A Family Home...What's That? by Rolynn Anderson

I don’t have a ‘first home.’ In my youth, I adjusted to new homes about 25 times (Army brat).  As an adult I spent 33 years in 6 different homes in Washington State.  For the last 17 years, my husband and I have lived part time in Arroyo Grande, CA.  Many of the people I meet here in California come from another state.  In fact, I rarely meet people who have grown up and live near their family homes.  I keep thinking that the best (read: unusual) novel, might be about an extended family still maintaining a family home/compound through the generations.  How rare is that?

And who cares?  I have fared well (okay, no psychiatrist has examined me to make that judgment) by living a nomad life.  Yet I’m aware of a certain aura of entitlement that goes with the statement: "I’ve always lived here (close to my family) and I’m proud to say I always will."

I lived my early days as an Army brat and had no choice about moving from country to country (U.S., Germany, U.S., Japan, U.S., Korea, U.S.).  Did you?  Why did you move from your birthplace?  Looking back, any regrets...if you had it to do all over again, would you have stayed (or established) a ‘family home’ or are you glad you struck out on your own?  

Speaking of traveling, get ready for the release of my newest novel, BAD LIES, about an American geologist and a golfer who find trouble and love in Italy.  Countdown begins.  In two weeks, you'll be able to read BAD LIES:

  

Six Suspense Novels Spiked with Romance

http://www.rolynnanderson.com

http://www.amazon.com/author/rolynnanderson

Looking Back at Winter & Forward to Spring by Diane Burton

Everybody's talking about the weather. Here in West Michigan, we've gotten over eight feet of snow. That's right, feet. I've never seen so much. The snow-covered ice stretches so far into Lake Michigan that you can't see open water from the shore. The snow on our deck pressing up against our slider is as high as my dining room table. Drifts and snowbanks make corners dangerous for drivers who can't see oncoming traffic. On top of that, the temperatures are hovering around zero, with windchills much lower. My daughter blames the record snow and extreme cold on Hubs and me moving over here. LOL

Like most people, I am so looking forward to Spring. It's only January and I have had enough Winter. Normally, I enjoy it. I love snow--when I don't have to drive in it. When I can sit inside my warm house and watch the lovely white stuff cover up the dead grass and the stubs of cut back flowers. But enough is enough.

 

Spring, you can come any time.  Spring with its tulips, daffodils, and lilies of the valley. I can't wait to see the flowers I planted last fall. New house, new flowers plus some from the old house. Wherever I live, I always plant flowers, especially perennials. I know they're short lived, but seeing them come up and bloom year after year is so enjoyable. I hope the people who live in our old houses enjoy the flowers I left behind. Whenever I can, I divide my perennials and take some with me to the new house. Despite many moves, the perennials provide a continuity to my life. The irises came from my mother's garden. The lilies of the valley originally came from my grandmother's farm. I like to think that I'm carrying on a tradition of gardening women.

I blog here on the 8th and 30th of each month and Mondays on my own blogsite http://dianeburton.blogspot.com 

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.

Yikes, my family's focused on foods! ~ by Leah St. James

A few months ago, my son emailed me and my husband asking about our family traditions. It was for a paper for one of his college classes. After thinking about it for a bit, I had to respond something like, “Geez, the only traditions I can think of involve food!” He answered that’s what he’d come up with.

I thought more about it in the days that followed. There had been traditions when the kids were little—annual pumpkin picking, tree decorating, the usual holiday stuff. But as the kids aged and began to spend holidays with girlfriends, then moved away altogether, the traditions seemed to go with them. All except for the ones that ended with us stuffing our faces. 

Then I realized that even going back into my childhood, most of my memories of tradition were the same—food focused.

One of my earliest memories of my grandmother has me standing on a chair next to her at the kitchen table. We’re putting together apple pies to bake. She has a regular pie pan (glass), and I’m working with a miniature version, about half the size. I remember the aroma of the baking pie, but most of all, I remember the fun of spending time with my grandmother and feeling like a big girl, baking my own little pie. (I still have that plate and think of Grandma every time I use it…although it’s been years since I’ve attempted a pie!)

Grandma didn’t bake just pies. She also baked cookies, and my favorite was one she called “Pecan Crescent Cookies.” Made of lots of fat and sugar, they’re mixed, rolled into a log, then cut, shaped into a crescent, then baked. I still remember Grandma showing me her pinkie finger to use as a measure for the size.  This was my hands-down favorite cookie anytime of the year, but especially at Christmas. 

My sister and I carried that love into our adulthood. Every December we’d take a day off from work to bake massive batches of cookies. For at least a month in advance, we’d comb through cookie and holiday recipe books to make our selections—a total of about 10 or 12 different cookies, from the drop kind, to the roll-and-cut kind, and we even tried some with a cookie press.  Then we’d split them up into gift trays for co-workers, teachers at school and Sunday school, and for the staff at a local nursing home where our mom lived. No matter what else we baked, Grandma’s crescent cookies were a staple.

Now she and I live an 18-hour drive apart. I miss her, but every year when I make Grandma’s crescent cookies, I think of the fun we had.

Here’s the recipe for any who’d like to try them, now or during the holidays.

Pecan Crescent Cookies

(Makes about 3 dozen, depending on the width of your finger.)

Ingredients

• 2 cups shortening (Grandma used 1 cup of Crisco, 1 cup of butter. I use butter or margarine.)
• 2/3 cup white granulated sugar
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 3-1/3 cups flour
• 1-1/3 cups finely chopped pecans (If the pieces are too large, it’s harder to form the crescent shape.)

Thoroughly mix all ingredients – and don’t be afraid to dig your hands in and get messy. Everything should be well blended.

Separate the dough in half and form into two “logs.” Wrap the logs in waxed paper or plastic wrap and chill in the refrigerator at least a couple hours (I leave overnight).

To form cookies, cut slices of the chilled dough and roll in your hands until about the size of your pinkie. Bend into a slight crescent shape.

Place cookies about 2 inches apart on ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 350 ° about 15 minutes, or until the edges are golden brown.  (The bigger the cookies, the longer it takes. :))

Set the cookies (still on the sheet) aside to cool for a few minutes. Until they set, they’re fragile and liable to fall apart.

Combine sugar and cinnamon in a bowl, mix thoroughly. I start with about a third of a cup of sugar and add cinnamon to taste. If you run out, you can always make more.

While the cookies are still warm, but after they have firmed up a little (about 5 minutes or so), roll each cookie in the sugar/cinnamon mixture (careful handling still required!), then place on some waxed paper (or paper towel) in single layer to finish cooling.

These are probably one of the few cookies I’ve ever made that taste better after they’ve cooled, so you might want to wait before sampling. 

Grandma's Pecan Crescent Cookies - in Grandma's Mini Pie Plate :)

 Let’s face it, food is fun—whether you’re making/baking or eating. I think we all have family food traditions. What are yours?

Did You Say Family History? We Have Some Of That

By Margo Hoornstra

My oldest grandson is amazing. My oldest son, his uncle, is pretty amazing too. You might ask why I would say that. Because it's true.

Though they are taking different paths, their journeys are much the same. They are each learning about and preserving their heritage. Some times they even cooperate in this 'joint venture'.

My grandson, a whiz on the internet as most thirteen year olds are these days, is using that means to research where he came from. (All without paying one single dime, I might add. I did say he was amazing.) He'll call me on the phone with some URL he wants me to go to. Clicking into the virtual world, up pops a picture of my father and the Air Force Squadron he served with in World War II. Or a picture of my great grand father. He's accumulated so many unknown facts and information about the lives of family members he never knew. My mother's father was the youngest of ten children. My grandmother had a younger sister who lived with them right after my grandparents married.

My son is now doing much the same thing without so much technology. His father's side of the family is more advanced when it comes to this heritage thing. Several years ago, a distant cousin began to seek out and accumulate family facts. He even put together and published a book of family lineage beginning with four brothers who traveled to America from Friesland a few hundred years ago. When volunteers to carry on this formalized tradition grew sparse, my son stepped up. Elected President of the Hoornstra Dutch Heritage Society this year, he's working on plans for a week end long reunion so distant relatives can become close friends.

My most recent release Night Stars and Mourning Doves (how's that for a smooth segue?) has to do with family. Family lost and family restored. It begins like this:

“Daddy. Where do stars live in the daytime?”

Eric Matthews glanced down at the small head nestled against his chest and swallowed. At four, his son’s questions about the world were endless. Not to mention at times a challenge to answer.

