I love poinsettias. Red, green, or white, it doesn’t matter; although I do prefer the red. This year I have a small red one as a center piece on the dining room table, as well as a large floor plant.

Poinsettias are not native to the United States, but originate in southern Mexico and Central America where they “flower” in the winter. Actually, they aren’t flowers at all, but special leaves called bracts. The Aztecs called the plant cuetlaxochitl and used the flowers to make purple dye for cloth and cosmetics. They made fever medicine from the milky white sap we know as latex.

Joel Roberts Poinsett is credited for originally bringing poinsettias to the United States in 1828. Poinsett was appointed the first US ambassador to Mexico in 1825 and shipped the plant back to his plantation greenhouses in South Carolina where he began growing the plants and sending them to friends and botanical gardens as gifts.

One of those friends, John Barroom of Philadelphia, gave a plant to his friend, Robert Buist. Buist sold the plant under its botanical or Latin name, Euphorbia pulcherrima, which means, “the most beautiful Euphorbia”. Once it became known in the mid-1830s that Ambassador Poinsett was the one to introduce the plant to the country, people began referring to it as a poinsettia.

One version of how poinsettias became linked with Christmas can be told through an old Mexican legend: “There was once a poor Mexican girl called Pepita who had no present to give the baby Jesus at the Christmas Eve Services. As Pepita walked to the chapel, sadly, her cousin Pedro tried to cheer her up. ‘Pepita,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that even the smallest gift, given by someone who loves him, will make Jesus happy.’ Pepita didn’t know what she could give, so she picked a small handful of weeds from the roadside and made them into a small bouquet. She felt embarrassed because she could only give this small present to Jesus. As she walked through the chapel to the altar, she remembered what Pedro had said. She began to feel better, knelt down and put the bouquet at the bottom of the nativity scene. Suddenly, the bouquet of weeds burst into bright red flowers, and everyone who saw them were sure they had seen a miracle. From that day on, the bright red flowers were known as the ‘Flores de Noche Buena’, or ‘Flowers of the Holy Night’.”

Another interpretation, one I’ve heard many times over the years, is this: the shape of the flower represents the Star of Bethlehem, the red color the blood of Christ, and the white leaves purity.

For more fun facts on Christmas traditions, go to www.whychristmas.com/customs.

Christmas is a time of traditions. As I decorate our home this week I am reminded of one many of you have probably never heard of: the Christmas Pickle. The story is that this is an old German custom. You hang a glass ornament shaped like a pickle on the tree and the first child to find it gets an extra present. In our case it was something small, like a bag of M&M’s. If parents couldn’t afford to purchase an extra gift, that child was allowed to open presents first.

Actually, the origin of this tradition is rather murky. The ornament may have first appeared in the United States in the 1880s. Woolworth stores were importing glass ornaments from Germany in the shapes of different fruits and vegetables. It’s possible a pickle was among those ornaments. The thing is, most Germans have never heard of this tradition.

There are two other possible origins of the Christmas pickle, both equally odd. The first goes back to the American Civil War. A soldier who was born in Bavaria was taken prisoner. Starving, his last request was to have one last pickle before he died. The guard granted his request and presumably this pickle so buoyed the man’s resolve that he had the mental and physical strength to live.

The second is linked to St. Nicholas and takes us back to the medieval tale of two Spanish boys. The boys were traveling home from school for the holidays. On their journey, they stopped at an inn for the night. The evil innkeeper murdered the boys and hid their bodies in a pickle barrel. However, St. Nicholas stopped at the inn that night, found the boys’ bodies in the barrel, and brought them back to life. There is a different legend of St. Nicholas saving two boys from a barrel, but that barrel held meat for pies and not pickles.

No matter where the tradition began, I know it was something my children looked forward to every year. They’re adults now and I still get asked about the pickle!

Oh, and in case you were wondering where the Christmas Pickle Capital of the world is located, it’s Berrien Springs, Michigan. They hold a Christmas pickle festival in early December every year.

For more fun facts on Christmas traditions, go to www.whychristmas.com/customs

Thanksgiving is over and now begins the mad rush to Christmas. What we need to remind ourselves when the planning and gift shopping panic sets in, when the constant countdown reminders begin to haunt us, is that this is not what Christmas is all about. For those of us who profess to be Christians, Christmas is still, at its very core, about the birth of Jesus Christ. But, for all of us, no matter what we believe, Christmas is about gathering with our friends and families to laugh, sing, possibly drink too much, and definitely once more eat too much before embarking on our annual diet pledge.

