Category Archives: Texas

A Little Tease: Author Q/A and an Excerpt from My Next Novel

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I’m cheating a little tonight. I was going to write a quick blog post before hitting the hay, but then I realized I had recently answered an Author Q/A for a blog during my two-week blog tour, but the content was never used.

So I think I’ll publish it here, just for kicks. The really cool thing? It includes a quick teaser of content from my second novel, A Good Kind of Knowing, which will be out this summer. I hope you enjoy it. But first, the Q/A.

Q: What inspired you to write this book, Blue Straggler?

I had written a short story with three of the characters that now appear in Blue Straggler (Bailey, Rudy and Idamarie), and I just loved them so much that I needed to put them into a broader story. Plus, the main character in the short story (Bailey) was going through a kind of early mid-life crisis, and I knew a lot of friends who were going through similar things, as was I. I thought the story could be universal and really explore what it means to find out who you are and where you’re meant to land in life.

Q: Do you have a favorite place you like to write?

Our deck in the summer = paradise for me.

Yes! On my deck in the spring, summer and fall. I live in a log cabin in a beautiful area in the Colorado mountains, in the middle of a national forest. It’s so peaceful; I can’t think of a better place to settle in and crank out stories. When winter rolls around, and the deck is not an option due to 20-below temperatures and snow, I write in my back bedroom or in the great room, next to a warm, crackling fire. Thank goodness for laptops (and golden retrievers to keep my feet warm)! We’re talking of moving to a lower elevation soon; it’ll be interesting to see how it affects my writing.

Q: Do you have a favorite author of your own?

So many. I love Barbara Kingsolver. She’s probably at the top of my list. Anna Quindlen would be there, too. (Her new memoir is brilliant.) Anne Lamott and Lorrie Moore. Larry McMurtry. Cormac McCarthy. Toni Morrison. I just can’t choose; it’s like asking me which of my many furry babies (dogs) I’ve had through the years I like best.

Q: A favorite character? One of yours or someone else’s that touched your heart?

A: Not to toot my own horn, but in my Blue Straggler, I love, love Idamarie. She’s just so down-to-earth and real and colorful and she always shoots from the hip. She’s the kind of Texan I miss most, living in Colorado like I do now. If I could have an Idamarie in my life, I think life would be even more fun than it is now. And I’d likely be more grounded with her sage advice around.

Q: Are you currently working on anything? If so, can you give us a tease?

I am putting the finishing touches on my next novel, A Good Kind of Knowing. It’s set in a small, rural town in Texas, and explores how all of these small-town lives are interconnected, and how even though we all come from different places in our lives, we have a lot in common — big things like humanity and small things like a love of good music.

So, I’ll leave you with a super tease! This is the most I think I’ve revealed of any part of the book. As you’ll see right away, A Good Kind of Knowing is a different kind of novel than Blue Straggler. It’s not comic fiction, though there is some humor.

This is the kind of jukebox mentioned in the excerpt below.

This is an excerpt from about halfway through the story. Sera is the main character in the novel; she owns a local music store. She’s married to Bill, but has a “special” relationship, which is growing in intimacy and closeness, to a handsome young musician (Mack). She’s been pretty sick for a while, and most people in town know it. Some of her friends have been trying to help out at her business while she deals with her illness.

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Mack waited for her at Antonio’s bar. Antonio stood over by the pool tables, emptying ashtrays from the night before. The afternoon sun filtered in through the small windows up front, sending sleek slats of light into the otherwise dark room and catching the perpetual dust of the place in a kind of suspension around the room. Two men, both in their eighties, sat at a square table in the corner, smoking thick cigars and playing cards. Every now and then, one of them would chuckle and cough. Antonio had turned on the jukebox—an old Wurlitzer with just one remaining front bulb flickering—and pushed the numbers for his favorites, mostly Freddy Fender hits.

   Antonio mumbled the words to “Vaya Con Dios” as he picked up the previous night’s litter around the booths in the back. Empty beer bottles knocked together in his hand.

     Mack sat at the bar, his felt hat on the barstool beside him, his hands working to fold a square bar napkin into the shape of a flimsy paper airplane. He shifted his weight on the barstool, glanced back at Antonio, then shifted again. “Sure I can’t help you back there?” It was the third time he’d asked.

       Antonio hollered his response. Same as before.

       The front door squeaked a little, drowning out the low-playing music for a second, and Sera stepped into the bar, jeans hanging loose on her hips and one of Bill’s sweatshirts tied around her waist. A blast of fall slipped in behind her and the wind sucked the heavy door back hard as she came in.

       “Hey there. Been waiting long?” She greeted Mack with a quick kiss on the cheek. He wondered if she’d meant to let her lips linger, or if it was only in his mind.

      “Thanks for meeting me, hon. I needed to get out of the house for a while.” Sera waved to Antonio as she talked. “I don’t know how long I can stay, though. I never know when my body’s going to give up the ship for the day.”

       “I was glad you called,” Mack replied, nodding again at Antonio as he motioned for them to help themselves to the cold longnecks chilling in a long, aluminum tub next to the bar.

       Mack picked out a couple and used the corner of his brown work jacket to twist off the caps.

     “Can you even have beer?” Mack hadn’t thought to ask before he handed it to her.

       “Oh hell yes. Why not? Not like a little beer every now and then ever killed a person.” She laughed at her joke and nudged Mack’s shoulder.

       “Funny.” He didn’t mean it.

      Antonio walked over to them and put his hands on Sera’s neck.

