Bell Bridge Books

Reflections From My Front Porch

by Lora Lee

Hey there, y’all! Come on up and sit a spell on my front porch. It’s a lovely Fall afternoon, so relax in that rocker over there and let’s visit.

Did you know there’s a Clergy Appreciation Day? You didn’t? Neither did I. I even checked my calendar. Nothing. Zip. Nada. However, I trust the Bell Bridge marketing department when they tell me there is such a day. After all, they’re pretty smart about that sort of thing.

Now, if any of y’all have read Bringing in the Thieves, my cozy mystery in the Joyful Noise Mysteries, you know that the main character is a preacher’s daughter. Yep, Frankie Lou is a PK and her halo is in dire need of polishing. Seems she didn’t appreciate her clergyman father during her rebellious teen years. Hmmm. I wouldn’t know anything about that.

What’s that you ask? Oh, of course, I’m a PK. Always have been, but I’m not at all like Frankie Lou, bless her heart. After all, I’m a lot older and I know better. Life when I was growing up was different for a PK. Frankie Lou’s modern day problems were . . . well, you can read all about her in the book. I’ll give you a brief inside look into my own childhood days and you can draw your own conclusions.

There was one period during WWII when daddy was a Captain and chaplain in the US ARMY that I remember well. That was a worrisome time ‘cause my big brother was in the US NAVY somewhere out in the Pacific during that time, too. Momma shed a lot of tears while both of them were gone.

The time came when Momma and I were able to move where Daddy was stationed. That meant attending a new school where I didn’t know a soul. Can’t say I liked fourth grade that year.

Daddy was so handsome in his uniform. I felt pretty special when we ate in the mess hall with the other officers. But one Thanksgiving, Daddy wanted us to eat dinner with the enlisted men. Momma agreed so that’s what we did. Daddy loved those young men like his own son and did his best to prepare them for what they might be facing if they were sent overseas. I’m pretty sure those men appreciated the clergy because the chapel was always filled every Sunday.

I only had eleven years to appreciate my clergyman father. I didn’t even appreciate God the day Daddy died, but through the years, Momma kept me on the straight and narrow with her unconditional love. My appreciation of the clergy has grown as I’ve matured. And believe it or not, God never gave up on me, either.

Thanks for visiting on the front porch with me today. Y’all come back, ya’ hear.

Lora Lee

Pick up Bringing in the Thieves, the first in the Joyful Noise Mysteries, today for only $1.99!

An Attitude of Gratitude

by Sparkle Abbey

We recently had an opportunity to chat with some readers about family traditions. Our biggest take-away from those conversations was, it’s all about attitude. So many talked about how, though they love family traditions, things were going to be different this year. For some, they’d become empty-nesters, for others they’d lost someone dear, and for still others, there were new additions to their families.

We’ve both had our share of life changes this past year and the stories these readers shared reminded us that whether a happy change or a sad one, change requires adjustments. And the main thing you have to adjust is your attitude.

There is joy in remembering times past and in making new memories.

There is joy in carrying on traditions, but perhaps adapting them to include new family members.

There is joy in beginning new traditions—maybe enjoying a quiet dinner, catching a movie, or taking a drive to see the holiday lights.

Or maybe your quiet get-together has become a rollicking feast with new little ones, or new in-laws, or outlaws. There can be joy in that change too.

As 2015 comes to a close and we reflect on all the changes (both good and bad) we’ve experienced this year, we hope to remember the stories that were shared.

And we hope we remember to find the joy.

Sparkle Abbey is the pseudonym of mystery authors Mary Lee Woods and Anita Carter. They write a national bestselling pet themed mystery series set in Laguna Beach. The first book in the series Desperate Housedogs, an Amazon Mystery Series bestseller and Barnes & Noble Nook #1 bestseller, was followed by Get Fluffy, Kitty Kitty Bang Bang, Yip/Tuck, Fifty Shades of Greyhound, and The Girl with the Dachshund Tattoo. Downton Tabby is the latest installment in the series. Up next is Raiders of the Lost Bark. www.SparkleAbbey.com

Downton Tabby is currently a

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My mother’s smile.

by Skye Taylor

My mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when she was seventy-seven, but even then we all wondered if she’d had it for a lot longer than we or the doctor knew. She’d been completely deaf since her late thirties and while she lip-read very well, she also got to be an expert at pretending she knew what strangers or casual acquaintances were saying even when she didn’t have a clue. In retrospect, we began to realize that she’d been faking it with us as her memory began to fail.

She never seemed frustrated by her loss of memory. In fact, it was the rest of us who were frustrated and she always responded with a big smile that defused our exasperation.

