A Story To Tell

A Way With Babies

2011-01-07T15:43:00.000-08:00

Karli Danvers stepped out of the shower in her sister’s house when the doorbell rang. She wrapped herself in a towel and rolled the overlapping ends to hold it in place. She draped the second over her dripping hair.

Her nephew, Jeff, who’d been happy in his playpen while she bathed, had begun to cry.

“Hold your horses,” she called out in the direction of the front door as she settled him happily on her hip. He pulled on the towel covering her head as she scurried to the door.

She snapped the deadbolt lock off and opened the door wide. “Lose your keys? I’m...”

“Da Da,” the baby squealed.

But it wasn’t the baby’s father and it sure wasn’t her sister whom she’d expected. A tall, dark-haired man dressed in a suit and tie stood on the doorstep grinning at her. He didn’t miss a square inch as his gaze slid from her head to her toes.

If it hadn’t been for the tie, she would have screamed and slammed the door in his face. But the tie was silk and looked expensive. So did his suit.

The baby lunged toward him with both arms out. She grabbed the towel to keep covered. “Who the hell are you?” she asked, backing up to hide behind the open door while she retucked the towel ends under her arm again.

The baby didn’t like moving away from his intended target and pulled the door open past them. The corner clipped Karli’s bare toes. She let out a whelp and hopped out of the door’s way. Jeff began to cry.

The man’s hands went up toward her. “Hey, really, I’m here to help. Give him to me so you can fix the towel. I’m your baby sitter.”

“Come on. You can do better than that,” Karli insisted as she glanced at her toes to be sure she wasn’t bleeding on her sister’s floor. “You’re dressed in a suit that looks like it was made just for you, and you’re the sitter they sent?”

“Until my sister gets here, anyway. I’m Rand Wagner. My sister Joyce runs the service you called. The sitter she’d scheduled cancelled at the last minute so she called me at my office to fill in until she arrives. This has turned into a busy night for her.”

Karli frowned and Rand produced his driver's license. He held it up for her to see and smiled at Jeff who thought it was a toy being offered to him and stopped crying.

“I can see the family resemblance now. You have the same green eyes.” But Karli never felt mesmerized by looking into Joyce’s eyes as she felt now gazing into his.

Realizing she was staring, she let him in. “I’ll get dressed, and you get the baby.”

“Come on. We men will go sit in the other room and let Barbra get dressed.”

Karli clutched the towel’s overlapping corners in place as Rand took the baby from her, the back of his fingers accidently brushing the rise of her breast. She felt the heat rise up her neck and wanted to ignore it as he had done but couldn’t.

“He seems to like you already. You must have kids at home. No wonder Joyce called you.”

“No,” he said with a fleeting frown that said he wished he did.

“By the way, I’m not Barbra.” Karli introduced herself. “She’s due any minute and then she’s going out with her husband. I’m going to a small-business seminar, but I took a shower here because Barbra had to pick up her husband. He missed the train from downtown so he would be late. Oh, it’s very confusing. Listen, Jeff’s toys are in there,” she said with a wave of her arm toward the living room.

He nodded and walked in that direction with Jeff to find the toys. “Don’t worry about us,” Rand said over his shoulder.

Once he was out of sight in the living room, Karli ran to the master bedroom and pulled on her clothes. Opting to skip the pantyhose, she stuffed them into her bag with her other clothes and stepped into her sandals.

She could hear Rand’s deep voice and Jeff’s giggling responses as she hurried back to the living room. He seemed to be a natural when it came to entertaining toddlers. Why couldn’t the men she’d known be like that?

Rand had taken off his suit coat and held the baby on his lap. His tie was flipped over his shoulder. Karli knew from experience that he’d done it to take it out of Jeff’s reach. No respecter of silk, the baby loved to pull on neckties.

“I was on my way to that seminar, too,” Rand offered when she entered the room. “Joyce described you to me and told me I might see you there. She didn’t do you justice though.”

Karli laughed. “You said that so convincingly that I almost believed you.”

“I did mean it,” he said, looking up. His emerald gaze seemed to see right through her.

“Ah, are you starting a business, too?”

He chuckled. “No, I’m an attorney. I’m going to take notes for Joyce because she had to work tonight. I’ve been trying to convince her that she should expand her client base to include physically-challenged and older adults who need someone with them all the time. The live-in caregiver or family could get an evening off once in a while if there were competent sitters, or companions, as I’d prefer to call them in those cases, to come in for a few hours.”

“What a great idea.”

Karli watched as Rand smoothly lowered Jeff to the floor where he immediately crawled to his pile of blocks.

The front door opened and she heard Barbara burst in. “I’m sorry I’m late. The Thursday night traffic was awful for some reason,” she said in a rush. She dropped her purse on the hall table and turn to go to the bedroom.

“Ma Ma,” Jeff cried as he crawled into the hall behind Karli.

Barbra swept him up into her arms. “Can’t sneak by you, can I?”

Karli’s brother-in-law strode in the door, letting the screen slam behind him. “Hi and goodbye. Joyce just pulled up, Karli,” he said in passing as he darted directly to his bedroom.

“Leave the door unlocked and tell her to come right in, will you, Karli? And thanks,” she called as the bedroom closed after her.

“Talk to you tomorrow,” Karli called.

“I guess that means we can go.”

He’d put his jacket back on and adjusted his tie. A wave of dark hair had fallen across his forehead. Karli picked up her bag and clutched it to keep from pushing the strands back.

Joyce came in as they walked out. “Thanks, Rand.”

“No problem, sis, but I can’t wait to see how you’re going to bill my fifteen minutes here at my client rate,” he teased.

Joyce feigned a punch to his shoulder.

“Barbra took the baby with them while they change,” Karli explained.

Joyce nodded. “Thanks. Have fun you two.”

“You know, she’s right,” Rand said as they neared the street.

“About what?” Karli asked. “Having fun at a business seminar?”

“Not exactly, but we’re going to the same seminar. Why not go together?” He extended his hand toward the low sporty silver-gray car beyond the driveway.

Did she want to go to the seminar alone instead of with this tall, knight in shining armor that had just babysat a toddler in a suit and escaped unmarked?

“Sounds good to me as long as you can bring me back to my car afterwards.”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll just have to wait until next time to see where you live.”

Karli found it impossible to look away when a smile filled his face and made his dark eyes sparkle. “You think there’s going to be a next time, huh?”

“You can count on it,” he said, holding open the car door for her.

As they both fastened their seatbelts, Karli turned to study him. “You’re not going to turn out to be married or something like that, are you?”

“You don’t sound like you trust men.” She shrugged. His gaze held hers as he took a moment to digest her comment. “No, I’m not married, or anything like that.”

Karli frowned when she found herself thinking that from the way he handled toddlers, he should be married.

“As to why not, let’s just say that once I got to know the women I’ve dated, they weren’t all that they’d seemed to be.”

Suddenly, she couldn’t repress her grin. “Oh, sure. And since you’ve seen me in nothing but a towel and a few sprinkles of water, you feel you know exactly what I am already, so no unpleasant surprises, huh?”

Rand deep laughter harmonized with hers as they drove to the meeting together.