      “How’s my favorite lady today?” Antonio asked, squeezing her thin shoulders. Mack straightened next to her.

       Sera smiled and swirled around on her barstool to face Antonio. “Tony. Join us? I’m taking a walk on the wild side, going to see how hops and barley affect pancreatic distress.”

         Antonio glanced at Mack, then back at Sera. “Maybe later, okay?”

         “Later,” Sera agreed.

         As Antonio left to check on his two customers, Sera turned back to Mack and asked how things were at the store.

       “Nobody’ll tell me a thing, Mack. Bill hardly even speaks to me these days. I’m lucky if I get a good morning from him, much less a report on how things are going. And I went by the shop on my way here, and Tommy Lee and Ruby D. were down there—on a Sunday, mind you—arguing over shelf space.

       “I think it’s all gonna be alright, Sera. Everybody’s tryin’ real hard.”

       “I know,” she said, letting out a long sigh. “You know, I’m really thinking you all are crazy and we ought to just close the shop for a while. It would ease my guilt of you all trying to make this work.”

      Mack cleared this throat and nodded toward the bar door. “Guess this weather’s gonna stay cool for a while longer,” he said, doing his best to change the subject.

       Sera didn’t answer. They sat together, listening to Freddy Fender sing about being there before the next teardrop falls. One of the men sang out to the chorus in Spanish.

      “I’ve been thinking about heaven, Mack. I mean, there’s a side of me that wants to believe there is this garden of sunshine up there waiting for me with all the people I’ve ever lost in the world sitting around sipping lemonade in the shade. The weather would never get hot, and there’d be cats everywhere and my mother and Otis Redding and Patsy Cline would all be singing every night at a little dive. But something tells me it isn’t that simple.”

        “It could be.”

      “Yeah, but what if we’re living in heaven right now? I mean, what if we’ve got it all wrong, and we’re already there.”

      “I guess there’d be some people going around missing out on the lemonade.”

     Sera smiled. “Maybe we ought to switch the lemonade to Shiner Bock.” She clicked her bottle against Mack’s.

      In the back, Antonio turned the key on the jukebox and punched in new codes to start the music up again.

      An old Johnny Rodriguez song dropped into play, a melody about being down on the Rio Grande, lovers walking hand in hand. Sera hummed, and Mack watched the beer swirl against the glass as he moved his bottle in circles with his wrist.

    “Do you realize we’ve never danced together?” Sera turned to face him.

    Mack smiled slightly, concentrating on his beer. “Guess there was never a time, what with me on stage and all.”

      Sera waited for a moment. “What about now?”

      Mack surveyed the room. “Now?”

       He looked at her—this woman with eyes that danced no matter what the music, with a face that could weaken any man, with a spirit that spread around her like a magician’s stardust.

       He blushed, then stood up and offered his hand. She grinned and he grinned and the old men in the corner grinned. Even Antonio looked up from his calculator—and slowly grinned.

       Together, Mack and Sera swayed and moved in a slow two-step around the center of the hardwood floor. Daylight streamed in around them like nature’s spotlight. Mack held her loosely at first, but Sera moved as close to him as she could, her left hand at the nape of his neck, her right in his leading hand.

       He heard her breathe in, but was not aware that she was actually trying to hold on to his scent—an earthy combination—part leather, part cotton. Part hay, part rope. Part beer, part coffee. Part horse mane and part crushed wild weeds.

       As she rested her head on his shoulder, Mack let his own breath out slowly, for fear she’d know, finally, full well, the effect she had on him. Her hair, blown in many directions from the wind when she came in, tickled his nose. But he couldn’t brush it away, didn’t ever want to brush it away. He closed his eyes and memorized how her body moved, how somehow he was no longer leading and his body was only reacting to the sway of Sera’s hips, his boots following the sliding of Sera’s across the floor.

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So … like it? Hate it? Let me know by commenting below! Thanks for reading, always.

 

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How Growing Up With Country Music Made Me a Better Writer

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I know there are plenty of music snobs out there who look down their noses at country music. And I will admit that some of what’s played on country radio these days isn’t any better than sugary, dance-mix pop or chip-on-the-shoulder rap.

But the country music that I love, and that I grew up on, is good stuff — some of the best music ever made in my opinion. I spent many a night drifting off to sleep to the sounds of my parents playing dominoes with friends or barbecuing a brisket on Sunday afternoons, while listening to folks like Willie Nelson, Gary Stewart, Charley Pride, Charlie Rich, Eddie Rabbit, Loretta Lynn, Conway Twitty, George Strait, Moe Bandy, Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline.

And you know what? I’m so thankful that my parents and grandparents raised me to love country music the way I do. I’m so glad my world was inundated with steel guitars and fiddles and the ability to two-step by the time I was 3 years old. Because I truly believe it has made me a better writer.

If the only song you think of when you think of Loretta Lynn is "Coal Miner's Daughter," you are missing out. Try "Don't Come Home A-Drinkin'" and you'll hear perfection.

Why? Because country music is all about hard drinking, hard loving and hard living. It’s based on strong, get-you-in-the-gut storytelling. Except for the aforementioned crapola that somehow makes its way to radio these days, country can tell a heart-wrenching or heartwarming tale like no other genre of music. (Blues is a very close second. A blues guitar riff can give me goose bumps without a word ever being sung.)

Basically, country music has long explored humanity, in all its goodness and flaws. Wife left you for another man? Check. Lost your job and long to tell your boss to go to hell? Check. Drowning your sorrows in whiskey? Check. Cheating with your best friend’s husband? Check. White trash girl honing in on your S.O.? Check. Love your mama even though she’s in jail? Check.

