Bell Bridge Books

Love
By Jenny McKnatt

“What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”
― John Steinbeck

We couldn’t have been more different, my love and I. We met at, of all places, my brother’s wedding. My brother and I were not very close; he’s eight years older than me. But, that didn’t stop him from letting all the boys know that his sisters (the three of us) were absolutely off limits.

Don’t ever tell a teenager that he can’t because he can. And he will.

I was a city girl, a good girl. I was an Honors student at the best public school in the city. I never got in trouble and always did things the right way. I liked to read, draw, and watch movies. Indoor stuff. My childhood was very sheltered and safe. He was a good ole boy from a small town in Arkansas. A one-stoplight-town. He spent all his time outside. He had one of everything with a motor and wheels and even learned how to drive before he was ten. He was also a rebel. He always dressed real nice, put gel in his hair, and didn’t care what people thought of him. He wasn’t much for rule-following.

Everyone has a weakness. Mine was for bad boys. It was something about how they always did what they wanted, when they wanted, and where they wanted. No one could understand how such a good girl could possibly be with such a rebellious boy. But, no one knew him like I did. No one knew that he’d catch me when I fell, that he’d lift me up and push me to be better, stronger. He opened up the world for me.

The first time he takes me to his childhood home was also my first out-of-the-city experience. About an hour into the ride, I feel the car slowing down. I look up and realize that we have pulled over in the middle of nowhere. Well, it looked like the middle of nowhere. All I see are miles and miles of nothing. My first thought is that something has gone wrong with the car, and so, I panic. What’s wrong? Are we broken down? Who’s going to come help us? Are we going to be stuck on the side of a dirt road FOREVER??? No. As it turns out, he had pulled over to show me something. When I step out, I realize that we are at the edge of a field, but not just any field, a cotton field. I get out of the car and all I can see are rows and rows of pure, dainty-white cotton. As we walk up to the first row of plants, he pulls out his pocket knife and cuts me off a limb. Isn’t this illegal or something?? He tells me they won’t miss it and hands the limb over to me. It was stunning. I think about all of the things made with cotton. My t-shirt is made of this. How crazy is that? What would we do without cotton?

At some point before the trip, I mentioned to him that I had never seen a cotton plant before, in real life. Have you? This may seem silly and juvenile, but how could I possibly consider myself a true Southerner without ever having seen a cotton plant? I had never seen cotton on the stalk, never held a cotton boll in my hand. It was the first day I started living. The first day my eyes were opened. Many years later, I am still learning from that good ole country boy, and I like to think that I’ve taught him a few things, too!

“Our Hero”

by Deb Stover

I often tell people it’s no wonder I grew up to write romance novels because I believe in heroes.  I was raised by one, and I married one.

Like most nineteen-year-olds, I thought I knew everything.  In 1976, while still living at home with my parents, working full-time and trying to go to school part-time, a good friend insisted on introducing me to someone her fiancé worked with at McConnell Air Force Base.  It would be a double date–a blind date.  Oh, goodie.  I was young, but not stupid.  By nineteen, I’d suffered through a few blind dates.

To make matters worse, it was my date’s twenty-first birthday.  A young Airmen newly assigned to McConnell, he hadn’t met many people, so he would celebrate his birthday with us.  And how did we celebrate in 1976?  By seeing Young Frankenstein, of course.

Dave Stover was tall, muscular, blond, blue-eyed, and extremely good-looking.  In fact, he bore a remarkable resemblance to the young actor who played the role of Rolfe in The Sound of Music.  After a few weeks when I introduced him to my mother, I asked her what she thought.  She sighed and said, “I think he’s a walking, living, breathing doll.”

And so he was….

We had a whirlwind courtship.  There’s no other way to describe it.  We met in April, became engaged in May, and married in August.  Many said it wouldn’t last.  After all, we were so young.  We barely knew each other.

But we knew….

On August 6th, 1976, I married my Prince Charming.  Our first year of marriage wasn’t easy, as I became ill with serious blood clots in my leg that traveled to my lung just before our first anniversary.  It was frightening, but we grew closer as we dealt with our trials.