In my novel, “Mary Bishop”, my heroine finds herself alone at Christmas while the pains of her husband’s death are still raw. She laments the loss of her husband, her children, parents and siblings. She remembers how wonderful Christmas was before and tells herself there is no reason to ever celebrate it again.

“While Christmas growing up always began with church it didn’t truly start for her and her brothers and sister until Mother’s Christmas feast was laid before them that afternoon. The whole house smelled like heaven and the memory still made her mouth water. There would be a turkey roasted to a crispy brown, golden yams swimming in butter, carrots baked in a honey glaze, fruit compote, and sweets the likes of which they never saw any other time of year. After dinner, their bellies nearly bursting, they’d take turns being blindfolded and see who they could capture first. No one could ever capture her and she laughed now at the thought. Not a tap of the foot or a creaking floorboard betrayed her position, nor did she give into the temptation to giggle, like Lucy, when their brothers’ hands came a little too close…

She continued those same traditions after her marriage to Earl and the birth of their son, Ander, adding traditions of their own as the years went by. There were the candy sticks Earl handed out to all the children in the congregation every Christmas. There was the tree with its beautiful candles and decorations they modeled after the illustration they saw of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert with their children, although much smaller than the royal tree, and the decorations not near as grand. Ander spent hours searching the woods for anything he could fashion into an ornament; a pine cone or an abandoned bird’s nest, long lengths of ivy they would drape around the tree, clusters of berries to tie to the end of branches, anything to brighten their holiday. But Ander was gone now, too…

 Everyone was gone. Everyone but her…

 Mary wiped her eyes. They were tears of both happiness and sadness. She could see no reason for a feast only she would eat and no reason for a tree only she would gaze upon; yet, there were still the children. She knew Earl’s candy sticks were the only treat some of them received on Christmas and she couldn’t bear to disappoint them.”

Mary forces herself to set aside her grief and loneliness for the sake of the local children and, in doing so, sets in motion her journey to a new life and happiness. That’s what Christmas is about, finding joy in what we can do for others. It can be as simple as buying one less gift for someone who already has plenty and putting that money saved into the Salvation Army’s red kettle, or baking an extra batch of cookies (giving up half of what you really don’t need to eat yourself?) to share with the elderly couple next door. Food cupboards are in desperate need of donations and your local soup kitchen might need a helping hand serving Christmas dinner to those in need of a hot meal. Take your children caroling at a nearby nursing home. The residents won’t care if you sing out of tune and your children will get the chance to see there’s more to the season than whether or not they receive the newest electronic device from Santa. You won’t have to look far to find a long list of ways to give back. Find your own Christmas spirit.

For my final Giving Thanks blog I have to say I am thankful for my family; not only the family that shares my DNA, but the family I married into, my church family, my writer family, my work family, my community family, etc. We are all family, and that means we don’t always get along. But that doesn’t mean I’m not thankful that they are in my life because even the negative can have a positive effect. We learn from our negative experiences, at least we do after we stop crying and complaining and asking everyone why so-and-so is so mean. Just as our own mistakes can teach us why we don’t want to do that again, other people’s mistakes can teach us why we won’t want to do that ourselves.

And fair warning, as a writer my mistakes AND yours make great fodder for my stories. I’ve also been told that an excellent way to get past the anger of the “why is so-and-so so mean” question is to write that b____ into your next novel and then kill off him or her. Let’s call it “ink therapy”.

Now that the holidays are upon us and we are once again faced with dinners and parties that will include members of all our various families, here are some words of advice: 1) don’t debate politics, good advice even in a non-contentious election year; 2) don’t talk religion, unless you are with your church family; 3) let go of all the old complaints, dredging them up isn’t going to change the past; and 4) SMILE. If you smile, even when you don’t feel like smiling, before you know it your mood will begin to change for the positive. The day will not go on forever. It might feel like it will, but believe me, there is a light at the end of the tunnel and everyone will eventually go home.

So, I’m wishing you all Happy Holidays! Remember, family is a gift and a gift should always be received with gratitude and thankfulness, even if it isn’t exactly what you were hoping for.

