The Boy Who Cried Wolf

Posted on June 16, 2015 by Loretta Giacoletto

Another trip out west, this time with my brother K and sister-in-law M accompanying Hubby D and me. Our 3,500 mile, round-trip journey took us from Southern Illinois to #1 son M. his wife A, and their three sons in Cody, Wyoming, and from there through Yellowstone National Park to the Henry’s Lake Flat at Island Park, Idaho, and the 1,300-acre ranch that has been in A’s family for five generations, beginning in the early 1900s. At an altitude of 7,400 feet, the ranch is only accessible from May to October, or thereabouts—depending on the amount of snowfall in any given year. Although it’s been eighteen years since D and I made our last trip to Island Park, some things hadn’t changed nor do I expect they will, barring any natural disaster.

The rim of the Henry’s Lake Caldera (large crater) surrounding this area consists of a series of mountain peaks. To the west of the ranch we had a constant view of the memorable Sawtell Peak that reminds some people of a sleeping warrior. Henry’s Lake and its outlet create one of the headwaters of Henry’s Fork of the Snake River, and that same outlet provides water to the ranch, an absolute necessity for the soon-to-be-delivered cattle, this year 600 or so head of cows and calves instead of the usual steer that have occupied this grass-rich land each summer for a number of years.

As soon as we arrived, A-1, middle offspring of M, grabbed his fishing pole and headed to the ranch stream where he battled mosquitoes while trying to land a decent number of trout for our supper—no such luck, but for A-1 and siblings C and A-2, there’d always be tomorrow or the days after. That is, when they aren’t mending fences or re-routing the water supply.

During our first ranch visit, the year M and A got married, we toured the acreage on horseback, an okay first for me but also a high-anxiety experience I didn’t car repeat. With horses no longer in the picture, this year we went modern as passengers in ATVs, a mode of transportation I really enjoyed and figured could outrun the bear whose footprints M had spotted a few weeks before.

We four guests were assigned to the lodge pole pine cabin built by A’s grandfather in the early 1930s, then a kitchen/living area and one bedroom with a ladder leading to the attic for additional sleeping. Later, a sleeping porch was added, plus a modern bathroom. The lodge pool bed D and I occupied was made by A’s grandfather. He must’ve been a tall man because I could’ve used a stool to climb into the bed. But when I finally got settled, I felt like a princess and slept like a baby. Perhaps it was the 7,400 feet altitude, those nights with no more light than the moon and stars could provide. The cabin’s second bedroom had two lodge pool pine beds, those constructed by a friend of A’s grandfather—the late Johnny Sacks, a well-known craftsman of quality furniture made from local wood. D and I had been to his historical Big Springs cabin before, a short stretch from the ranch, and wanted to see it again; unfortunately, it wasn’t open the day we were there.

As for the ranch’s main cabin, it was just as I remembered. Built when A was a toddler, this two-story structure is also made of lodge pole pine and consists of four bedrooms, one bath, a comfortable living room and a kitchen big enough to seat ten at its round oak table. Outside the kitchen door sits a large deck and in the nearby woods the promise of coyotes serenading throughout the day and night. Which brings to mind that last trip to the ranch when twelve Giacolettos from the Midwest spent a few days with M and A’s young family and most of A’s adult family. We’d gathered in the living room for a relaxing time-out when all of a sudden a god-awful scream erupted from the deck outside.

A frantic rush to the kitchen door revealed the offspring of one of our other offspring—S-1’s three-year-old son R. His foot was caught between a wooden slat in the deck and the threshold of the door. “The wolf’s got me!” R screamed hysterically, his fear brought on by M’s six-year-old C who had responded to the coyotes’ constant howling by crying, “Wolf!”

Ah-h, the salty sweetest of that New West memory, a family legend often repeated but seldom surpassed.

How about you and yours? Any wolf or wild life stories?

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That Time of Year Again

Posted on May 31, 2015 by Loretta Giacoletto

Well, it’s that time of the year again. What was supposed to be my lavender-bordered herb garden has evolved into a pleasant mishmash of rosemary, tarragon, oregano, and two varieties of sage combined with pink Monarda (bee balm), yellow Coreopsis, all shades of pinkish red Echinacea (coneflowers), Rudbeckia (gloriosa daisies) and a white heirloom rose bush—all on the verge of blooming within the next week. Oh what a showy splash of pink, red, yellow, yellow/brown, and white those flowers will make.

Okay, so maybe I march to the beat of an indifferent gardener. Several years ago my friend J remarked that his daughter had laid out her herb garden in a geometric design, one she kept manicured at all times. Hmm, that will never be my herb garden … although it did start out in a somewhat orderly fashion and remained so for several years.