Seriously, is there any better fodder for good, juicy fiction than these themes? Can anyone really listen to Willie’s Whiskey River (Take My Mind) without wanting a stiff drink? Is there any sexier a song than Kris Kristofferson’s Help Me Make It Through the Night? And who wouldn’t root for Dolly Parton as she pleads with a chick to back off her man in Jolene?

As a friend who does not love country music the way I do once joked to me: “My life is perfect right now and this stuff still makes me want to get drunk and cry my eyes out.”

Exactly.

The Hag and I even agree on political leanings, at least right now. See? There are SOME Democrats in country music.

And that’s why it’s good stuff. And why I should also really thank Mr. Merle Haggard in person for writing If We Make It Through December and Silver Wings, among other greats.

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DID YOU KNOW? There are tons of 1960s country music references in Blue Straggler. And my second novel, which will be out later this year and is titled A Good Kind of Knowing, includes music (a lot of it country) as a thread throughout the book. In fact, music has such prominence in the storyline that it’s nearly a character itself.

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DID YOU ALSO KNOW? Blue Straggler is a #1 bestselling novel now after hitting the top spot on Amazon in comic fiction earlier this month. It’s stayed in the top five now for four weeks. The novel is also on two other bestselling lists. It’s all so amazing! Thank you again to every single reader who took the time to check out my work. I appreciate you, and you’ve had a real impact on my life.

 

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What Being a Texas Woman Means

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A friend recently sent me an article that was posted in Garden & Gun’s online magazine (I know! Worst magazine title ever, even if you are into squeezing a trigger) about what being a Southern woman means. It’s an excellent little piece.

Here’s one of my favorite insights: “It also means never leaving the house with wet hair. Not even in the case of fire. Because wet hair is low-rent. It shows you don’t care, and not caring is not something Southern women do …”

This. Is. Texas.

Mostly, though, the article got me thinking about what it really means to be a Texas woman. (Because when you’re from Texas, even if you move on like I have, you’re still a Texan. It’s not something you can ever leave behind. In fact, for me, Texas has only become more important as I’ve tried to make a life somewhere else. Texas is home. Texas is family. Texas is my heritage.)

I’ve been so lucky in my life to be surrounded by amazing Texas women from all walks of life: Women who grew up on farms and ended up running huge ranching operations on their own. Women who grew up in Houston and Dallas and Austin who go on to lead meaningful nonprofits and run international companies. Women who quietly make their own mark in small towns that are miles and miles from a metropolitan area. Women who drive 18-wheelers. Women who devote everything they have to their church or their art.

So, while I always fear over-generalization, I wanted to point out some commonalities I think exist in all of these different kinds of women — characteristics that, in combination, make Texas women truly unique. These are only my thoughts, of course — I’d love for others to add to the list (or argue with my perceptions). Here it goes:

Don't Mess With Texas Women.

1. Texas women are fiercely loyal. We’re seriously like German Shepherds on crack. A Texas woman will stand up for her man, her family and her close friends, protect them and guard them with her life — if they have earned her trust. Once you make it into a Texas woman’s inner circle, she will do anything for you. We have each other’s backs, even if we don’t necessarily agree with your actions, or if we haven’t seen you in 10 years.

2. Texas women hold grudges. If we feel a wrong has been committed against us, or against those we love dearly, we will never forgive you for it. It’s just a fact. You can apologize, and we might accept the apology at face value, we might even say that we forgive you, but you’ll never be in our inner circle again. Never. And you’ll miss that, because our trust and loyalty are pretty awesome things to have.

3. We’re going to do what we want, so you probably should just go along with it. A friend of mine asked me one day if I thought Texas women were high maintenance. She was thinking of the Dallas (the city, not the old TV show) stereotypes out there. My response was no, not at all. Now, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t Texas women who demand nice things in life (the mansion, the car, the jewelry). What it does mean is this: Texas women don’t stop until they get what they want. Maybe they’ll ask you for what they want. Maybe they won’t. But either way, they’ll push forward and find a way to make it happen with or without you. It’s not high maintenance, it’s perseverance. It’s “lead or get the hell out of the way so I can.”

Friday Night Football in Texas

4. We get football. We understand the game because we likely had fathers or brothers or college boyfriends or mothers or aunts who loved it. Or maybe we loved it, too. After all, football is big in Texas. BIG. It’s a huge part of the culture, whether you live in the city or a small rural town. Texas women grow up with the excitement of Friday night games and cheerleading and the marching band, and pep rallies. It’s just part of the fabric of Texas life. Some Texas women go on to love it their whole lives, and some don’t. But either way, they still get it.

5. Texas women know that when someone is grieving, sending over a brisket, a broccoli-cheese casserole and a pound of coffee is the best way to express how much you care. Period.

6. Texas women, if they are moms, are deeply involved in their kids’ lives. If her son is playing football, she will be at every game, no matter how far she has to drive. If her daughter wants to play softball, but the family can’t afford a team uniform and fees, she will work an extra job, or sell breakfast tacos at work, until she earns enough to make it happen.

7. We hold it together in tough times. We’re powered by a hardy history and kick-ass ancestors. Remember, Texas was a god-forsaken place back when it was first settled: Difficult to farm, little water, hard ground, harsh weather. I think those resilient women of yesteryear have stayed in our genes throughout time. You tragically lose a husband or a child? You curse, you howl in agony, and then you put yourself back together and make it through it. Your son goes to jail for an unspeakable crime? You hold your head up high and visit him weekly. A hurricane destroys your home? You rebuild it, stronger. And sure, Texas women cry. But then we wipe those tears and figure out how to go on.

