Anita Birt, Weaver of Tales

Anita Birt's Note book and Rant

2012-02-11T17:07:00.000-08:00

I feel a rant coming on. I am an older woman, not in my dotage and still paying my taxes, income and on everything thing I purchase yet the federal government in my country is making noises about older people being a burden on society. Not quite in those blunt words but I get the message. We are over using our health care system and draining resource, etc. It goes on apace and I am tired of being blamed for the ills of society. I have been as healthy as a trout all my my life and now I am using the medical resources available to me. Either I use them or I die! Not a desirable outcome.

That's my little rant. I am thinking of adding to my true story of crossing the Atlantic Ocean on August/September 1944. Not in sailboat but on a small ship as part of a huge convoy taking food and other important goods to war torn Britain. Not that I did anything important but two ships in the convoy were torpedoed and the explosion lifted me inches off my bunk. It was close and I don';t remember being frightened.When you are young, dying is not part of your thinking.

I shall return. In the meantime, hustle out and purchase my time travel romance, Ring Around The Room. I hadn't read it since I wrote and am reading it now. I love it.
Anita

www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note Book and Rant

2012-01-29T14:37:00.000-08:00

I know there are real live human beings out there who touch base on my blog They are like ghosts not stopping long enough to leave a comment. Now is that fair? I want comments especially now with my e-book, RING AROUND THE MOON, now published in trade paperback. My publisher created a new cover for my book that is quite beautiful.

Where are you and why are you not leaving a comment or two or three? Take a minute to check out my web site at: www.anitabirt.com. Leave a ghostly comment and I shall love you forever - well for a little while as I digest your cmments.

Writing is a ghostly business in some ways. We sit alone at our computers or with pen and paper and create stories. It's dream time while I run the movie inside my head and solve problems when they appear. Or a new character intrudes on the story line and has to be dealt with creatively. I had a major problem in Ring Around The Moon and couldn't figure out how to solve it. I wakened in the dark of night and the answer came to me.

Writing is mysterious. A story line pops into my head and I am hooked. I am developing a story about an elderly lady who moves into a seniors' residence. Instead of finding peace and quiet she stumbles into a mystery waiting to be solved. A strange character is hanging around the edges of my mind. Why? I don't like him but he won't go away.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note Book and Rant

2012-01-24T14:08:00.000-08:00

My e-book, RING AROUND THE MOON, has been issued as a trade paper book with a new beautiful cover. Here are the back cover notes I wrote for my book when it was first published.

"It wasn;t supposed to happen like this. Not to her. Not to sensible Beth Ormond. She'd rented Quest Cottage in Cornwall to get away from the hassles back home in the States, and to think through her future as as single Mom.

Tired after driving from Heathrow Airport she got out of the car. A full moon glowed in the night sky. She hurried up to the cottage but stopped n her tracksd as a man emerged from a nearby stand of trees and called out to her.

Alan Tremaine had traveled from the past to the present time with a story so bizarre Beth couldn't get her mind around it unless she disregarded her scientific training and believed in time travel. Could she? Did she want to?"

Americans can buy my book from my publisher, Ellora's Cave.com, or Amazon.com and various book stores.
Canadians can buy my book from Amazon.ca. It will save postage.
In the UK: I assume it's available at Amazon.UK

Off you go to purchase my intricately plotted time travel romance. I had many difficult problems to solve as my story evolved, not the least of which was figuring out how to create a modern identity for Alan.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

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Anita Birt's Note Book and Rant

2012-01-13T16:46:00.000-08:00

I've been having fun researching information about my Atlantic Crossing August/September 1944

I sailed on the S.S. Ariguani out of Halifax on August 29 part of Convoy HX304

On September 6 an explosion lifted me off my bunk. We passengers were never told what had caused the explosion and all the thumps that continued. The captain forbade us to go out on deck. I now know why.

The Empire Heritage a steam tanker was struck my torpedoes. The Pinto, a convoy rescue ship came to pickup survivors and it was torpedoed. The Empire Heritage carried 59 passengers plus a large crew. Few survived. A trawler, HMS Northern Wave rescued those who survived.

German U-Boat #482 Captained by Graf von Hartmut Matursky did not survive long after striking convoy HX304.. Two months later the Royal Navy attached and destroyed the submarine.

I found it hard to believe that all this information from 1944 was so easily available. Our ship docked in Liverpool on September 10. Convoys can only travel as fast as the slowest ships. I believe we were doing 10 knots that's why it took two weeks to cross the Atlantic.

Another bit of information. The Ariguani was a small ship.425.2 feet long. 54.1 feet breadth. It could fit in a Canadian football field.

I am waiting to receive the print copies of my e-book, RING AROUND THE MOON. You can order from my publisher, Ellora's Cave. or Amazon.com or in Canada, Amazon.ca.

Enjoy life
Anita

www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book and RAnt

2012-01-08T10:36:00.000-08:00

I have news. My e-book, RING AROUND THE MOON, is now available in trade paperback! If you live in the States you can order my book from www.jasmine-jade.com or Amazon.com. It will also be available in book stores. In Canada it is more efficient to order from Amazon.ca and save on postage. View the new cover!

Ring Around The Moon is a time travel romance set in magical Cornwall. My hero time travelled from two hundred years in the past to the the present time. My heroine is an American, fourth month's pregnant with her first child. She rented Quest Cottage in Cornwall for a month to rest and plan her life as a single Mom.

The "best laid plans," often go astray. I loved writing this book. The plot's twists and turns surprised me and I am the author

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book and Rant

2011-12-27T14:20:00.000-08:00

I have added Rant to the title because I might hold forth in the new year rather than start a new blog.

I HAVE NEWS. I had an e-mail from my publisher two days before Christmas informing me that some of their e-books will be going into print in 2012. They will be printing my time travel romance, RING AROUND THE MOON. the new print books will be available on the publisher's web site first and then offered to Amazon.com and three other retailers. I shall keep you informed when all this happens. I am pleased to have another book in print.

A VERY DIFFICULT MAN is available as an e-book but is also available in trade paperback. Check my web site for synopses and covers. All my books are available at Amazon.com and at Jasmine-Jade Enterprises.

It is a dreary overcast day in Victoria with a little rain. I got out for a walk earlier and missed the rain. I am feeling rather witless right now because I have task to do and would like to put it off but honour calls. Must bear down on the task and get it done.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note Book

2011-12-19T20:51:00.000-08:00

The wanderer returns. Life is getting in my way. I am neglecting my writing, my blog, my memoirs, my everything. I think it is the slow lost of light as we move on through Christmas to the winter solstice - is that right? Here on the Vancouver Island we have had grey skies and little sun. No snow, praise the Lord. Victoria is never ready for snow and few drivers have snow tires. Few drivers know how to drive in snow or ice so it makes for lots of accidents. If it snows, I stay put.

I am not flying to visit my family at Christmas in the Toronto area. Overcrowded airports are hard on this old dear and it's difficult to get help even when my travel agent asks for it. Enough of that. My family has sent me a large box full of presents. I am not opening it until Christmas morning. Opening it before December 25 would spoil the fun.

My publisher tells me they have made some change to my time travel, RING AROUND THE MOON. If you haven't purchased it yet, try it. It's an unusual time travel story. My hero comes from two hundred years in the past to the present time. Figuring out how to get him a modern identity was difficult, but I did. A great love story awaits you.

I have become a fan of the Jack Reacher mystery/murder novels. I've started on the earlier books and enjoying them immensely. The author is Lee Stone. They are available as e-books.

I bid you goodnight. Sleep well and greet the morning with a smile

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note Book

2011-12-12T20:59:00.000-08:00

I should hide my head in shame about neglecting this blog. My intentions are good but my life gets in the way. Still have not a good title for this blog when I switch over to a Wordy Blog. Who is interested in words and their use thereof? Day after day I come across bad grammar, incorrect word usage and wonder how it can get any worse. Tweeting and texting will be the ruin of our wonderful English language. Who will know right from wrong when all we old folk pass on?

I do have hope. There are young people writing books, fiction and non-fiction, penning articles about interesting and challenging subjects. All is not lost. Is there a young person out there who will comment? Someone between the ages of 25 - 50. That is young to me! Tell me what you are writing or planning to write or thinking about a subject you'd like to tackle.

My son has been visiting for the past five days and keeping me on my toes. This evening I introduced him to one of my friends. Muriel was ninety-six years old on her birthday two weeks ago. Asked how she was, she replied. "I got this walker for my birthday but I'd rather have a car."

She is bright as a silver dollar and has a great sense of humour. Another friend had her ninetieth birthday to day. She is attractive with a sharp wit and plays excellent duplicate bridge. Having said all that I am heading for bed and shall turn on my Kindle and continue reading a Jack Reacher novel.

Check out my books at: www.anitabirt.com, buy one or two and enjoy a good read.

Anita

2011-12-12T20:39:00.001-08:00

Anita Birt's Note Cook

2011-11-24T19:09:00.001-08:00

I m stuck trying to find the right title for this blog when I change the name.

"It's about being old..." A friend suggested "Aging Achers," but I'm afraid that will not work. How about "Aging Acres," indicating where we live?

I'd like to say, "It's about being old stupid," but that's rude

To revert to this day. We've had wild winds blowing in from the east with the waves on the sea rocking and rolling in deep, deep troughs. About five o'clock rain lashed against my window (I face the sea) The wind had shifted to the west and came roaring in. I did not venture outside the door to-day.

Life is peaceful. It's Martin's birthday to-day. Martin is my best beloved son. He hopes to come out to see me in early December. I am not flying to Toronto for Christmas! Snow might fall and wreck travel arrangements. And the airports are too much for me to cope with this time of year.

I have a lot of material to go into the new blog so my thoughts are drifting in that direction. I shall let you know when I change the title of the blog so you can find me - if you so desire.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note Book

2011-11-20T15:19:00.001-08:00

November 19 and I am still struggling to find a name for my new blog. As you recall it's about getting old, really old, and hanging in there.

But before I go on, my five books, A Very Difficult Man, Isabelle's Diary, Isabelle's Story, Ring Around the Moo and Too Young To Die are selling for .99 cents a copy! You can't beat that for price so head to Amazon.com or Ellora's Cave Publishing and buy my books. Download them to your e-reader and enjoy five good reads.

My new blog is about being eighty and what to do to keep life interesting and challenging. Any bright ideas you have for a title is appreciated. What do you think about: "Being eighty - And then what?" I can't use "Over the hill gang," it's used by organizations all over the world.

The world here on the west coast of Canada is getting cold. No Anna's humming birds to be seen. They are usually here for the winter (don't ask when they could stay in California) I'm wondering if condo dwellers with balconies have stopped feeding them. I shall buy a feeder and lure them to my balcony. I did see a Bewick's wren this morning hopping along a low fence searching for little spiders and other tasty treats.

How are your brain cells? Are you keeping them alive and well by exercising and eating a healthy diet?

My frog collection is on display in the lobby of this building. They make people smile because they are rather silly.

I hope all is well where you are and you are enjoying life.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note Book

2011-11-16T19:46:00.001-08:00

I am going slightly balmy trying to create a new blog.There must be a secret password or some other tricky business of which I know nothing. According to the Google information it's easy. Takes four minutes! Whatever software they use refuses the title I want to use or they ask for information I don't have. Sigh.

We have had a wild storm on the Strait to-day. Great heaving seas with white caps tipping the waves. Unbelievable. I didn't venture out in case I'd be blown off my feet and tossed into the sea. As evening closed in the sea calmed and all is quiet.

We, who are over eight years old, are aghast at the poor grammar we run across daily - I think I ranted about this on my last post so I shall cease and desist. And the misuse of few and less. Or who and whom.

