Bell Bridge Books

Donnell Bell has been named Author
of the Year for Pikes Peak Romance Writers.

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Is the Novelist Work Not Valued, or Under Valued?

Kathryn Magendie

  it’s not magic . . .

How much do you pay for a haircut? What about going out to dinner? Or a Supreme Latte with extra supreme? Do you like manicures/pedicures? Do you enjoy massages? Do you have a personal trainer? Is there something you value enough to collect?

And of all those things that you purchase and enjoy, do you ever expect to get them for free, or for the Service Provider to do their work for deep discounts?

Of course for most of those things you don’t, right? So why is it when authors talk about money they feel uncomfortable, as if they are embarrassed to even consider the idea of making money from Their Craft?

Is a writer’s work not considered Real Work?

You can buy a book and you can enjoy that book and the feeling it gives you as many times as you want. You can lend your book to a friend or relative and the author receives no royalty on that. You can sell your book to someone and the author receives no royalty on that. The author receives his/her one-time royalty when a book is purchased and that one-time royalty is a small percentage of what the book sells for—and often at discounts, which isn’t a bad thing, for who doesn’t want a “deal,” right?

An author takes months, a year, or for some even longer, writing their book, then they must rewrite and rewrite, then they may go through rejection and uncertainty, then when they have that contract, their work is not done—more editing, more waiting, more stress. When the book is published, their work begins again: marketing, promotion, personal events, etc etc etc—and many things the author pays for out of their own pockets. They must also, during the marketing and promotion, create more work, and the cycle begins again.

Through all of this, the author does not know if his/her book will be loved or hated or ignored or somewhere in between; he/she does not know if it will sell well or will not sell well.

It won’t matter how hard the author worked, how much money the author spent, he/she never knows what their paycheck will be. Anyone who goes into the Novelist business to make money should not go into the novelist business. There are simply too many unknowns. There is a lot of work, a lot of stress, a lot of rejection, and there’s a lot of feeling that your work is Not Of Value—imagine going to work every day and doing the best danged job you can and your boss quibbles with you over your salary and makes you feel as if you should be giving your work away for free or whatever he decides that day to pay you based on whatever he’s feeling about you compared to some other worker.

In matters of art and the heart, it’s hard to place monetary values, but frankly, we have to. Novelists have to make a living, too, and for the Novelist to feel guilty for hoping his/her works sells so that he/she can pay the bills or contribute to the household makes this business seem as if it’s more a Hobby than Real Live Work.

Is it because unlike the stylist or the restaurant worker or the oil tycoon or the actor or the football player or the ice cream man we can do our work in our pajamas tucked in our little houses? You can’t see us working? It looks like lots-o-fun? It’s “easy” or “anyone can do it” – well, even the person who digs a hole gets a paycheck, and just about all of us can dig a hole, right?

Or is it because the writer, the novelist, does not teach people to value his/her work? Did we start it all by being apologetic about what we do? Is it because many times we readily admit we’d do it all for free because we love it so much? It’s all we ever wanted to do. We are begging someone/anyone just to read our work and love us, please please please just love us.

And the thing is, despite my wish to be valued monetarily for “making a living’s sake,” all I ever hope for is to be loved and appreciated by my readers, respected by my colleagues, to have my books in the hands of people who see the love and care that goes into every word I write. I guess that’s a value in itself, right?

No, it’s not magic—it’s hard work, but I don’t want to do anything else, and I go into this with eyes wide opened.

Carolina Slade – Gumshoe Momma
By C. Hope Clark

          The main character of A Lowcountry Bribe is Carolina Slade, a lady near and dear to my heart. I named her after doing genealogy research on the Mississippi side of my family. She’s a compilation of folks I’ve admired in my life, from the white streak in her hair taken from one of my aunts to the brashness of my father. Her last name comes from a great grandmother on my mother’s side, and her first name is where she plants her roots. But debutante she ain’t, and that more or less defines me.

My family is Southern. My grandfather farmed cotton in the Mississippi Delta, and I chased feral cats in his barn as a kid. I spent time in Georgia, Alabama, and then two decades in South Carolina assisting farmers via the Department of Agriculture in my adulthood as a result of those early agriculture experiences.  Nothing gives me more pleasure than nature, and I’ve tried to infuse that sense into these books as well. So many novels these days tend to be urban, and I wanted to provide a taste of rural into the literary world. No car chases through alleys and on Interstates. Maybe along a two-lane back road, but way more than a spitting distance from any city.