A Story To Tell - Blog Earns Award

2010-10-30T08:25:00.000-07:00

Online Masters Degree Programs

My Short Story

2010-10-17T08:24:00.000-07:00

My short story for this month and next is the short amount of time I have before we move across country. Movers are due to pick up our possessions in three weeks. Talk about stress!

I just received copies of the last of my three new books this year: THE KEY.

Besides the new ones, I have some copies of all my print books. I'd love to sell them all and not have to pay to move them. If you're interested, you can read about them out at my website. Order any of them directly from me now and pay the retail price through Paypal, and I'll autograph them and mail them to you FREE. You can reach me now at lcarroll@twcny.rr.com, but after we move, I'll only be a lois@loiscarrollbooks.com.

Check out all the books at: http://loiscarrollbooks.com/ , and because I write under two names: http://loiscarrollbooks.com/indexLS.htm

Thank you.
Lois

PS: My grandson was visiting one day when he asked, "Grandma, do you know how you and God are alike?" I mentally polished my halo and I said, "No, how are we alike?''

"You're both old," he replied.

A Young View of Age

2010-09-08T08:50:00.000-07:00

Today is one of my grandson's birthdays. I wish I could be with each grandchild to celebrate their birthdays, but with children scattered over two continents, a phone call has to be the substitute in most cases.

Enjoying his special day, my grandson sounded very excited. He told me about his party and some of the wonderful gifts he had gotten. With prompting from his mother in the background, he properly thanked me for our gift.

Knowing full well the answer to my next question, I asked him how old he was. He told me proudly, and without hesitation, he asked me how old I was.

I laughed and admitted how many years it had been since my birth well over a half century ago.

He took a moment to think about the number and then asked, "Did you start counting at one?"

Visiting Grandma

2010-08-01T12:35:00.000-07:00

I love being a grandma. I have eight grandkids, and they all live airline flights or long drives away. It's very special when they come to see me. My camera can only begin to record the differences in the growing children from year to year. While they are here, I especially like seeing the world through their eyes.

Normally, I hate grocery shopping, but with one of my young grandkids in the cart seat and another one or two older ones advising me what to buy makes the trip fun. I was getting ready to venture out with the kids when I gave them each the order every mother gives their kids before they leave home. Following suit, one little one finished fast and came to find me still in the master bath to tell me she was ready.

At the mirror, I was putting on a little lipstick. My granddaughter watched me as she had several times before. Finished, I put the tube away in the drawer and turned to take her hand to leave the room.

Pulling my hand so I couldn't leave, she said, "Grandma, you forgot to kiss the toilet paper goodbye!"

Laughing as I turned, I grabbed a square and kissed it. I will probably never put lipstick on again without thinking about that sweet child reminding me to kiss the toilet paper goodbye.

http://loiscarrollbooks.com/

Omens

2010-07-02T06:30:00.000-07:00

“Another mile and you can rest,” Liz Larson promised her aging car as she drove west on Interstate 94 across North Dakota. This was her fourth day on the road.

With everything she owned weighing down her car, she didn’t dare go over fifty miles an hour. She was even afraid to turn on the air conditioner despite the August heat, but a blue and white highway sign pointed her to a rest area exit.

“You can cool down while I get off my aching fanny,” she said as she parked. The one-sided conversation at least gave her ears variety from the roar of the wind through all the open windows that had made listening to the radio impossible.

She exited her small sedan to stand in the shade where she stretched her arms upward and arched her back. Staying in the shade, she ate the sandwich that she had resisted eating as she drove because her loose dental crown demanded that she chew it carefully. After drinking from her water bottle, she pressed on the crown with her tongue. The crown and anything else that needed to be fixed had to wait until after her new job started in two weeks.

A big sports utility vehicle pulled in beside hers and a good-looking couple got out and headed for the restrooms. He was tall, a powerful advertisement for his brand of shirt and jeans. The woman was cute and obviously pregnant. Both were blonde and blue-eyed like Liz and like so many others of Scandinavian decent in the state.

Someday, Liz thought with a sigh as she tamped down her hopes of one day looking up at a guy with as much love in her eyes as that woman had when the man helped her down from the car. But not today.

Liz glanced at her watch. She had to get to her apartment complex while the office was still open. She dropped the water bottle back into the ice chest and closed the windows and locked up her car to go to the ladies’ room.
When she returned, the couple next to her looked ready to leave. The man opened his window as she passed in front of his car.

“You know you’ve got a low tire, don’t you?” he called.

Liz felt a chill run down her spine despite the heat. She spun around to face him. “Me?” she said, panic strangling her voice.

He nodded and pointed to her rear tire that definitely looked low. Liz groaned. Calling a garage for help did not fit into her tight budget and waiting for the tow truck would make her too late to get into her apartment today. She would have to change the tire herself--and fast.

“Got a spare?” the blond hunk asked as he killed his engine and climbed out.

Liz opened her trunk, exposing her belongings that filled every square inch. “Yeah,” she said, shaking her head. “Under all this stuff.”

The man’s wife walked up beside him. They looked at each other and then the man shrugged.

“We’ll help, if you’d like,” the woman said cheerfully. “That is, I’ll watch while he does the work.” She extended her hand. “I’m Ellie.”

Liz gave her name and shook Ellie’s hand.

The man offered his hand, too. “Gene,” he said with a nod. Liz was surprised by the warmth his touch created in places totally unrelated to her hand.

“Do you have far to go today?” Ellie asked as she helped uncover the spare.

Liz explained briefly that she was heading to Dickinson for a new teaching job. Gene jacked up the car and took off the low tire.

“That’s where we live too,” Ellie told her cheerfully.

About then Gene insisted she get back into their car and turn on the air conditioner. Liz felt a twinge of envy for the sweet way he cared for her.

The tire changed, Gene put the low tire where the spare had been. “Get that leak checked right away so you’re not caught without a spare.”

Liz assured him she would, and silently hoped it wouldn’t cost much. “I can’t thank you enough, Gene. You’ve been great to change the tire for me,” she said as she started repacking the trunk.

After washing his hands, he wished her well and stepped up into his car. Before he shut his door, Ellie held out a sack of candy and called, “Would you like some caramels? You look like you could use a sugar boost.”

Liz shook her head. “Thanks. They’re my favorite candy, but I can’t. I have a loose crown on a tooth I broke when I was a kid. I’ve got to baby it until my first paycheck comes and I can afford to see a dentist.”

Liz noticed an immediate frown on Gene’s face, but she wasn’t surprised. He was a caring guy. Ellie rummaged in the tray between their bucket seats and found a small white card that she passed to Gene. “Give her this,” she insisted. Gene passed the card to Liz, looking somewhat reluctant.

“Family Dental Offices,” Liz read.

“My brother is one of the dentists there,” Ellie called as Gene started the motor. Liz thought that explained the reluctance on his part.

“Don’t wait to see him. You can pay later. He’ll know you’re good for it,” she added with a laugh.

Liz grinned and slid the card into her pocket. “Thanks.” She waved as they left and wished she could see them again to repay their kindness.

“The considerate good-looking men are always taken,” she muttered as she climbed in behind the wheel. Wiping the perspiration off her forehead, she took another swallow of water and started on her way.

Two mornings later, Liz was hunting through her dirty clothes for the jeans with the dentist’s card in the pocket. Her loose crown had fallen off at breakfast.

