"Are You Sixty Yet?" by Liz Flaherty

"Are you sixty yet?"

I wish I'd grinned at him and said, "Just." But I didn't. I gaped and then I grinned and said, "Well past it, but thank you."

I usually forget to ask for the senior discount available in a lot of places, and I think servers and cashiers are reluctant to offer it because they don't want to insult anyone by (1) referring to their age or (2) being wrong about their age. They also don't want to open themselves to the flak offered up by people who don't even want their age noticed, much less acknowledged. I don't blame anyone a bit for not stepping into that particular fray. 

There are downsides to being well past sixty, many of them having to do with worn out joints, deteriorating senses, medical appointments, and pillboxes on the counter. Forgetfulness, slowing reflexes, and invisibility create fears not unlike the ones in adolescence, when it seemed as if no one liked you, everyone was cooler than you, and your parents didn't understand squat. 

With the downsides, there are sometimes tradeoffs. Losing people is incredibly hard, but having had them is like the sun rising and setting--it's a gift every single day. Generally retirement income is less. Sometimes the kind of less that means choices between food and medication, food and new shoes, food and rent. The discount that is often offered is both appreciated and, in some cases, necessary. While being invisible to so many can be hurtful, sometimes being left alone is a blessing. Privacy offers benefits.  

I have to admit, for some of the over-sixty crowd, age is open season for being rude, for feeling entitled, for disrespecting every demographic except their own. As much as I despise hearing Hey, Boomer, I sometimes understand the reason for it. I still remember the man standing in the express line at Marsh in Logansport with his full cart of groceries. He'd stood in line all his life, he said, it was "their" turn now. Behind him, on the feet I'd been standing on for eight hours, I didn't appreciate him a bit. I still don't. 

Just speaking for myself, of course, I don't think anyone's entitled to that kind of rudeness--even ones like me, who are...well, almost 60.

I know I've talked about age a gazillion times on this blog. I can almost hear there she goes again whistling in on the cool October wind. But mostly I just wanted to tell about Ed, the guy with the smile at My Pizza My Way, who said, "Are you sixty yet?" and made my day. I wanted to thank him. 

On the 25th, stop by Gallery 15 from 6:30-8:00 PM for a book signing with Debby Myers, Kathy Oldfather, Joe DeRozier, and me. Buy a book or two, listen to the readings at 7:00, peruse the beautiful art, and visit a while. 

Have a good week. Notice somebody--and be nice to them. 

Keeping It Rosy by Liz Flaherty

Sean Dietrich

"Apostle Paul would tell us keep those rosy shades of faith." - from a comment on Sean Dietrich's column. Just because I liked it a lot and reminded me to be grateful even when things aren't especially...rosy.

While I don't have trouble "keeping the faith," it's not always rosy. Not always easy. Sometimes it's hard. Respecting others' faith when they use is as a weapon to hurt people they don't like is impossible. Respecting their right to have that faith is a little easier, but not at all rosy.

But sometimes it is easy. When nurses on horseback, and linemen from all over, and 1000s of FEMA employees go toward trouble instead of away from it, it's easy to have faith in humankind.

When catastrophes strike others, the often promised thoughts and prayers are easy. When I came out here this morning well before daylight and heard the hum of the combines and saw their bright lights in nearby fields, it was easy to mumble, "Keep them safe."

It's easy to pray when school buses are on the road before and after school. To be thankful for kids who give of their time and sometimes their muscles to help others. To remember “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another." (John 13:34)

When you have enough and others don't, it's easy to share whether you have the same values or not. It's even easier when you just think about your own values instead of giving a lot of attention to theirs.

If you are a person of faith, it's easier to tell the truth than otherwise. Especially because if you're laying a groundwork of lies, you have to remember what they were. If you choose to believe the liar, what does that say about your faith? Or you?

In case you think I'm sounding more righteous than I'm entitled to, you have a good point. I was not a truth-telling child. I don't like when people take advantage of charity just because they can and they'd rather not work. I judge them even though I know better. Sometimes faith is easy because I'm not the one doing the work, bearing the burden, mourning the loss.

I don't have an end for this, because it's not something that ends. Faith is ongoing, doing for others is ongoing, catastrophes are ongoing, truth--although it's often buried--is ongoing, loving one another is ongoing.

Have a good week. Pray for others if that's what you do, simply wish for the greater good if it's not. Stay safe. Be nice to somebody.

Tales from Behind the Bakery Door by Joe DeRozier

Have you started thinking about Christmas, yet?

If you're like me, you'll wait until the last minute and then have to scrabble around trying to find gifts and stocking stuffers that don't look like...
... well, that don't look like you waited until the last minute and had to scramble around.

My books from the "Tales From Behind The Bakery Door" collection can be a quick and affordable solution.

Six short story collections that blend humor, wit, and heart, while exploring themes of family, friendship, military life, and more.

