Just in case you didn’t know . . . Valentine’s Day is this Thursday. I’m generally opposed to the holiday as an adult. It feels to me like a marketing ploy to sell cards, flowers, and candy. That said, I have fond memories of the day when I was a kid.

At Adrian Elementary School, every child would make a “mailbox” out of cardboard box and bring it to school on Valentine’s Day so all the other kids could deliver cards. I vaguely remember the actual Valentines–slips of shiny paper with cartoon characters and silly sayings. But what I really remember is that marvelous box covered in paper with a slit cut in the top.

For some reason, I thought the Valentine’s delivery box was one of the world’s greatest inventions. And I remember the year I had a perfectly square box (I’d gotten a stuffed cat in it for Christmas). Mom covered it in paper–pink I seem to remember–and cut that slit in the top. It was exquisite.

We’d place our boxes on our desktops and everyone would deliver their Valentines. I guess it could seem like a popularity contest, but I don’t remember ever feeling left out or being jealous because someone got more cards than I did. I just remember crackly thin envelopes and conversation hearts.

It was WAY better than that goofy bud vase with a single rose or carnation that we hoped for in high school. Better than going out to dinner in an over-crowded restaurant with mediocre food as an adult. Better than a box of chocolates . . . well, I DO like chocolate. Okay, better than a goofy stuffed animal holding a heart.

Anyway, I was thinking it’s kind of a shame we let this tradition fade as we become “adults.” What if, this week, you delivered a Valentine to everyone in your office? Maybe gave one to every member of your Sunday School class or book club or civic organization?

What if you paused to say “I love you” to the people you encounter every day? Seems like I read something about that once . . .

“A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:34-35

Yes. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Dave Fuerst with the National Park Service did a fantastic job of sharing history along with the magic of Thurmond, WV.

One of the challenges of being an author is promoting one book while writing another. And often planning a third. I’m in that place right now with The Christmas Heirloom currently out while I’m writing When Silence Sings (releasing Fall 2019) and toying with ideas for a novel to release in 2020.

Phew!

And while I really hope you’ll go out and buy The Christmas Heirloom for your holiday gift giving, my heart is SO wrapped up in next year’s story. This is the first time I’ve written a story set in a REAL place and last week I got a deluxe, guided tour of that very place.

Thurmond, West Virginia.

The cool thing about Thurmond is that it’s a ghost town. There are currently something like seven full-time residents of this town that at the turn of the twentieth century saw more coal come through by rail than Cincinnati or Richmond.

The town is now owned by the National Park Service and Dave Fuerst, cultural resource specialist, took time out of his day to give me a guided tour. Here are a few highlights (e.g. teasers for my next novel).

• I got to stand in a store room from the Dun Glen Hotel–a notorious establishment that helped Thurmond earn the nickname, “Dodge City of the East.” A key scene is set in this very space which is all that’s left after a 1930 fire.
• I peered in the windows of the Thurmond Union Church–my hero preaches a funeral here.
• I stood outside the Thurmond National Bank. Oh, something terrible happens here when my heroine goes in to conduct business.

Dave asked if it was helpful for me to see everything he so graciously showed me. I told him it was like stepping into the pages of my story. As if I didn’t already tend to forget my characters aren’t real!

I walked around houses that were THERE when my characters roamed the town in 1930. I saw the same views. I walked through the depot and crossed the railroad tracks. It was fantastic.

In the past I’ve shied away from writing stories set in “real” places. After visiting Thurmond, I think I’m sold on getting to visit the settings for my stories.

I’ve been sharing about the upcoming release of The Christmas Heirloom. It’s a novella collection with four generations of stories from Kristi Ann Hunter, Karen Witemeyer, me, and Becky Wade. We each wrote stand-alone stories tied together by a Luckenbooth brooch that’s passed from mother to daughter down through the decades.

It was SO much fun to finally get to read all the stories together. Reading the first two stories was like discovering a genealogical goldmine for my heroine, Fleeta Brady, and reading the final story gave me a peek into Fleeta’s future. Fun!

Now, to hopefully whet your appetite for this collection, I thought I’d share the opening pages of A Shot at Love–my contribution. Fleeta was orphaned at a very young age and was taken in by an aunt and uncle in West Virginia. Her gift is a knack for shooting. Enjoy!

Fleeta hunkered low, careful not to rattle the crisp, fallen leaves all around her. She didn’t want to be seen or heard.

Albert was meant to be coming around the crest of the hill, pushing deer toward the spot where she waited. Fleeta wished her oldest cousin would still hunt with her, but he was too interested in girls these days. Had his eye on that prissy little Rebecca Howard. Fleeta sighed and flexed her right hand, keeping alert and ready. The family needed the meat. Especially if she was going to take Bud Lyons up on his offer to buy out his business. She needed to make sure her family was taken care of, so she could focus on making her dream come true.

She heard leaves crunching off to her right. If it was a deer, it was coming slow and easy. That was good. Best if Albert didn’t scare the deer and send it running. She examined the terrain and the scattering of hardwood trees. The forest was more mature here, offering plenty of room between trunks, another blessing.

