Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Fiction Romance’ Category


I live at the beach. This hasn’t always been the case, however. A little over ten months ago I lived in the desert. In the Phoenix Valley in perpetually sunny Arizona to be exact. In Arizona it is always dry. Bone dry, mouth sticking dry, eye slamming shut and staying that way dry, tenderly watered and beloved grass going brown and sharp– dry.  Well, enough of that. You get the point.

After twenty two dusty years of scaly skin and blisters on my feet from running from the mailbox, my hubby and I thought it would be really, really cool (in every sense of the word) to move to a beach somewhere. The salt air, sand between your toes and of course all of that endless water..! When we discovered a tiny island off the coast of Texas where they don’t even have so much as a McDonald’s, we thought we’d found heaven!  Well, I must admit that not having anything but colorful beach cottages and a few mom and pop stores is refreshing.

But as goes with most things  in life, there is always another side to the story.  Life at the beach full time is:     

Everything metal, your car and every nail on your house rusts ten times faster than usual. [Unless you galvanize it].

The windows of your car are always dirty because the salt spray makes sure of it.

During the rainy season every closet along with  most of the stuff in it  as well as your  walls have  mildew.

The sun reflecting from the sand, bleaches everything, your couch, carpet, wallpaper, black dog (cat) etc.

Friends and relatives think it is so wonderful to live near the sea,  they want to come visit you all the time…..

And that sand between your toes thing..?  Think fungus. 

So, the next time you find yourself daydreaming of escaping to the beach, or you look at the jar of pennies you’ve been saving for the past two decades to finance that tiny cottage by the sea– think of me.  I’ll be right here–looking out my window at the foamy Gulf  rushing toward the dunes like a kid for its mom. Not much to do during the idyll days of June but count Pelicans and gather sea glass on long morning walks with Gus-the Newfoundland.   Yeah, life at the beach ain’t heaven. But it’s as close as this writer is ever likely to get….      ‘Till next time. Enjoy today–tomorrow is where it belongs…. fantastically your, LC

Advertisements

Read Full Post »


Read Full Post »


This week’s “peek” into the world of NOVEMBER IN SALEM is a look at old Salem Village.  Although it’s now called Danvers, the original site of the Salem Witch Trials has not been forgotten by many in this coastal Massachusetts city.  Modern day Danvers is a bustling place, and the old Danvers State Hospital (the basis for the asylum in my novel) has been partially demolished and remodeled into a luxury condominium complex

But it was not always so scenic. The original hospital once sat on over 500 acres. It was built in the late 19th century as a place for those with “mental afflictions” to spend their days in a beautiful and peaceful setting. But as sometimes happens, over the years the asylum became a repository for the poor and indigent. Family members who no longer could care for, or who wanted nothing more to do with that member of the family who was “odd,” placed them into the state-run facility to be forgotten. In fact, there were so many “forgotten” that the patient population ceased to exit. They lost their identity and became simply an assigned number. It is easier to dismiss a number. No need to show mercy to a statistic on a spreadsheet. And the population of Danvers Hospital remained thus even after death. Behind the great buildings, far back into the wooded grounds there lay oddly shaped markers with numbers on them. Hundreds of them. They are the only reminder of those whose lives held so little meaning they were buried in graves behind the hospital like so much refuse.  The asylum  closed in 1992 and for more than two decades the moody old buildings sat grinding their bones as vandals and urban explorers crawled through their veins and underground labyrinths.  It was to this that I was drawn. The grim old buildings, the spacious grounds, once so carefully tended–now overgrown with weeds. And the lonely graves sitting on the windswept hill. The Hill of Hathorne. The hill that once witnessed the hanging of more than 17 people accused of witchcraft in 1692.  The ghosts of all of those who linger –  watching and waiting.

Read Full Post »