When we started trying to have a family, we discovered my clotting problem was genetic, and that pregnancy complicated it. In fact, it was life threatening.  I had to give myself injections every six hours throughout my pregnancies.  Our twin daughters were born prematurely in 1980 and died shortly after their birth.

One month later, my mother-in-law died from cancer.  It was a very bad time, but every day brought us closer; every trial made us stronger.

In December 1981, we were blessed with our beautiful, full-term baby girl, Barbi.  It would be my last pregnancy, as my obstetrician told us another attempt was “paramount to a death wish.”

We dedicated our lives to each other, and to spoiling our daughter.  After four years, we looked into adoption, and took a workshop on special needs adoption.  Three months later, we brought home Bonnie–a newborn with Down Syndrome and congenital heart disease.  She’s now twenty-four and pure sunshine mixed with Missouri Mule.

Three years later, when I suggested we consider a multi-racial child, Dave didn’t even hesitate.  So we brought home our son, Benjamin, who is too good looking for my good.  The girls follow him everywhere.

As I worked to publish my first novel, and raised our children, Dave worked at his career, completed his MBA, and we were forced to move around the country more than once.  But he always supported my efforts, never suggested I stop trying to sell that first book, or ceased to be our children’s greatest inspiration in all their endeavors.

In December 1999, the day before our oldest child’s eighteenth birthday, Dave was diagnosed with Stage III colon cancer.  The next year was an endless stream of radiation, chemotherapy, surgeries, and stress.  Finally, he was pronounced “in remission.”

In the spring of 2001, still in remission, he accepted a promising position in Oregon.  Filled with anticipation, we moved halfway across the country for a new beginning.  Cancer free, a new career, a new home, a new life.  I was contracted for my 12th novel, our oldest child was on the high dean’s list in college, and our younger two were doing well in school.

When Dave’s cancer came out of remission in 2004, he had just returned from a trip with the United States Air Force Reserve.  He fought his cancer with the courage and love he did everything else in his life, and he did it for us.

When, after months of treatments, it became clear his cancer was terminal, we planned the family’s return to Colorado together.  He asked me to take his ashes home to Colorado with his family.

The hardest thing I’ve ever done was to hold my hero’s hand and let him go.  I promised him I would take care of his family, and of myself.  Because, being the hero he was, he would not let go, not matter how much pain he was in, until he was sure I would be okay.

David Allen Stover: Hero, Husband, Father, Friend…

April 21, 1955 — May 14, 2005

We love you always.

Deb’s Bio: Once upon a time Deb Stover wanted to be Lois Lane until she discovered Clark Kent is a fraud and there is no Superman. Since publication of Shades of Rose in 1995, Stover has received dozens of awards for her cross-genre fiction. For more information, please visit www.debstover.com.

IT’S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS

by Elizabeth Sinclair

When we were first married, by no stretch of the imagination could my husband be described as a romantic. Please don’t misunderstand.  He loved me, and I knew it.  He was a big hand-holder, hugger and kisser. He just fell short in the gift-giving department.  For years, being very practical, his idea of a good gift was a blender, a vacuum, a breadmaker, or (are you ready?) a sponge mop with a special scrubber strip.  To his benefit, it did have a pink bow on the handle. He told me it was a joke, but, given his track record, I had serious doubts.

Getting the idea?

When one of our two daughters got old enough, she became very big on remembering special occasions and would give him a gentle reminder.  “Daddy, it’s Mom’s birthday.  Did you get her a present?  A real present?”   She knew early on that a kitchen appliance did not qualify as a REAL present. When that didn’t seem to sink in, she began giving him suggestions. And I have to say that after she started helping out, the gifts did improve . . . until that fateful Valentine’s Day.