1. I Don't Know... I Just Make Donuts
2. My Dog Pees When Company Arrives... I'm Glad I Don't
3. Of the 2971-Mile Trip... 75,000 of It Was Nebraska
4. One Day... Your Advice Will Also Be Ignored
5. The Pond and Wet Clothes... I Can't Stop Smelling Them
6. Sometimes Therapy Is... Just Good Friends in an Abandoned House

 (This is a pre-order and won't be available in print until April '25)

You can purchase the books from me directly for $10 (Paperback) or $13 (Hardcover) plus shipping. I can accept PayPal, Venmo, or for those long in the tooth like myself, a check.

or

You can order them through Amazon.
Contact Information
Email: joederozier@yahoo.com
Website: joederozierbooks.com
Facebook: @Joederozier... I just make donuts
Amazon: (Tales From Behind the Bakery Door)
https://a.co/d/2BVrluU

Joe DeRozier

Retreat... by Liz Flaherty

A couple of times a year, my friend Nan Reinhardt take three or four days (or six!) and to on a writing retreat. Usually we're finishing a book (me) or starting one (Nan), and we're tired before we even start. 

We know we're lucky to be able to do this, that we have husbands who keep the home fires burning, that our kids and grandkids don't need us on a daily basis (I'm still a little wounded by that, but not terribly), and that our houses are perfectly happy to not have us to clean it and/or hang the toilet paper the right way. 

And, yes, my house is happier than Nan's because I'm the worst housekeeper on the planet and that's not going to change any time soon. Ever. That's not going to change ever. 

But I'm regressing and trying to be funny when the subject matter is really kind of serious. I hear and read a lot about mental illness and I've made no secret of taking an antidepressant.  We know the political and social media situations are toxic. We know respect for others is more of a meme than an actuality in way too many cases. 

Hence, retreat. No, louder. 

We were gone for six days. The only time we turned on the TV was to watch the vice-presidential debate. Social media was way down on our scale of interest, far below writing, eating, talking, and laughing. It was a great week. 

I'm not saying it's necessary to spend a week in South Haven, Michigan--although I recommend it--to get away from "what ails you." You can do it anywhere. You can do it by closing doors on things and people who create havoc in your soul, turning off devices that have you lying awake at night, not responding to the instigators, watching the sunset, watching the colors change. You can escape by acknowledging kindness and passing it on, by sitting with friends and telling terrible jokes, and by eating soup and pie; it is autumn, after all. 

Enough advice from me for one day. I'm late getting this posted and I have unpacking to do, but I'm wishing you all a good week and a gentle retreat. Be nice to somebody.

We'll be back... by Liz Flaherty

Taking the week--or maybe two--off from the Window. I'll be back either next Saturday or the one after that. 

Have a great week and be nice to somebody. 

Layers and Loss by Liz Flaherty

I have nothing good to say today. I'm discovering, even at this age, that it's the little things that get me; I seem to cope better with the big ones. But our 20-year-old cat, Gabe, has disappeared, frightened by stray dogs who won't be deterred. Signs have disappeared from our yard, too, leaving me resentful that people have the right to free speech urging others to f*** whomever they hate in the moment on signs and flags everywhere or fly swastikas from their flagpoles, but if we have candidates' names on signs that are on our own property, someone is frightened enough by them that they trespass in order to steal them. I am discouraged by these little things. I am angry. I miss our cat. I miss feeling at home in the community where I've spent my whole life.

Until this morning, I didn't remember feeling this way before, but when I was looking for something to repeat-post, I found this. I guess what goes around comes around, and here I am again. If you're in this place, too, I urge you to wallow in it for a while (like I am and did four years ago, too) and then get over it and go on. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.

There's been a lot grief in 2020--we all know that. A lot of loss. But it's September now, with cool nights and breezes that sift into your hair and make you smell apples and leaves and bonfires.

It is, I know, a dying, decaying time as the earth prepares for winter, but the bean fields are golden, as are the corn tassels and some of the trees and the quick shimmer of the sun on the river. The colors that begin to emerge in September are bright and burnished and hopeful. 

There are golden sounds, too. Performers sharing their music both digitally and--where there's space--in person. The bleachers at junior high and high school football games. 

I should have finished writing this when I started it on Friday morning, but I didn't. I had other things I needed to do...and now Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg has died. For many of us, the colors have dimmed. Rest in power, Your Honor, and thank you. 

But this time of year is also about layers. On Tuesday I went to a meeting at ten in the morning, wearing my third shirt of the day. I started hopefully (and foolishly) in a tank top, changed to a sweatshirt, and by the time I went to the meeting, was in short sleeves--with a hoodie in the car because you just never know. Last night when we went to dinner, Duane wore shorts--and a golf sweater. 

School's back in session. Football's being played. But the layers are uneven these days, because caution changes things. Disagreement, almost the only constant in these change-of-season layers, makes the edges of the tiers rough-edged and sharp. 

I can't seem to come to a good place this morning, and I'm sorry. If you have good news, I hope you'll share it. 

Have a good week. I hope you see bright colors and find kindness in the layers. Stay safe. Be nice to somebody. 

Show Time with Ole Olsen Memorial Theater by Debby Myers

 “May you live as long as you laugh and laugh as long as you live!” - Ole Olsen

There’s something in the air! Although it’s still pretty warm outside, fall’s approaching with all its scents. Apples, cinnamon, bonfires, and hot chocolate come to mind. School is in session, and we’re all settling in. But wait!

Fall also brings the beginning of a new season of Ole Olsen Memorial Theater – and it happens to be our 60th anniversary! We were born in 1964. Our name came from Ole Olsen, born here in Peru. Ole became a Vaudeville star and made it his mission to make people laugh.