This week’s Giving Thanks is an easy one. I’m thankful for my writing community. Some are friends I’ve known personally for years, while others are just names and small pics in a Facebook group. But I credit all of them for keeping me going and getting me to where I am today: a completed novel requested and right now being read by two different publishers.

I’ve been making up stories for as long as I can remember. Not those kinds of stories…well, ok, maybe a few…but the kind where characters in my imagination go on adventures. I’ve always been intrigued by the stories I read in books and have always wanted to write one of my own. Over the years I’ve made several unsuccessful attempts but I never quit. Oh, there were times when I had to set aside my dream because, as we all know, life happens. I had children to raise, I went back to school, and then I had to work to help get them through college. But now that they’re independent and well-adjusted adults I’ve been able to turn back to my writing.

Then about a year and a half ago I met three women from WisRWA at an author event. I had just started writing “Mary Bishop”. It was to be a dark and twisty tale of revenge. Think Clint Eastwood spaghetti western where the main character wears a skirt. Not sure where all that anger came from that fueled that plotline, but that was the plan. Tina approached me after the reading and introduced herself, asked what I write, and I told her about my then new project. She suggested it could be a romance, maybe Earl wasn’t really dead. I told her no, he was definitely dead and I buried him. She said it could still be a romance and I replied that it was a revenge tale. She suggested I visit their next meeting and gave me the information. I said I’d think about it.

Well, I thought about it all the way home. And the more I thought about it, the more I wanted to at least visit their meeting. When I got home I emailed Tina that I would plan on coming to the next meeting. In the meantime, I kept writing. I struggled with the Christmas church service scene where Mary finds herself sitting next to her late husband’s best friend, Oliver. My thought was that his wife was sitting next to him, yet Oliver insisted on taking Mary’s hand during the service, giving it a light squeeze and smiling. Every time I typed that scene I’d go back and delete that part. I tried to tell him that was inappropriate, asked him what his wife would think of such a thing. His response to me: What wife? My wife passed away five years ago and I’ve been secretly in love with Mary Bishop for a long time now. That’s when I realized my book was, indeed, a romance.

As you know, I then joined RWA and WisRWA (Romance Writers of America and their Wisconsin chapter). Without my WisRWA group I’ve no doubt “Mary Bishop” would have floundered and become just one more unfinished novel in my filing cabinet. You see, no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get Mary to tell me how she planned on getting revenge on the town of Deer Creek. I wanted it, but I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t write it, and that’s because she didn’t want revenge. She wanted to be left alone. Or so she thought at the time. In reality, she wanted to find love again.

Now I have a completed manuscript that I believe will be published, if not by one of the two currently reading it, then by another. I know because Mary told me the story that was truly in her heart and that kind of story always wins in the end.

It’s during the holiday season that we come to truly appreciate, and rely on, family traditions. One I’ve become very close to since we’ve been back in Wisconsin is “lefse day”. It’s that Tuesday in early November when I get together with my sister-in-law, Sue, and we spend the day making lefse. For you unfortunates not familiar with this treat, lefse is a traditional Norwegian flatbread made from potatoes, flour, sugar, salt, and butter. It’s my job to roll puck-sized pieces of dough into rounds so thin you can just start to see through them, then Sue cooks them on a special griddle. And they are delicious! Doesn’t matter if you like them with butter, butter and sugar, jam, or cream cheese; they are a treat. Eaten mostly around the holidays, we freeze them to enjoy year round.

For my annual batch I use 10lbs of potatoes, all of which have to be peeled, boiled, and then riced, the night before. From this we will make about 5 and a half loaves, and get a dozen lefse per full loaf. That’s 60+ pieces of lefse and will take us about an hour per loaf to roll and cook.

What makes this a wonderful tradition and not just a chore is the social side of lefse-making. Sue arrives about 9:30 and after the loaves are formed and put into the refrigerator to set, we will have at least an hour of visiting over coffee and fresh baked goods. We remember past years by revisiting the journal we keep with the recipe: date, sunny vs cloudy, air temperature, snow or no snow, who stopped by, how many loaves we made and how many pieces we ended up with, any special event. Then we start the journal entry for that year.

But come afternoon the party really begins. While we roll/cook friends and relatives drop by (women, of course) and the wine and snacks come out with more visiting, more laughing, more gossip. And a little game we might call “What is that shape?” when my roll-out doesn’t turn out very round. The more wine, the better the guess and the harder we laugh. By the time we finish up and the ladies are leaving, our husbands show up and it’s time to rest our tired feet over a dinner of hot soup and fresh lefse.