But then one spring a single Echinacea plant popped up, a volunteer spread from the seed of a nearby flower bed. Since Echinacea has medicinal value in preventing or treating common colds, I figured it belonged with the herbs so I let it stay. After the plant bloomed, I should’ve removed the seed heads but I let them stay too. More Echinacea popped up the following year. Then came the one or two volunteer Rudbeckia, which made a nice contrast to the Echinacea so I let both varieties stay. The Coreopsis I planted myself because it hadn’t thrived in its three previous locations. Now it does in the herb garden. The heirloom rose bush we (as in Hubby D) planted along with the original herbs—to add some color and character. If only I could remember to trim it back at the appropriate time, I wouldn’t have to deal with all those thorny issues.

Next to the herb garden stepping stones lead into our yew-bordered kitchen/dining/family room patio An orderly patio, yes, with its umbrella-covered table, four chairs, two hummingbird feeders, and container gardening—strawberry pots filled with sedum, hens and chicks, plus garlic chives that I scissor-cut into tiny pieces and add to my French scrambled eggs and cream cheese while they’re slowly cooking. The potted thyme came back again; the Italian parsley plants I buy new each year since they take forever to start from seed. Which is not the case with basil. Those perky seedlings in rectangular boxes will soon need thinning—little plants I’ll transplant into other containers. By season’s end if time and ambition permit, perhaps I’ll spend a few hours making pesto and freezing it for soups and sauces later on.

As for my three big containers (recycled from swimming pool filters cut in half), the salad greens are thriving. Which was not the case three weeks ago when an early spring planting produced a paltry few plants consisting of two Italian lettuces and spicy arugula plus the dependable black-seeded Simpson, all smothered by so many weeds it made for a nearly impossible situation. Waste not, want not, that’s me. I dug out the good plants and set them aside before getting rid of a two-inch layer of soil and weeds. After Hubby D added fresh soil, I replanted those set aside and sprinkled a generous helping of more seeds. Three weeks later: Hel-lo, my lovely patch of crowded lettuce that requires constant thinning—a task I willingly perform each day, tiny roots and all, the entire delicate plants make wonderful salads, alone or combined with other varieties of lettuce.

The hummingbirds have returned to their feeders—one at the kitchen garden window; the other, our family room window. And in the well-manicured beds beneath those two feeders several Echinacea and Rudbeckia plants are ready to bloom. Volunteers that came up a few years ago so I let them stay.

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Casalago Construction and Squatters

Posted on May 15, 2015 by Loretta Giacoletto

Some time ago, March maybe, I did say we’d have the new addition to our Lake of the Ozarks house completed by Memorial Day, right? Boy was I ever wrong, which wouldn’t be a first for me. Always think positive, it’s a curse I can’t seem to quench. Still in the positive mode, my current guestimate for a somewhat completion would now be Fourth of July. With vacation retreats, in particular our family’s, it’s all about taking advantage of the long holiday weekends, at least for those who hold down regular jobs, which no longer includes me. As a writer I take my work, make that my HP laptop, with me wherever I go. On the downside of this, I’m never totally immersed in the writing nor in a state of total relaxation when either mindset is my objective.

Enough with the whining, here’s the latest checklist of what has been accomplished and what’s yet to happen at Casalago before our 900-square foot addition becomes suitable for habitation as compared to completely finished, as in move-in ready without one more thing needing to be done. Which, as most homeowners know, is never going to happen.

What a Relief List

Roof and exterior siding, windows, and doors: Done

Dry wall and ready to prep: Done

New furnace, air conditioner, and hot water heater: Done

Outside painting: Done

Purchase kitchen appliances, counter tops, kitchen and bath cabinetry: Done

Landscaping: Done

To Do List (by family or pros)

Paint interior

Prep and install tile kitchen and bath floors

Deliver, unload, and install kitchen and bathroom essentials

Install bedroom and dormitory flooring

Complete electrical work

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Moving back to the completed list brings to mind the painting of our 4-foot eaves that extend around the perimeter of our house. While the painter was standing on an extension ladder outside our bedroom window, he called me over and pointed upward to the eave he’d been painting.

“See that little opening,” he said, referring to a space of maybe one-quarter inch by six inches. “Well, some little things were sticking out and I painted over them. That’s when they moved and I realized I’d painted the feet of three sleeping bats.”

Sleeping bats! Oh, no. I thought the exterminator rid our attic of those winged mammals several years ago. About a hundred, as I recall, all bunched together for a good day’s sleep. One evening the following year a single bat took refuge in our living room and after hours of searching for it, we finally gave up, only to discover its tiny corpse weeks later. Okay, so these new squatters haven’t actually parked themselves inside our bat-proof attic or ventured into the house. They’re outside, tucked in that narrow space above our bedroom window. There’s no way they could possibly access the attic. Or so I’ve been assured.

