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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 education. I was an excellent student (f I do say so myself), but not a perfect pupil, a fact on which I will elaborate. Nevertheless, I think I had a reasonable relationship with Mr. Bongiovanni, as much as one of several hundred kids could have with a person with absolute authority over their lives. Principals were definitely not pals in those days. Mr. Bongiovanni was my high school principal and 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, and it was very evident in the way he carried himself: ram-rod straight, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, greying hair neatly trimmed. As another PHs alumnus 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 do believe I tried Mr. Bongiovanni’s patience, not the least because I became regular visitor to his office because of French class. I was an insufferable chatterer in French class. Madame Jaques, my French teacher, suffered talkers poorly and more than once sent me to Mr. Bongiovanni for discipline. The first time he found me sitting outside his office, he called me in and asked me why I was there. I didn’t lie and told him I liked to talk in French class. “Madame Jaques?” “Oui.” Apparently that was self-explanatory. He instructed me to go back outside and wait until the bell. 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?” One day I was bet by a classmate I couldn’t slide down the bannisters from the third floor to the basement of the high school. 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 bannister, I had to hike my skirt up to my hips. Then I straddled the wood, started to slide, and six sections of bannister 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. 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.” It was one of his outstanding characteristics that he treated the students as adults, although I clearly didn’t get the message at the time. Sometime after I graduated, Mr. Bongiovanni resigned as principal and joined the Massachusetts Department of Education. There he held a number of executive positions, notable among which were director of the Division of Elementary and Secondary Education and assistant to the Commissioner of Education. He died in 2010, so my thoughts and thanks come a little late, but are nevertheless heartfelt. Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Bongiovanni. 0 0

A fellow blogger (A Star on the Forehead) asked me for my recipe for scones. I’ve never posted a recipe before, but this is a good one! 2 cups all purpose flour 1/3rd cup plus 1 tsp sugar 1 tsp baking powder 1/4th tsp baking soda ½ tsp salt 8 tbsp – 1 stick – unsalted butter (I use anything healthier, no difference) ½ cup raisins or dried currants Tsp cinnamon ½ cup sour cream 1 large egg Adjust oven rack to lower middle position and preheat oven to 400o. In a medium bowl, mix 1/3 cup sugar, flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Add cinnamon, if you are making cinnamon raisin scones. Cut butter into tiny pieces and use your fingers to work in the butter. The mixture should resemble coarse corn meal. Stir in raisins. In a small bowl, whisk sour cream and egg until smooth. Using a fork, stir the sour cream mixture into flour mixture until large dough clumps form. Use your hands to press the dough against the side of the bowl into a ball. The dough should become very sticky and should come together easily. Place the dough on a lightly floured surface and pat into a 7-8 inch circle about 1/4th inch thick. Sprinkle with remaining sugar. Use a sharp knife to cut the dough into 8 wedges. Place on a greased cookie sheet or parchment paper (my oven runs a little hot and the parchment paper kept the bottoms from getting too brown), 1 inch apart. Bake until slightly browned on top, 15-17 min. Keep an eye on the scones – depending on the oven, it could take as little as 13 min. Cool for 5 min before serving. For orange-cranberry scones, add a generous tsp of orange zest to the dry ingredients and substitute cranberries for the raisins. For cherry-almond scones, add ½ tsp almond extract to the sour cream mixture, and substitute dried cherries for the raisins. For lemon-blueberry scones, add a generous tsp of lemon zest to the dry ingredients and substitute dried blueberries for the raisins. 0 0