As the Publicity Director, when Liz, who is one of our biggest supporters, asked me to tell everyone about what’s coming up at Ole, I was glad to have this forum to tell you about it. We have three new shows never before done on our stage that we are excited about, along with an old favorite. And we’re planning to end the year with a party! Our 60th celebration is being planned for May of 2025, so stay tuned for more on that.

Our first show comes just before Halloween. Frankenstein – the Monster Play  puts a spin on what we all usually think of when we hear the word Frankenstein. Yes, there’s still a monster. But in this adaptation we experience how the monster feels being "born" into a strange new world. Seeing his transformation from his side, we understand why he becomes a monster, in every sense of the word, by the end of the show. So join us in the mansion of the Frankenstein family – we promise to let you out! The show is kid-friendly too, so come on out for fun night with Frankenstein – the Monster Play. It is being directed by Ole vet Bryan Bertoline and his assistant Chris Badami.

The play has been cast and is in production now. On stage you’ll see two first-time performers, Michelle Cota and Jen Marshall. Also two vets who’ve been out of the spotlight for a few years, Dan Brown and Joe Pyke. Plus Ole actors Autumn North, Patrick Sullivan, Debby Myers (yes, this is me – I’m playing Mrs. Frankenstein, the mother of the crazy scientist) Doug Working, Gloria Brumbaugh, Todd Riddle, and Cindy Ridenour. It opens with dinner theater on October 3rd. Performances October 4, 5, 11, 12 at 7:30 pm and October 6, 13 at 2 pm. As always, our productions are held at the historic Peru Depot.

The next show’s title may sound familiar, but it is on the stage for the first time. Last season we saw The Crimson Cap Ladies Bare It All, and the reviews last year were so great, we decided to do another one. The Crimson Cap Ladies Take on Vegas will keep you guessing as the ladies’ International Christmas Convention goes awry leading them on a search for a diamond thief. The four women are on another hilarious adventure that doesn’t turn out the way you or the ladies expect! It opens December 3rd. Director Debby Myers (yep, me again) says auditions will be held September 22 from 2-4 pm at the depot. The play has seven women and two men of any age. The roles are of all sizes. Always check Ole Olsen’s website and Facebook page for more! Or get in touch with me.

We are all excited about this season’s next offering, Happy Days – the Musical! It comes complete with Richie, Ralph-Malph, Marion, Howard, Joanie, Potsie, and the Fonz! It is filled with fun for all ages! Introduce your teens to the teens you loved to watch. Play opens on February 20th, 2025. It’s directed by Shanna Stoll

We’ll end the season with an oldie but goodie – Moon Over Buffalo. Last performed in 1998, this comedy will keep you giggling and guessing as we find out the fate of washed-up actors, George and Charlotte Hay. Stu Sullivan will direct, and the show opens April 24th, 2025.

Season tickets are on sale now for only $45 for all four shows! Broken down, it’s $11.25 per play, and you can’t beat that price for quality, local entertainment in the quaint setting of the Depot. Not a bad seat in the house, and you may even see a friend or two gracing the stage!

For your tickets go to www.oleolsen.org or call 765-142-3680. We also have several levels of club membership that offer voting privileges, banquet invitation, quarterly newsletters, and free tickets! We offer sponsorship opportunities for local businesses to appear in our show programs too!!!

There is something in the air! It’s the sounds of laughter coming from the theater – better join in!

Do Something by Liz Flaherty

Wednesday - This morning, when I came out to the office, my hands were full and I had no pockets. Why on earth would I have bought something with no pockets? But I carried everything out, looking at the tree in the east and marveling at the red streak of day's beginning. When I got into the office, I laid everything down and took off my sweater. The one I'd worn wrong side out and had two really nice pockets on the inside. Aside from feeling a little goofy, I was really glad I hadn't bought a sweater without pockets. And that, unlike me, the tree knew how to look its best so early in the day and even when it takes its sweater off soon, it will do it beautifully. Also unlike me.

Those were the last good thoughts of the day.

In Georgia today, yet another shooter cut loose in a school and killed four people and injured several more. He was 14 years old and he used a gun his father had given him.

It was suggested by a politician that "we have to get over it," by another that shootings are "a fact of life" and that “We don’t have to like the reality that we live in, but it is the reality we live in. We’ve got to deal with it.”

But we don't deal with it, do we? Since so many deep-pocketed lobbyists insist more stringent gun laws won't help, we tell them that's okay, because the money in their pockets and the guns they carry matter more than the kids who are in our schools, our homes, our hearts. We suggest arming teachers instead of disarming madmen. Because teachers don't have enough to do, after all.

Sure. Makes sense. Thoughts, prayers, and deep, bitter anger are with the families of those lost in Winder, Georgia this week. The most fervent of my prayers are that maybe this time, something will be done. 

Thursday - It was a good day. Great time with a great friend. Good lunch. Writing. Reading. My favorite kinds of things.

Friday - I wrote a lot today, made a lot of progress on book #22 (or so.) It begins to feel right as the words slip out of the keyboard, as my fingers seem to move on their own over the keys. It is a good writing day, a good thinking day.

Two teachers died in the shooting, one of them a father, the other a woman who couldn't have biological kids but who loved the ones she taught. Two students who had a lot more to do in their lives than worry about book #22.

My grandson played soccer for his school this week. Our school won their football game tonight. Did the people on the bleachers look from side-to-side? Did the parents of players and cheerleaders watch the sidelines for someone who didn't look right? Someone who might do harm to their very reasons for living?