One this Valentine’s Day, she’d been involved in some school events and didn’t remind him until quite late that day that he should get me flowers or candy. Since we owned a luncheonette at the time and right across the street was a florist, the solution to a gift for his wife at 8PM on Valentine’s Day Eve was simple.  He’d opt for flowers.
On Valentine’s Day morning, I was awakened with a kiss and told there was a gift on the dining room table.  I hurried downstairs and found a terracotta pot sitting in the middle of the table.  Laying around the base of the pot were a pile of red petals and protruding from the pot were a dozen stems, a few leaves, and the remains of what once were tulips.By the time I’d stopped laughing, my husband had appeared. I kissed him and thanked him.  After all, it was the thought that counted, and it wasn’t a sponge mop.

I’m happy to report that he has improved 100% and now gives me such gifts as perfume, lingerie, jewelry and clothes and often makes me a lovely romantic dinner for my birthday.  And all that only took 51 years of marriage.

So, what’s the strangest gift you’ve ever gotten from your spouse?

ROMANCE FOR THE LONG HAUL

Kathleen Eagle

I didn’t see myself as a serious romantic until I wrote my first book and started looking for an agent.  Of the half dozen or so query letters I sent out, half generated positive responses.  I weighed the pros and cons and chose the one who had a secretary.  Sure sign of success, right?  I wasn’t sure about his comment that I would be entering the market at the perfect time because “Romance is becoming very popular.”

Romance?  I wrote a story about a woman who took an east-west journey similar to mine, and I set it a hundred years ago.  It was a cross-cultural story set in Indian Country, but there were no captives, certainly no savages. Wasn’t that what they were selling in the grocery stores these days?  I’m an English teacher, a Lit major, a fairly down-to-earth kind of woman.  Sure, I’m optimistic.  I see the glass half full—accentuate the positive half of the agents’ responses and the uplifting nature of my story.  But I’m not really a romantic.  Not seriously.  I’m very serious.  I have Scandinavian ancestry.  Serious, practical people.  How did I come up with a Romance?

Okay, so I fell in love with a cowboy who’s also American Indian.  He’s two Romance heroes in one.  The first time I saw him, he was taming a horse.  I was mesmerized.  Practically, seriously, positively captivated.  He smiled, and my heart skipped a beat.  He spoke poetry.  He took me for a ride on his horse, and that was the beginning of all she wrote.

Three kids, three grandkids, two different careers, nearly fifty books and almost as many years later, I can say without reservation…um, I mean, without hesitation…that I’m a romantic.  The glass is always measured in terms of its fullness.  Half-full, brimming, running over, life is the glass we fill for ourselves and those we love. What we fill it with is up to us.  I choose to flavor mine with Romance.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Kathleen Eagle’s latest Bell Bridge Books publication is THIS TIME FOREVER 

The Last Good Man is $1.99 at the Kindle Store (Amazon) and the Nook Store (Barnes & Noble).

This Time Forever is $1.99 at the Nook Store (Barnes & Noble).

You Never Can Tell is $1.99 at Kobo Books .

MAGIC IN EXCESS

by Danielle Childers

I’m from Texas. It’s important for you to recognize the Lone Star State in order to understand why I tease my hair. Everything’s bigger in Texas.

Less is not more. Less is less. Especially when it comes to love. In honor of Valentine’s Day, I wanted to share some things that I have BIG love for.

Danielle’s Favorite Things:

1. Jesus. (I was raised in a very traditional, Southern home, and my mother, who is probably reading this, would die if I didn’t put Jesus first.)

2. The doctor (my husband).

3. Books. (Anything by Deborah Smith, Sarah Addison Allen . . . there’s really too many to list. Follow me on Goodreads.)

4. Cats. (I have 2 and would add more if the doctor would allow it. He puts his foot down, but I know he secretly tries to coax stray kittens into his truck to bring home.)

5. Book clubs that make recipes from the month’s reading and pair it with a movie. Example: Make pumpkin pie. Read The River Witch by Kimberly Brock, and watch Batman: The Dark Knight Rises, because a broken woman attempting to redeem herself and the crumbling spirit of a lonely girl is very much like a conflicted superhero trying to save the world. Both will have you on the edge of your seat until the alligators or the mercenaries are conquered.

