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I was very surprised and chuffed to see a wonderful review for Death at the Asylum posted by Judith Barrow, a fellow blogger. Judith is an author herself of eight books. The focus of her writing is family dynamics, which she treats with great insight and sensitivity. You can find her at https://judithbarrowblog.com. I hope you will visit her blog and check out her books, which are all great reads. Here is her review: Although this is the fifth book in the series it’s also a stand-alone story and is an excellent cozy mystery. The book begins with a brief summary which sets the scene easily and introduces the reader to the backdrop of the sequence. N.A Granger’s story is interwoven and layered with intriguing subplots that flow seamlessly and keep the reader fascinated. Themes of deception and suspense sit alongside themes of family communication and workday differences, all adding to the depth of the story. The chapters alternate between the points of view of Rhe, nurse who works part-time in the police department, and Sam, her husband who is Chief of Police. Both are well-rounded and believable characters (something I expected as their characteristics and dialogue must have developed and grown over the series). This adds to the consistency of the story and is something I admired in this author’s style of writing.  But these two characters don’t carry the plot on their own and the minor characters in the close knit community of Pequod are also extremely credible.   The descriptions of the setting, the coastal town of Pequod give a brilliant sense of place and leaves the reader in no doubt of the area the characters live and move around in. This is my first visit back to this series for quite a while and I had forgotten how much I remembered of this series. I will certainly revisit and catch up on the exploits of Rhe and Sam.   For any reader who enjoys cosy mysteries as much as I do, I highly recommend Death at the Asylum. Death at the  Asylum: Rhe Brewster Mystery Series, Book 5 (The Rhe Brewster Mysteries 13) is available at: Amazon. co.uk: https://tinyurl.com/5ewpcayx Amazon.com: https://tinyurl.com/3vfdt3r6 Thank you, Judith! 0 0

An ill-advised thermonuclear war has resulted in a direct effect on the sun, destabilizing it irreparably. Recognizing that Earth will eventually end as a home to humanity, a manned mission is sent to find a plant that humans can colonize. Told from the view point of the commander of the mission and captain of the Universal Solar Spaceship Primus, David Davis describes the ship, the first spaceship to be powered by star light, to be sent to Kepler-186f, called Nova. This planet is 10.5 times bigger than Earth but with similar gravity and within its star’s habitable zone. All of this is detailed in his first log entries. There are eleven crew members and AI to run the ship while they are in hypersleep, along with lots and lots of embryos which should grow into super children. The members of the crew are chosen carefully to have no families. Half are veterans of space travel and for half, this is their first mission. They spend a two month isolation period with each other to determine if they are compatible and if they can accept a mission from which they will not return nor hear from Earth again. The author describes each of the crew member’s strengths and how the jobs they were trained for overlap. There is only one about whom the captain admits to having some doubts, Osa Williams, the life specialist who is in charge of the hypersleep pods and the embryos. The mission begins successfully, but only makes it halfway before Osa awakens, hundreds of years from the ship’s destination, due to something that was her fault. She rouses Captain Davis, who soon realizes there is something terribly wrong and that she is being deceptive about where they are on the journey, resulting in an ensuing twisted game of cat and mouse. Davis has to fight not only for his own life, but for those of the crew and the embryos, and indeed for humanity, as Osa descends into madness. I loved the plot line of this novel and also the thoughtful consideration of various topics: Would the crew survive the centuries-long voyage with a ship and equipment never before tested? If they did, what would be the effects on them of the journey? How successful would they be at populating Nova and developing it into an Earth-like planet? However, the set-up to the mission is a series of long and detailed log entries, including minutia about the ship and crew and thoughts of Davis about the future of humanity. This lasts until chapter 9, when the real action begins. From there forward, the point of view is shared between Osa and Davis, and the rest of the story is laced with tension, and tragedy. The ending is practical and interesting, and I leave readers to discover what happens. My feeling about the book are mixed – loved the concept and enjoyed the science (fiction) of the ship and the mission, but it took a long time to get out of Davis’s head and into the action. The author writes well, and the details of the ship and the mission are well-wrought. They eventually pull the reader into the story, build the tension and do justice to the ending. But I am left wondering if so much detail is necessary, especially about the crew, since there are truly only two characters. Nevertheless, the author impressed me with their first full-length outing and look forward to the next book. I think readers into serious sci-fi will like this book. About the author (from Goodreads): Martin H. Altis, nicknamed ‘The Human Resource’ by their friends due to their penchant for pulling random facts out of thin air, they wrote their first short story when they were young, scribbling away with a stubby pencil and a dollar store spiral-bound notebook. Ever since then, they’ve been hooked. M.H. writes to express themself, their thoughts, ideas, and emotions. They also have a deep interest in how fiction connects to reality and how character arcs mirror our own lives. M.H. Altis has written several books, from 250,000-word epics to 50,000-word dashes. With a growing and unreleased catalog, they decided it was finally time to share their creations with the world. With curiosities and creations ranging from medieval times to outer space, alternate universes to the one we inhabit, and everything in between, readers will be sure to find something to enjoy. 0 0

I’ve been missing from my blog for a while due to writing (imagine that!). But Teagan Geneviene gifted me with a review of my book The Last Pilgrim by D. L. Finn today, so I decided to share it. With a promise of more posts to come! Thank you, Teagan, and especially Denise!! “The Last Pilgrim” is an amazingly detailed and well-written story focused on Mary Allerton Cushman’s life. Four-year-old Mary and her family were on the Mayflower, wanting to start a new life with the freedom to practice their religion. They squeezed together below deck with many other families, enduring limited food, water, and no hygiene. The boat faced various obstacles, such as sickness and scurvy, but upon reaching land and finding a suitable place, the survivors had to hastily construct a shelter for the cold winter. They were a hardy group who not only pulled together to accomplish their survival, but I found it captivating how they pieced together a group of people with a dream of a better life into a functioning society. What caught my attention was the strong women with limited voice or rights. They were equal in the colony’s success as the men and, at times, surpassed them. Some medical treatments and punishments given to lawbreakers made me cringe. Mary’s daily life and the surrounding people were as fascinating as the politics and religion. Although a long read, I didn’t even notice because I was so drawn in. I can highly recommend this historical fiction! P.S. I am often asked about the cover. It is an oil painting by an artist Mary Smith from an idea that I had. I have the painting on the wall in my office. “ 0 0

I always look forward to Jan Sikes’ books. She has such a gentle and heart-warming way of telling a story that the reader feels that all’s right with the world when they’re done reading. Layken Marin returns home to his family’s farm in Missouri after serving in the Army during WW II. Both his parents died while he was away but he had promised his father he would make the farm prosperous again. What he finds is a house in disrepair, fields baked by the sun, and a foreclosure notice on the door. Layken appeals to the banker, a thoroughly odious character, who refuses to give him the time needed to rebuild, plant and harvest a crop. Instead, he offers him a two-year extension on the loan if Layken will marry his daughter, Sarah Beth. The banker is a widower and wants to remarry, but his fiancée wants Sarah gone. Faced with two awful choices, Laykin decides to marry Sarah Beth. And Sarah Beth changes his life. Carefully treading around each other, they first discover their mutual tolerance for hard work and then each sees in the other their exceptional qualities. Tolerance begets affection. Together they begin to rebuild the farm, adding other members to their family: Uncle Seymour, a black man who had tended Sarah’s father’s land for years and who was fired after Sarah Beth left; Tad, a young boy living in the woods as a runaway from his father’s abuse; a barn cat and a pregnant stray dog.     Where the neighbors first regard Sarah with distrust, they come to help whenever help is needed and Sarah comes to realize that in the country, your neighbors are your support. And hers and Laykin’s are kind and thoughtful. This is the story of the growing love between the unlikely couple set against a hard scrabble farm with seemingly endless setbacks to a successful harvest. But as always with the author, the story is told in such a warm and gentle way that the reader knows Laykin and Sarah Beth will survive. The farm and its occupants are drawn in a compelling way and the story is a testament to hard work, determination, love, acceptance, and the strength of community. I highly recommend this book. Readers will love the experience of it. Five starts About the author: Jan Sikes has been an avid reader all her life, but oddly enough she had no ambition to be a writer. But she wound up in mid-life with a story that begged to be told. Through fictitious characters, the tale came to life in not one, but four books. Then she released music CDs of original music matching the time period of each book, and finally a book of poetry and art. The story ideas keep coming, and she has no plan to turn off the creative fountain. She loves all things metaphysical and often includes those aspects in my stories. She is a member of the Author’s Marketing Guild, The Writer’s League of Texas, Story Empire, and the Paranormal Writer’s Guild. I am an avid fan of Texas music and grandmother of five. She resides in North Texas. You can reach her at https://jansikes.com/blog https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJanSikesBooks 2 0

Another humorous or not-so humorous memory of growing up in Plymouth. My mother, in addition to being just plain smart about lots of things, was also very handy. She had painted all the rooms in the house, replaced panes of glass, and could do a rewiring job if necessary. She could hook rugs and her cooking was exceptional. The one thing she’d never mastered was sewing. Memmere (her mother) was a whiz with the needle and made her grandchildren’s clothes for years, which is probably why Mom had never bothered to learn. One summer, she got it in her head to make me a bathing suit. I think she figured a bathing suit would be an easy sewing project on which to start. It was a cotton knit affair, which she made because I’d grown up and out rather quickly in the past year, and my old suits had become dangerously revealing. What Mom didn’t know, but what I knew acutely, is that with the development of breasts, I’d become hideously self-conscious. One of the things I could do well was swim fast. While I knew the technique of all the stokes, thanks to endless hours of swim lessons, I had an advantage being taller and stronger than all my teammates on the Eel River Beach Club team. I could power my way to the end of the pool faster than anyone in my age group. At one particular swim meet with another club, I lined up at the deep end of the pool for the start of a freestyle race, proudly sporting the newly constructed two piece bathing suit. Many of the kids at the pool wore two piece suits at that time, even for meets, but what I realized, as I stepped to the line, was the suit had not been tested for its swim-worthiness, let alone its ability to stay in place during a racing dive. At the sound of the gun, I hit the water in a flat, extended position (in those days you did not do an extended dolphin kick underwater, which might have saved me) and began to swim mightily, only to discover that I had nothing around my chest. But something was indeed wrapped around my waist. I continued to swim for a few strokes, then stopped in the middle of the course and pulled my top up, while all the spectators looked on. Instant, grinding mortification. I never wore that bathing suit again. My mom, who had been at the swim meet, never said a word. As I grew older and swam more seriously, the beauty of a one piece suit became clear, and to this day I’m a firm believer in the value of having your suit in one piece. Another memory morsel: some Olympic training coaches visited our team once and talked to me and another teammate – a tiny pixie with blonde hair for whom the water just seemed to part – about whether we’d be interested in a serious training camp. I can’t remember what happened after that; they may have talked to our parents, who nixed the idea. But it’s nice to think about, all these decades later. 0 0

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