THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

        We are all familiar with what is called the Christmas Spirit – good cheer, well wishes, excited children, bells ringing, beautiful decorations, special store sales, sleigh rides, skiing, sledding, ice skating, appearances by Santa, greeting cards, storefront decorations, and spoken wishes for a Merry Christmas – Happy Christmas – Holiday Wishes – Happy New Year and all of that.

        We also know that such tidings are not quite so jovial this year. We won’t be going to the usual Christmas lunches and Christmas parties and to the movies and all the other things we usually do for Christmas. There will be no office get-togethers, and in some cases not even any family get-togethers. No smell of pies and turkeys and hams cooking as we wait for a house full of company. People aren’t quite as full of happiness and well wishes as they should be. Stores are only about half as busy as normal, and receiving gifts by mail/UPS isn’t as exciting as getting wrapped presents from under a tree. The fun of shopping with others is gone. The fun of coming home with a car full of presents is gone. Now we sit and wait for UPS or Amazon trucks to pull up and leave plain cardboard boxes on our doorsteps.

        I have found that the best way to “feel” Christmas is to reminisce. Remembering better Christmases – remembering when my children and grandchildren were little and the whole extended family would get together at my mother’s or my in-laws’ house and take food and baked goods and arms full of presents and just let bedlam take over.

      

        Nostalgia of old days also helps – like Grandma Moses paintings from 1800’s or early 1900’s that show wonderful, warm depictions of Christmas at big old farm houses – kids sledding and ice skating – popcorn strings around the Christmas trees – mittens and wool hats and full-body snow suits like in “A Christmas Story,” wherein the child inside that suit can barely move his arms because he is so overly bundled. I also love looking at the scenes on Christmas cards, and at pictures from Christmases past.

s on Christmas cards, and at pictures from Christmases past.

        It also helps to listen to Christmas music – “real” Christmas carols sung by choirs, not some of the modern-day hip-hop songs about Santa being a bad boy or getting high at a Christmas party or anything else that takes away from the true glory and meaning of Christmas. Christmas hymns, and songs like “White Christmas” always bring warmth to our hearts. My favorite is “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.” That always makes me cry.       

      Even if we can’t have company, it still helps to decorate the home and a tree - to bake something, even it if’s just for yourself – to mail Christmas cards or send special Christmas greetings by e-mail. It helps to call friends and loved ones with Christmas blessings. And I mean CALL them, not text them. Texts are so cold and generic.

        Counting our blessings is, in itself, a Christmas joy. Let’s be glad when we wake up in the morning feeling good – able to move and smile and drink fresh coffee and just “be.” We can walk around the house enjoying our decorations. We can still wrap gifts and get them ready to be delivered. We can still sign and mail Christmas cards. We can still watch it snow and sit and stare at the Christmas tree. We can still watch old movies like “A Christmas Carol,” “Miracle on 34^th Street,” and “It’s A Wonderful Life.”

        With this blog I send best wishes to friends, family and fans, with hopes you all have a wonderful Christmas, and prayers that 2021 will see an end to Covid, political division, closed schools, empty offices, theaters and restaurants, and an end to too many meetings via Zoom. Let’s pray that Christmas 2021 sees all of us back to parties, Christmas shopping in “real” stores, and family get-togethers. In the meantime, remember the real reason for celebrating Christmas. It isn’t all the decorating and partying and shopping. We are celebrating the birth of Christ, and Covid and the depressing changes it has brought us this season, cannot change the real message of Christmas. A Savior was born.

 

 

THE VALUE OF MY READERS

   A writer’s income fluctuates like a roller coaster. After nearly forty years of writing, I’ve had some great years, and some not so great. I really don’t care. Honestly. For some reason, that fact hit me today really hard when I realized how grateful I am for my readers. Maybe these melancholy feelings are due to my age. Or maybe it’s because I’m sitting here alone in my little bedroom office wondering if anyone cares that I write at all. Covid has put a damper on conferences and book signings and other ways of meeting my public, so writers feel kind of isolated and alone. Working on my story alone at the computer feels like giving a speech to empty chairs.