How could I have had a good writing day when people in Georgia are preparing to bury their children? Guilt is a noisy companion. I don't sleep much. I don't sleep well. I have thoughts and prayers far into the night.

They're not enough. Not nearly enough. We need to Do Something.

“We are so sure we know what freedom is in America that we cannot imagine a world in which true freedom might come after sacrifice of personal rights. Freedom is sending your kids to school with confidence that they will come home at the end of the day.” — Taylor Schumann, author of When Thoughts and Prayers Aren’t Enough

Saturday. -

Last year in March, I wrote this in part after dropping donuts off at school:

I don't know most of these kids' names, although I'm sure I know some of their parents and many of their grandparents. I don't know who's at the top of their class and who hasn't turned in any homework since kindergarten. I don't know, sitting in my car, whose language would scorch my ears and who never learned the value of please, thank you, or a dollar earned. I don't know who shops at boutiques and who combs the clearance racks and who depends on the kindness of strangers. I don't know who worries about being bullied, who bullies, and who doesn't give a damn either way. 

I don't know any of that and frankly, that morning in the school driveway and this morning as I write this, I don't care. I want them all to graduate, to run whatever bases their lives bring them, to walk the fields of whatever is their passion, and to have more adventures than their parents can bear worrying about. My prayer for them is always the same, and I cry with the fear of it not being answered.

Keep them safe. 

 Yes, that. Still.

There's nothing new here, is there. Just more of the devastating same. Sometimes I don't think I can stand it.

Not at all the post I thought I'd have today. I planned to continue on from the first paragraph in that same vein. Of silly slipups and laughter. Of lunch with a beloved friend, a meeting with other friends, a piece of Roberta Struck's apple pie, and supper one night at the B & K.

I did, indeed, have a good week. I hope you did, too. But I don't have it in me to celebrate today.

Be nice to somebody.

A Potato At Rest by Emily Perkins

Emily visited the Window in April of 2022. She shared information on Facebook this week, so it seemed to be a good time to share it here, too. Thanks, Emily. Beyond pretty and funny, she's also scary talented. - Liz

My hair color comes from a box.

Actually? My HAIR comes from a box. Essentially, my stylist is the UPS guy. I’ve worn wigs for the last twenty some years, and I wanted to share some of my story.

When I was 16, I went in for a haircut. My hair was thick at the time. My stylist would always say she could thin it out and it would still be two heads’ worth of hair. But at this haircut, she asked me if I knew I had a dime-sized bald spot on my head. I honestly hadn’t noticed it. We decided to get it checked out, just in case.

The doctors ran a variety of tests. I had to have an ultrasound and bloodwork, as hair loss can be caused by a variety of reasons, many of them indicating more serious health issues. What it ended up being was alopecia. You may have heard a little bit about this in the news recently, but back then, I had never heard of it.

Not much is known about what triggers alopecia, but they do know that once it starts, your immune system sees your hair follicles as foreign bodies and begins to attack them. Specifically, I have Alopecia areata universalis, which affects the entire body. Leg hair, arm hair, eyelashes, eyebrows, even down to nose and ear hair.

At the time, though, it was just a small circle on my otherwise thick head of hair. One bald patch became two, two became three, and then I finally began to notice it elsewhere when half of one eyebrow began to fall out.

My first wig

Between my junior and senior year of high school, the loss had increased to the point that I decided to get a wig. I had actually been quite candid with my classmates about my hair loss during the previous year, but many still didn’t suspect that I was wearing a wig when I returned to school.

Looking back, I have made some. . . questionable wig choices. This one wasn’t that bad, for a first-time user. It was short and blond, and didn’t really draw that much attention, but then, being the dramatic soul that I am, I decided I wanted a long, curly red wig. The first week I wore it to school, some guy bullied me in the hallway. Shortly after, a kind teacher randomly complimented me on my new hair color, not knowing about the incident that had occurred moments before. I ran to the bathroom and cried.

It wasn’t the first or last time I cried over my hair loss. Hair is really tied to women’s identity in most cultures. How many ads have you seen where the gorgeous model has her lustrous waves blowing in the wind? And there was I looking like a potato at rest. Anyway, I do remember that bullying incident fairly clearly, but I also remember the number of people who came to my defense against that jerk. My supporters vastly outmatched my detractors. Even people whom I was not particularly close to offered their support. I count myself lucky to have that environment when I was going through my formative years with my hair loss.

The first month or so at college, I would wear my wig down to the dorm bathrooms and wrap my bare head in a towel turban so that no one would know my secret. It took many years to come to the point where I felt comfortable letting people know that part of me. Many more years passed before I finally began to feel beautiful in my own skin.

Photo by Justin Schuman

When I lived in NYC, I regularly celebrated Hairless July and August, as it was too dang hot on the subway to deal with wearing what essentially feels like a sock cap on a crowded, sweaty subway. These days, I wear a wig most of the time. Not because I’m embarrassed, but just so I don’t have to deal with questions from every Tom, Dick, and Harry that I encounter on a daily basis.

I’m more than willing to share my story with people one on one, I just don’t want it to always be the first thing people notice about me. My pasty dome can be a bit of a distraction. I do, however, go without my hair when I’m out and about, specifically in the summertime. I’m very frequently told how “brave” I am.