Movement caught her eye and she saw a stout buck step out of the shadows. Her breath caught. He was pale, almost white with a spray of brown across his rump and his rack was immense. Could this be the ghost deer the men spoke about in reverent tones every fall? The one that seemed to escape even the best hunters? He was coming easy, browsing on the nearly leafless branches of sassafras and maple trees, one ear cocked in the direction Albert was surely coming.

Fleeta exhaled and lifted her rifle, careful not to attract his attention. She took aim, breathed a prayer of thanksgiving, and applied pressure to the trigger.

“Fleeta, Albert—come quick.” The shrill voice pierced the perfection of the moment.

Both the deer and Fleeta froze, then the buck bounded away, his white tail flashing.

A nearby neighbor gives me free run of his apple trees. This is the kind of neighbor I like to have! While the “eating” tree has failed to produce much of anything this year, the “cooking” apples are just about right. That means I’ll soon be making applesauce and apple pies. I tried making apple butter once, but I’ve had really good apple butter and you just can’t duplicate it on the stove top (or in the crock pot!). So, apple crumb pie it shall be.

Speaking of really good apple butter–more than a decade ago my husband and I had breakfast in Oxford, MS, as part of a Southern Foodways conference. On the table that morning was a jar of apple butter. As soon as we tasted it, we agreed it was the BEST we’d ever eaten. For me, it hearkened back to the apple butter we used to make in Aunt Bess’ huge copper kettle.

The secret? Oil of cinnamon. None of this ground cinnamon or cinnamon stick nonsense–it was pure oil of cinnamon paired with looooong sloooow cooking that gave the condiment it’s depth.

I put that jar in my purse and once home, read the label carefully. Turned out it had been made in Snowflake, Va. So, next time I drove from NC to WV, I swung by Snowflake which was only a little out of the way.

You’ve heard jokes about small towns. Well, the highway sign for Snowflake is actually printed on both sides. And the only thing there, is the Snowflake General Mercantile. I’m pretty sure it’s closed now, but when I pulled up, they were having some sort of pre-Christmas celebration complete with Dickens carolers.

Inside, it really was a general store with a little bit of everything including a lunch counter and . . . apple butter. They made it from Rome apples growing out back. I bought a case.

When that ran out, I called them up and ordered another case. It was the first and probably only order they ever shipped out. Not long after that, the old folks got old, the young folks moved on, and they stopped making apple butter.

It was a sad day when the last jar in our pantry was empty.

It’s funny how something can be wonderful and deeply sad at the same time.

One of Appalachia’s sweet ladies is at home in heaven today. Earlier this year I wrote about my friend Anne–Queen of the May. Her 96th birthday was on May 1 and last night she slipped into forever.

A child of Kentucky, Anne would tell stories about growing up on a farm, attending a one-room school, spending time with her grandparents, briefly working in New York City, and raising her girls. She was a bit of a muse for me. And she still is.

I’m happy for Anne today. And I’m sad for her family who loved her so. I’m sad for all of us who knew Anne and will miss her and I’m sad for those who never got to meet this sprite of a lady with dancing eyes who loved nothing so much as a good book.

That was the thing about Anne–books. I think that as soon as she learned to read she picked up a book and only put that one down long enough to pick up the next. When visiting her she was always surrounded by stacks of books. If you checked out books from our church library, odds were excellent that Anne’s name would be on the card already. She read everything and was happy to tell you what she thought.

She read my first novel while I was still shaping it. She read each book as it released and her stamp of approval meant so much to me.

I hope there are books in heaven. I can’t wait to hear which ones Miss Anne will recommend when I get there.

Man friends, I’m so crazy right now that I basically gave you a repost of one of June’s blogs today. Shoot. I even used the same picture!

Well, that simply won’t do. So here’s something new.

It’s been hot lately even in the often refreshingly cool mountains of Appalachia. But before you complain about the heat, let me tell you about the summer of 1816–the summer that wasn’t.

The first hint of something off came on May 12, 1816. Now, the final frost date for my area in NC is May 15, but it’s a pretty rare occurrence. In 1816, the twelfth brought a heavy frost deep into the region. After a brief warm-up, the first week of June brought more cold. A traveler in Pennsylvania wrote,  “This morning was very frosty and ice covered the water ¼ inch thick. We had a brisk breeze from the northeast.” On June 6, it snowed in Albany, NY.

In July and August folks saw river and lake ice in Pennsylvania. On August 20 and 21 frost formed as far south as Virginia. A newspaper in Virginia reported, “It is now the middle of July, and we have not yet had what could properly be called summer. Easterly winds have prevailed for nearly three months past . . . the sun during that time has generally been obscured and the sky overcast with clouds; the air has been damp and uncomfortable, and frequently so chilling as to render the fireside a desirable retreat.”

Crops failed, food prices climbed, and there wasn’t enough hay for the coming winter (the real one).

So what caused the year without a summer? The most accepted theory is volcanic activity. In April of 1815 Mount Tambora in Indonesia saw the largest volcanic eruption in recorded history. Estimates suggest that the eruption lifted around 36 cubic MILES of material into the atmosphere. At least 10,000 islanders were killed outright and the global temperature dropped about 5.4 degrees Fahrenheit.

And on the other side of the world Appalachia didn’t have a summer.

Hmmmm, sounds like a great plot for a historical novel . . .