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All those people who planned on having a wonderful Fourth of July on our east coast have just gotten the bad news: Hurricane Arthur is going to make the weekend miserable and possibly dangerous. North Carolina’s Hatteras Island was given the word early yesterday to evacuate and there were   long lines of cars at the Hatteras Ferry and others streaming north on the single highway cutting through the Outer Banks. I wish the home owners along the coast well, because there have been some devastating hurricanes since we moved here in 1981. Living in Chapel Hill, we always felt we were immune…until Hurricane Fran in September of 1996. We’d been told it would move up the coast, as usual, and not to expect anything except some high winds. So take in your porch furniture. This was probably the last time I took at face value anything from a TV meteorologist. Instead, Fran moved inland, then turned north, so Chapel Hill was caught on the worst edge of the storm, the northeast. The winds picked up after dark, and the house shook. I had put our two children, and one of my son’s friends who was staying over, to bed around 9. By midnight, the first jarring blow to the house occurred – a huge loblolly pine on the roof. Then another jar. And another. By this time the kids were up. My son opened the garage door and came running in to tell us two of our cars had been crunched by trees. Ten minutes later, our old station wagon bit the dust. In the meantime, water and tree branches were coming into an upstairs bathroom through a smashed skylight. I swabbed up the water and glass and placed pans in judicious spots. Water was pouring through the recessed lighting in the kitchen. My husband figured it was coming from the attic, where he was placing fish tanks under the holes created by the trees on the roof, and mopping up the rest with towels. By 3 AM, we seemed to have matters under control. I had placed a phone call to a roofer in Durham (we had a landline that miraculously held), who promised to be here at first light. Then the kids and I went to sleep on the floor in the most protected room on the ground floor. Gene kept watch. Dawn brought the realization that all the trees around our house had been blown down, lying in a huge circle around the property. What we had experienced on our exposed hilltop was a microtornado! Aside from the three trees on the roof and the three on top of the cars, one tree had been driven through the wall of a back bedroom. And another huge loblolly lay in the pool, having crushed our fencing. The roofer, true to his word, arrived that morning with a huge tarp to put over the trees and the roof. He and his assistants, along with my brother and his chainsaw, had had to walk over a mile to reach our house, because the road was blocked by fallen trees. We couldn’t get out any of the doors to our house because they were all obstructed by fallen debris. Gene and my brother spent the day chain sawing their way around the house. We had no electricity for two weeks, and you could hear all the generators in the neighborhood roaring. We actually didn’t have one; a friend of ours went to a store where I’d heard there were some coming in, and lay down on top of the last one until she could get our credit card number to pay for it! We bought two new cars later that week – had to have some transportation – with a loan from my mother. The car dealer regarded us a great customers after that. Graduate students came over and went in the pool with chain saws to take out the tree. We shared our pool water with anyone without running water; they came with buckets, in a line. We also shared meals of meat from the thawed freezers, the smell of grilling wafting from house to house. It was a month before we could get the trees lifted from our driveway, cars and roof – it took a large crane and thousands of dollars. And fourteen months to restore our house and yard to where it was before Fran: new fencing, new roof, new siding on the house, a new skylight, and lots of painting inside. We had a company come and take away all the downed trees for the cost of the wood. I am still frightened at heavy winds and worry each time a hurricane approaches. May the coastal homeowners and we be well and safe. And to every one: Happy Fourth of July in this most wonderful of countries, where I count my blessings each and every day. 0 0

It’s been some morning. Downloading chapters of my new book to send to my eagle eyed line editor (she likes hard copy). Phone call: a social service agent from Harnett County – two deceased individuals and she needs to know what to do because they are unclaimed (my job as Chair of the NC Commission of Anatomy). Wrapping a bridal shower present for my niece. Phone call: some close friends – the wife gave birth to their second daughter this morning. Death and life. Writing out two recipes for my niece on impossibly small recipe cards with bad handwriting. Phone call: a company wanting me to use their publishing services for the second book, extra services but $$$. Blogging. Tuna fish salad for lunch, on a diet. Fourteen pounds so far but so hard… Life and death and writing and family events and tuna fish salad. What will the afternoon bring? 0 0

For those of you who are not a regular follower of Rosie Amber, you need to appreciate what this amazing woman does every day by reviewing books, doing good deeds and taking care of a household and family. She approaches Wonder Woman status in my opinion. For next month, and in her copious free time, Rosie has organized a book review event whereby authors can send her their books for review and everyone else can volunteer to review them. She is even offering tips about how to write a good review, beginning tomorrow, written by authors and reviewers who know whereof they speak! Of course I have an iron in this fire, since I sent her my first book, Death in a Red Canvas Chair, for review. The books she’s offering are all genres, so you’re certain to find one that will appeal to you among the offerings. All you have to do is let her know you’ll be a reviewer (or contributor!). She will send out e-copies of the books (free!) on July 1. So if you’ve ever been interested in becoming a good or better reviewer, check out her blog and the books: Monday Update on Books For The Book Review Challenge Go on, take the challenge! 0 0