Shall I step into a minefield and comment about the Occupiers? They sit on their bums or open their laptops and moan about the state of our country - Canada in my case. I think of Steve Jobs and what he accomplished during his short life. He didn't sit under a tent he shoved up his sleeves and changed the way we use technology to connect with family friends, companies, etc. How the Occupiers expect to change the federal system under which we live by sitting under tents baffles me. And that is all I have to say on that subject. Send them all home.

I am old and cannot keep up with the changes going on around me. It's all fascinating. I'm tempted to buy an iPhone just for the helluva it. I don't need one and may torment my brain trying to work out all the features.

I wish my creative writing brain would return and stimulate me into writing stories. Not romance, as in the past, write about living through the good and the difficult times and how to enjoy life. Create a character who lives as well as she can and dearly likes to interfere in other people's lives. What fun. I shall tuck the idea in my head and let it sit awhile.

Keep buying my books through Amazon.com or my publisher, Ellora's Cave.
www.anitabirt.com

Send a comment. I know you are out there lurking in the shadows.

Anita

Anita Bit's Note Book

2011-11-14T15:20:00.001-08:00

This will be short and sweet. I shall be starting a new blog, "The Over The Hill Gang." To post on the blog you have to be eighty years old and older. We will make one or two exceptions and allow enthusiastic seventy years old men and women to post on the blog.

The blog will have a rant component to allow frustrated bloggers to air their grievances about bad grammar and the like. All of us attended schools where grammar was hammered into our heads, penmanship made us write legibly, and English Composition taught how to write coherent paragraphs with accurate punctuation.

Move over to the new blog when I figure out how to set it up. In the meantime, check my web site www.anitabirt.com for lists of my books and see if one or more of them tickle your fancy.

Anita Birt

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-11-09T15:14:00.000-08:00

I shall be starting a new blog within a few days after I gather specific material. Tentative title: Join the company of The Over The Hill Gang. A group of women, all over eighty who have decided to raise their voices, so to speak, regarding the appalling grammar featured in the daily press, magazines or heard on television or radio.

Or ill manners. We can rant with the best of them and enjoy ourselves doing it. I am the blogger. My partners in this venture are Ruth, Win and Jean but anyone over eighty, male or female may add their voices by leaving comments.

Do drop in when I get this new venture started. I shall announce it on this blog.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com
Have a look at my books listed on my web site. Cozy up to them and enjoy a good read.

Anita Birt's Notebook

2011-11-06T15:18:00.000-08:00

I never quit, do I? No comments on my blog yet I persist on blogging. It's like an illness or a compulsion, something interesting to fill an hour or two a day. I'm not doing creative writing but my fingers itch to tap away on the keyboard. So.....To entertain myself and, hopefully, find buyers for my books I shall post the first few pages of my book, TOO YOUNG TO DIE. I own the Copyright to all my books, including Too Young To Die.

CHAPTER ONE

"Keep singing, lady."

The armed man sitting across from Ellie in the nursery casually pointed his assault rifle at her. She cuddled the whimpering baby and tried, unsuccesfully, to stay cool and remember the words of the old nursery rhyme.
"Rock-a-Bye baby on the ..." Her voice cracked on the first line.
"Sing," he demanded.

"Can't sing. Can't breathe. Throat's too dry. Can I get a drink of water from the bathroom?'
He shambled to his fee. "Don't move. I don't hurt ladies and babies."
"Then what the hell are you doing here?" Ellie shifted Nicki from one arm to the other and gulped air into her oxygen-deprived lungs.

"Don't give me that crap, you're up to your next in this same as the rest." He slung the weapon under his arm. "Sing to the kid while I get you a drink."
"I can't."
"Do it and keep the kid quiet." He lowered his brows. His eyes sank into the folds of scar tissue. "Sing about the mocking bird. You sang it before."
Ellie cleared her tense throat. "Hush little baby, don't say a word...that one?"
He nodded and propped his beefy shoulder against the door. "My old lady used to sing it to my little sister."
The gorilla had a human mother. Hard to believe he hadn't come fully formed from the lab of a mad scientist.
"Please get me some water. I'll sing it and a couple more."
If she escaped from the house alive, she'd never answer another advertisement for a nanny. Magda and Stefan Blesnicoff had seemed such a nice couple. They'd sent their chauffeur to drive her from Seattle to their estate in the Cascades. She'd been with them a week and tonight she might die, blown away in a hail of bullets.
She choked back a sob. She was too young to die. So was Nicki. He squirmed and screwed up his face. "It's all right, Sweetie." She found back her panic. Stay calm. Stick to a routine. She held him against her shoulder and patted his back. "
"You're hungry aren't you?"
"You'd better feed him I won't look."
"Why?"
A sheepish grin spread across his beat-up face. "It's not respectful to watch a lady feeding her baby. That's private."
A light dawned inside Ellie's terror-stricken brain. "He isn't my baby. I'm his nanny. You'll have to get his bottle from the fridge and warm it."

That's all for today. If you want more, leave a comment - or buy the book. It's a page turner with guns, bad guys and Ellie escaping into the woods with the baby in the middle of the night. There's a hero, of course.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

2011-11-05T16:38:00.000-07:00

Anita Birt's Diary

Help! Someone has stolen access to my blog. I can't get in to write some of my deathless prose. I have a glass of sherry at my elbow to soothe my shattered nerves. Who controls the blogs? I am bewildered and that reminds me. I was dining with friends two nights ago and we started talking about words that being with "be". i.e. bedraggled ( the way I look when I fall out of bed in the morning) Bewildered. Bereft. Begone. Beware. Bewitched. Bespoke (a favourite of mine)

There are lots more. Add a few more when you comment on my blog. Remember to buy my books for your e-reader, Find then at my web site; www.anitabirt.com. I am begone until next time..
Anita

Anita Birt's Diary

2011-11-05T16:26:00.001-07:00

Anit

2011-10-28T19:04:00.000-07:00

I left you when I was feeling abandoned, without money to pay train fare to South Wales. It's September 1944. I was directed to a nearby hostel to spend the night. My husband was "somewhere in England," and I didn't have a clue where he was. I couldn't telephone his mother because phones were few and very far between in South Wales.

I spoke with others stranded in Liverpool but they expected to be picked up the next day. A young lad who had sailed on one of the Royal Navy ships told me the ship behind the Ariguani had been torpedoed and gone down, that accounted for the explosion that had rocked our ship.

As I pondered my fate I sank into a hot bath, "a shallow hot bath". A ring had been painted around the tub showing how much water a bather could use. Tired, I went to bed and could not sleep. I was frozen, could not get warm. I learned later about "damp beds" a phenomenon because of unheated houses and perishing cold bedrooms.

A brilliant thought filtered into my head during the night. One of Bill's fellow officers, Tom Ellis, whom I knew well, his wife, Norah, lived in Liverpool. I remembered her address, 32 Chalfont Rd.

With the help of kindly tram conductors, I found my way to the address and knocked on the door. "Are you Norah Ellis?" I asked. Before she could reply, I blurted out my name. "I'm Anita Birt and i don't know where Bill is. He was supposed to have money waiting for me but didn't." I don't remembered crying but Norah put her arms around me and invited me into the house.

"Come in, I'll put the kettle and make some tea." She turned to me. "I know where Tom is and he'll know where Bill is. I'll telephone him while the kettle boils."

For the first time since I'd stepped on to British soil, I relaxed. Tom was summoned. I spoke with him as tears trickled down my cheeks. Tom knew where Bill was and in short order tracked him down. Oh joy, Bill telephoned. Was horrified to learn I'd been left without money. A screw-up somewhere.

Bill was stationed close to Hereford and arranged to have a day off to meet me in there. Norah loaned me five pounds. We returned to the hostel, picked up my enormous suitcase and she escorted me to the railway station. I had never seen a five pound note. It was large and seemed more like tissue paper than proper paper money. Norah had to sign her name on the note before purchasing my ticket. She gave me the change. Of course, I promised to pay her and did.

She saw me off on the train. I felt as if I was in an English movie on this funny little English train. The whistle peeped, the conductor blew his whistle an off we went. During the war all the train station signs had been removed to fool German paratroopers should they land in the area and needed to know where they were.

I introduced myself to the three passengers in my little carriage and they kindly told me the names of the stations as the train sped along the track.

"Hereford is the next station." I gathered up my suitcase and purse. As the train slowed and stopped there was my wonderful husband waiting for me.

It was wonderful to be safely in his arms. I shall pass over the following twenty-four hours before he had to return to his base. He gave me explicit instructions when and where to change trains. He had wired news of my arrival in Britain to his mother and the train I'd be on.

I boarded the train and headed off to Pontypool Road. Change train to go to Hengoed High Level and change again to Hengoed Low Level and catch the train going up the Rhymney Valley.

Praise the Lord for my wonderful fellow passengers who kept me company and made sure I got off the train at Pontypool Road. I vaguely remember the train crossing a long, long trestle bridge over a steep valley. At Hengoed High Level Bill's sisters waited for me with open arms.

I had made it. Crossed the Atlantic Ocean during war time, came close to being blown out of the water, had found Norah Ellis, a wonderful friend in Liverpool, met Bill, had taken trains half way across England to South Wales and was safe with his family.

How did I end up somewhat like Bob Cratchit in A Christmas Carol, toiling over accounts in pounds shillings and pence, with a wonky typewriter for a weekly wage of one pound, six shillings and sixpence?

But before i went to work in the Goods Office at Pengam railway station, I met Bill's uncles, aunts and cousins, the elderly spinsters who ran the local post office in Penpedairheol and Mrs. Walters, the shop and the Evans family who were fish mongers, many of them characters right out of Dylan Thomas, a Child's Christmas in Wales.

If you like I shall return. Remember my books are for sale. Check my web site for names, covers and short synopses. www.anitabirt.com

I'd love to hear from you. Comments please. I hope this wasn't too dull.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-10-18T11:18:00.000-07:00

The time is late August 1944 and the Ariguani is part of the second largest convoy to cross the Atlantic during the war. Our convoy proceeds slowly as we zigzag across the cold Atlantic. Many of the ships are Liberty ships built in a hurry to carry food to Britain. Liberty ships were not built for speed so the convoy had to move slowly lest they be left behind, as sitting ducks, so to speak for lurking U-Boats.

Because I am writing this from the top of my head without editing, I recall information I should have mentioned earlier. We were told not to carry a lot of cash with us. Between the lines I assumed if we foundered we'd lose the money in the unforgiving water. We were informed the RAF would arrange for our husbands to have money waiting for us when we landed.

First day out of Halifax I felt queasy. The ship's doctor told me to stay out on deck in the fresh air and eat soda crackers. I recovered.

Return to the convoy. On we steamed. The sun shone. The sea behaving. The convoy split as we approached northern Ireland. My part proceeded to the north and the remainder went south. All was calm and peaceful until five thirty one morning a huge explosion lifted me right up off my mattress! I jumped out of bed, dragged on my warm clothes, shoes, stockings, coat and life jacket and headed for the saloon. (We had been ordered to meet there if there was an emergency)

Mothers with children and babies were frightened and tried to be brave not to scare the children even more. The senior steward greeted us in his dress whites as if this was a regular meeting. "What's happening?" we asked. The ship had steadied after the first explosion.

Smaller explosions continued. "Do not worry," said the steward, "it's the navy boys practicing dropping depth charges." Of course we believed him. He was an authority figure. Someone asked to go out on deck to have a look.

"No one is allowed on deck. We are not in danger. Remain calm."

Assured all was well, we sat around and chatted until breakfast. Forbidden to go up on deck, some of us went to our cabins, others stayed together in the saloon for comfort. By the next morning we were allowed up on deck. Lo and behold we were approaching Liverpool docks. I felt like shouting, "land ahoy." wW'd been at sea for fourteen days. The sun had tanned my face.