In pain, she swallowed her pride and went directly to the dental office without even calling. Liz explained her problem to the receptionist.

“I’m sure one of the dentists can fit you in,” the woman said. “They normally don’t start seeing patients for another twenty minutes, but one of them should be here soon.”

Liz thanked her, but didn’t have time to sit before the door opened. She looked back to see Gene staring at her. “Ah, hi,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“You didn’t?” He sounded surprised.

Liz shook her head. “I came to get this glued back on.” She held up her crown. “Remember? Your wife gave me her brother’s card.”

“‘My wife’?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, Ellie.” Liz frowned. The man certainly should remember his own wife.

Suddenly, Gene threw back his head and laughed. “Thanks,” he said several moments later. “A good laugh is a great way to start the day.”

Liz didn’t see anything funny and felt more than a little foolish. “Why don’t you tell me what’s so funny so I can laugh, too?”

A look of surprise crossed his face again. “I’m not married,” he stated simply with a shrug. “Not even close.”

“But...” Liz sputtered. She pulled the card from her pocket and saw Eugene Nelson in the list of dentists at the bottom.

“Ellie is my sister. Her last name now that she’s married is Ericson,” Gene said gently. “She gave you my card. She’s always giving it to pretty young women she meets and likes.”

Liz raised her hands to cover her hot cheeks.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” Gene stepped closer and took one of her hands in his. “I’m not and I probably should be.” He squeezed her hand. “I didn’t catch your last name.”

A new tingly sensation skittered down her spine as she told him. She smiled broadly, but when she inhaled air past her exposed tooth, she pressed her lips together in pain.

“Come on. Let’s get that crown glued on.” Gene led the way to his office where he cleaned the crown and checked her tooth. “Actually, I’m glad you came,” he said as he replaced the crown. “I was going to look you up.”
Liz could say nothing as she bit down and waited for the glue to dry.

“Being new in town, I thought you might like a tour around the area.” He removed the excess glue. “I even know a good restaurant where we can get buffalo burgers.”

“I’d like that,” Liz responded as she took the hand he offered to help her up from the reclining chair. “The tour, I mean. I’m not so sure about the buffalo.”

He laughed and walked with her to her car. They agreed on a time and he jotted down her address and phone number.

“See you Saturday,” he said, flashing his gorgeous smile as he went back inside.

Liz kept on smiling as she drove home. Who would have guessed that a flat tire and a dental emergency could be good omens?

Double Dare

2010-06-01T05:59:00.000-07:00

“Karilynn Hoskins Longworth, I love you.” Marchand Longworth watched as a weak smile pleated his wife's wrinkled cheeks. Her parchment like skin was as pale as the stark white pillowcase beneath her head.

“I’ll love you always,” she responded weakly as her eyelids floated shut.

His arms ached to comfort her, to suffer the deep pain for her. Rising from his station beside her nursing home bed, he turned off the harsh overhead lights. The low level lights at the ceiling would be easier on her eyes, he thought.

Returning to her side, he stroked her soft white hair and smiled. She was still as beautiful as the first time he saw her in the summer of 1927. The pink of her nightgown was the same pink as the blouse she wore back then. He smiled at remembering that detail when he couldn't remember to buy bread on his way home at night. But then he would never forget that day.

March, whose adolescent friends got slugged back then if they used his full name, had been convinced he knew all there was to know about girls--until the day Karilynn moved in to the stucco house across the street.

Trying his thirteen-year-old best to look nonchalant, he leaned against the big oak tree on the wide berm in front of his house as the movers emptied their van.

Karilynn never gave him a clue that she'd even noticed him watching. Her ash-blonde hair was braided into one long rope that hung down her back, almost reaching her jeans. Eager for a closer look, March strolled across the street to a tree next door and resumed his casual pose. His heart sped up when he saw her come out of the house.

Without even a glance in his direction, she ran to where her bicycle lay in the front lawn. She lifted it upright and sat on the seat but didn’t ride away.

Gathering up his nerve, he looked both ways down the street. Certain no one was watching him, he stuffed his fists into his jeans pockets and sauntered in her direction. A burly man jumped from the moving van with a floor lamp in each hand. Barely missing spearing March with the tops, he swore at the human obstacle in his path. March jumped back and the man strode on into the house.

March's cheeks felt warm. The girl must have seen the whole embarrassing incident, but all she did was fiddle with her headlight.

Sweat broke out under his arms and on his upper lip where the hint of a dark moustache had recently appeared. The sweat was not all due to the summer heat.

Nervous, he glanced at her house. No sign of anyone at any of the windows. Walking slowly, he repeated his surveillance in both directions on the street. Wouldn’t do to have one of his friends show up now and find him talking to a girl.

Turning back, he discovered he’d reached her side. Up close, her hair appeared lighter than he’d realized--so pale that it was almost white. Her skin looked as smooth as the china dishes he ate on at home on Sundays.

Without warning, she looked right up at him. Holy cow! Her eyes were bluer than a clear sky. She was beautiful.

Her gaze held his, and he didn’t want to look away. He cleared his throat and swallowed past the enormous lump that had suddenly grown there.

“I dare you to kiss me,” a voice that sounded exactly like his said boldly.

When he realized that the voice had been his own, March gasped. What was he thinking? He waited for her to drop her bike and tear into her house screaming for her mother.

But she kept on looking at him and then slowly, a smile curled up the corners of her mouth. “I double dare you to kiss me twice,” she said.

That snapped him out of his stupor. “You can’t change the dare,” he explained less than patiently. “And I’d be the one to double it because I’m the one daring you.” She should get her facts right, he thought with a smug look on his face.

She smiled again--as if she knew something secret that he didn’t know. That just annoyed him more. What could a girl possibly know that he didn’t?

“Like I said, I double dare you to kiss me twice,” she repeated.

Well, that did it. She didn’t know what was what when it came to dares. He’d show her. Without closing his eyes, he leaned down and planted a quick kiss on her smile.

Although brief, the warm contact knocked the wind right out of him. He opened his mouth and dragged in a ragged breath. He straightened, feeling all sorts of weird inside as if someone had just slugged him in the gut.

And Karilynn was laughing. How dare she laugh at him when he felt like he was drowning! He would wipe the smile right off her face. He stepped closer. The second kiss to respond to her dare was going to be one she would remember.

He reached out to take hold her shoulders when suddenly her feet pushed against the ground sending her bike backwards ten feet. He put his hands on his hips and frowned to let her know what he thought about her game.

“I double dared you to kiss me twice, but that doesn’t mean you get to give me both kisses now.” She pushed off again, forward this time, and rode off down the sidewalk.

Open-mouthed with shock, March stared after her. That girl had a lot to learn, but she could count on him to collect. He wouldn’t forget a dare--ever.

Just you wait, he’d warned her silently. I always get satisfaction on a double dare.

Remembering that long ago afternoon, March smiled, but his breath caught when his wife opened her eyes and struggled with another choking cough. Able to do nothing else, he held her hand and prayed. When she stilled, he wiped her forehead with a cool cloth.

“I don’t want to leave you,” she whispered hoarsely, tears welling in her eyes. She wheezed more loudly with each breath.