But maybe most unusual of all, I defied the unwritten rule of the proverbial female sleuth. I gave Carolina Slade kids. Not grown children and not nieces who really didn’t belong under the same roof. No. I thrust upon Slade the responsibilities, pains, and joys of being an active mother.

Instantly, my sleuth morphs into a lightweight in the minds of many old-fashioned mystery readers. She can’t travel the world undercover up to her pretty neck in espionage because who would pick up the kids from school? How would she ferret out an evasive criminal and be home for dinner? Where would she keep her .38 so the kids didn’t get their hands on it?

The mystery genre does not lend itself to married women, much less women with kids. Women, however, don’t spit out babies and lose their ability to decrypt problems. Quite the contrary. Who finds the soccer ball, blue tank top, missing car payment or car keys? Who juggles work, school, social engagements and finances, solving everyone’s conundrum before making a to-do list for the next day?

In most best-seller mysteries, the protagonist is a damaged, single male with a girl he can barely hold onto or loses by the end of the story. His life is in crisis. Solving the crime is his twenty-four-hour life, and his social world limps into nonexistence as his sidekick tells him to find balance. He’s stressed, probably drinking heavily, with so much on his plate. Oh, please.

The problem is, women detective characters aren’t much different. Sue Grafton’s alphabet mystery series feature Kinsey Millhone, a private investigator who lives alone, visits her eighty-year-old neighbor for pastries, cleans her apartment for personal entertainment, and fears relationships. The author explains in interviews that Kinsey has to hit the road on a case with little notice, and calling home to make arrangements waters down the intrigue. Thus, no kid baggage.

Patricia Cornwell’s Kay Scarpetta is a divorced, childless, medical examiner. The closest parental trait she shows is acting matronly around her niece Lucy.

Deborah Knott, the character in Margaret Maron’s North Carolina mystery series, is a judge and amateur detective. No urchins in her house.

Sara Paretsky, who originated the female sleuth, pulling women out of the vamp or victim role in mysteries in the 80’s, is known for her V I Warshawski character, a divorced private investigator. While Sara broke the mold for women authors and their characters in the mystery world, her character may have stereotyped female gumshoes as uninvolved and unattached, just like the men that preceded them.

One wonders if the mystery world envisions the womb connected to the brain, and once one is engaged, the other reverts to neutral. Yes, the story stretches an author’s muse when one tosses in the rug rats. It’s harder to make the timeline work when the principal calls to say Johnny got caught fighting on the playground. Of course, babysitting challenges the flow of events. But in reality, are all crime solvers single and footloose without familial obligations?

Police women have children. Detectives have children. Inquisitive females in all walks of life continue to function with kids, as do the fathers. So why can’t we have sleuths who’ve given birth, or more so, have a family life?

A few female writers dare to incorporate children in their protag’s world. Joan Hess writes the Claire Malloy series involving a teenage daughter. Terris McMahan Grimes created the Theresa Galloway series in which a professional married woman balances two children and an elderly mother. Bravo.

Still, the search for mother gumshoes takes serious search time, and even then, the author names pale in comparison to those who prefer their sleuths single and detached. My own writers’ group told me to think twice about inserting a six-year-old son and eleven-year-old daughter in my stories.

“What if she has to leave town?”

“What does she tell her children about what she does?”

“What if she gets hurt?”

“How could she concentrate if her child has an achievement test the next day?”

Yes, those were actual questions from fellow writers. Come on, people. We procreate. We even like the little boogers. If a mother can hold a position as attorney, real estate agent, teacher, doctor or CEO, why can’t she beat the pavement, investigate murders, wade into mayhem, then go home and check homework? What, you can’t imagine someone shooting at her? Ever seen a soccer mom?

C. Hope Clark thrives on the banks of Lake Murray in central South Carolina, often reading her chapters aloud to her Federal agent husband, both while sipping on a good bourbon. Some of her best friends are Dominiquers hens and Buff Orpington roosters who keep her company in Hope’s custom-made coops. Find her FundsforWriters side at www.fundsforwriters.com and author persona at www.chopeclark.com . She blogs at www.hopeclark.blogspot.com and can be found at https://www.facebook.com/chopeclark and on Twitter at @hopeclark. Hope has published in Writer’s Digest, The Writer Magazine, TURF Magazine, Landscape Management, numerous Chicken Soups and many other print and online publications. She speaks frequently at writers conferences throughout the country.