With much and forth with tugboats nudging us in, the ship tied up and three RAF officers came aboard. We lined up to receive the money sent by our husbands. On and on names were called out but 'Anita Birt', me, was not on the list.

"But I have no money," I pleaded, "what am I supposed to do?" They offered me no help. "But there has been a mistake. My husband promised me money."

The men shook their heads. "I am sorry, we can't help."

Abandoned, almost penniless, what am I to do? I didn't have enough money to pay for a train ticket to south Wales where I was to stay with my mother-in-law and two sisters-in-law in Cwmyrallt, Penpedairheol.

TO BE CONTINUED
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-10-15T14:10:00.000-07:00

I have given you background information on who I happened to be crossing the Atlantic during wartime. I shall continue. The Ariguani, one of Ffyffe's banana boats had been seconded to take passengers across stormy seas. I was in Halifax awaiting orders to proceed. Posters everywhere. LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS.

On a bright sunny morning I, and several other woman were told to proceed to the dock area. As we were escorted through a shed I was dismayed to see a small ship tied up at the pier. It looked about the size of the ferries that chugged across Toronto harbour during my childhood. Surely this small vessel wasn't fit to brave the stormy ocean.

A white coated steward greeted us at the bottom of the gangplank. I asked if the ship was safe. "Yes, Madam. It's a fine ship so you have no fear sailing on the Ariguani.

Okay, but I had my doubts. On board, another steward assigned us our cabins. Before setting us free to find our cabins, the head steward gathered us in the saloon and gave us our instructions for the voyage.

Carry your life jacket with you at all times and keep it beside your bed at night. Mothers with children had to make sure their little ones wore their life jackets at all times during the day and close by at night. Wear warm clothes and keep your warm clothing next to your bed at night. Keep your cabin door hooked open at night. Do not go on deck after dark.

We had been instructed before we left Canada not to carry much cash. We had to have a current passport. (I still have mine, dated 1944.) After settling into my cabin I walked up on deck in time to see our ship ease away from the pier. Within hours we became part of a small convoy of thirty ships heading out to sea. We were a motley crew of ships, some large some small. As we proceeded from Halifax harbour we were joined by Royal Canadian navy ships who were to shepherd us out to sea.

Within days our convoy sailed into thick fog. Imagine the noise. Fog horns going day and night. We could not see another ship. This was before radar peaked.It seemed we would be fog bound forever until we cleared the fog into bright sunshine and were now part of a huge convoy. It truly was an amazing sight. From horizon to horizon were long lines of ships. Signals flashed. Navy ships of various sizes sailed up and around the convoy. Protecting us. A comforting sight.

Some days our Ariguani would head up the third line, next day we'd be second on the first line and so it went as we zigzagged our slow way across the Atlantic.

TO BE CONTINUED

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-10-05T10:57:00.000-07:00

I am taking a short break from my blog. When I return, watch for my story about crossing the Atlantic during war time and what happened off the coast of northern Ireland!

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-10-03T19:13:00.000-07:00

In spite of the snowy beginning, our marriage lasted 65 years until my husband passed away.

Travelling to England in wartime was an adventure I did not want to miss. I sailed on one of Ffyse's banana boats diverted from bananas to civilian use. There's a story to tell before I set foot on board the Ariguani in August, 1944. It was docked at Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. "Loose lips sink ships."

During the Second World War, the Commonwealth Air Training Scheme was created to train pilots, navigators, air gunners and ground crew in Canada. Men came from every corner of the Commonwealth. New Zealand, Australia, India, South Africa, England, Ireland and Scotland. In Canada's wide open spaces training facilities were built from Ontario west to Vancouver Island.

My husband trained as a navigator and was retained in Canada as an instructor. In May 1944 he and several other young officers were sent back to England to go on active service, my husband among them. Bill was in the Royal Air Force.

Because the war in the Atlantic was winding down RAF dependents had the opportunity to sail to England. We paid our way! I still have my 1944 Canadian passport. I sailed to England on the banana boat with other women, some with small children. I was twenty-one and didn't fear dying in the North Atlantic if worst came to worst. I was adventurous and looked forward to meeting with my husband in England. I didn't have a clue where he was. He was "somewhere in England." When I landed in England I planned to travel to Wales to stay with my mother-in-law and my two sisters-in-law.

"The best laid plans of mice and men..." Murphy's Law fell into place. What ever could go wrong, did go wrong.If you want to read the rest of my story, please leave comments - many comments to encourage me.

And think of buying my five romance novels. Go to www.anitabirt.com to view covers and synopses.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-10-01T13:36:00.000-07:00

Second time around to write about my wedding day. March 6, 1943, Toronto, Canada.
Think Snow. Lots of snow. It began falling in the night. When I wakened in the morning it was almost knee deep. I had spent the night at the home of my sister and her husband, with me was my maid of honour, Joyce Baxter. The question floating at the front of my mind; would we get to the church on time, if at all.

My sister was hugely pregnant with her first child and decided to miss the actual wedding. With the assistance of my sister and Joyce I was dressed in my wedding gown, small veil and white satin sandals, great for walking in the snow. I wore a lovely long cape borrowed from a friend of my mother to keep me warm. The taxi arrived on time. My brother-in-law dug a path to the car but the snow swirled around my ankles and toes. Joyce assisted me into the cab and off we went to the church, St, Paul's Presbyterian Church ob Bathurst Street.

I was relieved to find my parents, my Uncle John and his thirteen year old daughter, Gladys, my junior bridesmaid. Bill and his best man were already in the church. As the wedding march rang out I walked down the aisle on may father's arm. It was beautiful. So far, so good. Taxis waited outside to take us to the reception at the Park Plaza Hotel.

It passed like a blur. Bill and I taxied to my sister's home where I changed into my "going away clothes." My suitcases were packed. Bill had a small case. I had two very large suitcases! I was twenty years old and not a seasoned traveller. We were going to spend a week at a Niagara Falls hotel and I had packed very thing I owned!

Bill had ordered seats on the club car, when we arrived at the railway station, there was no club car, instead we were seated in an ancient wooden, Canada coach, a relic of bygone days. No food available. Hard wood seats. The snow had snarled the railway.
We planned to spend the night at the Royal Connaught Hotel in Hamilton. A brilliant plan but traffic was snarled and there were no taxis at the station. We trudged through the snow to the local street car stop, Bill staggering under the weight of one of my huge suitcases. I staggered with the other one. Years later he told me, he almost cancelled the marriage then and there but noble soul that he was he forgave me. We never did forget those monstrous suitcases. One of them travelled to England with me when I crossed the Atlantic during the war, but that's another story.

We arrived at the hotel, tired, feet and ankles damp and we were starving. At our reception in Toronto we had been so busy greeting and chatting we had scarcely had a bite to eat. The coffee shop at the hotel was closing but we persuaded the man on duty to make us ham sandwiches and pour a couple of cups of coffee. We survived but it was a close call.

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-09-24T19:54:00.000-07:00

Well I'll be damned. I wrote about my wedding day on March, 6, 1943, Toronto. And it snowed and snowed and we did get to the church on time but it was a close call. I can't find what I wrote. Help! It is late and I am too tired to search my computer for the missing blog. I know it was published so where can it be?

I shall return.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-09-11T15:07:00.000-07:00

I have returned after taking time to think about this blog. Right off the top I am advertising two of my romance novels that need a push to find readers.

Isabelle's Diary is a contemporary romance set in Llandrindod Wells in mid Wales when my heroine sees a ghost in broad daylight - or did she? There are twists and turns in my story until the very end. There is a hero, of course. What would a romance novel be without a hero and a love affair? My book is available in e-format at Amazon.com and Elora's Cave.

Isabelle's Story is set in 1899/1900. Isabelle is the girl who wrote the diary and may have been the ghost seen by my heroine in the present time. Are ghostly sightings possible? Why do they happen?

Isabelle's world falls apart when she believes her lover has abandoned her and she is thrown out of her family home without money or a place to stay. She is ready to die alone up in the Welsh hills when an old shepherd rescues her and takes her to his cottage.

My book is available at Amazon.com or Elora's Cave in e-format. Both were well reviewed.

Next blog! Something completely new. I'm going to write about my wedding day. March 6, 1943 in Toronto, Canada.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-08-18T19:38:00.000-07:00

Anita is giving up on this blog - unless someone comments on something she has written.

I am unable to think of a subject of interest to blog readers. I mean who is interested in the on-line meanderings of an eighty eight year old woman, long past her prime and slowly sliding down into old age.

What is old age these days? What do I know? I'm old and that's about it. My creative muse has taken a long holiday. I think she has gone on a ROUND THE WORLD CRUISE and is experimenting with her libido on some young hunk on a warm island in the south Pacific.

That sounds like a song coming up. Tales of the South Pacific with songs to warm the hardest hearts. "One Enchanted Evening." Has to be one of the loveliest love songs ever written. Well, that's my opinion and I'm sticking to it.

I have a new television and the Blue Jays are playing out here on the west coast. I'd rather watch them than bore you with my bletherings. My Scottish grandmother always said, blethering, not blathering as some English would have it.

Remember! I have written five romance novels and I really want to sell them. So they were published a few years ago, that doesn't make them unreadable. Try one of them. Try Isabelle's Diary, a fabulous contemporary story with a fascinating twist at the end. Trust me

Visit www.anitabirt.com

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-07-30T13:50:00.000-07:00

The pictures of the dreadful famine in Ethiopia, Somalia and Kenya are heart rending. The women and children are suffering. Pity the women with a babies in slings at their backs and holding the hands of toddlers. These women did not make babies on their own, there were men involved. It's past time the men stopped impregnating the women and leaving them to fend for themselves and their sad little children.

There is never a word in the television coverage that the men should take responsibility and be held accountable for their actions. Where are they?
Can women refuse to have sex or is rape the order of the day? Is casual sex part of the culture?

I never see clusters of families with parents caring for the children and themselves. We can keep them from starving only to have more babies appearing. I can't see a way out of the mess. Too many people scratching a living from the poor soil; a desperate situation to add to the other desperate situations plaguing the world.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-07-20T20:08:00.000-07:00

Poor blog, neglected again. Here's a question. How far back can you remember? I have a memory of when I was four or five and vivid memories of living on the Caribbean Island, St.Vincent when I was six. After that certain memories stand out but to my mind, those early memories are much more interesting. I can conjure up exact scenes and what I was thinking at the time.

I remember getting a pair of black patent leather shoes with SHINY SILVER buckles. I think I was seven. About the same time I inherited a dress from one of my sister's friends. A pink silk dress with ruffles. Talk about glamour! I was IT in my young mind.

My St. Vincent memories may bore you (If there is a "you" out there) If you'd care to read them, please let me know.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-07-15T19:32:00.000-07:00

No comments about my book, The House at Bridal Veil. When my husband first met and became acquainted with the Franciscan Sisters of The Eucharist he thought they could run the world and make it a better place. Not to be. They already had more than enough work to keep them busy for years.

This blog is boring. With no comments I have to conclude there isn't much use in maintaining it. If I had a brilliant thought about aging and could toss my brilliant opinions to the wide world I might get a comment. The topic of aging is getting a lot of press. Seems we old folks are living too long and costing our health care system too much money. (Canadian health care!)I don't know how our nearest neighbour, The United States, copes with an aging population.

I become narky when I read yet another article about the burden we old folks cost the system. I'm still paying my taxes to keep it going and for eighty-seven years I had never been a hospital patient! Never had a serious illness. Never had surgery of any kind. It's payback time I reckon. That's my rant for this evening.

I'd drop this blog if a creative plot stirred my writing brain into action. Write about what? I fancy an old lady who solve crimes. Been done many times already. How about an elderly scam artist? That appeals to me. Must give it a thought. She'd be brazen without a shred of human kindness in her heart. Or would she?