“You won’t have to,” he promised, forcing his trembling lips into smile. “The Good Lord hasn’t let anything come between us in the sixty-eight years we’ve been married, Sweetheart, and I know He wouldn’t start now.”

"Hold me," she said in a hoarse whisper.

March rose and closed the door to give them more privacy before he slid onto the hospital bed beside her. Gathering her frail body into his arms, he tipped his head down, and gently kissed her forehead.

“I double-dare you to kiss me back--in heaven,” he managed to say through the pain he felt in his heart at losing the love of his life. He saw a faint smile return to her lips before the vision blurred from his tears.

A nursing-home aide found them lying there together late that evening. The doctor’s report stated that the congestive heart failure that had been getting worse for days had finally claimed Mrs. Longworth. Her husband, who had been spending the day and evening with her as he had every day for the weeks she’d been in the care facility, had succumbed instantly to a unexpected massive heart attack.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the aide, who discovered them together, told the nurse on duty. “They were both smiling.”

Trail of Dreams by Lois Carroll

2010-05-11T07:43:00.000-07:00

My historical fiction is up for sale. It took two years of research and months of writing and rewriting. Here's a story about the heroic characters who settled the Dakota Territory despite the life-threatening factors including 35 degrees below zero winters and hot summers. Hope you enjoy it.

http://tinyurl.com/Lois-Carroll-Trail-Of-Dreams

Miss Smartypants

2010-04-07T19:28:00.000-07:00

My short story is really short this month because I am packing up a household of a lot of years and moving across the country. Very exciting and very busy time. With so much cleaning and packing to be done, I even had to pass on a chance to see two of my grandchildren--very hard to do.

I don't get to see my grandchildren very often, and I treasure the times that I do. The little ones grow so quickly, and they are so very different each time I see them.

When one of my grandaughters was at the stage when her brain was acting like a sponge and soaking up all it could, I was amazed and proud. I liked to make up games that we could play that would use her newly acquired skills or knowledge.

One I called the colors game. I would point out something and ask what color it was. She would tell me and was always correct. It was fun, so I wanted to continue.

Apparently tired of the game, she headed for the door, saying, "Grandma, I think you should try to figure out some of these yourself!"

DETERMINED LITTLE BUGGERS

2010-03-02T09:43:00.000-08:00

When our kids were young, we had a very modest (translate that to small) cabin on a lake in Minnesota about an hour drive from our home then. We loved spending time there all year round.

In the fall the kids helped rake the leaves from the giant elms, oaks and maples. Then they helped spread them all around again. Though we know now that it wasn't good for the air, the burning leaves smelled great.

When the cold weather set in, and it was too cold to stay there overnight with just a wood-burning stove in the lower level (translate that to basement), we had one more hot dog roast, one more attempt at getting the leaves off the grass so it wouldn't be dead the following spring, and one more look at the beautiful scene before we drove back home.

Our days quickly filled with school and orchestra activities, but when we were in winter's cold grip and our lake had frozen to a safe depth, the kids started asking to go out again. So weekends after there was a good snow and the roads had been cleared by Friday, we made a day-trip to the cottage on Saturday.

The kids whipped out their sleds and sailed down the hill and out over the lake. I never got over being nervous about that last part, but the fish houses parked out in the bay wouldn't have been there if it wasn't safe, I kept telling myself.

Springtime meant fewer visits as school and sports plus the annual danger of our town being flooded were foremost in our mind.

But when the summer weather was upon us, and the school bell had rung for the last time, we were back at the lake on weekends. Sand castles expanded to whole villages built along the beach complete with trees and shrubs harvested from our bushes and stabbed into the sand. Wave-smoothed flat rocks paved the roads, and Popsicle sticks sported the street names.

Each year the kids had to learn all over again about quickly shutting the screen doors to keep the mosquitoes out. We all knew there was a reason for the inch-wide, jaw-clamp, mosquito traps that were sold to tourists. The little pests were huge and more determined than a vampire to draw our blood. At dusk, dark clouds of them could be seen rising from the trees around the lake. We moved inside and kept our lights off, hoping not to attract them.

One June night at dusk, the kids followed me into the darkened cottage. Thinking we had eluded the little buggers, my son quickly corrected our perception.

"It didn't work," he told us before I turned on the light. "Look," he added pointing up.

His sisters and I looked to see a few fireflies flashing their signal lights above us in the kitchen.

"See?" my son added. "The mosquitoes followed us in with flashlights."

Lace Sails

2010-02-02T08:16:00.000-08:00

The crisp spring air tinted my cheeks red as I cleaned up my yard. Despite wearing my gardening gloves, a nasty thorn pierced my thumb. More annoyed than hurt, I dropped my load long enough to extract the offending spine, and then returned to work without thinking about it again.

But by the middle of that night, my finger throbbed and kept me awake. It reminded me of other times I’d pricked my fingers with painful regularity--the dozens of times during my childhood in the ‘40s when my mother announced, “The sun’s shining and there’s a breeze. Today we wash the lace curtains.”

My older sisters and I quickly learned the routine. Mom stood on our piano bench as she emptied the living and dining room curtain rods into a sturdy wicker laundry basket. My older sisters each gripped a handle and dragged more than carried the basket down to the laundry room in the damp basement of our three-story stucco house.

Mom pared thin slices of brown laundry soap into the hot water slushing to the steady beat of the agitator in our round white washing machine. When the shavings had dissolved, she fed in the delicate curtains one pair at a time and watched as they disappeared into the suds.

After only a few minutes, she swung the wringer over one of the two gray laundry tubs she’d filled with cold water. Under her direction, the curtains emerged from the wringer and snaked into clean water where they stayed until the last curtains had been washed. Only then did Mom dispose of the wash water and fill the washing machine with clean final rinse water. I ventured to put a finger in to poke down the lacy folds that rose above the surface, but the water was handnumbing cold--too cold to invite play.

Mom had the best-looking lace curtains in the neighborhood because she added some starch to the final rinse. She poured some of the white nuggets from the blue box into a big measuring cup of water and pinched and stirred them with her fingers. When the cloudy white liquid went into the rinse water in the machine, the agitator quickly dispersed it.

I remember thinking how brave and strong Mom was as she thrust her arms into the laundry tub of cold water to slush those lifeless flat lace serpents lurking there before she fed the curtains back through the wringer into the washing machine that last time.

While we’d been washing the curtains, Dad had been in our fenced-in backyard setting up the curtain stretchers--large frames on which the curtains would dry perfectly flat and wrinkle-free. He tightened the giant wing nuts that held each frame in the correct rectangular size and leaned chunks of cement he’d saved after redoing our sidewalk, against the supports until he was confident the wind could not buffet the lace sails and knock the whole contraption over.

By the time the frames were ready, the curtains had traveled back through the wringer into the big basket, the flat narrow bands folding back and forth like vanilla cake batter pouring into a pan. My sisters and I didn’t dare let our attention wander at that point or the folds might flop out of the basket and onto the dirty basement floor. Then we would have to start over.

Mom carried the basket into the yard and then came the activity that my throbbing finger reminded me of that night.

My sisters and I stood in a row facing the frame and Mom laid a curtain in our arms. Starting with a top corner, she pressed the hemmed edge onto a row of pointed brad-like nails that protruded about an inch apart in a line all the way around the frame. She pulled and pressed the wet fabric in place for several inches in each direction from all four corners and then the middle of each side to insure the curtain would dry straight. Freed from our holding duty, we helped attach the remaining edges to the sharp nails.

