My Daddy, My Hero by Alicia Dean

I thought since Veterans Day falls in November, and our posts are about giving thanks, it would be fitting to write about my dad. He was a World War II Veteran (way before he met my mother and they had me and my five siblings). He never talked to us kids about his experiences over there. He would discuss the war in general, but not in personal terms. I always wondered if it was because he wanted to protect us, or if it was because the memories were just too horrifying. I suspect it might have been a combination of both. Since he never spoke of it, I had no idea that he was one of Darby’s Rangers. I only learned that a week ago on Veteran’s Day when I posted his military picture on Facebook and my cousin told me in the comments. That’s something pretty special, pretty impressive, yet he never boasted about it that I know of.

Here he is when he was seventeen. He enlisted in the army when he was sixteen (he lied about his age), in 1941, and went to war.

As impressed as I am about my dad’s service to his country, I’m most impressed at the kind of husband, father, and grandfather he was. Although we like to paint people as perfect in our memories, I know he was far from perfect, but he was everything I could want in a father. Daddy was gentle, funny, strict, protective, encouraging, and very proud of his children. He passed away on December 21, 1994 (Yes, four days before Christmas. That was the worst Christmas of my life), before I became published, but I know he would have been extremely proud of me. His name was Dean Robertson (actually Doffies Dean Robertson, but no one other than his family called him Doffies). I took his name, Dean, as my pen name when I started writing. I thought maybe somehow he knows I’m paying tribute to him in a small way. I would not be who I am or where I am without him. (Or without my mother, but that’s for a different post. :))

I have some amazing memories of my father. Among them, watching major league baseball with him and my sisters (it’s odd, but out of the six siblings, only one is a boy, and he is the only one of us who does not like sports). When we were young, each year on our birthday, Dad would take the birthday child out to dinner, and only the birthday child. In a household of six kids, that was quite a treat. When we were sick, Mom would always hold us or sit by our bedside, give us medicine, and do her best to make us feel better, while Dad would go to the store and get us whatever we wanted/needed (within limits, we didn’t have a lot of money growing up). They were quite a team. :)

One thing that stands out in my mind about Dad was his quick wit. He was so funny, everyone thought so, that was kind of his ‘thing.’ I know there are funnier stories, but most of them are ‘you had to be there’ kind of stories, or would involve a lengthy explanation. So, I’ll share this little tidbit:

Dad, Mom, myself, and a few of the other kids went to Mr. Burger drive through and Dad ordered for us. The girl said, “Would you like your drinks in a sack?” And Dad said, “No thank you, we’d rather have them in cups.” LOL. Not the funniest thing he ever said, but it was cute and quick-witted.

I could go on and on about my dad, how he played guitar and golf equally well, how much he adored his grandchildren and how much they adored him, how precious he was to his nieces and nephews, how many friends he had who loved him dearly, etc, etc, but you would just have had to know him to really understand. And those who did know him were very fortunate.

On the night he died, I was working at General Motors and my then-husband called to let me know Dad had had a heart attack, and I needed to get to the hospital. By the time I arrived, he was gone. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. That was torturous to me. The man who had given me such a wonderful childhood, who had been so loving, was gone. And I hadn’t had the opportunity to tell him how much he meant to me. For weeks I didn’t sleep well. I was antsy and sad and dissatisfied. One night I got out of bed and wrote the below poem. I am far from a poet, and I know this isn’t even real ‘poetry,’ but for me, it was cathartic. I was finally able to sleep, but I still haven’t stopped grieving.

