The Holidays are Coming! #amwriting by Andrea Downing

I know that there are a few holidays between Labor Day and Christmas, but I thought that I’d help to start getting you in the holiday mood.  Sadly, I had to decline joining my esteemed colleagues of The Roses of Prose in their forthcoming—and no doubt wonderful—Christmas stories due to the ongoing time spent on my new house on top of other obligations.  However, I am joining my former colleagues from A Cowboy to Keep in the forthcoming A Christmas Cowboy to Keep, coming out in October.  My own story is A Christmas Carole. So here’s what I’ve been working on folks!

      When single mom Carrie Matheson inherits a Wyoming ranch and moves out of NYC, her six year old son is not happy.  Trying to help Tim settle into life out west isn’t easy, especially when his pleas to Santa begin to get replies from a mysterious correspondent.  Is it the crotchety ranch foreman upon whom she relies so much? Somehow she doesn’t think so….

    Tate Schrugge is amused by his new neighbor when she jogs over with some mis-delivered mail.  But Tate has just finished with a long-term relationship, and the lithe blonde in front of him has just called him Scrooge.

     If these two can get together, it might be the Dickens of a romance.

EXCERPT:

Now her mind started wandering back to Tate, to her uncle, to any place except work . . .and then suddenly she remembered Tim’s letter to Santa. Oh My Gosh! What the heck did I do with the letter to Santa? No, please tell me it wasn’t in the pile I gave to Scrooge!

She scraped out her chair from the desk and stood, then sat, then stood again. Check the mail box, maybe I’ve left it there, that’s the first thing.

Yanking a coat from her closet, she was halfway down her lane when she saw the mail van pull up and the postal worker reach into her box.

“Wait! Wait!” she screamed, one arm in and one arm out of her coat. “Is there a letter for Santa there?”

The pinched face of the letter carrier stared back at her from the window of the van, as if he were framed for a not too flattering portrait. “Santa?”

“Yes, you know Santa. Big belly, white beard, red outfit?”

“Ma’am,” he drawled. “I don’t look at the mail, I only deliver it. Or collect it from the boxes.”

“Exactly. And my son wrote to Santa and I want to know if his letter is in your collection.”

The young man stared down at something at his feet, his bag she guessed.

“The letters I collected are in the bag now. I can’t go looking through them all. But I don’t recollect taking anything out of your box, only leaving some things there for you.”

Carrie slumped. She watched as the van pulled away, then turned and pulled the letters out of the box for the second time that day.

Please tell me I didn’t give it to Scrooge. Now I have to go ask for it back? Maybe he already put it in his box for the Post Office to deal with? Yes! Post Office first!

Back at the house, she gathered up her car keys, pulled on some gloves and a pompom hat, and headed out.

Cars were overtaking her, they passed her as if she were crawling when the two lane highway narrowed into one. A woman on a mission, she was going along when she spotted the flashing lights of the sheriff’s car in her rear-view mirror.

He tooted her and passed, motioned for her to pull over. Can this day get any worse? Really?

Sitting as calm and demure as she possibly could, she rolled down her window when she saw the patrolman get out of his car with all the time in the world and saunter over to her. He removed a pair of dark glasses and bent into the window.

“Guess I know where the expression a New York minute comes from now, huh?”

“I beg your pardon?” Carrie tried to keep her voice in an even tone, deciding there was no point in getting grumpy with the man.

“You were doing fifty in a forty mile per hour zone. We don’t take kindly to speeding here in Wyoming. Maybe that’s okay in New York—”

Carrie’s mouth hung open, deeply regretting not having re-registered her car as yet with its yellow Empire State plates. She felt the patrolman’s eyes on her, sizing her up. “People were passing me!”

“Well now, I didn’t see anyone pass you. Registration and license please.”

Still feeling as if she were catching flies, she fumbled in her bag for her license and started searching about for the registration.

“You’re a long way from home,” the man said mildly.

“No, no I’m not, in fact. I have a ranch here. The Lazy M? I’ve just moved in.”

“Well. . . .”

At that moment there was the honk of another car and Carrie saw in her rearview mirror a good-sized pickup pull in behind her.

“Hey Grange!” ‘Scrooge’ stuck his head out his window but sent a winning smile in the direction of Carrie’s car.

She watched as the officer strolled over to chat with her neighbor, bending down to his window for a confab. She could just pick up part of what they said.

“Long time no see. . . how’s Katy doing and the new baby? . . .Been working pretty hard . . .”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Are you two going to shoot the bull all day?

“Looks like you got my new neighbor . . . yeah, well, she’ll settle in… do me a favor.”

Incensed at the time they were taking, Carrie got out of her car and stomped over, her pompom flapping down over one eye. “If you’re going to ticket me . . .” She flicked the apex of her hat out of her eye and held out the license, which the officer took with a sheepish smile on his face.

“Carole Anne Matheson,” he read. “I’ll let you off with a warning this time. You take things a bit slower, Miss New York. We’d hate to see you get hurt.” And with that he handed the license back, tapped his hat, nodded to Tate, and headed back to the patrol car.

Carrie stood watching him go, feeling Tate’s eyes on her. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

“Well. A simple thank-you will do. Carole.” He looked rather smug but she realized her heart was jumping out of her chest at the sight of him in his Stetson, and those sapphire eyes peering up at her.

“Please don’t call me that. I hate it.”

“Well, let’s make a deal: you don’t call me Scrooge, I don’t call you Carole. How’s that?”

“Fine. I don’t suppose you found a letter to Santa in amongst the letters I brought over earlier today?”

Tate pulled back in and faced the road. “I may have.”

“Can I have it back? Pretty please?”

Tate leaned back, a pensive look on his face. “Too late,” he said at last. “Post Office collected it.” He lifted a brow, staring up at her.

“Ah, well.”

“I’m sure Santa will get it. And answer. What did you ask for?” He pulled in his lips as if he were trying to stop himself from laughing.

“Very funny,” she replied. “My son wrote it and I have no idea what he asked for.”

Tate tapped the wheel. “Well. I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

“Ya. Thanks.” She started back to her car.

“Hey, wait a minute.”

Carrie pivoted back toward him.

“You owe me one, don’t you?”

“I owe you?”

“As in dinner maybe? For getting you off that speeding ticket. I’ll collect you Saturday. Eight. How’s that?”

The day was just beginning to look a whole lot better.

A Christmas Cowboy to Keep goes into pre-orders on October 15 at Amazon.

http://andreadowning.com

Literatura Interrupta by Andrea Downing

Some time ago, on one of many household moves I’ve made in my lifetime, I was told that moving is one of the three most stressful life events—up there with Death and Divorce.  It certainly has proved to be the case this time around.  If any more could go wrong, I certainly don’t want to know about it.

       First, there were negotiations to buy, during which the seller’s lawyer dropped  dead.  One afternoon my lawyer chatted away with him, the next morning he had passed. After a brief time for the firm to recoup and mourn, the legalities of buying proceeded and eventually reached conclusion. 

     Next up was getting bids from 3 contractors for what I thought was going to be a breezy remodel. One contractor dropped out after a few weeks.  Things in the Hamptons heat up around March because there’s a short season of ‘doing’ which I had hit.  Had I been asking for bids in November, my guess is I would have had these companies knocking at my door. But in any event, I hired a project manager/contractor who dealt with the subcontractors and work proceeded.  I even went away for a spell.  Problems then were few—a couple of changes in plans here, a few tile shortages there, a fan without a light shade, a matching mirror for which there was no room.  Stuff.

     By May, my former house was on the market, with me thinking it would never sell and I’d have to rent it out.  Why?  Every reason from overhead power lines, a mice infestation, a rooster next door, proximity to a main road, noisy neighbors, and dodgy plumbing.  I forecast a year to sell in this summer community.  It sold in three weeks.  And not only that, the buyer wanted to be in a.s.a.p.  Even the bank wouldn’t cooperate with her desired date of June 28, nor could we make July 20 after she went on vacation for a month. She was in July 27, I was out, and virtually camping in my new home. 

      The work is pretty much done but the unpacking is not—and the problems have just begun.  Air conditioning that doesn’t reach the hot attic top floor, a water treatment system that hadn’t been serviced in years and was sending out yellow water after being serviced—and now has to be replaced; a new water tank needed; a security system installed; shades installed; endless irrigation problems; and the never-ending unpacking.  Packing must be an art, but it’s one most moving firms haven’t yet acquired.  I find lids that don’t belong to anything else in the box, a single glass without its mates, part of a dustbuster, or the cradle for a telephone.  The dumpster outside is filling with cartons but the cartons seem to be having babies.  And where am I going to put all my books?!

     The more junk one acquires, the more tethered to a place you are.  I’d love to throw all this away and live in an RV but my daughter persists in telling me she needs me and RV places do not abound in NY.  But I’m away from the rooster and the road, on a quiet cul de sac next to a reserve.  I’ve been a lousy ‘friend’ for the past few months, not ‘liking’, commenting, responding, promoting, voting and so on, but hopefully things will now get back to normal.  I’ve decided to start with half days of unpacking and half days writing in order to meet deadlines.

I hope.

And this has gone on so long, the last thing I published was City Boy, Country Heart.  I can barely remember it, but if you haven’t got a copy it’s available at https://www.amazon.com/City-Boy-Country-Heart-Contemporary-ebook/dp/B07DN2S3F1/    Reviews welcome and greatly appreciated.

Rodeo star and rancher Chay Ridgway has left Wyoming to follow his girlfriend, K.C. Daniels, to New York. Leaving behind all he knows for a small bite of the Big Apple, Chay discovers the canyons of city streets may be too claustrophobic for this cowboy, especially when the trauma is compounded by the fact K.C.’s parents dislike him, their housemate is a harridan, friends are few, and the only job he can get is rounding up dinner plates. 
As K.C. continues her two years of study for her Master’s degree, can she also continue to keep a rein on Chay’s heart? Will this cowboy become a city boy, or will the wide-open spaces of Wyoming call his country heart home?

Pirates & Parents: When #Spellcheck Helps Out by Andrea Downing

It was when ‘black wooly sock’ appeared as ‘black wooly dick’ that I decided to write this particular blog.  In this digital age of writing/texting rather than talking on the phone, mistakes are rampant.  A friend with whom I correspond informed me her husband was perplexed by her text, “I’m with a bunch of pirates.” As she said, he wasn’t using his ‘context reasoning,’ to discover she was with other parents, wise advice for us all.  Her son is visiting New Zealand and wrote, “defiantly the best time I’ve had.” One can only wonder whom he was defying in being so happy.

Then there are the suggested responses one encounters on iPad and other devices, depending on your browser.  When the same friend finished an email that she was off to bed, iPad suggested I respond, ‘Safe travels!’  A text from the contractor who services my irrigation system must have been a mix of spellcheck/autocorrect and his translation app.  It read, “good days mrs. Andy w. the irrigation this all the 5 areas working, and not there is no liqueo or cut, the head of the photo, not this working off, the I will when end . . . .” You get the picture.

Then, of course, there’s tone, how you meant something and it comes out as if you’re snarling.  We now know that all caps is SHOUTING, but how many times have you written something for it only to be misconstrued because of the interpreter’s presumed tone of your text?

 Now I’m thinking perhaps spellcheck is excellent practice for editing.  You know, you read that ms. a dozen times and still don’t see that “dong” instead of “doing” or “havens” instead of “heavens.”  

If only spellcheck had some reasoning built into it. Unfortunately, we don’t seem to be getting used to these mistakes. When a text I sent to my daughter came out, “Pop fizzing down to cheesecake,” she texted back, “wait . . .is that some sort of code for “help”?

