My Own Treasured Friends,  

I can write this letter in January because our choir did a spectacular job performing our last cantata.  For those unsure as to what a cantata is, we define it as half a dozen Christmas themed songs of mild to moderately difficult four part harmony, which are meant to inspire and entertain.  As I surveyed the congregation once we'd concluded our sing, I saw women and a man or two dabbing their eyes dry.  There was even one lady redoing her makeup in the powder room afterward because she'd managed to scrub it all off while hearing us.  I report this in the most optimistic spirit.

I reluctantly admit there are times when Bruce, my husband and partner in song, are never sure our long hours of practice will result in inspiration or hilarity. 

Mind you, Bruce has perfect pitch, so he's a real giggle to sit next to whenever someone sings off key because he makes faces.  We recognize this is rude.  However, we always strive to be gracious and properly hide our smirks behind paper programs.  This may sound mean-spirited, but when it comes to my vocal abilities, let's just say they're limited.  Therefore, I recognize an off-note rather readily since it takes one to know one.  In all the years and all the notes Bruce and I have shared, he has never complimented me nor bragged to his friends or enemies that I can carry a tune.  While I'm sure I can sing, at least I think I can, I do realize I was not born for solos because I was born a blender, which is to say I'm aces in a group.

As for our choir members, they are all lovely people, but ... 

I don't want to sound superior though I have just stated I can carry a tune and am therefore not part of the problem.  Occasionally, some "other" members are so far off the mark, I sometimes think somebody moved the whole darn target. 

When I watch the tenors and basses practice, all sitting in a row, I easily imagine them as devilish rapscallions now grown and masquerading as adults.  I'm just waiting to be hit in the back of the head with a spitball as one of them hollers, "Basses rule!"  Truth be told, that crack comes mostly from my husband because Bruce's lower range is an entire octave lower than the other guys.  He's so low that when he sings, your chest vibrates!  And I mean this in the most ladylike way.

The tenor, bass and alto parts are always more difficult in four part harmony since they rarely carry the melody.  That's where the sopranos come it.  And that would include me.  I could sing alto, at least that's how I was categorized in junior high school.  I choose to sing soprano - except for the highest notes - because, frankly, it's easier, and I want to have fun. 

Oddly, our wonderful director worries most about pronunciation, "No Rs!  It's Fatha, not Fatherrrrrrrrrrrr."  She seems less than stricken when our dulcimer tones are more oblong than perfectly rounded.  Why does she settle for those dull F sharps and stumpy high Cs?  How can she endure our screeching and sliding year after year?  Being the only professional in the gang, she must know more than we do because it always comes together in the end. 

Oh, and don't ever think our choir parties are dull.  All I can say is that they requested we bring a double batch of Smoking Bishop yet again.  And that Smoking Bishop always makes for sweeter sounds, particularly after a second mug.  Wahoo!

Love from Florida's Amelia Island,

Jane Marie

PS  Congratulations to Carol Drury, the winner of our Goodbye Lie Golden Dreams necklace.

My Own Treasured Friends,  As I sit here, I realize how blessed we are.  From the anticipation of the arrival of four generations - the first time we've all been together in six and a half years, through the silliness, seriousness, and love at the gathering, to the photos I am anxious to put into my scrapbook, it was been one heck of a wonderful week.  Advance planning called for a month of strategically scheduled landscaping and internal house preparation.  I admit to being very proud of my courtyard garden.  The roses, day lilies, petunias, plus a myriad of other flowers and trees, dotted the green foliage with color to make a tranquil paradise upon which the eyes could rest.  Finally, Bruce, my husband, and I declared Stately Martha Manor, named for the mascot of our site, Martha Bear, ready for company.  Not to be left out, our Florida Feline Force did their best to undo what we had accomplished to make the place free from cat hair.  Animals can always tell when something exciting or different is about to happen, so the critters did the most shedding I have ever seen.  Thanks guys.

