.

The first book in Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series is one of my all-time favorite books and I’ve read it several times already and will probably read it several more in my lifetime. And being a lover of books over movies, I wasn’t sure that the series would measure up. How wrong I was!

Sure there were differences, but in the first eight episodes, they were good ones. In the book the reader fell in love with Jamie so easily and quickly that Claire’s memories and worry over Frank made you want to shake her. I mean, with Jamie there, what more could she want out of life? Even after she began to fall in love with Jamie, she often withdrew quite unexpectedly and without explanation from Jamie’s point of view and hurt him in the process. It put one quite out of sympathy with her.

The book (and the TV series) starts off with Claire and Frank headed to Scotland at the close of WWII on a second honeymoon because they’ve been apart so long that they needed to get to know each other again, so how on earth could her feelings for Frank be so strong when the present was Jamie? Very little about Frank was included in the books. But in the Starz series, Frank is portrayed far more caringly. We see him grieving her disappearance, in the police station still demanding action weeks after she’d gone, and even when he finally gave up, he is drawn to visit the stones one last time before leaving Scotland to return to his teaching post. It helped the reader/watcher get into Frank’s point of view and feel sympathy for him and thus for Claire in spite of Jamie. That was a definite plus in the writing for the series.

McTavish as  Dougal                            Menzies as Frank  &  Black Jack                      A grieving Frank

One never liked Dougal in the book, but the series made his mixed and less than friendly intentions subtly even clearer in the mannerisms and expressions Graham McTavish brought to the dialog.  The casting was well done for all the characters, but especially Sam Heughan. He may not have looked like Jamie when he first got the nod, but his transformation was fantastic. He portrays Jamie perfectly with a sense of humor, the eagerness of a young man, even one with a price on his head and in his often heroic care for Claire. Catriona Balfe makes a wonderful Claire and Tobias Menzies is perfect in his dual role as Frank in the future and Black Jack, the villain in the past. I loved the entire cast – well done.

There was nudity and even sex that would never be allowed on network TV but it was tastefully done. The dialog was fantastic – love the accent and the inclusion of the Gaelic even when I don’t know what’s being said. It added so much to the flavor of the show. Scotland is a beautiful and very different country and having this filmed there is another huge plus. Fog and weather just as one might expect in Scotland draws the watcher into the setting so well you can almost feel the moisture collecting on your clothing. And who doesn’t love horses? Ronald Moore has produced what is sure to become a classic. I can’t wait for the next part of the series and you can bet your boots, I’ll be purchasing the DVDs as soon as they become available so I can savor it all over again. If you love romance, time travel, and Scotland, you will love this series. If you've not read the books, then I won't tell you more of the story - I'll let you enjoy it as it unfolds.  

 When Meg Cameron, a Marine MP, returns from a war zone, she and her husband Ben are faced with the toll war, guilt and loss have taken on their marriage. Ben is also fostering a police dog named Kip who lost his handler and his spirit to a perp with a gun. While Ben tries to help his two wounded warriors find healing, Meg struggles to fit back into her civilian life. Meg debates returning to active duty, a move that would surely end in another deployment. Ben's fears climb. What if her pain and confusion take her back into harm's way again, and he lost her forever?

                                                            ~~  ~~  ~~  ~~

Meg shot out of bed. It was the middle of the night. Where was she? The room was cold. Not Baghdad! She shivered. She was home. In her bedroom. Immediately her heart rate eased off its frantic pace. She slid her feet to the floor and stood.

She shivered again and stepped silently away from the bed. The sexy red shirt was probably still on the kitchen counter. She groped blindly in the ink-dark closet she shared with Ben, hunting for her bathrobe. Unable to locate the robe, she settled for a soft chamois shirt of Ben’s that came nearly to her knees. She wrapped it about herself and crossed the room to the window.

Ever since that first night so far from home, she’d had daydreams about her first night back home. Daydreams of sleeping in their luxurious, king-sized bed where she could spread out and get really comfortable. Sleeping the whole night through without the sound of war at her doorstep. And being able to reach out and touch Ben any time she wanted to. 

But it hadn’t turned out anything like the daydreams that had gotten her through their year of separation. After a year on an army cot, she wasn’t used to sprawling, or sharing her bed. Ben seemed too close, too possessive, even in his sleep. His arm draped across her middle, his breath in her hair. It felt claustrophobic.

