Born in Toronto, Lou Allin grew up in Cleveland. She received a PhD in English Renaissance Literature and spent three decades in Northern Ontario as a professor of English.
With a cottage on a frozen lake as her inspiration, she started her Belle Palmer series, featuring a realtor and her German shepherd, beginning with Northern Winters Are Murder.
Lou has moved to Canada’s Caribbean, Vancouver Island, with Friday the mini-poodle and Zodie and Zia the border collies, overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
Her island series stars RCMP corporal Holly Martin: And on the Surface Die,She Felt No Pain and the upcoming Twilight is Not Good for Maidens.
Lou’s standalones are A Little Learning is a Murderous Thing (set in Michigan) and Man Corn Murders (Utah).That Dog Won’t Hunt is designed to appeal to reluctant adult readers. Watch for Contingency Plan in the same series.
I’m the Bush Poodle, not the Blind Poodle
by Lou Allin
"The hunchback of Notre Dame with a Rastafarian haircut. Cute," Belle Palmer observed as a six-pound bundle of coppery fur with a woolly chest squirrelled past, leaped to pose standing on thin, shaved legs on a rocky outcrop, and then sprang off to clamp onto Freya's nodding German shepherd tail until long hairs dangled from its tiny jaws. An insult to the dog kingdom, she thought, a $700 rodent.
"Strudel's her name. She's good enough to eat," Miriam MacDonald said.
How many dogs have their own mystery novel? I’m a writer and a dog lover, so all of my dogs get that privilege. This excerpt comes from Bush Poodles are Murder, written in 2001. Friday (her real name) is now ten and blind. It’s both a special responsibility and a great honour to have her as my friend and companion.
I first saw Chile Pepper (as she was called by her breeder) when she was eight weeks old. We had gone down to southern Ontario to buy a mini-poodle to fit well with our German shepherd when traveling in our truck’s extended cab. At that time we thought that poodles were low maintenance since they didn’t shed. Big mistake, that.
The GMC’s rear seats had been replaced with a padded platform. That’s where Friday’s crate went. Her 120 pound “brother” Nikon was instructed firmly not to approach the baby. He became her guardian for the five years he had left, a gentle giant.
On our honeymoon night we camped in a crowded provincial park near a shale beach. It was humid and hotter than hell, even for Ontario. As we took her leashless around the large campground, she stayed by our feet like a furry magnet. But just in case, we put a collar and rope on her and tied her to a picnic table while we made dinner. Like a wild colt, she thrashed and screamed like she was being tortured. What she was telling us was that she was bonded. Friday was smart enough to know that she was home wherever we were.
As we sweltered in the small tent, flaps open, with our two dogs and bulky air mattresses, Nikon stepped out for a breath of air. Fumbling in the dark, I went after him. When he got back in the tent, he stepped on the keys and hit the remote horn. The truck started blasting all over the campground, waking two hundred people before we found the control tangled in the sleeping bags. It was an auspicious start.
How could I resist putting her in my next series book? To hype the necessary conflict, I made her a spoiled little girl, but a gutsy heroine in the final scenes where she and the main character find themselves without shelter during a Northern Ontario blizzard. There’s a reason that in the picture she has blood on her mouth and a look of satisfaction. She’s also wearing her Anna Karenina cape. A picture of her jumping with snow in the background put her on the cover of Dogs in Canada. Not bad for a six-month pup.
Since we lived in the woods, aka the bush, she was out every day, winter and summer, hiking or snowshoeing. A mighty mouse, she was fearless but prudent. Speed was her salvation. Once an agile young Doberman met us around a corner and started chasing her. Off they went down the woodsy paths and out of sight. “My money’s on the poodle,” my partner said. I envisioned the worst, but in a few minutes, back she came, having led the hapless Dobe on a wild chase and looping back through the woods. Agile lightning.
Even at -25C, she never missed a trek, wearing her monogrammed purple fleece and nylon parka with slots for handwarmers. The corkscrew nature of poodle hair meant that her paws would become duck feet and have to be “deballed” every fifteen minutes. Once we tried a pair of Mutlucks, but they flew off as she sped along. I tied them in a fir tree on our favourite path.