While I appreciate this sentiment, I long for the day when women can step out of the house looking however it is that they ACTUALLY look, and feel confident and like their best version of them. I shouldn’t have to be brave to look the way I do. Yes, it is unusual, and yes, I certainly have plenty of moments where I wish I was “normal,” but this is just how I am. And I'm okay with that.

Below, I’ve compiled some tips I’ve gathered over the years, in regards to Baldie Beauty. They are not at all comprehensive, and I’m by no means an expert, but I wish I had had something like this when I first began this journey. 

I make most of my wig purchases online. I've used Vogue wigs and Wigs.com with good results. There are, of course, varying levels of quality of wigs available, so read the descriptions and reviews carefully.

I tend to buy synthetic rather than real hair. Aside from being less expensive, they hold their style better and require less upkeep.

Long wigs and curly wigs also require much more upkeep. I tend to go no longer than shoulder length. I do find that short (less than chin length) curly wigs often look the most “wiggy.”

Bear in mind when purchasing a wig, many don't have a crown that will allow you to do any sort of crisp part. If that's a look you desire, go for a skin top wig.

A lace-front wig will allow a natural looking hairline. Be sure to get a lace that matches your skin tone. (There are many wigs that are made specifically for African Americans, for example, and the lace would not blend in with my pasty whiteness.)

As far as brows and lashes, I use Clinique brow powder with a Smashbox angled brow brush. The long handle allows for more control. The powder will definitely last through a normal day. If you are doing something more strenuous, you might keep it in your purse for touch ups. If you sweat, DON'T RUB that area. They might fade slightly, but they won't come off unless you rub them.

I usually start with a very thin brow on each side so that I can make sure they are even before filling them out.

I use a Revlon twist-up eyeliner in brown black, although lately I've been trying out L'Oreal's Le Liner with great results. I line the top and bottom of my lids and I find the twist-up will go on more smoothly closer to my lash line than a pencil would.

I save the false lashes for special occasions, and even then, only my upper lid.

If you're smooching someone for long enough, you'll likely lose an eyebrow, so make sure that's a risk you're willing to take.

The most important tip: LOVE YOURSELF AS YOU ARE. My friend Ambyr and her partner Justin wrote a song that I like to listen to on repeat. The chorus gently encourages to “tell yourself you love you.” Do it. Love YOU. Even if you feel like a potato at rest on occasion, that doesn’t mean that you can’t be a hot potato.

~*~

Emily Perkins has always had a penchant for the dramatics and graduated from the American Musical and Dramatic Academy with a certificate in the performing arts. Since returning to her hometown of Wabash, she has enjoyed performing in many community theatre productions around the area, as well as a few professional gigs. For her day gig, she works as an optician at Family Optometry in the great little community of Peru. She's a proud Auntie and has a pretty decent boyfriend. If you are experiencing hair loss and have questions for her, get her contact info from Liz.

The Perils of Writing Under A Pseudonym by Susie Black

I love when Susie visits the Window--she's so funny, and such a good writer, too! I didn't know how to put this in here, but she has a free swimwear guide she'll be glad to send you. Just email her at the address at the end of the post. - Liz

When I was ten years old, I hated my first name. I was the only girl in the elementary school with that first name. I longed to be like the other girls with a more common first name. Something boring like Linda or Mary. A first name so commonplace there were several in the class that had to be differentiated by using the initial of their surname. Mary B. or Linda J when they were called upon. From the depths of a ten-year-old’s despair at the oddness of my first name and not fitting in; suddenly the solution came to me. As uncommon as my first name was, that’s how deliciously common my middle name was. I explained my problem to the teacher and told her I preferred to be called by my middle name rather than my first. To my great relief, she readily complied.

Unfortunately, my euphoria was short-lived. After a week of her calling me by my middle name, regrettably, I didn’t respond a single time. By week’s end, my teacher informed me that she was going back to calling me by my hated first name. “You might not like it, but you respond to it.” By now you might be scratching your head and wondering the point of that journey down memory lane. Bear with me. There is a point here…I promise.

If you asked me to describe it, the Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series is the result of Walter Mitty morphing into a woman and becoming an apparel sales executive. Since I have knocked off several fictional characters who are perilously close to actual people I might not have minded eliminating in real life, I thought it prudent to conceal the true identity of the protagonist, Holly Schlivnik, and write her stories under a pseudonym, or as it is more commonly known as a pen name.

So, once I’d decided to write under a pen name, the search for the perfect pseudonym began. What type of pen name to choose? Something flamboyant? Perhaps a clever play on words; an unforgettable name that everyone would remember.

I daydreamed of being interviewed by Oprah Winfrey on a TV special after my debut novel Death by Sample Size became the Oprah Book Club's all-time best seller. Then the shrill voice of my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Sutter, squawked inside my head, and my daydream quickly became a nightmare. Oprah introduced me to millions of fans….and a repetition of fourth grade on steroids happened as I stood backstage waiting for my name to be called and waited, and waited until Oprah’s producer whacked me on the head with a clipboard, asked if I didn’t know my name when I heard it, and shoved my onto the stage. Yikes. There was a disaster waiting to happen. Now what?

With a history like mine, the smart money said to ditch the pseudonym. Logic dictated go with your real name. Well, no one ever confused me with Albert Einstein. Since I always loved a good challenge, I threw logic out the window and soldiered on with my pseudonym search. To paraphrase Dirty Harry, a girl’s gotta know her limitations. The most important criterion for the pen name wasn’t finding something tricky; it was choosing one I’d remember to answer to.