8. We understand that you can draw more flies with honey than vinegar. We know how to use that strategy to, say, get out of speeding tickets, or get another desired result (see #3 above). But we have plenty of vinegar to share if you get on our bad side. Texas women love a good fight, and we know how to fight with words that’ll slap you harder than a happy hound dog’s tail.

9. Texas hospitality is unique, too. We don’t welcome just anybody into our homes. But when we do ask you to come in, you can expect a glass of cold, sweet iced tea, and an invitation to stay for dinner and pie. And if you’ve earned our trust (see #1 above), you can make yourself at home from then on out. Just grab what you want out of the refrigerator and be sure the back screen door is shut tight.

10. Finally, yes, Texas women like to look good. Appearances are important. It’s rare to find a Texas woman who will go to the grocery store without at least a little makeup on. I personally think it all comes back to the fact that we need a whole lot of self-confidence to fight our way through life, and by wearing those nice-fitting jeans and a sparkly belt (even after the age of 45) to buy toilet tissue, we give ourselves the edge we need to run our little (or big) worlds.

I miss my Texas gals. Every one of you, even if I don’t wear makeup to the grocery store in Colorado any more.

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BOOK NEWS! It’s been an unbelievable week so far for Blue Straggler. The novel hit the #1 best-selling position in both comic fiction and humor categories on Amazon, and on its first free promotion day, 7,000+ people downloaded it to their Kindles. Someone pinch me!

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What Happened When I Turned 30 … and 40

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I just returned from my first-ever book tour in Texas, promoting Blue Straggler. The trip brought up lots of old feelings I hadn’t thought about in a while — mostly because I spent a lot of time on the tour talking about the main character, Bailey, who in the book is going through a period of time where she is trying to discover who she really is inside, and because I visited many of my old haunts in Texas, which were ripe with memories, good and bad.

Me, at age 30, seemingly in need of a makeover of some kind.

The truth is, much like Blue Straggler’s Bailey, I had my first mid-life crisis when I turned 30. And while I wasn’t technically at mid-life if you look at actuary statistics, I had done a lot of livin’ by that point — some easy living, some hard living.

My 20s had been filled to the brim with highs and lows, board rooms and bar rooms, tons of joy and far too much pain, some of which was self-inflicted. I had some ugly scars, but they were healing. I was successful in my career — the youngest person on the executive management team for a major university system. I was dating both a NASA engineer and a doctor, neither too serious, at the same time. I lived in a sweet 1950s cottage-style house with original wood floors in a good neighborhood. I enjoyed amazing friends who had me over for deck therapy when I needed to laugh. I mowed my yard on Sundays, had a little garden in the back. I was coasting into a pretty good little life.

Then, I hit that 30 mark. And something clicked in my brain.

Restless does not even begin to describe how I felt. I literally felt a physical, guttural pull to change my life. As Soon As Possible.

It was like an overwhelming toothache when you know you need a root canal or a chicken-pox itch that no amount of Calamine lotion could remedy. I could not drink the longing away. (Some might say I gave it a good go, though. Thank you, Ketel One vodka and all makers of boxed wine.) I could not run far enough on my morning runs or swim fast enough at the pool to make it stop. Writing about it only made it even more real.

I Simply Wanted More. Right Then.

What did I want? Well, I wanted everything. I wanted less of some things, more of others. I wanted, wanted, wanted.

I wanted the kind of love that those damn romance novels and fairytales had promised me. I wanted to work in a job that I knew would make a difference in the big, bad world in some small way. I wanted to meet new people who were more like me, less like everyone else. I maybe wanted a child, or 50 more dogs. I wanted to ditch my old self like a snake sheds its skin. I wanted to feel and experience more. I wanted to make my mark on the world, to prove that I was here and alive and creative and oh-so-deep. (Still working on the last one, by the way.)

Now remember, I was on a pretty good trajectory before all this. But the trajectory wasn’t right, and I knew it inside. So, I sold most of my belongings, packed up my (two) dogs and the little furniture I had left, said adios to one of the best jobs in town, kissed two very nice men goodbye, apologized to my mother for leaving, and headed off to the Rocky Mountains, where I knew I could push myself and experience something completely different than my comfortable life back in Texas.

Me, before a hike my first year in Colorado

Did it work? Hell, yes! I highly recommend my approach. I bought a log cabin at the top of a mountain, challenged myself to 10-mile hikes alone on backcountry trails, learned to cross-country ski and snowshoe and how to chop firewood and survive during blizzards, married a handsome man who was unlike anyone I’d met before, adopted a baby, got some more dogs, and began to write and publish writing that mattered to me. Basically, I created the life that I wanted and needed.

And then … I hit the 40 mark. (These darn age milestones just wreak havoc on my psyche!)

Adopting Mac was the best decision ever.

Adopting Mac was the best decision ever, even if he does change my ability to pick up and leave on a moment's notice.

Once again, I’m feeling that same old itch. But everything is more complicated now, of course. I have a child and there’s this whole clothing and feeding and paying for karate thing. I have a husband with his own ideas of the future. I have a home that’s lost a whole lot of its value after the housing market crash. I have family who probably needs me to move back home. There are more layers to me now than there were back then (in more ways than one).

Just because every blog post should contain an image of chocolate.

But, I want new layers! (Anyone else craving a chocolate-layered cake right now? Sorry.)