As five years passed and we moved to Vancouver Island, Friday’s night vision was worsening. An exam showed the beginning stages of retinal atrophy, a common genetic weakness. Since the onset occurs after the age of five, her parents wouldn’t have shown the disposition.
She carried on normally for a few more years as we moved into border collies and started agility training. Friday would chase hell for leather after the bouncing tennis balls from the Chuck-it. Woe to the border collie who got in her way. She was Alpha Bitch at fifteen pounds. She soon adapted to the winter rains and traded her parka for a yellow rain slicker.
Two years ago, cataracts put her lights out. There was no use operating on them with the underlying retinal problem. But the blindness had come so slowly that she adapted perfectly. Now she uses her sense of smell and hearing to follow our feet into the rainforest and up and down clear-cut roads. Only near a precipice do I use a leash just for precaution.
When we reach a lake or creek, she remembers that she used to dive for stones, pull them onto shore, and then paw at them in an homage to her terrier roots. She still does this at shore’s edge, but we spit on the stone so that she can better locate it and drop it only inches from her powerful nose. She’s still in on the game! Next treat for her will be a salmonberry or blackberry as they ripen on our magical island. As for mud, she slogs with us through the worst bogs in spring, navigating roots and rocks and up to her knees in muck. At home it’s into the bathtub with me for a good soaping.
Does she bump into things? Of course. She gives an “oof,” has a restorative shake, and marches on. We never leave her behind, even when we’re backpacking into the wilderness where she might (and we might) might be cougar bait. Life is no fun behind the door. Inclusion is a debt we will happily pay for the years of happiness she’s given us.
In the tri-level house, she goes up and down the stairs like a pro, then jumps onto the ottoman where she holds court in safety while the border collie chases a toy. The ritual is familiar. “Ready, steady,” then “break!” On the last word, she jumps to a pouncing position. “Ruff, ruff!” she calls down in that commanding poodle way. She’s still participating.
While she used to jump on the bed with aplomb, that was one trick she had to abandon, or so I thought. Having been in a kennel for a few days while we flew to Arizona, she was very excited on my return. She leaped up on pure faith when I patted the bed. The other day she did the same thing in the rear of our Ford Focus wagon where she rides in a crate. So eager was she to leave for the walk that she leaped up into the back by herself. Our border collie Zia, already crated, might have been telling her that the way was clear.
Friday depends on us to watch out for her without setting too many limits. She is as much a lover of life and challenges as she ever was, teaching us lessons about bravery and adaptation AND the sheer joy of action. I’m not her owner. I’m the partner of one very intelligent and truly amazing little dog.
Every year I used to promise myself I would keep a log of the books I read. And I would immediately forget. Then I'd remember again, but only after I'd already read a few books, but couldn't be sure I'd remember them all to include on the list, and so - - I couldn't bring myself to start the list. It's sort of like missing the first 30 minutes of a movie. I just can't watch it if I've missed the beginning. And being the anal ol' soul I am, I can't bring myself to start a list if I can't be sure it's going to be a complete one.
So.
I finally remembered to start a list during 2010 and found it to be a fun thing. Great fun for a compulsive list-maker like myself!
And because I had so much fun with it, I did it again in 2011, and plan on continuing the tradition in 2012.
'Tis a fun thing.
It may seem a little early to post this list since it's only December 19th, but with the holidays I stay a little busy doing all the things we all seem to be doing this time of year, including baking. I seem to do a good bit of baking, which I always enjoy anyway, any time of the year. And making candy. I don't usually do a lot of candy making, but this year is "The Year of White Chocolate Bark" at our house. White chocolate bark with lemon was such a hit that tomorrow we're going to try making some with crunched up root beer barrels. I'll let you know how that goes. Here's a picture of the Lemon Bark
In addition to all these holiday activities, the next book I'm going to read is a biggie. In more ways than one. I'm hearing pretty impressive things from people who have read it. The word "amazing" keeps popping up.
Although, I'm not a huge fan of everything by Stephen King, the books I have liked, I've liked a lot. And since I'm of an age that I remember exactly where I was when President Kennedy was shot and vividly recall being in front of the TV seeing Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald, this is a book I can't pass up.
Coming in at 849 pages, I may still be reading it come January 1.
This is also the time of year when many of us pick our favorite books of the year, which is an almost impossible task for me. I'm going to ponder this for awhile and post that list separately at a later date.