I love the writing of Alexander McCall Smith. His gentle humanity shines though his writing. Even the few wicked characters in his books do not last long. A friend told me he had retired from writing. Must see if I can find out. He would never tolerate a character with a hard heart. So, my elderly scam artist must have some redeeming qualities.

Enough already. If you have purchased and read any of my books please let me know. If you hated them, please mute your comments so I won't feel the pain.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-07-11T19:39:00.000-07:00

I have returned! The weather on southern Vancouver Island has returned to cold spring weather. Summer has gone somewhere after tempting us with four days of sunny warmish weather. What to do but grin and try to bear it. In the meantime I decided to introduce you to my non-fiction book, The House at Bridal Veil. It was published in 1992 by Binford and Mort, Portland, Oregon.

How did I, a Canadian, come to write the story of the Villa at Bridal Veil? It's a longish story so I urge you to buy a copy of my book, used of course, from Amazon.com or ABEbooks. Four intrepid nuns belonging to The Franciscan Sisters of The Eucharist were looking for a large house to accommodate their small community with potential to grow.

By a small miracle they found a rundown, rat ridden, roof leaking old mansion overlooking the Columbia River at Bridal Veil, a tiny village about a half drive east of Portland.

Check my web site, www.anitabirt.com to read a short summary of my book, the cover and a map. It's a heart warming story of courage and plain hard work by a few determined women to restore the mansion to make it livable and to create a small farm with goats, chickens, ducks and peacocks.

While all that was going on Mother Francine Cardew and Mother Mary Michael founded The Franciscan Montessori Earth School in Portland. Nothing daunted these Sisters.

Mother Mary Michael passed away in early July this year missing a party to celebrate her ninety-fifth birthday. She loved a party. Mother Margaret, the kitchen guru, beloved by all who knew her, died several years ago. My grandchildren adored her during our many visits to Bridal Veil when they were young.

A second hand copy of The House at Bridal Veil should be easy o find. Enjoy it.

Anita

PS. Sales of my romance novels have picked up. I am pleased readers are enjoying my books.

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-07-08T19:39:00.000-07:00

I have had visitors for the past few days and have been out and about doing this and that with my grandson and his girlfriend. They both live and work in London and Arundel, England. So to resume. What shall my topic be for this day. Aging? Again? A friend who lives in Market Rasen, Lincoln, sent me a book called, "Crazy Age," Thoughts on Being Old, by Jane Miller. It's also in e-book format for those of you with e-readers. I haven't had time to read it but shall dive in this evening unless I go to bed early.

I came across an interesting article in Report on Business in The Globe and Mail. It was about Maxwell House Coffee new advertising campaign "cultivating optimism." Some posters have been made and I'd love to have them to use in the in house-newsletter three friends and I are creating here in our retirement residence.

"RENEW SOMEONE'S FAITH IN MANKIND. SMILE AT THEM."

"HUG A STRANGER. WE'RE ALL RELATIVES IF WE GO BACK FAR ENOUGH."

"DON'T CARRY GRUDGES. THEY WEIGH A TON."

I shall try and track down the advertising company and beg for the posters to cheer us on our aging way.

Being happy, becoming happy, learning how to be happy, seems to be the favourite topic in books and articles I have been reading. So, are you happy? Were you a happy child? Are you an optimistic person? If so, how did you get that way?

Make me even happier by buying my books! They are all available at Amazon.com. Check my web site for titles and cover art.

www.anitabirt.com

A VERY DIFFICULT MAN, a historical romance set in 1854.
ISABELLE'S DIARY, a contemporary romance.
ISABELLE'S STORY, historical romance. set in 1895/1900
RING AROUND THE MOON, a time travel romance set in the present time
TOO YOUNG TO DIE, a murder/mystery set in the present time

I decided to push my books on my blog and see if my books sales increase. I am not writing fiction at the present time but am conjuring up a plot involving an innocent looking grandmotherly scam artist. Say no more.

Anita
I'd love to hear from you if you are out there and reading my blog.

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-06-27T14:51:00.000-07:00

I have made a momentous decision. I shall start a new blog about growing old and I need a catchy title, i.e. "Alive, and sort of well, and growing older by the minute."
Or, "Living graciously with aches and pains." Or "The Joy of Aging." I rather like that last one but its probably already been done.

Inspire me, please, and suggest eye catching titles for my blog. Or, maybe I'm barking up the wrong tree! Who wants to read about getting old? It's going to happen, like it or not. Books are written about getting old. There are organizations supporting the aspirations of aged people. What is left except to live it?

Well! I think I have persuaded myself not to try such a blog. If there is someone out there with a brilliant thought, please let me know.

I shall leave you now to write a short essay about a cat named Murphy - a true story. Murphy was saved from an abusive home and came to live with Ruth a friend of mine and her husband. Al. Ruth was using a walker after back and hip surgery (yes she was and is aging!)

Murphy loved his new home and became a well behaved cat and thought it was fine to have a harness and a lead to go walking with Ruth. When he became tired he jumped into the basket on her walker to rest.

Out for a walk on a fine summer morning, a woman approached Ruth. The woman had a kind of mesh sling on her chest and inside the sling Ruth spied two birds shifting around trying to stretch their wings.

The woman stopped in front of Ruth. "You're walking your cat," she said, "I'm walking my budgies, Peter and Paul. They like to get out in the fresh air and see the world outside my home."

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-06-17T15:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday is now past. Gone forever. I bravely faced drinking the chemically laced water necessary to have a Cat Scan. I drank one complete glass full (plastic glass)but I needed the encouragement of two women in the waiting room to swallow the last two inches of fluid. "Don't use the straw," they urged. "Take off the lid and gulp down the rest." Which I did making me feel very happy - well not quite I had to concentrate on keeping the stuff down!

The actual scan meanes having an IV in my wrist to allow the dye to course through my body, to mark whatever had to be marked. That was the easy part. The drink was the hard part.

Back to happiness. I must read Don Quixote again with a mature mind and paying attention to what the story is all about. It's about ideals and the value of freedom and justice. I'm quoting from a review I came across. Tomorrow I shall credit the person who made the notes. "Don Quixote teaches us about life and brims with generosity, absurd situations, loyalty and imagining heroic deeds of high spirit."

Does that sound like your life? Do you get out of bed ready to face the day whether you feel like it or not. Have you something to look forward to? Meeting your friend for breakfast or that first cup of coffee or tea to start your day. What pleases you about the morning?

I've always been a morning person. If you are a "late in the day" person, is it difficult to feel happy about putting your feet on the floor, standing up and making your way slowly to the bathroom and shower?

Christopher Plummer, a famous Canadian actor, was asked how to be successful. "Get out of bed in the morning. Put your feet on the floor." That's it. Is that a mantra worth following? Add it to the Don Quixote lesson in living. What do you think?

I'm off to listen to the news. I's sickened about what happened in Vancouver on Wednesday night after the hockey game when vandals infected the crowd outside the area with anarchy and mindless violence. It was horrible.

Comments are appreciated.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-06-15T19:19:00.000-07:00

Well I'll be damned. I had written a paragraph and started on the second when Norton cut me off to tell me about threats, etc. I was blethering on about happiness and how poorly dictionaries describe it. Is it a feeling? I think I asked that yesterday. It is difficult to describe a feeling.

I am feeling vaguely unhappy about the Cat-scan I have to have tomorrow. The scan is fine, it's the awful chemical tasting water I have to drink! A litre! If I manage to hold down half a litre I'll be doing well.

I'm half listening to the hockey game between the Vancouver Canucks and Boston. Boston is ahead 3 - 0 in the third period so it's over for Vancouver. Poor Vancouver fans they were convinced their team would win the Stanley Cup.

Read a funny story in The Globe and Mail to-day about Druids in Austria. It was in the Social Studies column written by Michael Kesterton. "Austrian officials were the first in the world to hire druids to tackle accident black spots but cancelled the project after three years because of lack of funds."

The arch Druid disagreed. "With our mystical divining rods we discovered negative rays coming from the area and these caused the drivers to have accidents., therefore we decided to erect stones to allow the energy to drain away..." He had proof that the system worked and there were fewer accidents on that stretch of road but the Austrian officials disagreed and cut the funding.

It never occurred to me there were druids for hire to make roads safer. Have you ever heard of them? Does it make you smile to think of druids doing word work? Picture "Road Work ahead," and instead of the men and women in hard hats, safety boots and tough clothing, you see druids in long green robes with their "Mystical Divining Rods" ridding the area of negative influences. It'd make a funny scene in a movie.

And how are you? I heard from an old friend commenting on my last couple of blogs. She had a funny comment about here mother's feet.

(Boston won the game. Three to nothing. Sigh. I live on Vancouver Island. I really wanted our team to win.)

What makes you happy? A feeling of contentment? An easing of pain? The lifting of grief after the loss of a loved one? Life with its ups and downs can break or make us. Do we have a choice?

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-06-13T19:39:00.000-07:00

I'm on a happiness kick. What is it? Who has it? Is it catching? I have recently come across articles in magazines and newspapers about happiness. In the June 13, 201I edition of The Globe and Mail, Sarah Hampson has a column headed "Happiness." Turns out according to Ms Hampson "that intelligence, not ignorance is bliss."

Books have been written about happiness and scholars have weighed in on the subject. I asked a friend what happiness is and she said, "a house with two bathrooms." So why are some people happy and others are not? Is there a happiness gene inherited by some and not others?

Questions. Questions. Gretchen Rubin wrote a book titled, "The Happiness Project," that became an instant best seller. I have just purchased the e-copy and it now awaits me on my Kindle. My concise Oxford Dictionary has a few very dry comments about Happy - no specific listing for Happiness. "Happy: feeling or showing pleasure or contentment." then "willing to do something. Fortunate and convenient." That sucks. No imagination.

I should get up and go to my desk in the bedroom where my bigger Oxford dictionaries are shelved. Like Scarlet O'hara in Gone With The Wind, "I shall think about that tomorrow."

What makes me happy right this very minute is knowing I have books waiting for me to sit down and read. I have three on the go. "Alone in a Classroom," by Elizabeth Hay, "The Lion and The Unicorn. Gladstone and Disraeli," by Richard Aldous and "Corvus," by Esther Woolfson, A life with Birds.

As you read my blog please think about Happiness. What makes you Happy? Or unhappy. We might as well get in the discussion with the various scholars and non-scholars writing and commenting about Happiness. I need to hear from you; ordinary people like you and me. To begin, Smile! Get your face in the mood.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-06-09T19:38:00.000-07:00

Just for fun I'm casting a net and asking if anyone out there attended Huron Street Public School in Toronto between 1933 and 1936. Mr Gilbert was the principal. He had a daughter, June, she was pretty with fair hair.

When we put on the play, Cinderella, June was cast as Cinderella, Zelda Kamman and I were cast as the ugly sisters! We both had straight black hair. The play was put on at a small auditorium owned by a dairy. Can't remember the name. Was it Borden's?

I have a vivid memory of Zelda and me "bringing the house down." We had the audience laughing. Zelda and I were giggling. We thought we were the stars! Broadway here we come. We didn't make it.

I had two best friends. Helvi and Eila Karsikas. I wonder if they are still alive and well. I often played paper dolls with Myra Willinsky.

My thoughts are meandering back in time. My brother, Harry and I used to go to the York Cinema for the Saturday matinees. On the way home we'd stop at a fish and chip shop and buy chips to eat along the way. Delicious and greasy and tangy with vinegar.

Another of our favourite haunts was the Museum, the ROM. Those were the olden days when the skeleton of a huge dinosaur was right there at the entrance. We loved the museum but all has changed and the elegant front entrance in University Avenue has been closed and people have to enter through an ugly entrance on Bloor Street. The mystery of the museum is not the same. For me it has lost its charm.

