Author name: Sayling@@Away

I never really thought about middle names until I recently learned that having a middle name dates back to ancient Rome. Many Romans had three names: A praenomen was a personal name, or what we call first names today; a nomen, which was a family name, and lives where middle names currently sit; and the cognomen, which identified what branch of family you were from. Women had only two names while slaves had one. At some point, this custom died out, lasting centuries. I wanted to know more and discovered that having middle names as we know them today started in Italy just as it was entering the Renaissance. The practice first became common among the elites—among whom it was common by the late 1400s—and then spread to other social classes. The following century it spread to the countryside. The majority of these early middle names in Italy were those of saints, with the idea what that those saints would protect the children who bore their names. It was exceedingly rare to have middle names in Great Britain and the United States before 1800, and after this time it was done to honor a second relative or a matriarchal lineage. John Quincy Adams was the first American President to have a middle name. But why did middle names become popular? One thought is that middle names allow people to shift their identities. Pablo Picasso, for example, was baptized with a string of more than a dozen names and although he wasn’t known by all of them, he did test out different combinations: initially signing paintings as P. Ruiz, then trying P. Ruiz Picasso before sticking with Picasso. However, I think it’s more likely that middle names serve much the same purposes they always have: they’re a way to keep family names going and thus preserve relationships. The family is the most important thing that gets referenced in middle names, and it makes sense for it to be about lineage and inheritance.” One of the surprising reasons I found for a child to be given a surname as a middle name was when the parents weren’t married. If a child had the same surname as his/her mother, and a middle name that looked like a surname, there’s a very good chance that the child’s middle name was the biological father’s surname. In some cases, the middle name of an illegitimate child may be the only clue, other than DNA, to the father’s identity. Another reason for parents to use a surname as a middle name was to pay tribute to the mother, and therefore to her parents, family and ancestry, by using her maiden name. This became especially fashionable in the second half of the 19th century. My middle name honors my mother, Audrey, and I have another middle name, which I don’t use – Jeanne, my Confirmation name Many women use maiden names as a middle name or a hyphenated last name. I never did, preferring to keep my mother’s name. Many women scientists/authors prefer to keep their maiden name if they have published under that name before marriage. Finally, some of us who live in the South give middle names to our children so they will know when they are in trouble. My son and daughter both knew they faced my wrath if I called, “Patrick Ethan, get your butt here” or “Cameron Elizabeth, what have you done?” So, there you have it! The answer to a most pressing question! 2 0

Mae Clair, whom I’ve called MC since I can’t remember when, has a new book out called The Keeping Place. She’s doing a book tour this month and I’m delighted to have snagged her in her travels for a brunch at Guglhupf (pronounced Googlehof by the locals) in Durham, a restaurant where local and seasonal ingredients are prepared with a contemporary southwestern German (swabian) twist. It’s one of the most popular places in Durham for brunch with both indoor and outside seating. It’s a warm day, so MC and I have opted to sit outside. When the server comes with menus, I suggest we both order eggs goulash – two poached eggs with Hungarian mushroom goulash and a side of fruit, a Guglehupf specialty – with some passion fruit curd and toasted coconut Danish pastries and coffee. Since MC does not eat red meat, I am anxious to get her take on the mushroom hash. She asks that the eggs and hash come with no potatoes. I ask for side of grits – a Southern comfort food that I love. After our coffee is served, I jump right into the questions I have for her. NG: I’ve always been interested in an author’s childhood and how that might have shaped their writing. What about you, MC? MC: My childhood definitely had a huge impact on my writing. As the youngest of four, I was a late-in-life baby. By the time I was in grade-school, my parents were on the downside of their 40s. As a result, most of the activities we did were more intellectual then physical. I could play a good game of chess by the time I was ten, and I devoured books on a regular basis­—thanks in part to weekly library trips with my parents, both avid readers. My father, who was classically trained in art, also enjoyed wordsmithing, and passed that gift onto me. He’d written numerous stories in his teens and twenties and encouraged me to engage in my own world-building. I started scribbling out tales at six and have never stopped! NG:  What are your own favorite books? MC: My tastes have changed over the years. I used to read a lot of westerns, fantasy, and science-fiction, and while I still enjoy escaping in those worlds now and again, these days I prefer thrillers, mystery, suspense, and Christian novels. I am a HUGE fan of the Aloysius Pendergast series by Preston & Child, and I LOVE Old Testament fiction. NG: A gal after my own heart – I also love the Aloysius Pendergast books! NG: What inspires your writing? What inspired this one? Often something I see or hear will inspire an idea. I’ve also written more than one story inspired by dreams. The Keeping Place grew from driving by a property several miles from where I live. The house sat empty and abandoned for nearly thirty years. There’s no question it should have been torn down because it was packed to the rafters with cast-off junk. All manner of garbage and scrap debris were visible through the (broken) windows. I used to think about snakes and rats every time I drove past. No one bothered about it in the early days because of the location on an old country road, but eventually the fields around that shack were developed with luxury homes on sprawling lots. Shortly, after I wrote The Keeping Place, the house was razed to the ground and replaced with a high-end custom home. The eyesore is gone, but not before inspiring me to include a similar derelict property that becomes central to the plot in The Keeping Place. At this point, our food arrives, and we tuck in, mmming and ahhing. The hash gets a thumbs up. Once we are sipping coffee again (after refills) and trying the pastries, I ask: Tell me two things about yourself that I’m unlikely to know? MC: Hmm…In high school, a friend gave me the nickname “Starchild” because of my penchant for creating stories set in far-off worlds. I also dressed a lot like Stevie Nicks with scarves, fringes, and handkerchief hems. My yearbook is filled with comments about my “artsy” manner of dressing, LOL. Second, I’m an extremely picky eater. I can never order an item “as is” off a restaurant menu, but always ask something to be withheld or substituted to suit my taste. It’s become a joke among my family and friends to see how I “adjust” a dinner, lunch, or breakfast order. It generally takes me twice as long to order as someone else! NG: Hearing that I am doubly glad you liked what I suggested for brunch! What’s the strangest thing you have ever had to research online for your books? MC: Writers are always researching something strange, aren’t we? Like most authors of mysteries, I’ve had to research various means of murder and death, which is not pleasant. I’ve also done a lot of dives related to urban legends, particularly “creatures” or “monsters.” I don’t know if that would be considered “odd,” but I’ve gone down some interesting rabbit holes. Researching the Squonk (a mythical creature) was fun and kind of sad at the same time, while researching hagfish (an eel-shaped fish) bordered on disgusting. NG: What is the best writing tip you’ve received? MC: Don’t sell your work short. I almost did that with The Keeping Place when offered a contract with a small press publisher. Though a reputable house with some nice perks, they wouldn’t guarantee print, nor allow me to create print copies on my own. Because I used to do a lot of local book signings, it was enough to make me say­ the heck with it—I’m going to do this one on my own! As we finish up, I ask her one last off-the wall question: You write about ghostly things and places. If you had to spend a night in an old, crumbling haunted house, who would you take with you?