Had I Known That You Were Leaving

God called you home so quickly,

There were no warning signs

I only wish I'd known that day,

I was seeing you for the last time

Had I known that you were leaving,

I'd have sat with you a while

I would have told you funny stories,

anything to make you smile

Had I known that you were leaving,

I'd have kissed you tenderly

I would have hugged you very tightly,

and held you close to me

Had I known that you were leaving,

I would have told you how I feel

That I can't imagine life without you,

even now it seems unreal

Had I known that you were leaving,

I'd have held your hand in mine

I would have pressed it tightly to my cheek,

felt your warmth just one last time

But maybe it was best this way,

that God was the only one to know

For had I known that you were leaving,

I'd have never let you go

Traditional Turkey Stuffing by Jannine Gallant

Let's face it, Thanksgiving is about one thing, and one thing only. Eating! Okay, it's also about family getting together and spending a little time remembering what we're thankful for, but this is squeezed in around the main event--eating. Seems like I spend the majority of my day in the kitchen. Lucky for me I'm thankful I like to cook! So, when considering blog topics, I decided I should post a traditional recipe. Easy peasy--right? Wrong. Not one single dish our family makes at Thanksgiving is written down except the pumpkin pie, and I'll admit I use the recipe off the Libby pumpkin label! Oh, and the cranberry sauce, perfected to my taste over years of tweaks. But I posted that one last year. So, here goes, my attempt to write down our family's stuffing recipe. My grandma used to make it. My mom makes it. I make it. It always comes out the same despite the fact there's no recipe and no one ever measures anything. I do promise it's simple, traditional and delicious!

Traditional Turkey Stuffing

1 lg. loaf of crushed wheat bread

1 can low sodium chicken broth (approx.)

1 turkey neck - sounds disgusting but keep reading

1 lg. onion

2 sticks of celery

1 apple

2 Tblsp. butter or margarine

1 Tblsp. parsley flakes

2 tsp. rubbed sage

1 tsp. marjoram

1 tsp. thyme

1/2 tsp. celery seed

salt and pepper to taste (at least a 1/2 tsp. of each, probably more)

poultry seasoning (optional)

Prep stage: 1) Cut up the bread into cubes--four strips down and four strips across make the right size. Spread them out on cookie sheets and toast under the broiler, turning cubes when they start to brown. Keep a close eye on them so they don't burn--always my downfall! Cool then place in a large bowl. 2) Meanwhile, use the neck from your turkey, add a can of chicken broth and simmer for about a half hour. Discard neck and reserve broth. 3) Chop onion, celery, and apple. Saute in butter until soft, about 20 minutes. These three steps can be done simultaneously if you can multi-task. (The reason I frequently lose a batch of bread cubes!)

Assemble: Add sauteed vegies to bread cubes. Add herbs and seasonings through salt and pepper. Keep in mind the above measurements are approximate but a good starting point. Add enough broth to moisten the bread but not make it soggy, a little at a time. Stir and adjust. You may not need all the broth. You may need to add a little from a second can. When you have the right consistency, taste. At this point, I've been known to cheat and sprinkle in a little poultry seasoning if I think it still needs something. Mix well. Spoon stuffing into your bird. It should fill a large turkey. If you have extra, bake it separately for about an hour with a little butter on top, covered.

That's it. Enjoy! I wish you and yours a happy and tasty Thanksgiving. And just in case you can sneak in a little reading time around all that cooking, check out my books on my website. Happy Holidays!

An Alternative Thanksgiving

By Betsy Ashton,

Back in college I ran with a very different group of friends. We were all into the "California thing," whatever that was. For some, it was sex, drugs and rock and roll. For others it was nude beaches. And for yet others it was looking for a new spiritualism, because organized religion didn't fit our needs.

I studied Zen and Yoga, not so very different in their approaches to meditation. I learned to sit for long periods, emptying my mind and concentrating on being in the here and now. I read Carlos Castanada and wondered if his Yaqui shaman was real or fantasy. I didn't believe he turned into a crow, but I thought some of his teachings could be real. At least, they resonated with me in my search for the spirit world.

Thanksgiving of our senior year, when the hippie movement was in high gear, my friend Jackson invited the group to his family celebration in Arizona. Hey, from UCLA to Arizona wasn't much of a trip. We fell into two beat up cars and headed east. I knew Jackson was raised on the res, as he called a reservation. I imagined noble Indians (they weren't Native Americans back them) living in simple houses, living simple lives. I didn't imagine house trailers and grinding poverty. I didn't imagine chronic alcoholism and unemployment.