So now, whenever we’re at the lake overseeing this on-going construction, I find myself falling asleep each night to the distinctive chatter of bats and waking up before sunrise to more chatter as the creatures return from their moveable feast, having spent the night devouring their weight in pesky mosquitos. Bats, they enjoy the privileged status of protected wildlife, not that I’d ever consider sending them to bat heaven, even though the only thing separating those bloodsuckers from Hubby D and me is a mere window screen.

Hmm, it takes nothing more than a single drop of rain to arouse D from a deep sleep whereas I can saw logs through the worst of thunderstorms without batting an eye (pardon my pun). And yet, D still hasn’t heard our squatter bats going out or coming back to roost. Anybody for selective hearing?

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Love Me Some Outlander

Posted on May 1, 2015 by Loretta Giacoletto

As a huge fan of historical fiction, I take my pleasure in a variety of formats, whether they be print books, eBooks, movies, or TV Series. Among my current TV favorites in the blood-letting category would have to be Game of Thrones from HBO, Black Sails from Starz, and The Vikings from History Channel. And in the Masterpiece genteel group from PBS: Call the Midwife, Mr. Selfridge, and Downton Abbey. As much as I enjoy watching all of these, none has captured my imagination from the very first episode like that of Outlander on Starz, a Ronald D. Moore creation adapted from the bestselling series by Diana Gabaldon.

Outlander offers something for just about everyone, that is, certain adults (you know who you are)—from time travel, post-WWII civility, and intrigue to adventure, violence, deception, and romance.

While on a 1945 second honeymoon in the Scottish Highlands, British combat nurse Claire tries to rekindle her war-torn marriage with former British officer Frank Randall, an about-to-be history professor with ancestral ties going back to the 18th century religious conflict between Scotland and England. Through a strange phenomenon, the lovely Claire finds herself transported back to 1743 where she has a nasty encounter with Scottish warrior Jamie Frasier, a ginger-haired hunk with a price on his head. Jamie has been unfairly targeted by the British, in particular, the despicable Captain Jack Randall, ancestor to Claire’s 20th century husband Frank who is trying to figure out what happened to his beloved Claire.

With her 20th century nursing experience Claire takes on the role of an 18th century healer, risky for an independent woman stuck in the wrong century, one filled with fear, superstition, and ignorance of what has yet to be discovered. She can’t get back to her old life with Frank and her new life is in constant danger because Captain Jack Randall hates Claire as much as he hates Jamie Frasier. Jamie, on the other hand, has come to Claire’s rescue on more than one occasion and in order for them to survive, they have to tie the knot—officially, in church with a reception afterwards. A first for Jamie; a second for Claire who’s passing herself off as a widow. Which seems only fair since a marriage that won’t occur for almost two hundred years in the future should hardly count in the past.

So, what’s a girl from either century to do? Claire’s new marriage with Jamie is so undeniably romantic and passionate and provocative, she’s forgotten about Frank who hasn’t forgotten about her. Nor should I forget to mention Outlander’s marvelous main characters: Caitriona Balfe as Claire Randall, Sam Heughan as Jamie, and Tobias Menses in the dual roles of Frank Randall and Captain Jack Randall. Plus a cast of supporting actors who make me feel as if I’m eating with their characters in those cold stone castles or galloping alongside them through the lush, green countryside. Did I mention the Scottish scenery? I’ve been to England but not Scotland so I really do need to see those Highlands for myself.

How about you? Ever been to Scotland? Or watched Outlander. If you watch a single episode, trust me, you won’t stop until you’ve seen them all.

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Back on Track

Posted on April 15, 2015 by Loretta Giacoletto

Still working on my current work-in-progress (WIP) another Savino Sister Mystery, this one entitled, Memories To Die For, which I’d planned on finishing by the end of 2014. But life kept getting in the way, sidetracking me for the past eighteen months—from last year’s Italy trip to the soon-to-be-completed addition on our retreat at Lake of the Ozarks to battling a new laptop and Windows 8, all the while collaborating with four different narrators to create some amazing audio versions of two short stories and three novels. Excerpt for the laptop/Windows 8 issues, the very thought of which sets my teeth gnashing, I feel compelled to add the other necessary distractions to my list of guilty pleasures.

Take our retreat Casalago. While navigating through the construction maze (literally or from my distant cell phone), I refuse to dwell on current pitfalls that constantly need revising. Instead I conjure up images of enjoying all that extra space and convenience when the last nail gets hammered and the last tile gets laid and the last cabinet gets hung and the last appliance gets installed and works like it’s supposed to work. All of which I’m ninety-per-cent confident will occur by the Fourth of July as opposed to the earlier forecast of Memorial Day. As for the other ten per cent, well, that depends on the Osage Beach weather and the drywall installers and the landscapers and the U-Hall transporter and the permit inspector. Did I forget anybody? Probably, which explains why I’m not in charge. So many outside forces; so little time. Must think positive. Will think positive.

In the meantime I’ve seen another audiobook come to fruition. What a way-too-much fun project, again working with the talented Susan Fouche, who this time narrated Italy To Die For, my first book in the Savino Sisters Mystery Series. Interested in listening to a sample on Audible? Click here. If you’d like to hear the entire book, shoot me an email here and I’ll make it happen at no charge to you, as in free. Just need your name and email address, but hurry. I only have a limited number to give away.

And then there’s my WIP. Last year’s trip to Italy provided me with beaucoup fresh material to use in Memories To Die For. As you may recall from an earlier blog, thirty-something sisters El and Margo Savino have traveled from Cinque Terre on the Mediterranean/Ligurian Sea to the village of Pont Canavese in the Italian Alps foothills. El and Margo want to trace their Nonna Clarita’s early years in Italy before she immigrated to America. To the sisters’ surprise and disappointment, Nonnie, who now lives in St. Louis, becomes evasive, prickly, and down-right belligerent, so the sisters must resort to villagers in Pont for their perspective of Nonnie’s controversial family and life in the Piemonte Region during WWII and the 1970s.

To get Margo’s view of today’s Pont Canavese as she and El approach this centuries-old village, here is a short excerpt from Memories To Die For:

 In the words of Margo Savino:

It’s weird how the mind can wander. Mine had traveled all the way back to Chamonix, France, until I heard El say we had entered the outskirts of Pont Canavese. Or, Pont as Nonnie referred to the village she didn’t want us visiting

“Where have you been?” El asked.

“My own little world,” I said, “but I’m back now.”

Looking ahead, I saw this medieval village with mighty towers jutting out between spans of red tile roofs. Postcard perfect, you bet, with all the potential for an unrelenting ho-hum as opposed to El’s idea of a relaxing get-over-first-love therapy. Okay, so I may have insinuated myself into her recovery but it was supposed to be with Jonathan as my faithful companion. Ugh! I may’ve been down but most definitely not out, not by a landslide. Please let there be at least three single hetero guys under the age of thirty-nine, two for me and one to keep El occupied. How occupied would be her problem, not mine.

“Below us is the Soana River, a tributary of the Orco,” El said as we headed across a sturdy bridge leading to the village center. Shoulders hunched, she gripped the steering wheel like it might go spastic and plunge us into the Soano’s rushing water.

“Relax,” I said. “The bridge won’t collapse under our weight, especially since you’ve lost … how many pounds?”

“Not now, Margo.”

“Then how about this: In case you didn’t already know, Pont means bridge in Italian, I guess in French too since we’re so close to the border.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied, only then loosening her white-knuckle grip as we rolled onto solid ground, a road as modern as any in Smalltown, USA, but this one leading to Pont’s city center. Or, centro as the Italians say.

“Chen tro,” I pronounced for El, who repeated it to my satisfaction.

From what little I could see of Pont Canavese, not exactly a tourist mecca, which at that point didn’t present a problem. Nor would I let it for the next few days. The buildings were a mix of modernized old and older than dust, the streets a mix of generous two-lanes and narrow one-lanes. There was a decent amount of activity, mainly pedestrian shoppers demanding their fair share of pavement from impatient motorists driving efficient vehicles designed for Italian roads and hot-headed temperaments. No gas guzzlers here, not at the price of petro per liter. Not one guy close to my age. Not to worry, at least for the moment.

I tried picturing Nonnie as a teenager walking these streets but for the life of me could not imagine her as ever being that young. I guess because I’d never seen photos of her early years in Italy. Nor any of her with Grandpa Riva who died when Mom was a little girl. Nonnie never talked about him. Nor did she talk about Italy or her parents.

Finding the right hotel turned out to be a no-brainer since El and I had our pick of the grand total of one, a decent location with its own bar that started calling my name as soon as I poked my head inside. Not the caliber of hotels Chamonix had offered but so affordable we took the last two single rooms, which I considered a colossal blessing. As I felt sure El did too, even though neither of us let our true feelings show.

End of excerpt.