But I can post my favorite cover! Hands down - for me - Erin Morgenstern's THE NIGHT CIRCUS (which will definitely end up on my "Best Of" list. I loved it!).
Here's my list of Books Read During 2011
Harley loves being read to
Since writing this, I received two ARCs in the mail that I just couldn't resist, so I have two new books to add (both excellent!):
FTC has a regulation which went into effect in December, 2009 which says, basically - "Amateur Bloggers to Disclose Freebies or Be Fined." Significantly fined. So. Since I happen to be an amateur blogger who sometimes receives free books, here's my required FTC Disclosure Notice: Dear FTC - Regarding review copies of books obtained for this blog. No other compensation is accepted beyond review copies of books - ever. When I do write a review, or opinion, the source of the book cited will be disclosed in the post in which the review/opinon appears. If you have questions, please feel free to contact me.
A Stanford graduate and former plaintiff's trial lawyer (her specialty was suing middle-aged white guys who stole other people's money), Twist Phelan writes critically-acclaimed and award- winning (including the ITW Thriller Award) short stories and the legal-themed Pinnacle Peak mystery series (Poisoned Pen Press). She is currently at work on a suspense novel set in the business world.
Batter Up
by Twist Phelan
I changed into my uniform in the umpires’ locker room—the one for players is boys-only. Everything was major league issue, from my cap and sunglasses to my uniform pants and cleats. I was pleased to see “Twist” instead of “Phelan” on the back of my jersey, and my bat had my name engraved on it, too. I even wore official boxer-briefs with the team name stitched on the waistband. I used the athletic cup as a dish to hold my sunflower seeds.
I trotted onto the field across the lush manicured grass as my name flashed on the JumboTron. I high-fived my teammates and stood on the first baseline for the National Anthem. Then it was fly ball drills, followed by fielding, pitching, and hitting.
When I received the invitation to attend batting practice this summer with the Colorado Rockies, I was over the moon. I’ve been a baseball fan since high school, when I cut class for the first and only time to see the Oakland A’s play in the World Series. When I lived in Arizona I followed the Diamondbacks, and now that Colorado is home, I root for the Rockies.
Practice was a humbling experience. Catching fly balls that rocketed skyward from the ball machine like cruise missiles was next to impossible. Despite the help of a fielding coach, I missed every one. I have new respect for the guys who do it while 40,000 fans scream at them. The sun really does get in your eyes.
Playing shortstop went a little better. I dove for a line drive—not only did I stop the ball, but I got my uniform dirty. Pitching was fine. The coach was impressed—okay, surprised—that I had a leg kick and could throw it over the plate.
Hitting was the highpoint. I mashed two balls (out of six) into the outfield off a former pitcher for the SF Giants. Granted he wasn’t throwing heat (lukewarm would be a charitable description; around 70 mph) and I’m sure twenty-five years of playing polo have sharpened my hit-ball-with-stick reflexes, but it was still a heady moment.
I refused to change out of my uniform after practice and stopped for a half-dozen unnecessary errands on the way home. En route, I thought about Marianne Moore’s poem Baseball and Writing. It opens:
Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting
and baseball is like writing.
You can never tell with either
how it will go
or what you will do;
generating excitement—
a fever in the victim—
I have been feeling the fever lately as words fly onto pages like balls fly into fielder’s gloves. Like a team manager, I have a game plan for my writing. And as happens in baseball, it doesn’t always work out—plots go into extra innings, a new character is sent in for relief, computers break when you’re at bat, the batting order of projects must be shuffled. Still, I wouldn’t play any other game, on or off the field. And in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t sleep in my uniform. Well, maybe just the jersey.
I just love this time of year. I love the spirit of it all. I love decorating the house. I love a tree with little twinkly lights and ornaments that have a special memory attached. I love all the cooking and baking that's a part of it. I love choosing what I hope is going to be THE perfect gift for my loved ones. And I love opening gifts from my loved ones. It brings out the kid in me, and I like that.
I had thought I might write about the whole debate about the words "Merry Christmas."
How some folks would prefer "Happy Holidays."
How some folks wouldn't.
Then I decided that no, I wasn't gonna do that.