While Mom worked her way across the top and down the upper sides, we grasped the edge of the fabric with our thumbs and forefingers and pressed firmly on each side of the nails we could reach. The trick was to be certain our thumbs were on either side, but not over the nail, when we pressed. However, we could not see the nail when we pulled the curtain hem over it, so for those last seconds, the location of the sharp point was a guess--sometimes, a poor one.

One of us always pricked a thumb at least once. Because we were pressing hard, it was no small scratch. We would howl and suck on the injured digit. Mom would have to excuse us from working any longer because we might get blood on the curtain. When we were not quick enough to prevent such a stain, she had to pull the fabric free of the frame and dip the edge in a cup of cold water to rinse away an offending red dot.

Once the frames were full, with two layers of curtains on each one, the sun and breeze made short work of the drying process. Soon the curtains were back on their rods, hanging in carefully measured, finger-deep folds.

As I grew older, I grew more expert at anchoring the curtains on the frame nails without mishap. But I noticed that my older sisters seemed to prick their fingers more often, rather than less. I always seemed to be the one who remained to help Mom while they ran off to their own entertainments rather than chance getting the blood from their pricked fingers on the curtains.

Thinking about it made me smile as I lay awake with my finger throbbing from pricking it in the garden. I decided that maybe someday I’ll ask them if they... But no, they wouldn’t have pricked their fingers on purpose. Would they?

The Wedding Announcement

2010-01-04T08:06:00.000-08:00

Her daughter met her British beau at graduate school in the states. After graduating, they settled in overseas where their permanent home would be. Abhorring the idea of a big or fancy wedding ceremony and not wishing to burden either family with overseas travel for a short wedding visit when they would barely see the couple before they disappeared on their honeymoon, they told their parents, “Don’t be surprised when we call someday and say we’re married.”

When their call came, the bride's mother swung into action and ordered engraved wedding announcements to share the happy news with friends and families on both sides of the Atlantic. She carried the boxes of carefully addressed and sealed double envelopes to the post office hoping to buy the necessary stamps in pretty flowers or hearts. But she was disappointed to learn that she would have to use four stamps to reach the dollar amount necessary for Air Mail to the UK, or a single square one that had a miniature blue-inked scene on a white background.

Having forgotten her reading glasses, she couldn’t quite make out the picture, but thought the overall blurred effect of blue, her favorite color, was nice enough. Buying them, she stayed at the post office to affix the stamps so she could send the announcements on their way immediately.

For some reason, she ended up with two extra stamps, which she took home and eventually studied more closely--with glasses on. In the margin of the sheet she read a brief description of the scene that had looked like blue lines before. “The British surrender to General Burgoyne at Saratoga in 1777."

She gasped. She had just sent each wedding announcement to the UK with a stamp marking the surrender of the British forces in the war for American independence. It wasn't until much later when she asked her daughter about it. Had anyone mentioned the stamp, she wondered. No one had noticed or at least no one said a thing.

She could finally breathe a sigh of relief.

SPECIAL GIFTS by Lois Carroll

2009-12-04T07:08:00.000-08:00

It is more blessed to give than to receive. This is a hard lesson for a child to remember in this holiday season–especially in the excitement of Christmas morning. But when a child learns the wonder of keeping secrets about gifts and giving them with love, the child is blessed.

In today’s economic climate it’s near to impossible for some to give gifts. Saving pennies to give what they can, they hope it will be enough. But any gift given with love is more than enough.

Their stories in my short story duet, SPECIAL GIFTS, is my gift for you. Being able to write short stories and novels makes me feel truly blessed. I’ve been writing and editing for a lot of years, and I never get tired of it. Imagine my excitement when my eleven-year-old granddaughter emailed me the first chapter of the book she had started to write. Since then she has worked on two others in her series of fantasy stories. Way to go, Sugarplum.

I often give book talks and always encourage my audience to try their hand at writing. And I love hearing from you, my readers. I learn so much from what you tell me. Of course, I hope you enjoy what you are reading. Hearing that you do spurs me on to write more.

I wish you and yours a happy holiday.

With love, Lois Carroll

Lois Carroll has been writing since her childhood when she received a daily diary as a gift. With a bachelor’s degree in English Literature and a master’s in Theater, she began her writing and editing career working at a publishing company. Now a wife, mother, and grandmother, she writes full time while spending her winters in Arizona and summers in the Finger Lakes region of NY. To date she has published three hard cover books, two paperbacks, over a dozen e-books, plus short stories and non-fiction articles in national magazines. She has three novels coming out in 2010.

She has a second short story at Echelon Shorts, Last Visit. Her romantic suspense with Echelon Press LLC, Just a Memory, earned two 5-star reviews.

You can read about her available books and email her through her web site at: http://home.twcny.rr.com/topromances/lois_carroll/

A Gift for Grandma

2009-12-01T13:26:00.000-08:00

Kari remembered that conquering the first year in school proved to be no problem other than the annoyance when other students slowed her down and she couldn’t work as fast as her agile brain dictated.

Often delegated to sit in the corner after she’d completed an assignment “too fast,” as the teacher would say, she read book after book from the shelf over the stool. So when the teacher announced a new project, she was startled by her good fortune.

“We’re starting something special today, class,” Kari’s teacher announced. She held up lengths of brightly colored fabric. “We’re going to learn to sew.”

Complaints erupted from the boys and even a few disinterested looks from the girls, but Kari barely noticed.

“We’ll each be using a needle and thread on fabric of your very own. We’re going to make aprons.”

The classroom sprang to life as the teacher herded the children to the activity corner. For Kari, making an apron would be fun. She already knew how to sew. She’d learned by her mother’s example and had already made a complete wardrobe for her baby doll.

Granted a good deal of thinking time while the teacher explained some simple stitches to the others, Kari considered the opportunity to create an apron that would be a beautiful and attractive gift. Her grandmother’s birthday was only two months away and Kari decided she would give the apron to her on that special day.

And she wouldn’t tell anyone. That made creating the gift all the more fun. Her heart aglow with the first real secret she’d ever kept, Kari paid careful attention to the teacher as she handed out the fabric and scissors.

Kari selected a pale green cotton with tiny white flowers that would look pretty in her grandma’s kitchen. She cut the slit for Grandma’s head across the center of the length of fabric and lovingly sewed rows of tiny stitches to secure the rolled hem around all the raw edges. Hemming the straight sides of the rectangle was easy. When she’d attached little ties on each side of the front and back, her beautiful apron was complete. Kari was elated and proudly showed it off.

The teacher, not pleased at Kari being done so quickly, suggested Kari take a small square of the cotton fabric and add a pocket to one side of the front. She even had time to sew all the way around the neck and the pocket with dark green thread just for decoration.

Having run out of ideas to keep Kari busy during the remaining days devoted to the apron construction, the teacher allowed her to spend the hours at her desk--as long as she was quiet. Happy to escape the boredom of watching the others sew, Kari created a birthday card that would accompany the apron to her grandmother’s house. She cut some white flowers out of the fabric and glued them on folded dark green construction paper. Inside she copied the words “Happy Birthday” from the birthday list on the classroom wall. She wanted to add “Grandma” to the greeting, but couldn’t spell it and didn’t want to spoil the surprise by telling the teacher who it was for.