I’d love to hear about any miswritten or misconstrued texts you’ve dealt with. In the meantime, there are hopefully no text mistakes in City Boy, Country Heart, available at https://www.amazon.com/City-Boy-Country-Heart-Contemporary-ebook/dp/B07DN2S3F1/   

Rodeo star and rancher Chay Ridgway has traded Wyoming for New York in order to be with his girlfriend, K.C. Daniels, while she completes an M.A.  With Chay facing a tough ride in the big city, can K.C. keep a tight rein on this cowboy, or will the wide open spaces of Wyoming call his country heart home?

Excerpt:

Chay lay spread out on the bed, fully clothed, legs crossed, boots still on, arms locked behind his head. His coat, scarf, and hat were dropped on the floor.

K.C. clicked the door shut behind her and stood staring at him, not knowing where to start. “You heard?”

“I heard.” He pulled his knees in, hugging them and then, as if just now realizing his boots were still on, he swung his legs off the bed. “Shall we report her to the police for having marijuana on the premises?” He turned to look at K.C., his smirk belying the jest behind his words.

“You’re not serious.”

“No,” he said, getting to his feet and going to her. “But it’s a nice idea. Pay-back.” He pulled K.C. into his arms and rested his chin on her head. “She really is a bitch. How in heaven’s name did you ever get friendly with her?”

“Oh, you know…we were in the same classes in college as undergrads, had a few laughs, went out to parties together, and just became friends. You know how it is.”

He pulled away, his hands still gripping her arms. “No, K.C., I don’t know how it is. I haven’t been to college, haven’t found something in common with people who smoke weed, who lie about others, make false accusations like that.”

K.C. snapped away, throwing her coat on the bed. “Well, excuse me. I didn’t know I was sleeping with someone so perfect, almost holy.”

“You want to have an argument over this? I had to listen to that crap; I’ve put up with her nasty lies and insinuations and garbage while you’re not here during the day. And now you want to take her side?”

“Geesh, Chay! I am not taking her side in anything! I was simply explaining how I became friends with someone you don’t like.”

“Maybe you are a really bad judge of character. Maybe that’s why you went out with Jamie.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She thought back to the terrible evening with Jamie at his ranch, how he had got her to the empty house under pretense of giving her dinner and tried to rape her by drugging her. If she hadn’t run out, and flagged down Chay, who happened to be heading back to the Lazy S from his own ranch, the ending could have been a whole lot different—could have been deadly. She shivered at the thought. “I went out with Jamie because he seemed nice. I’d been warned about you. We’ve gone through all this. Both Breezy and Dakota told me you were a ‘love ’em and leave ’em’ type and to stay away from you.”

Chay plunked down on the foot of the bed and sighed. “And I was. Until I met you.”

She knew him well enough now to see the wheels of his mind working, how uncomplicated his life used to be, how being single was so much easier than taking into consideration the feelings and needs of another person, how being selfish just made everything so simple with no one else to consider.

K.C. dropped down beside him and took his hand in hers, playing with it, spreading out his fingers before entwining with them. “Not so calloused as they used to be.”

“No.” He grimaced. “You’re going to make a softie of me if I stay here.”

For a second she considered the words, ‘if I stay here’ but let it go. The first real smile of the day filled K.C.’s face and lit up her eyes as she pulled her hand free and caressed his crotch. “Not quite a softie!”

And then his phone rang.

Losing the Weight of Words by Andrea Downing

     Since I am deep into a major home remodeling project at the same time as preparing to move house from the old homestead, I had a look back at some posts that appeared on my own blog.  This one comes from 2013 and I thought it was worth revisiting with a few changes and additions.  Hope you do, too--the thoughts about language here are certainly worth a second round of discussion!

One Christmas my daughter, knowing her mother's fanaticism about owning anything to do with the Old West, bought me something that was within her budget and definitely within my scope of interest.  It is a wood engraved illustration from Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, March 30^th, 1872.  It depicts  'Wyoming Territory—A Passenger Train of the Union Pacific Railroad in a Snow-Drift, Near Wyoming Station' from a sketch by C. B. Savage.  While the illustration has been framed and found a place on my wall, I was also fascinated by the accompanying news article, which uses a language not often employed in modern journalism.  "The actual troubles of east-bound