March 3 - Your Neighbourhood

Marchphotoaday

It's raining today. All day. So forgive me if I don't venture too far into my neighbourhood for today's photo, of what my family calls 'the stairs at the end of our road.'

This sneaky shortcut takes the happy wanderer through to the local primary school and up to the bus stop on the main road.

Looks pretty doesn't it? All wet and shinny on a quiet Saturday morning.

Wrong!

Don't be tricked. These steps are evil. Especially if your Beloved thinks they're perfect for running up, and down. (There's a further set of steps, hidden from view, designed to make legs burn.)

And all that lush, green groundcover?

Disaster... for the hens at Crabapple House. Rumour has it, a den of foxes uses this area as home-base... and my poor chickens' pen as their larder!  (Ok, this happened only once, but I'm still crying for those lost chooks.)

So there you have it, My Neighbourhood on a wet Saturday morning. When runners push their unlaced shoes back into the cupboard, and foxes and chickens keep their noses dry another day.

March 2 - Fruit

Marchphotoaday

In my own mind I like to call our home Crabapple House. 

Don't laugh. It doesn't yet sport a sign or anything elaborate, but one day we will name it formally and hang a shingle some place where others can see and mock, I mean join in the fun with us. We are, after all, surrounded by 7 gorgeous crabapple trees.

But their glory is long gone by the time we reach early autumn. Now is when our two fig trees shine. Tucked at the back, against the garden shed, they wait until all the other trees have wowed us, and just when we think the summer bounty is over, they offer their deliciousness. 

So finding today's photo challenge was as easy as picking it right off the branch. The perfect afternoon tea, paired with a good hunk of goat's cheese - I couldn't ask for more. Actually, I have been known to ask for a goat.


Imagine, being able to make my own, easy to digest cheese. But the answer was a resounding 'No.' Still, I'm happy to plate up my own fresh figs. Perhaps the goats will come in some retirement small farm dream of mine....


March 2, your rewards are sweet indeed!


 Are you a fan of the fig?  What favourite fruit do like to find on your plate?

A Mission for March - Photoaday

My eye is always drawn to the remnants of life from another era. Anything old, anything not plastic. Nineteenth century is always a winner. So when I read about the March challenge by FatMumSlim to take a photo a day from her prescribed list, I wondered if I could capture something around me to fit in with my love of all things yesteryear.

Most things on her list marry well with my love of everything old. Some might be a challenge, like the sunglasses, and I'm going to have to think hard about day 29, but I'm looking forward to collecting 31 photos I hope will reflect the images which inspire my writing, and feed my love of Victorian life in Colonial Australia.

So, in an effort to share the world as I see it, here's my first photo. 

 March 1 - UP

The view from the bottom of our staircase. Wood, plaster, a brass hinge and glass. So far, so good.

For more photos, see Instagram #marchphotoaday.

Sweet Nothings, and Simple Splendidness

Or....How a Romance Writer and History Nut 

Spends Valentine's Day

So, when your Beloved clears the diary of all obligations and promises a simple but 'all day' Valentine's Day, what can a girl expect? 

Well, here's a snapshot of my special February day. Not only in honour of the shrink-wrapped, over-priced rose bouquet variety. But a day to remember the moment we went from 'single' to 'taken.' 

Our slow breakfast in a  Healesville second-hand book shop would have been perfect on its own, but my Beloved added to this, a morning walk through Maroondah Dam Reservoir and Park, with a long stop on the picnic blanket to watch the sun through the gum trees. 

And could a beautiful nature park offer a more delightful children's playground, than this all-wood (no plastic, yay!!) row of houses and dainty chapel? Yes, the symbol of the little church with bell-tower didn't escape us. So cute and very Little House on the Prairie. But it was not the only symbol we found.

A long lunch, a potter in antique shops, and old books purchased by me would have been more than enough. So would the gluten free cake and coffee stop on the way home. 

But this day was to be filled with simple tokens, and I was thrilled to discover my antique treasure, an old Australian book of poems, held a secret smattering of dried rose petals pressed between its musty pages - left there by a previous owner and fellow lover of romance, I like to imagine.

But the best surprise was a simple find at our feet. A perfect heart shaped leaf. Already golden and hinting at Autumn, it stopped us in our tracks. I thought my Beloved orgainsed this day, but I guess God wanted to play too. 

And so the leaf joined us on the road home. Pressed in the pages of a book of old love verses and faded rose petals.

Yes, he promised simple. And he delivered. 


Simple... and perfect. 

Alas, they say.

The love letter is no more. 

Killed by twitter, email and texts.

Hiccups with my iphone have meant I've not been able to send or receive texts all weekend. Not a huge drama, but it will be if the phone's not working properly soon. And while its most valuable function to me is that of communicating with my kids, it's also how I send quick love notes to my Beloved. And how he replies.

