ATTITUDE OF GRATITUDE

Posted by: Genene Valleau

Current project: Nine-book series

Status: Progressing nicely!

Even though it seems Thanksgiving only receives slight notice as our society rushes toward Christmas, it is a time for me to pause and list some of the things that fill me with gratitude. I have a long list, even in this chaotic economic time. Here is a sampling--some of them serious, some of them silly--that hopefully will bring a smile or a nod to you.

-- My house is warm and mostly dry--except for the window I forgot to caulk when we were remodeling.

-- My sons are alive and mostly well after health crises for both of them in late summer.

-- I can see that darn blinking cursor, and most of the time there are words beside it.

-- I have a steady source of income and other jobs that add to it.

-- My dogs adore me--as long as meals are on time--and love to cuddle.

-- I have the power to heal and sometimes I quit whining long enough to use it.

-- My car is paid for and my bills are up to date.

-- Flowers are still blooming in my yard and the sun still shines between rain storms long enough to get out and enjoy them.

-- I can walk, I can run--though kinda slowly--and I can laugh.

-- My grandkids take time out from their video games to play cards or board games with me.

-- My kids sometimes call just to say hello.

-- My "work" is things I love to do.

-- I have yummy food to eat and not all of it is chocolate.

-- The piles of laundry on my dining room table are clean and dry.

-- The lights still come on when I flip the switch and the thermostat on the furnace works.

-- The dishes are washed and the dusting can wait another few days.

-- I have a whirlpool tub in my beautifully remodeled bathroom.

-- After 14 years, one of my animal companions transitioned without assistance. His physical presence will be terribly missed, but he is free from the constraints of a physical body that no longer served his beautiful spirit.

-- I can write, I can see, I can feel, I can love.

AND...other writers who take the time to support each other and to share their thoughts. Please share one or two of your own special items of gratitude if you are so inclined and aren't too exhausted from shopping. :) 

Watch for my soon-to-be-updated Web site at www.genenevalleau.com and the release of CHASING RAINBOWS, a romantic comedy novella, in "A Valentine's Anthology," February 2010.

Eat Your Peas; or, How the Dog Ate Thanksgiving

This is Frankie- newest member of our family. He is a perfect gentleman cat who has completely won over the unhappy Jinx by being so nice, so social, so friendly, and always giving her whatever she wants. Now he comes and gets her and they go out and play together. And to think, I went looking for an entirely different kind of cat! He has almost perfect brown spirals on his sides. I wish I could get a picture of his beautiful pale blue eyes but they just won't photograph well.

But back to my story.

I grew up int the late 1950's when moms like mine were terrific cooks. My mom completely lived for holidays when she could cook her wonderful turkey and dressing and all the trimmings. Naturally we lived for the, too

We had a wonderful dog, too, a Weimaraner named Greta, who Dad had gone all the way to Minnesota from Illinois to get, back when they were very rare. And she was perfectly trained when it came to family meals. Never begged or snitched anything.

One year a friend of my father's promised to bring us a wild goose from his hunting trip. Mom had never cooked a goose before, but she got out all of her cookbooks and even bought a new one, and she pored over them until she had a plan. A menu that had us all but drooling in expectation.

We all had to clean the thing- and we did it outside because cleaning fowl is a stinky business. But Mom did all the cooking. I was only allowed to do the extra things like setting the perfect table, sometimes peeling vegetables. It was a really big goose for a large family, and the preparations took all day long, but the final result was a beautiful sight. And the house filled with wonderful aromas that were different from anything we'd ever had before.

And so we gathered, all seven of us, and took our seats, napkins in our laps, ready for the best treat ever. Greta was probably salivating too, although none of us noticed her at the time. All we could think of was digging in. Dad carved. We passed our plates for the tantalizing meat. We passed around the dishes of vegetables, dressing, cranberry sauce, Mom's unforgettable Thanksgiving rolls. We said grace.

Then, like the big family we were, we dove in, all at once.

The first mouthful. In unison a huge groan of disgust roared forth. Shock registered on everyone's faces as we all looked at each other. Even Mom.How could anything that smelled and looked so fabulous taste so horrible? The most disgusting thing I think I've ever eaten! It was like biting and chewing a whole garlic clove all at once.

Poor Mom! "But I followed the recipe to the letter!" she said. I knew, because I'd read them with her, and she had done everything exactly as the cookbook said. It wasn't spoiled. It just tasted like pure wild garlic and onions. And the stuffing, my favorite part, was completely ruined by the giblets in it.

Dad did his best to console her, and even apologized. He'd heard sometimes wild geese feed on wild garlic, and it must have just recently had a lot of it. Mom thought maybe wild geese had to be cooked differently, but she hadn't found any recipes for game, so she'd used what she had. And we all agreed Mom was the best cook ever, so it couldn't be her fault.

So what were we going to do with the bird? Should we feed it to the dog? Greta sat a bit too near to the table for proper dog manners, her tail thumping wildly on the hard floor as we discussed the possibility.

Dad got up and took a slice of goose and laid it in Greta's dish. Sometimes we called her Hoover because of how she ate, sucking up food like a vacuum cleaner. We nearly changed her name for the way this piece went down.

And so Greta was taken out to her enclosure with a nice dog-sized helping of wild Thanksgiving goose, and we had vegetables for our Thanksgiving meal. And pie. The pie was great.

"Eat your peas," Mom said, like she always did. "There are children starving in China." I never quite understood that and quietly wondered if somehow those poor kids might like wild goose. But I always loved my vegetables and never failed to eat them. That year I was more grateful for them than ever.

And for a week after, nobody wanted Greta's attention because she smelled like garlic all over.

WARNING: Family In Need of Cat!

Everyone knows a writer must have a cat. Even Hemingway did. He had his multi-toed kitty when he lived in Key West. And now the entire area is populated with polydactyl kitties which are known as- you guessed it- Hemingways.

After old Shadow died at age 19 in May, we kind of had a hard time thinking about another cat. Jinx has done her best to take care of all three of us, but it's pretty clear she needs another cat. Even though she and Shadow never got along, yet!

Let's face it, there's an empty place in the household. Shadow, like the ones we've lost before, will never be forgotten, but the empty spot needs filling. Usually, though, when we are n need of a cat, the cat finds us. But it hasn't happened this time. And so we've started looking. Amazing how helpful the internet is, even for kitty searches.

The hard part is, we're particular. We can't afford a special needs kitty, and we're not up to losing another kitty anytime soon if we can help it, so a senior kitty isn't a good idea either. Can't do de-clawed kitties or others that have to be kept in because Jinx is used to going and coming during the day. Any kitty must get along well with other cats, not be too shy or too aggressive, and since Jinx will likely be a little jealous, it must stand up for itself.

Oh, and with lovely indoor manners too, please.

And we'd like to not have a black cat this time, just because we've had so many in the last ten years or so. And my son gets the final choice because ultimately it's his kitty. Although we've discovered it's really the cats who make that particular choice. And we like them active, funny, talkative. Loving, affectionate, alert, loving, affectionate, loving, affectionate...

Lap cats. Computer cats. Cats that chase laser dots. But please, we'd like to not be gifted with any more birds, mice or baby snakes...

NaNo Virgin

For the first time in my writing career, I'm a National Novel Writing Month entrant. Yes I have joined the hundreds of thousands who every November try to write a novel in thirty days. Many

NaNo attempts fall by the wayside, but many "Win" as well, by making it to the 50,000 word goal by November 30th. Many of the "winners" never see the light of publishing day, but some do. Her Cinderella Complex by our own Jenna Bayley-Burke started out as a NaNo winner.

The whole purpose of NaNo is to, as NYT best selling author Cherry Adair would say, "Just write the d!@# book!"

So I am going to write the book. In book 3 of my Scorpion Moon Trilogy, Until the End of Time. The actions of the hero from Book 1, my debut novel, Widow's Peak, come back to haunt him. Here's a sneak peak at things to come:

Avice climbed the stairs to answer the knock at the door of the only place she’d known as home since she’d come to England. In this busy market town Damien had allowed her to make a home. Though they lived on the ground floor of the tower, he had made it into a palace almost matching the grandeur of the King’s suite, three stories above.

She liked their rooms better than the King’s suite. The space at the base of the tower was much bigger than the room at the top of the stairs. They could have an anteroom, where the King had only a bed chamber.

She pulled back the bolt and opened the door, but what she saw was wrong.

Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.

Nothing would have made her ready to see Damian cradled in the arms of his best friend. It should have been the other way around.

Nothing would have prepared her for the red staining his tunic. She had just brought it from the laundress this morning.

Nothing should have kept her from crumpling to the floor in anguish. This should never have happened. He was…too good.

But she was prepared. Damian had told her a thousand times exactly what to do should this moment ever occur. And she would follow his commands to the letter.

Without a word she stepped aside and he carried Damien’s body down the stairs.

Damien’s friend—Damien’s student—Damien’s finest student followed her to the bed chamber. Set his body on their bed. The bed they had shared with Damien for five years. The bed where, tonight, she had planned to tell him.

He had accused her of getting fat. She had always been slender. He liked her that way. Tonight she would have said, “I am not getting fat Damien, I am getting ready to welcome your son.” She had hoped it would give him reason to consider retiring. He had money enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life. The masters had seen to that.

He stood back looking as if he had lost his way, swaying to and fro as though might fall dead as well. This thief who had stolen her life.

He handed her the key, the key Damian always wore around his neck, and she noticed the blood oozing from his arm.

She clutched the key tightly in her hand, wishing she could plunge it into his heart like he had plunged the knife into her beloved.

Could she kill him? Probably not. Damian had trained him. And if he was good enough to kill Damian, he could easily kill her, even in his current condition.

She placed the key in the wooden box atop the ornately carved cupboard standing next to the bed. Damien had had it sent over from outremer just because she said she missed the one she had in her old room. There was probably not another like it in all of England.

She pulled a roll of thinly stripped linen from the cupboard. Led the thief to the anteroom table. Poured the cup of whiskey she would have served to Damien.

He drank and she poured another, then unable to stand his presence any longer, she picked up the bowl and went to the cistern for water.

The faint scent of roses filled her nose as she crossed the yard, but the promise of their full bloom smelled salty, like the blood of her beloved that somewhere stained the ground. She faltered, nearly broke and cried as her reflection glared back at her in the moonlit pool.

Not yet. She must get through this. Everything now depended on her. Her ability to survive, the life of her child, the lives of a hundred men, all depended on her.

One despondent, forlorn spy.

I better get back to writing or I'll never get done by the 30th.

Hanna Rhys Barnes

Widow's Peak - Available Now in Print & E-book Formats From The Wild Rose Press

www.thewildrosepress.com

http://hannarhysbarnes.blogspot.com

www.hannarhys.com