My mother, in addition to being just plain smart about lots of things, including how to handle my Dad’s whims, 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 was also a darned good cook. The one thing she had never mastered was sewing. My grandmother, whom we called Memmere, was a whiz with the needle and had made her grandchildren’s clothes for years, but this was something Mom had avoided. One summer, she decided to make me a bathing suit. A bathing suit seemed like an easy place to start. It was a cotton knit affair, which she made because I’d grown up and out so quickly in the past year that my old suits had become dangerously revealing. What Mom didn’t recognize is that with the development of breasts, I’d become hideously self-conscious. One of the things I did very well at the pool where I swam was swim fast, really fast. Technique was not my forte yet, but I was taller and stronger than my teammates, and I could power my way to the end of the pool quicker than anyone in my age group. The bathing suit was a lovely color blue, and I decided to wear it at a swim meeting, the day after it was completed. A lot of the girls were wearing two piece suits and I wanted to be fashionable as well as fast. I lined up as always at the deep end of the pool for the start of the freestyle race, proudly sporting the newly constructed bathing suit. It occurred to me, rather belatedly, that unlike my old suits, this one 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 and began to swim mightily, pulling out to an easy lead by half the length of the pool. Unfortunately, I discovered at that half the length, I had nothing around my chest. The ties to the bra of the suit had pulled out, and the top of the suit was now wrapped around my waist. I continued swimming for a few strokes, then stopped and pulled up my top, while spectators looked on. Instant, grinding mortification. I don’t remember how I managed to get to out of the pool, but it was certainly without even a modicum of dignity. I never wore that bathing suit again, and my mother never asked why. As I grew older and swam more seriously, the focus of what I wore became just as serious and I never, ever wore a new suit for a race, not once.       0 0

One of my favorite bloggers and new author, Luccia Gray, has nominated me for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award. I am honored, and urge you to visit her blog, Rereading Jane Eyre. She not only is a great writer, but she is also an accomplished photographer who treats us on a regular basis to scenes where she lives in southern Spain. The award says in small print: Keeping the Blogosphere a Beautiful Place, and she curtained does. Thank you, Luccia! Since Luccia listed the rules for this award, I won’t reinvent the wheel but use what she wrote: 1. Thank and link the amazing person(s) who nominated you. (DONE) 2. List the rules and display the award. (DONE) 3. Share seven facts about yourself. (BELOW) 4. Nominate 15 other amazing blogs (DONE) and comment on their posts to let them know they have been nominated. (DONE) 5. Optional: Proudly display the award logo on your blog and follow the blogger who nominated you. (DONE) Some facts about me, your humble blogger: I was a university professor before I retired and belatedly started a writing career. My time was divided between bench and educational research and teaching human anatomy to medical students, who are a blessing and a challenge. I loved teaching and miss it every day. I worked on insect endocrinology for my research and some of the insects I raised were used in the movie The Silence of the Lambs. The insects were supposed to be Death’s Head moths, but these are not native to the US and can’t be imported for obvious reasons. So I provided larvae, pupae, and adults of Manduca sexta, the tobacco hornworm; the insect wrangler for the film glued fake, clear fingernails with a death’s head painted on them onto the thorax of the adults and they looked close enough. These insects got great treatment. I created a trunk with a light in it, so they could stay on the same light:dark cycle, and compartments for each stage of development. An actor from the film was sent down from Pittsburgh to Chapel Hill and flew back first class with the trunk in a seat beside him. One of the actors played a policemen in the film, one of those who come into the room where a human skin has been hung on the wall. He said they never saw the set until the day they filmed and they did it in one take, to get the best reaction. I never saw the film when it first came out because it was too frightening. I saw it later at the Student Union, where the guffaws and jibes and gasps of the students made it less scarey! The beach is my favorite place to be. I grew up in Plymouth, Massachusetts, in a house that overlooked the Atlantic, and savor any day when I can be on or in the ocean. I also like lobsters, artichokes, pizza, and lemon meringue pie. Cooking is a hobby, along with knitting and embroidery. I love cooking big holiday meals, but my specialty is baking, in particular all sorts of pies and scones. North Carolina has wonderful peaches in the summer, so peach pies come out of my oven regularly. My husband likes strawberry rhubarb. I joined the Triangle Writers group when I first started writing and have been with one subgroup (there are over 400 members currently) called the Early Birds since 2009. Four of us have been around since then, but even with the in and out members, they’ve taught me how to write, given me wonderful ideas for my books, and provided me with another family whose work I enjoy. We talk about writing, publishing and marketing, but also share the joys, triumphs and sorrows of our daily lives. Traveling is another thing I like. I spent a wonderful year in Prague when I was in my twenties, before the Velvet Revolution. Living under a Communist rule was an eye opener, and I never stop thanking my lucky stars that I was born in a democracy. I’ve been back since then, of course, and was amazed at what freedom did for the Czech Republic and Slovakia, both good and bad. I love meeting other bloggers: amazing writers, travelers, philosophers, teachers all. The stories you weave, the adventures you have, the advice you provide, the photographs you show, all give a richness to my now more solitary life. It is my privilege to nominate a number of you whom I follow for this award. If you’ve already received it, consider yourself twice blessed! Moondustwriter’s Blog Trials of a wanna-be-published writer sandra danby Philosopher Mouse of the Hedge Becky Due jennylloydwriter Jay Squires’ Septuagenarian Journey Posting Tuesdays. Odyssey of a Novice Writer A Writer’s Life For Me. Stepheny Forgue Houghtlin Inkwell & Paper R Scott Amsbaugh Nancy H. Doyle A Woman’s Wisdom   0 0