These things I love are magic. Combine them with blueberry tea on a Sunday afternoon, and you’ll never go searching for a charm or enchantment again. Only, you can’t have the doctor. He’s mine. I won him fair and square.

You see, unlike my best friend Brittany, I started abandoning romance novels a few years ago. I’m sure the books miss me terribly, and there are days when I miss them, but I’m more of a magical-realism-kind-of-girl. I want a peaceful life with miraculous happenings. When I envision romance, I see myself as a librarian, which I once upon a time was, with woodland creatures scurrying from opened books and high tea manifesting itself with teacups and luxury linens any time the moon shines just right through an open window. When Prince Charming shows up, he’s a little nerdy and a whole lot of magic.

In real life, I married at 19 years of age after 2 months of dating and a 4 month engagement. Yes, 6 months from “Can I date your daughter?” which my husband asked my dad down by the casket at a funeral, to “I do,” which we said on a Sunday morning in between the altar call and the Hallalujah! 

My husband was applying for medical school after completing his degree in biochemistry, and all of our parents supported us. This was, perhaps, the magic in my realisim.

This doctor of mine is hot stuff. At the time, he was surrounded by many, many marriage-minded women. I, like any true Southern lady would, decided to teach them the difference between fishing and hunting. I put on the lowest cut dress I owned, baked his initials onto pancakes, and spread the word that I’d seen the doctor with the church harlot, and I was SURE a disease was brewing. It was a shameless attempt to send his swooning fanclub packing.

It worked.

He’s fantastic. He winks at me when I catch his eye. Is there anything more magical than being the only girl in the room? When I cry, he pats my back and asks if I need to buy a book. If that’s not love . . .

To quell the suspicions that our teeny-tiny, incredibly short courtship fueled, I feel the need to announce: I was not pregnant. I was a v-i-r-g-i-n when I married. Put your eyebrows down! When was I supposed to do “the dance with no pants?” In high school? No, thank you.

I have no problem discussing this because my husband, much like country music, prefers his women a little (barely) on the trashy side. It’s why I pay for some of the blonde in my hair, paint my nails Thrill of Brazil red, and sing “Queen of My Double-Wide Trailer,” even though we live in a perfectly suburban home with guest towels and every kitchen gadget sold at the Williams Sonoma outlet store.

I know it’s all a bit dramatic.

Another example of the magic in books spilling over into my life.

I take things to excess. It’s why, when I found out that New York Times bestselling author Deborah Smith was writing a book called The Biscuit Witch, I proceeded to bring batches of biscuits into work to find the perfect recipe. When I read The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern, I dressed in black and white with red accents for weeks. With Sarah Addison Allen’s The Girl who Chased the Moon, I bought mismatched vintage china plates and strung fairy lights across my backyard.

I know the stories in the books aren’t real, but the magic is. I found it 6 years ago, walking down an aisle in a white dress and veil. And the magic, along with the man of my dreams, has been my constant companion ever since.

Happy reading.

Happy loving.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

If My Life were a Romance Novel

By Brittany Shirley

I am constantly reading, editing, and rereading romance novels. I love them, every part. The hero. The heroine. The mushiness. The difficulties. That bewitching moment when he looks at her and finally realizes this is love. They are amazing. Some are set in the past, the future, a different dimension. They all have those wonderful sections that make me keep reading. I am fortunate enough to be able to get paid to read them. While editing is one of the smaller portions of my job, it is also one of the most enjoyable. I was chatting with the lovely Deb Smith the other day. I told her something that I heard from others: “Oh, Brittany! The right guy is out there for you.” That was unsolicited consoling. I did not say “Oh, I am so lonely.” Or “Wow, I wish I had a boyfriend.” None of those words came out of my mouth. I made a joke about my  “future husband.” Apparently that got people thinking I was lonely right now. The truth is at the ripe age of _____ (because I am not going to tell you my real age), I have plenty of time to get married. But, as I am telling this to Deb, I have a thought: what if my life were a romance novel, and this is just the opening scene. Now, I am a huge fan of all books, but I love a good romantic tale. It’s what I read, and it’s what I edit.

