Elaine Faber

People sometimes ask me why I am a writer when my books aren’t best sellers and have limited financial rewards.

If I questioned one hundred random people, at least seventy-five would claim that someday they will write their memoir, sure to be a best seller. The remaining twenty-five would likely claim they may never get around to writing their memoirs and, sadly, the world will be the lesser for it.

Yet an alarming number of books are published on Amazon every year where they are buried as deep as a sticker in a cow plop beneath a zillion other books. Occasionally, one actually sells!

A few years ago, I decided there was a book in me that the world would be deprived of, should they miss the opportunity to read. Black Cat’s Legacy. After thousands of hours of writing, editing, and rewriting, my first cat mystery was available to the millions of folks clamoring to be amused, entertained, charmed, and delighted by my captivating characters. In this sure-to-become-a-New-York-Times-best-seller, the cat, with his ancestors’ memories, helps his inferior persons solve a cold case murder… and it is scintillating. I promise. Trust me. I’m an author.

My next book was a WWII humorous mystery adventure with an eccentric elderly lady, Mrs. Odboddy–Hometown Patriot. Agnes sees black market conspiracies and Nazi spies running amok as she fights the war from the home front, volunteering, knitting argyles for the troops, and planting a Victory Garden. It involves stolen ration books, missing money, the return of an old wartime lover, chickens in the bathroom, and a smattering of downright no-good-niks. When Mrs. Roosevelt comes to town, Agnes’s fears become a reality, and she must prove, indeed, she is a home front warrior. And yes, it’s available on Amazon in e-book for only $3.99.

I’m now up to 13 published novels with two more in the hopper.

So, why do I continue when it involves thousands of hours writing, editing, and rewriting, the glory is nonexistent, and there are less-than-exciting financial rewards? Irrelevant!

I write because the characters in me are screaming to get out. Folks who read my books often return and tell me that for just a little while, they left their troubles behind and experienced my make-believe world where the bad guy gets his due, and the good guy wins. Then my friend says, “I loved your book! When will you publish the next one?” There’s a smile on her faceWriters. And I know that reading my book put it there!

That’s when I know. It’s all worth it. That’s why I write.

This is a short story printed in my anthology of 'cat' stories, All Things Cat. It will also be included in my upcoming anthology, Beyond the Garden Gate. Hope you enjoy.

I live in Dead Bush, a small town in Texas. Our town sports three saloons, a general store, the bank, one church without a steeple, a blacksmith shop, and another establishment such as nice folks don’t talk about in mixed company. Modern wooden-slat sidewalks were added this spring in deference to the request of those specific ladies who live in the aforementioned and unmentionable establishment.

On Founder’s Day,   the local farmer’s wives bake pies and hams and sweet potatoes for a giant banquet and sponsor a dance out behind the Blacksmith’s shop. Bright and early this morning, neighboring families trickled into town, ready for a good time.

Several soldiers still wearing ragged Civil War uniforms rode into Dead Bush on worn-out horses. The soldiers commenced to drink and gamble, and ordered steak dinners at the Dry Spell Saloon where, among other things, such entertainment and libation was encouraged.

I sleep in the back of the saloon, ever since the town sheriff found me, the lone survivor of a wagon train where every soul was massacred by wild Indians.

I don’t belong to nobody, but Shorty, the barkeep, saves me leftovers from the day’s leavings. That, added to my hunting prowess, fares me well. Since I’m the only cat in town, the regulars at the bar adopted me as a mascot. I’m a fine figure of a feminine feline, though some might say somewhat on the portly side. The compliment is validated by the roaming tomcat that comes through town every spring. Up until now, I haven’t given him a tumble.

These days, cats are almighty scarce and considerably valuable in this neck of the woods. Several local farmers have offered Shorty big bucks for me, beings as cats can keep a barnyard free of varmints by barely lifting a paw. Some unscrupulous fellows are known to have hauled cats in a sack tied to their saddles all the way from the big cities to small farming towns, assured of a quick sale and a $20 gold piece.

Well, seems these soldiers what came to town sat and drank well past noon. I caused quite a stir when I wandered through the saloon. One soldier took a notion to buy me, having heard about cats being worth big money up the river. Shorty declined, saying I couldn’t be sold since I was a free spirit and didn’t belong to nobody.

As the gambling and drinking commenced, the soldier plied Shorty with enough palaver and drink that he was cajoled into a card game with me as the stakes!

I sat near the potbelly stove, preening my whiskers, warming my backside, somewhat amused by the stupidity of these humans what thought they could buy and sell another living creature. Wasn’t that what the Civil War was all about?

The poker game progressed, and it seemed my future as mascot at the Dry Spell Saloon was dependent on the turn of their cards.

Four players hunched over the table, cards fanned in their hands, empty glasses lined up in front of them. Shorty’s chips were going fast. Holding on to the Dry Spell Saloon mascot didn’t look promising.