Although there were several Saint Valentines, the common biography (hagiography – I learned a new word!) describes Saint Valentine as either a priest of Rome or the Bishop of Terni, a town in central Italy. There are many legends ascribed to Saint Valentine. In one, dated from the 3rd century AD, Valentine defied the order of the emperor Claudius and secretly performed Christian weddings (not Roman) for couples. This allowed the husbands to escape conscription into the Roman army. As soldiers were in short supply at that time, this was a thorn in the side of Claudius. It is said that to “remind these men of their vows and God’s love, Saint Valentine cut hearts out of parchment”, sending them to the Christians, who were persecuted at that time. So this is a possible origin of the widespread use of hearts on St. Valentine’s Day. Another legend claims that while St. Valentine was under house arrest by a certain Judge Asterius, he discussed the validity of Jesus’ existence faith with the judge. The judge put Valentinus (his Roman name) to the test, brought him his adopted blind daughter, and told him if Valentinus could restore her sight, the judge would do whatever he asked. Valentinus, praying to God, put her hands on her eyes and the child’s vision was restored.  In return, Valentinus asked that all of the Roman idols in the judge’s house be broken and that the judge should fast for three days and then be baptized. The judge did that, then freed all the Christians jailed under his authority, and Valentine then baptized the judge, his family, and his entire household. Valentinus continued evangelizing, and eventually, Emperor Claudius had him arrested and brought to Rome.  Claudius took a liking to him until Valentinus tried to convince Claudius to become Christian. This was possibly the last straw because Claudius refused and condemned Valentinus to death, commanding that Valentinus renounce his faith or be beaten with clubs and then beheaded. Valentinus of course refused and was executed in Rome, outside the Flaminian Gate in the Aurelian Walls, on February 14, 269. Another legend from the time of his execution claims that Saint Valentine wrote a note to Asterius’s daughter signed “from your Valentine”, which may or may not have inspired the romantic messages of Valentine’s Day. The Feast of Saint Valentine, also known as Saint Valentine’s Day, was established by Pope Gelasius I in AD 496 to be celebrated on February 14 in honor of Valentine’s martyrdom. Happy Valentine’s Day from Saint Valentine and me! 1 0

I remember learning the difference in spelling the homonyms principle and principal: the principal is your pal. One principal in particular – Mr. Lawrence Bongiovanni – made an indelible impression on me, and I’d like to thank him, belatedly, for his contributions to my life in high school. Perhaps because I was one of several excellent, but not a perfect, students in my class, I think I had a reasonable relationship with Mr. Bongiovanni – in as much as one of several hundred unruly and hormonally-drive kids could have with a person who had absolute authority over their life. Principals were definitely not pals in those days. Mr. Bongiovanni was a true son on Plymouth, having been educated in the town’s public schools. He had served in the FBI prior to and during WWII, very evident in the way he carried himself: ram-rod straight, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, greying hair neatly trimmed. As another member of my class wrote of him: “He was a man of personal culture, dignified in his bearing without being aloof, respectful of his students as individuals in a way that was cordial without being familiar.” I know I tried Mr. Bongiovanni’s patience, not the least because I became regular visitor to his office during my class period for French class. I just couldn’t resist talking with my friends during the lessons. Madame Jacques, my French teacher, whom I regarded as old although she was probably in her 50s, suffered chattering, and almost everything else, poorly. As a result, more than once she sent me to Mr. Bongiovanni’s office for discipline. The first time he found me sitting outside his office, he called me in and raising an eyebrow, asked me why I was there. “I talked out of turn in French class,” I replied blushing. You never lied to Mr. B. “Madame Jacques?” he asked. “Oui.” Apparently that was self-explanatory. “Why don’t you go back outside and sit on the bench until the bell rings.” I do believe I saw a faint smile on his face. When I showed up thereafter, he would just sigh and ask, “Not again, Miss Parsons?” and indicate the bench. Treating students as adults was one of Mr. Bongiovanni’s outstanding characteristics, although I think disappointed him more than once in that respect. One day I was bet by a classmate I couldn’t slide down the banisters from the third floor to the basement of the high school. I’d never met a bet I wouldn’t take! In those days I frequently wore what is today called a pencil skirt – tight and straight – so in order to ride the banister, I had to hike my skirt up to my hips. Then I straddled the wood, started to slide, and six sections of banister later, I arrived in the basement. Mr. Bongiovanni’s antennae must have been operating at full strength, because he was waiting for me at the end of my ride. I stood before him, pulling down my skirt and probably blushing – again. I swear he was having a hard time keeping a straight face when he asked, “Miss Parsons, do you think you could find a more dignified way to come downstairs?” “Yes, Mr. Bongiovanni.” “Try walking.” Another day, I had a run-in with a rather randy and elderly biology teacher, who was known for the inuendos he made to girls in his class. His behavior hadn’t elicited any reaction from the administration, possibly because we girls recognized it as foolish and ignored it. One day during class, for a reason that has escaped my memory, this teacher grabbed ruler, chased me around the room, then out the door and down the hall. He cornered me at the sinks just outside the cafeteria. At that point I had no idea of his intentions, whether it was a joke or something more serious, and panicked. Mr. Bongiovanni appeared out of nowhere. I never knew if one of my classmates had contacted his office. All I remember hearing is, “Miss Parsons, you can return to your classroom.” I didn’t wait around, I ran! And then feared that I would be punished. Several days passed before I relaxed. Mr. Bongiovanni never spoke to me of that incident, and the teacher never approached me again. Sometime after I graduated, Mr. Bongiovanni resigned as principal and joined the Massachusetts Department of Education where he held a number of executive positions. He died in 2010, so my thoughts and thanks come a little late, but are nevertheless heartfelt. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Bongiovanni. 1 0

The Harbor Pointe Series is a collection of eight novellas by Story Empire authors. Each story takes place at the Harbor Pointe Inn in a fictional California town. See my reviews for the previous books in the series on this blog. I am sad that the Harbor Pointe series has ended but very excited about this last book! It is a perfect conclusion to the series, which begins in the 1800s and now brings the reader into the future of 2072. Mia Hawthorne has lost everything: her wife and the Inn at Harbor Pointe, which was originally built by her ancestor. Her grief leads her to want to kill herself, which she can do easily because there is now a governmental department which assists citizens in doing just that, by sending them to a place of their wishing to commit their suicide. By chance, this entity sends Leah to the very hotel she has so recently lost. Now run by the corrupt government, the Inn is nothing like it was when Mia was young. She is assigned to a cottage away from the Inn, a haunted place where the original lighthouse keeper lived. Things begin to spiral when during her first day at the Inn, Mia is confronted by some vengeful and angry ghosts inhabiting the cottage who threaten and frighten her. She does not understand their appearance but is determined to discover the reason why. When she finds an abandoned dog while taking a walk around the grounds of the Inn, she decides she needs to find the dog’s owner before taking her life. The appearance of the dog sets in motion her decision not to go through with it. Mia has the power to set history straight and avoid the fate for herself that she had wanted. The author cleverly wraps up the ghost stories that are a thread through this series, without requiring the reading of the previous books, and leads Mia and the reader to some unanticipated revelations, kindly ghosts, time travel, and strange and unexpected events. The atmosphere is at once foreboding but also hopeful, a magical combination that the author creates. What more could a reader want? I loved this book and highly recommend it!   About the author: Harmony Kent is an award winning multi-genre author. Readers will enjoy her books, among them The Battle for Brisingamen, The Glade, Finding Katie, Jewel in the Mud and FALLOUT. As well as being an avid reader and writer, Harmony also offers reviews and supports her fellow authors. Harmony works hard to promote and protect high standards within the publishing arena. She is always on the lookout for talent and excellence, and will freely promote any authors or books who she feels have these attributes. Harmony lives in Cornwall, England. You can find Harmony at Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/HarmonyK harmonykent@gmx.com 5 0

The Harbor Pointe Series is a collection of eight novellas by Story Empire authors. Each story takes place at the Harbor Pointe Inn in a fictional California town. See my reviews for the previous books in the series on this blog. As with the previous six books in this series, the story did not disappoint. Up-and-coming actress, the beautiful Leah Meyers, argues with her fiancé and goes alone to their booking at the Harbor Pointe Inn, leaving Daryl Warren at home to wallow in regret over the end of his athletic career due to an injury. Then someone finds Leah’s body at the base of a cliff near the Inn. Her death is ruled a suicide, but not everyone believes this. Five years later, Daryl, Leah’s psychologist, Leah’s brother, and her close friend Adele, who was at the Inn at the time of her death, serendipitously visit the inn on the anniversary of her death. Deputy Brad Sherman, assistant to the lead detective on the original