From Pennsylvania, Oklahoma, Kansas, Virginia, and Florida, the relatives came.  Some by air.  Some by automobile.  Most of their luggage was overflowing with essentials like personal pillows, favorite snacks, four or more outfits per day for the teenage girls, CDs, DVDs, cell phones, books, potions, perfumes, polishes, retainers, portable cribs, diapers, eight outfits a day for the littlest ones, bottles, more potions, baby food and formula, video and digital cameras, binoculars.  You know.  You've packed those same necessities yourself.

Stately Martha Manor is what one might call "compact,” so only our daughter's family could stay in the guest room with baby Ava sleeping in our now perfectly organized office, Story Central.  I have a silent bet with myself to see how long we can keep the office in order.  We're going on eight days now and, trust me, that's a record.

A nearby hotel housed most of the rest of our guests.  Except, that is, for our college girls.  Our lovely Irish neighbor, Maggie (referred to in our teddy bear stories as Next-Door Maggie), not only opened her guest room to the girls, but darting between water droplets from our sprinklers, she also delivered a delicious chocolate cake with mint frosting!  Maggie's utter generosity at housing complete strangers will be remembered forever by my family.

Eating remains a major family pastime.  For many weeks I studied grocery ads, looking for the twofers, you know, buy one, get one free, since we would have just shy of 20 people to feed on and off for four or five days.  I went through my tried and true recipes, looking for the best ones - Pasta Salad, Three Bean Salad, Strawberry Fluff, Deviled/Angeled Eggs, brownies with chocolate frosting, ham, lasagna, hamburgers and hot dogs, all the standard American favorites.One day, sun block slathered on, we hit the beach for a picnic.  We'd reserved a covered pavilion with tables from the city of Fernandina Beach because the main entrée was peel-and-eat-shrimp.  The day was sunny, the wind mild, and the ocean's waves tickled the knees of swimmers who dared enter the water. Two days earlier, the beaches had been closed, county-wide, because of sharks - a rare occurrence - and rip currents.  We worried the mid-westerners would be unable to get a taste of salt water, but thankfully, that mini-crisis had passed by picnic day. I had dusted off a Winnie the Pooh kite unearthed in the garage, and Bruce and brother Bob took a shot at getting it to fly.  Since I'd forgotten a kite tail, they improvised by tying a stale sleeve of crackers (fit only for sea gulls) to the bottom of the kite for weight.  After several tries to get it aloft, I heard Bruce shout, "Too many crackers!" whereupon Bob removed three or four and tossed them into the air for the gulls.  The relation of air to kite was perfect, and the kite flew.  I have the video to prove it! Speaking of feeding the birds, there I was - though you'll have to trust me on this one - throwing more crackers up into the air with gulls all around me.  I yelled to Bruce and brother-in-law Dennis to take a video of the scene.  Apparently, they failed because when the DVD is viewed, you can hear Dennis say, "I don't think it's even on.  The battery must be dead."  Now I'm not one to criticize.  I mean, I have forgotten to take the lens cap off the camera a time or twelve, but the men's attempt at taking my picture with the gulls is hilarious.  The sometimes blurry scene captures the wooden deck, parts of the house across the street, the sea oats flapping, and a brief and completely accidental shot of unidentifiable person.  I think it's me.  Pictures, videos, and more pictures.  Photos of a tiny bare Ava on her tummy, blackmail material for later in life, were snapped.  So were those of her laughter whenever she spied her cousin Jack.  His "booga, booga" technique could not be duplicated by any one, though try we did, to make Ava repeat her giggles.  Oh, and we continued a tradition of sorts.  We held what we loosely refer to as a talent show.  Cartwheels, singing with and without hand gestures, stiff legged dancing, violin playing - no one ever did guess the well known tune played by my husband, my old standard on the harmonica, Oh! Susanna (no embarrassing corn kernels came out of the harmonica this time - don't ask), and sister Peggy on her knees pushing the pedals of the pump organ while her husband asked if that was his wife's talent.The highlights of everything for me, next to being with those I love, were the celebration of our father's 88^th birthday along with the christening of my new grandbaby, Ava.  The baby angel wore the French heirloom hand sewn gown I'd made 16 years before and slept through the entire ceremony.

The picture of my father, daughter, granddaughter, and me plus the group shot of us all, are already on display in our parlor thanks to the wonderful world of digital photography.  Instant gratification works every time in my world! 