I won't go on since this is only of interest to me. But it's my blog and I can meander along until whatever audience I have has yawned and headed for bed.

I'm reading a fascinating book called. "The Lion and the Unicorn. Gladstone vs Disraeli," by Richard Aldous. It's a page turner. I have to make myself put it away and go to bed lest in the morning I regret reading so late and find it hard to wake up to greet the new day.

Best wishes to everyone,
Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-06-04T15:24:00.000-07:00

Behind again. No wonder I can't create a fan base eager to read my blogs. To-day I am blogging about FEET. We are born with a matched pair to take us through life. How often do you think about your feet? Only when they hurt?

They are the unsung heroes of our bodies. When was the last time you gazed fondly at your bare feet and congratulated them on taking care of you through rain, snow, ice, peat bogs (On high moorland in Wales)and blazing summer heat.

Many years ago my husband and I were on a walking holiday in Tuscany. I wore excellent waking shoes. Part way through the holiday I noticed a lump of some kind pressing into my right shoe, at the front. This was the start of a hammer toe which has plagued me ever since. It wants to twist over my big toe. I must never let my guard down or it will twist into an ugly mix of big toe and second toe and hurt. I keep it under control with special padding cut to fit the smaller toe. It's a tiny war I intend to win until I turn up my toes and disappear from this lovely earth.

When I think of the eighty-eight years of service my feet I have my my admiration knows no bounds. A pedicure every three weeks is a treat. If you can't afford a pedicure bathe your feet them gently, towel them dry and soothe with some body lotion. You may, if you feel like it, say a few kind words to your feet and promise to watch over them.

Feet may react to kind words as Price Charles vegetables are alleged to do. Your feet are yours to protect. Take care of them as you would your car, if you have one.

Two good feet are worth a king's ransom. And that is all I shall say about feet. I'd enjoy hearing from you. Do your feet hurt? Are they things of beauty?

I have my sixth chemo therapy next Tuesday, June 7th. That is the last one scheduled.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Why not order by book, "Too Young To Die" if you enjoy a solid well written murder mystery involving a brave young woman striving to save a three month old baby from falling into the hands of a killer determined to take them both down. There's also a love story. My book is available as an e-book.

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-05-29T14:01:00.000-07:00

Time does go on, does it not? My life is very quiet and I have no great illuminating features with which to tease you. Did I tell you I have a wig? must have since it's the most exciting event in May. How do people create a blog so fascinating that hundreds of people surfing the internet come across it and are hooked?

Who wants to hear from an old lady of eighty-eight who grumbles about this and that to no avail. For instance, fashion. From ads in the paper and other media clothes are for thin, beautiful young woman. Fashions are for the young but women my age have disposable income and we are looking for attractive fashions to suit us. No old ladies dresses please! We crave clothes to make us look good - trying to find such things is close to impossible.

Another minor quibble. Why are models photographed with their legs and bodies in odd positions? Bent backwards or sideways displaying as much leg and breast as passes muster in our "anything goes" society.

Oh hell, I sound like an old grouch. Being eighty-eight does that to me! I shall continue to wend my way through shops with quality merchandise and with a little bit of luck will find a dress, slacks, attractive tops and sandals for old feet. And there I shall leave you. I have my sixth chemotherapy on June 7th.

Drop by my web site and purchase one of my books." A Very Difficult Man" is selling well. It would make a great film. Do any of you know a contact in the film business to whom I could send my book? A script writer, for instance, who may want to write the film script for my book. Am I dreaming?

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-05-17T11:12:00.000-07:00

It's a gorgeous sunny day here on the west coast and the wind is not howling over the sea. The grassy area surrounding the walk by the sea was filled with daffodils earlier in the year, now the lovely blue Camas lilies are in bloom surrounded by bright yellow buttercups. A blessing after the miserable cold spring we have had.

But nothing compares with the forest fires devastating Slave Lake, Alberta. Most of the town has been ravaged by the fire. Manitoba is dealing with huge floods. There is something wrong with this picture!

This is a very short blog. I had to tell you about the lilies and the buttercups. Remember to have a look at my web site; www.anitabirt.com and purchase one or two of my books for your e-reader. I am enjoying my Kindle and find it tempting to order more books than I have time to read - both e-books and regular books.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-05-15T15:30:00.000-07:00

Whew, I am so far behind I shall never die. I am losing hair owing to the chemo therapy I've had in the past five months so I ordered and purchased a WIG. I am pleased with the result. Compliments are flying my way from my friends here in the retirement residence- that makes me feel comfortable wearing it.

At eighty eight I'm wearing wig. Seems kind of crazy to me but I did not like the look if the big bald spot on the crown of my head. Do we every get over being just a tiny bit conceited about how we look? Or is simply because we like to look our best no matter what.

I had my fifth chemo therapy last Tuesday and am over the uncomfortable third and fourth days after the treatment.

My son and daughter-in-law arrived in London, England to-day to visit their son and his fiance. All is well. Life goes on. One of these days - before I die - I'd like a great grandchild - but we can't hurry these things along.

I've just finished reading The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins. It's quite a famous mystery written in the nineteenth century. I loved it. Collins used every trick in the book to keep the mystery moving along. Although I love my Kindle I am still buying books. Who can resist a book store with all those tempting titles on the shelves? I come from a family who read a lot and my present family members are all readers. For me Life would be dull without books around me.

Rain is beating at my window as I write. I know summer will come! We've had a cold spring and I am ready to spring into summer clothes but not yet.

Have a look at my web site, www.anitabirt.com to read about my five romance novels and then purchase them for your e-reader. I promise you won't be disappointed. Every one has had excellent reviews.

I'm not writing fiction for the time being. I may return to it when inspiration strikes and I am ready to put fingers to keyboard and spin a story.

Do leave a comment and make my day. Thanks.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-04-28T20:38:00.000-07:00

"God put me on earth to accomplish a certain number of things. Right now I am so far behind, I will never die." (I'll have to look up the quote to find out who said it.)

Life does go on and the days fly by. I'm having by fifth chemo therapy in mid May and the sixth in mid June. I am LOSING MY HAIR slowly but surely. My oncologist suggest I get a wig. I have ordered one! In the meantime I look rather charming in a pretty hat with a ribbon around the brim. I change the ribbon every other day. Because of the ROYAL WEDDING, to-day I used a purple ribbon, a royal colour.

I'm getting up in the middle of the night to watch the ceremony. My adult grand children and my granddaughter's husband, are in London and are heading into the huge crowds just to be there. They haven't a hope in hell of getting close to the royals. There are large video screens in various parts of London showing the wedding - The kids think they'll see if they can find elbow room in Trafalgar Square to view the big screen.

I am doing well. The tumour markers are way down - and that's a good thing. I tire more easily than I used to, probably because of the chemo circulating through my aged body.I have requisitions to have blood work down before the the next chemo treatment. This is standard procedure and no bother.

I'm going to quote a short item I read in a review of The Good Book, a humanist Bible by A.C. Grayling. The review appeared in The Globe and Mail and was written by Charles Lewis.

"Love well, see the good in all things, harm no others, think for yourself, take responsibility, respect nature, do your utmost, be informed, be kind, be courageous: at least sincerely try."

I'd enjoy a comment or two - one would be more than welcome.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com
April 28, 2011

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-03-31T19:54:00.000-07:00

I'm so far behind with my blog I may never catch up. I've been quite sick with a GI ailment making many of us who live here very sick. Management has decided to close the dining room to avoid too many people being too close to another. For the next three days all our meals will be delivered to our suites. We order what we want ahead of time.

I am still running a slight temperature so have to be good to myself for the next little while.

So, stick around. I shall return.

Anita Birt
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-03-26T15:04:00.000-07:00

Boo. Hoo. No comments on my blogs. I thought I'd find lovers of Don Marquis wonderful stories about Archie and Mehetebel - Archie the cockroach, a "verse libre" poet and Mehetebel, a cat with rather loose morals, who lives rough in alley ways. Their discussions are priceless.

No one commented about them. So sad. Their stories are timeless. Another topic that failed to raise a comment was my thought that we are living too long and dying, not of old age, but cancer in its various forms. I am a prime example. I am eighty eight. Until November 2009, I had never been a patient in a hospital nor suffered a serious illness. Cancer caught me by surprise.

The women in my family live long. My mother, ninety-nine and my sister, ninety-one. My husband thought we were too mean to die! He was joking, of course. He really was. My husband was born and raised in Wales in a family with a plethora of very humerous uncles. If you read Dylan Thomas about a Christmas in Wales, you'll get a sense of "the uncles."

Cancer - mine. I am doing very well. I look the picture of health but who knows what those wretched little cancer cells are doing. I hope the chemo therapy is working to shrink them.

What are you reading? I'm reading, God's Secretaries. The Making of The King James Bible, by Adam Nicolson. I have a historical novel on my Kindle set in Paris as the revolution erupted and stripped the king of his powers. Within a few pages the king and Marie Antoinette will be dragged out and beheaded. I'm reading a Donna Leon, Inspector Brunetti mystery in bed at night. Three books on the go and three newspapers every day, except Sunday. I like to read! Much more interesting then what appears on television. I can't watch a program with a laugh track. It drives me nuts. Maybe I'm too old to appreciate comedy shows with laugh tracks. A good historical drama is my cup of tea.

Enough rambling about my interests, what about yours?

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-03-20T15:12:00.000-07:00

I have a question some of you might want to answer or comment on. Are we living too long? I'm thinking of Canada,my country, but the United States and European union countries might have the same demographic.

When I glance through the obituaries in Canada's two national newspapers, I notice many people in their eighties - cause of death - cancer. Until I was diagnosed with a malignant tumour in my uterus, I had never been a hospital patient in my life! I have never had a serious illness until now. The cancer cells originated in my fallopian tubes. Stage three cancer is not operable. The oncologists can only shrink the cells and keep them from growing. Why now after 88 years of healthy living?

I had my third chemo therapy on Tuesday. One more to go and then my doctor will do some tests and I may require more chemo. We shall see. Nothing I can do about it but eat well, exercise and keep a positive attitude.

Comments please.

To change the subject. I read in the local paper about an author who released his out of print books to e-readers and is making money. My books are still available in e-format so do take a look at them at www.anitabirt.com.

I have a long historical romance and two contemporary romances which I have never tried to sell. I must put my brain to work on editing them and finding out how to post them to e-readers. Does anyone out there know how?

Spring is creeping slowly into Vancouver Island. I had a pleasant walk by the sea but the wind was cold. The local media are stirring us up about a possible earthquake and tsunaumi (sp?)The fault lines just off the coast shift now and again and rattle us a bit but they could create hell. The local authorities have disaster plans in place and we, the people, are supposed to have water, food, cell phone, batteries, candles, etc. to keep us going for three days. Do I? Am I ready?

Sorry about going on so long. Skip the boring parts.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-03-18T14:22:00.000-07:00

Well, folks, the test blog went off so I shall write a little more about this and that. I think the Nobel prize should go to the medical scientists who invented anti-nausea drugs. They've worked for me, praise the Lord.I had my third chemo therapy on Tuesday. To-day I feel very tired but that will pass. It's too cold to go out for a walk by the sea. Spring is taking a helluva time coming to Vancouver Island.

How many of you are familiar with the stories of Archie and Mehitebel created by Don Marquis way back in 1916? They are as popular to-day as they were during the following years. Archie is a cockroach. In a previous life he was a verse libre poet died and his soul transmigrated into Archie. Still a poet and a thinker he discovered how to write using a typewriter.

Not easy. He had to climb up the machine and dive headfirst on to the keys but he persisted. He could not use the shift key so all his work is in lower case. Mehitebel is a cat, of somewhat loose morals, who claims she is descended from Cleopatra.