So in my dream world, my life is a romance novel (how exciting is that?). I have a weird childhood. I go to college and graduate on time. I am the Type A student. I have tons of friends, good friends. I date some good guys. There are relationships that just don’t quite work but end on good terms. I date some bad guys that break my heart (so far, Check!). All in all, I am that average girl. I make mistakes, but my life is ordinary. Until one day!

One day, I am at the grocery store. I see a cute boy. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. He is chuckling because I am stretching but I still can’t reach the ketchup. Why do they have to put it on the top shelf anyway? He walks over, grabs the bottle of ketchup, and hands it to me. WOW, ketchup guy is really gorgeous. I say thank you, but it is probably barely audible. He smiles, says you’re welcome, and walks away. I am standing there in awe of what just happened. I snap back to reality and continue to grocery shop.

A month later, my best friend, Danielle, sets me up on a blind date. The guy is super nice and a doctor. We will call him, Bob. What he lacks in communication (so not a talker), Bob makes up in his choice of venue for the evening. We go to a cooking class. I love to cook. LOVE to cook. This is a perfect place for a date: we can talk, but silences won’t be awkward because we will be cooking. There will be wine. Yay, finally a man with taste! I start to question whether Danielle put him up to this or if he is just that awesome. We are partnered with another couple. The man is out of the room when we begin. We make small talk with the girl. She is a little older than I am, but she is one of those natural beauties that doesn’t need make up. She also has the flirty, shy quality that I will never have. I am loud and opinionated, and shy isn’t exactly an adjective that could describe me. EVER. I try not to hate her as I crush the garlic for the risotto. That is when I notice that my doctor date is staring at her. Not just a slight glance to check her out. He is full-on, jaw-dropped staring. Now, I do hate her. I can’t wait for her date to get back so mine will stop. While this is not number one on my list of worst dates, it certainly is not my best. Her date finally comes back after everyone has already started sautéing the garlic. She gives him a glare that could melt the ice in the Arctic. Even I feel bad for him. Then I see his face. I can’t breathe. It is him. It’s the guy from the grocery store.
“You’re the ketchup guy!” I blurt out. Bob looks at me like I am crazy. But I am not crazy. I didn’t ruin our date, he did. So ketchup guy chuckles and his eyes squint. “Yeah, that would be me. I rescue ladies from top-shelf ketchup disasters.” I giggle. Which, if you know me at all, is NOT something I do. Girly girls giggle. I laugh, guffaw, and snort while doing so. I don’t giggle. Maybe it’s the wine. Bob has stopped looking at anyone and is concentrated on the food.

All of the sudden, ketchup guy starts sneezing and coughing. His face is beginning to swell. To me, it looks like an allergic reaction, but I am no doctor. Bob looks at him and tells the instructor to call 911. No one has an Epi Pen. Then I remember I have Benadryl, the byproduct of my reaction to perfumes of any kind. I dig in my purse find the bottle, and shove a few at him. He has to swallow them with wine. Eventually, before the paramedics show up, he turns a normal shade of pink as his face is no longer swollen.

The paramedics arrive and look him over. They deem him well enough to forgo the ER. I turn back toward my date who has been chatting with super flirty, shy girl. I roll my eyes and hope there is a twenty in my purse for a cab. It looks like Bob and Sarah (I heard him call her that) have other plans. Yay, me! I can save a life and lose a date all in the matter of three hours.

    Ketchup guy walks over to me while I am drinking my fourth glass of wine. I am getting a cab anyway, I might as well enjoy myself.

“Hi, my name is (insert future my husband’s name here). I wanted to say thank you for saving me an embarrassing trip to the ER. For that, I am eternally grateful.”

“You’re welcome. My name is Brittany.” I say in what I hope sounds like a sexy voice.