Well, they've all come and gone now, back to their own lives.  That's the way it should be.  I miss them all terribly.  Being together like that reminded me of when we were little and our relatives would come by for every occasion.  Our immediate family members don't have the luxury of living near each other, so visits are spaced apart in months and years instead of weeks.  Maybe that makes our gatherings all the more special.  We can't take them for granted.  All I know is I have the photos to remember the details, but I won't ever forget the warmth generated in my heart just by thinking about each special person.

Whether you have a large family or a small one, I wish for you the same tender thoughts of them that I have for mine.

Love from Florida's Amelia Island,

Jane Marie

PS  We're still polishing off the watermelon that no one had room to eat.  I'll bet they could all use a slice right about now.  Guess they'll just have to come back down for a visit.  It can't be soon enough for me.

PPS  We've notified the winner of our Goodbye Lie Magic Nights contest.  Congratulations!

My Own Treasured Friends,  

OK.  You're wondering what this letter is all about.  Boils on the backside would call for some sort of creative sitting posture, as would splinters from an old wooden teeter-totter.  No, it's nothing like that.

I'm writing about babysitting in a resourceful and ingenious fashion.  Sure, anyone can feed a hungry baby, change a diaper, and rock an infant to sleep.  Or so I thought. 

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One Saturday afternoon, my husband and I were caring for our six month old granddaughter Ava.  99% of the time, Ava is a happy little girl, all giggles and smiles, making me feel like the most beloved grandmother ever.  Also, she whines when I'm out of her sight.  She likes the way I play with her - non stop.  

On that particular day, Little Miss Ava was not the happiest of babies.  Now what, I asked myself, was different?  I had not changed the formula.  I had not added any new food to Ava's diet.  She had no fever, no sunburn, no rash, no sniffles, no tummy ache, no gas, nor any teeth trying to pop through, so far as I could tell.

On the contrary.  Since the introduction of real food to her diet, what we once fondly referred to as Ava's "sha-poopy* explosions,” we now called "sha-poopy bombs.”  However, since Ava's latest odoriferous challenge had been detected and removed, I guessed her affliction was pure stubbornness.  She was so tired her eye lids were pink.  The circles under her eyes were darkening by the moment, but she would not give into the sandman.

*Sha-poopy -  verb/noun/adjective - a differently spelled yet same sounding word as "Shipoopi," a song from Meredith Wilson's musical The Music Man. 

Our word references what might be called baby cockaded, little package, and/or do-do. 

I gently swung her in my arms, back and forth, so she didn't have a chance to focus on anything.  It had always worked before this. 

We tried for 20 minutes to calm the screaming child, including playing or trying to play one of three of the hottest DVDs for little ones called Baby Einstein.  With far too many remotes and clickers, Bruce, the ever-patient grandfather, pushed button after button.  The result was Baby Einstein music with no picture.  While he was proud of his partial success, Ava would have none of it.  

Bruce did what many a husband would do at this point.  He settled back to watch the news on television.  I, the nurturing woman, continued trying to calm the screaming baby.  But Bruce had pushed so many buttons, he'd confused the television itself, and his news refused to come on.  Nee, nee, nee, nee, nee.

Since my taunting was less than gracious, I covered Ava's tender ears.

I decided to take Ava for a walk in her stroller.  She has always enjoyed that, I assured myself.  And then, like badly timed fairy magic, down came the rain and washed my idea out.

Not to be deterred, I asked Bruce to bring the stroller inside for kitchen use.  After loading up the baby, I pushed the stroller or tried to push it, but there was not enough room.  

Success.  There I was in the kids' bedroom, pushing the stroller four inches forward and four inches back, since that's all the room there was - just Ava, me, and good old reliable Lawrence W.  Whatever Ava's problem, she calmed down immediately once she heard the strains of the champagne music and saw the accompanying bubbles, drifting off in minutes.

I feared that transferring her from stroller to crib would be our undoing, but the child clung tight to her baby dreams and didn't stir.  I looked down at my precious grandbaby with her jammy pants unfashionably pulled up to her armpits to prevent her shirt from coming out and exposing her tummy to the freezing cold of air conditioning, and adjusted her nightcap and hand socks with great love and tenderness.  