Jackson told us about his childhood on the road to the res. "It wasn't all bad," he said. "Just wait till you meet Great Uncle." And then he said nothing more.

We buzzed in the back seat about this great uncle. Was he a chief? Was he a shaman? Was he a medicine man?

Turned out, he was both a shaman and a medicine man. The closest thing the extended family had to medicine was the traditional medicines Great Uncle's grandmother had taught him. It was his status as a shaman that drew us to him. We wanted to see images, feel connected to the earth in ways we'd never experienced. And we did.

One night, Great Uncle took the group out to a small rocky outcrop a few miles from the cluster of trailers. We rode horseback under a waxing moon. After tethering the horses, Great Uncle lit a fire and started chanting. I didn't need to understand his words to feel them powerfully in my soul. He passed around small peyote buttons and showed us how to chew them. We did.

The next day we shared the drug-induced images. Some were terrifying. Great Uncle helped two of the group understand what they feared. Two saw a kaleidoscope of colors, swirls and whirls of light and sound. My image was nearly silent. I felt the earth's heart beating under my body. I saw distant lights and half-formed beings. Great Uncle said I had connected with the spirit world, which was neither dark nor light, solid nor amorphous.

I don't think I spoke two words for a day after Great Uncle interpreted our dreams. I have never forgotten what he said, how kind his age-dimmed eyes were. He taught us to see with different senses, with different eyes and to accept what we saw. Great Uncle passed into the spirit world the next summer. His family guessed his age at somewhere past 80, but he had no records to prove it.

Long gone, Great Uncle lives on in my heart. (And no, this is not a picture of Great Uncle, but it could be.)

The Nations In Me

by Jena Galifany

At this stage of the generations of my family, I am quite a mixture of nationalities. The list goes something like this: German, Irish, Dutch, English, Souix, and two other tribes of Native American. I'm not sure what those other two tribes are but would like to find out someday. I'm sure that the intermingling of the Euroamerican with the Native American was frowned upon.

The next generation, my son, Nick and my daughter Amanda, have all of the above plus their father was 100% Italian, so that is added to their line. My younger daughter, Jen, is Scandinavian and English from her father. At least now, there is not much said against the mixing of nationalities.

The real mix is my granddaughter, Halle, Amanda's daughter. She is as follows: German, Irish, Dutch, English, Souix plus two other tribes of Native American, Italian, with Japanese, Chinese, and Filipino from her father. It's hard to believe there can be so many nationalities in one young girl. We joke that she can have World War 3 all by herself. If she should marry a man of Russian decent, I think her children will have the world pretty much covered.

How mixed up is your family heritage?
 ______________________________

The Native American was treated poorly by settlers and the government. In the late 1800s, it was becoming more and more difficult for the tribes to remain on their own land. In the west, the Paiute tribes in Oregon were struggling against the white man as well as each other. It was a difficult time for them. For a greater understanding of the situation, read more about the Bannon - Paiute War HERE.

It was during this time in history that my novel "Shyanne's Secret" takes place. Here is a taste of the story.

Excerpt:


     Cole wasn't ready to face Rita after the morning he'd had.  He'd spent several minutes at a creek washing the mud out of his hair and off his face, clothes and the horse before he continued home.  None of them had scored a direct hit but had only splattered him.  He made his way toward home, not in the mood for a rematch with Dex.  After he dropped off the kitchen supplies on the porch, he continued into the barn to unload the bags of oats and other working items. Just because his Pa was gone didn't mean he'd let the farm fall to ruin or the animals starve. He moved past the variety of trees around the perimeter of the property and through the barn. He unhitched the gray, led him to his stall and brushed him down. He wanted to be alone, sort out his thoughts while he cleaned stalls.

    By afternoon, as he walked through the cool of the barn, he inventoried the unfinished work that awaited him.  He was hot, tired and frustrated about what he should do with his life.  Should he be the one to leave, or should Rita go back to A.J.? After all, it was his father's property and didn't that make it his now that Pa was dead? If only the grant office would make up its mind. His half-blood status was being weighed over his right to inherit from his white father. Cole hated the idea that he might need Rita to claim the land so he wouldn't lose it. She could sign it over to him, then be on her way elsewhere, if it came down to that.

    He wiped his brow on his shoulder and climbed the ladder to the loft.  He tossed his jacket into a corner that was piled with loose hay. He rolled up his sleeves, and sat on the pallet situated along the wall.  He closed his eyes, and recalled the hot summer days that he'd spent up here, listening to his Pa talk about how he and his friend, Martin Marshall had traveled out to Oregon for the free land the government was giving away.  The two friends had become brothers-in law when they'd married sisters; pretty squaws from a local tribe of Paiutes, when they found out they could get six hundred forty acres, a double portion of land if they had wives.

    Pa told him how he'd come to love that pretty little Indian lady after he convinced her that he'd never sell her. She was terrified the day her daddy sold her to Seth and her sister to Uncle Martin. She thought he'd bought her for a slave.  Seth had trouble convincing her that he'd made her his wife. Seth and Martin both had trouble convincing the community to accept their wives, and more problems when they'd had to convince the town council to allow their sons born a few months apart to be taught in the school with the white children. That only lasted until Cole and Will were twelve. So much for an education, but they got the basics and learned to work the farms instead.

    When Cole's parents were threatened, Uncle Martin got nervous and sent his wife and Will to stay with the tribe for safety. Cole missed his cousin but Seth couldn't do without his help. Cole felt he'd lost half of his spirit. The cousins were close and looked like twins, except that Will, the bolder of the two, was a bit taller and Cole's hair was a shade or two darker. They looked so much alike they delighted in causing minor trouble that the other would be blamed for. Four months after the Jackson murders, Uncle Martin brought his wife home but Will chose to stay on to learn more about his mother's people.

    The gray plow horse in the stall below nickered, reminding Cole where he was. He missed sitting up here listening to his daddy talk. Opening the buttons on his shirt, he pulled out the turquoise stone that hung on a thin leather thong around his neck, a talisman his mother had gifted him with years ago. He held it in his hand when he missed her, and wished he could bring her back.

    He collapsed on his back, one arm across his forehead as he contemplated the picture he'd drawn on the barn wall with a piece of charcoal when he was eight. Pa thought it was so grand he'd burned it into the wood so it would never fade. Cole once more envied the freedom that the wild mustang enjoyed.  In the midst of his thoughts, he remembered a certain smile and the kind blue eyes of Shyanne Bennett.

    He wanted to talk to her, say the things he had never said to any girl before.  He wanted to tell her how beautiful her blue eyes are; how much he'd like to touch her golden hair, how much he wanted to be loved by someone – anyone.  If that someone could be Shyanne Bennett, nothing else would matter.  He closed his eyes, and savored his memories.

_____________________________

BACK COVER BLURB:
    Cole Jackson promised to take care of Shyanne Bennett, to keep her secret. It was a promise he intended to keep—and then her father lynched him. It might take time, but he'll find a way.

      Shyanne Bennett loved Cole Jackson, that sassy half-blood. She lost her mind when he died to keep her secret. Cole promised to take care of her but how can he once Harvey Bennett hung him? Maybe her heart will find solace in becoming the wife of his look-alike cousin, Will Marshall. And then again, maybe the heartache will only begin again.

_____________________________

From my family to yours, I pray you have a safe and special Thanksgiving.

For more about "Shyanne's Secret" click HERE.

Cheers!

Creating New Traditions

We have a small family; there are just three of us--my husband, my daughter, and me. For the past twenty-five years we have lived hundreds of miles from the nearest extended family, so we've developed our own family holiday traditions. I cook exactly the same foods every year, serve them on exactly the same dishes, in a house decorated exactly the same way. My daughter has always been very vocal about the importance of maintaining those traditions. Nothing can change--ever.

But this year, everything will change.

A few months ago and five years into a PhD program in Egyptian Art and Archaeology, she decided she was finished with school. She no longer wanted to sacrifice for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow (partly because there no longer IS a pot of gold at the end of that particular rainbow). She wanted to grow up, be financially independent, and have a real life. I fully supported her decision because I understand how important it is to do what's right for you without worrying about disappointing others. Last spring, when she began her search for a full-time job, I warned her it might take a while. Little did I know how long that "while" would last.

Finally, in October, she got her first real full-time job. We're thrilled for her. It's an excellent job, for which she is perfectly suited and well-trained. No parent could ask for more. But it means big changes for our family holiday celebrations, at least this year. She lives in Chicago, and we've moved to California. As a new employee, she won't get enough time off to travel for Thanksgiving or Christmas. My husband and I plan to fly to Chicago for Christmas, but for the first time ever, we'll be spending Thanksgiving apart. 

Our daughter says she's going to treat the day as a day off from work and try to pretend it isn't a holiday. I don't know what we'll do. Most of the nice restaurants in town serve big Thanksgiving dinners, but I don't know whether we'll try that. I once ate Thanksgiving dinner in a Howard Johnson's in Poughkeepsie while I was in college, but that's not an experience I care to repeat. The only certainty at this point is that, one way or another, the holidays will be different this year.

Getting Back to Nature

I visit Vermont often. While the fall foliage this year was less than impressive—most of the leaves went straight to yellow-brown and fell off the trees right away—I was still captivated by the natural beauty of the state.

Particularly at night.

 
I had a few moments during this last trip late in the evening, so I stepped outside and looked up to the night sky. The moon looked back through the darkness, along with the stars while the breeze rustled the leaves and crickets chirped their songs.

Incredibly small. That’s how I felt, yet at the same time, I sensed a great energy, a cosmic power, coursing through me as I gazed up at the bright, white moon, symbol of the Goddess. The energy came from all around me. The sky, the Earth, the things I could hear scurrying in the fallen leaves. I was connected to all of it for the briefest of seconds. Nothing manmade came into my mind during this time.

 

I was completely organic.

Totally a part of the planet. I had no desire to hop online, to call anyone, to drive anywhere, to watch TV. I simply wanted to be. To exist. To be a link in the natural chain. I swear I could feel the Earth spinning on her axis, feel her orbiting the sun.

The experience made me think about how in tune with Earth people used to be. I work with children and am always disheartened by how disconnected they are to the outside world. On a recent field trip, my students were horrified that I wouldn’t allow any electronics.

 

“But what are we supposed to do?” they lamented.

 
“Talk to each other, read, enjoy the outdoors,” I replied. This response was met with quite a few blank stares. So sad.

I hope that my students (and many adults too) can find a few minutes to shut off the technology that bombards us every nanosecond of every day. I like modern convenience as much as the next gal, but I love nature more. I find inspiration in her daily. Here’s to hoping you do too.

All of my books have strong connections to nature. Check them out at my Adult Romance website here and my YA Romance website here.

 

Toodles,

Chris

www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com
www.christymajor.weebly.com

Thanks to the unsung heroes

I like to use November to think about the people who make my life easier. These are the people we often don't notice, but really, they make your day go smoother.

The nice checkout person at the grocery store. The lady who sells my books in her flower shop. My editor who is so patient with me (you know who you are ☺).

I try to notice someone different every day who has made my day a bit better. It's so easy to zip through out day and not really notice who is around us. I sometimes say something to that person, but usually I just try to go out of my way to be nice in return. Who knows, maybe I'll be somebody's unsung hero for the day?

J L
(30 books and counting)