The Power Of Love

Lindi here. And I’m one of those people who believe in love at first sight. I believe in the power love has to change circumstances and lives. I believe if we are loved well, we will love well.

So yes, Valentine’s Day is one of my favorite days. And it usually falls right around another holiday in our house. The Daytona 500.

What?

That’s not a holiday in your house?

The first date I had with my husband was a race. Yes, a NASCAR race. I was extremely clueless, had no idea what was going on, and we didn’t talk. I mean we each wore headsets, sat 50 rows up in the grandstands. (Really, I don’t think I COULD have talked for half an hour after that hike!) I had packed a lunch for us, which I was really thankful for after I saw the hike to the seats. I wasn’t too anxious to go down and up any more than I had to. The only thing the dudes who walked up and down the aisles sold was beer, so the food I brought saved at least one trip down into the abyss where they sell the food.

Then we sat in traffic for I don’t know how long, maybe 2 hours, to get out of the place. Okay, so yes, we did talk then. And then he took me to eat Mexican food at a really great restaurant. And we had more conversation. Then we sat in his pick-up truck and talked for at least another hour, so yes, we made up for not talking the whole day in about 4 hours.

I soon became a fan of NASCAR. It was either that or be bored every Sunday February through November, right? See, a prime example of the power of love.

What about you? Do you have first date or love stories about you and your hubby or boyfriend you’d like to share?  I’d love to hear them.

Happy Valentine’s Day (And Happy Daytona 500 Day!)

Lindi Peterson—Happy Endings Are Just The Beginning

My father comes up for a visit.  My mother is in Israel visiting with my brother. The summer is halfway over, and I don’t want it to ever end. My father looked uncared for. He is lost without my mother. I immediately feel guilty that I’m not home to take care of him, but he insists he’s fine. I get the afternoon off, and we go into town for lunch. He shows me the last letter from my mother, and I promise to write her that evening. I explain that work keeps me very busy, but I agree it’s not a good enough excuse.

“And I have a new boyfriend,” I say.

“A new boyfriend?” my father says. “What happened to Julian?”

“Julian?” I say as if I’ve never heard his name before.

“Yes, you must remember him. The boy you’ve been dating for almost two years.”

“I remember him, but I still want to introduce you to Frankie when we get back to camp.”

“Sure.”

On the way back, we’re both quiet. I have to work the dinner shift, and it’s almost time for me to set up my tables. My father waits outside the dining hall while I go in to get Frankie. I see that he’s already set my tables. I call out to him from across the dining room. He’s unloading a dolly. A cigarette is behind his ear. He’s wearing his usual tee shirt. His arms glisten with sweat. I have the urge to tell him we should just go, run down to his room and hide from everyone. At the sound of my voice, he looks up, smiles, and beckons me closer.

“My dad’s outside,” I say. “He has to leave soon. I’d like you to meet him.”

Frankie kisses me on the cheek. I inhale his scent; my pulse quickens.

“Thanks for setting my tables,” I say.

“Anything for you,” he says. “Give me ten minutes. Let me unload these boxes and get a shirt.”

I find my father reading the Daily News. There’s a slight breeze.

“Come,” he says. “Let’s walk a little.”

We walk down the path from the dining room. I link my arm through his. Before were halfway down the path, I hear Frankie call my name. As I turn, I catch my father’s expression as he takes in his first look at Frankie. Something like surprise, but more, crosses my father’s face. Frankie is walking toward us, buttoning his shirt. It’s short-sleeved, so it’s impossible to miss his muscled arms. It’s also impossible to miss his gold crucifix, especially as the sun catches the thorn of crowns on Jesus’ head, making it glow in the bright light. My father looks and then looks quickly away as if he has seen an accident.

 “Dad,” I say. “This is Frankie. And Frankie, this is my dad.”

They shake hands. An awkward silence follows.

“Frankie is from New Jersey,” I say.

“Is that so?” my father says.