(Ava is forever scratching her head or face with her fingernails, hence her alias, Ava Scissorhands.  We're trying everything to prevent this, including the nightgowns with the fold-over cuffs, but she manages to wiggle those fingers out anyway.  Socks on her hands are working temporarily until the cotton mittens we ordered arrive.)

While Ava was snoozing to Lawrence Welk, I told my story to her mother and father who had called to check on her. They weren't crazy about having the stroller on their cream-colored carpet, but we wisely saved further discussion of that matter for a later time.  One of the things they revealed was they have only two Baby Einstein DVDs. The third was actually a CD.  This explained why Bruce couldn't get the accompanying picture to come on.  There wasn't any!

Bruce, eventually got the TV to play the news with sound, however.  The last I remember of that chapter of electronic farce was the scene of him drawing a diagram of the clicker, notating which button was which.  He'll be ready next time.  Or maybe not.

Love from Florida's Amelia Island,

Jane Marie

PS  Finally!  Our new contest ↑ has begun.  Win our Goodbye Lie Island Rose Necklace (This contest has closed.)

My Own Treasured Friends, 

People ask me lots of questions.  One of the most frequent after "Where do you get your ideas for stories?" is "How do you stay organized?"  I could fib and say something like, "I have files cross referenced with subject and date,” but I try to avoid misleading folks.  I do have a few tricks that have gotten me to this point.  (Be nice and don't ask me to define this point.)   Folders and a battery box. 

"Huh?" you ask, (well, not about the manila folders with messy and much-used identification tabs).  You ask the "huh" about my battery box.

This is actually a plastic box that resembles a large car battery with a handle.  It is big enough to hold those folders plus a small tape recorder and a couple of boxes for photo disks, current and future articles, and pictures of Martha Bear, our mascot and spokesbear.  

The top of my plastic box has a small compartment for business cards, pens, paper clips, stamps, receipts, etc., all the little junk necessary to run the Southeastern Branch of a world wide corporation, like our own greenlightWRITE.  Let all those fancy executives out there have their huge mahogany desks and leather chairs, their titles on their doors in gold leaf, executive administrative assistants, yada, yada.  I'm a simple kind of gal.  Give me a plastic box and I'm set.  I tote my box everywhere, even on out of town trips.

So there you have how I run my part of our writing show.  Or do you?

Since we're all good friends, I think I can confide in you about my secret weapon.  The one real, actual, up to the moment item that keeps me on top of things - more or less - is … is … insert drum roll here. … The real deal for me can be explained in two words: sticky notes.  Yes, sticky notes, those yellow squares with just enough adhesive to attach them temporarily to something.   They are everywhere in my life.

I am forever worried a strong breeze or someone walking past too quickly will blow those precious gems of info off my computer.  Some sticky notes are curled with age and dusty, but remain, as they contain the correct spelling of words I find to be a constant challenge to get right, like porte-cochere or hors d'houvres.  Then there's my shorthand notation of the step by step process of how to delete a temporary internet file, plus drawings or attempts at drawings to remind me that quotation marks not only go before a word but after the period.  Come to find out, Nancy thought I automatically knew that stuff.  To the shock of everyone / no one, I confess I don't have perfect knowledge.

Seemingly a random mess, my sticky notes are not so to me.  As for the other fifty or so notes piled in slovenly fashion on my desk or filling several envelopes in my drawer, no one is allowed to move them.  They contain reminders of clever turns of phrases, small jobs that need to be done and chapters and page numbers of loose ends that need to be tied up in the current novel I'm working on, among other  things.  

Last, but equally important, are those sticky notes in the pockets of my trousers.  As I dress down after a day away from home, I unload the notes from my person onto the bedroom vanity each evening.  I toss them away only after a particular mission is accomplished, a thank you card is sent, or a date is written in my birthday book.  Like everyone, my life is a whirl of information, and those sticky notes help me organize that information.  Where others rely on notebooks or pop up reminders on their monitors, I rely on my friend, the sticky note.  