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Saga of My Laptops

Posted on March 31, 2015 by Loretta Giacoletto

In a previous life, prior to current one as a writer, my first PC laptop was an IBM purchased from a big box store no longer in business. The IBM served me well, along with a PC desktop equipped with all the bells and whistles necessary to perform my daily tasks with a minimum of interruptions. When either PC misbehaved, usually the desktop, I simply picked up the phone and called tech support. One of their guys would bail me out in a matter of minutes or hours, depending on the problem. Ah, those were good old days, ancient history now, not that I’d ever want to go back.

In the seventeen years since I left that world in order to write fulltime, I have owned—make that been owned by the following laptops:

  • Refurbished Toshiba selected by my youngest offspring and set-up with help from a second offspring.
  • Toshiba purchased from a big-box store, which I paid extra to have the tech guys set up software, etc.
  • Dell purchased on-line with help from another offspring after which I figured out the set-up on my own.
  • Hewlett-Packard purchased on-line and set up by my-then-PC genius who has since left the business. Gosh, I hope it wasn’t because of me.

In each case, my newest computer soon became my favorite; that is, until it was no longer my favorite, a condition usually brought upon by an incredibly s-l-o-o-o-w response or a blank screen no amount of coaxing would awaken. The refurbished Toshiba lasted the longest—about six years to the astonishment of said offspring who knew more about the life-expectancy of PCs than I who had unrealistic expectations about electronics and to this day expect my acquisitions to live on into perpetuity. The Dell barely made it to three years, which after having the modem and battery replaced, just gave up and died on me with no warning whatsoever. Fortunately, the pre-retired PC genius managed to salvage my documents and email account for the new HP he suggested I buy.

All of which brings me to my latest PC disaster which occurred several weeks ago after I received several messages on my HP, something plugging it into a power source since the battery was running low. So, I unplugged and re-plugged into the nearest outlet before continuing with my WIP. After the third such incident, my laptop seized control of the situation and shut down with no further warnings. Time for a new battery. Again? Dang, I’d already replaced the first one, maybe two years before. Plus bought a new cord some time ago, to replace the frayed one presenting an electrical hazard. Also paid two different techs to resolve problems I couldn’t manage on my own. Then last fall I added extra storage. Another new battery from HP would cost, with shipping, about $129. Really? At that rate I’d have been surpassing my original investment.

Time to consult the offspring who still know more about PC technology than I do; but not about life in general. “Your PC is how old?” was the common response. Time for a new one. Oh, no, not again.

So, I went back to yet another big box store where I walked around with a PC guy, who suggested among others, a mid-range HP laptop. He explained the pros and cons and more cons of Windows 8, with a quick follow-up that Windows 10 would be available in the fall, and at no additional cost to those who hadn’t learned to love Windows 8. What the heck, surely an intelligent person such as myself could handle a few quirky adjustments, having made the switch from several earlier versions in a matter of days.

Not wanting to spend more time away from my current WIP, I paid extra to have new software installed; plus my documents, photos, and email transferred from the old HP to the new one. I agreed to return the following day with expectations of my new PC being ready. This time the head of the department waited on me, and at my insistence made sure everything I’d requested had been taken care of. It was … sort of … maybe … eventually; the details of which are too cumbersome to go into again.

Back home was another story. For starters, I had my backup vendor download the same files I’d just paid the big box store to copy, which probably was overkill. As was the extra $100 I paid for Windows Outlook, thinking it was Windows Live, which I really liked but now cannot find. Although, I finally figured out how to retrieve my Windows Live contact list. Still working on exporting/importing it. As for all those special emails I’ve been saving for years—still haven’t located them and doubt I ever will. Still working on adding my second email account to Outlook, which may never happen.

And what about the new HP keyboard—it’s slightly skewed to the left, which means my fingers are never where they’re supposed to be, especially when I’m typing in the dark Did I mention the screen won’t stay in place and the text size wanders about, anywhere from 30 percent to 300 per cent. Plus there’s a ton of apps occupying space on my screen that I have no intention of ever using. Help, somebody, get me out of this touch-screen nightmare!! I am and forever will be a creature of habit. I like order—my way.

What’s more, on learning of my frustrations, a friend directed me to this on-line site specializing in PC batteries, and there was the $129 battery for my old HP, now being sold on this discount site for the affordable price of $29.99 plus shipping. Hmm, I suppose I could invest a few more dollars to bring my retired HP back into service. And retrieve all those saved emails I haven’t been able to access. But at this point do I really need what I’m slowly learning to live without. In other words, do I leave the old baggage behind and move on to create new.

Decisions, decisions … what to do … what about you? Would you rather hold on or move on?

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Project Casalago

Posted on March 1, 2015 by Loretta Giacoletto

You may recall my recent blog “Hanging Out with the Guys.” The one about Hubby D and me driving to Missouri’s Lake of the Ozarks and passing two of his fishing buddy friends who were parked alongside Interstate 70. We wound up inviting them to stay at our Casalago family retreat while they spent a few unseasonably warm days winter fishing, to which the guys agreed but only if they could treat us to dinner each night. How sweet was that, a win-win deal too good to pass up. 