Frankie shifts from foot to foot. He places a flat palm on either side of his head and pushes his hair back. Because I know Frankie, I know it’s a nervous gesture, but it makes him look tough, nothing at all like the boy I know. I want to tell my father how hardworking and smart Frankie is. I want to show my father that Frankie is curious and fair-minded with the sort of decency that I know they share. And I want to reassure him that Frankie is the sort of boy he could trust to take care of his daughter.  But instead, I say nothing.

“Well,” Frankie says. “I’d better get back to the kitchen.” He puts out his hand again, and my father takes it, unhesitatingly, but without his usual warmth. “It was nice to meet you Mr. Applebaum.”

“Likewise,” my father says.

I see how he sizes Frankie up as he walks away.

“He’s a nice boy,” I say.

“I’m sure he is,” my father says.

I walk him to the car, promise again to write my mother, and promise to be smart—being “smart” means so many things, but mostly it means, don’t do anything stupid.

“Did you like him?” I say. “Did you like Frankie?”

“I met him for ten minutes, Sonja. Not even. What do you want me to say?”

I don’t answer even though I know what I want him to say. But I also know that what I want just isn’t possible. I want him to say that it doesn’t matter that Frankie isn’t Jewish, or that we come from two such different worlds that we would have never found each other in the places we lived.  I know there is something important about the fact that we found each other at this place, at this point in time, and I want my father to see it too. I want him to tell me that nothing matters more than love. And I want him to free me from my history. The worst part is that I understand why he doesn’t, why instead he says, “And leave this boy out of it when you write to your mother. No reason to worry her.” He kisses my cheek. “Besides, Sonya, it will be over in a few weeks.”

I nod. I don’t know what hurts more—the fact that he calls Frankie “this boy,” or that he says it will all be over in a few weeks. I want to shout at my father that “this boy” has a name. I want to tell him that it will never be over, but I know better than to speak that way to my father, so instead, I say nothing.

 One night, just days before the summer ends, Frankie tells me that I have to learn to live in the present. It’s a conversation we have had all summer and to which we return again and again.

“Our love is all that matters now,” he says. “Why can’t you believe that?”

I want to believe him. I want to be able to live in the moment the way he does, but I know I never will. I can’t. Just like I could never marry a boy like Frankie. I knew I could never marry a shaygetz. But I could love him forever.

Can Love be Pending?

By Bo Sebastian

Is Love something that is ever pending?
I have a friend who recently said, “love you,” soon after we met. A knee-jerk reaction made me respond with the like.

As a friend, I didn’t think much of it. At church, we tend to say we love each other all the time, and no one thinks much of the sentiment there either.

But when it comes to intimate relationships, when someone says “love you” too soon, we think about running, or is this the appropriate amount of time to be saying such words? But aren’t we called to love everyone? Especially, those who care about us intimately? Even more so, than people we barely know?

So, my next question is saying: I’m “IN LOVE” AND “LOVE YOU” the same thing? and can we just love someone as a friend and have the “be in love” part be pending? upon deeper relationship.

The answer, of course, is yes! In English, love just has too many meanings. In the Greek, there are words for casual love, friendship love, and intimate love. In the English language we aren’t so lucky. We have to ascribe prepositions and adjectives that help us define the universal word, to make it more special, otherwise it will fail in its interpretation.

Everyone has had the clumsy “love you, too, buddy,” response when you just wanted to hear, “I am so in love with you, and I have been for the past year.”

The word love is the most awkward word in the English language. We throw it around it like it is NOT something special. Can’t we just come up with another word that really means that we are head over heals, heart-screaming with joy, jumping up and down, in love?

If you have some suggestions, let me know….

I know we are being watched. Wherever I turn, there are critical eyes, expressions full of judgment. The hardest part of that for me is that I understand. After all, Frankie is a shaygetz. Jewish girls know those boys are nothing but trouble. We know to stay away from them. They only want one thing. But my shaygetz is different. He’s by my side each time I have to lift a heavy tray, taking it from my hands, sliding it onto his shoulder. And he’s sweet. One morning when I stumble up to the dining room after spending another night in his bed arguing about my virginity, I find that he has spelled out “I love you” with the silverware. When I catch his eye in the kitchen, he winks at me, and I wink back. He laughs, shakes his head and carries on with his work. But he is ever watchful, always ready to defend me from anything and anyone. And even though I tell him that he’s too protective of me, I secretly love that because of him most of the waiters give me wide berth. They think he’s dangerous and unpredictable, but only I know the boy who begs me to sleep with him out in the field and instinctively covers my body with his when the temperature falls, making sure throughout the night that I am warm enough. But he’s still a shaygetz, and it’s still a Jewish camp where girls like me are supposed to stay away from boys like him. But I can’t, and I won’t.