Yes, sticky notes are a vital necessity to this woman who entitles one of her speeches, "Random Ricochets off the Backsplash of My Mind."  That explains a lot!  The real question is:  Why don't I have stock in a sticky note company?  By George, I'll write that question on a sticky note to remind myself to check into it! 

Love from Florida's Amelia Island,

Jane Marie

PS  We're thrilled to announce the appointment of Bonnie Shivley as our Official Ozark Oracle (OOO - think of Bonnie, think of hugs).  Bonnie has been a Contributing Editor for some time, but we've given her the title of OOO because we love her to death and because she's become a valuable member of our team.  Thank you, Bonnie, for all you do.

PPS  You've probably noticed the new ads at the tops of many of our pages.  Each one represents a chance for you to help fund our site when you simply click on something that interests you.  As always, we appreciate your aid in supporting our online efforts to share wholesome entertainment and knowledge around the world. 

God bless! 

JM and NK

PPPS  We're very proud to announce we won the Christell Award from Christell Publishing.  This prestigious award, first given in 2000, is a proud reminder of our commitment to a gracious future for all and a tribute to the very best of the past.   more awards

PPPPS  Next time you buy a postage stamp, consider spending 45 cents for the official breast cancer stamp.  The US Post Office passes the proceeds (minus costs and postage) to breast cancer research.  Over $37 million has been raised for breast cancer research so far.

My Own Treasured Friends,

I don't know what it is about words and their variations, but I'm fascinated by dialect with its colorful phrases and ear-catching pronunciations.

I moved from Erie, Pennsylvania to Dallas, Texas to northern Florida in the mid 1970s.  One of the first things I noticed was folks down south had accents, different ways of pronouncing words from those I was accustomed to. 

When I met my husband Bruce in Texas, I thought he had one heck of a strong southern accent.  He informed me that being from Joplin, Missouri, and having traveled, he considered himself to have a Midwestern-Texas accent.  My father thought Bruce sounded like a cowboy - whatever cowboys sound like.

When you marry and start living full time with a person from a place other than your hometown, you notice differences in speech very quickly.  Bruce says in' sur ance, where I say in sur' ance.  He says dis' play and I say dis play'.  It's the same with ice' cream and ice cream'.  He also says drougth (pronounce the th) for drought and hurrican for hurricane, a sad subject we'll be talking about for quite a while with the tragedy of Katrina upon us.  (While we all donate as we're able, it seems so little compared to what they're going through.  Bless all those who are suffering.)

Donate: American Red Cross

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I've heard mirrow for mirror, chimley for chimney, let me hug your neck instead of let me give you a hug, make your picture instead of take your picture, put up the laundry instead of put away the laundry, wait on her instead of wait for her, I like to have died instead of holy cow! 

It's all a delight, but I'll never forget a knock on our Dallas door.  There stood a little boy wanting our daughter to come out to play.  He was taken with the matching jackets (remember, it was the 70s) Dad had given to us.  The boy asked, "Where'd y'all get y'alls' jackets with y'alls' name on 'em?"  Talk about cute and charming!

As you might guess, listening hard to speech comes naturally to me.  Apparently I'm a pretty good mimic.  In fact, I've had born and raised Southerners ask me if I'm from the South because they think the dialect in my Goodbye Lie series rings so true. Talk about the ultimate compliment for a writer.

Bottom line: Dialect is different from the norm just as my norm is different from yours.  It makes for an interesting and entertaining world.  Just think of the actors with gifts for dialect or natural accents that enthrall us all - old favorites like Caesar Romero, Omar Sharif, Sophia Loren, Rex Harrison, Katherine Hepburn, Butterfly McQueen and today's stars such as Jude Law, Russell Crowe and Antonio Banderas to name a few.  I for one enjoy them because of the way they speak, not in spite of it.  How about you?