D had been nursing a horrible cold for endless weeks, one that he’d passed it on to me, so we avoided the usual hugs and handshakes with our house guests, and focused on an aggressive steering clear between those infected and the vulnerable. Although, now that I think about it, the four of us did occupy the same vehicle while driving to our dining destinations and then gathered around one table where we ate and commiserated for several hours. No sampling from each other’s plate; for that we get an A. But we did use one knife to cut individual slices of bread from the same loaf. Should that count against us—as to how many nasty germs can rest on the handle of a serrated knife? Wouldn’t you know, after our healthy house guests went home, both of them came down with colds that bore an uncanny resemblance to those we finally got over around the same time theirs started. Ah-h, the inevitable hazards of friendship, the sharing of unwanted organisms that keep us connected long after we’ve moved on with our separate lives. 

As for D and me, our moving on has consisted of more trips to the lake, more overseeing of the construction of our 900-square-foot addition to Casalago. We (as in the family/owners) are now in what I call Phase Two. On the minus side with temperatures fluctuating between zero and fifty degrees, and weather conditions ranging from sleet to freezing rain to snow and bright sunny days, we’ve dealt with backed-up plumbing, old furnace versus when to install new furnace issues, and delays in receiving materials that were ordered weeks ago. On the plus side, our diligent carpenters have shown up when they said they would, and that’s saying a lot in the laid-back Ozarks. In a matter of harsh winter weeks they have prepped the foundation and after the concrete was poured, constructed two levels of floors and exterior sides, put on a roof that’s ready to be shingled; and installed the exterior doors and all but one window.  

Our Casalago project is nowhere near done, but we’re getting there and hope to be enjoying the extended digs by Memorial Day. So what about you? How are you spending your long winter days? Hang in there … next week we return to Daylight Savings Time. Talk about time. It sure flies when you’re having fun, right?  

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Books and More Books

Posted on February 15, 2015 by Loretta Giacoletto

What’s on your bookshelves and where are those shelves located? Mine are scattered throughout the house, starting with our family room with a wall of built-ins surrounding the fireplace. And no, those shelves are not an excuse to display decorative items instead of my cookbooks, gardening books, and biographies. Okay, I will confess to a few family photographs sitting in front of some books and plopped on top of some short stacks. Next to the living room fireplace another built-in is jammed with books as is the stand-alone bookcase near the entryway. On the coffee table a stack of picture books about Italy sits alongside a copper platter that came from our Italian relatives. In my bedroom more books can be found on the six shelves of a four-by-seven foot auction-find. In another bedroom books are interspersed with photos on shelves topping a corner desk and on a small cabinet more books are arranged in stacks and uprights. The books in my office focus on research and writing. Downstairs in the workout area more books sit within reach of my exercise bike, in the event I need a quick read while cycling. Books at the lake house are confined to one case and the top of one chest, which is probably a good thing because when at the lake I’m supposed to be focused on my current work-in-progress, at least that’s what my boss keeps telling me. Uh, that boss would be me.

So when I do allow myself the luxury of reading, what’s my preferred format? Uh, that would be the Kindle, at least for now. True, holding a Kindle isn’t the same as holding a print book—that comforting feel and smell of paper, of lifting my hand to turn the page. As opposed to a Kindle, or a Nook, or other digital reader which requires no more than the tap of one finger to move forward. And then there’s the issue of storage. One digital reader to store hundreds of books, maybe more—I haven’t reached my limit. On the other hand, the traditionalist in me loves the whole process of perusing my shelves and running my fingers over print books that identify my literary preferences.

All of which brings me to my latest source for reading—the audiobook. Talk about lazy. I’ve gone from moving one hand to turn the page to tapping one finger so I can find out what happens next to doing absolutely nothing other than leaning back and listening. But what’s really nice about listening is the ability to share that moment with another person, or more. So now when Hubby D and I are driving from here to there, we listen to audiobooks while I keep one eye on the passing scene and he keeps his on the road and his hands on the wheel.

In fact my enthusiasm for audiobooks has spread to my own publications which currently offer the listening experience of two short stories (“The Baker’s Wife” and “Youthanasia”) one saga (Chicago’s Headmistress), one mystery (Lethal Play), and a second mystery in the works (Italy To Die For). All of which can be found on Amazon.com, Amazon UK, iTunes, and Audible.

See anything you like? Well, do I have a can’t-be-beat-deal for you. To receive one of the above audios at no charge, sign up for my occasional newsletter at loretta(at)lorettagiacoletto.com and I’ll make it happen. ‘Til next time, keep reading or listening.