Since I write cozy mysteries, here are two clues: The first name of my pseudonym is a version of my real middle name. This one is a gimme. The surname of my pen name is the translation from another language to English. Let’s see how alert you are. Can you guess my real middle and surname? If you want to give it a whirl, write to me at: mysteries_@authorsusieblack.com

Death by Jelly Beans

“Brings a whole new meaning to the rabbit died.”

Mermaid Swimwear President Holly Schlivnik discovers the Bainbridge Department Store Easter Bunny slumped over dead and obnoxious swimwear buyer Sue Ellen Magee is arrested for the crime. Despite her differences with the nasty buyer, Holly is convinced the Queen of Mean didn’t do it. The wise-cracking, irreverent amateur sleuth jumps into action to nail the real killer. But the trail has more twists than a pretzel and more turns than a rollercoaster. And nothing turns out the way Holly thinks it will as she tangles with a clever killer hellbent on revenge.

Death by Jelly Beans Buy Links:

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/death-by-jelly-beans-susie-black/1145804565?ean=2940186124580

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/212700868-death-by-jelly-beans?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=PWl56Hmfkz&rank=1

https://www.bookbub.com/books/death-by-jelly-beans-holly-swimsuit-mystery-book-5-by-susie-black

Amazon.com : Death by Jelly Beans

Named Best US Author of the Year by N. N. Lights Book Heaven, award-winning cozy mystery author Susie Black was born in the Big Apple but now calls sunny Southern California home. Like the protagonist in her Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series, Susie is a successful apparel sales executive. Susie began telling stories as soon as she learned to talk. Now she’s telling all the stories from her garment industry experiences in humorous mysteries.

She reads, writes, and speaks Spanish, albeit with an accent that sounds like Mildred from Michigan went on a Mexican vacation and is trying to fit in with the locals. Since life without pizza and ice cream as her core food groups wouldn’t be worth living, she’s a dedicated walker to keep her girlish figure. A voracious reader, she’s also an avid stamp collector. Susie lives with a highly intelligent man and has one incredibly brainy but smart-aleck adult son who inexplicably blames his sarcasm on an inherited genetic defect.

Looking for more? Contact Susie at:

Website: www.authorsusieblack.com

E-mail: mysteries_@authorsusieblack.com

Book Cover Contest by Liz Flaherty

They say not to judge a book by its cover but I need you to do just that. If you liked the cover of my book, Pieces of Blue, please vote for it for the Cover of the Month contest on AllAuthor.com!

I’m getting closer to clinch the "Cover of the Month" contest on AllAuthor! I’d need as much support from you guys. Please take a short moment to vote for my book cover here:

Click to Vote!

Thank you!

This Week by Liz Flaherty

As a Democrat, I've had a wonderful, hopeful week. A few days after the end of the DNC, I'm still feeling that. Still feeling the joy. Not to mention some sleep deprivation. I'd love to make this whole column about politics, but I'm not going to. Nearly everyone who reads it knows where I stand and within the personal friendships, we don't talk about either my stance or theirs. While that's hard for both sides sometimes, it's good for the friendships. 

As the mother of teachers, my kids are back in school just like yours are, which means I get to worry again about the things all teacher parents worry about. And get cranky about. Low wages, keeping their classrooms safe in ways we didn't used to have to think about, teaching kids what they need to know and what is true, making sure the students get enough to eat.   

As a nana, I got to see a picture and hear about our youngest grandboy playing varsity soccer for Danville. I got to see pictures of his brother climbing on rocks in Colorado. (GOT to see is wrong. It scares me to death.) I got to see another grandson and hug him. 

As a lifelong rural dweller, this week I got to watch the seasons changing every time I look out the window. I've seen sunrise and sunset every day. I've pointed at the place where Broadway Landing is going to be, listened to the yeas and nays of partial use of solar and wind power over only fossil fuel, and mourned the loss of small fields and big trees. We drove past the school road last night and saw the "Friday night lights," at North Miami, bringing back memories and reminding me to keep feeling hopeful. 

As a Christian, I've missed church two weeks in a row. Once because we spent a few fun days in Kentucky and once because a friend and I had a fun day signing books at a winery. While I do believe God doesn't take attendance, the Sunday morning time in the fourth pew is precious to me. I'll be glad to slide back into place tomorrow.  

As a human being, I am appalled by cruelty in any form. If you know something's going to hurt someone--even if it's "just" their feelings--for heaven's sake, don't do it. It's really easy. And when you DO hurt someone (also really easy), own it and apologize for it. 

As a columnist, I'm kind of tired. I'm also grateful to those of you who continue to visit the Window every Saturday even when what I write makes you roll your eyes. I don't have the words--shame on me--to say how much I appreciate it. 

Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.

Meandering Through the Words by Liz Flaherty

I had to look up the word cabal this morning, because I'd never used it, and even context didn't clue me in on what it was. In truth, I should always look up words I don't know, because too often the person using them doesn't know what they mean either, so even context can really mess you up some. 

It sounds kind of silly, I guess, maybe even disingenuous, to say I love words, since I use so many of them. Some of them, like just and that and look, I use so often that when I do a global search of a manuscript and take out the unnecessary ones, I need to write a new chapter just to bring the book back to the length I want.