I have only recently talked about this fact: I had polio when I was 12. Everyone looks at me strangely when I say this, like I’m a dinosaur. No one gets polio anymore. But they did when I was young. I was one of the first to get an experimental vaccine, which my parents worked hard to get for me. Unfortunately, I think I was in the control group. One morning while I was dressing, I noticed that I had trouble bending down to tie my shoes and I had to force hard to get my chin to my chest. I told my Mom, but knowing that I had gotten a vaccine, she didn’t pay much attention. A couple of days later, I told her I COULDN’T tie my shoes. By that time, the word was out. The beach club where I swam and played tennis was closed because a number of the children had come down with the bulbar form of polio and were in iron lungs at our local hospital. Iron lungs were big machines that breathed for people whose diaphragm and rib muscles had been paralyzed by the polio virus. My mother had our family doctor come to the house to examine me (yes, they made house calls in those days!). I wasn’t part of the conversation, but Dr. Spelman said since I was still breathing well, he considered I had a light case and could recover at home. Recovery involved basically what I like to call TOT – Tincture of Time. There was nothing else that could be done. What this meant is that I was confined to bed until Dr. Spelman determined I could resume a normal life. That meant moving across the hall into the guest room, which was large, and had wonderful views of the ocean and a large bed. It also meant a bed pan; no getting out of bed. I was to lie flat and still. I had a radio for entertainment and piles and piles of books: Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys, Sue Barton, and anything else my parents brought me from the library. Luckily I was already a voracious reader, but it was lonely during the day. My parents hired a young woman from the Boston area to take care of my brother while they worked and they were gone morning and afternoon. Dad came in to gave me a massage every night to ensure my muscles remained supple. About six weeks later, I was allowed downstairs for the first time, but Dad had to carry me because I couldn’t walk. My muscles were too weak. But being young meant a fast recovery and for years, I played every sport under the sun, enjoying all the activity. Unfortunately, polio is a disease that keeps on giving. As I understand it, this is what happens: A motor unit is formed by a nerve cell (or motor neuron) in the spinal cord or brain stem and the muscle fibers it activates.  The polio virus attacks these specific neurons in the brain stem and spinal cord.  In an effort to compensate for the loss of these motor neurons, surviving cells sprout new nerve-end terminals and connect with other muscle fibers.  These new connections may result in recovery of movement and gradual gain in power in the affected limbs. Years of high use of these recovered but overly extended motor units adds stress to the motor neurons, which over time lose the ability to maintain the increased work demands.  This results in the slow deterioration of the neurons, which leads to loss of muscle strength. And this is happening to me. You can’t exercise your way back to strength, you just exercise to keep yourself going. There is no treatment, no drug, no magic bullet. I was lucky. I could have been in an iron lung. A colleague of mine who had also had polio as a youngster, walked with two canes and couldn’t stand up for long periods of time for as long as I knew him. I am still fairly active, even though long hikes and extreme exercise is no longer possible. I was lucky, but yes, I’m a dinosaur. 0 0