case, has always believed the suicide was not the cause of her death, that something was amiss with the lead investigator who reached his conclusion in a headlong fashion. When he learns Leah’s former acquaintances are staying at the inn, he decides to reopen the old case file. The four guests soon learn their identities and share their belief that Leah was murdered or, at the very least, her death was an accident. Brad Sherman uses this opportunity to gather information for his investigation. The story is very character driven: Kevin, her brother, is driven by revenge and the fact Leah’s family could not cope with her death. He thinks Daryl had something to do with it. Adele is engulfed in grief for her friend, and the psychologist is unconvinced that Leah committed suicide. Daryl is very likeable but has not moved on from Leah’s death. The author does an outstanding job of getting into their heads, as well as creating a memorable setting against which this mystery unfolds. The author involves these friends and the deputy in a very natural way to pick apart truth from fiction and unveil what really happened. Lots of twist and turns keep the reader guessing.  Death at the Inn is an admirable addition to the Harbor Pointe series. Romance and mystery against a spectacular and ominous setting – perfect! I highly recommend it! About the author: Joan Hall has always enjoyed reading or listening to stories about inexplicable events, so it’s not surprising she writes mystery and romantic suspense. A lover of classic rock music, songs often serve as the inspiration for her books. When she’s not writing, Joan likes to observe the night skies, explore old cemeteries, and learn about legends and folklore. She and her husband live in Texas with their two cats. You can visit her at her website, http://JoanHall.net. 4 0

This is the second in some stories about growing up in Plymouth in the 1950s. Growing up, I recognized that my father had a keen sense of proprietorship concerning our house and its land.  Several times a year on a Saturday morning, he would announce from the pulpit of the breakfast table: “Today we’re clearing bushes” or “Today we shovel the driveway” or “Today we burn the lawn.”  Those days he usually made dollar pancakes to soften us up, but these statements struck fear into our hearts, like those of a New England Puritan preacher. The driveway was a quarter mile long, the land was about five acres, and my father had an addiction to kerosene. Our house was three stories, with weathered gray siding, dark green shutters, and three brick chimneys. It had been built in the mid-1800s by a man named Hornblower, and its many windows stared out at the water of Massachusetts Bay. There were five terraces leading up to the house from the main road, wild and full of brambles and wild blackberries, and some had even been other sites for the house. My father told me he had seen pictures of the house, raised up on a huge platform, being dragged down the hill, to be repositioned on the first terrace, next to the road, and the foundations were still visible in some places. There had even been a turret on one side of the house, but it had fallen off in a move. The next terrace up had ancient apple trees that bore fruit sporadically. My brother and I had once tried the apples but decided that the small, tart fruits weren’t worth the briar scratches on our legs and the burrs in our socks. The third terrace was half-full of day lilies, which bloomed spectacularly in summer, painting the terrace in brilliant orange, and they spread a little each year. The fourth and fifth terraces were thick with bushes and brambles, the object of my father’s desire to clear, and he always established a beachhead for burning on that fifth terrace. In retrospect, he could have hired a plow to do the work and he had a friend who owned one. However, undaunted in his belief we could do the job ourselves, and probably to save money, he made the whole family – except maybe Mom – suffer together in true pioneer fashion. Never mind that the job couldn’t be done in one or two weekends. So with much of the brush remaining after our Herculean efforts, only to regrow thick and lush the next year, we waited at the breakfast table for the annual announcement. Clearing was always done in late spring and early fall, when it was warm and humid and the poison ivy in full bloom. Dad would get a burning permit from the town and start bushwhacking early Saturday morning with his machete and a scythe. My mother, brother and I would pull on old gloves, whose insides smelled and frequently contained small bits of yuck, and follow behind Dad, grabbing the cut brush and dragging it to the towering inferno he would create with liberal splashes of kerosene. In the early days, when no one was particularly good at recognizing poison ivy, I usually came down with a good dose of it and would be wearing pink calamine lotion for the next week or so. Burning poison ivy was also unsafe, because the smoke, when mixed with sweat, also required calamine treatment. My loathing of this green weed only grew when Mom told me that years before, some crazy relative had died after eating poison ivy on a dare. Thereafter I carefully inspected every load of brush we dragged to the fire and tried to stay upwind of the smoke. My brother mocked me. Poison ivy didn’t affect him and he was never subject to the humiliation of sitting in a classroom with a pink-coated face, being driven crazy with the itching. I came to regard my mother as the smartest one in the family, beginning with the very first time we bush-whacked the terraces. She would haul brush for about 30 minutes and then engage my Dad in a short discussion. “John, I think we’ve just about cleared this area.” That would be followed by a grunt from Dad, who was dripping sweat into his eyes and trying not to slash himself with the machete. “Would you like something to drink? You must be getting thirsty.” “Sounds good.” “OK, I’m going to head in and I’ll bring you all out some lemonade, after I start lunch.”   