That might be an exaggeration. But not by much. 

When I was in high school--I think it was junior year--our literature class had to read Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. Although I liked the wow factor of a young woman having an affair with a minister and carrying his child out of wedlock in the 17th century--after all, it would have been just as shocking in the middle of the 20th century and, of course, all Hester's fault--I hated the book. I still regret the six weeks we spent on it when we could have been reading something...readable. 

But I have to admit that even now I remember Hawthorne's overuse of the word ignominy and all of its derivatives. If he'd had global search abilities with his quill and rag paper, I'm sure he'd have used it a lot less. 

I try to understand why we read the things we read in class, why we were introduced to Shakespeare and why we read parts of Beowulf and the Iliad. It was to introduce us to classics. At the time, I thought it was to encourage us to love reading and learning and I couldn't understand why it fell so wide of the mark. I didn't like any of it. 

However, reading all kinds of books is what taught me I like reading genre fiction best. I don't particularly care if it changes my life. If I don't like it, I don't finish it--life is too short to read what I don't want to. (Case in point, I never read another Nathaniel Hawthorne book.) I read for entertainment and to learn things. Especially things I like to know that clarify other things. It's a wonderful chain, the learning one. 

I learned about seasonal disorder in a romance by Jackie Weger. I learned about the Iron Range and Minnesota's lakes in books by Kathleen Gilles Seidel. I learned about the 19th century in books written about it by people who did the research before they wrote them. 

If it were left to me, I would never have read most of the classics on my mental bookshelf at all. (Other than Louisa May Alcott--she's a whole life chapter unto herself. I'll spare you.) Except for the words I learned in them. I had to look them up and develop a wish to use them in drawing a picture a reader could see. Their writers used a plethora of words, and they never used one word when 56 of them would do. But they sure could draw those pictures. 

This was certainly the long way around from me having to look up the word cabal, wasn't it? I'm trying to find my point, and I think it's one I've made more than once. If you use words without understanding what they mean, you're telling lies. If you use words only to hurt someone or create a false picture of them, you become the villain of whatever story you're promoting. 

But if you learn from them, if you use them to explicate what you say and mean, they're like the gift that keeps on giving.  (No--I don't actually use the word explicate. I looked it up to be a showoff. You can do that, too!)

I hope when you read something that you enjoy and learn from it. Check sources. Quit in the middle if it's not making you happy. Have a great week. Be nice to somebody. 

Come see Nan and me at the Whyte Horse! 

Keeping Settings and Secondary Characters Fresh by Nan Reinhardt

One thing I’ve discovered as I’ve been writing my River’s Edge series of books is that readers fall in love with settings and secondary characters as much as they do the main characters. They anxiously await the next story because it means another trip to a place we all want to live or at least visit. Series are a special kind of escape for readers and writers. For me, as author, the warmth of Mac’s Riverside Diner, the fun of the Four Irish Brothers Winery, a cruise through the colorful fabrics at the Seams Pieceful quilt store, pastries from Paula’s Bread & Butter Bakery, or a stroll along the River Walk are just a few of the good reasons to keep telling stories there.

But it’s not enough to use the same setting, the stories have to evolve naturally from it and the town must evolve with it. So new places must crop up in your old setting. Disasters that affect everyone in the town will inevitably become part of a story, as will the restoration of old familiar landmarks, like Aidan Flaherty restoring the River Queen riverboat in Christmas with You or Gerry Ross turning the old cotton mill into a boutique hotel in Meant to Be. Changes mean the setting becomes a developing character itself.

With each new book, readers find new places in River’s Edge to visit—Sudbury’s Nursery and Garden Center takes center stage in my newest novel, Make It Real, where we meet Kara Sudbury, just home from living in England for six years and her grandparents, Ginny and Hunter Sudbury. In the next book in the series, Made for Mistletoe, which releases October 24, Dot and Mary Higgins and their quilt store, Seams Pieceful are in the spotlight as secondary characters.

These secondary characters may never have their own book, but like the setting, they do have their own stories. Readers love to follow townsfolks to see just what’s going to happen next to background characters. In Book 1 of the Four Irish Brothers Winery series, we meet two secondary players, Carly Hayes, Sam’s uptight, high-society mom and Mac Mackenzie, a flannel-wearing Cordon Bleu chef who owns the diner in River’s Edge. An unlikely pair for sure, but by the end of Book 2, Carly and Mac are an item, and although they may never get their own book, their story progresses, and we watch their romance blossom as the main characters’ stories are told. They’re together, running the diner, and still madly in love in Make It Real—book 12 that happens in River’s Edge.

It’s important to introduce new secondary characters to interact with the old ones so the town and its stories don’t become stale, but putting old background folks into new situations is also a fun way to bring interest to your familiar setting and your stories. In my second River’s Edge series, The Lange Brothers, I tell the stories of three brothers who are all first responders. Each brother has his own book, yet woven throughout the three books is their mother’s love story with hotelier Gerry Ross, whom we met back in Book 2 of The Four Irish Brothers Winery series. So Gerry and Jane become a seasoned romance in River’s Edge, adding just a touch more fun to that little town on the banks of the Ohio. See how that works?

Each time we enlarge a secondary character’s story, we are inviting our readers further into our setting and our series, welcoming them into our fantasy world, where life may not always be perfect, but where a happily-ever-after is always guaranteed. 