When the project ended, Kari carried her apron home folded carefully on top of her workbook with the card slipped inside. Once in her room, she wrapped the gift in colored paper her mother supplied. The thin paper ripped easily and often, but finally her gift was ready for Grandma. Kari would bring it the next Sunday when they went there for dinner.

She arrived with her parents after most of her cousins, aunts and uncles were already there. Clutching her gift against her chest, Kari walked straight to the easy chair where her Grandma sat. For a few precious moments, she snuggled in her grandma’s soft lap, enclosed in her large loving arms. She kissed her Grandma on the cheek and felt the tickly coarse hairs that had been growing there lately.

“What’s this?” Grandma asked when Kari handed her the special package.

“I made it all myself,” Kari said proudly.

“Can’t be any good then,” a cousin said with a smirk.

A cluck of her Grandma’s tongue quieted him. Kari slid from her lap and kneeled on the floor beside the chair while Grandma opened the package. She lifted the green apron from the wrap and held it out at arms length. “Oh, Kari, it’s beautiful.” She laid it across her wide lap and commented on the careful workmanship. “I can’t believe you made it all yourself.”

Kari felt all warm and wonderful inside. Grandma truly liked her gift. “Aren’t you going to put it on?” Kari asked, barely able to contain herself from jumping up and down with excitement.

“Not just yet. I’m going to save it to wear someday on a very special occasion,” Grandma announced as she extended her arms to Kari.

The child returned her loving hug with one of her own. “I love you, Grandma,” she whispered. “I love you forever.”

As happens with children, Kari didn’t think about the apron much after that special Sunday afternoon. She never saw her grandmother wear it, and as the years passed, she forgot about it completely--until she came upon it when she was grown and had grandchildren of her own.

Her loving grandmother had long since died, and just recently Kari’s own parents had passed away. Going through the drawers in her mother’s dresser to empty them in the weeks following her funeral, Kari found the green cotton apron she’d made so many years ago wrapped in white tissue paper that had yellowed with age. She examined the garment with adult eyes and smiled at the uneven stitches, the puckered pocket, but she still felt proud and happy.

“I wonder if Grandma ever wore this,” she muttered as she stepped over to the mirror and lifted the apron to put it on. But it wouldn’t fit over her head. She lowered it and saw that instead of the neck hole being obstructed in any way, it was just too small for her head. Holding the garment up to her chest, she suddenly realized why.

The apron was child-sized--just right to fit the young girl who had made it. During all those days of sewing, Kari had been so excited by her secret mission to give it to her grandma that she’d never tried it on herself--not even once.

Now, half a century later, Kari realized she could never have worn it. At that moment, Kari loved her Grandmother even more than ever. She’d cared enough not to disappoint Kari, or to set her up for ridicule from her older cousin.

“Thank you, Grandma,” Kari whispered as she rewrapped the apron and set it aside.

The apron was one item that was not going to the charity clothes drive. Kari wanted to take the little apron home--for her own granddaughter. Though a toddler now, someday the little green apron would fit her perfectly. Kari could even teach her to make one of her own.

Memories of Halloweens Past

2009-11-01T08:55:00.000-08:00

The years since I sold my costume rental shop make my eleven years as a storekeep seem like long ago, but oh, what memories. I’ll never forget the Cornell University hockey team dressed in the pink tutus I’d made, dancing on the ice to Swan Lake to raise money for Hospicare.

I can see the former mayor dressed in his rented white tails, wing-tip shirt, tie and cummerbund over his own jeans, ready for a New Year’s Eve party.

And I still picture a father wanting to impress everyone by renting a brown grizzly bear costume, despite our advice to the contrary, to wear to his child’s kindergarten Halloween parade. He returned it before school ended. He’d scared the kids and been asked to leave. I know the clerk who’d waited on him thought, “I told you so,” but thankfully she didn’t say it.

I’ll never forget how happy and appreciative the man the size of a football player was when he tried on the French maid costume I’d created at his request. I wish all my customers had been as thoughtful.

The best season for the costume rentals and sales was, of course, Halloween. We geared up for weeks to prepare for the onslaught of customers who, I’d learned over the years, always left costume shopping for the last minute.

Formal wear rentals and sales were added to provide a steady year-round business after previously making half my annual income in just two weeks in October. My customer base was small, seasonal, and dependent on the college and university in town.

If there was one thing that renting to students taught me, it was to have the customer go through the pockets of the returned suits to be sure they were empty. I’m certain the high school senior’s mother who returned a prom tuxedo with a used condom in the pocket didn’t recover easily from the experience of finding it. But better her than one of my staff.

Renting suits and dresses created the opportunity to meet brides and grooms-to-be and the mothers of the brides. Movie producers could learn from those mothers. They created the mood of the shopping excursion--sometimes with one comment.

Take one couple that wanted a simple morning wedding. “The groom will wear his own dark suit,” the bride told me, getting right down to business. “We’re here to rent business suits for the men in the party who don’t own them.”

Before I could respond, her mother started a tirade on how disgraceful a morning wedding would be without the proper formal wear. In moments she intimidated the bride and groom into ordering strollers for everyone.

I wasn’t the least bit surprised when the groom came in a week later to say the wedding was cancelled. I’d had the feeling he’d never seen his mother-in-law-to-be swing into action as she had that day. I said I truly hoped they worked it out, but short of eloping and moving to the opposite side of the globe from her mother, he didn’t think they would.

I had my problems, too, like the year the town began street repairs in front of my shop the week before Halloween. Thankfully, a phone call persuaded the streets department to postpone it until after the holiday. I never understood how they could have considered it in the first place. The traffic jam that we caused on Halloween without roadwork out front was an annual event to be avoided unless heading for my shop. Some years I was thankful to have the police directing the traffic to keep it moving.

Some of those same officers had been in the shop the three times it was burglarized. In each case the perpetrators were never caught, the goods never recovered. Not even when two twenty-foot-wide fabric jack-o-lanterns I’d made for the front of the building disappeared. I never made a third. I didn't like the feelings of violation and loss.

After the first break-in, I had the off-street windows all boarded up. The last time someone broke in, they boldly picked a front window in plain sight of everyone driving through our busy corner near collegetown. The burglar smashed the glass and climbed in. I remember vividly that the pointed shards of glass remaining in the window, between which the burglar had climbed in and out, were only eleven inches apart. The policeman writing up the report said that s/he was probably in junior high school to be that small. That thought of such a young criminal saddened me more than the loss of merchandise.

But overall, my memories are not sad, but happy. The shop provided part-time work for each of my children and seasonal work for a number of temps. I had as much work as I wanted in a town where meaningful employment for anyone with a graduate degree was hard to come by. And I know that the hundreds of costumes that I designed and created gave a lot of people fun and happiness.

But that’s not all that created my good memories. I used my experiences in that shop to write my paperback, 5-star romantic suspense, JUST A MEMORY. They say to write what you know and I did. It's available from Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble. Or, for one more week, you can get an autographed copy from me at a lower price. Email for details. And thanks.