Check out www.DonMarquis.com to find out more about these characters. They are funny and wise and guaranteed to make you smile.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-03-18T14:20:00.000-07:00

I wrote a long and interesting blog yesterday and could not post it. Something is not working so this is a test to see if it will got. I had my third chemo therapy on Tuesday and feel very tired to-day.

Here goes the test to see if this works. If not I shall start a new blog.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-03-04T15:27:00.000-08:00

As you might have noticed I am not a blogger of note. Days go by and I don't think much about cancer and have nothing to blog about. Why did I start this blog? To have others join me on my journey - I thought. However, much smarter people than I have written about cancer, sometimes sadly, sometimes upbeat, or just wondering where to go from here.

I have lost about ten pounds since the start of my cancer treatment. I am not on heavy doses if chemo -can't take chances on a woman of my age, eighty eight but my weight has taken a hit. I've never been overweight and never have had to diet so it's a bit of a shock to lose ten pounds. My oncologist wants me to snack between meals. Boo Hoo. I'm not a snacker and don't eat between meals. I am forcing myself to snack. My doctor suggests keeping chocolate handy! I do love chocolate but not in large amounts. I break off bits from chocolate bars and eat those. Delicious. I snack on crackers and cheese and other edible items.

I shall weigh myself tomorrow and see if all this snacking is working.

My next chemo is March 15th. I think I mentioned it on my last entry. We're having bloody awful weather on Vancouver Island. Gale force winds and wild seas. We may have one day with sun and calm winds and then back come the gales. Right now there's
a wild wind blowing in from the east and the sea heaving with with white caps.

Where is spring? Where is warm weather? Where is blue sky and sunshine beaming down?

I shall cease whinging and get back to sorting out my income tax file.

Anita. www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-02-04T13:59:00.000-08:00

The cancer story, so .. My second chemo therapy is on February 14th. I am feeling fine and looking healthy as a trout. However, I have lost five or six pounds. My bathroom scales are not accurate. I shall be weighed when I see my oncologist on February 11th.

The weather is moderating on Vancouver Island. 8 C. We've had below freezing temperatures - not pleasant for walking. On my walk by the sea this morning, birds were singing. I stopped to listen to the little guy singing his heart out. I think the males are marking their territories ready for the arrival of the females. I'll study my bird book to figure out if the singing birds were members of the finch family or the sparrows,

I have a Kindle and am madly trying to download a couple of books. Not as easy as it looks. There's always a tripping point waiting to give me trouble. I shall try again.

www.anitabirt.com
Have a look at the site and be tempted to buy one of my e-books. They are all available and all have had excellent reviews.

Bye for now.
Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-01-21T19:41:00.000-08:00

So I'm on the cancer train and must go where it takes me. My son and daughter-in-law flew out from Toronto to be with me. The nurse charted when I had to take anti-nausea pills. Alana is good with charts but I am not. Martin converted them to print with places for me to tick off when I took my pills. Trouble is they cause constipation. I will not go into that but the pills prescribed for that did work. I felt nauseated but that has passed and I'm feeling more like myself.

Next chemo is on February 14th and will have my dear friend, Helen, with me that day and the following treatment days. I have stage three cancer. Not operable. The object is to shrink the cells wherever they have landed and set up shop. My doctor is hopefull and so am I. I have wonderful friends who keep me cheerful and optimistic.

Spring is finally creeping into Victoria. I look forward to more sunshine and warmer temperatures. We've had wild storms this year with gigantic logs tossed like match sticks on to the shore. It's quite a sight.

I shall report further on my journey with cancer. Please drop into my web site, www.anitabirt.com and purchase an e-book. I have a Kindle that a friend is setting up for me. Seems I need a wifi connection to make it work. So next week I'll get that installed. One damned thing after another.

Leave a comment if your inspired to do so.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-01-10T14:31:00.000-08:00

This blog is still open! When I'm in the mood I'll invite you along on my journey with cancer. After 87 years of excellent health -never had a serious illness nor had I ever been a patient in a hospital until January 17,2009 when I had a hysterectomy to remove a malignant tumour in my uterus. The source of the cancer cells was my fallopian tubes!They could not be contained although the doctors washed out the whole area.

So the little suckers roamed around looking for likely targets. Although I have had no symptoms my oncologist went looking and discovered a swelling in my abdomen. I've had a battery of tests. In two hours last week at Victoria General Hospital, I had a mammogram, an ultrasound and a biopsy. I see my doctor on Thursday this week to hear the results. I am slated to start my first round of chemotherapy on January 17 and one a month for the following three months. Unless - something untoward turns up.

I never expected to be a cancer patient. I celebrate my 88th birthday next month. Life is full of surprises, is it not? Comments will please me.

The weather has been unseasonably cold here on the west coast of Canada. We're sinking to zero C. at night. Luckily there was no wind this morning to I had a good walk, all wrapped up with scarves, woolly hat and gloves and my thick winter jacket.

I want spring. Usually there are daffodils in protected pockets but nothing so far, not even a snowdrop to cheer me on.

Do check my web site, www.anitabirt.com and read excerpts from my books and view the covers.

I'll return again.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2011-01-01T16:29:00.001-08:00

I am closing down this blog. I have too much going on in my life to continue while I under go treatment for cancer. Doctor's appointments and chemo starting on January 17 leave my brain spinning from one area to another. Now if I can figure out how to close my blog, I shall do so, ASAP.

Happy New Year from me; www.anitabirt.com

Check my books listed with Amazon.com, Perfect reading for your new e-reader. Make me smile.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2010-12-09T14:31:00.000-08:00

I am surfacing slowly and recovering slowly from whacking my ribs. The morning after I had my accident I lay in bed wondering how to get out of bed without hurting my ribs more. I lay on my back and pondering the question.

How do I normally get out of bed? I managed to raise my legs and let them down slowly. I tried to swing them over the side of the bed - STOP! that hurt. What to do? I finally spoke firmly myself. "Anita, get out of bed." I did and it didn't hurt too much.

My question to you is this. How do you get out of bed in the morning, afternoon or evening? Legs over the side first. Sit up first. What? Loved to hear from you. We do so many things without thinking, I was forced to puzzle or the simple task of getting out of bed.

I'm not driving for another couple of weeks. Afraid I might have to make a sudden stop to avoid hitting a deer - oh yest, we have thousands of deer roaming the streets of Victoria. If I jerked suddenly I might damage my ribs again. I feel like an old crock but will survive.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2010-11-26T16:10:00.000-08:00

Count me out for a few weeks. I fell and fractured ribs on my left side. Very painful. Commiserate with me if your feel so inclined.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2010-11-17T15:50:00.000-08:00

Promises. Promises. I did say I'd talk to myself about how the first paragraph of a book will draw me in. I forgot but will pick up a book now. The book is "tinkers," by Paul Harding. he won the Pulitzer prize. Here is how the books starts.

"George Washington Crosby began to hallucinate eight days before he died. From the rented hospital bed, place in the middle of his own living room,, he saw insects running in and out of imaginary cracks in the ceiling plaster .." I could not resist such a beginning. "tinkers" is a gentle read about George's past and his connection with his father who was a tinker. I love the story and the wonderful writing.

I have purchased John L Carre's (can't find the French accent on my computer!) Our Kind of Traitor but I am pulled in by a kind of throw-away line at the end of the first paragraph. He is describing a tennis match between an Englishman and a Russian at seven o'clock in the morning on the Caribbean island of Antigua.

Here's the quote I found interesting. "How this match came about was quickly the subject of intense examination by British agents professionally disposed against the workings of chance."

British agents? How could I not jump straight into the book.

Those are my musing for this day. Great wind and rain storms have battered Vancouver Island for two days. Time for a weather change with some warming sun.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2010-11-12T15:21:00.000-08:00

I have lost my Happiness File. Can't imagine where it has gone. I've searched through every file in every file drawer to no avail. I was asked to do a presentation on Happiness and focus it on the residents of the retirement complex where I have lived for over a year. I had collected all matter of interesting material and can't find it. I'll have another search but not right this minute.

At the Cancer Clinic this morning. Since I'm having no symptoms my oncologist is holding back on treatment. He is monitoring me and will continue to do so. My friend, Helen, goes with me to sit in on the meetings and make notes which she sends to me and my son. Our big excitement happened after the meetings on the drive down a residential street when s small deer leaped in front the car in front of us. The driver hit the brakes but hit the deer. Another deer ran in front of our car. The little deer got up and ran into the garden next to the road.

It was scary. We have hundreds of deer living and wandering the streets of Victoria and the numbers are growing and growing. We need a major cull but no government is taking on the task. Perhaps when a driver swerves to miss an deer and slams into a tree with tragic results the powers-that-be will start the cull.

Tomorrow I'm going to talk to myself about why I pick up certain books. I'm always interested how the author draws me into the story within the first page. Even the first paragraph.

Do check out my web site: www.anitabirt.com and read excerpts from my books and view the covers.

Anita

Anita Birt's Note book

2010-11-05T14:33:00.000-07:00

"No sun,no moon,
No sun, no dusk, no proper time of day
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member,
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves,
NOVEMBER" Thomas Hardy.

I was thinking of those words while out in the deary drizzly weather this morning. How quickly the coastal weather changes out here on the west coast of Canada. Yesterday was bright with some sun. Ah well. Better drizzly rain than snow.

Dis you know that one of the biggest exports from British Columbia to the United States is "BC Bud." That's top grade marijuana! It all comes from illegal grow-ops in innocent looking houses. The grow-operators steal the electricity by connecting to the power lines running past the house.

I wonder why BC Hydro does not have the technical know-how to catch the bad guys stealing power? Have specially designed vehicles to travel the streets and a "ping" hits the screen where someone has clamped on to the hydro lines. The wizards working behind the scenes inventing and re-inventing products might come up with a brilliant solution. Who goes first?

I hate fighting with inanimate objects like the parking meter in the lot I use now and then. I read the instructions, I press ONE for two hours although I only require about fifteen minutes (it's a racket folks!) I pop in my loonie and a second loonie and it keeps spitting one of my coins and asking me to send it. I tried and tried to send the loonie while I got colder and colder and finally said, "to hell with this," locked my car and left. Luckily the roaming parking lot person didn't turn up so I didn't get a ticket.

By the way, a loonie is a Canadian one dollar coin. A toonie is a Canadian two dollar coin.

I see a break in the clouds to the south west. A narrow band of hope.

Read about me and my books at: www.anitabirt.com If you are in the reading mood, I'd be delighted if your purchased on or two.

Anita.

Anita Birt's Note book

2010-10-20T19:12:00.000-07:00

Little miracles happen every day but who'd think to find a miracle in a bottle of cough medicine. I've had a bug of some kind, then a cold and then a nasty,nasty cough keeping me awake at night.

I dropped into a pharmacy to gaze along the rows of cough medicines. I picked on Robitussin, DM Cough control, paid $7.99 plus tax. Take two spoonful every six to eight hours. I thought how can an "over the counter med" work?

I took my two spoonsful before going to bed and I did not cough once all night. There it is then, my little miracle in a bottle of Robitussin and worth every penny of $7.99 plus tax,

We had a gorgeous summer-like day. Sun shining on the sea, gulls wheeling overhead as though enjoying the blue sky and the light wind lifting their wings. Another bright day promised for tomorrow and after that - rain and a chill in the air.

What is the plural of spoonful? I say spoonsful and a red line informs me I am wrong so I try, spoonfuls and that is supposed to be correct. Must be a Americanism. Hey, they don't like how Canadians spell "harbour" and other words where we keep the "u" and they take it away.

When I send my work to an American publisher I use American spelling but to a UK publisher I use my Canadian spelling. Keeps my brain busy.

A sad note. My granddaughter's dear old dog, Skoolie, is very ill and may not make it. Skoolie is fourteen years old. Melissa got her from the SPCA in Vancouver
when she was studying an Simon Fraser University. Skoolie is one of the smartest dogs I've ever met. She's had a long, wonderful life with Melissa. My heart goes to Melissa who is hurting and to Skoolie who is trying to recover.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2010-10-17T19:07:00.000-07:00

Having never worked in a mine or been underground my thoughts keep returning to what happened to the thirty three Chilean minters for the seventeen days when they were completely trapped and didn't know whether any would survive. If this doesn't interest you, ignore it.

The miners had their hard hats and their lamps, standard equipment in mines. Did they have food with them? My husband's father was a coal miner in Wales and he never left home without his Tommy Box - in it his food to keep him going during his work day. Penallta Pit had rich coal seams and the miners used what seems to us now, as rudimentary equipment, to dig coal from the coal face.

Back to the los33. If they left their hard had lights on the batteries would soon run down and they would be complete darkness. After the initial shock and fights that reportedly broke I suspect the shift foreman stepped in to organize his men. Like a drill sergeant my ex-army son suggested. Keep the men busy. Give them tasks.

But I'm still thinking about their helmet lights. Did they ration the time for them to be on or what? I went caving here on Vancouver Island many years ago. We were equipped with helmets and lights, like the miners. We climbed down a steep ladder into the cave. A steel lid crashed closed up above. Our leader asked us to switch off our lights, which we did. Now we are in complete darkness. It was to me, an unbelievable experience and the memory made me feel something of the trapped men when they experienced complete darkness, not knowing if they'd every be saved. Try and imagine it.

Did the Chilean miners carry "tommy boxes" with them? Possibly strapped to their belts. The story of those seventeen days is the one I'd like to hear. Ration light. Ration food. The "sergeant" keeping the men organized and busy. Tell me the story!

In newspapers, book and magazines there is much ado about happiness. A book called, The Happiness Project. What about, oops I can't remember the complete title - was it Eat Pray, Love? Sarah Hampson, a columnist in the Canadian newspaper, The Globe and Mail, is writing a weekly column called Happiness. It's about heading out into the world with a "happiness" goal invisibly etched behind our eyes.

I'm feeling rotten right now, a cold and 'flu and a cancer diagnosis. I paste a smile on my face when I meet and greet people because no one wants to be around a sad sack or someone describing all her aches and pains. Happiness is an elusive concept. Try it, by all means, but don't feel guilty when the miseries creep in and you have to hide out until they drift away.

There's a lot more to the Happiness story but I'm not in the mood to carry on. I am tired.

A comment or two would be nice. Or sit back and either enjoy or dislike my thoughts.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

Anita Birt's Note book

2010-10-14T14:58:00.000-07:00

I could not "kill" my blog so I have resurrected as a note book - for my pleasure. Any can join in and add comments. Like millions of TV viewers around the world I watched the rescue of the miners in Chile. What a wonderful end to a grim story. I'd like to have seen more about the five man rescue team sent down to assist in the evacuation. Also how the drilling of that hole worked and how the escape cage was designed. I understand that NASA assisted,

Yesterday I treated myself to the book that won the Man Booker Prize in England - The Finkler Question by Howard Jacobson. Last years winner, Wolf Hall was a fabulous read. I haven't dipped into The Finkler Question. Have to finish two other books I'm reading.

I have The Pocket Book of VERSE on the table next to my favourite chair. I flip it open now and then and love coming across words like these.

Go and catch a falling star, Get with child a Mandrake root,Tell me where all the past years are, Or who cleft the Devil's foot; Teach me to hear the mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging, And find what wind, Serves to advance an honest mind.
By John, Donne, 1573-1631

The keyboard on my new HP Windows 7 computer is driving me nuts. No matter how carefully I type mistakes keep happening - not my fault! I'd like my old keyboard back but it has disappeared never to return.

Anita Birt,
www.anitabirt.com

Saying hoodbye

2010-10-08T15:25:00.000-07:00

I am closing my blog and may start another one sometime in the future. Thanks to all of you who stopped by. The recipe blog worked well.

Mortality

2010-09-19T19:09:00.000-07:00

This is hard road and the journey may not be pleasant. When faced with one's mortality what's to be done? There's no place to hide and no place to run to. How to come to terms with it is my present task.

We shall see how the days go by. Autumn is here, like it or not. Where I live is so pleasant that dark wintry nights are nothing to fear. The sea is usually bright. But this morning a solid fog had rolled in and the fog horns were blowing. Then suddenly the fog lifted and the sun came out bringing a perfectly beautiful day.

Anita Birt
www.anitabirt.com

What Next?

2010-09-17T19:04:00.000-07:00

I fear my dear old blog is on its last legs. I have tried valiantly to interest various groups/people in different topics. To no avail. I also hoped to find readers for my five published romance novels. Alas. Sales are very slow. I shall never be rich nor even vaguely well off from my royalties.

I also have a nasty diagnosis of an illness which is too personal to share. Suffice, it say, it will slow me down.

I am an ancient person living happily in a retirement residence. A year has passed since I moved in. My suite looks over the Strait of Juan da Fuca so there is always something to see even it's only the sea.

If anyone out there cares to comment please leave a note in the comment spot down below. It would be fun to hear from someone.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

A change of pace.

2010-08-15T15:04:00.000-07:00

Oh hell. I have a new computer and it will not post covers of my five e-books. I am madly trying to encourage readers with an e-reader of i-pad to buy my books. They are romance novels. Here are their names.

VERY DIFFICULT MAN. A historical romance set in 1850 England.

ISABELLE'S DIARY. Contemporary. There's a ghost. Or is there?

ISABELLE'S STORY. Historical. Set in England and Wales, 1895 - 1900

RING AROUND THE MOON. Time travel with a difference. He comes from two hundred years in the past to the present time. Takes place in magical Cornwall where anything is possible.

TOO YOUNG TO DIE. A romantic suspense novel. Takes place in and around the Cascade Mountains, Washington and Seattle.

You can view the covers and short excerpts at: www.anitabirt.com
Enjoy my books. All have had excellent reviews.

Thanks for dropping by. Soon I'll figure out how to post the covers on my blog but not to-day. I am taking a break.

Anita

My Memory Project - A change

2010-07-23T15:08:00.000-07:00

Everything on this blog is copyright and must not be used without my permission.
Anita Birt-Copyright 2010

I decided to download the first chapter of my time travel, RING AROUND THE MOON, hoping those of you with e-readers will snap it up. I've been trying to post the cover but something is screwing things up. You can find it on my web site.
www.anitabirt.com

For those of you interested in more chapters of ONE FOR SORROW. TWO FOR JOY, please let me know. Leave a comment or drop me a note at: anita.birt@gmail.com

In the meantime, let me know what you think about RING AROUND THE MOON.