Even before she went into assisted living care, she began to be foggy about who I was. One night when she asked, and I told her, she didn’t believe me. So I hauled out my driver’s license thinking to prove I was who I claimed to be and her shocked reaction was to ask why I was in possession of my sister’s driver’s license. Even she laughed about it two nights later when she did remember who I was. Conversing with a deaf person who can’t recall how the sentence began has moments of humor, but it’s mostly frustrating and increasingly sad. A few things she never forgot – like the fact that it was me who took her car away. Until nearly the end of her life, she held that indignity against me. And she never forgot that her Johnny was the love of her life.

One thing I remember most about her last few years was that in spite of not being sure who I was, she still loved me and it showed. Until she went into care, she lived next door and I always stopped by on my way home from work. She always lit up with welcome and opened her arms for a hug when I walked into her living room. I  “talked” to her mostly through written notes on her multitude of notebooks which had the advantage of being able to flip back a page or two when she continued to repeat the same questions. But the visits were always good ones because I knew she enjoyed our moments together even if she remembered nothing of them as soon as I disappeared from sight.

When the call that I’d been dreading for some time came, I rushed to her side at the hospital where her labored breathing was the only sound in the room. Her heart had failed and although the EMTs had gotten it started again, she never did regain consciousness. When her last breath came, my sister was with us and we were talking on the phone with my brother who lived several states away. So we were all together, hanging on to each other and our memories of a mother who had always loved us with her whole heart. I will always remember the stillness and love that filled that room at that moment. But even more, I will always remember the thousand-watt smile that greeted me every time I went to visit her, even long after she’d completely forgotten either my name or my place in her life. Sometimes a mother’s love is felt more than spoken, and ultimately it transcends even death. I see her smile in billowing white clouds against a brilliant blue sky and a dozen other things she loved, and I feel her touch in the soft darkness as I fall asleep each night.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. You were and are the best.

Pick up Skye Taylor’s Bell Bridge titles today:

Mama was a Diva

by Marilee Brothers

If you’re looking for a warm, fuzzy, my-mama-was-the best-mother-ever story, you might want to stop reading now. My mother was a diva long before the word became part of the current vernacular. The only daughter of doting parents, she was clad in frilly dresses, wore a giant bow in her hair, learned to read at four and became a concert pianist in her teens. She was a beauty with an independent streak. In the roaring twenties, she bobbed her hair, visited speakeasies and sneaked cigarettes. At age 23, she married my father, an outstanding athlete whose pitching record for the University of Washington still stands.

My sister Beth came along first. Five years later, I was born. I’m not sure what troubled my mother, but some of my earliest memories are of long, sulky silences where we knew we’d done something wrong, but weren’t sure what it was. She was unable to express anger and disapproval and eventually, turned it inward. For years she was stricken with migraines and depression. One of my jobs was to tiptoe into the darkened bedroom and rub her aching forehead.

As my sister and I blossomed into our teen years, things became more difficult for our mother as her beauty began to fade. It was almost as if she resented the daughters she’d given birth to. At age twelve, I was a tall, gawky, shy kid. I remember crying when she refused to help me fix my hair. Fortunately, I had a big sister.

Years passed. My sister and I married into warm, loving families and had children of our own. Both of us stayed connected to our birth family, especially me since we lived in the same town. Mother was in her late eighties when the miracle happened. She had a slight stroke. Yes, I know. That sounds heartless. But truly, my mother, the former hypochondriac, was transformed into a different person. She was physically unaffected by the stroke, but her mental attitude underwent a cataclysmic change. She became the sweetest little old lady on the face of the planet. In her former life, a hangnail was a good reason to take to her bed. When she was 89, she fell and broke some ribs. I said, “Oh, that must hurt!” Her response? “Nope, not at all.”

On her last birthday, the 94^th, it fell on Mothers’ Day. Her May 13^th birthday often did. I have a picture in my office of the two of us posing with her birthday cake. The day she died, my husband received the call first and got to her bedside before I did. Later, he told me she was restless and uncomfortable until I arrived to hold her hand. She then relaxed, looked at me and smiled. I was with her as her breaths became farther and farther apart and finally stopped altogether. I am so thankful that, in my mother’s later years, I was able to make the mother-daughter connection I’d been longing for. It’s never too late.

Pick up Marilee Brothers’s Bell Bridge titles today:

MOTHER’S DAY MEMORIES

by Nancy Gideon

My favorite memory of Mother’s Day was in 1983.  I was pregnant with my first son and at that moment, the fact of motherhood (other than the already swelling feet) made a unique impression upon me. It got me thinking about what kind of mom I’d be and the things that I’d learned from my own that I wanted to pass on.