Seriously, I don’t want to fall into what society thinks a mom should be, or a wife should be, or a writer should be. I want to again make my own way. And again, I know there is more out there that I need to experience, and I crave it like an adventure junkie.

So who knows what this mid-life crisis will bring? A move to a foreign country where I’m forced to learn a new language? A move to a new climate, even if it’s just city-life in Denver? Learning a new instrument? Going back to school? Opening my own business? Running a marathon? Taking my kid to live with wolves for a year? (That one’s a probable no.)

I suppose if it’s anything like the last one, it’ll be a good thing, right?

Check back with me when I’m 50, I guess. When the next crisis will no doubt be brewing like a strong pot of black coffee, waiting to be tasted.

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Have you seen the new book trailer of Blue Straggler released by 30 Day Books yet?

 

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Highlights of My Texas Book Tour

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The wildflowers were incredible!

Several things are more clear to me than ever after my whirlwind book tour in South/Central Texas: I have some of the best family and friends in the world back home; there are few sights more beautiful than a lush green pasture full of Texas wildflowers and grazing horses; and my skin and hair still visibly balk at a week spent in that 200-percent humidity.

My five-year-old son accompanied me on the book tour, and we had a great time. (My son was either selling or giving away his autograph and asking others for theirs at several of the events. He was way more popular than me. It’s hell to be overshadowed by a cute kid.)

Various members of my family (my mom, my sisters, my niece, my dad) served as my promoters, bankers and greeters. It was so nice to feel supported by them (and I think they were even a little proud of me!) Along with several friends who pounded the pavement for me to bring people in for the events, I felt like I had my very own little Street Team going on.

At the Bryan, Texas, book signing with friend Lori C.

I got to see so many dear friends from my previous lives … high school friends, college running buddies, coworkers from the jobs I held at Texas A&M. I got to catch up with wonderful people over wine and beer and burgers. I got to thank many of my hometown teachers who taught me so well all those years ago.

Other stuff that happened:

At one of the events, people took books and had me sign them without paying for them … I think they thought they were free for the taking! When I told a friend this at another event, he suggested he had attended the wrong party (since he’d had to pay for his copy that night).

My sister’s hubcaps were stolen off her Cadillac during one of the signings. This was only a little bit funny to her. (Or not at all now that I think about it.)

I spoke to a group of high school seniors at my alma mater in Gonzales, and the vacant stares and large yawns were a bit unnerving. I tried to make jokes here and there, but this tough crowd was having none of it. However, no spitballs were thrown at me, and I considered this a positive thing. Note to self: Do not go into motivational speaking to young people.

I had intended to ask someone to take pictures at the events, but kept forgetting to actually alert anyone to this need until the end of each event. But this way, I can remember myself as looking better than I actually did. (If you are reading this and took pictures at an event, and — this is important — I look good in the pictures — send them to me via email – kathy@kathylynnharris.com!)

At one event, an old friend of mine came up to me dressed in a disguise. Was this really necessary? Did make me laugh, though.

Okay, I think that’s it for a recap. Thank you to every single person, in disguise or not, who attended an event in the Lone Star State. It was an amazing experience (my first book tour ever!) and I’m just so grateful.

I’m also officially exhausted and out of gas money.

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Two Things I Miss Most About South Texas in the Spring

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My book tour in Texas is coming up the week of March 26 (see details on the events here), and I’m so looking forward to not only the book events themselves, but just being in Texas in the spring.

This time of year is actually when I miss home the most. Where I’m at (high in the Colorado mountains west of Denver), we’re still very much in winter mode. March and April are our two snowiest months of the year. The huge blizzard of 2003 when we got 9 feet of snow — not a typo, that’s 9 feet — occurred in March. We just had windchills that were near 20 below in the past week. Our doors were frozen shut.

So, the thought of being in that warm, albeit humid, Texas air is exciting right now. I’m bringing my flip-flops, y’all! (I don’t think my mother will let me wear them to the book signings, though. And I’m pretty sure my ankle surgeon would not approve.)

Two more things I miss about home this time of year?

Spring in Texas. Photo credit: flickr.com/photos/bobrosenberg CC license 2.0

First, the wildflowers. The fields of bluebonnets that look like a sea of blue. The red paintbrushes (we always called them Indian Blankets). The pink buttercups. The list goes on. There’s nothing quite like a drive down a rural Texas highway in March and seeing the beautiful colors lining the roadways and dotting the pastures along the way. Our wildflower season at 10,500 feet above sea level is in late June and early July, so this trip in two weeks is going to be a real treat.

Secondly, and most importantly, I miss my mom’s lemon icebox pie. She always makes a double recipe for Easter Sunday. (Well, because we love it so much, she’s now starting making it at Christmas, Thanksgiving or anytime my son will be around! Spoiled kid.) I’ve tried making it up here a dozen times and it never tastes as good as hers. She uses the organic lemons that she and my dad grow there in Gonzales, Texas, which probably makes all the difference in the world.

I hope she doesn’t mind that I share her recipe below.

These things are seriously good. And since they are baked, I take it to mean I can eat the whole bag.

In other very exciting news, Blue Straggler is now on an Amazon.com bestseller list!  It hit the top 20 best sellers in ebooks/comic fiction on Friday. That meant, of course, that I celebrated all weekend. (Send vodka replenishment and those Snappea Crisp things.)

Mom’s Lemon Icebox Pie

  • 1 can sweetened condensed milk
  • 2 packages (8 oz.) cream cheese, softened to room temperature
  • 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice

Beat the above ingredients until smooth. Pour into a 9-inch graham cracker pie shell. Spread whipped topping (or make your own whipped cream!) over the top of the pie.