Meg had gotten used to sleeping the way soldiers have always slept, half on alert and ready to respond in an instant. She’d grown accustomed to having people awake and moving about, on guard while she slept. But home was eerily still with just the little creaking sounds of a settling house and no one keeping watch.

She’d been dozing fitfully, and now that she thought about it, she decided it must have been Ben’s dogs barking that woke her. Which was puzzling. There had been a constant cacophony of dogs roaming loose in the streets, day and night, in Baghdad. Stray dogs barked all the time, but she’d gotten used to them. So, why tonight had the barking brought her bolt upright in bed in a cold sweat reaching for a rifle that wasn’t there?

Hugging the chamois shirt closer, she stared out over the yard that was so familiar, and yet in a weird way, so unfamiliar. The dogs had already quieted again. Some stray animal must have gotten them going. Maybe a raccoon moseying about, hunting for something to eat.

Scout hadn’t barked unless he was alerting someone that he’d detected unseen danger. He hadn’t barked when he’d stepped on a hidden detonation plate either. Meg shuddered and hugged herself harder.

That hadn’t been her fault.

“Not my fault,” she whispered the mantra aloud in the hushed dark room.

Everyone in her unit had insisted that Scout’s death was not her fault. Scout’s handler hadn’t blamed her either. But she’d clung to her self-recrimination and had a melt-down over the dog’s death in her commanding officer’s arms. Unexpected and inexcusable desire had flared up between her and John, and she had wanted to lose herself in the passion of it and forget about Scout.

That desire had been her fault.

“You all right?” Ben slipped his arms about her waist and bent his head down next to hers.

Meg’s heart slammed into overdrive at Ben’s sudden closeness. “I’m—I’m fine.” It appalled her that she hadn’t heard him getting out of bed. It appalled her that her mind had been so full of John and the forbidden things she’d felt in Baghdad that she’d become completely unaware of her surroundings. A shocking breach in good soldiering.

“I thought I heard you crying.” Ben pulled her back against his chest and rocked her gently. “What’s wrong?”

Pete Seger wrote Turn, Turn, Turn in the late 1950s and it became a #1 hit sung by a number of different artists, but the words are the oldest of lyrics, taken almost word for word from the Bible - Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,  a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,  a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,  a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,  a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

a time to search and a time to give up,  a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,  a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,  a time for war and a time for peace.

But amazingly missing from this litany is a TIME TO BE THANKFUL.

This week take time to be thankful,    For the gift of your life, for your mother and your father,  For the gift of those to love and those who love you,  For shelter and food, for education and learning,  For health and employment, for recreation and pleasure,  For the companionship of pets, and all the good things in your life.  

And especially for the FREEDOM to enjoy all of these gifts and for the soldiers who protect that freedom, who go where you do not want to go and do things you will never fully understand, who put their lives on the line for you, and for all of us in the name of Freedom. 

And as you sit down to the traditional family feast, your plates overflowing with all the good things you love and look forward to on this day, as you cheer on your favorite team or go for a walk in the beautiful, peaceful world around you, take a moment to THANK those who will be at work this day; the nurses and doctors, the firemen and police, pilots and cab drivers, hotel staff, waitresses and cooks, even the clerks who man the stores should you choose to shop on this day.

Take another moment or several to pray for those who have none of the things that make your life rich and wonderful. Ask God to watch over the homeless, the orphaned and the hungry, those who are cold, alone, ill and afraid, those who are not free, those who are beaten and those who have no hope.

Because – there is a time to be thankful for all the gifts under heaven.

  BEST EVER HOLIDAY MEALS  

I love turkey anyway. Not just the bird in all its glory when served with all the trimmings, but all the various ways to use leftovers as well. But there was one turkey sandwich that will forever remain in my memory as the best turkey sandwich I ever had in my life.

My youngest daughter was born on Thanksgiving. I woke in labor before the sun was up, but in spite of this being my fourth pregnancy, my labor was doomed to be very long. My husband was antsy about getting to the hospital on time, but the contractions were weak and far apart so I told him it wasn’t time yet. He eventually convinced me to at least head over to my mom’s house where we were expected for dinner later on anyway so at least the kids would be where they needed to be when the time came. Dinner came first, but being in labor, I knew I should not be gobbling down a heaping plate as usual so I picked, tasting a bit of this and a bit of that. Finally, by mid-afternoon the contractions had steadied to five minutes apart and I conceded.