My mom was my hero.  She was 41 when I was born (as if that wasn’t enough to denote hero status!). Many mistook her for my grandmother.  She was  the middle child of five living in Florida and would amaze us in telling stories of how she was terrified of the gas mask that her neighbor’s son brought home from WWI, of her grandmother shaking her bible from the front porch at Babe Ruth who rented the house across the street during spring training, of living in a pre-civil Rights South, and of her brothers delivering newspapers to Thomas Edison and Henry Ford (both of whom signed their diplomas).  Stories about bravely traveling alone to New England to go to nursing school to become an occupational therapist, of reading my dad’s redacted letters from the Philippines where he was in the medical corp during WW II.  Of being a busy stay at home mom who sewed our clothes, pressed our sheets and curtains in a mangle  and canned from our garden until I was the last to start kindergarten. Then she returned to OT part time, saving money to give her three girls the one thing she felt was more important than anything else:  higher education. My mom was filled with nearly a century of history, but her eye was always on the future. Except for Star Trek.  She never got Star Trek.

I knew I wanted to be a writer from the time I was in grade school and my mom always supported that dream. The one time she stood firm was when I graduated high school.  I was working and didn’t see the need for college – I was going to be a writer, after all.  She told me flatly, get your education first then you can be anything you want to be. Knowledge was something never wasted.  It opened doors for her and she wanted me to have unlimited opportunities, too. Every time I sit down to plot or edit or research, I’m thankful for that line she drew.  She was my biggest fan when it came to my books.  And I’m still hers.  Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

FROM THIS DAY FORWARD by Nancy Gideon (w/a Dana Ransom) is a Big Deal on Amazon for only $1.99! Grab it today! 

This offer only lasts until the 24th!

“The Mother I Will Never Forget”

by Phyllis Schieber

My mother, a survivor of the Holocaust, thought it was a miracle that she could feed, clothe and keep her children safe. For a woman who had survived the Tranistria Death March when she was fourteen, it must have seemed an extraordinary triumph. But many years later, she discovered Dr. Leo Buscaglia, an inspirational writer and speaker, on television, and she learned that it was also important to verbally express love to those you cherished. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.” From then on, every conversation ended with, “I love you.” I admired her willingness to learn and to grow. She was charming too. People were drawn to her, captivated by her beauty, her wit and flirtatious ways. But she was fragile, damaged. I seem to have always known that just as I always knew it was my responsibility to care for her.

After The Manicurist was released, I was interviewed on Blogaid Radio. The host, Mananna Stephenson, suggested that the relationship between Tessa, the protagonist in The Manicurist, and Ursula, her mother, had a dynamic similar to my relationship with my mother. Ursula, who is extremely troubled and needy, depends on Tessa to help navigate the world. Though I shouldn’t have been, I was surprised by the resemblance between the circumstances of Tessa’s life to my own life.

I frequently write about the complex relationships between mothers and daughters. I loved my mother. She could infuriate me with her stubbornness and her neediness, but she could also touch my heart in ways that no one else could. Though she hardly wore any, she loved make-up and always bought items that came with a special offer. Once I said, “Mom, why do you buy all this stuff?” She smiled and said, “Because once in awhile, you just feel like a new lipstick.” She was right. My mother was shaped by an experience so devastating that I often wondered how she managed to still find joy in anything, to still love. But she did.

The relationship between Tessa and Ursula is so laden with disappointments and pain that it seems unlikely the two will ever be able to overcome their differences. Yet, throughout, they are unable to escape the bond between mother and daughter, even if it is a tenuous bond. From time-to-time in her later years, my mother would ask, “Was I a good mother?” I always reassured her that she had been a very good mother. And it was the truth. She did the best she could. And I believe that Ursula does the same. She wants to be good mother. That matters to her as it does to all of us who are mothers.

I dream about my mother sometimes. She’s always young, always smiling and laughing. Sometimes I’m cutting the threads between the scarves she sewed for a few cents each. I’m reading to her as the pastel colored chiffon tumbles around me, and she nods, listening and humming a song she could never quite remember the words to. That’s the mother I choose to remember. She was a good mother.  That’s the mother I remember, the mother I will never forget.

 THE MANICURIST by Phyllis Schieber is a March Monthly 100 for only $1.99! Get it today! 

“The Initial Blooming of My Imagination”

by Augusta Trobaugh

During my childhood, a “Swan Place” actually existed. It was a two-storied, unpainted house in Jefferson County, Georgia, set well back from the unpaved road, beyond a cotton field, and protected from road and field dust by many Sassafras and Crepe Myrtle trees.

My great-grandparents, Eliza Ann Narcissus Aldred Connell and Nathan Jerome Connell, lived in that large old house and provided stagecoach drivers, passengers, and horses a haven where they could eat, be refreshed, and spend the night.  The entire second floor was divided into two large bedrooms – one for gentlemen and one for ladies.  From what I have learned, this original “Swan Place” was selected as a rest stop for the stagecoach that ran from Savannah to Augusta.

Because I grew up during an era when children could safely wander around (especially in completely rural areas), I often went to that deserted old house, riding my horse there from my own home about half a mile away.  I had not personally known either of my great-grandparents, but I always felt something of their lives when I was there.  I could imagine my great-grandmother cooking in the detached kitchen (well away from the main house, in fear of kitchen stove fire) – the kitchen sort of a separate little cabin resting on logs and equipped with large iron latches, to which mules could be hitched to pull a burning kitchen well away from the house itself.

In that old house, I dreamed my dreams, inserting my great-grandparents into a story that I made up.

Of course, I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the initial blooming of my imagination.

When I wrote “Swan Place,” I created a much grander home than the old, unpainted house of my childhood, but the feeling of sanctuary was the same,  as was the fanciful thinking I had done there.

It’s a treasured memory!

SWAN PLACE is a March Monthly 100 for only $1.99! Get it today!

IN MEMORY OF TRISH JENSEN

Last week the literary community lost one of its own. A champion of the written word and a talented author. Trish Jensen will be forever missed. Her words will continue to live in the hearts of her fans and pages of her books. In the words of her friends:

“I’ve known Trish Jensen for more than twenty years, first online and later in person. I remember when she made her first sale. I remember when she hit the USA Today list with one of her earlier books, and she didn’t seem to realize what a major accomplishment that was. I remember when she fell in love with her computer-geek boyfriend, and, some years later, when she fell out of love with him and sent him on his way. I remember when she was stricken unexpectedly by liver failure, and she was told she needed a liver transplant. A bunch of her writer friends organized an auction to raise money for her. I critiqued a bunch of manuscripts, for which the writers generously paid into the Trish fund. We were all so glad we could do SOMETHING for our Trishie.

And then she got her new liver and recovered, and she was back, as feisty and funny as ever. She and I disagreed on politics, but we never let those disagreements get in the way of our friendship. She was curious about Judaism and frequently asked me–no expert on the subject, but with the basic knowledge that comes from growing up in a reformed Jewish family–questions about the religion’s beliefs and practices. She was a Penn State fanatic, although she always cheered with me when the Patriots won a Superbowl. (I can’t prove it, but I think she might have had a crush on quarterback Tom Brady. <g>) She loved shopping at Chico’s. She doted on her dog. I think the dog ate better than Trish did–although I always meant to get Trish’s vichyssoise recipe. That was one of her specialties.

The last time I saw Trish was at the Ninc conference in 2011. I was hoping she’d come to this year’s conference. Three years was way too long to go without a hug from Trishie. I can’t believe I’ll never again get one of her emails asking about why Orthodox Jews aren’t supposed to watch TV on Friday nights, or a collage of adorable animal photos, or some silly joke. At least her books will live on, as will the love of her friends.” —USA Today Bestselling Author Judith Arnold

“For those of you who are Trish Jensen’s friends in real life, my deepest condolences.  But what a tribute to an extraordinary person that she touched people who didn’t know her in everyday life as well.  She promoted, cheered, and fought for us whether we were newbies like me or longtime bestselling authors.  My heart goes out to her family and friends. She’ll be missed, but never forgotten.” —Donnell Ann Bell, author of The Past Came Hunting, Deadly Recall, and Betrayed.

“I’m one of those lucky ones who has known Trish for years. She was always as she was here, the first to cheer, the first to support, and passionate in defending anyone or anything she loved.

I’m not feeling very lucky this morning. But I’m glad her pain is over, even if mine is just beginning.

A dear, sweet friend, author Trish Jensen, slipped away from this world early this morning. In all the many years I knew her, Trish was the first to jump up and cheer for anyone’s achievement, no matter how small, and was always there with support for everyone she knew. We nearly lost her a few years ago, so I suppose this extra time was a gift, but I’m having trouble feeling grateful for it when it wasn’t supposed to end yet. Later I will, I’m sure, but right now I’m just horribly sad. The world needs bright spirits like Trish.

About Trish being a force of nature, as Lynn said. Jill Barnett and I were messaging and got onto about there better be dogs in heaven, for Trish. And said if there weren’t she’d turn around and leave. And then I realized no, she would start a campaign and rally the troops to demand a rule change!”—USA Today Bestselling Author Justine Dare

“While many of us are homebodies, we writers know how to connect with each other across the miles, and Trish was always the first to step up.  She started the BBB authors loop, and then she made it work.  She introduced newbies and made them feel welcome.  She was first to encourage, first to raise a virtual toast, first to sympathize.  She didn’t just send positive vibes–she was positive vibes.  Trish was a generous friend.  I miss her already, and I will treasure her stories.”—New York Times Bestselling Author Kathleen Eagle

“There are people who knew Trish much better than I did, but I she always made me smile and made me feel like the little things in my life were important.  I will miss her sunny personality and am so glad I have her books so that I can continue to feel her presence. ” —USA Today Bestselling Author Katherine Garbera

“Trish was a loving and loyal friend, an author who made us laugh and touched our hearts.  She loved animals and she was always there to cheer people on and give them support in any way she could.  I will miss her very much.”—Eve Gaddy, author of Cowboy Come Home, Uncertain Future, and Too Close for Comfort

Humor is the great thing, the saving thing. The minute it crops up, all our irritations and resentments slip away and a sunny spirit takes their place.—Mark Twain

“Trish was very much a sunny spirit, and her books are a legacy that will be enjoyed for years to come.”—Lynn Kerstan, author of The Big Cat Trilogy

“I didn’t know Trish other than from the BBB Loop, but with all of the tributes to her that I’ve read today, I wish I had known her. The tributes show just how much she was loved and how much she gave of herself to others. It sounds like Heaven got another angel.” —Vickie King, author of Carly’s Rule

“I’m partial to funny writers–or rather writers who write funny books–and the writing world lost a good one today with the death of Trish Jensen.  I first read her when I judged her entry in the West Houston Emily contest.  Right away, I knew she was going to sell that book–and I told her so.  She did and it was published as THE HARDER THEY FALL.  We’ll miss you, Trish.”—USA Today Bestselling Author, Heather MacAllister

_____________________________________________

If I can’t make myself giggle while writing, I’m a goner.

Okay, Amazon just informed me that my book has shipped. I think I’m going to sleep with it. The cover is so beautious, I can’t wait to see it in print.

I’m really liking fan girls. What ARE fan girls, anyway?

I’ve been going through emails from Trish. Hundreds of conversations. In the past few years I got to know Trish better than I realized. Now I miss her as if we were lifelong friends.

My books just arrived. OMG, he’s more gorgeous up close and personal. Guess which dog is being bumped out of bed in favor of a book? He’s GORGEOUS. — Trish, pathetic, I know, but I take thrills where I can get him . . . errr, them.

Mainly, we discussed her books. The old ones being re-issued by Bell Bridge, but also the new one she was planning to write next. But in the course of “business talk” we also covered a crazy-quilt funhouse of you-name-it: talk show hosts, Teddy Bears, dogs, cats, our shared advocacy for animal shelters, old boyfriends, people she wanted to smack with a cooking pot, people I wanted to smack with a cooking pot, and much, much more.

On the success of a relatively mild promo success:

We’re #2! We’re #2!
Okay, back to polishing book and won’t look again for at least . . . you know, at least fifteen minutes. 🙂 — Trish

And when Against His Will reached No. 1 on the Barnes & Noble bestseller list?

Muchas Gracias!  This takes the sting out of the pictures my sister keeps sending me from her Caribbean cruise.

Sprinkled through all that chat and those work discussions was a comforting bond of friendship and life itself. That’s what I’ll miss so much. —New York Times Bestselling Author Deborah Smith

“I first met Trish Jensen when she signed onto GEnie’s RomEx roundtable. She and I became instant friends, and after chatting with her for only a few minutes about her writing, I said you’re next. It wasn’t long after that when she sold her first book. I was so proud. She also wrote reviews for Pen and Mouse during that time, and I was the recipient of one. To this day, it is one of my favorites. I still quote her whenever I can. She wrote: “laugh, cry and fall in love.” And that describes my relationship with Trish. I have watched us both laugh, cry and fall in love. She held my hand while my husband was dying, and was my champion when I became a basketcase after I lost him. When my grandbabies were born, she sent gifts and demanded pictures. Her sense of loyalty knew no bounds. To be Trish’s friend was to be blessed beyond measure. And I have been so blessed. All the puppies in Heaven are getting a belly rub about now. Miss you.”—Deb Stover, author of Maid Marian and the Lawman