The truth of the matter is, I was raised as a "Merry Christmas" kinda gal. I've been shouting these words for 63 years, and it's kinda hard to just drop all that and in a split second try to remember what I "should" say so as not to upset anyone. When I shout "Merry Christmas" it comes from the bottom of my heart. I do it with my arms wide open, a smile on my face and a little bit of joy in my heart that I'm willing to share. That's all I'm doing. I'm not trying to make it "MY" holiday; I'm really not attaching any religious connotation to it. It's just simply, on my part, a greeting. My reflections on the bigger picture of Christmas will take place in private. Quietly. In my home, and in my heart.
So, when I see you on the street during this time of year and shout "Merry Christmas!" rather than think badly of me, just shout back whatever your holiday greeting is and may we smile at one another, nod our heads and wish one another well.
Wishing you and yours a happy and joyous holiday season.
Molly Weston is an Apex native. She is a former magazine editor at the FPG Child Development Center at UNC-Chapel Hill.
Looking Back
by Molly Weston
It's here! It's the most wonderful time of the year, and one can't help making comparisons. Almost every house sparkles with lights, and stores begin the season before Halloween. When I was a little girl, however, decorations never appeared before Thanksgiving, and very few homes had more than simple greenery on the doors. In fact, I can remember only three houses in Apex that had outdoor Christmas decorations. Two families had big houses with tremendous evergreen trees in front. Every Christmas they would have the huge trees strung with colored lights. Folks would watch for the ladders to appear in the yards and then make plans to "ride by tonight and see the lights." Sometimes I'd beg Daddy to "turn around and let's see them again." It never took much begging.
One day when I was still young enough to enjoy roaming Daddy's wood working shop and listening to the men talk, my ears perked up with joy. Woodie Maynard approached Daddy with a novel Idea. "I want to make a sleigh with Santa Claus and the reindeer and put them on my roof," he said. "I'll put a spotlight on it at night. It'll be something special." There was nothing Daddy enjoyed more than a new project and Woodie had spent much time during his growing-up years in that workshop, so Daddy knew they could work together well.
Plans came together quickly. They even decided to make the reindeer's legs move! Woodie bought outdoor plywood and patterns (I'm sure they embellished them!) and soon eight tiny reindeer became reality. The sleigh and Santa quickly followed. When the painting was finished, the structure was ready to be mounted. It stretched across nearly the entire top of the Maynard's ranch house. No longer would a single spotlight highlight the creation, Woodie put several spot lights to illuminate the whole thing. It was totally worth it. We heard reports that folks were driving out from Raleigh to see the Apex decorations.
Our small downtown district's merchants also exhibited holiday spirit. Near the curb in front of every store, the sidewalks had two-inch metal pipes sunk flush with the sidewalks in front of every storefront. The only purpose of these pipes was to hold the live Christmas trees bought and decorated by every merchant. All the trees were strung with colored lights and most were decorated. As soon as dusk fell, the lights would be turned on and the whole downtown turned into a Christmas wonderland! Ah, it was lovely.
Folks were very careful when parking cars. Nobody wanted to hit a Christmas tree! Occasionally, however, somebody would back a little too far and hear the anguished cries of the children in the back seat, "You've hit the Christmas tree!" Drivers, passers by and merchants would pitch in to right the tree and calm the cries.
To further the Christmas spirit downtown, a live Santa Claus roamed the streets, greeting children and adults alike. A first grade teacher, my mother really believed in Santa Claus. She'd sing out, "Hello, Old Santa," to the jolly man as we walked to the grocery store. Mother always infected people around her with the spirit of the magical season.
Few people had more than a tree inside, but Mother was ahead of the curve. She'd use cotton and mica snow with abandon. She'd whip Ivory Snow into stiff peaks and pile it gracefully on both greenery and bare branches. One year, probably during the mid-fifties, she had a grand idea: She and Daddy would make a mobile to hang from the arch dividing the living and dining rooms, and the heat from the floor furnace would make it move.
We always put our Christmas tree in front of the living room window facing the street. These two rooms were usually closed off and heated only when we had company. The mobile in the arch would connect the decorations from the two rooms.
Daddy was agreeable—remember, he loved a new challenge. Mother bought new Christmas balls for the mobile—a box each of gold, green, and chartreuse. The plan was to cut lengths of clothes hanger wire, assemble them into a mobile with light-weight fishing line, and tie the balls to the wire with additional lengths of the fishing line. Somehow, the directions failed to mention the near impossibility of balancing everything perfectly. Mother and Daddy worked on that mobile every night after supper for weeks. Finally, it was perfect. (Their tempers, however, were slightly frayed.) The doors to the formerly off-limits rooms were thrown open and the floor furnace ran all through the season (well, what was left of it, anyway)—and everybody who came to the house, whether guest or delivery man, was invited to see the mobile.
At last, it was Christmas Eve. As usual, Mother kept me busy all day—I had to get ready to welcome Santa Claus. Santa, you see, would be driving a sleigh with eight tiny reindeer (not to be confused with the sleigh and reindeer on Woodie's roof!). By the time they traveled to North Carolina from the North Pole, they'd be ready for refreshments. I was sent to the garden to harvest hay for the reindeer. Mother explained that reindeer liked all sorts of dried hay–the dried vines from our garden would be perfect. And I should gather lots of it because there were eight reindeer and they'd be very hungry. They also would be thirsty. I must have a bucket of water ready for them. It took me many trips to the water spigot, carrying a quart of two of water every trip before I filled that bucket!
Finally, after supper, Mother helped me arrange an attractive plate of cookies and a big glass of milk for Santa. I was allowed to choose an embroidered napkin from my grandmother's handiwork to leave at the place setting. After the day's chores, I was ready for bed, if not for sleep.
When I awoke on Christmas morning, even before I checked my toys, I looked to see if Santa had eaten his cookies. All I found were crumbs—and a very dirty napkin. Mother shook her head and said, "That Santa Claus! Look at the soot he got all over my good napkin!" Oh yes, Mother really believed in Santa Claus and that magic will always continue in my family.
Today I have two or three Christmas trees every year (two remain up continuously), poinsettias in several rooms, and gaily wrapped packages. There's frequently the smell was Christmas wassail coming from the kitchen and cries of, "Don't eat the pretty ones!" when cookies come from the oven. Inspired by my mother, I fill the house with holiday pillows, candles, and greenery. It's just the thing to do.
My parents and Woodie are no longer with us, but Woodie's children continue the tradition. Just a block from my house, the second generation Santa drives his sleigh with eight tiny reindeer across the front lawn of the family's home place.
Christmas Wassail
2 qt. water
1 cup sugar
3 allspice berries
1 stick cinnamon
2 cloves
1 qt. cider (not apple juice!)
1 qt. orange juice
1 cup lemon juice
Tie spices in cheesecloth. Combine water, sugar and spices; bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 1 hour. Remove spices. Add remaining ingredients and heat through. Refrigerate until used. Heat before serving.
After snackies and drinks, then dinner - we got down to the business of the gifts.
This is always a highlight.
Some of the gifts are hysterical and silly, a lot of the gifts are lovely handmade items, and there are some wonderful pieces of art. We have a potter, a sculptor, a collage artist, a couple of painters, a woodworker/furniture maker, a leather worker, a couple of knitters, a stained glass artist, a weaver, a couple of writers, and a faux bois concrete artist. Some of them are fortunate enough to earn their living with their art. It's a wonderful group to be a part of.
I wish I had thought to take pictures of all the gifts, but oh well - I was too busy laughing and enjoying the moment. But I did get a few.
The pink hat has been passed around the past several years.
Will this be its last??
Noooo, these shoes were not one of the gifts, but I fell in love with them and had to share them with you. Aren't they adorable?!
The baby of the neighborhood makes her entrance. Meet Smudge. Can you tell she has quite a fan club?!
And Smudge shares a little of the attention with Whitey. who is one of the Grand Dames of the neighborhood.
This is the bowl I really wanted to win during our Christmas gift game. Unfortunately, it wasn't part of the game.
But this was! Made by one of our neighbors who is a potter and carved by his wife who is sculptor. And it's mine, all mine. And I am over the moon about it! Gorgeous.
I love this painting. The title is "Firefly." It was painted by one of our resident artists. I "almost" had this, but it was taken away and will be living in someone else's home. Lucky souls.
I stepped out on the deck to take a picture of the moon over the mountains and I have no idea what happened, other than I guess I moved and ended up with this shot. Which I like.
Another wonderful Christmas gathering in the neighborhood. Here's hoping for many, many more.