Love from Florida's Amelia Island,

Jane Marie

*di·a·lect   ()    (d -l kt )
noun.  A regional or social variety of a language distinguished by pronunciation, grammar, or vocabulary, especially a variety of speech differing from the standard literary language or speech pattern of the culture in which it exists: Cockney is a dialect of English.  Dictionary.com

Editor's Note:  Jane Marie had several titles in mind for this month's letter, but the minute I read it, I wanted to steal the title from a short story by the late, great P. G. Wodehouse.  Not only is the Wodehouse story one of the two funniest short stories I've ever read, but his title (titles cannot be copyrighted) "Goodbye to All Cats," seemed perfect to me, a dog person.  Since Jane Marie loves her kitties despite their faults, we used one of her titles.

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My Own Treasured Friends,

It is 6:45 a.m. on a Saturday morning, and I'm groggy from lack of shut-eye.  I stayed up until nearly 1:00 a.m to watch a comparison of The Big Sleep with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, the pre-edited version versus the final released cut.  I had hoped to sleep in, but silly, silly me. 

When will I learn our cats will not permit any slug-a-beds in their family?

At 6:15 a.m. or there about, they let us have it with a not so subtle knocking on our bedroom door.  Actually, it wasn't a knocking because cats don't have knuckles with which to rap.  It was more of an insistent, not to be ignored stroking on the lower portion of the wooden door panels.  Sigh.

We growled, yelled, and otherwise weakly attempted to discourage the reveille.  Those feline beasts gave us approximately three minutes between door rattlings, which, to their minds, was most charitable.  But it was just enough time for us to begin to drift back to sleep before they began again.

And would you like to know the reason for their early up-and-at 'ums?  Well, I'll tell you.  They all wanted a drink of water.

Okay.  You think you have the solution.  Put a water bowl out for them in another room, right?  Wrong.

We maintain cute and colorful cat water bowls in both the kitchen and  in the front bath.  We also have one in the our master bath off our bedroom.  And that's the problem.  For some reason we have yet to figure out, the water dish in our bathroom holds the most tempting water.  Sadly, access to it is through our bedroom. 

If that isn't bad enough, we are still having late night fetchings.  Two out of three cats, baby Button, alias Little Naughty, and Spew, her big brother, fetch.  While this might be an interesting oddity and fun to participate in during waking hours, in the middle of the night fetching holds no appeal whatsoever for humans. 

Examples: They have a favorite red string thingie, formerly resembling a mouse.  In the dark of night, I far too frequently feel a jostling of the bed caused by the weigh of a cat or two, munificently, to their pea minds, including us in their play.  With eyes refusing to open, I blindly reach about for the nasty mouse-thing they've brought.  Sometimes I actually find it without having to sit up.  When I get my hands on it, and I always do because they won't leave me alone until I do, I throw it out into the room somewhere.  Unfortunately, they retrieve it as any good dog would.  This is repeated several times until my lame tossing of the object is no challenge in distance or search, and the cats, to my extreme pleasure, give up.  Other times, I cleverly hide the mouse between the box springs and mattress.  Just as cleverly, the cats sniff it out mini-seconds after I've drifted off to sleep again, and the cycle continues.  Until I give their precious mousy to the garbage gods as an offering, I remain helpless against the single-mindedness of our feline entertainment junkies.

Where was my husband all this?  Was he participating?  Was he awake?  Was he disturbed at all?  Heck no.  He was dead to the world unlike me, his princess.  (Remember The Princess and The Pea.  I feel and hear all as any light sleeper does.)

While Bruce snored on, I heard the rustling of aluminum foil.  In the middle of the night, you ask?  Yup.

You see, for a recent family reunion, we replaced our two 20 year old recliners with new Queen Ann burgundy recliners.  I absolutely love how their delicate legs elevate them from the floor, making our small parlor appear a bit more spacious.  The rub is I have only seen them for one entire day when our company first came.  Why?  Because in order to remain the pretty rich burgundy they are, the chairs must be covered with burgundy sheets to protect them from the deposits of hair left by sleeping cats - like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs, cat hair is dropped wherever the cats walk.

Back to the rustling of aluminum foil: Button has taken to sharpening her claws on the back edges of both new chairs.  When I'm awake, I generously spray her with water from the always handy squirt bottle.  Trouble is, Button is the kitty who likes to play in water.  Remember we once found her peeking out of the toilet bowl?  Mmm. So appealing. My solution was to pin aluminum foil to the backs of the chairs in hope  the crackle of the foil would discourage her. 