Then Mom would retreat to the house and wouldn’t appear until she called us for lunch. The lemonade would be on the table when we slogged inside. I never knew exactly why ham sandwiches took the entire morning to make, but whatever Mom was doing, I would have been only too happy to help her. In the winter, “the family must shovel” pronouncement usually occurred after several feet of snowfall. Inevitably, the snow blocked the back door. In that case, the easiest way out of the house was through the cellar, since Dad hermetically sealed all the other doors of the house to keep out the cold. We would assemble on the stairs leading up from the cellar to its double doors and with might grunts, would heave upward, dislodging a pile of snow which would rain down inside our clothes. While most of the day would be spent clearing the large parking area in the back of the house and making two straight lines the width of the car axle down the driveway, there were also a lot of snowball fights and general mayhem. Dad’s belief that burning a lawn in the spring made it come in rich and green – why didn’t he think the same thing about the brush? led him to get another burning permit from the town. So one Saturday morning, he would set fire

It’s Garfield. ‘Nuff said. 3 0

When I was twelve years old, I dared to launch what I like to call The Great Spinach Rebellion, one of the few times I truly confronted my parents. My mother had a habit of serving boiled spinach. No butter, salt or seasonings, just a great lump of shriveled greens sitting in a bowl bathed in green liquid. She was a great believer in greens, my mom: spinach, beet greens (equally loathed) or dandelion greens picked from the lawn (I won’t even go there and you’re welcome). Usually I just choked the spinach down, because my father was a chair, CEO, and director of the Clean Plate Club. We were all members, required to eat all the food on our plates at every meal. It took years to undo the effect of that rule! One Friday night, Mom served us our usual fish, dictated by the Catholic Church, along with a bowl of spinach. I wasn’t happy with the fish, but ate it out of Catholic guilt. I didn’t eat my spinach, which teamed with the fish, made the meal totally unappetizing. Dad insisted. I demurred. Dad insisted again, louder. I said no. My brother smirked. “If you don’t eat that spinach now, you will have it for breakfast, cold. And NO dessert,” he bellowed. So be it. I could be stubborn, too. “May I be excused, please?” “You may go to your room.”  I got up from the table without waiting for another comment, and I could hear him making ‘wasting perfectly good food comments’ all the way up to my room. At least he didn’t bring up the starving children in Africa. There on the table for breakfast the next morning sat the bowl, now containing ice cold spinach, sitting like a lump of accusation.  I regarded it with loathing while everyone else ate pancakes my father had made. Deliberately. I stayed resolved and the spinach remained untouched. After breakfast, Dad told me, “You will have it for lunch. Go to your room.” Fortunately, I didn’t feel particularly hungry at that point but I did overheard my mother pleading with my father to forget the spinach. Something about my being a growing girl and needing food. My father was intransigent. Cold spinach for lunch. Same reaction. Only this time I smiled, because it occurred to me that I could be as stubborn as my dad. When he asked why I was smiling, which ticked his temper up another notch, I just asked to be excused. By midafternoon, my stomach had started to rumble and Mom was getting frantic. I could hear her begging my Dad to let her give me something to eat. When I came into the kitchen sometime later, Mom said, “I left the spinach out, so it’s not cold. If you only eat one bite, I’ll tell him you ate it … please?” She looked so distressed, I decided I could manage one bite, just for her. I sat down, picked up the smallest amount I could and still have it qualify as a bite, and popped it in my mouth. Mom smiled and took the bowl away. “Would you like a cheese dream?” she asked. That’s a toasted cheese sandwich in our family, in case you’re wondering. I nodded, got up from the table and casually walked to the downstairs bathroom. Where I closed the door, spit the spinach into the toilet, and flushed. I think we’d managed a compromise, but Mom hardly ever served spinach after that, and never on a Friday. 0 0

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