Don't worry. I won't share any of them here. But I have missed the three word messages which flash on the screen - and this from the man who works from home and is only one staircase away most days.

So why am I pondering romantic sweet nothings and love letters? Probably because tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Like most Aussies, I'm not so tightly bound to its traditions but it is a day I hold dear. For it is that blessed day I received my first love note, and went from 'single' to 'taken.' (And I might add, still taken - by the same man.)

23 years later, and many love notes have passed between us, but fewer and fewer of the hand written variety. Now we rely on electonic means, and the old letters are as dated as my puff sleeved wedding dress.

So if we're writing digital love notes now, what will be left for us to sift through when we're old and longing to revisit the past? Where will our love letters from today be then?

And what about the rest of you? Are all suitors laying down the pen in favour of hasty emoticons? Is 'I heart U' the best we can do now?

Biographers lament the scarcity of love letters. While journals and diaries abound, written with posterity in mind, the rare and raw emotion of the private love letter allows a secret glimpse into the yearning of only one soul to another. Think Solomon. Think of the one who pursued you. And wooed you. This is the power of words. This is how God captures our heart too.

I was surprised to discover most love letters preserved by historians, especially those written 100 years ago or more, are written by men. Whether it was 'presumptuous' for a lady to declare her love this way, or the notion that women are better at the 'keeping' of treasures, one thing remains. Paper love letters are dwindling in number and our generation may not have much to add to the stack. Even if its your private stack.

Hand written, often stained with tears or perfumed, love letters hold more than sentiment. They cradle an apology with sincerest remorse. Whisper the longing to see one much loved, yet so far away. Declare one is more than smitten, decades into a relationship.

They capture the heartbeat of the writer and reveal a vulnerability only the recipient can treasure for what it's worth. They are poems. Works of art. They are love messages intended for keeping, and if you're like me your letters may be tied with a velvet ribbon or locked in a box where only you can find them.

While there were only 10 words in my first love letter, I know each one by heart. I memorised them the day they arrived. And although I don't need that faded paper to remember how it tipped my world, I would never dream of throwing it away.

So, where do you keep your love letters?
Are they hidden or not yet written?

I've Been Asked To Be A Slave. 

So, I'm going to. Be one. At an auction, for the highest bidder.

I'm not selling all of me, only a piece of 'me'. Actually two pieces of me. The sale will take place this Saturday at the launch of a fundraiser for the redevelopment of my home church's facilities, to open our building up to those who happily crowd it now, and hopefully many new faces in the days ahead.

I won't be the only slave. Many others have offered services, their time or their worldly goods, to be added to the auction items. But how does a writer of romance turn herself into a slave? I'm glad you asked.

Here's what I've come up with for lucky bidder No.1.

A Devonshire Tea hamper for two. Delivered to your door, this will include one basket filled with freshly baked scones, home-made jams (my own - apricot and plum), and vanilla cream. Added to this, will be tea or coffee of your choice, and other mystery goodies (probably of the chocolate variety) in keeping with the afternoon tea theme and guaranteed to make your taste buds pop. As a writer of romance, I can't help but hope my basket will be bought by someone who wishes to court their true love, perhaps with a Valentine's Day picnic in mind.

For lucky bidder No.2, there is no food on offer. Sorry.

As much as I love my baking, and slaving over a hot oven, I also slave my way through words and scenes, each day. So here's my other auction item.

For the successful bidder, I offer the opportunity to name a character in my historical romance, The Everlasting. This means, you may choose your very own name to feature in my story, or if it does not suit the late 1800s, you may nominate your husband, kids or grandkids. Or you could honour your grandmother. Or pay homage to your address and immortalise your street name, if you love it that much.

Isn't that fun? YOU get to choose a name, and I give it to one of my characters. Who wouldn't want to do that? The real question is.... how many bidders will fight over it, and how high will they go to see their name within the pages of a love story?

Have you ever featured in such an auction? What would you have fun offering if you were asked to be a slave?

Fly That Flag

Yesterday I shared my table with 10 Aussies. We celebrated Australia Day with the traditional lamb bbq, marinated in Mediterranean herbs and garlic. We feasted on the iconic pavlova, dressed with baked peaches and plum syrup, gifts from our backyard fruit trees. 

Around the table, a blend of cultures and characteristics mixed in a unique fashion we like to call True Blue. My kids are half Greek, half Slovakian. Our friends' children are the happy blend of an Aussie/English...with a hint of Belgian dad, and their gorgeous Nigerian mother. Each one of us, stamped with our own heritage. Each one proud to be Australian.

All the adults at the table have tasted life outside this country. We know we are blessed. We live a life of privilege, and it's marked on our passports with one word, Australia. We don't take it for granted, especially me. 