My book event was a success, at least from my point of view. It was not a reading but rather just a gathering of people who might be interested in reading Death in a Red Canvas Chair. It was held in the small reception area outside of a boutique called Havens in Charlestown, MA, and put on by the marketing firm I hired earlier this year, Yard Arm Media. The boutique itself was sort of amazing – a lighted tree with many branches hung from the ceiling, a large half-moon mirror with lights around on one wall, and an interesting collection of well- made and eclectic items from belts to clothing to jewelry to tables and vases. The owner, whose office occupied the back of the store, is also into marketing. The building in which Haven is located is an old bank building, converted into small stores and offices. In the front is a flower shop, so the air was redolent with wonderful flower scents; Haven is in the rear and next to it is a lawyer’s office made from the old bank vault. The original vault doors hang open and you can see the locking mechanism and the thickness. People trickled in (there was a sign out front) and I talked to them about the book and signed copies they bought. My first sale was actually to a woman from Maine who had come in just to look at the store; after I pitched the book, she bought it to read while she was waiting for the people on the bus she drove to finish shopping. I met a lot of interesting people from the area and we talked politics, the World Cup, and just about anything else you can imagine. I had a great time, low key, lots of chatting, and I sold books! Hopefully, I’ll get to do more of this – I can definitely handle it. Thanks to everyone who wished me good luck! I did have it. PS I have one picture of the event, but can’t upload it for some reason – since you are all writers, I’ll just let you use your imagination! 0 0

I will not be checking blogs for the next five days or so because we are off to a wedding on Cape Cod. Along the way, however, I get to do an event for my book, Death in a Red Canvas Chair, on Wednesday, the 11th (tomorrow) at Haven, a shop at 1 Thompson Square in Charlestown, MA. So if any of my blog readers are in the area, please stop by. I have no idea what to expect, since this is my first event of any kind. It was organized by Yard Arm Media, a small group I hired to help me with marketing, since like most authors, I dislike this aspect of book writing and publishing. I hope my years as a teacher will help me stand firmly on my feet and explain things without stammering! Wish me luck! 0 0

Today is the 70th anniversary of D Day, the beginning of the end of the ‘good’ war, fought by our greatest generation. It saddens me to think that our veterans who stormed the beaches of Normandy are almost all dead now, and that many of our children and our children’s children don’t even know what D Day was. The bravery of the thousands who died there and in the weeks that followed, to bring an end to the horrific evil that was Hitler and his regime must never be forgotten, and I hope those of us who do remember will continue to honor their memory in the decades to come. We had to learn the following poem when I was in school and was taught real history. It was written by a physician in the Canadian Army (Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) during World War I, but I still can recite it and it seems appropriate to this solemn day.   In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.   My deepest gratitude to all the armed service members, current and past, who defend us and our freedom.  And especially to my son, Staff Sergeant Patrick Granger, 82nd Airborne, currently serving in Gemany.     0 0

To follow up on the last memoir bit, The Belt or the Switch?, one of the last times the switch was used with any degree of force happened after what my brother and I later called the lemon cookie catastrophe. My father was addicted to lemon frosting-filled cookies, and every other week my mother would bring home a package of the sweet treats with the groceries, which would go into the metal bread box on the counter. The catastrophe began with the fact that both Jay and I loved cookies and tended to sneak them when no one was looking. As a result, the number of lemon cookies in the bag would diminish rapidly in just a few days, much to my father’s displeasure. “Who ate the lemon cookies?” Dad would ask in exasperation each time. “Noelle did,” Jay would answer. “Jay did,” I would reply. Finally, Dad’s patience wore out. Tired of never knowing who was to be punished for eating his cookies, he found a solution. “The next time I find that anyone has been eating my cookies, you will both be switched.” Sure enough, the following week he went to grab a cookie after dinner and found the bag had only one. “That’s it,” he roared and asked Jay and me who ate his cookies. “I didn’t, I swear,”  I vowed. “I didn’t eat your cookies this time,” answered Jay tearfully, knowing what was coming. Nevertheless, Dad cut a green switch from the back yard forsythia, returned to the kitchen and gave both Jay and me a thorough licking, energized by the fact that he was tired of our lying. I was sitting on the back steps, crying, when Mom came in from the drying area with a pile of clothes in her arms. I followed her into the kitchen, wailing about being punished for something I didn’t do. “What’s going on here, John?” Mom asked. “I’m tired of those kids lying about eating the lemon cookies,” he answered, “so this time they both got switched.” “Oh dear,” Mom sighed. “I forgot to tell you that the bridge club was here this afternoon and I served them the lemon cookies.” I remember wailing even louder about the unfairness of it all and not surprisingly, I was ordered to my room. I left, but not before I heard Dad say, “Well, shit.” 0 0