Women have a tradition of getting together to make their more arduous or monotonous chores a pleasure. There were quilting bees, for one, and the process of preserving food for the winter table. As families we worked together to plant and harvest. There’s no better example than a good old-fashioned barn raising. It’s why we bring food to those who are sick or grieving. We know they would do the same for us, will do the same for us, when needed.

Family traditions, they remind us we are loved and appreciated, that we are not alone.

 

Halloween is over and November is here. We’re rushing head first into the holiday season and Thanksgiving is only three weeks away. For the month of November I’ll be blogging about the things I’m thankful for and I encourage my readers to comment, to share the things for which they give thanks. All I ask is that you keep it clean.

We are less than one week away from deciding who will be our next president after being subjected to what has arguably been the nastiest, the ugliest, of campaigns…at least in my lifetime. Despite this, I am thankful that we live in a country where we have this opportunity, the right to vote for our leaders. Granted, sometimes it feels like all we can do is pick the lesser of two evils, so to speak, but we have the right to do it. There are many countries where there are no options. Their leaders are the ones who carry the biggest guns and can intimidate (murder?) the most opponents. We don’t have to worry about that here in the United States. There are no military coups. There are no sham elections where your vote doesn’t matter because the winner has been predetermined. If an election doesn’t go as we wish, perhaps the only person we have to blame is ourselves.

Did you vote? No? Then you can’t complain about the outcome. Did you feel strongly about one of the candidates? Yes? Well, did you volunteer your time to help his or her campaign? No? Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference, but maybe it would have. We have options, and with those options comes great power.

I’m thankful I live in a democracy where we, as individuals as well as States and as a nation, have a voice. I love my country. I am proud to say I am an American. It seems every day we see on the news those who say they are not proud to be Americans; they are ashamed, even, to admit to being an American. That makes me sad. Are we a perfect country full of perfect citizens? No, of course not; there isn’t such a thing. That’s why we need our armed forces to protect us as a nation, our police to protect us as individuals, and our elected officials at all levels to consider our needs when passing legislation. It takes a village, as we’ve often heard, to raise a child. I say it takes a village to raise a proud and strong nation. We should try to be a part of the village that offers solutions, not the village that’s part of the problem. The democratic election process is part of the solution.

Remember this when you go to the polls. No matter which candidates win, be thankful you have this right. Be proud that you live in a country that honors and respects the people’s voice.

And don’t forget about those unable to get to the polls on their own. Help them contribute their voice to our great democracy by giving them a ride.

For me, the best part of waking up in the morning is that first cup of coffee. Coffee drinkers, you understand what I’m saying. Yes, I know, it’s great to just be alive, to realize God has given you another day on this earth. If I were struggling with a serious illness I would agree with you, but right now I’m really happy for that first cup of coffee. Nothing tastes the same; not even the second cup.

While perusing the internet for facts about coffee I came across an interesting article at goodhousekeeping.com by Amanda Hawkins: 26 Surprising Facts About Coffee. Here are a few you might not know.

Legend has it shepherds discovered coffee in Ethiopia circa 800 A.D. Goats appeared to “dance” after eating coffee berries. A local monk made a beverage from the coffee berries and found it kept him awake at night. There you are; the first cup of coffee.

Coffee is a fruit. The beans are the pits of a cherry-like berry grown on bushes. While more accurately a seed, it’s called a bean because of its resemblance to actual beans. And they were originally consumed as a food. Coffee berries were mixed with fat to create an energy-rich snack ball. (No, thank you.) It was also consumed as a wine made from the pulp of coffee berries. (Oh! My favorite end of the day beverage! Win! Win!)

The world’s most expensive coffee is another no thank you. If you’re squeamish you may want to skip this one. It comes from the feces of a Sumatran wild cat, the kopi luwak or civet cat. They eat the coffee cherries and then defecate the undigested coffee beans. If you’re interested, I see you can buy it on Amazon for roughly $12.00 an ounce. (I’ll stick to my pumpkin spice, hazelnut, etc. No civet cat feces flavored coffee for me.)

There have been five attempts to ban coffee. It was first banned in Mecca in 1511 because it was believed to stimulate radical thought. (I don’t know about “radical” thoughts, but it certainly helps me think.) Sixteenth century Italian clergymen believed it to be “satanic”; but Pope Clement VII loved coffee so much he lifted the ban and had it baptized in 1600. (Seriously!?) Ottoman leader Murad IV ascended to the throne in 1623 and created punishments for drinking coffee; including, beatings and being thrown into the sea. In 1746, the Swedish government made it illegal to even own coffee cups and dishes. Finally, in 1777, Frederick the Great of Prussia declared beer superior because he worried coffee was harming the country’s beer consumption. (I don’t know; I’m acquainted with plenty of people who drink their fair share of both.)

I like this one: coffee drinkers have a lower risk of Alzheimer’s. Studies show older patients with higher caffeine levels in their blood were more likely to avoid Alzheimer’s. It may also have positive effects on type 2 diabetes and Parkinson’s. And, it may protect against skin cancer in women.

Coffee stays warmer when you add cream; but when you add milk, it weakens the effects of caffeine.

Coffee was brought to New Amsterdam, present-day New York City, in the mid-1600s but didn’t become popular until after the Boston Tea Party in 1773. The Civil War and other conflicts also helped boost coffee’s popularity.

Dark roast coffees have less caffeine than lighter roasts because roasting actually burns off some of the caffeine. And for you people who swear by your decaf, decaf does not mean caffeine-free. Although I will grant you, there is far less caffeine. An 8oz cup of decaf has 2-12 mgs of caffeine, whereas, a regular cup as from 95 to 200 mgs.

One last interesting fact about coffee, as all us coffee drinkers already know, just smelling coffee can wake you up. Simply inhaling the aroma of coffee can alter some genes in the brain. When you actually drink that cup, the caffeine will reach your bloodstream within 10 minutes.

Here’s the link if you want to check out more interesting facts about coffee: http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/health/diet-nutrition/a30303/facts-about-coffee/

What does love look like? While love is different for all of us and can change based on the moment, we can still recognize it when we see it for someone else.

I was in 6^th grade, 11 years old, when my grandfather died. It was October 16, 1970. He was a carpenter and died of a head injury when his scaffold was hooked by a crane and tipped. He was 53 years old. I remember being told then that he knew he would die on that job. What I didn’t learn until recently was that he knew what DAY he would die.

Believing that he would die soon, my grandfather completed all the outstanding repair jobs on their home so my grandmother wouldn’t have to worry about them. My grandmother’s birthday was October 22^nd. Since he would not be there for her birthday, he bought her gift and gave it to her early. (My mother and I found the card tucked safely away in the same box with the guest registry from his funeral.) He did not want her to be without her birthday gift from him. My great-grandmother was living with them at the time because the weather was turning cold and she did not have central heating or running water in her little house. The night of October 15th she said her good-nights and that she would see them in the morning. Grandpa told her no she wouldn’t, this would be the last time she would see him. My grandfather normally rose and left for work before anyone else was awake. The next morning he woke my grandmother early and told her he wanted to hold her one last time. He was killed a couple hours later.

Like I said, I never knew this side of the story until recently. I knew my grandparents loved each other. I remember how devastated my grandmother was when he died. I can’t even imagine how she felt every time he told her he was going to die soon, or the fear she must have felt when he left for work that morning. How many prayers did she say asking God to bring him home again?

How many of us wish we knew the day of our death so we could prepare ourselves and our loved ones? We could make sure all the bills were paid and the financial accounts/files in order. We could see that the important chores were completed. We could buy birthday and/or Christmas gifts for our loved ones; perhaps write letters telling them how much they mean to us or take them on that once-in-a-lifetime vacation we’re always talking about but never getting around to.

Unfortunately, even if we are told by our doctor that we only have so long to live we don’t truly know the day of our death. Doctors are human and it’s only a guess. You can be given six months and live two years. So, what I’m saying is, perhaps we should live every day as if it’s our last. I know that’s become a cliché, but it’s true. Don’t quit your day job and spend all your money on a world cruise, but do tell your friends and family how much you love them. Let go of grudges. Spend time making memories. That’s what will stay with them after you’re gone.

Move forward 34 years, the evening of October 15, 2004. My grandmother loses her balance reaching to pick up something she dropped on the floor of her room at the nursing home. She falls and strikes her head. Early the next morning, October 16, 2004, my grandmother passes away.