I gave birth to one of our children during my Beloved's year of consulting in Thailand. Unlike his Aussie-born big sister and brother, our third baby arrived in a Bangkok hospital. Just like them... he was already an Aussie. Born Australian by Decent, his nationality fixed by my own, he was and always will be an Australian citizen. While his birth certificate is in Thai, all his documentation, issued 11 days later states he belongs to me and his father, and has the right to call himself Australian. 

And with that right, comes identity. 

So we embrace the blessing of being Australian. We'll keep our flag strung between the peach and nectarine trees a little longer and give thanks we are free to do so.  Nothing can dissuade us from expressing what's in our thankful hearts. We know who we are, and we are happy to show it. 

The Best Ever Banana Cake Misadventures

I was hoping to start 2012 with a fancy new blog template and other goodies to match my new tag line, The Heartbeat of Yesteryear, but somewhere amidst seaside holidays, Christmas festivities and summer fun... my good intentions got 'lost in the mail.'

Stay tuned though, as they say, and I hope to have more about that, someday soon......

In the meantime, there's much to be said about the slower pace of summer. Fewer alarms ring, fruit falls off the trees before we get a chance to eat it, and my favourite... longer evenings equal walks through shaded streets with my Beloved!

In the early days of this year I baked a family favourite, Marble Swirled Banana Cake. Marbled with chocolate of course! Is there any other kind? That's it, up there. Photo-prettied by my dear daughter as we watched it cool on the bench. After we all sampled a piece, I packed it into the car for a quick weekend trip to Phillip Island.

That night, my family declared it the BEST banana cake I'd EVER made and before the sun had set, half this cake and most of our milk had been gobbled away. If you're a cook of any kind, you will know how good this feels... as you smile and tuck your cake under it's blanket of plastic wrap.

Not good, was how I felt the next morning, when I discovered the kitchen swarming with ants, all celebrating the New Year, in and around my best ever banana cake.

Gone.  Lost.

Destined for ruin even before it had a chance to live a second day. Plans to feed my kids more of this deliciousness, disappeared as quickly as it took to push the remainder off the plate and out the back porch.

I watched as seagulls made a meal of the spoils I had not fashioned for them.

But not to be completely lost, the cake lesson served its purpose. More spiritual than culinary, I realised afresh, not all our plans will eventuate as we imagine. One day we will receive accolades for a job well done, the next, we will bury our mistakes. Some plans will bear fruit, others will die unexplored.

Our plans should never sit in a cold slab of stone. God knows infinitely better how things should turn out, and He has plans of His own for us too.

We can, and should, plan. But we must commit all things to Him and be prepared for the course He allows. It's in our best interest. He is, after all the BEST at making things happen as they should!

'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord. 

'Plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'

Jeremiah 29:11

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Tell Me About Tomorrow.

Spring cleaning the garage is the best excuse to throw away junk that never made it into the house, or has been sitting there as the last stop before the bin. And then there's 'junk' you just can't part with.

Like the diary I kept during my last year of high school. It's so cringe worthy, I could hardly stand my daughter leafing through its pages when she spied it in a stack of books I rescued from their date with the garbage truck last week. She laughed at my life and the dramas I recorded there, along with the lame details of school days in 1985. I laughed with her. Cried a little too, on the inside. Reminiscing does that to me.

Among the theatre tickets and letters from friends, I cooed over photos of my baby cousin born that year and shivered at the red letter count-down to final exams. Typical teenage notes, phone numbers (some of people I don't remember) and memorabilia fell out of the pages, including signed permission from my friend Trish to use a particular life experience in one of my books, someday. Yes, it's all there, in faded ink, some of it unrecognisable and other stuff... well just plain inexplicable.

Like the newspaper clipping from the Jobs Vacant section, I taped onto August 13th.

Authors

We are looking for writers wanting to develop their skills and have their work reviewed by established authors. Selected works will also be published.

Really? If I had not seen this clipping with my own eyes, I could never have imagined anything like this crossed my path that year. Worse still, is my naive and forgotten response, written in my own hand beneath.

Rang about this. No answer. 

I died laughing!

I don't know what I expected to hear on the other end of the line and I'm kind of glad nobody answered in the end. No one becomes an author by answering an add in the paper, and certainly not at 17.

If I had a moment like the ones in the movies, when the older version of a character gets to speak to themselves in the past,  I would have told 17 year old Dorothy, to just keep writing.

Fill more diaries with words Dotti, no matter how lame they sound. Keep reading, keep scribbling. Practice and don't ever give up on the dream. It has nothing to do with answering newspaper adds. And everything to do with God's timing and your own hard work. 

I like to think she would have listened. Would have rolled her eyes maybe, and followed through. 

But the credits are not rolling yet and there's more to come, I hope. What would the Dorothy of 25 years from now, like to tell me today? Boggles the mind a bit, doesn't it? 

What would you tell your younger self, if you had the chance to spur them on into the future? And what would you wish for the self of tomorrow, to share with you today?