“Stars live in the sky all the time,” he began softly as the fan in his parents’ living room whirred against the early morning heat of summer. “It’s only after the sun goes down and the sky gets dark that we can see them.”

“Does Mommy live with the stars?”

Pulling the warmth of his son nearer, he shut his eyes. It had been a year since Jan died—along with their little girl—from complications after a miscarriage when she was six months along.

“She does now.” He pushed the words around the familiar ache that had become a permanent fixture by his heart. With his son tucked close, he shuddered at the cruel reality of his loss. Jan was considered an older mother when she carried and delivered Jay as it was. They were advised about the risks of trying for another child, but his wife insisted and he relented. Something he never should have done.

“Can we go outside tonight and see her?”

Eric opened his mouth to reply but could only haul in a gasp of frustration. His heart squeezed. “Mommy doesn’t live at a place where you can see her exactly.”

Two pasts riddled with grief, will they recognize love when it finds them?

Speaking of families, please remember our wounded warriors, today and every day. They gave their all, they deserve our best.

My days to blog here are the 11th and 23rd.

To learn more about me and my books, please visit me at:

My website: www.margohoornstra.com

My blog: www.margohoornstra.blogspot.com

FaceBook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Margo-Hoornstra-Author/251502834867396

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/MargoHoornstra

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3222492.Margo_Hoornstra

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Margo-Hoornstra/e/B00504OMPA/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1368732646&sr=1-2-ent

Family--In Life and Books by Jannine Gallant

Most people celebrate holidays with their family, and I'm no exception. Going home, connecting with our roots, spending time with relatives... But holidays are always hurried and hectic. When my girls were little, I started a tradition of taking them to see their grandma and grandpa and great-grandma for a week each summer in the little Northern California town where I grew up. Plenty of time to relax and relive my youth and watch my daughters grow from playing in a wading pool to running through the sprinkler to swimming in the river as they became more and more independent.

We lost my dad nearly ten years ago, and my grandma has lost most of her mobility and a lot of her short term memory. Still, we bring her out to my mom's house for that week. It's difficult--but worth it. At 97 she represents a generation that, for the most part, is gone now. Over the years I've listen to her stories and written them down. I've done my best to keep her history alive--and make sure my daughters have plenty of memories of their own. We owe a debt to those who paved the way for us as we grew into adults. Giving back to that older generation by listening and spending time with them is the least we can do.

Family connections are a big part of my writing. Nearly every one of my ten books features extended family--parents, siblings, and in A Deadly Love, grandparents. My heroine, Brooke, moves to her grandmother's home in the redwoods when she discovers her elderly relative is struggling financially, and the two set out to turn her big, old house into a Bed and Breakfast. At the same time, my hero, Dillon, is dealing with a senile grandfather who lives like a hermit in a shack in the woods. Both characters show their strength and compassion through these relationships, and I hope, give the book more meaning and depth.

I thought I'd share a short excerpt with Brooke's grandma giving her granddaughter some sage advice. Enjoy!

  June clicked off the TV with the remote. “I’m sure you two can work it out.”
  “I burned that bridge, Grandma. Anyway, it isn’t like our relationship was going anywhere.” She swallowed against the hot lump in her throat. “Not that I wanted it to.”
  “Oh, honey, you don’t fool me.” Her eyes softened. “You care about that man.”
  Brooke blinked back tears. “I’ll get over him. Eventually.” She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “I accepted Carter’s invitation to the black and white ball.”
  Her grandmother’s lips firmed. “When I was young, girls didn’t keep company with one man when they had feelings for another. It made things simpler.”
  She squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t know why I make it so hard. I really don’t.”
  June stood and walked over to her chair. She laid her hand on Brooke’s shoulder. “You’re afraid of being hurt again. Carter is safe.”
  “Maybe so.” She rested her cheek on her grandmother’s frail hand. “Men are overrated. Who needs them?”
  June chuckled. “I’m afraid we do. The dishwasher was making a funny noise when I ran it earlier. I was going to ask Dillon to take a look at it.”
  Brooke jumped to her feet. “We don’t need him. I’m a whiz with kitchen appliances.” She draped her arm around her grandmother’s thin shoulders and headed for the kitchen. “That dishwasher is no match for the two of us.”

Do you have an older relative who's been an inspiration? Please share.

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