        Those feelings changed when my new social media guru posted something simple on my Facebook Street Team page. “Let us know where you are from.” I scrolled down through the answers, and, oh, my gosh, I’ve only heard from a fraction of my readers, but it really touched my heart to see all the places they are from, which in turn is all the places I have reached with my books. The United Kingdom, Africa, Australia, Poland, and just about every state in my beloved United States. In the past I have also heard from Germany, Taiwan, Russia, France, Italy, Norway and Canada.

        Seeing all those replies reminded me that – yes – a LOT of people know I exist, and they care about my books. Most of you have no idea what that means to me and to other writers. Your favorite authors need to hear from you, now more than ever, because of having to be home most of the time and unable to see you and talk to you.

 

        What touched my heart the most is realizing that when I die, my name will go on for a long time through my books. My fervent wish is that through my stories, readers will see how important history is and will make sure their children and grandchildren learn it – if not in school, then through reading the thousands and thousands of books available that tell stories of real history.

 

        One great source of that is books by Allen Eckert. Take a look. FRONTIERSMEN. WILDERNESS EMPIRE. THAT DARK AND BLOODY RIVER. GATEWAY TO EMPIRE. TECUMSEH! Mr. Eckert wrote fabulous true tales of the early history of the USA, told in such an entertaining way that it’s like reading an exciting novel. If you feel your children are not being taught (in school) about the proud history of the brave pioneers who built this country, have them read these books. Patriotism and pride come with learning the truth. Yes, we made a lot of mistakes, and are still making mistakes, but young people today have to understand how this all came about. You cannot teach change and teach how to right the wrongs unless you UNDERSTAND the wrongs, and you can’t understand the wrongs if no one teaches how and why it all happened.

      
       My books are, of course, fiction – at least the characters are fictitious. But the surrounding events and locations are real, and nothing warms my heart more than to receive comments about the history involved – finding out readers learned something they never learned in school. My “Blue Hawk” trilogy and my “Savage Destiny” series are probably packed with the most history of any of my books.

        It makes me happy to think how many years books “by Rosanne Bittner” could be out there long after I am gone, so all these 40 or so years of writing were not in vain. There are moments when I wonder who cares, but then I get your Facebook comments and your e-mails and letters, and your four and five-star reviews on Amazon and hear from you in other ways, and I realize all these thousands and thousands of hours sitting here writing my stories are worth it. Millions of words, thousands of hours of research, a sore back and neck, swollen legs, wearing out numerous computers – it’s all for the stories in my mind and heart that are begging to be written.

        Most of my blogs are written “on the spot.” Something hits me all of a sudden, and I have to write about it. Today, it was that Facebook post asking readers to tell me where they are from. I was like – WOW – I really do have a lot of readers “out there.” I am going to remember that post for a long time. It will keep me going back to the computer and help me remember somebody out there wants me to keep writing.

        This is the season for Thanksgiving. I give thanks to all of you readers who love my characters and who remind me my writing has a purpose. You guys are the best!

 

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The "Great West" (As I See It)

  

       In going through old hand-written notes and observations I recently found in an old file folder, I decided I could use some of these notes for blogs, mainly because to me these observations so beautifully describe what I see and feel when traveling America’s Great West. I live in Michigan, but I have loved the West my whole life. I have studied it, explored it, written about it, and I truly believe I lived it somewhere in the past, either as a pioneer or a Native American. It is all so real and important and beloved to me. I wrote these descriptions a good 30 to 40 years ago, and I think my love for the West comes through in these notes.

        (No date – just hand-written observations on old, yellowed paper)

       

       The silence here is total – unequalled. If one were to live in a vacuum, it could not be more silent. My ears are accustomed to the sounds of the rush of everyday life – to automobiles, radios, children babbling, TV, footsteps, barking dogs, slamming doors, the click of a typewriter, the quiet rumble of a clothes dryer or a furnace, telephones ringing, rustling leaves, semi trucks on a distant highway, a train horn blaring someplace far off, voices drifting from a neighbor’s back yard – on and on. But the silence here is such that it actually hurts my ears, ears that have never known the absence of sound.

       In some ways this temporary silence is a relief to me, for my ears sometimes get tired of “hearing” things. Noise can be as tiring as physical strain. But here there is no noise, and if I did not know better, I would think that there is also no life of any kind here. You cannot even hear the wind, for there are no trees whose leaves would rustle. The wind is more of a soft moan, as though aching to find those trees.