Chill in the refrigerator for at least three hours before serving.

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Great Reviews and Book Tours Are Making Me Consider Spanx

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Blue Straggler’s official release date last week was A-MAZING. I mean, we’re talking an all-out love fest! Readers were buying it, talking about it, posting reviews. (And not just my mom, either, for you cynics out there.)

The cake my husband and son brought home to celebrate launch day!

In fact, as of this writing, the novel has 38 reviews on Amazon.com and an average 5-star rating. Can I get a yeehaw? I’m just so grateful to everyone who has read the book and thought it worthy of a positive review.

I also am solidifying my book tour dates here in Colorado and back home in Texas. (There may be one in Seattle, too!) But I’m starting to get a little nervous. Why? Because I’ll be the center of attention at such events, I do not like being the center of attention at such events, and basically, doing a book tour is like combining five or six high school reunions and family weddings all in one month or so of happenings. But, no pressure or anything.

This is NOT me in Spanx.

Now, I’m usually a pretty laid-back person when it comes to my appearance. I am comfortable with who I am and have found, at age 42, that I can even like myself some days. (Those are still rare days, but they do occur.) I am the kind of person who would never in a million years consider wearing shapewear (i.e., Spanx®) because I prefer to be able to breathe in and out without pain.

But still. People will be LOOKING at me. Bleh!

So I thought I would let all of those people who will be attending a book tour event, and who haven’t seen me in 10 or more years, know a few things up front. I think it’ll be easier on us all to just get these things out in the open prior to the event, so we can move on to drinking wine and/or coffee.

  1. I will not be wearing Spanx, and I’m sorry for what that means for my side profile.
  2. I have grown some additional chins, and I’m afraid they are here to stay. They have names.
  3. The Colorado air is awesome, but very dry. This means that I will have more wrinkles than all you South/Central Texas byotches who don’t even have to moisturize because the humidity stays at 90 percent.
  4. I wear glasses now if I need to see anything in the distance, but I don’t like wearing them much. So if I’m not wearing my glasses, and you wave to me from across the room, do not take it personally when I do not wave back.
  5. For about a year now, I have been experiencing robust, random hot flashes. We’re talking the kind that makes me want to strip down to my underwear and sit on a block of ice in the shade. The hot flashes are made worse by things like wine, coffee, Colorado fireplaces and Texas heat. All of which I still love and enjoy. So be warned.
  6. My sense of fashion has not evolved since the last time you saw me and in some cases I may still be wearing the same pair of Justin boots I wore in 1998.
  7. I used to wear makeup like a good Texas girl, but now I’m more like a Colorado hippie. That means that what you once believed was my true complexion was probably wrong.

Well, there you go. It’s all out there now. I feel so much better. Do you?

Details are still being nailed down for many of my book tour dates, but I do have one that I can pass along! I’ll be in Bryan-College Station, Texas (Texas A&M graduates like me call that the Mecca) on Wednesday, March 28, from 5:30 to 7 p.m. at the Downtown Uncorked wine bar in Bryan. I’ll be signing and selling books and drinking large amounts of wine. Please join me and bring 100 of your closest friends!

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Sheplers Shopping, Texas Dancehalls and the Price of Home

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Not many places in Colorado remind me of home so resolutely as — believe it or not — Sheplers Western Wear.

Sheplers is really the only game in town (Denver) when it comes to true western wear — you know, the kinds of clothes you’d wear to the rodeo (or to rodeo, when used as a verb).

Yesterday, I visited not one but two Sheplers stores, looking for the perfect pair of jeans in my size and length. Didn’t find them, darnit.

But I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy my time in those stores. Unlike when I shop for typical clothes for work or play, at places like Dillard’s or Macy’s or Kohl’s, I find myself feeling quite happy at Sheplers.

After all, I like the people shopping alongside me. For instance, there was a mom-daughter duo, who had just drove down from Wyoming. Sheplers was a destination for them, and they were having a good time hitting the sale racks. Watching them made me miss my mom terribly. There was also a father in the store with his elementary-school-age daughter; he was wearing Wranglers and she was, too, along with some mighty fine pink

Kickin' red boots. Maybe I should have bought them.

boots. And there was an older couple, probably in their 70s, who gave me some pretty funny commentary as I tried on some awesome boots in deep red. The wife said they were too flashy; the husband thought they were fine. Unfortunately, I would’ve needed a loan to take those babies home with me.

I also love the country music piped through Sheplers store speakers. It’s GOOD country music, too, not just radio-friendly crapola. We’re talking vintage George Strait and Reba (before she was overproduced) and even Keith Whitley and Waylon. The kind of music that makes me miss the South Texas dancehalls I grew up in.

I miss Texas dancehalls like this one.

As weird as it may sound, I also happen to love the smell of Sheplers. Leather boots and belts. Stetsons being steamed in the middle of the store. Ahhhhh.

And just shopping for the jeans themselves reminded me of all those trips to D&D in Seguin, or to Cavender’s in College Station when I attended Texas A&M and was, shall we say, very into cowboys and All That That Implies (bonus points for any reader who knows what movie that line comes from). I remember my sister and me trying on about a million pairs of Rocky Mountain-brand jeans back then. I had a pair in just about every color and wash of denim possible. They went well with my cowgirl-spiral-permed hair and purple roper boots. (What was I thinking??? And no, I’m not posting a pic of that hair.)