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Hanging Out with the Guys

Posted on January 31, 2015 by Loretta Giacoletto

Time sure flies when you’re having fun. Or, time can be your enemy when self-imposed deadlines don’t materialize, especially those involving major construction projects. Hard to believe but it’s been nine months since our family decided to enlarge Casalago, our fishing/boating/writing retreat at Missouri’s Lake of the Ozarks.

Last April after son P drew up the plans, Hubby D secured a highly recommended septic system guy who did most, but not all, of what we agreed he would do. Septic system guy introduced us to an enthusiastic contractor who was confident that between the two of them they could finish our 900-square-foot addition in time for the summer of 2014. Construction was to begin after Memorial Day and hopefully be finished around the Fourth of July. By Labor Day we were still waiting for something, anything to happen. In October P fired the two guys who kept putting us off and our search for a dependable contractor started again. Fingers crossed, we now have the right man who will finish his part in a timely manner so we (as in the homeowners) can finish our part before this summer. And I do mean the summer of 2015.

All of which sent D and me to observe the groundbreaking and initial construction this past week. While traveling to the lake on Interstate 70, we noticed a car parked on the side of roadway, its driver checking out the Ranger Boat attached to his Lincoln Town Car. No big deal, or so I thought until D recognized the guy as our good friend and D’s fishing buddy. Next thing I knew, we’d pulled off to the side and D was calling A to make sure it really was him. Sure enough, and also in the car was J, another good friend and fishing buddy. They were heading to the lake too, intending to take advantage of the 50-degree January weather for a few days of crappie fishing.

Naturally, we invited the guys to stay with us instead of going to a motel. “Only if you let us take you out for dinner those two nights,” they insisted. How sweet was that! They’d countered our offer with one we couldn’t refuse. And said they’d drop by later that day to unpack their things.

After driving another hour or so, D and I decided on a spur-of-the-moment pit stop, at a Route 54 service station that was new to me and D had only used once. And who should we run into there. Yup, the two friends we didn’t expect to see until mid-afternoon at Casalago. Talk about coincidence.

By the time D and I arrived at Casalago, son P was there and had talked to our contractor who showed up when he said he would, along with three workers who’d already started excavating, Later that same day while our friends were out on the lake fishing, P went back to St. Louis, leaving D to contact him with ongoing updates and me to transmit photographic evidence.

That evening D and I went to dinner with our house guests and as promised, became their dinner guests. The next evening a neighbor-at-the-lake friend and fishing buddy joined our diverse group. There I was, the only female with my bakery/restaurant guy plus three other guys—a pharmacist, a caterer, and a policeman. At which point it occurred to me that, except for the restaurant staff, I hadn’t spoken to, or been in the company of, another female for the past three days and those would soon evolve into four with more guys—additional construction crew plus the furnace repairman who responded to our emergency call. Not that I’m complaining, you understand. Having all these guys around sure made my life easier.

Back to our hanging out with the guy friends, what did we wind up talking about? Well, let’s see. Growing up, family life, past and present occupations, international and domestic travel, good food and bad, politics and more politics—a topic I rarely discuss with my girlfriends. But that’s okay. With the guys, we didn’t talk about shopping. Unless it was about their wives shopping, does that count? Nor did the guys talk about sex or tell dirty jokes. So maybe they made some concessions for me.

So what about your casual chitchat? Do you make concessions for the opposite sex?
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Posted in Dining, Family, Friends, Lifestyle, Remodeling, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Favorite Time for Creativity

Posted on January 15, 2015 by Loretta Giacoletto

Phew! We, as in Hubby D and I, have survived another holiday season. Son #1 and family came from two directions, Wyoming and Upstate New York, making Christmas extra special for the entire Giacoletto clan. To add to the ten-day chaos we entertained cousins from my side of the family—twenty-five of us sitting down to … drum roll … you got it, ravioli, enough to feed a small army or a hungry group of Italian-Americans steeped in the tradition of eating with their mouths full. Ravioli, as I’ve said before, my go-to for practically every event involving food. Over 300 of those little pillows got served with either marinara sauce or buttery garlic, depending on which better matched the fillings. But food aside, it was the lively conversation that made my day, what with our reminiscing over East St. Louis, Illinois, during its heyday and Benld, Illinois, the coal mining town where our grandmother, a widow-too-soon, raised five children the hard way.

So now with everything in our household back to what passes as 2015 normal, I’m scrambling to catch up. Here we are, half-way through January which happens to be one of my favorite months of the year, followed by February. Huh, did I hear you say in disbelief? What’s so special about those Southern Illinois months with temperatures seesawing between freezing and ten above zero? Or, the constant threat of snow mixed with ice and sleet, only to be interrupted by a smattering of fifty-degree days that tease us into thinking winter is over before it hardly got started. Well, for the writer in me, those cold, dreary days translate to the ideal time for finishing the book I started over a year ago, one I keep putting off because life gets in the way of my time and creative juices.

Not that there’s much about my life I would’ve changed or could’ve. Should’ve, maybe. Okay, so I should’ve been better disciplined; should’ve been better at multi-tasking; should’ve kept my fingers glued to the literary keyboard instead of letting them wander onto Facebook or other distracting Internet sites. Not that those fingers haven’t taken me to some productive places; otherwise, I wouldn’t have written the following excerpt for my second book in the Savino Sisters Mystery Series.

To set the scene Ellen and Margo Savino, along with Margo’s latest, Jonathan from Iowa, have left Cinque Terre on the Mediterranean Sea, their final destination, the Piedmont Region of Northern Italy. In route, they decide on a quick detour to France’s Mont Blanc; or as the Italians call their side of this Alp, Monte Bianco. This I bring you from Ellen’s perspective, which begins in the back seat of a rental car driven by Jonathan:

Three hours and two more urgent stops to satisfy Margo and Jonathan brought us face-to-face with the snow-capped Alps separating Italy from France, a range extending as far as I could see from one end to the other and beyond there in either direction. I rolled down the backseat window, closed my eyes, and breathed in air so fresh it cleared my sinuses. Then Margo cleared her throat.

“Ahem … El, would you mind rolling up the window. I am positively freezing.”

“At seventy degrees outside, I don’t think so.”

“Nevertheless ….”

“Okay, okay.” One push of a button closed the window, allowing me to focus on the road signs. “There’s the Courmayeur exit.”

“Do we for sure want to stop here,” Margo said.

“I’d like to,” was my comeback.

“Let’s do France first and catch Courmayeur on our return.”

“Whatever, but I need to use the facilities before we go through the tunnel.”

“Really, El, this will make our third stop.”

“Your third … I sat in the car during the second stop, guarding our possessions while you and Jonathan went for a walk.”

“I could use a break too,” he said.

Thank you, Jonathan.

***

The restroom facilities were immaculate and … interesting, a throwback to times past with several stalls equipped squat-down toilets. In other words, footrests flanking porcelain vessels fitted flush into the floor. The primitive varieties were located in the unoccupied stalls, that is, until Margo insisted we step inside and experience them first-hand. Make that foot; better yet, feet, one on either side. Face the rear wall and squat. Toilet paper goes in the waste basket, not the vessel. Yuck.

“Oh, El, don’t you just love this,” Margo called out from the stall next to mine. “It’s so … hmm … so Old World.”

Leave it to Margo, what more could I say except, “Where’s the flush button?”

***

After by-passing Courmayeur to please Margo, we arrived mid-afternoon at the tunnel connecting Monte Bianco in Italy to Mont Blanc in France. Jonathan forked over fifty-four Euros for a round-trip ticket and we were allowed to enter the tunnel. The speed-monitored drive-thru that took about forty minutes made for the perfect experience—in a single oh so welcomed word: uneventful.

A few more miles into France soon brought us to Chamonix. Where shall we stay in the alpine village became our primary focus.

“Any ideas,” Margo asked while Jonathan slowly cruised up one street and down the other.

“Sorry,” Jonathan said, “Only got two hands and one head so I can’t drive and make important decisions at the same time.”

Patience, this too will pass, I told myself, as did all things Margo. “Then park the car and we’ll find some place to eat,” I said. “After that, we’ll decide on a hotel or pensione.”

Good, I’d taken charge and made a suggestion that no one bothered challenging.

The restaurant we settled on was French Tourist specializing in omelets and crepes. We followed our waiter’s suggestion and ordered two omelets—cheese and spinach—plus strawberry-filled crepes, which would allow us substantial portions to share.

“Plus this vin blanc,” Jonathan the Generous said while pointing to one of the higher priced bottles listed on the menu.

 “An excellent choice,” Margo said, echoing the last words from our waiter. She blew Jonathan a kiss from her fingertips. “Let’s hear it for the guy from Iowa.”

“Thank you, Jonathan,” was all he got from me. That was enough since Margo felt it necessary to compensate for my three words by leaning over and planting a passion-filled kiss on his waiting lips. Okay, nobody noticed, or seemed to care, except me. After all, we were in France.

###

And I’ve got to get back to finishing this book. ‘Til next time …

 

Posted in Books, Dining, Family, Food, Holiday meals, Italian American, Italy, Lifestyle, Travel, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment