Scottish Restrooms

Here in our part of Scotland what we know as restrooms in the U.S. are sometimes labeled “WC” for “water closets.” Woe to the unsuspecting tourist who desperately needs a toilet and has no idea what the small “WC” sign on a building means.

Toilets in this part of Scotland are called “loos.” And the toilets are frequently labelled “male” and “female.” Humorous considering the fact that they clearly do not reproduce. Finding public toilets as you head north from here to the Black Isle is as difficult and frustrating as finding the end on a clear roll of tape.

Public toilets are so scarce that travelers must resort to extreme measures when they can’t hold it any longer. Or at least—I have. Leaning against the back of a vacant building. Hanging onto metal racks for support in the back of a closed store. Hiding behind the open door of the car on the side of the road. Not. Fun.

However, for folks like me—necessary. If I were not so adamantly opposed to drugs I could make a fortune peeing for drug tests.

And, when one can find a public toilet—dangers abound. The metal hardware has been painted over so many times that when one latches the door it’s a fight to get it open again. And, because the partitions stretch from floor to ceiling—there is no way to climb over or go under when the door won’t open again. On one road trip, it took two men and a handful of tools to extricate Alan from a toilet stall when he couldn’t open the door. The men had to unscrew and take the hinges off the other side to let him out.

Me? I’m so claustrophobic that I take my chances with not locking the door. If some desperate fellow traveler bustles in and plops down on my lap—I’ll just hope they have good aim.

And cold? Scotland never has what a Texan would consider a summer. When it gets over 70 degrees, folks complain that they are “broiling.” Many of the WCs along the way are not heated. Cold metal seats, cold carved granite seats—they are out there, folks!

Some bathrooms—even in a large hospital across the water still have big tanks of water hanging on the wall under the ceiling. A long tube runs down from the water tank to the toilet bowl. It flushes by pulling a chain with a wooden handle at the end.

Many of the more modern toilets have buttons on the top. The buttons are divided in half. The user is supposed to push the big part of the button to flush poo, and the smaller part for pees. The problem is that those buttons are hard to press down—especially for older folks. It is perplexing to me that the hospital across the water with the tanks on the wall would install push button toilets when so many of their patients lack the strength to push the buttons.

Perhaps it’s in poor taste to write a blog about toilets—but I don’t think so. God has marvelously created us. Our bodies are designed to take in and let out. We can’t survive if the process stalls.

Our bodies are not one member, but many members. “God has set the members, each one of them, in the body as He pleased… those members of the body which seem to be weaker are necessary.”1 Corinthians 12:22.

When I first arrived in Scotland from the U.S., I used to aggravate Alan by calling Scotland a “third world country.” But I’ve been stuck in one of those public toilets myself—with no one within hollering distance to help. Toilet dramas have found their way into several of my Miz Mike books and other books of mine which are set in Scotland.

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Giving Thanks for a Wonky Seatbelt

A lot of folks give thanks for financial rewards, new vehicles, new clothes, vacations, trips abroad, dining at fine restaurants. I thank God for a wonky seatbelt.

When the seatbelt first malfunctioned—I was irritated. The tongue no longer stayed at the top where it belonged, but instead, dropped down to the floorboard. Since our car is so small, this means opening the door—almost always into blinding rain and punishing wind—to reach down and retrieve it. It’s difficult to be thankful for uncomfortable and awkward situations.

There are many things in my life for which I am thankful. The wonky seatbelt is a new addition.

My dream since childhood has been to write to write books. I have now written 49, and I am extremely thankful. Before my first book was published I was privileged to write for several different newspapers. I am extremely thankful for that. The situations I faced and the characters I met live again inside my 49 books.

I am thankful to have been born in Texas. I am thankful for the different states I have had an opportunity to reside in or visit: Georgia, Alabama, Nevada, California, Montana, Arizona, Florida. I am thankful for having been born in the United States, and now for my time in Scotland. Enrichment for my life. Fodder for my books.

God has blessed me with a marvelous family; marvelous memories; marvelous pets…and a marvelous life. I am thankful.

Not everything has been good. Not everything has been easy. I survived years of childhood sexual abuse and forced abortions that nearly killed me (performed by the perpetrator who had no medical knowledge or training but was determined to hide his crime). I survived an abusive, alcoholic spouse and divorce in my first marriage. I survived the cancer death of my second husband, and then an annulment from a conniving druggie who left me thousands of dollars in debt. A plane crash separated me from my wonderful son Luke. I have now spent several years as a care giver for my Scottish husband. Hard times, hard things.

Leaving my country was hard. Learning to drive on the wrong side of the road and use roundabouts; the difference in pronunciation of words like garage, aluminium, controversy, schedule, and dozens more—some of which still catch me by surprise. Different spellings. Flavour instead of flavor; programme instead of program; colour instead of color; tonne instead of ton; favourite instead of favorite.

Learning Scottish words like blether, braw, shoogily (shaky), haver (imagine), bairn (child), greet (to cry), stoor (dust or dirt), glaikit (fool or stupid) has been difficult, but these words figure richly in my books that are set in Scotland.

Learning that “tea” is the evening meal—or then again—it could just be tea. Learning that folks who ask to “clap” your dog do not intend abuse—they want to pet it.

I am thankful for all the things that have gone wrong in my life and all my unanswered prayers—which were actually answered. “No” is an answer.

It hurts to see my cancer, Parkinson’s Disease-stricken husband continue his slow decline. It’s hard. But I am thankful that I am here to take care of him.

And I am thankful for the wonky seatbelt.

When I get into the car and the seatbelt tongue is at the top where it belongs, I say, “Thank You, Jesus.” However, it is usually not in the proper position for fastening, so now I say, “Thank You, Jesus,” even when it is on the floorboard and I must fish for it.

And that is why I am so thankful for that wonky seatbelt. It reminds me on a daily basis to thank God. To thank God for the good, and to thank God for what does not appear to be good at the time.

My two favorite Bible verses are, “In everything give thanks for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you,” 1 Thessalonians 5:18, and “All things work together for good to those who love the Lord,” Romans 8:28.

The wonky seatbelt reminds me of these verses.

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My Dog Has a Broken Gear

Since childhood I have loved collies. One thing I love about them is their graceful, effortless trot.

I have been blessed enough in life to have been owned by several collies: Esther, Abby, Scot. All of them have exhibited that lovely gait that no other dog can emulate. And then there’s Savannah.

Savannah has owned us since puppyhood. She does not trot. She plods. She gallops. The trot is missing.

Because she is a blue merle—meaning her coat is black and grey—and because she plods, people mistake her for an old dog. She is seven. She has been mistaken for an old dog for years.

My writing resembles Savannah’s plodding. Thankfully I now have 49 books published, but, oh, those early years. I have a folder of rejection slips I’ve saved—150 of them. I don’t know how many I threw away before I started saving them. One east coast publisher wrote me a kind rejection letter for my children’s book, “Hubert the Friendless Snake.” I inundated him with children’s book manuscripts, none of which have ever been published.

I decided the solution was to get a literary agent. I got one. A crook. He took $150 for zero efforts and results and refused to return it. I desperately wanted to show up on his doorstep and demand a refund. But the logistics and travel expense of reaching North Carolina from Texas ultimately defeated that idea of revenge. I’ve since discarded that manuscript.

Then there was the publishing company that did accept one of my children’s book manuscripts. It held it for more than a year before deciding that the market had changed and they couldn’t use it. I still have it—several versions of it along with some beautiful illustrations an artist in Nevada did for me.

Enter the publishing company that accepted the first two of my Miz Mike cozy mystery-romance books. I wrote a total of eight books for that series. The publishing company promised to release them six months apart to build the momentum and keep it going. They published the first one. Two years later I was still waiting for the second release. It was released, but when the publishing company went bankrupt, I took back my rights to both books. I rewrote the books, hired an illustrator to do new covers, and changed to self-publishing. All the rest of the eight Miz Mike books were released quickly. I changed the title of the second Miz Mike to “Dead Body in a Pickup Truck,” which was what I wanted to call it from the start. The publishing company had deemed that title unsuitable. Dead Body in a Pickup Truck now has 23 ratings on Amazon with a 4.5 average. It is dedicated to my late son, Marine Corps Major Luke Parker, and includes the prophetic poem he wrote a year before his plane crash.

Plodding. I do my best to encourage other writers who want to give up. Plodding is difficult, both in writing and in dog walking. Take walking Savannah. When she plods in front of me, I have a tendency to run over her because she’s so slow. When she walks behind me, I need to stop frequently to let her catch up. And her gallop? It is so unexpected that she snatches the leash handle right out of my hand.

If you are reading this and you are a plodding writer, don’t give up. Even plodding writers experience explosions of success and joy.

Collies are my favorite breed of dog—even when they are missing gear. My favorite Psalm is Psalm 27. Verse 14 encourages, “Wait! On the LORD; be of good courage and He shall strengthen your heart. Wait, I say, on the LORD!”

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A New Book for the New Year

God blessed me with an amazing and wonderful son, Luke, known by the Marine Corps as Major Luke Parker. Luke was everything in a son than any mother could ever imagine, yet, I always wanted more children.

I now have 49 kids. The second kid (book), “Dead Body in a Pickup Truck,” is dedicated to Luke and includes the prophetic poem he wrote a year before flying into the arms of Jesus when his plane fell out of the sky.

They can never replace Luke, but I am proud of all my kids. Still, I rarely dedicate a blog to them. “Hell to Hole Mystery” is different. For one thing, it uses the childhood sexual abuse that I suffered as background for the protagonist. For another thing—satan didn’t want this book published. I know that because problem after problem came against it, pushing the publication date ahead weeks at a time—a month in total by its publication today. If satan is against it—God is for it. There are only two gods in this world; the Lord God Who is all good and the Author of everything good, and satan who is all bad and the author of everything bad.

Like my other kids, “Hole to Hell Mystery” is a Christian cozy mystery. I would like to think that all my books are powerful and that readers leave the pages with more than what they brought into them. “Hole to Hell Mystery” is, however, more powerful and thought-provoking than my other cozy Christian mysteries. It is definitely different. My prayer is that it will enrich readers and bless them. That’s what I pray for all my kids, but even more for my newest one since God’s enemy fought so hard against its publication.

Thank you for loving my kids. May they always be welcome in your homes and lives. God bless.

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Christmas First

I’ve had a blog written to share for a couple of weeks. Ironically, it is about all the hindrances that have come against the publication of my new book—which still has not been released. But, that’s okay—because Christmas should come first.

The Christmas Story, as told in Luke, Chapter 2, is matchless.

And it came to pass in those days that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. So all went to be taxed, everyone to his own city. Joseph went up from Galilee to Bethlehem with Mary, his betrothed wife, who was great with child.

So it was that while they were there the days were completed for her to be delivered and she bought forth her firstborn Son and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths and laid Him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn.

Now there were in the same country shepherds living out in the fields keeping watch over their flock by night. And behold, an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were greatly afraid.

Then the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign to you, you shall find a Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths lying in a manger.”

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men!”

And no book, no blog, no surfeit of words that I can write could compete with that beautiful story. God came down to earth so we can go to heaven.

Merry Christmas. God bless all of y’all.

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Raincoats on Dogs

Growing up in rural Georgia in the 1960s, folks were too poor for a lot of things. I daresay that if any of us had seen a raincoat on a dog—we would have laughed. Where we lived, people could not afford raincoats even for themselves.

Many pet owners never took their animals to the vet. They couldn’t afford that either. Our 4-H Club sponsored a rabies clinic once a year so folks could get their animals vaccinated. For a lot of dogs it was the only time in their lives that they saw a vet.

It probably stems from the “Lassie” TV series we watched as kids, but I have a lifelong love for collies. As a child, the closest I ever came to owning a collie was a neighbor’s black and white border collie that kept following me home until the owners finally let me keep it.

Then there was Prince, a part-collie stray dog that showed up at our house and stayed. He saved my life when the Hester’s horned cow cornered me against the side of the barn and charged. Prince leaped between us with ferocious growls and frenzied barking and bit the cow on her nose.

Along with “Kicker,” the killer cow, the Hesters were given a gorgeous tri-colored collie. I was jealous. I had wanted a collie dog like “Big Boy” for as long as I could remember. Somehow, Big Boy got hit by a car. He survived, but with a limping gait and an ugly cut across the end of his nose. Big Boy wasn’t my dog, but I loved him. He was a collie. I knew he needed veterinary attention, but the Hesters didn’t have money for that. In fact, in all the years I knew them none of the Hesters went to a doctor either. Their solution for injured animals was to spit tobacco juice on the wound or cover it with purple horse liniment. I begged my parents to let me take Big Boy to the vet since the Hesters couldn’t afford it. But my parents couldn’t afford it either.

People wearing ruined blue jeans that they purchased that way new confounds me. In my 1960s rural Georgia, we wore jeans like that because we couldn’t afford anything else. We wore our clothes until the holes would no longer hold a patch. I often went to school wearing tennis shoes that were held together with the thick rubber bands off the Sunday newspaper. It wasn’t “cool” or fashionable to wear jeans with holes in them—we were embarrassed—but we wore them anyway because it was all we could afford.

How times change. Nowadays, folks choose to wear ruined clothes—and pay big bucks for them—and dogs wear raincoats.

It is comforting to know that not everything changes. “For I am the LORD, I do not change.” Malachi 3:6.

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Problems with Facebook

A lot of folks complain about Facebook. I never have. It’s free. Why should I complain about something when I’m not contributing to it?

I don’t know when it changed, because with writing new books and taking care of a husband who has blood cancer, Parkinson’s, and vascular dementia and is unable to weight-bear—plus walking a dog since we have no yard—I stay rather occupied. Sometimes it takes me several days to find enough free time to cut my fingernails.

The point is that I suddenly noticed that Facebook had changed my profile from author to “digital creator.” Now that is funny. Computers are as much of a mystery to me as math. What I know about computers is how to turn them on—and even that is iffy if it isn’t my computer—write a book, save it, and email it to my editor. I can even download the cover the illustrator sends me and send it to the editor. That’s all. I only visit internet sites if I am researching for a book. I don’t download anything on my 15-year-old laptop computer—which is running out of memory—and I don’t have a mobile phone, “smart,” or otherwise.

When I noticed the FB shift, I decided to rectify it immediately. Back to why it was so funny to designate me as a digital creator. I didn’t know how to change the change. Before I knew it, FB had changed it itself. It decided I was a government agency. With everything that is going on in the world at the moment, that’s not funny—it’s scary.

Changing it again was no easier than the first time because the computer program running Meta had no category for author. Authors must be an endangered species.

Now I finally have a working profile that fits me better—writer. I’ve dreamed of being an author all my life—at least from the time I was eight—so it seems a bit disappointing to settle for “writer” rather than “author”—but at least I’m not looking over my shoulder because I’m listed as a government agency—so I will return to not complaining about FB in spite of the seemingly random and unnecessary changes it makes constantly.

I have a new book coming out in a few weeks. A powerful, hard-hitting mystery that does not ignore the correlation between child abuse and crime. My FB label—writer or author—really doesn’t matter just so readers buy the book.

Labels change. People change their ideas about labels. One thing never changes. God. People give Him many labels, but He is the Lord God, Creator of the universe.

“He knows the way that I take; When He has tested me, I shall come forth as gold. He is unique, and who can make Him change?” Job 23:10 & 13.

No matter what label anyone or anything attaches to me, it can’t change what God created when He made me and called me to write books.

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I Don’t Want To Go Back

Often I hear folks say, “Oh, to be twenty again.” “If only I could go back and live my life again—I’d do it differently. I’d get it right this time.”

I don’t want to go back.

For the first time in my almost 74 years of life—I like myself. For the first time in almost 74 years I even like my fly-away baby-fine hair that is immune to attempts to style or “fix” it. For the first time in nearly 74 years of life I can look into a mirror and not be disappointed by the reflected image.

Because now I know—now I understand the truth of Psalm 139:14, “I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

It’s been a long hard road. For those of us who were sexually abused as children it is difficult to navigate the self-blame and self-loathing because we feel somehow guilty for what happened to us. Especially me since the perpetrator who had no medical training performed two backwoods abortions on me to hide his crime and I nearly bled to death both times. I survived. The babies didn’t. Abortion is murder.

I took my one and only writing course when I was 23. It only lasted a few weeks, but I never forgot the teacher’s advice on the first day: write about what you know. Hard advice for me at twenty-three—I didn’t know anything. I had only been a Christian for a few days, but that was long enough to know that I should pray about things so I asked God to give me something to write about.

God answers prayer. Now I know.

I know what it’s like to live with an alcoholic, abusive spouse. I know what it’s like to live with a drug-addicted spouse and attempt to help him. I know what it’s like to go through divorce when you don’t believe in divorce and don’t want it. I know what it’s like to be a single mom and work two and three jobs to support myself and my child. I know what it’s like to help a new spouse battle cancer, to take care of him until he died, and then speak at his memorial service.

I know what it’s like to bury my child.

I know what it’s like to undergo back surgery, knee replacement, and a hip replacement, and to spend three months in the hospital after the hip replacement became infected. I wrote and published three books while I was in the hospital.

Now I know. Now I have things to write about. My life experiences are sprinkled through my 48 published books, some sprinkled more liberally than others. The book I’m working on right now draws from the painful chapter of childhood sex abuse.

Go back to another time and a younger age? I don’t want to go back. I’ve lived through it once. Once is enough.

I’m ready to go forward to heaven where there is no sin, sadness, illness, sorrow, pain, or parting.

Don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve loved my life. I wouldn’t exchange even one day of it for someone else’s. Even the hardest places and the most disappointing moments have been spun into the greatest blessings by the hand of the God who spun the stars into the universe and spins the earth upon nothing.

I’ve lived in and visited states all over the U.S. and lived in two different countries. I’ve lived in Bandera, Texas, home of my heart—and cowboy capital of the world. I’ve spent years working on several different newspapers as a staff writer. I’ve cuddled wild animals; a fox, raccoon, jaguarondi, African lion, raven, snakes, skunk, possums, dogs, cats, horses. I’ve been bitten on my stomach by an African lion.

I’m ready for the unending chapter in my life—heaven. The Bible describes it as having streets of gold, but all I want in heaven is a rock wall with flowers growing over it and animals coming to visit me. And to be with my son Luke again.

I’ve lived in the desert with Luke, who taught me to see—really see—the wind. I’ve danced through tumbleweed circuses and followed porcupines and coyotes to see where they were going. I’ve panned for gold, wet-washed for gold, metal detected for gold. With Luke’s help I’ve rescued possums and ravens and had remarkable dogs.

I’ve had a blast. And it’s given me something to write about. Now I’m a caregiver for my husband who is dying of cancer. I’ve got silver strands mixed into the brown of my hair. I’ve got puffy circles under my eyes from fatigue. I frequently pull muscles moving Alan about since he can’t weight-bear and must be pulled up and moved with equipment. But the joy of the Lord is my strength and nothing can steal my joy.

That’s why I can look at myself in the mirror and like what I see. I can see myself through God’s eyes. He loves me. He loves you also. So when you look into a mirror, like what you see and repeat, “I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” Psalm 139:14

No one in the world can be you. God created you for a plan and a purpose that only you can fulfill. You are a poor imitation of anyone else. You are a true you.

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Memories are Strange Critters

One of my earliest memories is playing around a garbage heap outside our house in Kansas City, Missouri, where my sister (and brilliant author) Leslie P. Garcia was born. Since Leslie was just a baby, I must have been around two-and-a-half at the time. I discovered a delicious mystery—an old piece of furniture that hid colorful delights.

These amazing brightly colored sweet things had a brown center. I didn’t know at the time that the center was called chocolate. I couldn’t read the letter on the brightly colored shell—I wasn’t even three yet. I found these things stuck in the sofa that was sitting on the pile of trash waiting for removal. Day after day, I rushed outside to play as quickly as possible in the morning. While Mom looked after my baby sister, I explored that old couch searching for remaining mystery treats in the crevasses and eating them with relish.

Mom didn’t have a sweet tooth. To her, children ate fruit—not candy or cookies. She never bought candy. When she bought cookies they were vanilla wafers or graham crackers. Mom didn’t like chocolate, so they were never chocolate.

When the trash heap—including the sofa—was scooped up and taken away, I was inconsolable and Mom couldn’t understand why. “But why should you be upset about them taking away that old couch?” she scolded. “I told you to stay away from that rubbish heap and to quit playing on broken furniture.”

Memories are strange critters. Often, an image of that old brown couch with its hidden candy stash creeps into my mind and I can even smell that garbage pile smell of rotten oranges. Without realizing it, that memory must have been partly responsible for the main character in my first book, “Bridge to Nowhere.” Texas Miz Mike plays a secret M&M game where she separates Mike and Marty M&Ms out of the bowl she keeps on her office desk, and in idle moments—she marches them down the church aisle to get married.

“Bridge to Nowhere” now has 36 ratings and an average of 4.3. One of its first reviewers enjoyed the book so much that she sent a box of chocolate—including M&Ms—to me at Christmas.

The success of Bridge to Nowhere galvanized my writing. I now have 46 published titles, one at the editor’s waiting for final approval, and another that is nearly finished. And to think that hidden mystery candy in the crevasses of an old sofa may have ignited the process.

There is another reason the memory of those stashed M&Ms tickles my memory. The sofa was on a trash heap. It was old, dirty, and smelly. Yet I dug the candy out of it and ate it because I didn’t know any better. I didn’t know about germs. I didn’t know that what I was doing could hurt me. The candy was delicious, so I ate it.

Whenever I see another person doing something wrong or foolish—I remember the candy I ate because I didn’t know any better. Sometimes folks don’t want to follow after sin or foolishness—they just don’t know any better, and what they are doing is delicious. They don’t need judgment. They need grace. They need love and a good example. At some point and time in our lives we have all been untaught.

“The excellence of knowledge is that wisdom gives life to those who have it.” Ecclesiastes 7:12.

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The Reality of Dreams

The idea of “going for your dreams” has been one of my life’s mantras; have a dream; dream a dream; reach for your dream. If you can dream it, you can do it.

When I was in elementary school we used the SRA reading program. I loved it. You went to a color-coded box, picked out a story at your reading level, read the story and answered the questions. Then if there was enough time, you could repeat the process. The stories were fascinating. One of my favorite was about the Loch Ness Monster. I was absorbed by that story. My dream was to go to Scotland and search for the Loch Ness Monster.

I live in Scotland now. I have been to Loch Ness and looked for the monster. Several times. I have incorporated those experiences, and the legend itself, into several of my books.

I haven’t spotted Nessie yet, but I fulfilled my dream of looking for her—even on a tour boat once. But about that dream…the reality of it saddens me. I miss my Texas, USA, home. I miss my family. Most of all, I miss Texas heat and dry and scrumptious Southern cooking.

For those who don’t know, Scotland is cold. Always cold. Even in “summer,” temperatures rarely get above 70F, and if they do—people in Scotland hate it. They say they are “broiling.”

Here in Dunoon, Scotland, it rains an average of 185 days a year. Last year it was more. It rained for days on end. Here we are two months into the new year—and it is still raining. It is still dark. It is still cold. The sun has only shown itself about three times in this new year—and all three times—it was bitterly cold even with the sun.

Many people have dreams. Some lament, “I don’t think my dream will ever come true.” Leave it in God’s hands. Perhaps the reality of the dream is not as quintessential as the dream itself.

I’m not bashing Scotland, nor am I expressing misery over my life, or over chasing dreams. I would zealously guard both the life I have now, and my dreams from others offering to exchange with me or wanting to rob me of them. I have written and published 46 Christian cozy mystery-romance-suspense books while living here in Scotland. All I have ever wanted to do since I was a child is write books. I am living my dream. I have taken brilliant photos—brilliant not because I took them, but because of the subject matter. Scotland is a beautiful country from coast to coast. But it is cold, it is wet, the sky is grey.

Dreams are marvelous. Never give up on your dreams, but make sure they line up with God’s plan for your life. “For in the multitude of dreams and many words there is also vanity. But fear God.” Ecclesiastes 5:7.

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