      I feel like I am on the moon. There is only dry earth here, and an abundance of rocks. There is a great, blue sky and a round, hot sun - and silence. I feel small and alone, and if I should call out, no one would hear me but the lizards and the hidden prairie dogs. How can one describe such vast emptiness to someone who has never seen it . . . or has never known such absence of sound? I could run all day, and all night, and all the next day, and for days after that, and still there would be no human in sight, or even a sign of one.

       

       The ”Great West,” as some call it, most certainly deserves the adjectives “great,” “massive,” “immense,” “magnificent,” “endless,” “panoramic,” “spectacular.” How many words are there to describe it? Not enough. It is a land like no other. And it pulls at me, beckons me to return. I feel as though I am destined to it, feel as though I once lived here. It is something that must be seen to be believed or understood, and even then, one has trouble grasping its vastness, simply because it is almost beyond human comprehension, just as the trillions of stars and endless “nothing” of outer space is also incomprehensible. Such things are the answer to “Is there a God?”

       

       I wonder at the brave endurance of both the Indian and the pioneer at surviving in such lonely desolation. I know I am small, and that in spite of the technological age in which I live, I am still at the mercy of God and the elements . . . and the land. I am but a spec of life, here in the middle of lifelessness, here in a land that was not formed in just a few years, but land that was carved into the face of the earth over hundreds of millions of years.

       And so, I wonder of what importance my short life will be when I put it into those proportions, and I believe I must do one great thing before I die. Hopefully, that will be to write stories that will make people realize what a great Nation we live in, and to make them love and respect America’s Great West. More . . . to make them understand what a waste it would be to over-populate, exploit and destroy one of God’s most precious creations. It is big and endless and will be just as strong and silent and vast and resilient and beautiful over more millions of years, long after man has succeeded in destroying human life. The lizards and prairie dogs and snakes and mule deer and buffalo and wild horses will still be roaming the Great West.

 

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WRITING THE FAMILIAR VS. THE UNFAMILIAR

      I know it seems many of my blogs are for other writers, but I think readers get as much out of my “advice” blogs as do authors. Not only is it likely that some of my readers are also aspiring authors, but I think readers enjoy learning the many aspects of writing and what their favorite authors go through in writing and decision-making.

        As I write my sixth Outlaw Hearts story, BLAZE OF GLORY, I realize I am having a blast! Why? Because the characters and everything about them are so deeply familiar to me. Another fan recently told me she loves the Harkner family and feels as though they really lived. She finds herself thinking about them often and imagining their daily life. That tells me I am doing everything right with these books – building characters to the point of realism and in a way that makes my readers anxious for every new addition to the Outlaw Hearts series.

 

       Jake and Miranda Harkner, their children and grandchildren, and their big ranch in Colorado, are all very, very real to me. And because I am so familiar with this family and their backgrounds, their continuing story is pouring out of me with no effort, no outline, no dread of having to sit down and keep writing, and no feeling as though writing this book is “work.” It isn’t work at all. It’s pure pleasure. That got me to thinking how nice it is to be able to write what’s familiar, as opposed to starting a brand new book about brand new characters with a brand new plot – and risking running into walls and painting myself into corners with events and twists that don’t work out the way I thought they would.

 

        Any author would love to always write only the familiar. I know exactly how Jake would react to every little thing that happens in this book. I see him conversing with his son or his wife. I see his darling little granddaughters. I hear their giggles. I see the love in Jake’s eyes for his beloved wife, whom he truly adores because he feels so undeserving of her and so obligated to her for putting up with the rough life she’s led because of his outlaw past. I understand Jake’s deep, psychological problems, his anxieties, his drive to protect those he loves and how and why that drive sometimes gets him into trouble. Jake and Randy’s love story is enduring and memorable. His relationship with his grown son makes me cry. They are so close. I find myself wishing that every book was this easy to write. Even though it will be close to 500 pages, it’s been no effort to sit down and write a good 2,000-4,000 words a day.

        

        Then there is the UNfamiliar – the brand new story with brand new characters about whom I know nothing. I have to flesh out new characters, give them a logical reason for the decisions they make in the story. I even need to flesh out the “bad guys,” because no human being is all good or all bad. The better I get to know the characters, the easier it is to write the story. With the UNfamiliar, I often have an “aha!” moment when I am trying to hook the characters together for a climactic moment in the story. But through it all, I have to feel good about these new characters. I have to like them. I have to decide on their backgrounds, the reasons for the decisions they make and for how and why they fall in love. Sometimes getting to like a character better is as simple as changing a name, or changing their point of view.