The height of Shorty’s chips rose and fell as the afternoon wore on. I sat on a nearby table, commiserating with Mr. Casper, an old codger who operated a small gold claim in a nearby river. The old man was a fool, but he didn’t smell quite as bad as the other miners, as being tipsy a good deal of the time, he fell into the river more often than most, washing away some of his natural man-stink.

In the late afternoon, the ladies announced that their Founder’s Day supper was served. The saloon emptied except for the four poker players, who found it harder to sit up straight. Heads lolled, and cards tumbled from their hands. More whiskey landed on the floor than in their glasses. Never in the history of Dead Bush had such a game gone on for so long, or the stakes so roundly coveted. It seemed I was, indeed, a prize.

Eventually, Smitty Rosenblatt passed out. George Waddlebaker went broke. Shorty hung in there, though blurry eyed, he continued to fight for his meezer. Unfortunately, poor Shorty’s stack of chips grew smaller.

Seeing the inevitable handwriting on the wall, I slipped out the front door and headed out onto the prairie, intending to be absent for a few days. I have found that an occasional vacation is wise and often essential to one’s health.

Besides, there weren’t no sense being around eventually, when Shorty went broke, and one of the soldiers attempted to claim his prize. I didn’t plan to spend the next week strung to the back of a saddle in a burlap sack until the old soldier found a farmer with a barn full of rats and a $20 gold piece.

I’m the only cat in Dead Bush, and I intend to keep it that way. At least until next spring, when that ole’ tomcat comes back to town. Maybe we’ll talk.

***

A fiction story written to represent a holiday. I chose Founder’s Day. This is one of my favorite ‘cat’ stories, also found in my other anthology, All Things Cat!

This short story won an Honorable Mention in a writing contest several years ago.

The Slobaviakinsky Golf Course and Convention Center was located in a small, undeveloped country called Slobaviakinsky, somewhere north of the 23rd Parallel. A United States grant funded the golf course as an entrepreneurial endeavor to improve the lives of the 1,673,489 Slobaviakinsky citizens. The convention center employed 312 individuals, ranging from groundskeepers to bartenders, chefs, and maids.

As it happened to be the largest and finest golf course and convention center within 3,000 miles, it was chosen as the location of the annual European golf tournament. News of Tiger Woods’s attendance had spread far and wide, assuring the event would bring financial and national attention to the ‘not so thriving’ country. As a result, every room in the convention center hotel was reserved.

Wanting things “just as he liked it,” our boy, Tiger, had shipped his accouterments ahead of his arrival time. This included an all-electric golf cart with leather seats, a titanium steering wheel, a state-of-the-art sound system and beverage center, and his gold gilded golf clubs. The cart was now covered with a tarp and parked on the lawn beside the CEO’s office, lest anyone should attempt to pilfer same and sell it on eBay.

Unbeknownst to the tournament’s organizers, or anyone on the board of directors, including the CEO, long before the golf course was built at this location, a secret society had created a maze of tunnels connecting the 1st through the 18th hole beneath the manicured grass. The secret society had held its covert operations in this location for years and did not want to risk discovery.
Discussions were underway beneath the turf, as to the best way to scuttle the impending tournament, lest the location of the secret tunnels be discovered and future doings of the participants thwarted. At last, a plan of how best to wreck the event was voted on and passed.

Three days before the tournament, the CEO found his distraught head landscaper waiting outside his office wringing his hands. He blurted out his story. During the night, someone had torn out the sound system in Tiger’s golf cart. The leather seats were shredded. The golf bag holding his precious gold gilded clubs was slashed with marks that looked like the teeth of a wild animal. Knowing Tiger Woods’s erratic moods, the CEO feared that such a personal attack might result in his refusal to attend. In such a case, the tournament, itself, was in jeopardy.

Much to their surprise, Tiger grudgingly agreed to play with a standard golf cart if they promised to provide a cooler for his favorite beverages.

Two days before the tournament, the CEO found his head electrician awaiting his arrival. During the night, someone had destroyed the wiring to the PA system, making it impossible to announce the events over the loudspeakers. Could the tournament proceed if Tiger’s adoring fans could not hear about his prowess on the field? Since the hotel was booked solid and news media from around the world were already on their way, the hotel management and staff were determined that every effort must be made to fix the system and save the tournament.

Upon hearing the news, the secret society called another emergency meeting. Scuttling Tiger’s golf cart hadn’t worked. Destroying the PA sound system hadn’t derailed the tournament plans. Drastic measures were needed. Another plan was suggested, voted upon, and passed. The timing of the plan had to be perfect.

One day before the tournament, the CEO found his head chef awaiting his arrival. Upon coming to work that morning, he found what appeared to be rat droppings all over the kitchen, on the stove, and in the pantry. Bags of cornmeal were torn open. The freezer had become unplugged during the night, thawing hundreds of pounds of meat. He found the refrigerator’s electric cord torn in half. The hotel had been invaded by rodents. With the health inspector due today, the kitchen would likely be shut down, again, putting the tournament in extreme jeopardy.