The Boss Comes to Dinner

2009-10-07T07:38:00.000-07:00

“I invited my new boss to dinner,” my husband said matter-of-factly just months after we were married. “That’s nice,” I managed, trying to be supportive but quite worried about making a good impression for him.

Terrified at stories I’d heard about disasters occuring when the husband’s boss came for dinner, I spent days planning the menu. With self-esteem not my strong suit, I was certain the stories would become my reality despite having some expertise as a cook.

What would the boss think? What effect would my dinner have on my husband’s job?

Having just been divorced, his boss came alone. Tall and reserved, he did nothing to put me at ease. After the requisite amount of small talk, we moved to the dining room to eat. I was encouraged when he appeared to enjoy the food I’d spent long hours preparing. But his boss said nothing about the meal; he and my husband talked business.

After serving a custard dessert following the multiple-course dinner, I soon became aware of an increasingly lengthy silence at the table. I glanced at my husband and saw a frown on his face. I followed the direction of his gaze, and watched with fascination as his boss repeatedly dug his spoon into his sherbet dish to retrieve the remaining drops of his dessert. He looked up and he gaze locked on mine. Here it comes, I thought. I had visions of my husband’s job hanging by the thin thread of what his boss was about to say.

Suddenly, the boss’s formidable manner peeled away as he grinned widely. “That was delicious,” he said simply. “Could I have some more?”

Forgetting my worries, I had to smile as I walked to the kitchen to get him a refill. Why hadn’t I ever considered that the boss might be quite human, and very hungry to boot?

A Child's Perfect Gift

2009-09-10T07:21:00.000-07:00

“All I want for my birthday is a good girl,” my mother told me each and every year when I sought to discover what it was that would please her the most on that special occasion. I never dared question her further after the frustrating tease about my behavior. I was left floundering for the right gift. I don’t know that I ever found it.

When my own children were old enough to make similar inquiries, they forced me to consider the whole idea of gift giving just when they were at an age easily influenced by advertising, flashy store windows, and the delight of having real money to spend.

Even if I had chosen the easy route and given them the simple response they sought, I couldn’t have answered with more than a short list of a few gadgets that would be nice in the kitchen. I didn’t really need them, but I did need my children to understand the important principles behind giving and receiving gifts.

So I ventured to answer with the truth.

And the older I became, the more importance I placed on receiving exactly the gift I kept asking for. I needed to show my children that gifts other than those purchased in stores, could reflect love and the spirit of giving in a truly wonderful way.

“I don’t want a gift done up with printed paper and bows,” I explained. “But I do want your undivided attention and help on my birthday with the yard work.”

“Aw, come on, Mom. What do you really want?” they asked insistently.

“Your time and your help,” I repeated simply.

It took reassurances from my husband that I meant it, but they finally believed me.

However, as with many good plans, implementation was not immediately successful. My birthday comes at the end of May and I found the help somewhat late for spring tasks to be completed in a timely fashion. My children found little satisfaction in their accomplishments because working that far into the growing season, they were not able to make a lasting difference in the appearance of the yard. With nothing to show for their work, their hearts were not in it.

We were certain we had the right basic idea. However, as with many parenting plans, we needed to implement a change to make it succeed. The calendar provided a simple solution: exchange the birthday gift idea for Mother’s Day. The beginning of May was a perfect time to add six small hands to the four larger ones working in the yard.

It worked. The results of our one special day of all working together were amazing. Bushes that had threatened to take over the sidewalk no longer clawed at passerbys. Dead limbs, barkless with age, disappeared from the trees where they had remained hidden by leaves the year before. The vegetable garden expanded and the neat rows of seeds were planted that produced a variety of fresh vegetables for our table all summer.

And though not perfect in their execution at first, my children learned to use pruning shears, garden and leaf rakes, a spade and fork, a bow saw, and when they were tall enough, a telescoping tree saw while their friends barely knew of the tools’ existence.

As the summers progressed my children helped tend the gardens often and without being asked, though they drew the line at weeding and picking the bush green beans.

“We’ll eat them, but please don’t ask us to pick them,” they pleaded, not liking the fuzzy feel of the raw vegetable. Hearing their offers to eat the vitamin rich pods, this mother couldn’t ask for more.

My annual Mother’s Day gifts of labor began many years ago. With varying levels of participation through their college years, my children always did their best to come home to help each spring.

In recent years their distant homes and work schedules often prevent their visits on Mother’s Day. Imagine my surprise, when on her last visit before she moved to Europe for a new job, one of my daughters showed up on our doorstep, her arms bulging with mesh bags of bulbs.

“I won’t be in the states to come help you next year on Mother’s Day,” she said with a broad smile. “I thought I’d plant bulbs now that will bloom then to say that I wish I could be here to garden with you.”

We worked all weekend, even in the rain, to finish planting them all. Together we created a special new garden where I could step out the back door and see the blooms at the edge of the woods.

As the winter passed, I watched it; I even replaced some soil after erosion from a hard rain left miniature canyons. Then I was devastated to see holes honeycombing the garden area. Rodents and rabbits had discovered the stash of bulbs. For them it must have been like manna from heaven during one of the worst winters we’ve ever had. Never having planted many of the bulb varieties before, I didn’t know they would turn out to be tasty.

After all our hard work, are there any bulbs left to bloom in spring? I won’t know for a while, but my daughter needn’t worry.

Though there may not be many blooms, the helping hands over the years in the gardens were the best gifts I ever received. I think of my children on Mother’s Day and every other day--each time I look outdoors at the yard we tended together.

A short story to welcome the new follower!

