while he supports threats to the general welfare—open carry for guns and liquor, but hey, we cannot infringe on people’s rights by requiring vaccines).

Sorry about the rant, especially after I promised to modify my speech, but I feel strongly about this. And I hope each of you do too.

Meantime in my own little world, there was a highlight today. I opened a blank page and typed those fateful words, “Chapter One.” And then I wrote a thousand words of what I hope someday will be Irene Keeps a Secret. Felt kind of good about that.

About four, when I was sound asleep, Jordan woke me to say that Matt, who does some odd repairs for us, was here to look at my kitchen drawers. The problem is that I have so little space we overload these two drawers with dishes, pots and pans, and things like oil and vinegar. The sheer weight is too much for the bottom of the drawers. Matt reglued them, added some nails, said to let it dry, and said if I don’t rearrange it will happen again. Rearranging is a real problem.

So when an old friend arrived for happy hour, half my kitchen or more was spread out everywhere. No matter. We had a good visit. She lost her husband last spring, and I was glad to see that she’s doing well, if not back to normal—who would be? Still, we had a lively discussion about books (she’s a bookseller, and a part of me envies her that) and about mutual friends. A pleasant visit. After she left, I cleared enough of a spot to scramble a couple of eggs for my supper and gave up on the kitchen until Jordan can help tomorrow. She’s much better at organizing than I am. I did send a 5 lb. sack of flour into the house with her. I figure that will help the weight problem in one drawer. I think this is called it’s always something.

Sweet dreams.

 

Weird weekend

 

Jordan and Christian at the Cattleman's Ball in Dalls

Weird. No other term for it. The Burtons have had major social engagements, and after a busy week, I have had none. So I’ve been sort of isolated out here in my cottage. Good thing I have Sophie to talk to, though she’s sometimes puzzled. In truth, I don’t mind the isolation. All week I felt pushed and rushed by deadlines—the neighborhood newsletter, the lessons for the online writing class I’m taking, blogs, etc. Now, momentarily, I’m caught up and can look ahead to some of the things that aren’t quite so pressing.

Highlight of my week: the launch of The Most Land, the Best Cattle: The Waggoners of Texas. With the kind permission of some administrators, I’ve posted an announcement on several web pages, plus my own, and have so far gotten close to 300 hits. Color me happy. I welcome any chance to talk about the content with anyone.

Tonight’s dinner was good—another one where I learned a lesson. It was a salmon bowl, adapted from a New York Times recipe. I think it will be the subject of next week’s post on the “Gourmet on a Hot Plate” blog, so watch for it on Thursday. The adaptations a tiny kitchen requires have been much on my mind lately, along with some lessons learned.

Salmon bowl

Last night’s dinner was a comedy of errors. Sometimes I get a notion in my head and there’s no talking me out of it—until I do that myself. Having posted the recipe for Sloppy Joe on Thursday, I decided yesterday I would make a batch for myself, even if no one else wants it. No problem, because Jordan was picking up groceries at Central Market, and I ordered a lb. of hamburger. Only when I unpacked the groceries, there was no hamburger. I called, they were sorry, did I want to come pick it up? No, I didn’t—at this point I have neither car nor driver’s license, and Jordan and Christian were busily putting on outrageous costumes for Monster Mash. I joked, asking the curbside person I was talking to what I should eat for supper. She talked to her manager, and they agreed to deliver it between six and seven. I was prepared to write a huge shout-out of gratitude for their outstanding service.

Meanwhile, I had begged the quarter cup of red wine that goes in my recipe from Christian but forgot to get the ketchup which had migrated into the house. Texted Jacob, who said he’d be home soon. His idea of soon is not mine, but he did eventually appear with the ketchup. And I had all the ingredients laid out, the seasonings in the wine, the beans (yes, pinto beans) rinsed and ready.

But by 7:45 the hamburger meat had not arrived. I was suddenly, instantly ravenous and didn’t care a fig about Sloppy Joe. I ate a ham sandwich on a slider bun.  Then I looked at a text. Despite clear directions about the back house and an open gate, the delivery person had merely dropped it on the front porch. Jacob was still home and retrieved it for me—and that’s how I came to make Sloppy Joe at nine o’clock last night. Not my usual hour for cooking, but it sure was good for lunch today. And I had to bother Jacob one more time for an icebox dish to store it in. I’m sure he went out just to get away from my requests.

If I want to give a shot-out to Central Market for service (delivery person aside), I want to send a big raspberry to the USPS. We’ve heard for a long time that trump put DeJoy in charge to de-stabilize the service, make it bankrupt, and privatize it. (Why do Republicans want to privatize everything? Look at how well that worked with the Texas energy grid!). Back to the postal service, I ordered stamps at the beginning of the month and have never gotten them. Today I got mail from the USPS. My first thought was better late than never, but how did they fit stamps into that #11 business envelope? It was not stamps but a letter informing me that I had been specially chosen to fill out a questionnaire about my recent transaction with the post office. You can bet I gave them a blistering answer. My understanding is that Biden cannot replace DeJoy without board approval, and he’s waiting for the term of some trump appointees to run out. The trump effect will continue to haunt us in a myriad of small ways for decades.