Of course I'd only had the foil on one night when Bruce informed me  he found a few shredded pieces on the floor along with some scattered straight pins Button had plucked from my magnetic pin cushion and left in our path for bare feet to tread on.

As you can tell, our cats are ever victorious, but so long as there is the human desire, need, and right for a good night's sleep, I will never give up!  "Hear that, cats?"

Love from Florida's Amelia Island and Stately Martha's House of Cats,

Jane Marie

November 2005 Design Decisions   My Own Treasured Friends, Sister Nancy, partner and dispenser of wisdom (a bit of flattery keeps her happy), suggested I share a brief overview of our brilliant design system. I'm not referring to Nancy's handmade jewelry in her Goodbye Lie Collection, which pays homage to the women in my historic suspense novel series, or her other jewelry collections named for famous women in history.  I'm talking about designing our T shirts, mugs, mouse pads, baby bibs, clocks, wooden boxes, aprons, sweatshirts, etc. Nancy calls me the artist in the family. I readily admit to having painted a humming bird that is identifiable as such as well as a small rabbit, a daisy face and any number of whimsical non-specied flowers, no two ever alike, for my fun, unique and sweet Secret Pebbles™ offerings.  (I smiled modestly as I typed this.)  I have also boldly designed, drawn, and/or photographed many of the images you see on our web pages.   Jane Marie's drawing of Mr. E. A. Whickers, Proprietor of Martha Bear's Old Fashioned General Store & Online Emporium   The resident Marketing Wizard at Stately Martha Manor, alias my husband Bruce, is the official arbitrator of what is and isn't appealing.  Is it because his taste is exquisite, his mind as sharp as broken toilet bowl porcelain (that's another story coming soon to these pages), or is it because he's often in the next room and available to answer questions from me, aka The Questionmeister? Example: Jane Marie: "Okay, honey bunny, oh favorite husband of mine."  (Free advice to readers - Buttering up someone whose approval you're seeking increases the odds in your favor.  Are you sensing a pattern in my people management techniques?)  "How would this drawing of a worn down shoe with bunions swelling the sides look for a T shirt or baby bib?  Doesn't move ya?  What about if I change the caption from stinks to smells?  (Mini tribute to The Philadelphia Story staring Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn for you movie buffs.)    1940 "Still no?  Let's try solid puce for the background color and lose the polka dots.  Would you like it better then?  You would?  You're not just saying that because you want me to make you a Chocolate Oatmeal Semi-Smoothie for breakfast tomorrow, are you?" I try and read his eyes.  Does he truly love my efforts?  Or is he so full of beans, he's lost his usual good taste and will say anything to get rid of me so he can go back to watching the ball game. If it's not difficult enough to get my designs past him, you should try Nancy!  The dreaded "I don't like it" from her is like the blue screen of death to a computer. As you might have deduced, my idea of what's clever versus the rest of the world's may differ.  The trick is to appeal to myself and everyone else on the planet. Picture this for a shirt.  A boy deer and a girl deer are standing in the woods.  There's a white rectangle on a post between them.  Music notes are all around.  The caption above in red lettering says Lets Taste the Salt Lick and Prance."  Get it?  Inspiration for this pearl came from an old Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers movie where they sing Let's Face the Music and Dance. 1936 Nancy said the joke was too obscure although she did think it was semi-clever. "Don't fret," I tell myself.  "You know your brain is a bottomless soup of spinning colors, rhymes, and ideas.  All you have to do is wade in and randomly pluck out whatever you can grab." Ever encouraged, I always try and focus on Nancy's quote, "If you don't get it right the first time, just shuffle the cards and deal again."  With so much practice, that could explain why I'm a whiz at playing Go Fish! Check out two of my favorite Nancy and Bruce approved creations:    Mooers and Shakers   Mooers and Shakers hooded sweatshirt and a Teddy O™ special featuring our rascally teddy bear mascot, displaying his handsome self with one of his favorite slogans. Born to Burp     I believe I've just managed to work a record number of shameless plugs into one short article.  