Off to the hospital we went in anticipation of being parents again by supper time. NOT! It was a good thing I’d studied the relaxation techniques of Grantly Dick-Read because I never would have lasted using the Lamaze method. The hours stretched out as contractions came and went, my husband offered nearly continuous massage and doctors and nurses checked in and left again. Shortly before midnight, Lori finally decided to make her entrance, three minutes before the end of Thanksgiving. She was beautiful and healthy and all was right with my world.

Until the hemorrhaging began. It was my husband’s night from hell and I’m sure my physician was not happy to be dragged back to the hospital twice in the night either. Before dawn that crazy Friday I was in surgery. For four hours. And as anyone who’s had major surgery knows, afterwards they keep you on first a liquid diet, then a bland one. I had so been looking forward to having that plate of turkey as soon as everything was over. Friday and Saturday brought nothing but jello and herb tea and equally flavorless fare. But Sunday I was finally allowed to order off the regular menu.

My Mom, bless her heart forever, arrived during the lunch hour with a fat, luscious looking turkey sandwich. I tucked into that sandwich like I hadn’t eaten in weeks and it was the very best sandwich ever. I’ve since tried to duplicate it. I put all the same things into the sandwich my mom did, but never has one tasted so incredibly delicious. I still love turkey sandwiches and always will, but in my mind, that one can never be beat.

Want to hear about some other great holiday menus and meals" Check out some of these:

Marci Baun  http://www.marcibaun.com/
A.J. Maguire  http://ajmaguire.wordpress.com/
Fiona McGier http://www.fionamcgier.com/
Judith Copek http://lynx-sis.blogspot.com/
Diane Bator http://dbator.blogspot.ca/
Beverley Bateman http://beverleybateman.blogspot.ca/
Skye Taylor  http://www.skye-writer.com/
Ginger Simpson http://mizging.blogspot.com/
Victoria Chatham http://victoriachatham.webs.com/
Margaret Fieland http://www.margaretfieland.com/blog1/
Rachael Kosnski http://the-doodling-booktease.tumblr.com/
Anne Stenhouse  http://annestenhousenovelist.wordpress.com/
Heidi M. Thomas http://heidiwriter.wordpress.com/
Helena Fairfax  http://helenafairfax.com/
Kay Sisk http://kaysisk.blogspot.com
Rhobin Courtright http://www.rhobinleecourtright.com/

Who doesn't love men in kilts?            or bagpipes and music?                          Craigmonie Hotel,

                                                                                                                    Inverness, Scotland                       

My bio boasts that I like to think of life as adventure and I haven’t passed up too many opportunities that have come my way, but some of the craziest adventures happened when I least expected.  One of these was in the lovely, and fascinating city of Inverness Scotland.

My sister and I arrived in Inverness and were lucky to have prebooked a room at the Craigmonie Hotel, because as it turned out, we arrived there at the end of the National Mod and the city was hopping, the hotels all booked. A mod is a festival of Scottish Gaelic song, arts and culture, and Inverness was overflowing with men in kilts, bagpipes, bands, dancers and the lilt of Gaelic being spoken everywhere. Everything that is romantic about the Scots in one place and we were there to enjoy it.

After a day of exploring the sights and sounds, we dressed up to go to “high tea” in a cozy little place near St. Andrews Cathedral. As we were leaving, we noticed that across the hall from the tea room, there was a small bar where a man playing the accordion. We moseyed on in and sat down to enjoy the music, but before we were even halfway through our first mug of beer, he stopped to whet his own whistle. So, my sister headed over to ask if he was done playing for the night and returned to our table with the man right behind her inviting us to join the party celebrating the finale of that year’s mod.

Now we were overdressed considering everyone else was wearing Jeans so we said we’d be back and hustled up the hill to our hotel to change. As we left, we mentioned to the desk clerk that we were headed to a party and he told us to have a good time.

And we did.

Until four o’clock in the morning.

We didn’t pay for a single drink but we consumed way more than we should have. We were encouraged to join in Scottish dances we had no idea how to perform, but somehow it didn’t matter that night. We heard some really great music and partied very hearty. What a fantastic night we had with a most welcoming and talented bunch of Scots. And it was all quite by chance. (See what I mean about not passing up opportunities that came my way?) But the adventure was only beginning.

As I said, we had imbibed rather more than either of us was used to, so the walk back to our hotel was more of a wander. The most exciting part of which was the trip across the River Ness on the walking bridge that swayed in the wind. Or was it us that swayed. In any case, it was an achievement to reach the other side still standing.

To our total dismay, when we reached our hotel, it was locked up tight. Having stayed in a number of bed and breakfasts and guesthouses, we thought perhaps our room key would open the door. That was not the case. So, while my sister continued to knock on the door, hoping that someone in management would hear and come to let us in, I hunted for another door that our key might work in. None was to be found, but just as I came around the last corner, I noticed a window placed low in the stone building with a neat round hole cut in it. God only knows why, probably had something to do with my inebriated state, but I reached in and discovered the window was not locked and opened easily. It was dark as sin inside so I had no idea where it opened into, but without any other options, my sister and I checked to make sure no one was around and wriggled inside. Thankfully, before we fell into who knew what, our feet touched down on the stainless steel counter of a commercial dishwasher.

So, now we were inside, and we were in the kitchen but where to next? We could see absolutely nothing. Hand over hand, we made our way along the walls until we finally found a door. We only knew it was the dining room by a faint shaft of light glinting off the crystal chandeliers. But at least there was enough light now guide us onward. Emerging into a carpeted hallway, we booked it up the wide curving staircase to the rooms above, praying not to get caught, and arrived at our room and flung ourselves inside. I stood with my back to the door, my heart pounding and my head spinning not quite believing what we'd just gotten away with.

Looking back on it in a more sober frame of mind, I still don’t know what else we could have done at four o’clock in the morning. It was pretty chilly in Inverness in early November, and besides, we’d paid for our room and we’d even told the clerk we were going out partying. Why hadn’t he told us the place would get locked up at some point? It wouldn’t have been so amusing if our mother had received a trans-Atlantic call to inform her that her daughters (who were old enough to know better) were in a Scottish lockup, being held for breaking and entering, but it sure was an adventure while it was happening.

                                                 Uquart Castle ruins on Loch Ness

I’ve been told that allergies can be acquired at any point in life. If that’s the case, then I am definitely allergic to winter.

You have to understand. I grew up in New England. I spent my childhood winters frolicking in the snow. I even carried that well into adulthood. I enjoyed snowball fights, downhill skiing, cross country skiing, coasting and pretty much everything but driving in the stuff, although I learned how to do that pretty well, too.

Cold never bothered me all that much either. I just donned more layers of clothing and stepped out regardless of the temperatures outdoors. Getting cozy with a hot cup of tea, a book and a crackling fire was pretty sweet, almost as sweet as curling up under a mountain of quilts, down comforters and flannel sheets.

But something happened to me along the way. Looking back on it now, I have to guess it was my decision to join the Peace Corps in 2002. They sent me to the South Pacific where my initial reaction was “Good God it’s hot here!” But over the two years I spent working and playing there, my body must have adapted. It was probably a good thing that I arrived home again in May. I had the summer, however short it is in the state of Maine, to adjust back to my former self before the ground froze solid and the wind chill sucked all the mercury out of my thermometer.

I think the first hint that I might no longer have what it took to live through a northeast winter might have been after I adopted a new dog. First thing every morning and then again when I returned from work, he needed to be walked, and as he sniffed and moseyed his way along, the artic chill would shove its unwelcome fingers down my neck until my muscles were so tense they would begin to cramp.

The other thing that I always thought picturesque and cozy was the return to standard time. Driving home in the dark with lights glowing from homes along the way seemed to make nighttime feel friendlier somehow. But after my return from the South Pacific where the winter days and summer days had been very similar in length, the ever-shrinking daylight hours grew more and more depressing. Not only was it dark when I drove home, it was dark when I got up to go to work in morning, as well. After two years of learning first hand what cabin fever was all about, I escaped for a vacation in St Augustine Florida when an endless March stretched ahead of me and my home was still held fast in winter and would remain so until sometime in May if I was lucky.  The rest is history.

I’ve lived here in St Augustine for six years now and never looked back. I could write several blogs about my new hometown, but they can wait. For now, I’ve discovered I’m allergic to winter. At the first reminder that we would be turning our clocks back, I began to whine and dread the loss of evenings filled with enough light for a walk on the beach. Then came this blast of cold that moved in over the weekend. My nose began to itch and the sneezing fits started. Next came the endless dripping like a leaky faucet. It got worse today when I had to wear a sweatshirt to walk the dog and put shoes on my feet. Then the photos began appearing on Facebook. Photos of Gillette Stadium in Foxboro Mass having snow removed before the Patriots game began and highways covered with snow from the midwest to Maine. I shivered and sneezed and dug out a new box of tissues. This has to stop. It’s only November.

My daughter suggested that it might be something in my air ducts considering I’d turned the heat on, but those are the same ducts that convey cool air when the AC is on so I don’t think that’s my problem. Perhaps something growing outside? But that’s unlikely considering that St Augustine is not tropical and we do have a winter here when trees and grasses do not bloom and spread pollen everywhere. Next will come a scarf, my wooly hat and a jacket. So, the only logical conclusion I can draw is that I have grown allergic to winter. I don’t recall having this problem in the South Pacific so now I’m wondering . . . maybe I’ll have to consider moving to the Keys . . .

P.S. I still know how to drive in snow, it’s the idiots who think 4-wheel drive means they can stop as quickly as they get going that scare the crap out of me now. 

West Lebanon, Maine is close to the New Hampshire border and deep in the woods. US Highway 202 runs through it with a gas station, general country store, post office and not much else strung along its length. That’s all there was when I lived there back when my children were small. It’s possible I wouldn’t recognize the place if I were to return today, but according to Google maps not much has changed. Most of the town is populated by tall spruce trees, dense forest and the occasional open fields of farmland. Houses are set far apart, for the most part out of sight of neighbors. Street lights were rare and on my street non-existant.   

My nearest neighbor and only friend in the area owned three horses and she taught me to ride. My son loved the sandpile left behind by the pouring of my foundation and my daughters were happy to have each other for company. Our four-footed, furry family member was a Newfoundland named Bosun. Otherwise we were quite alone, but very much enjoyed our little haven in the woods.

But that's where the scariest adventure of my life happened on a moonless night in the late fall. I was already in bed, but as usual, had a great book to read. Bosun, who was curled up on the rug beside my bed, suddenly began to bark. The next thing I heard was the patter of stones hitting the side of my house. I should probably mention here that I had yet to landscape the yard and most of it was nothing but dirt and rocks. I dashed to the window and threw up the shade, but even with my flashlight I could see nothing in the shadowed yard beyond its feeble beam.

With my heart racing, I put on my coat, snapped Bosun’s leash on him and we ventured out to see what had made disturbance that woke Bosun from his sleep and scared the bejeezes out of me. We circled the house together and while I prodded the darkness with my flashlight hunting for anything out of place, Bosun put his nose to the ground and sniffed carefully. When we came round to our starting point, we came inside, none the wiser. I climbed back into bed and tried to get immersed in my book again, while Bosun promptly fell back to sleep.

My ears were on high alert and I confess I did not remember a single word of the book I was trying to read. About forty-five minutes into my vigil, I heard gunshots. A hunter I tried to assure myself. But hunters don’t usually empty a clip. Nor do they hunt at midnight. Not legally anyway. Bosun lifted his head, but seemed sublimely uninterested. He went back to sleep, or at least his eyes were shut. Another fifteen minutes crept by while I tried to find sensible reasons why anyone would be in the woods somewhere within hearing range, shooting in the dead dark of night.

Suddenly Bosun growled low in his throat, but before he could start barking and scare off what or whoever it was, I clamped my hand around his muzzle. This was in the days long before 911 and besides we lived a long way from any reasonable police presence. Then I heard it. Something was walking around in my back yard. Hard to tell given the stony surface. Could have been a man. Could have been an animal. But do deer make that much noise? I slipped from my bed and lifted the shade once again.

And there, big as life, was a horse’s back end mere inches from my bedroom window.

The rest was rather anticlimactic. After my heart stopped pounding I called my neighbor to report that her horse was AWOL, then got dressed and went out to secure the rascal. By now the batteries in my flashlight were totally dead, but I found her by the light from my bedroom window munching on a few hardy bits of grass that had managed to thrive in my barren yard. The harder part was leading her back around the house to the street. It was as dark as the inside of a black velvet bag outside and once beyond the light from my garage, I had to walk down the middle of the street to keep from falling off the pavement. My neighbor met me about half way to take her escapee into custody and I went back to bed. I never did find out who was shooting a gun in the middle of the night. One other neighbor also heard it so the sound was not the product of my overwrought imagination. But whoever it was never confessed being out there. Possibly someone who’d had too much to drink or thought jacking a deer would be good sport. That part of my scary night will forever remain a mystery. One thing I am sure of, having a dog with a major sized bark is more reassuring than any burgler alarm.

Join the Round Robin for other scary life stories....

Heidi M. http://heidiwriter.wordpress.com/

Anne Stenhouse  http://annestenhousenovelist.wordpress.com/

A.J. Maguire  http://ajmaguire.wordpress.com/

Rachael Kosnski http://the-doodling-booktease.tumblr.com/

Margaret Fieland http://www.margaretfieland.com/blog1/

Geeta Kakade http://geetakakade.blogspot.com/

Marci Baun  http://www.marcibaun.com/

Beverley Bateman http://beverleybateman.blogspot.ca/

Victoria Chatham http://victoriachatham.webs.com/

Diane Bator http://dbator.blogspot.ca/

Fiona McGier http://www.fionamcgier.com/

Ginger Simpson http://mizging.blogspot.com/

Rhobin Courtright http://www.rhobinleecourtright.com/

   Peace Corps Tonga, my group of volunteers off on our new adventure

My parents brought me up confident in my ability to do anything I wanted and equally confident that I was smart enough to make things happen. Ask anyone who knows me, I don’t lack for confidence . . . most of the time, anyway. In the second half of my life I chose to leave everything I knew behind and join the Peace Corps. Some of my friends thought I was crazy, others though I was brave. I didn’t think I was either. I was looking for an adventure, and I was confident I’d find it if I put my heart and soul into making it happen.

So, off I went. My dad took me to the airport and he so wanted to help me carry my luggage inside, but I reminded him I’d have to start hauling it myself soon and I might as well start now. I flew from the East Coast to Seattle where my group had their staging. It wasn’t really training so much as a chance to get to know the rest of the group. There were thirty of us, ages 21 through the early 70s. So, turns out I wasn’t the oldest one after all. The next leg of our trip took us to Hawaii, but the plane we were to be on from there to Tonga was grounded. We had a layover of twenty-seven hours and were given a hotel room and meal vouchers by the airline.

Arizona Memorial            At the top of Diamond Head              Sky Tower, Auckland        Looking straight down 

An unexpected adventure. We filled those hours with as much as we could, starting with a trip to the Arizona Memorial. Then half of us hiked up Diamond Head for a spectacular view of Honolulu and finally just five of us ended our busy day with a swim at Waikiki Beach. Then it was back to the hotel for dinner before catching a late night flight to Auckland, New Zealand. By the time we got to Auckland it was the day before again – we’d crossed the International Date Line and it was morning. We had only an eight-hour layover this time, but once again, there was an opportunity not to be missed. Setting off for downtown Auckland, we headed straight for the Sky Tower and took the elevator to the observation deck. The view was magnificent in all directions. All of Auckland harbor and the islands that dot it as well as the city itself. There were even glass panels to stand on and look straight down. Just my kind of fun. After returning to ground level, we headed to the harbor and found dozens of neat places to eat along the waterfront. Then it was time to head back to the airport.

It was dusk as we landed at Fua’amotu International Airport on the main island of Tonga. Out the tiny of windows of the airplane we could see the graceful palm trees silhouetted by the setting sun. It was a beautiful sight. What was not so welcome was the heat that attacked us as soon as we stepped from the air-conditioned cabin of our Air New Zealand jet. I’d been playing in the snow with my grandson just a week earlier. Seattle had been chilly and damp. Even Hawaii was in its winter mode with seasonably comfortable temperatures. Tonga was south of the equator and in the middle of summer.

Landing at Foua'amotu Airport            Finding our luggage and clearing customs

Tonga does not boast an air-conditioned airport, nor jetways to get into and out of the plane. I climbed down the stairs toward that steaming tarmac, closer and closer to the heat that had been stored up there all day. The terminal was no better. Several big ceiling fans lazily stirred the air as Tongans hauled suitcases off the conveyor as fast as they appeared, piling them into a mountain in the middle of the room. One had to be half billygoat to find and claim your luggage. Then there was a very slow line to clear customs. Finally, after what felt like hours in a sauna, we emerged into the now completely dark night. The air was soft and welcoming, and that’s where my Peace Corps adventure began. Greeting us just beyond the barriers were dozens of smiling faces and we were adorned with kahoas (leis) fragrant with dozens of blossoms and lovingly made for us personally.

Piling into a bus like nothing I’d ever seen with seats that folded into the aisles once the permanent seats were full, we were soon on our way to the guest house where we would be staying for the next week. That night, as I lay spread eagle on my bed beneath a fan that was as lazy as those at the airport, I pondered how very far I was from home and how very different my life was going to be for the next two years. I was on the other side of the world, on the other side of the equator, in a culture very different than the one I was familiar with. It was hotter than anything I’d experienced before, but one thing was already clear – the Tongans were the most welcoming, happy people I’d ever met. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” played in my head as I fell asleep that night. The adventure I’d been seeking was already unfolding. 

My home Stay family       Sapa'ata, my first home   Vava'u - my home for 2 years 

For more about my adventures in Tonga, see the Peace Corps Tab at the top of the page  or click here: Peace Corps

Few romances would find an appreciative audience without a bigger-than-life hero. In all my years as a fan of romances, I can think of only two books, perhaps three, where the hero was not a bigger-than-life personality in one way or another. The first was Georgette Heyer’s The Foundling and the second was Pamela Morsi’s Simple Jess. I fell in love with both Gilly and Jessie Best in spite of their lack of stature and importance, or perhaps because they exhibited all the characteristics that I admire. (Both books well worth the reading so perhaps you should look them up. Both are still available in one form or another.)

But many authors choose bigger-than-life heroes who are wealthy way beyond anything the average reader can even begin to imagine. Some are wealthy and powerful, CEOs of big international companies, or high up on the political totem poles. Then there are the physically elite. Romances featuring Navy SEALS are popular these days, and close behind them are elite soldiers and Marines, and special ops agents both in and out of government. While I’m not knocking these guys – who wouldn’t want to be filthy rich, or powerful, or elite in any field? – but what about the other heroes in our midst?  

Firemen have recently joined the elite mentioned above. In my book, they have been bigger-than-life all along, but perhaps 9/11 has suddenly made us more aware of the dangers these ordinary men (and women) among us face when they pull on their turnout gear and jump aboard a fire truck. Once upon a time doctors were standards on that list of well-off, smart, better than the ordinary heroes, but now we’ve begun to see men who are EMTs in civilian life. The medics who ignore their own safety to run through a hail of incoming fire to the aid of a fellow soldier has his own elite reputation already, but now we are beginning to see men who ride the ambulance in Everytown USA.

We can all see heroes in these kind of men. But what about the incredibly supportive, loving and understanding guy who’s there for the woman he loves no matter what, but is otherwise not remarkable at all? Or the father who’s patient, loving and involved with his kids or the guy who’s great with kids that aren’t even his?  Maybe they don’t don an expensively tailored suit and work in a spacious office earning obscene salaries, but instead, wear jeans and steel-toed boots and lead a blue-collar lifestyle. Hard-hatted daredevils who work high above the ground might seem bigger-than-life, but what about the guy who wrestles heavy machinery for a living, or digs graves? What about the guy who drives a snowplow on treacherous roads for hours in icy darkness so you can get to work in the morning, or the fellow who crawls out of bed in the middle of the night to climb a telephone pole in wind and rain to restore your power and your heat? And as for the military – beyond those elite heroes we all love to read about, there are thousands of men who never make the heroic list except in their own homes, but without them the SEALS and Special Forces guys and fighter jocks could not do what they do. Men who pull kerchiefs over their faces and drive convoys over roads infested with IEDs, men who keep the engines running in our warships or wear the many designated colored shirts that keep an aircraft carrier’s flight deck running smoothly and safely. All these and so many more are all men we can admire and look to as heroes. But they seem to rarely make it into romance novels.

Years ago, The Jackie Gleason show featured a sewer worker and a bus driver. They were the heroes of the series, but it was a comedy and their ordinariness made them the butt of jokes. The big television heroes back in those days were Matt Dillon and Lucas McCain, two very different men, but both carried guns and were very much bigger-than-life.  We’re still in love with cowboys, be they rodeo riders or ranchers and I have to admit there’s something endearing about a man who can ride any horse however mean one minute, then tip his hat and address a woman as ma’am the next, but there’s more to what makes a cowboy a hero, just as it takes more than money, prestige and power. And it is those other things that create the heroes I want to read about and write into my stories.

To me, a hero is a man who is strong and capable, yet kind and gentle. A man who loves with all his heart, even if he’s not so good with words. He may be hurt inside, but he does not take that hurt out on others either verbally or physically. He may be broken and afraid to reach out, but that very brokenness is often what makes him appealing. He’s kind, thoughtful, generous, caring, honest, and steadfast. Two of my favorite heroes from recent literature are Jamie Fraser from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon and T.J. Callahan from On the Island by Tracey Garvis-Graves. Jamie, I’ll admit, is bigger-than-life right from page one, but T.J. starts out as a 16 year old kid recovering from cancer and over the course of 4 very difficult years, becomes the kind of man any woman could fall in love with. They both have all of the virtues I just listed. 

     Jamie Fraser            T.J. Callahan 

So, who are your favorite heroes? And what characteristics most appeal to you? Who is the most unusual hero you’ve ever fallen in love with and why? I’d love to know and for the best answer I receive, I’ll send you a copy of my latest book, Loving Meg. You just need to leave an email address so I can find out where to send it.

Halloween Scavenger Hunt: Win Prizes!

In order to celebrate the release of our dessert book, Bake, Love, Write: 105Authors Share Dessert Recipes and Advice on Love and Writing several of us authors are offering a scavenger hunt with lots of prizes!

 

 

From October 6th through the 23rd, over 30 authors featured in Bake, Love, Write: 105 Authors Share DessertRecipes and Advice on Love and Writing are hosting a Halloween Scavenger Hunt. 

 

Here’s how it works: Participants visit the website or blog listed for each featured author to find a Halloween graphic hidden on one of the website or blog pages. The more sites you visit, the more chances you have to win. There are over 60 prizes with multiple winners. The list of prizes and the dates they will be given away is here.

 

Authors participating include: Lois Winston, Brenda Novak, Caridad Pineiro, Jessa Slade, Kathryn Jane, M.L. Guida, Skye Taylor, Cathryn Cade, Victoria Adams, Sharleen Scott, Kathleen Kaska, Erin Farwell, Daryl Devore, Cynthia Luhrs, E. Ayers, Chantilly White, Helena Fairfax, Molly MacRae, L.C. Giroux, Stacy Juba, B.V. Lawson, Ruby Merritt, Kay Manis, Ashlyn Chase, Kitsy Clare, Elizabeth Rose, Liese-Sherwood-Fabre, Sloan McBride, Elaine Joyce, Debra Goldstein, Barbara Phinney, Alicia Dean, Haley Whitehall, Terry Shames, Melinda Curtis, Lynn Cahoon, and Renee Field.

 

Here’s what you need to do: On October 6th, visit Sloan McBride’s blog where she’ll have all the information posted, including links to the authors' websites/blogs and a link to a page to type all the answers. If you want to have a handy reminder, you can also download the page of authors, websites/blogs, and for typing your answers here. The page will give you the authors’ names and links to their websites/blogs where you’ll search for the Halloween graphics.  Rafflecopter will be used to determine prizewinners.

 

* Tip - you can find one of the Halloween Graphics right here on Barefoot on the Beach. 

 

Here's the IMPORTANT part -- once you've filled in your answers, you must email the document to Sloan at sloanmcbride@gmail.com.  She’ll review the answers and will enter your name the number of times that corresponds to the number of sites you visited and provided the correct answers.