The clever CEO snapped his fingers. “Have the maintenance crew jimmy up barbecues on the patio with bricks and screens. We’ll BBQ all the meat for the hotel guests’ dinner tonight. Have the local markets and bakeries bring freshly baked bread, fresh fruit, and pastry for breakfast tomorrow. We’ll bring all the portable microwaves from each room to prepare whatever else we need to feed the guests. Contact another dozen food trucks from around the county. They can serve the tournament guests tomorrow. We’ll make it work.”

The secret society gave up in despair. None of their efforts had derailed the tournament. They would have to take their chances of discovery.

On tournament day, Tiger Woods faced the world’s top ten golfers. On the 17th hole, he was one stroke from winning the tournament. He eyed the ball, drew back his club, and swung. His foot slipped on a leaf. His ball sailed into the air, then diverted to the left and landed in the trees next to the 18th hole. The crowd erupted in a collective moan. TV cameramen trailed him and his caddy into the woods. Tiger’s ball lay on the top of a mound of dirt, evidence of a major gopher hole.

Tiger stomped down the mound, creating a level surface, and smacked his ball onto the course where it slowly rolled across the green and plopped into the hole. Tiger turned to his caddy. “Better notify the CEO about this gopher hole. He should set out poison before they get onto the green.” He stepped onto the course to the adulation of his adoring fans.

In the tunnel below, several ground gophers cringed in trepidation. As they had feared, Tiger Woods’s attendance at the golf tournament had resulted in the discovery of their secret location. Their existence was doomed. It was only a matter of time until their secret tunnels would likely be destroyed. They held another emergency meeting, voted, and passed a new plan. There was only one solution. They would move their network of tunnels next door into the International Culinary Institute the United States had recently built, intended to generate good will opportunities to under-privileged Slobaviakinsky bakers.

Unbeknownst to the gophers, Wolfgang Puck was scheduled to hold his world-renowned annual Cooking Show at the Culinary Institute next spring.

The old woman, Broomtilda, took me in when I was a wee kitten and named me Tinkleberry. Her idea, not mine…Over the years, it became increasingly difficult for her to provide us with bread and cheese. Were it not for the old cow in the byre, we would have no milk for our breakfast.

One night, Broomtilda tucked her shoes under her bed and pulled the covers up to her nose. Come dawn, being too weak to rise, she called me to her side. “I have provided all your needs until today, Tinkleberry. Now, you must go, my friend, kill a small beast and bring me meat, for I can no longer work to feed us.”

That she should ask me to kill a living creature went against my very soul, for unlike my feline brothers, I have long been a conscientious objector. “You know I would do anything for you, dear Broomtilda, but I cannot kill even the smallest living creature. Please do not ask me to pay such a price for your kindness.”

“How can you answer thus, when I am ill and hungry?” she replied. “Have I not always provided for you?” Her tears wrenched my heart, and yet I trembled at the thought of killing the smallest vole.

“Isn’t there another way to meet our needs?”

She wept. “Only one, but I fear it’s far too dangerous.”

I bowed my head, my fur bristling in dread. “I will do as you command.”

“You must make your way to yonder mountain. High on the top beside a river, is the cave of a wicked leprechaun,” she said. “Perhaps you can trick him into revealing where he hides his gold. Even one small coin would feed us for many weeks. Go, now, Tinkleberry. My life is in your paws, small friend.” My mistress fell back upon her pillow, her voice a bare whisper. “If you fail to bring back a piece of gold, I shall perish.”

I set out to do what must be done in hopes I could match wits with the evil leprechaun and live to tell the tale.

The mountain trail was steep. With each step nearer the cave, I had no clear plan for how to trick the leprechaun out of his gold.

As I stepped on the log that spanned the river, shrill words chilled my heart. The wicked leprechaun! “Halt. Who goes there? Answer, Cat, or I’ll turn you to stone.”

Panic seized my heart. “Hold! A thought popped into my furry head. “I’m just a harmless pussy cat out for a stroll in the woods. My, what a lovely river you have here, Sir Leprechaun. I love what you’ve done with the place.” I sashayed across the log, humming an Irish ditty, and bowed low. “My name is Tinkleberry. Her idea, not mine. What might I call you, kind sir?”

The leprechaun stepped from his cave, his demeanor softened. “My name is Merichandrick. What do you seek?”

“A spot of tea would be lovely. I’m weary from my travels.” I looked wistfully toward the creature, an attempt to convey abject vulnerability and candor. To my great surprise, he agreed.

“Come on in, then, and I’ll light the fire.” I followed him into the grotto, suspicious of his intent. Once inside, did he plan to toss me into the stew pot? My nerves tingled, prepared for the worst.

“Sit over there.” The little man shuffled toward the fire.