I can totally tell he is laying it on thick, but I let it slide. He almost died for goodness sake. Well, had to go to the ER. Then, I find myself flirting. I have not done that in a while. Bob barely spoke on the ride here, except to introduce himself. Ketchup boy tells Bob he will take me home, and that Bob should probably take Sarah home soon. The kitchen is closing. He winks at Bob and walks back over to me. I didn’t even know people my age did that. It is pretty attractive.

I don’t exactly argue, but I do ask, “Why do you assume I will just let you take me home? I don’t know you. The only thing I know is that you have an allergy and you can reach ketchup.”

But I do let him take me home. He asks me for my number. I give him every number except for the last. I write down a math equation. If he can figure that out, he is definitely a keeper. And he does.

We date, fall in love, and are genuinely happy. There are arguments. We fight. There is tension.

One weekend, he surprises me completely and takes me to an Opening Day game.  He proposes to me at a Busch Stadium in St. Louis (The Cardinals are my favorite baseball team). We get married in a sweet, Southern ceremony. And every year, on my anniversary, I call Danielle to thank her for setting me up with Bob. Because without Bob, I would have never met my future husband. Bob married Sarah, so all in all. Everything worked out for the best.

While I lucked out with a gorgeous guy (in this romance novel), that is not even close to how I admire men (I mean YES, I love the way they look). But, hey, I was attracted to Bob ( which is all I need). He was cute. But Bob blew the date, and I landed my ketchup guy. J There is something magical about how people fall in love. About how they find themselves complimented by another. About how they spend the rest of their lives in love. Yes, love means fighting, tension, anger, and threats of poisoning their favorite food. But the story and the look in a person’s eye is so enchanting. This is what my life would be like if I got to pick how I would meet my future husband. But I don’t think I can write a story as captivating as real life and true love.

Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all!

MY VERY FAVORITE VALENTINE

By Trish Jensen

I have an admission to make. I’ve never had a really cool Valentine with any boyfriends or even my husband of ten years. Same old, same old flowers and dinners out and yada, yada. Nice, but just not all that creative or new. I appreciated but kept thinking, “This is what you came up with? Did I really believe you were special?”

I spent every year thinking up treasure hunts or whatever to make them fun.  And every year I’d get roses and cards. Actually, one year I received a new furnace. I almost fainted with the romance of it all.

Eventually, the truth finally sunk in. Men just didn’t get it. Valentine’s Day was something they had to do because it was expected. There wasn’t a romantic bone in any of their bodies.

So, okay, men were dolts. A fact of life. Live with it.

But then on Valentine’s Day, after my marriage kind of crumbled and I was looking at a pretty bleak day, my doorbell rang. It was a delivery guy, holding a box and a balloon. He sang “I’ll always love you,” then handed over the box and the balloon. The balloon said, “Happy Valentine’s Day, my sweetheart.” In the box were two things: One was a beautiful necklace and the other a note. “You’ll always be my baby.”

It was from my dad.

And that was my best Valentine’s Day ever.

It doesn’t matter who the love comes from, it matters what it means. And that meant the world to me.

I wish you all a happy Valentine’s Day! And no furnaces as gifts! J

For A Good Time Call is $1.99 at the Kindle Store.

Stuck With You is $1.99 at Kobo.

Writer’s Unblock

By Eve Gaddy

I was thinking about what to blog about and nothing was coming to me.  That made me think of something I’ve faced many times in my writing career.  I know some writers who don’t believe there is any such thing as writer’s block.  All I can say is be happy you haven’t experienced it because I’m here to tell you, writer’s block is real.  And it’s not fun.

There are many reasons for writer’s block and I’ve experienced a number of them.  Burnout, death of family or friends, health issues, moving, divorce, family issues, all of the above.  I’m sure there are many more.  Most of the time I wanted to write but just couldn’t for various reasons.  My last bout with it I was convinced I’d retired.  In fact, I didn’t write at all (other than emailJ) for a long time.  I didn’t think I’d ever write again.  When I finally did start again, it was a book that was a departure for me from what I’d been writing for so long.  Maybe I just needed to write something completely different.  A book for me, one that I didn’t worry about selling but just wrote it the way it needed to be written.  A book of the heart.