Out now from Nan Reinhardt!

Make It Real, book 2 in the Walkers of River’s Edge series:

They were only faking it….

A landscape designer for his family’s construction firm, Joe Walker, is nearing completion on one of the most important projects of his career—gardens for spec homes that if they wow, Walker Construction will survive. When a freak accident sidelines him with a broken leg, the firm hires a competitor. Her ideas are radically different, but his stalker ex arrives to play nurse, and Joe needs more than gardening help.

After six-years working in English manor gardens, horticulturist Kara Sudbury returns to River’s Edge to help in her grandparents’ struggling garden center. She’s thrilled when Jackson Walker hires her to execute his injured cousin’s designs. Ignoring Joe is difficult because he’s as sexy now as he was in high school and even more stubborn. But when Joe asks Kara to play the role of girlfriend, they strike a deal that will help Joe handle his tenacious ex and put Sudbury’s Nursery back in the black. Kara’s up for the subterfuge…for a price, but then the pretense feels real, and Kara is reminded that every rose has its thorns.

Buy Links: https://tulepublishing.com/books/make-it-real/#order (links to all outlets are here)

Links to Me: https://linktr.ee/nan_reinhardt
https://www.bookbub.com/authors/nan-reinhardt
http://www.nanreinhardt.com/
https://www.facebook.com/authornanreinhardt
https://instagram.com/NanReinhardt
https://x.com/NanReinhardt

Excerpt:

The gun went off, the woman screeched, and Joe let out a loud oof, then a groan of pain. He released the gun and lay still, his head, face, neck, and bare chest stinging from the blackberry nettles and his left leg feeling very weird. Scout barked and ran up to him, licking Joe’s cheek and panting dog breath all over him.

“Did you shoot yourself?” The woman was there, too, stepping carefully through the brush until she was about a foot from him, her smooth, tanned legs only inches from his head. “Oh my God!” When he opened one eye and looked up at her, her face, which was vaguely familiar, had turned from angry to ashen and horrified. “Your leg!”

The sting of the blackberry thorns had somehow kept him from noticing what was now agonizing pain in his left shin. He started to turn over, but she stooped down and put a dirty gloved hand on his shoulder. “No, don’t move.”

“My face,” he managed, but it was hard to even speak because of the brambles sticking him everywhere, and shit! Was that poison ivy under his cheek? Inanely, his mind went to a couplet, his cousin Jack had taught him and Cam and Eli years ago—leaves of three, let it be; leaves of five, let it thrive. His glasses were gone, and his eye was blurry, but yep, that was three leaves. No. No. No. “I gotta . . . gotta get up,” he mumbled. “Poison ivy.”

The woman held him in place. “That’s the least of your problems. Your leg is really messed up.”

He lifted his head and shoved up with his arms, bringing his upper body out of the brambles, but dropped right back down again as pain shot through his left leg, leaving him nearly breathless. He attempted to peer over his shoulder, but all he could see was his own butt in the slipping-down sleeping shorts. When he tried to move the leg, pain, more excruciating than before, shot through him.

“Stop moving, will you? Your leg is stuck on a branch sticking out of this log and I can see”—she looked down his body at his lower extremities and her pallor grew even grayer—“oh crap, I can see a bone sticking out of your shin.” She plopped down next to him, heedless of the poisonous plants covering the ground, and pulled her phone out of her shorts pocket. “I’m calling 911.”

“You just sat in poison ivy,” he ground out, lifting his head again and biting the inside of his cheek to keep from adding idiot. He was pretty sure he owed her one. But on the other hand, he also needed some help here.

“It doesn’t bother me. I never get it.” She raked her fingers through her hair as she spoke to emergency services, relating what she believed happened, making him sound like a colossal dumbass as she speculated to the dispatcher that she thought he might have shot himself.

“I didn’t shoot myself,” he said as loudly as he could, given he’d dropped his face back on the ground because even the slightest movement sent red-hot fire through his leg and up into his thigh.

“Yeah, he says he’s not shot, but his leg . . . man, it’s pretty awful. Not bleeding too badly, but there’s a sharp piece of a stick stuck in his calf and his shin’s broken for sure”—she gulped—“I can see the bone. No, no, I won’t touch it. God, no!” She looked down at him. “What’s your address?”

He moaned, his mind a blank.

“It’s on Fourth Street behind Sudbury’s Nursery. Maybe the 2900 block?” she said into her phone.

“It’s 2917,” Joe managed.

“It’s 2917,” she repeated for the dispatcher, paused to listen, then asked, “What’s your name?”

“Joe Walker.” That came out stronger, but the effort exhausted him.

“Oh, crap! Joey? Joey Walker?” She bent her head to peer down at him, and her eyes, which were an unusual golden-brown color, were huge.

Nan Reinhardt is a USA Today bestselling author of sweet, small-town romantic fiction for Tule Publishing. Her day job is working as a freelance copyeditor and proofreader, however, writing is Nan’s first and most enduring passion. She can’t remember a time in her life when she wasn’t writing—she wrote her first romance novel at the age of ten and is still writing, but now from the viewpoint of a wiser, slightly rumpled, woman in her prime. Nan lives in the Midwest with her husband of 51 years, where they split their time between a house in the city and a cottage on a lake. Talk to Nan at: nan@nanreinhardt.com.