For that reason, I’m not surprised when I’m summoned to the office for “a talk” with the director, Rabbi Feinstein. I have a huge hickey on my neck. It’s been too hot to try to cover it, and besides, all the waitresses have hickeys. The difference is theirs are from Jewish boys.

Frankie is distraught. He wants to come in with me.

“Wait here,” I tell him. We’re sitting on a bench down near the lake. “I’ll be fine.”

“No,” he says. “I’m going to walk you there. I’ll wait outside the office.”

We hold hands as we walk up the hill.  Frankie looks worried.

“What if they send you home?” he says.

“They won’t. If they send me home, they’ll have to send everyone home.”

He laughs, but I know he’s worried. “Go get’ em,’ he says. He kisses my eyelids, rubs my cheek with the back of his hand. “I’ll be waiting.”

A small air-conditioner sputters in the rabbi’s office. The door is half-open. I’m surprised to see Rabbi Mike, the rabbi who conducts the Jewish education and religion classes the wait staff is required to attend. But I am even more surprised to see Leah, the camp nurse. I knock lightly.

“Come in, Sonja,” Rabbi Feinstein says. “Sit, sit.”

Rabbi Mike smiles benevolently between puffs on his pipe, and Leah smiles almost apologetically at me. I suddenly wish I had let Frankie come with me.

“Well, I guess you know why you’ve been asked to come here today,” Rabbi Feinstein says.

I decide I don’t want to make it easy for them.

“”No,” I say. “I have no idea.”

Rabbi Mike clears his throat and exchanges a look with Leah.

“No idea?” Rabbi Feinstein says. He points to my neck.  “For starters, Sonja, there are children here as young as eight.”

I don’t say anything.

“You’re supposed to set an example for them,” he says. “What are they to think when they see that mark on your neck?”

“Is it just the mark on my neck, Rabbi?” I say. “Because all the girls in my dorm have hickeys, some in places you can’t even see.” I look around. “I don’t see any of them here.”

The room is quiet. The air-conditioner gasps and pops; it’s too small for a room this size.

“But we asked you here, Sonja.”

“Because of Frankie.”

“Frankie?” Rabbi Feinstein says.
I realize that he doesn’t even know Frankie’s name.

“My boyfriend,” I say.

The word “boyfriend” hangs in the air like a dare.

Leah leans forward in her chair and in a low voice says, “Do we need to call your mother?”

“Why would you call my mother?”
“We don’t want any trouble,” Leah says. “You know what I mean.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not sleeping with Frankie. And if you want to call anyone’s mother you should call Renee’s mother, and Sandy’s mother, and Helene’s mother. For that matter, you should also call Barry’s, Jonathan’s, and Eli’s mothers. They’re all having sex. All those nice Jewish kids.”

“Like should stick with like,” Rabbi Feinstein says.

I don’t want to cry in front of them.

“At least try to be more discreet,” Rabbi Mike urges in a gentle voice.

“Can I go now?” I say.

“We just want to protect you,” Rabbi Feinstein says.

I have to shade my eyes from the sun when I step outside. Frankie is sitting where I left him. He stands as soon as soon as he sees me. I walk toward him, wrap my arms around him, and bury my face in his chest. My tears wet his shirt, but he holds me tight and doesn’t let go.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“It’s not okay,” I say.

“It doesn’t matter what anyone says.”

“Of course it matters.”

“No,” he says. “The only thing that matters is us.”

I nod against his chest, but I know he’s wrong.

The UnRomantic Queen
By: Kathryn Magendie

Once upon a time, in a land up high, there lived a Queen who walked about the mountain land in a daze of her inner wonderland.

One day very close to Valentines Day, or as the Queen called it, “That stupid day where people pretend to be romantic, bleah, bah humbug,” the King went on a trip to a mysteriously eerie swamp-land calledSouth Louisiana. Whilst the King was away, the Queen danced and sang about the Royal log house, because there were no manly-sized fingerprints on the royal stainless steel, nor were there fallen dribbles from cooking, and, to royally boot, the entire bedchamber was the Queen’s and Queen’s alone. “Am I in heaven?” the Queen boastificated.