One thing, though, that has changed dramatically since those days is the price of jeans. Holy guacamole! There wasn’t a pair of jeans in that store for under $50. Even my beloved Wranglers were $60! And I thought $30 back in the day was expensive. I am officially old.

Move over, Willie Nelson. There's a new kid in town.

I’ll leave you tonight with a photo of my beautiful son on the stage at Gruene Hall, Texas’ oldest dancehall, and an excerpt from A Good Kind of Knowing, my second novel that will be out later this year as an ebook:

As always, the hall smelled of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer. Most people probably hated it. But Sera cherished the feel of rural Texas dance halls. She preferred arriving early to beat the crowd and the inevitable clouds of smoke. She felt the fusty smell of Saturday nights past was somehow familiar to her, even though she was certain she’d never stepped foot in a VFW hall before she came to Texas. But it all seemed comfortable. Like an old pair of jeans you throw on for a Sunday afternoon, she’d just slipped right into it, almost forgetting it hadn’t always been her life. To her, a dance hall just beginning to fill with people, just beginning to get all wound up, meant possibilities. You never knew what the night might bring, what songs would be played, who would come by the table to talk, who would have too much to drink, who would start a fight, who would wind up dancing a little too close to someone they shouldn’t, and who would leave with someone new. For better or for worse, an empty dance hall practically shouted anticipation.

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A Land-locked Girl’s Memories of the Coast

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This is the resort we stayed at in Cancun. Swanky!

My husband and I just got back from a few days in Cancun. (Note to Mom: We were not attacked by, nor did we see, one armed bandito, which was a little disappointing after all the hype.) We did manage, though, to successfully escape two snowstorms and windchills below zero here on the mountain.

Overall, it was a good time that included a large quantity of unlimited, top-shelf alcohol, some fun-loving friends and hours spent catching up on some great novels on my Kindle. (By the way, ever heard of a Tequila Boom-Boom shot? I have now. If I could go back and rewrite Blue Straggler, the main character Bailey would definitely be drinking those.)

Now, let me be clear: I am not a beach girl. I do not long to surf or own a long board. My skin’s typically so pale all I have to do is look at the ocean and I’m burned. I never, not once, wanted to be a mermaid. (I wanted legs, dammit!) I couldn’t sail a boat to save my life. I am not one of those women who look good in a bikini, tankini or ini of any kind. Sea water stings my eyes. I don’t particularly care for mold. I don’t like being shark bait. The constant sound of those waves gets to me after a while. And I will never, ever look good with that whole wind-blown hair thing. If given the choice, I would much rather be standing at the top of a 12,000 ft. peak than floating in any ocean, no matter how turquoise the water.

However, every now and then, I need the sea and a break from All Things Mountain. Plus, I do enjoy sea kayaking, snorkeling, building sand castles, shell hunting and a Jimmy Buffet song or two.

Colorado, of course, offers none of that. (Jimmy B., does come to town every five years to play huge stadium concerts, though. Land-locked parrot heads, rejoice!)

This is a lovely shot of Port Aransas, courtesy of Creative Commons/Flickr.

During my childhood in South Texas, we often headed to what we simply called “the coast.” Port Aransas, located on the Texas Gulf of Mexico, was only a few hours away from my  hometown, so my parents could drive us all down in our 1970s-era custom party van with the swivel seats and curtains in the back, spend the day on the beach, and drive back that evening.

I distinctly remember that every day trip to the coast involved a great deal of pre-weather anxiety for us kids: My parents would nix the trip if the forecast called for more than a 10 percent chance of rain. We’d all hover around the kitchen radio the evening before, listening to the local radio station, KCTI, for the latest.

More memory snapshots: Getting to buy a new beach towel at Kmart in Seguin every summer. Feeding large flocks of aggressive seagulls that would swoop down to take bread out of my hands. Floating on large black inner tubes (the kind we’d use to float in the Guadalupe River, too) out in the waves. Keeping constant watch for jellyfish, which were not only in the water but all along the beach. My mom looking so glamorous in her swimsuit and sunglasses. My dad drinking Pearl beerunder the blue tarp we’d put up for shade. Eating summer sausage and blocks of cheddar cheese and greasy bargain potato chips and drinking ice-cold Dr Pepper out of glass bottles from the well-stocked cooler. Being completely unaware of my body and how it might look to others, concentrating only on jumping into the big waves as they tumbled to shore. Feeling the strong undertow grab me and buckets of sand, drawing us quickly out into the surf. A sense of pseudo-panic when I’d take a momentary break from swimming and playing in the water to realize I had drifted so much that the blue tarp and the custom party van were becoming far too small in the distance. Resting on those plastic-tube folding lounge chairs with hinges that got more and more rusted each year. And of course, after we got back home, those large gobs of Noxzema cream we’d all have to apply to our beet-red, sunburned skin.

Remember these?

We may not have had perfect, white-sand beaches or round-the-clock waiters bringing us drinks called Purple Rain and Superman under the shade of coconut trees, or Elvis impersonators as the evening resort entertainment , but we did have fun back then. Too bad there won’t be time for a run to Port A when I’m in Texas in March for my book signing tour.

What are your favorite beach memories? Please share below! I’d love to hear about them.

Random Texas music note: The Court Yard Hounds, wrote and recorded a tribute song to the Texas coast. Listen to it here.

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Ode to My Granny: The Queen of Green

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Every now and then on this blog, I’ll share something I’ve written previously that I think my readers might find of interest.

Today, I’m pleased to present an edited version of an essay that originally appeared in the book, Going Green: True Tales from Gleaners, Scavengers, and Dumpster Divers (edited by Laura Pritchett, University of Oklahoma Press, April 2009).

My Granny, in the early 1970s, in Texas, of course.

I thought it was fitting to post this, as it honors my grandmother, Edith Harris, and her birthday was this month. I still miss her so much. (Side note: She was known by most people in town as simply, “Pete.” Her dad had wanted a boy, so he gave her that nickname in childhood and it stuck. She was a helluva tomboy, too.)

 

 

 

Every Popsicle Stick Counts

My grandmother on my father’s side would have rather slept with the Devil than join forces with any kind of hippie-based, peace-love-back-to-earth movement.

Let’s just say Granny was quite the tough Texas ranch woman. A 5-foot-tall force to be reckoned with. A woman who could stare down a 900-pound Brahma bull in a pen the size of her kitchen in the morning, then fix collard greens and cornbread, still wearing her rubber farm boots, in the afternoon.

She was also a woman who, unlike me, didn’t spend a great deal of time worrying about the future of our country’s landfills, reading the current research on greenhouse gases, or considering whether or not a Sonic Drive-In “to-go” cup was in any way biodegradable (it’s not). Yet my grandmother remains the one person who taught me the most about conservation and reuse.

One of my first lessons in reuse from Granny involved a rather hot summer afternoon—and a wooden popsicle stick still wet with purple stains. I remember aiming that stick at the trash can, intent on tossing it away quickly before those evil South Texas fire ants covered it, and my hand, in their fiery red stings. That’s when my grandmother promptly yanked the stick from my hand with her own calloused one, and gave me a look that would’ve made a preacher feel guilty.

“What?” I asked, hand on hip and with a bit more sass than I could usually get away with around my grandmother. I was feeling brave.

She didn’t answer me, just faced me with a raised eyebrow and a tightly drawn mouth. I knew that face—and that face was never a particularly good sign. She proceeded to guide me not-so-gently by the elbow to the kitchen sink, where she stood behind my shoulder, forcing me to wash that one stick with green Palmolive soap until every trace of stickiness was gone. Then she took it from me, dried it with a kitchen towel and dropped it into a brown paper grocery sack that held at least 50 other sticks just like mine.

Two months later, Granny had me working alongside her in the garden, labeling new fall plants with popsicle-stick garden stakes.

Today, as I look around my little log cabin located here in the mountains of Colorado, the floor is covered with piles of things I’ve collected with hopes of recycling … items I’ll eventually take down to Denver on a once-a-month recycling drop. The number of aluminum and steel cans alone makes me cringe. Just two weeks’ worth takes up far too much space and tells me just how often we Americans use containers like these only once and then chuck them without another thought.

I doubt my grandmother ever even heard of a recycling center in her rural area. But she certainly had her own recycling program: She made sure just about everything she acquired had a second, third or forever use. (The most impressive of which, by the way, was to cut aluminum beer cans into pieces and stitch them together with crochet yarn to make funny little hats. I have pictures to prove this.)

I remember Granny would buy those generic-brand 2-liter bottles of soda to have on hand for us kids. Inevitably we’d find those empty plastic bottles all over her house and yard, used in a multitude of creative manners—cut in half and used to protect young plants in her garden, made into a weird kind of shower caddy for the bathroom, or sitting beside her favorite chair in the living room, keeping her crochet yarn from tangling as she worked on her next project.

Where there wasn’t plastic being reused, there was glass. Used bottles and jars of all kinds lined the garage utility shelves—themselves old 2 x 4 slats of wood from some torn-down shed. The jars were stacked neatly and arranged by size, to later use as flower vases and incubators for cuttings of ivy and other plants. Or as containers to hold nails. And those little round margarine containers? They soon became “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Tupperware” in her refrigerator, their contents labeled over and over again in black marker.

When clothes didn’t fit anymore or were so worn they had holes in them, she’d remove the buttons or snaps and cut the fabric into cleaning rags and dish towels.

We often ate lunch with Granny after working cattle, and it was usually a quick sandwich on white bread. Even then we all understood to save those plastic bread bags and the plastic-covered wire bread ties. To this day, I’m not sure how she used those wire bread ties, but there must have been hundreds tucked around the house.

My grandmother has been gone for several years now. But her beliefs in gleaning all we can from all we encounter are alive and well, if only in my own attempts to salvage and recycle even the smallest of items. I wash and reuse pieces of foil and those pint-sized plastic food storage bags. I have far more than my share of sour cream containers stacked in my kitchen cabinets. I drive my husband crazy storing junk-mail paper that I use as notepads. I even save those little wire bread ties, though I still don’t know why and have yet to actually reuse one.

I’m well aware, of course, that my grandmother didn’t take on her philosophy of frugality and reuse because of any high-falutin’ idea of saving the earth for future generations. She learned that way of life from her parents and grandparents, from years of finding it difficult to put money in the bank, and from the only lifestyle she ever knew—farming and ranching.

But I also believe that somewhere beneath my grandmother’s no-nonsense side, there was a soft and unspoken, perhaps even whimsical, respect that guided her choices — a respect for not only the land and its role in her daily life, but also for the people who provided and packaged the items she couldn’t grow or make herself. Because she made so much by hand, and labored long hours to manage and generate livestock and produce, she understood that every item, every person, every blade of grass, every drop of rain, had value. And it was only right to honor that.

In short, you don’t throw away a perfectly good popsicle stick just because the icy grape treat is gone.

Copyright (c) 2009 Kathy Lynn Harris

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