I didn't say I'm always perfectly tasteful, just gracious - or I try to be, well, most of the time.  Anyway, you know "It's a better thing" when you spend time on our site.   It's a better thing yellow T Can you tell I have fun doing whatever it is I do?  And this is the important part for you.  You can design your own goodies too!  For free! We have over 20 shops on Café Press.  We just upload the designs, and they do all the work.  We never have to pay anything or buy anything, and we can sell our stuff to you at a very small profit! So if you want to dress your family in shirts you designed yourself or make a mug for Uncle Frank, click on the banner above and get started now.  Why should I be the only creative genius online? Love from Florida's Amelia Island, Jane Marie PS  We've been publishing this newsletter for four years!  We thank you, dearest readers, for your priceless support.      December Newsletter Jane Marie's Annual Holiday Letter   My Own Treasured Friends, Big news this year!  Mother and Father are grandparents for the first time.  Grammy, as she prefers to be called, is forcing feeding photos to family and former friends who are now enemies.  But Baby Girl is so cute Grammy is certain hearts will melt in reconciliation.  Naturally, Grampy sent a postcard off to Peace, Alabama, suggesting Mother win their Nobel Peace Prize.   She Who Must Be Obeyed Sweatshirt at Acorn! Father has begun doing a little substitute teaching on the side to keep him in wingtips and Baby Girl in leather booties.  One of his favorite high school classes is Spanish.  Since he's familiar with the basics, like tacos and guacamole, he says it's a breeze. Daughter is already back in shape after having Baby Girl.  She's in a charitable mood and is giving all her fat clothes to Mother.  Mother is eating extra helpings of Au Gratin Potatoes, mac and cheese, and fresh baked bread just so she can fit into them.  Mother is always ready to step up to the plate for a good cause. Son-in-Law, at first, felt silly wearing a bag on his chest to carry Baby Girl.  Since his wife told him she thinks fathers with little ones are sexy, he wears it all the time.  Now his Mrs has to fool him by substituting a rubber doll so the real child can take a nap.  Son-in-Law never notices because he's always trying to perfect his golf swing.  Actually, he finds the extra weight on his chest lessens his slice to the right.    Father often volunteers to do the household chores for Mother.  He washed her burgundy parlor pillows spotted with baby drool, and they exploded, expanding to 18 times their original size.  Mother is pleased at the extra head space she'll have for napping once she captures all the feathers blowing about the house. A family reunion was held with all in attendance.  Everyone wondered who the lady with the green tooth, long nose hair, and scaly feet was.  Mother suspected she was Father's Aunt Enda, and Father suspected she was Mother's Cousin Cleebo.  Daughter was sure the lady was a man, and Son-in-Law didn't care because he was busy trying to lure Baby Girl off the roof.  Her leather booties get great traction.  When the party was over, the electric toothbrush, electric nose hair trimmer, and pumice stone were missing.  Father is very loyal to family, whoever she might be, and refused to call the police, saying charity begins at home.  Thanks to the light-fingered green tooth lady, he knows what to get Mother for Christmas this year and is most grateful!   That's the exciting news from Amelia Island, Florida.   Happy Holidays to You and Yours from all of us on Florida's Amelia Island and in glorious Oklahoma City, Jane Marie   Back   Next

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  WIN! Contest News

Top 10 Reasons to Read "The Goodbye Lie"

1. Victorian gracious living

2. Constant drama

3. Over 50 links to recipes & crafts on GraciousJaneMarie.com so you can revel in the "Goodbye Lie" experience

4. Non-stop imagery

5. Villainy abounds

6. Total surprise ending

7. An actual plot - no formula romance here

8. "On the mark" dialect

9. Original handmade jewelry and other fun treasures available

10. Three more novels in the series

 Bonus reason to read "The Goodbye Lie":

11. Jane Marie believes in happy endings!

  2003

Danny Deckchair - an Australian construction worker ties balloons to a chair and floats into a new life - sweet, but light (Shaun of the Dead without the gore)

The Terminal - Tom Hanks lives in JfK Airport - sweet, but light

2004 / 2002 (Catch Me If You Can)

Hero - beautiful action movie in Chinese, based on a legendary story

 2004