But Hark! There came the morning when the Queen looked upon her larder in the Frigidaire, and alas and alack but there were no more greens, there was no more yogurt; and on the royal counter, there were no more apples; and in the most high royal pantry, there were no more Cheerios, and only two slices of royal bread. The Queen, in a panic, summoned her minions, but with panic she realized she had no minions, just two lazy dogs who, by the way, were almost out of their royal pain dog food!

The Queen fretted and moaned and gnashed her teeth. Where did these wondrous and nutritional items come from if not from minions? Surely they did not appear out of the misty mountain air? The Queen sat her quite-shapely-for-her-age (if you write it, it is true) rump upon her stately throne and thought and thought, and the thoughts became more thoughts, and those thoughts went off into tangents of thoughts until her brain squeezed and she had to blink and give her head a shake and pronounce, “Where were art I?”

At last, she recollected her mind, and sighed. She postulated most postulatingly, “Yes, my larder is bare. I have none of the precious foodstuffs that I daily enjoy.” But then! The horrors of the land came down upon her when she realized with a start, and a dismayed “Augh!” that there was soon to be no more Charmin to be had in theLandofMountains.

“Oh, Oh, whatever will I do?” The Queen sobbed. She paced the little log royal castle, wringing her royal hands.

At last, it came to her, how these things suddenly appeared to the royal homestead. The King! Yes! The King went to the village and pillaged the Ingles Supermarket and brought forth his bounty for the Queen’s enjoyment so the Queen never had to leave her mountaintop. The Queen pondered and pontificated and gasped and ballyhooed.

And when the King returned from his quest from the wet mooshy land of yore, she ran to him and rained upon his face kisses, and said, “My King! My King! Get thee to Ingles quickly, for my cupboard is bare!” And the King set off without complaint, off to the village to pummel and plunder for his Queen. And his Queen was ever so ever grateful, even if she sometimes doesn’t show the King thusly so.

Though she be ever so UnRomantic, this Valentines Day, the Queen allows that her King is Wonderful.

The End.

Surviving February
By Judith Arnold

When I was in college, we used to refer to February as “Lose a Friend a Day Month.” In the hilly little corner of New England where my college was located, the arrival of February meant we’d already endured several long months of winter. The snow blanketing the ground was gray and old. The trees were gray and dead. Our moods were gray and cranky. Look at a classmate or dorm neighbor the wrong way in February, and you risked getting your head bitten off.

I still live in New England, and as far as I’m concerned, February is still “Lose a Friend a Day Month.” By the time February rolls around, the charms of winter have long faded. The whine of auto tires skidding on ice is an obnoxious sound-track to my chilly days. My boots are permanently stained from all the salty slush I’ve trudged through. The heating bills spike my blood pressure.

The only good thing I can say about this wretched month is that it’s short. When our ancestors were designing calendars, someone must have realized that nobody could survive thirty, let alone thirty-one, days of February.

But then…there’s Valentine’s Day. Right in the very middle of the month, a day you’re no doubt losing your fourteenth friend, a miracle occurs. People stop thinking about the dreary weather, the hissing radiators, their winter-chapped skin and the fact that the growl of a snow-blower’s motor has to be one of the most irritating sounds in the universe, and instead they think about…love. They think about the most important people in their lives and they smile. They think about those chalky little candy hearts that have silly phrases like “Luv Ya” and “U R Hot” printed on them and they laugh. They turn the stove off, slam the fridge shut and go out to a restaurant for dinner.

They give each other cards, flowers, chocolate, wine, jewelry—gifts that say, “I love you!” (Or maybe “You are hot!”) When my husband and I were newlyweds, we used to give each other practical items for Valentine’s Day. One year I gave him a cutting board. Another year, he gave me a broom and dust pan. The actual gift didn’t matter. What mattered was the sentiment behind the gifts: I love you! You are hot!

Now that we have been married more than thirty years and are well stocked with cutting boards and dust pans, I usually bake him oatmeal cookies (his favorite) and he gives me chocolate (my favorite.) And the gray, grim February world outside no longer matters. The love we celebrate gives us the strength to endure the final few weeks of winter. No wonder Valentine’s Day falls in the midst of “Lose A Friend a Day Month.” We all need love, but in February, we need it more than ever.