Fearing treachery, I kept a wary eye on my host as I gazed around. A green-and-red parrot squawked in a cage hanging from a golden hook. “Oh, what a lovely bird,” I said, sidling closer to the cage. Where was that blasted pot of gold? Near the back of the cave, something bulged beneath a red blanket.

The little man turned. “Will you be after spending the night?” says he, with a wicked glint in his eye.

“If I’m so invited,” says I with a yawn, patting a paw against my mouth. He likely plans to kill me as I sleep. “Let us drink our tea, and I’ll curl up on yon lovely red blanket for the night.”

He shook his mop of green curls. “Not there,” says he. His wicked eyes glittered. “Best you should sleep closer to the fire.”

“A perspicacious idea!” says I. Oho! The gold is under the blanket. Once the little man sleeps, I’ll snatch a coin and be on my way.

My host set out two mugs, shoving one toward me. Expecting a trick, I sneezed, and as he reached for a Kleenex, I switched the mugs. Indeed, the mug was drugged, for the evil leprechaun drank and soon fell into a stupor. As I snatched a gold coin from the pot beneath the blanket, the parrot began spewing vile curses. Murderous rage filled my heart as I became a conscientious objector no more. I leaped and knocked the cage from its golden hook. The now repentant parrot squawked and flapped on the ground. One swift snap of my jaws, and the bird would curse no more.

Broomtilda traded the gold coin for six chickens and a second cow. That gives us enough milk to trade for bread and vegetables. Since I’m a recovering conscientious objector, only occasionally do I venture into the woods, highjack an unsuspecting rabbit, and fetch it home for the stewpot. If our fortune changes or the old cow dies, the wicked leprechaun still has a pot full of gold coins, and I know where he lives.

****

See my humorous 'cat stories anthology', All Things Cat at Amazon. (e-book is $2.99) http://tinyurl.com/y9p9htak

CREATING A SELF-PUBLISHED NOVEL

I just published my latest Black Cat cozy mystery/adventure, Black Cat and the Immigrant Child. In this novel, Grandmother has passed away, and Black Cat and his family return to Texas to settle her affairs. On the first day there, the body of a young immigrant, likely carrying drugs, is found murdered on the prairie. A little girl is found beside him. The family takes in the child and cooperates with the Border Patrol in an effort to locate her family. Of course, Black Cat overhears a stable hand confess to the murder with the intent to harm the child who may be able to identify him. Black Cat, Angel, and the huge Maine Coon barn cat, Murphy, join forces to protect the child and bring the killer to justice.

So, what went on behind the curtain, before the books were published?

I spent hundreds of hours writing and editing the final manuscript. With the help of 3-4 beta readers, an intensive editing process is done to identify typos, punctuation issues, storyline snags, expand certain scenes, and generally look for anything that needs to be changed.

(Other types of editors are available to the author at this point who can suggest changes or give advice.)

As I self-publish, further steps toward publication all become my responsibility. I’ll envision a general cover concept, and as I prefer photographs, I'll search Shutterstock, Fotolia, and other online photo sites for one or two photos to be used on the front cover. Once I’ve selected and purchased the rights to the images, they are sent to my mentor/editor/cover design genius to create an approved design.

Acknowledgments, back cover blurb, character description, and dedications are assembled. The manuscript is returned to my editor/mentor, who formats the manuscript for publication. She returns a printed copy to me, where, after reading it through again, often 40-50 further corrections or changes are made. My local publisher acquires an ISBN. Finally, the completed manuscript is sent to Amazon to be printed into a paperback.

A correctly formatted e-book version is sent to Amazon. where, if the moon and stars are in the correct alignment, they upload it correctly so folks can purchase the e-book for $3.99.

So, small wonder that a paperback novel costs $16. After many hours before publication, you now know what a self-published author must do to complete the process and provide a wonderful reading experience. I hope you'll enjoy all my books and look forward to presenting this latest novel filled with intrigue, a touch of romance, and plenty of laughs from Black Cat as he engages with the horses, the barn cats, and a rat named Cedric.

If this sounds intriguing, go to Amazon and plug in the title. You'll be glad you did.

‘Found cat’ advertisements were posted, and a lady responded, claiming Angel was her lost cat, Miss Boopkins. She is coming to claim her, and Black Cat is distraught that he will lose his ladylove and their babies. (Written by Black Cat.)

All too soon, the crunch of tires in the driveway announced the arrival of Angel’s lady. Daddy met her in the yard.

Mrs. Stubblefield had a gray bun on top of her head and wore a pink T-shirt with Miss Boop-kins scrawled across the front. She was carrying a pink cat carrier with lace around the door and a big red bow tied on top. “Miss Boopkins” was emblazoned on the side. Cynthia pulled Angel and all the babies into her lap.

I sat beside her and growled, fighting the urge to fight for my family until the breath left my body… but I knew I couldn’t. I had to put up a front for Angel and Cynthia’s sake. A bloody cat-fight to the death wouldn’t make Angel’s leaving any easier on either of them.

The door squeaked open. I froze, facing the moment I had so long dreaded. Daddy came in, followed by Mrs. Stubblefield. She set down the huge cat carrier, her face wreathed in smiles. She leaned over the blanket in Cynthia’s lap. Angel looked up, and their eyes met, and Mrs. Stubblefield burst into tears.

Tears of joy, I guess. It was too much. I had tried so hard to be brave, but I couldn’t hold it together. I’m not proud of myself, but I ran straight out the door and over to the woodpile. Waves of suicidal thoughts one minute and homicidal thoughts the next, raged within my breast, and I didn’t know who I should kill first; myself or Mrs. Stubblefield.

I heard Cynthia shriek and looked up. I guess she was throwing a fit after all, despite her promise to be good and let Angel go back to her home.

She was on the porch, calling. “Black Cat. Here, kitty, kitty. Come back. I have something to tell you.”

Yeah, right. As if I needed a lecture on civility while Mrs. Stubblefield popped Angel into the ridiculous whore wagon she called a cat carrier. I started to run away through the vineyard. I stopped.

I owe Angel a decent goodbye.

A broken, defeated soul, I slunk so low across the yard, the pine needles stuck to my belly fur dropped to the floor as I crossed the porch.

Inside, Mrs. Stubblefield sat on the rug with Cynthia, cooing over the yet-to-be-named cream colored kitten. Daddy sat on the couch, all smiles.

What’s going on here? How dare he smile? Cynthia looked up, “Oh, there you are, Black Cat. Come and meet Mrs. Stubblefield. Angel isn’t her cat after all, but she wants to take the little cream kitten home with her. Isn’t that wonderful?”

At that moment, a beam of sunshine from the window cast its light across Angel and Mrs. Stubblefield’s faces. If I didn’t know better, I swear I heard a chorus of angels.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Mrs. Stubblefield stroked the cream baby across her cheek. “I think I’ll call you…Miss Bubblekins…Yes, that’s what I’ll call you.”

I shuddered. That my daughter should go through life named Miss Bubblekins! But the kitten wound her toes in and out and mouthed an appreciative silent mew. I guess any lady who would wear a T-shirt with her cat’s name spread across her boobs can’t be all bad. Miss Bubblekins… would be going to a good home with a satisfactorily besotted owner, which, after all, is the goal of any mother and father cat.

Conversation was underway. Was the baby old enough to leave her mother, or did she need to stay several more weeks? There were two schools of thought. On the one hand, Miss Bubblekins had only started to drink milk from a bowl the day before. On the other hand, there was no doubt Mrs. Stubblefield would move heaven and earth to see that Miss Bubblekins got enough to eat, even if it meant getting up every two hours throughout the night to feed her with a baby bottle. Because of the distance Mrs. Stubblefield had driven, Daddy relented and agreed she could take the kitten home with her. We all kissed the baby goodbye and wished her good luck.

That afternoon, Angel and I snuggled on the blanket with the remaining two kittens, Rambo and Mittens.

“I know she’s going to a good home,” Angel said, “but I’m sad to see her go so young. I thought I’d have more time to get her on the right track.”

“Yes, but that’s the way things ought to be. You give them life, teach them right from wrong, set them toward a good home, kiss them good-bye, and wish them luck. That’s what a mother cat does. You don’t have any regrets, do you?”

Angel sighed. “I guess not. Though I do regret that she was named Miss Bubblekins.” Her mouth twitched.

I rolled over and showed off my magnificent white tummy, put my feet in the air, and laughed. “And I do regret calling her cat carrier a whore wagon.”

Angel glared at me. “You didn’t!”

“I did, but I have to admit, when they put her into that pink monstrosity with the lace around the door and the red ribbon, she did look kind of cute, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but she looked awfully little in there.”

“I’m betting she was in Mrs. Stubblefield’s lap before they hit Nevada City.”

“Yes, I’ll bet you’re right.” Then Angel put her paws around the other two kittens and dragged them a little closer to her heart. If you looked really hard, I think she had a little tear in her eye. Or could it be that I was looking through my own tears? It’s hard to say.

****

Amazon:  Black Cat and the Accidental Angel:   http://tinyurl.com/y4eohe5n

While sorting through my cedar hope chest recently, I discovered my wedding gown and honeymoon nightie. A few shreds of rice still clung to the folded honeymoon finery. I remembered those precious days as I folded and smoothed the purple nightie and thought about our unusual honeymoon.

Our wedding was on a perfect June day in 1962. The sun shone through the stained glass windows and the church was filled with flowers and music.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” and we were man and wife, 20 years and 18 years old respectively.

Following the wedding reception, we raced through torrents of rice, eager to begin our trip to a secret honeymoon site. When we arrived at our motel in the little resort town, we planned to go “out to dinner.”

While dating we had eaten at hotdog stands, drive-in movie snack shacks and BBQ’s with family, but we had never eaten at a real restaurant. For me, going “out to dinner” symbolized a rite of passage. A candlelight dinner would be a cherished memory, the perfect beginning to our wedding night.

The sun shone hot on our heads as we drove with the top down on our 1958 MGA. The excitement of the day took a toll on my young husband. His head began to throb and maybe “nerves” played a role as well. In our day, “the wedding night” created some anxieties than many young grooms don’t experience today. Several hours later we reached our honeymoon cottage on the shores of a sparkling lake. My young husband threw himself on the bed, head pounding, eyes aching, a wet cloth held to his forehead, and begged to be allowed to die in peace. He wasn’t up to dinner at a fancy restaurant.

“Tomorrow, honey,” he promised, “just let me go to sleep.”

A brand-new blushing bride, I pushed a grocery cart through a tiny grocery store in the resort town on my wedding eve, and selected spaghetti, hamburger, tomato sauce, lettuce, and salad dressing. I soon found myself in front of a tiny stove in our honeymoon cottage, cooking spaghetti while my new husband groaned on the bed.

“I hope this isn’t a sign of what’s ahead,” I thought, as I added a pinch of salt to the boiling water. “This is NOT how I planned my wedding night.”

Monday dawned bright and clear, a hot and perfect June day and we slept late, lulled by the lapping waves on the nearby shore, headaches and anxieties of the day before a forgotten memory. We spent the afternoon in the park in the shade of a willow tree, watching the squirrels. We kissed and spoke of where we would have our special dinner that night, a celebration of our one-day anniversary. We swam and frolicked in the lake. My new lord and master climbed a nearby diving board. “Hey, Hon, look at me,” he shouted, spreading his arms and launching himself in a perfect swan dive into the sparkling water below.

Somewhere between “Look at me,” and the sparkling water below, something went dreadfully wrong with his perfect dive. He hit the water with a resounding “kersplash.” Breaking the surface of the water, he held his hand to his left ear.

“I think I broke something.” The local emergency room confirmed, indeed, a broken eardrum. The doctor advised bed rest and a quiet night…

As a recently married woman, I pushed a grocery cart through a tiny grocery store in the tiny resort town and selected hamburger, tomato sauce and French bread. On my one-day anniversary, I stood in front of the stove, my young husband sleeping off the effects of pain medications. The water lapped onto the shore next to our honeymoon cottage as I sighed and heated the previous night’s spaghetti sauce.

Tuesday dawned bright and clear, and we slept late, being lulled by the lapping waves on the nearby shore. All afternoon we streaked across the beautiful waves in a rented speedboat, churning up the water. We talked of a romantic dinner that evening to celebrate our two–day anniversary. The sun shone deceivingly on my husband’s bare legs and they changed from white, to pink, to bright red.

My young husband moved slowly toward our car, each painful step tugging at his sunburned legs. He tried to pull on his trousers but the effort was too painful. My young husband lay on the cool asbestos tile floor (who knew?) of our honeymoon cottage, moaning. “I don’t think I can put my pants on. Sorry, Hon. No fancy dinner. Maybe tomorrow.”

A fairly jaded wife, I pushed a grocery cart through the grocery store in the tiny resort town and selected hamburger, tomato sauce and cookies.  The storeowner smiled. After all, I had shopped there three days in a row and a contender for his newest most-frequent shopper. I vowed to speak to mother about marriage. If this were going to continue, I would need to learn to cook something besides spaghetti.

Wednesday dawned bright and clear, we slept late…  We spent the afternoon driving around the lake. In the late afternoon, we stopped at a nice restaurant before any further calamity. We celebrated our three-day anniversary. It was as romantic as I had imagined. My husband’s head didn’t ache, his ear didn’t throb, his sunburn had faded to a dull pink, his pants were on, we didn’t eat spaghetti and I didn’t have to cook.

After dinner, at a drive-in theater, necking in the front seat somehow didn’t have its pre-marriage appeal. We determined it would be best to leave when the movie was half over. It was getting very late, nearly 9:30, after all, and we were anxious to return to our honeymoon cottage.

Thursday dawned bright and clear, and we slept late, lulled by the waves…

By late afternoon, we thought about the events of the week. A migraine, a broken eardrum, a sunburn, and it became clear that we should cut our honeymoon short and return home before any further disaster occurred. I felt the need to speak to mother about marriage in general and recipes in particular. By early evening, we bid the honeymoon cottage farewell and started for home.

We were both eager to reach home and resume… what honeymooners resume. The air was warm and balmy as we left the resort town. A crooked road down the mountain would take 30 minutes off our travel time. Driving the mountain road was difficult, with switchbacks and no roadside safety rails. Slowly maneuvering hairpin curves, eyes wide, we saw broken, twisted cars in the canyons below. Had they run off the road or were they shoved into the canyon to dispose of them? Reaching the bottom of the mountain, the valley stretched before us, and the terrible ordeal was finally over.

My young husband shifted gears and revved the engine. Nothing happened. He shifted to another gear and stepped on the gas. Nothing happened. The car coasted into a convenient gas station. He crawled under the car, and found…. a broken axle. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he thought about what might have happened if the axle had broken at the top of the mountain on the winding road. We were safe, thank God, but how would we get home, 80 miles away?

As a mature, experienced wife of four days, able to handle any emergency, I dropped coins into the public telephone. Daddy answered, and I said, “Daddy, come get me….” whereupon, Daddy exploded,

“What’s wrong? Where are you? What has that horrid beast done to my baby girl?” I explained that the beast had done nothing that I didn’t want done, but never the less, the axle on the MG was broken and we needed a tow.

Daddy drove for an hour and a half to rescue his baby girl. He towed the car 80 miles unceremoniously at the end of a rope; a discouraged young bride and disgruntled half-frozen groom steering the MGA.

If we had seriously analyzed the disasters of the week, and felt them to be prophetic of our future life together, we might have applied for an annulment the next morning. Perhaps we were too naïve, too inexperienced, or too much in love to realize the pitfalls that lay ahead. Sixty-three years have passed and my husband’s hair is gray and my face is wrinkled. Through our marriage, we have encountered sickness and health, success and failure, joy and sorrow, but we continue to face life’s challenges together.

I placed the nightie back into the hope chest. The pungent aroma of cedar clung in the air as I closed the lid. I closed my eyes, thinking for a moment of those exciting, wonderful days and relived the thrills, frustrations and romance.

Returning to the kitchen, I put a pinch of salt into the spaghetti bubbling on the stove. Like a pinch of salt, it takes a touch of adversity to enhance the flavor so we may appreciate the fullness of life.

I smiled at the memory of a honeymoon cottage by the shores of a sky-blue lake, and a tiny stove, where another pot of spaghetti bubbled three nights in a row. Despite the unusual circumstance we shared that week, it was the most wonderful, exciting, perfect honeymoon a woman could ever experience, because I was with the man I love.

Where does an author get ideas for a fiction novel?

Some authors include personal experiences. Some writers base their characters on friends, relatives or next-door neighbors. An idea for a novel can be gleaned from a newspaper article or a gossip column. Some authors come up with a rough idea for a plot and characters, and then let the characters tell their own story.

Years ago, my parents told me I used to bury my toys in the sand and then my dad had to dig them up. Aha! What if someone dug up something a toddler buried years ago and it became the clue to solving a murder?

With that concept, I started writing my first novel, Black Cat’s Legacy. Before I knew it, Black Cat (Thumper) jumped into the tale, took over and became the catalyst of the story. Having his ancestors’ memories, he tries to help Kimberlee solve her father’s murder. Something buried by the toddler years before played into the plot, but only in a very minor way. Who knew? From little acorns, mighty oaks grow.

So, a whole novel can begin with the kernel of an idea. When I begin to write, the characters often highjack the story. I follow their lead until the scene plays out. When this happens, they can take it in surprising and unplanned directions. This can be good or bad depending on the temperament of my characters. Most unnerving is when one of them makes an unpredictable move and I have to ask, “What the heck just happened? How do I get him out of this?”

That’s usually when the mischievous character decides to take a vacation and leaves me trying to resolve the muddle they just created. And my mind is blank, and I’ve got nothin’.

What does an author do when they get writer’s block? Again, there are as many answers as there are authors. But here is the best one I’ve ever heard.

What’s the worst thing that can happen? Using that concept, I conjure up several alternatives, pick one and run with it.

Here’s an example: My character is frying bacon and the skillet catches fire. What’s the worst thing that can happen?

She pulls the fire extinguisher off the wall. It’s empty!  What’s the worst thing that can happen?

She grabs her cellphone to call the fire department. Dead battery. What’s the worst thing that can happen?

She yanks open the front door, screaming, “Fire, fire.” A religious zealot on the doorstep, says, “You tell it, sister. Hell fire is for eternity!”

You get the idea. See how easily my imagined skillet fire scene just got away from me? I had planned she would grab a fire extinguisher and put out the fire. I hadn’t planned anyone at the door... But, as usual, my 30-second example character took control and finished the scene better than I had planned. With my characters, I’m used to them being in control. I’m sort of just along for the ride.

You can find my novels at Amazon in paperback and e-book. For a fun read, I recommend any of my 13 novels. Check them all at Amazon.

BLACK CAT AND THE ACCIDENTAL ANGEL

After finding the lost cats, Black Cat and Angel, a newspaper ad was posted. A lady responded, believing Angel to be her lost cat. (Narrated by Black Cat as he faces the loss of his ladylove.)

The crunch of tires announced the arrival of Angel’s owner.

Mrs. Stubblefield wore a pink tee shirt with Miss Boop-kins scrawled across the front. She carried a pink cat carrier with lace around the door and a red bow on top. “Miss Boop-kins” was emblazoned on the side in script that matched Mrs. Stubblefield's tee shirt. Cynthia sat on the floor and pulled Angel and all the babies into her lap, as if to say, “You’ll only take them over my cold dead body.”

I sat beside Angel and growled, fighting the urge to take out anyone who came too close. I was willing to fight for my family until the breath left my body… but I knew I couldn’t. I had to put up a front for Angel and Cynthia’s sake. A bloody 'cat- fight to the death' wouldn’t make Angel’s leaving any easier on anyone.

I froze, facing the moment I dreaded. Mrs. Stubblefield set the cat carrier on the floor and crossed the room, her face wreathed in smiles. Angel looked up and their eyes met. Mrs. Stubblefield burst into tears. Tears of joy, I guessed.

It was too much. I tried to be brave, but I couldn’t hold it together any longer.  I’m not proud of myself, but I ran straight out the door and over to the woodpile. Misery filled my heart. Waves of suicidal thoughts one minute, and homicidal thoughts the next, raged within my breast and I didn’t know who I should kill first; myself or Mrs. Stubblefield.

I heard Cynthia shriek. I guess she was throwing a fit in spite of her promise to be good and let Angel go back to her owner.

She was on the porch, calling. “Black Cat. Come quick. Here kitty, kitty. I have something important to tell you.”

Yeah, right. ...As if I needed a lecture on civility while I watched Mrs. Stubblefield pop Angel into the ridiculous whore wagon. I started to run away through the vineyard. I stopped. At least I owe Angel a decent good-bye. A broken, defeated soul, I slunk so low across the yard, pine needles stuck to my belly fur and dropped to the floor as I crossed the porch.

Inside, I found Mrs. Stubblefield on the rug with Cynthia, giggling and cooing over the kittens.

What’s going on here? Too much jocularity for such a somber occasion.

“Oh, there you are, Black Cat," Cynthia said. Angel isn’t Mrs. Stubblefield's after all, but she wants to take the cream kitten home with her. Isn’t that wonderful?”

At that moment, a beam of sunshine streamed through the window casting a glow across Angel’s face. I swear I heard a chorus of angels singing, Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

Mrs. Stubblefield stroked the cream baby. “I think I’ll call you… Miss Bubble-kins… Yes, that’s what I’ll call you.”

I shuddered. That I should live to see a daughter of mine go through life called Miss Bubble-kins… but the kitten wound her toes in and out and mouthed an appreciative silent mew, which apparently meant she approved. I guess any lady who would wear a tee shirt with her cat’s name spread across her boobs can’t be all bad. It looked as if… Miss Bubble-kins… would go to a good home with a besotted owner, which, is the goal of any father cat.

On the one hand, Miss Bubble-kins had only started to drink from a bowl the day before. On the other hand, Mrs. Stubblefield would likely move heaven and earth to see that … Miss Bubble-kins… got enough to eat even if it meant feeding her with a bottle. We all kissed the baby good-bye and wished her good luck.

That afternoon, Daddy took Cynthia to the vineyard, and Angel and I snuggled on the blanket with Rambo and Mittens.

“I know she’s going to a good home, but I’m a little sad to see her go so young. I thought I’d have more time to teach her more cat things,” Angel said.

“That’s how things ought to be. You give them life, teach them right from wrong, and kiss them good-bye. That’s what a mother cat does. You don’t have any regrets, do you?”

Angel sighed. “I do regret naming her Miss Bubble-kins.” Her mouth twitched.

I rolled over, put my feet in the air and laughed. “And I do regret calling her cat carrier a whore wagon.”

Angel glared at me. “You didn’t!”

“I did, but I have to admit, when they put her into that pink thing with the lace around the door and the red ribbon, she did look kind of cute, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but she looked awfully little in there.”

“I’m betting she was in Mrs. Stubblefield’s lap before she turned the corner.”

“Yes, I’ll bet you’re right.” Then, Angel put her paws around the other two kittens and dragged them a little closer to her heart. I think she had a little tear in her eye. Or could it be that I was looking through my own tears? It’s hard to say.

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While the ‘tiger of war’ rages across the Pacific during WWII, eccentric, elderly Agnes Odboddy’s patriotic duties are interrupted when she finds a rat-filled shoebox on her porch, her home is trashed, and she becomes the prime suspect in the Wilkey’s Market burglary.

A traveling carnival with a live tiger joins the parishioners’ Harvest Fair at The First Church of the Evening Star and Everlasting Light. When counterfeit bills turn up at the carnival, and the war bond money goes missing, Agnes’s attempts to restore her reputation and locate the money lead her into harm’s way. Then she stumbles upon a friend’s betrayal and discovers even more about carnival life and tigers than she ever bargained for.

Join Agnes Odboddy on her hysterical romp through pumpkins, war bonds, counterfeit money, and tigers. Filled with laughter and suspense, you will enjoy a bit home life during WWII and a bit of history along the way.

Amazon e-book -- $3.99     Paperback -- $16.00

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