And there, that’s it, my rant. Unless you want me to start in on anti-vaxxers, Steve Bannon and the congressional members compliant in the insurrection, the paring down of Biden’s Build Back Better plan instead of going bold, and the apparent backing away from redoing trump’s enormous and foolish tax cut for the rich. Other than all those things, life is hunky-dory, and I’m a happy camper. Hope you are too.

Ta-da! Here it is!

 

The cover to Irene in Danger, second in my series, “Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries.” I’m delighted with the cover. In this one, Irene has been in France for a year, running a small café, but she’s back in Chicago now for Henny and Patrick’s wedding, a small but classy affair to be held at the legendary Palmer House Hotel. In the week between her arrival and the day of the wedding, murder, drug smuggling, and kidnapping combine to make Henny doubt she can pull off the day of her dreams. Through it all, Irene remains the diva—demanding, spoiled, always the center of attraction, and yet somehow a sympathetic character.

The arrival of Henny’s family from Texas adds a whole new set of characters to the story—and a new cuisine to rival Irene’s insistence on everything French. Henny includes some of Irene’s recipes, the best of French cooking like a gibelotte, and recipes from her mom’s kitchen. Down-home Texas food at its best. Henny’s mom will tell you the simple way to make the best pot of beans ever and suggest an unusual addition to deviled eggs.

Irene in Danger launches November 14, unless supply chain problems cause delays. For comparison, I’m attaching the cover to Saving Irene, available at Saving Irene: A Culinary Mystery - Kindle edition by Alter, Judy. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com. If you are a Kindle Unlimited subscriber, it’s free.

Leaving a Writing Legacy

Note: This first appeared today, Friday February 7, 2020, as a guest post on the Mysteristas blog. It is reprinted with their kind permission.

I was surprised to see Debra Winegarten’s name come up  on my phone that morning in the summer of 2018. I knew her but not well, though if you were lucky enough to be Debra’s fiend, it was a binding relationship. We knew each other online through the Story Circle Network Work-in-Progress group, a small and close-knit writing circle. We met only once.

I was drawn to Deb because she was openly and enthusiastically Texan, Jewish, and gay. She had written books about people I knew about—Oveta Culp Hobby and Katherine Stinson, “the flying schoolgirl.” She was a tireless promoter not only of her own work but that of others. She spoke to every group that invited her and invariably sold a lot of books. She taught the rest of us to make “outrageous requests” when negotiating with publishers. She was insanely happy with her partner, poet Cindy Huyser, and their two cats. And she didn’t laugh when I wrote about my fondness of Jewish food, a hangover from a marriage gone wrong. We shared that liking.

When she called, I knew the Debster, only 60 years old, had been hospitalized with what appeared to be bone cancer in both hips, and I knew that months earlier she had developed a strange hoarseness. That morning, in her whispery voice, she asked, “Will you write my book?”

She was under contract with Roman & Littlefield (a subsidiary of Globe Pequot) to write a Two Dot book about the second battle of the Alamo, when two determined women saved the mission from demolition to make way for a hotel and parking lot. I had encouraged Deb to focus on it. She was so energetic and enthusiastic that she was distracted by everything from speaking engagements and school appearances to the memoir she wanted to write about her mother, Ruthe Winegarten, activist, author, and historian.

Asking me if I would write the book was like giving me an immense gift. I had secretly envied her the project, even while applauding.  Of course I would do it. By September, when Deb died, her partner had given me two boxes of research and a carton of books on the Alamo. Her editor, Erin Turner, had issued a new contract, and we had worked out the details of the change in authors. My deadline was May 2019. I never spoke to Deb after that first phone call.      

I dug into those boxes which I’m sure made sense to Debra but were utter chaos to me. It was a giant puzzle that, once pieced together, told a fascinating story. Together, Adina De Zavala and Clara Driscoll represent two qualities that Texans prize: heritage and money. Adina, granddaughter of the first vice president of the Republic of Texas, had the passion for historical accuracy; Clara had the money. Theirs was a natural union but hard headedness—sometimes also a Texas trait—turned what was once a friendship into bitter rivalry.

I lost myself in Alamo material and produced a manuscript by March. The Second Battle of the Alamo: How Two Women Saved Texas’ Most Important Landmark shipped January 10, 2020, two months ahead of schedule. The title page reads, “By Judy Alter, based on the research of Debra Winegarten.” It’s still Deb’s book, and our writing circle was sure Deb was doing the happy dance in heaven.

I owe Debra Winegarten an enormous debt. In 2019 I signed contracts with Rowman & Littlefield for another book on Texas history and for reprints of five of my historical novels. Debra opened a whole new career door for me. In turn, I like to think her mind was at ease those last days about a project to which she had dedicated so much time and effort.

For me, this experience has reaffirmed a lesson about writing groups. I never would have written historical fiction about women of the American West if I hadn’t joined Western Writers of America; I never would have written cozy mysteries without joining Sisters in Crime and the Guppy online chapter; and I never would have had my writing take this new direction without the Story Circle Work-in-Program group. It’s what writers do—we support each other.

The value of napping

I cannot meditate. Oh, I’ve tried. I used to sit in a big, comfy chair, now gone due to space limitations, and do a relaxing exercise where you focus on letting go in each part of your body. I think I was fairly successful at that, and then I’d let my mind wander to where it wanted to go. That’s my version of meditating. I doubt that’s what Buddhists mean.

But these days I know if I sit at my desk and say, “Okay, I’m going to meditate now,” it won’t work. I won’t keep myself from fiddling with things on my desk or glancing at the computer. I won’t focus. It’s why when I have company, I move away from the computer, so I won’t be tempted to be rude and check the email, etc.

Today it occurred to me that I meditate when I nap. I’ve written before that napping is the time I get some of my best plotting ideas, but today I realized it’s also a time for meditation. Yes, sometimes I sleep, but when I don’t, I let my mind wander where it will. That sort of tells me what’s on my subconscious, what’s worrying or preoccupying me. Today I do think I dozed off but then Sophie barked, just once but enough to jolt me back to reality. So I lay there, halfway between sleep and wakefulness, and it occurred to me that was as close as I’ll come to meditation. I think it’s because I actually get in the bed, all comfy under the covers (of course that means I have to make the bed twice a day).I don’t think I’m capable of clearing my mind in the way that I think, in my ignorance, true meditation requires. But I think my method is healthy. And, no, I don’t let my mind rant about Donald Trump and his follies. I mostly think peaceful thoughts.

Tonight, friends Sue and Teddy came for a glass of wine. They are full of plans for their June 9 wedding, and it’s a joy to see them so happy. We laughed a bit today about the early days of their relationship, when he was in California and she here in Texas, and I listened a lot in my living room and on my front porch. She went to California a lot, but now he’s a confirmed Texan. Of course, I got carried away and told them stories of my children’s weddings—Jamie had the entire wedding part giggling during the ceremony, and Jordan had the most touching moment when both her brothers walked her down the aisle and kissed her on the cheek before handing her to her father. Good to recall those happy memories while anticipating the next happy event.

Tomorrow, Murder at the Blue Plate Café launches, and I’ll tell you more about the origin of that Blue Plate Café series. It’s a neat story. Please stay tuned.

Meantime, sleep well and enjoy TGIF.

Food, funky fun, and free stuff

Everybody loves free stuff, right? As I bang the drum and clash the cymbals for my newest mystery, releasing in two days, it occurs to me that it’s time to point folks again to the free stuff available on my website. Excerpts from six of my books, including the first chapter of the new one—Murder at the Bus Depot, #4 in the Blue Plate Café Mysteries. You can download the first chapter free. I hope you will and will be intrigued enough to order the book, either as an ebook or in trade paperback. And a bonus—I just happen to have a few (ahem!) bookmarks left for Pigface and the Perfect Dog. You can request at the same freebie site, and I’ll send you a handful, so you can share them with friends and neighbors. I promise: no Pigface on the bookmark—just Susan Hogan and an irresistible lab puppy. You can find it all at  http://judyalter.com/freebies/

Meanwhile, aside from excitement over the new book, today was a food day. My former student, now chef/friend, came and brought lunch—salmon cakes with a wonderful caper/lemon/mayo sauce, and a spinach/strawberry salad. So wonderful to have a real cook for a friend! We talked food and recipes and family and the stuff we put in our bodies and had a high old time. She left with a portion of my proposed cookbook tucked in her purse for critique. I hope to get back to serious work on that—compiling the master file, writing the introduction, and some separate “helpful” sections soon. But first I have a novel to finish editing and the new one to promote.

Years ago, beloved Texas novelist Elmer Kelton said to me he was busier than ever in retirement. I didn’t believe him at the time, but I do now.

Tonight, Betty and I went on an adventure. We had supper at Cannon Chinese Kitchen—I had been there once, but she never had. It’s in an old house in a pocket neighborhood of older houses, many turned into apartments, close to downtown. The restaurant is sort of funky, with décor that ranges from modern to floral Chinese; the food is wonderful, as is the service. Betty, with her addiction to shrimp (she knows I can’t have it) had shrimp rolls while I tried the sautéed mushrooms in soy paper with a truffle broth. Both delicious. Then we split a fried trout—moist and good. We declined the chopsticks, with some embarrassment on my part—wish I could learn to do that—and they brought a box of forks, from which we each took one. I wished for a knife, but Betty bravely split the trout with a large serving spoon.

The whole experience reminded me of my ex-husband's mother who, when asked how her day was, said, "So my son took me to the Chink's for dinner." Since she had a grandson who is half Chinese (my Jamie) I thought that wildly inappropriate and asked if we could teach her a new word. These days it's one of my favorite funny stories.

Afterward, we wandered around that little neighborhood a bit. A few houses still seem to be single-family dwelling, but a church and other houses have been turned to commercial use, and one wonderful Victorian structure apparently houses a B&B. The treasures you find in your own city!

A much better day than yesterday, and I’m happy to report that my disposition is sunnier.

Palm Sunday, spring plants, and Sunday dinner—what a day!

            Sunday morning found me in Palm Sunday services with Christian and Jacob. It was a joyful, happy service with more palms than I’ve ever seen, and people waving them everywhere. The little children singing a hymn were adorable, some with their palms hanging limply down as though the child had forgotten why he or she was holding it. There was an air of excitement and anticipation in the church—and a lot more people than usual. And why not? Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem was a happy event, even though he predicted the dark events of the week ahead.

fountain grass

ground cover

kid of hard to tell

but it's so green and healthy

geranium

            Today wasn’t quite as lovely as yesterday. The sun hid for much of the day, but it was still warm, and by late afternoon a nice breeze blew. Neighbors joined us to sit on the patio for a while, a small celebration of Jay’s birthday tomorrow—of course, he’ll be twenty-nine again. By sunset, clouds to the west seemed to promise storms, though the forecast is vague. My ground cover is amazing, and rain will make it burst forth even more. The plants Jordan put in pots seem fine, and the basil seeds are just beginning to send up tiny sprouts. I’m thankful that Jordan has taken an interest in my vegetable garden and is following Jay’s directions explicitly, so I don’t have to nag about watering.

Somehow, I associate lamb with Holy Week meals. It’s traditional, of course, both for Holy Week and Passover, but I’m not sure we had lamb at Easter when I was a child—the origin of so many of my taste preferences. I think we always had ham and scalloped potatoes. But tonight, I experimented. Made Shepherd’s Pie but used ground lamb instead of beef. Some recipes call for cubed meat, but I’ve always liked to make it with ground meat. Despite Christian’s aversion to peas and cooked carrots, I just dumped in a bag of frozen mixed vegetables, and he dealt with it bravely. In fact, he complimented me several times on the meal, but said he wouldn’t have known it was lamb if he himself hadn’t picked up the lamb at Central Market. I can tell the difference instantly, which led him to say my palate is used to more tastes than his. At any rate, it was a successful dish, with a bit of grated cheese in the mashed potato topping. Another recipe for my growing cookbook.

Tomorrow, back to serious work. Got to start editing the first draft of my==sob!—still untitled novel.

And don’t forget, folks, Murder at the Bus Depot will be available April 6 on Amazon as both ebook and print. Shortly thereafter it will show up on B&N, Kobo, and several other digital platforms. Enough of this lollygagging around. I’ve got to act like a working author.

The excitement of a new book

 

Just got the cover for the new Kelly O'Connell Mystery (fourth in the series) that debuts next week in ebook form, with print to follow. I like it a lot, with the dripping blood. It's a bit darker than my previous cozies, so this works perfectly. Here's a blurb that tells  you a bit about the story.

Kelly O’Connell’s husband, Mike Shandy, insists she has a talent for trouble, but how can she sit idly by while her world is shattering. Daughter Maggie is hiding a runaway classmate; protégé Joe Mendez seems to be hanging out again with his former gang friends and ignoring his lovely wife Theresa; drug dealers have moved into her beloved Fairmount neighborhood. And amidst all this, reclusive former diva Lorna McDavid expects Kelly to do her grocery shopping. In spite of Mike’s warnings, Kelly is determined to save the runaway girl and her abused mother and find out what’s troubling Joe, even when those things lead back to the drug dealers. Before all the tangles in the neighborhood are untangled, Kelly finds herself wondering who to trust, facing drug dealers, and seeing more of death than she wants. But she also tests upscale hot dog recipes and finds a soft side to the imperious recluse, Lorna McDavid. It’s a wild ride, but she manages, always, to protect her daughters and keep Mike from worrying about her—at least not too much.

Now that I have the cover, I can start serious marketing. Please help me by spreading the news by word of mouth. I am still excited about Kelly's misadventures...and still thrilled to bee the author of published mysteries.