Many times I think the problem underlying writer’s block is burnout.  Some of us tend to be a bit obsessive (what, me obsessive?).  We might concentrate so much on writing we don’t do much else.  And eventually we burn out.  I felt as if my creativity had absolutely dried up.  So I decided I’d go back to the creative things I used to do before I started writing. 

I took up needlework again.  I used to do a lot of needlepoint but quit soon after I first published.  I stopped with just a small amount left of a very complex project, a landscape of the Seine River.  I’d always wanted to finish it because it was gorgeous.  So I picked it up again and finished.  Since then I have needlepointed numerous Christmas stockings, some of them working from a counted cross stitch pattern translated to needlepoint.  I’ve also made some Christmas ornaments and various other things in the past few years. 

I still couldn’t write.  So I took up another craft I’d given up.  In fact, I hadn’t done it since high school.  My daughter found out she was having twin girls.  What better time to pick up knitting again?  I knitted all sorts of things, including a number of baby blankets.  Since then I’ve knitted many different things, ranging from afghans to socks.  Now I alternate working on needlepoint or knitting and usually have several different projects going.  I could never do that with writing.  I have to totally immerse myself in a book until I finish it.  I don’t have to do that with needlework and it’s fun. 

For me, needlework lets me be creative, but in a different way from writing.  I have to think, but again, in a different way than writing.  But somehow that sort of creativity allows my writer’s brain to start working again.  Sometimes the solutions to problems I’m having with my current manuscript come to me when I’m doing needlework. 

There are a lot of ways to jump start your creativity.  These are just some things that helped me, and that I enjoy a lot.  Have you ever had writer’s block?  If you have, what did you do to help you get started again?  What are your tricks for dealing with it?

While most people think New Year’s Day is the end of the holiday season, we can’t get enough of the holidays. Join us for a continuation of holiday blogs from BBB authors.

The Forever Kind of Love

By Vickie L. King

My grandparents have all passed on.  Now and then something will come up that makes me think of them, and a flash of a memory will skirt the edge of my mind, until I pull it up.

My grandfather on my mom’s side, or papaw as I called him, was a coal miner in West Virginia.  I can still hear the rattle of his tin lunch pail, see the unlit light on the front of his hard hat and the black soot ground into his gray coveralls that no matter how many times my mamaw scrubbed them, they just wouldn’t come clean.

The two of them were as different in every way as any married couple could be.  He was a soft spoken man, didn’t lean toward arguing and was hard to anger.  Well, there was this one time, my mom told me, when Mamaw was in the hospital, and Papaw had to get the kids ready to visit her.  He started the bathwater for my uncle, told him to take a bath and get ready.  My uncle didn’t want to, and after my papaw left the room, my uncle sat on the side of the tub, until it overflowed and the water ran down the stairs.  Papaw was angry that day.

Mamaw, on the other hand, ruled the roost.  In that household, her word was gospel.  She loved to laugh, and if I’m honest, she loved a good slice of gossip, too.  She was a Methodist through and through, and while Papaw went to church with her, he didn’t claim a specific faith, but he believed. I have to admit, I learned my first swear word from her, and I got a swat with the fly-swatter for saying it. When my daughter was young, she learned that same swear word from my mamaw, too.  Talk about tradition.

In looks, Papaw was tall and thin.  Mamaw was average height and plump, that just meant there was more to love.  How they were different didn’t matter.  The things they were alike in were the important ones.  They loved their children and their grandchildren, and they loved each other until the end.  The end was when that coal soot finally caught up with him. He died on my birthday.  I was nine years old.

Theirs was a forever kind of love.  Even from a child’s viewpoint, I saw it.  When I write, I like to create stories about that kind of love, the kind that lasts forever, the kind where the differences don’t matter—the kind of love that others remember, even if the person remembering is a child.