This is the debut novel of Megan Goodenough; I think she has a great imagination and did a fair job with a complicated Tudor historical mystery/spy story set in the current day. It has a spunky main character, a handsome, enigmatic tough guy who becomes her guardian, and lots of twists and turns. Cas is a young woman who leaves London for Brighton, fleeing from her former life, at least for a while. She works in a jewelry store while house-sitting a flat. She and her good friend Lacey make it a habit of bar hopping at night, with Cas frequently drinking to oblivion. One night Lacey mysteriously disappears and Cas ends up in the hospital as a result of her binge. Lacey leaves behind a series of cryptic clues to an Elizabethan treasure, which Cas assumes is some of Elizabeth’s jewels but in reality lead to a modern and very dangerous conspiracy. Cas begins to take the clues seriously when she is attacked by a ruthless thug who is also looking for Lacey. Hunted by criminals and pursued by a former Russian spy, Cas races across England pursuing clues and is helped along the way by Reuben, who claims he works for an insurance company. Cas alternates between trusting him and trying to lose him. Cas ultimately uncovers a society of women who have played an integral role in British history, bound by an oath they’ve held for a thousand years. I loved the opening part of the prologue, set in the summer of 1563, when Queen Elizabeth’s closest lady-in-waiting smuggles a girl child, delivered by Elizabeth and called Rose, out of the palace to be raised in anonymity. Then the scene changes to the present day and a cryptic conversation between two women about one of their girls whose name came up in a dispatch order; a man is sent to keep an eye on her, and I was left wondering what was going on. Chapter One then follows Lacey and Cas on their drunken night out, being tracked by Reuben. By the time Cas is attacked by a thug sent by someone other than those who sent Reuben, I was lost. I did a reread but was still somewhat confused. Cas is well drawn, but the clues she deciphers are so obscure that I was awed at her intuition. Reuben is amazing at showing up to save her at just the right times, always vanquishing the bad guys. Eventually it is revealed the thug who originally attacked Cas was sent by Lacey’s mother, who is a cruel and determined criminal. I remain somewhat unclear about her motives. Thus the main problem I had with the book is trying to wrap my head around all the various plot lines, players and their different goals: Cas following clues, Reuben sent to watch her, criminals trying to stop her, and then the Russian thrown in for good measure. It is clear that the author is knowledgeable of Elizabethan history and she is skilled at story telling; her writing is smooth. I do recommend this book to readers who like mysteries with a historical component and I will look for the next book by this author. About the author: Megan Goodenough is a graduate of York University with a degree in archaeology, Megan been short-listed for the Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Award, long-listed for the TS Eliot award and won a with BBC Writers’ Room competition. Her short fiction has been published by the Londonist Magazine.   A Company of Roses can be found at Amazon, Amazon UK, and on Kindle: 0 0

We’ve had a busy time in Plymouth and Boothbay Harbor, meeting old friends, doing a couple of signings, and researching for my fourth and fifth books. My indulgent husband was willing to trek hither and yon. Can’t tell you where, since I don’t want to give anything a way. One hint, though: I spent yesterday in inter-tidal muck up to my knees. Required a good wash. See you all on Wednesday! 0 0

This is the second of Frances Evesham’s Thatcham Hall Mysteries, 19th Century historical mystery romances set in Victorian England. It continues the story begun in An Independent Woman, in which Philomena, a woman from a lower class escaped London dressed as a boy, meets, falls in love with and later marries Hugh, Lord Thatcham. In this second novel, Olivia Martin, a thoroughly headstrong but impoverished young woman, is looking forward with dread to life as a governess and music teacher to support herself. While out for a walk, she is rescued from a cow, which she thinks is a bull, by Nelson Roberts, an up-and-coming lawyer from London. Together they discovered the body of a local farmhand. Roberts has been retained by Lord Thatcham to investigate attacks on his livestock and thefts of personal items from Thatcham Hall, a country house in Victorian England . The lawyer has been embittered by his role as an officer in the war in Afghanistan and has been jilted by his fiancée, so he approaches this task in a dark state of mind. Now he has the now added responsibility of discovering the truth of what happened to the farm hand. As in the first book, there is more or less instant attraction between the two protagonists, although they are reluctant to acknowledge it, except to themselves. Olivia, upon being brought home by Roberts, hies herself off to Thatcham Hall for a previously arranged and convenient visit, hoping to see him again. There she is to spend time with the aforementioned Philomena and Hugh, as well as Miss Selena Dainty, Lord Thatcham’s only sister. She is a beauty with blond ringlets and blue eyes of whom Olivia cannot help but be jealous, especially of Selena’s prospects for the future. Mr. Roberts begins his investigation, but circumstances keep throwing Olivia into his path, and eventually they combine forces to solve the various mysterious threads of the story. Various well-drawn and interesting characters begin to accumulate on the list of suspects: old witchy old woman, who knows and uses herbs as drugs, and her semi-wild grandson living in a hovel in the woods near Thatcham Hall; the baker’s daughter, who is pregnant and claims to have been seduced by a servant at Thatcham Hall; Major Lovell, an army officer with whom Roberts is well acquainted and to whom Miss Dainty is attracted. The reader quickly senses his evil nature. I can’t say more without giving away important details. Roberts and Olivia alternate between confrontation and attraction for most of the book. Some of this seems a bit contrived, as is their sudden attraction, and I found this the most tedious aspect of the book. However, Olivia’s independence and spunkiness was refreshing against the backdrop of societal propriety. The author has done a wonderful job in her descriptions of the customs, mores and dress of the times; I was fully drawn into the world of Thatcham Hall. She has also done a good job of creating and tying together her main plot and subplots, leaving good surprises both along the way and at the end. This book was overall a good read, and I can recommend it to lovers of this genre. About the author: In addition to historical mystery romances, Frances Evesham has written books on speech and language, and parenting and communication, which she can practice with her growing collection of grandsons. She’s been a speech therapist, a professional communication expert as well as road sweeper. She has also worked in the criminal courts. Now, she walks in the country and breathes sea air in Somerset. For fun, she collects Victorian ancestors and historical trivia, likes to smell the roses, lavender and rosemary, and cooks with a glass of wine in one hand and a bunch of chilies in the other. Danger at Thatcham Hall is available at Amazon, Amazon UK, and on Kindle: 0 0

This is a short story I posted last year. It happened during the summer, so it fits with my Summers in Plymouth Series. If you haven’t read it, I hope you enjoy it! It was time I learned to sail. At least that was what I’d been told by my father. He’d purchased an old wooden Turnabout, which lay with its bottom up on the lawn by the barn, mainmast, boom and sail stowed away. This doughty, barely ten foot sailing dinghy was what the kids at the yacht club liked to race on Saturdays. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get into sailing at all, let alone race, and those kids were a whole different group from the ones I hung around with at the pool every summer. Racing to me met hitting the water with a flat, belly-smacking dive, and powering myself to the other end, then making a turn and powering back. That required practice, and my summer days were already pretty full. “You’ll enjoy it,” Dad insisted and promptly enrolled me in the land classes to prepare for sailing. In the meantime, he handed me sandpaper and told me to take all the paint off the turnabout. It was hard work, and I managed to remove a lot of skin and a fingernail along with the paint. It didn’t help to hear “Sand with the grain, sand with the grain” every time Dad checked on me. By the time I’d finished to Dad’s satisfaction, a whole weekend had been consumed. Later that week, he caulked the boat, and the next evening we repainted it together, red again. I really wanted blue. At supper the following Saturday evening, Dad said, “Your classes begin Monday at nine. Mom will drop you off at the yacht club and pick you up at noon.” “But Dad, do I have to? You know we have a big meet next Saturday. I need to be working on my intervals.” “Nonsense. It won’t matter if you miss morning practice. It’s not the Olympics. There’s still the afternoon and you’re the fastest kid in your age group already.” As Mom ladled chop suey into my bowl, her latest attempt at creating international cuisine, she remarked, “Your Dad and I really enjoyed the Coast Guard course we took last year, and we thought since we live on the water, you should be more familiar with boats.“ My brother Jay stuck his tongue out, then made a face as he tried the chop suey. Yeah right, I thought. It’s just because Dad and the Commodore have become big buddies and Mom helps run the Yacht Club dinners. I’m going to look like a jerk, as usual. “How long is the course?” I asked. “Three mornings.” “But Mom….” “Then you go out in the boat for a one-on-one class, and if you get the hang of it, you’ll be sailing by Friday. Won’t that be wonderful!” my Dad exclaimed. The next morning, I trudged up the gravel drive to the two story, weather-worn yacht club, pushed myself through the front door, and found a group of kids hanging around at one end of the dining room, where a chalk board had been set up. Hey, they’re all younger than me. Isn’t this just peachy? I sat as far away from the group as I could and still hear what was going on. The instructor showed up and moved to the chalk board. I noticed that he was one of the tall, good-looking young men I’d seen hanging around during the yacht club dinners, chatting, drinking Coke and lazily watching girls. He was bronzed by the sun from sailing and had windblown, wavy hair. I cringed. Just what I need. A Greek God to teach me sailing. In the last year, I’d shot up three inches and was gawky and clumsy. It didn’t help that at twelve, I was now taller than all the boys at my school and was called Miss Encyclopedia because I got good grades. I need to be swimming, I fumed. In the swimming pool, I’m someone. My teammates like me. There are even some younger kids who look up to me. Why am I here? The Greek God, whose name was Kevin, assembled the children around him. “Hey you, aren’t you in this class?” he asked me. “Yeah, I guess so.” “Well, you need to come closer and join the group. You need to be able see the board and take notes. I’ll be giving you a test at the end of the course and you have to pass it if you want to sail out of this club.” Oh joy, so nice to be singled out. I reluctantly moved to a chair at the end of the third row. A kid who looked like a kindergartener smirked at me as I sat down, picking the notebook and pencil up from the chair. During the next several hours, with breaks in between, Kevin covered a variety of topics. He started by teaching us to read a depth chart of the harbor. I was interested to see where the channels ran, how deep they were, and the shallow areas that were revealed as mud flaps (my brother’s interpretation of mud flats) at low tide. Then we progressed to the various parts of a sail boat, and Kevin showed us the different kinds of sailboats we would likely see in Plymouth harbor and explained their differences: a sloop, a ketch and a yawl, which looked a lot like a ketch (I could not for the life of me figure out the difference.) I found myself thinking, Darn, this stuff is interesting. And Kevin is sooo good-looking. I was itching to ask about the sails when Kevin said, “Okay, I think we will end for today. “Don’t forget to bring your notebook tomorrow. I’m going to teach you about sails.” I raced out the front door to the waiting station wagon. “How was your class?”

Thought you might enjoy this infographic on men vs women writers, while I’m living it up in Maine!  Please note this graphic was kindly provided by:https://www.grammarly.com/grammar-check 0 0

This is a partial re-posting of a memoir piece I posted last year, perfect for Summers in Plymouth. When I was growing up, my year was always dominated by summer adventures. In late August, my mother’s sister and her husband and two boys would come for a visit. These visits were always awaited with great anticipation, since their oldest boy, Peter, was six months younger than I, while the youngest, Paul, was six months younger than my brother Jay. I could never figure out how Mom and her sister had managed this arrangement. We had built-in playmates for a week or two: Paul and Jay roomed together in my bedroom, while Peter and I were housed in the old servant’s quarters on our old house’s third floor, in a bedroom with twin beds under the eaves. After the first couple of days of the cousin invasion, the bloom was off the rose. Peter and I or Paul and Jay were either getting into trouble or fighting. Which raises the subject of punishment. Spoiling the child was never an issue for my parents. Mom had a Master’s degree in verbal tongue-lashing, while Dad was in charge of physical discipline. I had a “smart mouth” according to Mom, and trouble found Jay several times daily. Thus the switch, a thin green stick cut from a forsythia bush in the back yard, was frequently applied to our posteriors by Dad, with varying degrees of force and frequency, depending on the infraction. “Wait ’til your father gets home,” was an ominous sign of things to come. Pain never seemed to be an issue for Jay, who was hyperactive and barely responded to anything that hurt. The only time Mom wielded a whacking instrument to my brother was when in complete frustration she broke a yardstick on Jay’s backside. Part of the frustration was that Jay smiled all the way through its application. I, on the other hand, dreaded the switch, and only managed to avoid encountering it once over the years, when I hid under a bed. Our uncle was of like mind with our father, only he applied a belt to our cousins. The belt was an old black leather strap that hung in the kitchen closet in their home, but it traveled with them to Plymouth each summer. Each pair of cousins swore that what they experienced was worse, usually at the conclusion of a lengthy recounting of recent times the belt and switch had been used, the infractions that had called for their use, and the virtues of each form of punishment. All this ended during one of the cousin invasions when, exasperated to the limit by our behavior, our respective fathers gave us a choice: switch or belt. While Paul and Jay were on the receiving end of the belt and switch respectively, Peter and I sat down on the kitchen floor and recommenced our discussion of the merits of each of these instruments of torture. “Well?” my Dad asked, when our turn came. “I think I’ll take the switch,” I remember answering rather reluctantly. “I’m okay with the belt,” said Peter. Later that evening, with our backsides smarting from the latest insult, we collectively decided not to discuss our different forms of punishment again, just in case discussing them somehow elicited their use. As a parent, I never used a switch. When my children were little, they infrequently got one swat on their diapered rears for effect, but we mainly used time outs. Peter and I had another adventure I clearly remember – we took my turnabout, the Yama (it means ‘hurry’ in Bahamian) out to sail around Plymouth Harbor. We had a picnic with us and I figured we could land near the bird sanctuary at the end of the long spit of land that protects Plymouth harbor, anchor the boat and eat on the sandy beach. The birds had other plans. We were still about a quarter of a mile away when I noticed a gathering of gulls above us. As we drew nearer, they started to dive bomb us, at first just missing and then landing on Peter’s head and pecking him. I came about in a hurry and prayed the wind wouldn’t die down before we got far enough from the shore. Needless to say we ate on the Yama. I do remember when we got home, we had sunburns on half of our faces, depending on which side of the sail we’d sat on! 0 0

But just for two weeks! I am off to Plymouth and Maine, and promise to return with lots of photos and adventures to relate. Check my Facebook page for updates! PS I have a couple of posts that will show up while I’m gone… 0 0