        Most important, I want my readers to understand and empathize with my characters, even the unsavory ones. If I can make readers truly care about the characters and the story, then I’ve done my job right. And the more I, too, personally care about them, the more “alive” they become for me, and the better my story, because now it is very real for me and I can walk right into these peoples’ lives and write their story as it happens.

 

        Familiar is easy. UNfamiliar is a lot harder, at least in the beginning. But all authors need to write the UNfamiliar because all readers want new stories – so authors can’t help but delve into completely new plots and locations and characters. The only time I get nervous about whether or not readers will like my “next” book is when it is a brand new story. When I write sequels about familiar characters, I am far more comfortable with reader reaction. If they have read the first or second or fourth book – or every single book leading up to the next one – they know the characters just as well as I know them, and they are anxious to find out what is happening with their favorite hero and heroine.

  

      BLAZE OF GLORY is going to be a very powerful, emotional tale that will fit the title. Jake Harkner can blow up a story with his famous .44’s in a way only this man can blast into history with fire spitting from his six-guns. And throughout the book, Jake’s love for his wife and family shines through when tragedy forces him into a major decision that will have my readers sitting on the edge of their seats, wondering how this story will end. Anyone familiar with Jake and the way he thinks knows this man is as unpredictable as the wind, a man guided totally by emotions and a psyche formed as a small boy abused by a cruel, drunken father. Jake has known violence all his life, but deep inside lies a very big heart that beats for the woman who keeps him sane, his beloved Miranda. Knowing this man so well just makes writing his story pure pleasure and so easy.

        When I finish this book, I will go back to the UNfamiliar . . . sort of. I plan to write a book I’ve wanted to write for about 30 years – my first contemporary. The characters are familiar to me because they have been in my mind all these years. I have “seen” them in my head – pictured hundreds of “scenes” – I know the complete scenario for the book. However, contemporary writing is totally UNfamiliar to me, so I am very nervous about writing this book. And after this one, I will go in to TOTALLY UNfamiliar territory when I start writing more Outlaw Trail stories and other stories of western romance that for now I haven’t even thought about. But every waking hour, and often in the middle of the night, I am thinking about various plots that I could develop into a new story.

 

        Familiar or unfamiliar, a writer never, ever stops brewing new stories in his or her head, and we all have those nights when we can’t sleep – nights when we get up and quickly write down the “next” new idea!

 

 

 

WHERE I’M FROM

          

      The following is taken from the blog site Petticoats & Pistols, the original comment from author Laura Drake (women’s fiction & romance). I thought this was a great idea for my own blog, and I welcome your own “Where I’m From” comments! The questionnaire form is shown below if you want a guide to use.

       I am from the days of Spam, Hills Bros. coffee and Hamm’s Beer. The days of drinking right out of the hose, listening to a big, furniture-style radio and staring at it as though it were a TV (which we didn’t have), setting up “tents” in the back yard with my sister by throwing blankets over the clothesline and securing the edges with rocks.

 

       I am from a time when two little girls of only 8 or 9 years old would get on their bikes and ride far from home and go play in orchards or the woods by themselves with no thought to anything bad happening. As long as we were home by supper time, that was okay. And, of course, there were no cell phones, so no communication. We never gave safety a second thought and never once felt unsafe.

 

       I am from big, untrimmed lilac bushes and unwatered lawns, gravel driveways and lots of dirt roads. Houses had big front porches with porch swings, and the family actually sat out there evenings and talked to each other. I am from a time when there were no interstate highways, and gas stations were very small, but men would come out to pump your gas for you, check your oil and clean your windshield.

 

     I am from big Italian spaghetti dinners every Sunday, and the whole family sat at the table. No trays and paper plates. I am from the era of “big band” music and couples making weekly visits to ballrooms where those big, glittery balls hung from the center of the ceiling and created a “starlike” affect over the whole room.

 

        I am from a time when people dressed up for everything – suits and hats and fancy dresses and heels and furs at baseball games and on airline trips. Women didn’t wear jeans/pants, and they always wore nylon stockings, usually with a seam up the back of their legs that they were always adjusting in the mirror to keep them straight.

 

       I am from an era when entertainers truly entertained, with good voices, true talent, and beautiful, tasteful dresses and suits, and you could actually understand the words to the songs. You never knew by the way they dressed if they had great legs or big breasts, and male singers didn’t constantly grab their crotches. 

     

      I am from a time when people dressed up respectfully for church – no jeans and t-shirts with logos on them. You were there for GOD and PRAYER, not to blast your political or even sexual beliefs to others. Church was GOD’S HOUSE.

 

     I am from (literally) LaPorte, Indiana, where my father worked in a bomb factory during WWII. In that same era, food and gasoline and just about everything else was rationed. The government issued rationing stamps and you were allowed only so much of certain products per month. Nylon stockings were rare, if available at all. The nylon was needed for parachutes and other needs of the Armed Forces.

 

     I am Sicilian and Irish, and I was born in an era when it was hard for my Italian father to find housing because landlords automatically considered him “Mafia.” He was the nicest, gentlest man I’ve ever known, and he never owned a gun.

 

       I am from riding in the back of pickup trucks with no worry about getting a ticket, the era of no seat belts and of rumble seats. I am from jumping rope and of bicycles with big tires – saddle shoes and poodle skirts – “real” rock ‘n roll – the “Twist” – Root Beer stands – hula hoops – and using soup cans for rollers (and I remember actually going out in public with rollers in my hair!). I am from the days of “going steady,” and sex didn’t have to be a part of dating. Bibles were allowed in schools, and we even had a minister who came around to different schools and told Bible stories to youngsters.

 

      

        I am from an era of R-E-S-P-E-C-T – for God and country, for religion, for education, for the police and people of authority, for other people’s property and beliefs, for the right to vote, for old people, for not using four-letter words in music and comedy, for politicians, for teachers, and for personal appearance – an era when manners and “thank-you’s” and “sir” and “Ma’am” were used often. We always said the Pledge of Allegiance, and if we in any way disrespected the flag or the National Anthem, we would be sent to the principal’s office and probably taken to the woodshed when we got home. But that didn’t matter because NO ONE ever disrespected the flag.

 

       I am from an era when people worked hard to earn what they had. They didn’t expect the government to take care of them, an era when people willingly and with true compassion donated to causes to help those in need – and if a young person would see an old person having trouble crossing the street, the young person would HELP them – not laugh at them.

 

       I am from the era of big, all-steel, V-8, muffler-rumbling “hot” cars and hotrods, “cruising” through town with the convertible top down, “whitewall” tires, big hood ornaments, and blasting the “top 40” tunes on the radios.

 

       I am from an era of fun and respect - and hope for the future.

THE “WHERE I’M FROM” TEMPLATE:

I am from ______________(item/product)

I am from ______________(home description)

I am from ______________(family tradition/trait)

I am from ______________(childhood experiences/beliefs)

I am from ______________(religion/patriotic/education)

I am from ______________(ancestry)

I am from ______________(story/habits from the past)

I am from ______________(what life was like)

 

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THE BEAUTY OF TREES

        I have always appreciated the beauty and grandeur of old, tall, solid trees, but not as much as now. We own 29 wooded acres on a piece of lake property here in my hometown in southwest Michigan. A couple of weeks ago a tornado ripped through those woods, and the only word I can think of for the result is “devastating.” Unbelievable destruction.

       

       No buildings were lost. No lives were lost. That, of course, is something to be thankful for. However, when I say no lives were lost, that isn’t really true. About fifty lives were lost – big, old, tall, straight, strong trees, with branches that reached a good thirty to fifty feet across – branches that also reached to the heavens as though to honor God. Oak trees. Maple trees. Beech trees. Pine trees. You name the Michigan species, we probably had it. We had probably one of the tallest pine trees in Berrien County. It stuck way up above all the other tallest trees on the property. There is no telling how old it was.

        That tree disappeared. We had to hunt for it. Our son finally found it lying in pieces down in the creek.

       I see old trees as kind of like old men. Human beings sprout from a tiny seed, just like oak trees sprout from little acorns, or like maple trees sprout from those fluttering little butterfly seeds that fall every spring and are swept off patios and driveways. Human beings grow and need to be nurtured, just like young trees need to be watered and pruned – or if they are in a forest, they struggle to make room for themselves amid the bigger trees. When trees reach their “teenage” years, they are very strong and full and beautiful, with solid roots that by then have taken a good hold, and with the ability to fight off diseases and vermin – just like human teenagers are strong and beautiful and healthy and able to fight off diseases and overcome injuries. Trees keep growing bigger and stronger, and I see those that are thirty and forty years old as getting wiser, like older people.

      

        Then comes the older trees – still big and beautiful, but with scars, perhaps from lightening, wind damage, disease that is trying to set in but has not quite killed the tree. A few branches die, but the tree itself keeps growing. That, too, is just like humans. We get old. We aren’t as beautiful and full and strong as we were. We have scars from surgeries and wear and tear. We have wrinkled skin. We lose our hearing. We might lose a few teeth. We lose our strength, and yes, we sometimes we keep growing! Just in the wrong directions! We get diseases that harm certain organs, but we are still alive. Some humans remain fairly strong and healthy into old age, as do some old trees, but the human, and the tree, will never be the same as when they were young.

       

       And just as it’s sad when an old human being dies after living a good, long life, it’s sad to see a tree die. The saddest of all is when a good, strong tree, whether a teenager, middle-aged, or very old, dies not from age, but from a force they cannot fight. Just think – a large, heavy vehicle can hit a tree and be completely demolished, while the tree is still standing there, unscathed. But then along comes Mother Nature, and …

        Wind can be an amazing, fearsome force. Humans can’t just push down a tree, not even a small one. Even taking down a tree with machinery is no easy feat. You can spend all day, or several days, cutting off branches first, then cutting down the trunk, then digging and pushing out the huge stump. It takes big, expensive equipment, several men, power saws, bulldozers, and it’s dangerous work. But wind can come along and destroy a mighty oak tree in seconds, ripping it right out of the ground. It can break off foot-wide branches like toothpicks and leave splintered wood sticking high into the air. God’s forces are so much more fearsome and powerful than anything man can create, including the atom bomb. How often have we heard that an earthquake or a volcano had the force of “several” atom bombs?

       Such a force swept through our woods. My husband has worked on these trees, culling out the bad ones, saving the most beautiful ones, for 46 years, and in one swoop, a wind came along and destroyed most of his hard work. What is left is something that will take much more than one man with a chain saw to clean up. But the saddest thing I see in all those big, old, beautiful trees lying uprooted, is the vision of old men who have gone to their graves.

        Hope comes with the fact that next spring those fluttery maple seeds and those acorns and whatever seeds come from other trees will find their way into the earth again. They will sprout, and the cycle will start all over again, just like with human beings. But my husband and I literally “grieve” for the loss of so many of those big, old, strong, spectacular trees that were lost one night to a force they couldn’t handle. I now have greater respect for the power of Mother Nature and the things men can’t – and never will - control.

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Coming Soon: LAWMAN IN THE HIGH LONESOME

        Civil War widow Elly Lowe is heading for California after losing everything in a prairie fire. She and her family need a new start. On the way, fate interrupts Elly’s plans in a horrifying way, leaving her desperate for help.

        In a small Nebraska town, Sheriff Matt Stover grieves the loss of his wife and unborn child in a bank robbery. He has always lived by the law, but he is determined to find and kill the guilty Liberty brothers. Matt sets out to follow the culprits into notorious Outlaw Country, very dangerous territory for a lawman.

        When Matt meets Elly along the way, they strike up a sweet friendship, an attraction they know is only temporary. They must go their separate ways, but they will meet again under very different circumstances, leaving Matt to face life or death situations. Will lawman Matt Stover turn outlaw for revenge? Or will Elly’s faith and devotion be enough to bring him peace?

        You can pre-order the Kindle version of my newest book, LAWMAN IN THE HIGH LONESOME now on Amazon for $5.99! The publication date is June 30^th, and within a few days the print version will also be available! Enjoy!!

Pre-order LAWMAN IN THE HIGH LONESOME

And don't forget the first book in the series:

Order RIDE THE HIGH LONESOME

MAKING “SCENTS” OF IT ALL …

       I have a tube of body lotion by Lancome called Hydra Fraichelle “invigorating” body lotion. What is most “invigorating” about it is the smell. It’s one of those scents that makes you want to take a deep, deep breath when you smell it and then let it linger in your senses – and then you take another deep, whiff. 

        We all have favorite smells. I love this one because every time I smell this lotion I think of my favorite grandma (maternal grandmother). I was only eighteen when Grandma Williams died, and I’m 75 now, so you’d think her memory would be practically non-existent by now, but not so. Her memory is as vivid as though I spent time with her yesterday. She was poor and she and my grandpa lived in a converted shed when I was little, with a kerosene lamp, a wood-burning stove for cooking and an ice box – oh, and no running water. But the times I stayed overnight with her are my best, best memories. I couldn’t have cared less how comfortable (or uncomfortable) it was. The love I felt there made up for all the inconveniences, and for a little girl, staying with grandma was an adventure.

       Certain scents can be so calming, and we writers have to remember to use the sense of smell in our work. Describing scents can bring a scene to life and help a reader picture the moment – or a room – or a garden – or a person. I have often used the term – “He smelled like leather and sage and the out-of-doors.” I absolutely love that description. It makes me picture a man’s man – someone rugged and strong and able to take care of himself and his woman.                 

     I had an aunt who somehow was able to keep her house smelling like roses all the time, especially her bedroom and bathroom, and even in winter. This was well before today’s scented candles and plug-in scents and all the other ways there are today to keep our homes smelling pleasant. Today, when I smell a rose scent, Aunt Laura instantly comes to mind. She was another favorite relative I loved to spend time with.

        The smell of fresh-cooking pasta and sauce instantly brings to mind my Sicilian grandmother, who made her own pasta at home. I used to love watching her crank those strings of pasta from a wad of fresh dough through a special grinder. Then she would spread it out to dry. I can tell you without reservation that NOTHING you buy in a grocery store can REMOTELY compare to the taste and smell of fresh-made pasta. NOTHING.

        And smell is deeply related to taste. How can you beat the smell of freshly-baking, homemade bread? That’s something else you just want to hold up to your nose and take deep breaths of it – fresh, hot bread. And there is nothing like the taste of a piece of that bread right out of the oven and smothered in real butter! My maternal grandmother used to make her own bread, and – oh - pie dough! Just the dough – flattened out and smeared with butter, cinnamon and sugar and baked. That’s better than any elephant ear you can buy!

       Husbands and wives also have their own unique scents. My husband always smells good, and it’s his own particular scent – not any particular after-shave because he has several different kinds. It’s just his own particular scent that I can’t quite describe but that I know is my husband. When he rode away in a bus for basic training for the Army after we first married, I slept with one of his shirts every night, just so it felt like he was near me. 

        Old books – there’s another wonderful scent! What reader doesn’t like the smell of walking into a used-book store, or a library? Have you ever just opened an old book and put it to your nose and sniffed? I immediately hear voices from the past. I immediately “see” life as it used to be. At the same time, I love the smell of a new book, too – the kind with shiny, silky pages. I remember how much I used to love opening a new schoolbook at the beginning of a school year.

        Walk into a store that sells leather – purses, belts, jackets, boots, whatever. Right away you can see a handsome cowboy astride a beautiful horse with a leather saddle – the cowboy wearing a leather gun belt and leather vest and leather gloves and boots. What a rich, wonderful smell leather has. I have a leather dashboard and leather seats in my Jeep Gr. Cherokee, and when the weather is warm and the sun heats up all that leather, I can smell it when I get inside. I just sit there and breathe deeply for a moment.

     And then there is the calming smell of lavender. If you are anxious or depressed or unable to sleep, just hold a sachet of lavender to your nose, and all your worries just vanish. And again, you just want to breathe in that smell as deeply as possible.   

        I have some hot pads that are like little bean bags filled with the scent of cinnamon. When you set something hot on them, it wakes up the cinnamon. What a wonderful smell! Sometimes I just hold those soft hotpads to my nose and breathe.
         And is there anyone out there who doesn’t like the smell of lilacs? You can smell lilacs a mile away. And the minute you smell them, you think spring and Easter and sunshine and green grass and “purple,” which brings to mind colors. My favorite color is purple, the predominant color in my bedroom and bathroom.

        A citrus smell makes us think “clean” and bright and healthy.

        What are your favorite smells? If you are a writer, it only makes “sense” to use “scents” in your stories. It brings the story and the characters to life!

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COMING THE END OF JUNE: