It’s been a strange time; one of transition and fear, prayer and tested trust. My mother has been repeatedly ill, a combination of heart and lung ailments—some recent and some long standing—and I’ve made a number of trips to Alabama . . . and the ER. I’m now as familiar with Decatur General Hospital as I once was Vanderbilt’s Children’s Hospital. But Rachel is stable and reasonably healthy these days, while I feel as if I’m watching my mother’s descent in to that infamous good night.

Earlier this week, I headed home again, only this time I skipped Interstate 65 and drove Highway 31 almost all the way home. Once the major thoroughfare from Decatur to Nashville, it’s now one of the “blue roads” – those 2-lane beauties that meander with the land (as pointed out in the movie Cars) instead of cutting through it.

It is some of the most beautiful country in the world. In spring, the trees are laced with dark and light greens, and wildflowers line the side of the roads, their pinks, whites, purples, and blues waving wildly with each passing car. The weather alternated between sun-backed storm clouds (giving a whole new meaning to the term “blue road”) and brightly lit, rolling fields.

I pass through a half dozen unincorporated towns, maneuvering through curves and hills like a child at play. The land around Nashville undulates like the ocean far from shore, so that even the open horse fields rise and fall like great swells of verdant seas.

It also brought back memories of the first time I rode this stretch of highway, almost fifty years ago. It was Summer 1964, and we were on the way from Alabama to Nashville to see the Grand Ole Opry. I was a kid, but almost every mile driven in that unair-conditioned 1964 Impala is etched in my mind. It was good to look back, remember the way my parents used to be, what we were as a family.

This year, I turn 53; my mother will be 84 in June. We don’t look much alike; I carry too many of my dad’s Welsh genes. But there is kinship in our spirits, in our experiences, in our faith, in our love.

Life is not simple or easy for me right now—not financially, emotionally, or spiritually. But in caring for my mom and making her a priority, I’m reminded, almost daily, that remembering what has gone before can make us strong, bind us together, help us face the future.

So here’s to remembering Highway 31 in 1964 during the year we turn 53 and 84. And God’s staying power.

Polly has been gone for awhile, but now she has a new role. In my December book, Field of Danger, I give Polly a place of honor. She belongs to Aunt Suke, who is my heroine’s mentor. Below are two excerpts. The first comes as Aunt Suke volunteers her antebellum home as a safe house for the heroine. At first, the hero, Daniel, is reluctant, but Aunt Suke—and Polly—make a good case.

In the second, the guard outside the house has been pulled away on an emergency, and Aunt Suke goes into a lockdown on the house.

I hope you enjoy these samples. And a small look at a companion who was an important part of my family’s life.

——————

Silence. April looked at Daniel, who shook his head, even though he knew arguing with Aunt Suke had always been a losing battle. “No, Aunt Suke. You could be in danger as well. We can’t guarantee your safety in a house this big, this open.” He gestured around at the rolling fields that surrounded the house.

As if she understood, Polly tilted her head to look at Daniel, then Aunt Suke, whose spine stiffened. “I am in awe of only God. Humans can’t compare. I’ve not been afraid of any man since I was a nurse in Korea in 1951. If enemy artillery didn’t frighten me, a coward with a shotgun is not even in the running.”

“The sheriff won’t–”

“Ray Taylor will listen to reason even if you won’t. This big old house is safer than any old chintzy motel out on the interstate, even with you sitting in front of the door. Lots of hiding places, and that’s providing he gets in and Polly doesn’t get him. You know what she can do.”

Daniel ignored April’s questioning look at Polly. He’d leave it to Aunt Suke to explain the presence of a former K-9 unit dog in her home, one who had been retired from service after she had killed the villain who’d shot her partner. The placid-looking white shepherd had taken out a man carrying two pistols and a combat knife, walking away with only one scar on her shoulder. No one messed with Polly.

Or Aunt Suke, for that matter.

Arms on hips, Aunt Suke braced for battle, her white hair swirling in a sudden breeze. “I have Polly. I have a house with an alarm system and a lot of hiding places. I’m sure April has a cell phone. And that’s before you put a deputy in my drive.”

* * *

Aunt Suke reached for April’s elbow. “It could also be a diversionary tactic. Let’s get inside.” She spoke to the shadowing white shepherd as they reached the porch. “Rounds, Polly.”

Without missing a step, the dog turned and headed for the edge of the yard.

“Where’s she going?”

Aunt Suke guided April inside, then closed and bolted the door. “She’ll circle the yard to see if anything is out of place. Polly will sound an alert if she finds something.”

“That’s handy.”

A wry smile crossed Aunt Suke’s face as she went into the parlor, checked the locks on the windows, and released the heavy drapes from their tiebacks. The room sank into a soft, almost comforting darkness as she spoke. “I’ve lived alone a long time, girl. A smart, well-trained dog is a better investment than mutual funds.”

“What did you mean when you said, ‘You know what she can do’?”

Aunt Suke checked the lock on the front door again, then the window locks and drapes in the music room opposite the parlor. “Polly used to be part of a K-9 unit. Her human partner was shot and killed in the line of duty, and Polly responded more viciously than the dogs are trained to do.”

“She killed the shooter.

Aunt Suke paused, then nodded. “Afterwards, they couldn’t get her to reattach to another officer.”

“But she bonded with you.”

Aunt Suke returned to the foyer, and motioned for April to follow her to the kitchen. “No explaining it. Maybe it was different because I was a woman. But they brought her here for me to take a look-see, and Polly got out of the car, circled the yard once, then came to stand by my side.”

April tried to look at a few of the expensive antique furnishings that lined the way from the front parlor to the kitchen. A hallway tapestry, an ancient vase on a Queen Anne table. Aunt Suke paid them no mind. “Maybe she knew you needed her.”

The older woman stopped and turned, her eyes glinting with humor. “Maybe she did at that. Never looked at it that way.”

“At some level, we all want to be needed.”

Aunt Suke’s look turned somber as she appraised April a moment. “We do indeed. A wise statement from one so young.”

“I’m thirty-two.”

“And you won’t realize until you’re my age exactly how young thirty-two really is.”

]]> http://www.ramonarichards.com/index.php/a-new-role/feed/ 4 http://www.ramonarichards.com/index.php/quick-update-and-book-review-monday/ http://www.ramonarichards.com/index.php/quick-update-and-book-review-monday/#comments Mon, 22 Jun 2009 17:48:13 +0000 Ramona http://www.bemispromotions.com/rr/blog/?p=317 Earlier, I posted a review of Brandilyn Collins’ Dark Pursuit (highly recommended). I’ve decided that I need to do more of these, not only as a way to spread the word about great Christian fiction, but to keep my reading on track. Today’s book, Things Left Unspoken, is one of the best I’ve read recently. If you are a fan of women’s fiction, Christian fiction, or heartfelt Southern fiction, this one’s for you.

As to my recent absence…deadlines, water heaters, and migraines, oh, my! A flooded garage, an overabundance of work, and an unexpected three-day migraine threw my world out of whack for a bit. This weekend, however, I got to see my brother (who comes around about twice a year) and celebrate my mother’s 83rd birthday. A little taste of what’s really important.

Now on to a family that has more secrets than a dog has fleas…

——————-

THINGS LEFT UNSPOKEN
Eva Marie Everson
Baker Books, June 2009
$13.99
978-0-8007-3273-8
5 stars (out of 5)

Every family–and every house–has its secrets.

Jo-Lynn Hunter is at a crossroads in life when her great-aunt Stella insists that she return home to restore the old family manse in sleepy Cottonwood, Georgia. Jo-Lynn longs to get her teeth into a noteworthy and satisfying project. And it’s the perfect excuse for some therapeutic time away from her self-absorbed husband and his snobby Atlanta friends.

Beneath the dust and the peeling wallpaper, things are not what they seem, and what Jo-Lynn doesn’t know about her family holds just as many surprises. Was her great-grandfather the pillar of the community she thought he was? What is Aunt Stella hiding? And will her own marriage survive the renovation?

Jo-Lynn isn’t sure she wants to know the truth–but sometimes the truth has a way of making itself known.

Eva writes from the heart of the South. In Things Left Unspoken, she wonderfully portrays the intricacies of small town families with their darkest secrets and deepest bonds. From the first line, she engages the reader in Jo-Lynn’s quest for a place to belong by gently unraveling a tale of tragic history, enduring love, and unexpected intrigue. This is a splendid book by one of the South’s best contemporary authors.

Thanks, again, for everyone who’s asked, sent wishes, or good prayers for Rachel. She’s improving, bit by bit. I’ll post some pictures soon. With Rach, getting well always takes a long time because it occurs so slowly. But I do think she’s past any immediate danger, which is a huge step forward.

Finally, you remember all that dreaming I did on the 20th? Well, a lot of it was based around a new celebrity crush. The result was a 3,000 word synopsis that I wrote last weekend. Sometimes, I cast a book after the plot forms in my head – sometimes I start with the hero and work my way out. The time, the look came first, then a combination of characters, and finally my own twists on the hero resulted in the birth of a Nashville detective who’s temperamental, vulnerable, ambitious, and more than a bit driven about the one case he just can’t get out of his head.

How do you create yours?

The final interview launched today here. I’m grateful to all the blog hosts for their support and encouragement to participate. (If you’re interested in the previous blogs, they’re here, here, and here. The interview with Mason DuBroc is here.)

I have two book signings in my future: One in Lebanon, TN at Sherlock’s, and one in Hendersonville. More details on those later. While I’ve heard nothing on my press releases, I didn’t really expect those to produce many nibbles.

The cherry on top was the 4 1/2-star review in Romantic Times, which you can now see on my home page - since Liz has finished most of the updates for me.

I’m sure I could have done more, in terms of promotion, but for now, I’m satisfied. Maybe as I’ve grown into doing more this time, on Carly, I’ll have even more opportunities. For one thing, I’m hoping to do some promotion with Cafe Nostimo in Portsmouth, which I mention in the book.

Now it’s time to dive into the next project, the next stage on my website, and the next level of my career. First, however, comes the writing.

As to the website, I’ll be adding a newsletter in a few weeks, as well as a contest. To see the title of the contest (if not the details yet), check out the contest page. I’ll be doing this once a quarter. If you’re interested in the newsletter, please email me at ramona01@ramonarichards.com. We’ll be adding a sign-up spot later, but I’m already gathering the list of folks interested.

Finally, thank you, Jen, for your glorious comments, and thanks to everyone for your prayers re: Phyllis and her back problems. Right now, she’s stable, but the doc wants to do a MRI and a bone scan before the next level of treatments. I’m still coming home to do all the lifting of Rachel during her shift, so let’s keep MY back in your prayers as well.

I appreciate you all.

For most of us, the morning of September 11, 2001, galvanized us. While NYC seemed to be on the brink of extinction (after all, we had no idea if the attack had finished), the rest of the country stared at their televisions, unable to believe, unable to move. Yet, even as we remember the people and events of seven years ago, today we go on. In the shadow of great loss, babies were born and children grew up and married. As it is with all births and deaths, with all of life. As it will be with all of us.

So I am also remembering . . . what is it that we leave behind?

That takes a lot of forms. The first story I ever published was a biographical sketch of my great-great-great-grandfather. Fascinating man, and I loved telling his story. In my small collection of family papers, I have a sheet of brown paper on which my great-grandfather had written a series of home remedies that he’d gotten from a radio show out of Chicago. Obviously a man who cared for others. Little things, passed from family member to family member, reminding us of where we’re from, what we’re about.

I will have no grandchildren; my daughter will probably not survive me. So what will I leave?

With luck, a few good books.

I like good news first, and mine came at 8:30 this morning. My editor accepted my revision on The Taking of Carly Bradford. *little squeals of joy through wet hair and half-blind eyes*. Then I remembered that today is the day that The Face of Deceit goes on sale – officially. *sigh* It’s already been spotted in a lot of stores, but today is the day.

The bad news. I had to skip work and go get Rachel, whose congestion had overwhelmed her. Plus her eye was red and swollen. And I’m sick as well, exhausted to my bones from congestion and no sleep.

Ups and down. Both will pass. In the meantime, pass the benedryl. Celebrating will have to wait a few days.

And a touch of business. I submitted a news announcement about The Face of Deceit at Fresh Fiction, and it’s here. If you’re a reader, and aren’t checking FF on a regular basis, you’re missing out!

Finally (and you’ll see this posted again…), check out this entry at the Blue Ridge Mountains Christian Writers Conference Blog. Al Gansky is keeping the blog going thoroughout the year, and his blog about Orwell is a gem for new writers.

You can read more about Phyllis and Rachel here.

I’ll keep you posted on her progress.