2009-08-23T08:54:00.001-07:00

TWO SPECIAL WORDS
Recently, my church discussed the possibility of dropping the picnic to which all the Sunday School members and their families are invited. The general consensus was that families were too busy nowadays. Not worth the work and the fuss, trying to fit it into their kids’ busy schedules, they concluded.
Just after WWII when I was a kid, summer hadn’t truly arrived until the day of the church picnic. My three sisters and I anxiously awaited that special day of fun games, highlighted by a delicious meal. Following years of rationing, I remember the dish-to-pass picnic dinners being grander than I believed possible.
Today, busy schedules keep families from getting together. Back then, polio was a formidable enough danger for my parents to keep us at home. After the girl across the street died from the disease, I never went to a swimming pool again. The only time I went to the city park a block from our house was to ice skate. I guess Mom figured that germs couldn’t live in the cold.
The church picnic was somehow a gigantic exception to her rule of nearly total isolation. Maybe she believed healthiness as well as cleanliness was next to godliness.
In the week before the annual picnic, my first duty was to find the sports equipment. The softball bats and balls only saw the light of day at the church picnic. Our suburban yard wasn’t big enough for a game. We dug out Dad’s glove (so old it was stiff and thin), our two balls, and two bats.
One year I decided to get in some batting practice at home. I took the bat I liked best and the newer ball into the backyard. Standing with my side to the house, I threw the ball into the air and tried to connect with the bat, hopefully sending the ball toward the windowless wall on the alley side of the parlor.
I hadn’t planned on how much noise the ball would make inside when it hit. Mom appeared at the back door to tell me to stop before I knocked all the stucco off the house. She startled me just as I was swinging. The bat swung high and sent the ball low--straight toward the basement window.
The ball crashed through and rolled directly into the coal room. Having burned most of the coal over the winter, the room was nearly empty by summer. The softball picked the dirtiest corner in which to come to rest. I tried to clean it up with soap and water, but the dirt only soaked into the leather while the water made it stiff. On top of ruining the new look of the ball, I had to work long and hard to pay for the broken glass.
Next, all our efforts turned to the food. That was before the bright plastic thermal chests were available. Picnic basket meant exactly that--a basket to carry everything one needed, generally covered with the cloth which would later cover the wooden picnic table.
Our family was fortunate enough to have a metal food carrier that had a box on one side that Mom filled with ice. A much larger version of the ice box was still the only kind of refrigeration in several houses in our neighborhood back then. The three elderly ladies that lived next door had a wooden ice box. The semi-weekly arrival of the ice man was cause for celebration in the summer. He’d often give us a chunk before he swung the giant block onto the leather pad that protected his shoulder for the trip into their house.
Mom always needed all day Friday just to prepare our share of the food for the Saturday picnic. Mom was famous for her potato salad. She cooked huge pots of potatoes until they were tender, but not soft. Then while they were chilling in our refrigerator, we washed and chopped up carrots, celery, green and red sweet peppers, onions, radishes, and even cucumbers. When we were done, a rainbow delight of colors filled the table.
The potatoes were cool by then, and they had to be peeled and cut up. When all the peeling and chopping was done, Mom mixed the salad together with the dressing in her enormous ten-loaf bowl in which she made bread.
The best part was getting to taste the salad before she carefully packed it into quart canning jars that she lined up in the refrigerator until time for transport to the Forest Preserve the next day.
The other food we brought included homemade rolls, ham and egg salad for sandwiches, deviled eggs, home-canned pickles, and gallons of fresh lemonade.
At the Forest Preserve, the men lined up the picnic tables in a couple long rows with two or three perpendicular to them for the buffet. By one o’clock, the tables were loaded with each family’s offerings. No one went hungry, and there was rarely any food left.
The rest of the day was filled with softball, running and sack races that included prizes for the winners, and more than one checkers game. By the time the magical day came to an end, I was always too tired to stay awake for the ride home.
Church picnic day was always the greatest of days. But I know now that getting ready for that special event was half the fun. It was one of the infrequent occasions on which all four sisters, whose ages vary by a wide span of years, and our parents worked together toward a common goal of fun and fellowship.
I’m hoping my church will reconsider the picnic idea. If they tried it again, they might find themselves creating memories to last a lifetime, too. Copyright Lois Carroll

Creating a successful hero & heroine

2009-08-01T08:33:00.000-07:00

"Can I entice you to make love with me?" he asked.

I thought about it, and my answer was no task.

"Roses look beautiful, but they don't turn me on.

Nor do lilies, clematis, or a carnation.

Dinner out on the town I wouldn't want to fight.

And a long walk holding hands would be a delight.

Kissing that special spot behind my ear is hot.

Your hard body against mine advances the plot.

Hours next to you in a dark movie theater:

That's definitely something I would consider.

But what makes me love you is not merely one thing.

It is all the little things that me to you bring.

At parties I want you when you sit by my chair.

I love you so when you let my friends know you care.

I can't resist when you wait for me to say yes.

And I want you so when it's no I must profess.

Yes, it's not a big gift or expensive night out.

It's a touch, a look of longing that leaves no doubt.

But doing the dishes after I cook is best!"

Out of the mouths of babes

2009-07-07T17:09:00.000-07:00

She was in the bathroom, putting on her makeup, under the watchful eyes of her young granddaughter, as she'd done many times before. After she applied her lipstick and started to leave, the little one said, "But Gramma, you forgot to kiss the toilet paper good-bye!"

She will probably never put lipstick on again without thinking about kissing the toilet paper good-bye....

Giving away early romances

2009-06-08T03:45:00.000-07:00

Energized by the book signing Saturday, I'm back to packing in preparation for our move. Giving away never opened ebooks on floppies so I don't have to move them. 3 or 4 (whatever I can get in cardboard envelope. They vary in size.) Ebooks free-you pay $6 Priority mail (to 48 states) thru Paypal. Play only on floppy drive.

Getting Started

2009-05-06T05:17:00.000-07:00

"The way to get started is to quit talking and begin doing."

Walt Disney said that and he certainly accomplished a lot.

Whether you begin with the first paragraph or an outline or a short story telling the plot of the novel, the point is to start it. Let it flow. Enjoy feeling good about what you are accomplishing.

Promotion

2009-05-01T09:10:00.000-07:00

You have got to see this!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=29q_FE_w5dQ
What fun!

Writing means you'll be doing a lot of promotion. This is one way.

Motivation to Write

2009-04-24T03:47:00.000-07:00

If you've read the first chapter of my new paperback, JUST A MEMORY by Lois Carroll, you know what brought me to write my first story. I owned a costume shop that was burglarized. It left me frightened and just about worried sick to leave at night and walk down the dark narrow passageway to my car. I wrote a short story about a woman whose store was robbed as mine had been. The police came to investigate. In that story they didn't take long at all to find the bad guys.

In reality they never found the perps. In fact, my store was burglarized twice more despite covering the windows they seemed to prefer as an entry. But writing the story had released my fear. I felt great after writing the story. And I realized I liked writing. Stories filled my head and cried out to be written down. So after years of editing for a publishing company followed by freelance editing, which I still do today, I began to write.

What brought you to writing, or haven't you tried it yet? Try it. You might just like it.

New hard cover in 2010

2009-04-09T14:22:00.000-07:00

I was happy to learn that one of my publishers will put another of my stories into a hard cover book in 2010. Can't officially announce it until the contract is signed, but it's great to get the offer. This will be my fourth hard cover.

Cranky when I can't write

2009-04-01T11:06:00.000-07:00

After cleaning for hours, I took the plastic wrap off my computer and everything else in my home when the tile installers finished this morning. The dust was everywhere, including in some of the cabinets that I had masking-taped shut. I was up at 5:30am to clean the grout off the tiles and vacuum the rugs so they could put the furniture back. I don't know which would hurt more--my back after cleaning walls etc. and washing the floor three times so far to remove grout smears, or my back if I had taken my time and moved the furniture myself!

The tile looks beautiful, but I will never do this again. Taking out the old tile makes more dust than I ever want to deal with again. And the withdrawal of not having my computer for nearly a week was inhumane. I really get cranky when I can't write!

2009-02-03T20:01:00.001-08:00

Just A Memory by Lois Carroll is now available at Barnes & Noble stores and at their web site. If they are not already on the shelves, they can get it fast when you order. Check it out.

Solitary Activities

2008-11-09T19:07:00.000-08:00

Writing is ultimately a solitary activity. Having critique partners is nice, but the writing is up to the writer alone.

Reading is most often also a solitary activity. Both are best done without distractions.

The written words--that which we read--the book is what brings us all together. The better the book, the more joyous the meeting.

Hope you have a joyous week of writing or reading or both.

My new paperback is out!

2008-11-07T08:25:00.000-08:00

Combining mystery and romance, I loved writing this romantic suspense, JUST A MEMORY. The glowing reviews are wonderful. I'd love to hear what you think of it and what you think of combining mystery and romance in the same book.