CHAPTER ONE

Beth glanced at the clock on the dash as she pulled into the parking space beside Quest Cottage. Midnight.
The drive from Heathrow Airport had been hell on wheels. Bumper to bumper traffic on the motorway had delayed her planned arrival in Cornwall. Achingly tired, she cut the engine, rolled her shoulders to get rid of the crick in her neck and got out of the car.
Bathed in the silvery glow of a full moon, the thatched cottage was fairy-tale beautiful with a trellised front porch laden with summer roses. Faint traces of their scent lingered on the still night air. Flower-filled window boxes trailed blooms from the ledges of two windows set deep in the white washed walls. Behind the curtains welcoming light gleamed.
Cool. She wouldn’t have to poke around in darkened rooms feeling for switches. She’d make some tea and have something to eat before getting her suitcases from the car. The estate agent handling the rental had promised to stock the cottage with food and Beth’s longing for a thirst-quenching cup of tea had passed the point of no return.
Patting her stomach, she whispered to her baby. “I’ve got to remember I’m eating for two and I’m starving.” Her whispered words drifted into a silence so intense she could hear herself breathe.
Life had stirred for the first time on the flight from the States and Beth hoped the little one didn’t feel as jet-lagged, lightheaded and hungry as she did.
Filled with mellow thoughts of thatched cottages and the promise of restful days ahead she lifted the latch on the gate. Rusty hinges squeaked as she pushed through. Key in hand she hurried up the flagstone path to the door.
“Elizabeth, is it really you?” A man’s questioning voice shattered the silent night.
Beth whirled around. Where was he?
A tall dark figure stumbled out from the trees near the lane.
“Wait for me, Elizabeth.” He took a step.
Elizabeth?
How did he know her name?
The man faltered, almost fell, regained his balance and crossed the moonlit space in front of the cottage.
“Go away. I’m calling the police.” She fumbled in her purse for her cell phone. A jolt of panic shot through her. She’d left it in the car!
Afraid to let him out of sight she backed into the porch, jabbed blindly at the lock and missed. Fingers trembling, she twisted sideways, slid the key into the lock and grasped the doorknob.
The gate squeaked. Swift footsteps scuffed towards her.
She turned the knob.
The man ducked his head and entered the unlit porch.
Beth slammed her fists into his chest. “Go away! Leave me alone!” She aimed a kick at his legs, lost her balance and crashed into the trellis. Rose thorns snagged her shirt and pricked her skin.
“Help! Someone help me!” Screaming and flailing her arms she scrambled past him. “Help!”
He grasped her wrist. “It is all right, Elizabeth. Do not take fright. Allow me to open the door.”
“I’m not Elizabeth. I’m not Elizabeth.”
Beth sucked air into her lungs and forced her brain to function. He’d mistaken her for another woman. That was it. When he had a good look at her he’d apologize and leave.
What if he didn’t?
Keep a clear head. Remember everything about him. Describe him to the police. He had shoulder length hair. About six feet tall. An English accent.
He hadn’t hurt her yet.
She had to survive.
Her baby had to live. “Please don’t hurt me. I’ve got money. Take my purse.”
“Elizabeth, I do not want your money. I want you.”
A hard muscular arm slipped around her waist.
I want you. He was going to rape her! She squirmed out of reach and darted down the path. She had to get to her car.
He captured her at the gate.
“Get away. Keep your hands off me!” Dredging up the last of her strength she swung her purse at his head and sank into dizzying darkness.
Alan caught her. Limp as a rag doll, Elizabeth lolled against his chest. His sudden appearance had frightened her but why was she alone in this unfamiliar place with no servant in attendance when she ventured outdoors?
For seconds he gazed at her pale face. When had she cut her hair? And her clothing was most peculiar. She moaned quietly. Thinking she might open her eyes and take fright again he carried her into the cottage and found his way to a large lighted bedroom.
He lowered her to the bed and removed her soft, laced shoes and short white socks. Why was she clad in trousers made of rough cloth and a faded blue shirt? Why was his Elizabeth wearing garments an estate worker might don to toil in the fields?
Uneasy about leaving her without a maid close by he thought it best to approach her again during daylight hours.
“Elizabeth, my love.” He kissed her, slipped the strap of her purse over a chair in the corner and walked quietly down the hallway.
In the cottage parlor he puzzled over the shaded lamp glowing on a small table. Unlike a candle it did not flicker and he burned his fingers trying to douse the wick. Why was there no flame? He sniffed at the lamp. No scent of melting wax.
He gazed around the room. Except for Elizabeth, and she didn’t seem to know him, he might as well be in a different world.
A long case clock in an alcove chimed the half-hour. ‘Twas not the familiar clock in his home. How had he come to this place? Not by sorcery for such nonsense was for children and kitchen maids who knew no better.
But something was amiss. Was he dreaming? A blaze of color flashed behind his eyes and quickly disappeared.
What had happened to him? He’d awakened in the woodland with the moon shining directly over head, heard a strange sound and listened a few minutes before stepping out from the trees.
The shock of seeing Elizabeth had startled him into losing his balance.
A vague memory calling him away from the dangerous sea cliffs stirred at the back of his mind. Calling him home.
But he had no home. Only a smoldering ruin.
He breathed deeply, pinched his arm and hoped to waken in his own bed with Elizabeth at his side.
Nothing changed. He remained standing in the strange room. Perhaps if he walked to the coast his muddled thoughts might clear.
At the cottage door he pried the small key from the lock and turned it over in his hand. He had never seen such a miniature and made of solid brass as well. The keys to his home were of iron and a goodly size not a small bit of brass like this.
He closed the door, fitted the key in the lock and was pleasantly surprised how easily it turned. Afraid he might lose it, he poked the key through a slot marked LETTERS. That too was strange. Many things were strange. Unease gnawed in his gut. He felt odd. Out of place.
Before heading to the sea, he stood in the moonlight to get his bearings. Alongside the garden hedge was a wheeled vehicle the like of which he had never seen and was reluctant to approach lest it harbored an evil spirit.
He rubbed his eyes. The land under his feet was firm. The opening to the lane was familiar but the stone pillars at the entrance had disappeared. The trees in the woodland had grown tall and dense since he had seen them mere days ago. How could that be?
What had happened to the burned out ruins of his home?
And Elizabeth? How had she come here?
Unwept tears blurred his eyes as he turned towards the sea.
* * * * *
Beth opened her eyes, squeezed them shut, opened them again and gazed up at a white ceiling. A bedside lamp glowed. Where was she?
She examined the bed, the rose patterned duvet and the antique brass bedstead. On the wall a painting hung between two curtained windows. To the left was an open door.
This wasn’t her bed and this was definitely not her bedroom. Something about the room teased her memory and she swung her legs over the side to investigate. Her feet were bare. Her sneakers and socks placed within reach. Someone had taken them off but she still wore the jeans and shirt she’d traveled in.
Traveled?
She was in Quest Cottage! She’d seen pictures of the rooms before renting it.
“Oh no!” She clutched her throat to smother a scream.
That man! Where was he?
She eased out of bed, put on her sneakers, laced them up and stood. The floorboards creaked. Rooted to the spot she held her breath and waited. In the hush blood pulsed loudly in her ears. Slowly she let the air out of her lungs and breathed deeply to prop up her shaky courage.
She tiptoed to the door and peered up and down the hallway.
To her left, light gleamed through a partly open door, to her right, darkness. She shook her head. Not that way. He might grab her in the dark.
Beth turned towards the light and, noiseless as a prowling cat, stole down the hall. She listened at the door. Silence. She pushed it open. Inside the room a Tiffany lamp hanging on a burnished chain shed light over a loveseat. A pair of wing chairs flanked the field-stone fireplace. Book filled shelves lined two walls. A cabinet with inlaid wood doors centered one wall of books.
No shadowy figure lurked in the corners. A small lamp burned brightly on a side table. Beth stepped into the cottage sitting room. In an alcove a grandfather clock ticked. There was a telephone on a table beside one of the wing chairs.
Where was he? Chilly goose bumps mottled her arms. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Almost afraid to look she glanced over her shoulder. Nothing.
The carpet muffled her footsteps as she crossed the room and picked up the phone to call the police. Would they get there in time to save her? Quest Cottage was well off the main road and the sign to Quest Lane partly obscured by ivy.
Phone to her ear she listened for the dial tone. She’d reason with him until they got here, get down on her knees if she had to and plead for her life.
A spike of fear lifted the hair on the back of her neck. Icy chills swept down her spine. The line was dead! Knees shaking she checked the jack. It was plugged in. He’d cut the line outside the cottage.
Dear God what was she supposed to do? Wait to die? Or be raped? Only her parents knew where she was and they were thousands of miles away in Portland. More frightened than she’d ever been in her life, she was afraid to move.
In the quiet room minutes passed. The clock chimed a quarter to one breaking the silence like a call to arms. Stirred into action Beth grabbed a heavy iron poker propped against the field stone fire place. She tiptoed through the small entrance hall to the front door. Her key was on the welcome mat.
She seized the key and slid it into the lock. The palms of her hands prickled. If she ventured outside where would she go? Her car keys were in her purse. The last thing she remembered was swinging it at him. He had it now.
What if she ran away? She’d have to leave the lighted cottage and take her chances in the unfamiliar dark.
She left the key in the lock, turned away from the door and listened for sounds. Where was he?
Poker grasped firmly in her right hand, resolved to kill him if she had to, Beth marched down the hall prepared to fight for her baby’s life and her own.
She switched on light after light, searched the bathroom, the two bedrooms, thrust the poker under the beds and opened every closet. She looked under the kitchen sink and checked the door in the back hall. It was locked and bolted.
She retraced her steps, checked through the cottage one more time and made sure the windows were secure.
Convinced she was alone, Beth dropped into one of the wing chairs to think. Her stomach growled. “I’ll get us something to eat in a couple of minutes.”
The man hadn’t assaulted her and no matter what he’d said about wanting her and not wanting her money, he’d have stolen her purse and the car.
She didn’t care if he’d taken every last penny, she was alive and her baby was safe.
Still uneasy Beth walked to the window and pushed aside the green velvet curtains. The moon cast long shadows across her car parked beside the cottage. Had she locked it? She couldn’t remember. Was he still hanging around?
Too scared to go out and get her cell phone she rearranged the curtain to cover the window. The clock chimed one o’clock. Daylight couldn’t come soon enough to chase away the fear the man had inflicted on her.
It was midnight when she’d arrived at the cottage, hours later than she’d planned. He’d come out of the shadows bent on … What?
He could have raped her. Could have hurt her baby. Bile burned her throat.
He could have killed her!
Get a grip, Beth.
Someone must have heard her screaming, scared him off and put her to bed.
Her head buzzed with unanswered questions. Bone weary and afraid he might return, she barricaded the front door with a chair, hurried through to the kitchen and propped another chair under the handle of the back door.
Satisfied she’d done everything possible to keep him out she filled the kettle and plugged it in to make tea and blessed Mrs. Stevens, the estate agent. She’d used Beth’s list to store enough food in the pantry cupboards and refrigerator to keep her going for a week.
She’d get her phone in the morning and call the police and the agent. She’d rented Quest Cottage for a month to get away from the hassles at home. The dark stranger had wrecked her arrival. She’d demand her money back and find another place to stay, preferably one with people nearby.
Beth toasted four slices of bread, spread them with butter and honey, put them on a tray with a cup of tea and returned to bed. She propped a pillow behind her back, sat up cross-legged, and hoped her favorite comfort food would calm her jangled nerves.
After eating the last crumb and draining the cup, she put the tray aside, got out of bed and undressed. Too tired to shower or clean her teeth, she snuggled under the duvet, reached out to turn off the light and stopped with her fingers on the switch.
Her purse hung over the back of a chair in a corner by the bureau.
She tumbled out of bed, grabbed her purse and dumped the contents on the duvet. Credit cards, passport, wallet, money, car keys, air plane ticket. Nothing was missing. A neighbor must have rescued her, locked the door and dropped the key through the mail slot. Why hadn’t her savior left a note? Totally confused she scooped her documents and money back in her purse and got back in bed.
What was up with the guy? Did he get his kicks creeping up on women in the dark? Why had he called her Elizabeth? She’d been Beth since grade school and didn’t know a soul in England.
Still puzzled she turned off the light, drew the duvet up under her chin, yawned and closed her eyes but sleep eluded her and she lay awake for hours trying every trick in the book to quiet her mind.
She breathed deeply and slowly. She counted from one hundred back to one, started counting to one thousand and lost her place at two hundred and eighty-three. Nothing worked.
She’d describe him to the police. About six feet, shoulder-length hair, an English accent but there was something else. She opened her eyes and stared into the dark.
A memory twitched her nose. His clothes smelled of wood smoke! Probably a drifter camping in the trees decided to scare her.
Why?
Too tired to reason why, she counted backwards by threes from one hundred. 97 – 94 – 91 – 8 –
* * * * *
Thanks for reading the first chapter. You can order my book from Jssmine-Jade publishing.com

Anita Birt

MY MEMORY PROJECT - about the title

2010-07-11T19:26:00.000-07:00

MAGPIES

ONE FOR SORROW.
TWO FOR JOY.
THREE FOR A GIRL.
FOUR FOR A BOY.
FIVE FOR SILVER.
SIX FOR GOLD
SEVEN IS A SECRET NEVER TO BE TOLD

The Magpie chant is a couple of hundred years old and is known through out the British Isles by children to-day.

The last line. SEVEN IS A SECRET NEVER TO BE TOLD. I shall leave you to ponder its meaning in my story.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

MY MEMORY PROJECT - continued - Chapter Three

2010-07-10T15:05:00.000-07:00

ONE FOR SORROW. TWO FOR JOY
Copyright Anita Birt 2010

CHAPTER THREE

"You have allowed her to stay in the house?" Lady Rhadyr frowned across the dining table at her husband. "And you've sent Morgan to fetch her father? Really Gilbert, there are times I fail to understand you." Clearly vexed she waited impatiently for an explanation.
"The girl was starving, my dear. You'd not put a hungry dog out without giving it something to eat." He paused while a footman cleared the table. Another arrived with a selection of small cakes to complete the meal.
"There is no cause for alarm." Her Husband beamed at his indignant wife. "She'll be off in the morning with her father."
"Where will they spend the night?" she queried. Her voice dripped ice. She accepted a dainty cake from the tray passed by the footman.
"In the stable very likely, in one of the loose boxes. There are plenty of blankets, clean straw and the weather is mild. They'll be quite comfortable."
Rob had listened intently to his father's story about the girl. His mother disliked unpleasant conversations at mealtimes and talk of tramps clearly did not sit well with her, but the shabbily dressed stranger, who poached salmon and carried books with her, intrigued him.
"I met her in the courtyard when Morgan brought her in. He set the dogs to guard her. Fearing those two great beasts might attack I remained close by. She whispered to them and within minutes they lay at her feet, docile as lambs."
He sipped some wine. "Though she was dressed as a lad and terrified out of her wits when I approached, there was something odd about her eyes, about the way she looked at me."
Setting his glass on the table, he frowned. "It was as if she knew me."
"What nonsense. How could she possibly know you?" His mother accepted a second cake.
Rob shrugged. He couldn't explain what had happened. It made no sense to him. The girl's eyes were striking, hazel with gold flecks. For the few seconds she'd gazed directly at him, time stilled. Even now he could picture her. The smudges of dirt on her face, tendrils of hair straying from under her cap and her hands clenched tightly around her bundle. She trembled when he touched her.
His sister's voice broke into his thoughts. "What a queer way for a girl to live, disguised as a boy, wandering the roads like a gypsy. Do you believe her story, father, that the landowners had her home burned down? It seems very peculiar to me." A slight smile brightened Marion's pale face.
"She was very well spoken in spite of her Scottish accent and is remarkably well read if I can believe what she told me about her education. When Morgan fetches her father I shall know whether she speaks the truth."
"Decent folk are not driven off their land," Edward announced solemnly like someone with a fund of worldly knowledge. At twenty-four, two years younger than Rob, his devil-may-care ways and lack of interest in the estate irritated the hell out of his brother and father.
"That may be so. However I think we may speak of something other than the girl. Mrs. Jenkins is likely feeding her and her father. I'm sure your mother would appreciate a change of topic."
"You are quite right, Gilbert. I've heard enough about this tiresome young person who may or may not be an unrepentant thief."
Marion turned to her mother. "What about the ball? I must have a new gown. It's a special occasion and I do want to look my best."
With a teasing smile she slipped her arm through Rob's. "You've been away such a long time; a whole year in the Indies. I'm sure Eleanor is delighted to have you back. She's invited me to be a bridesmaid at your wedding."
"Wedding? I've not spoken to Eleanor about a wedding. We're not formally betrothed."
"You've asked her, have you not?" Marion pouted. "I do long to be a bridesmaid."
Edward slapped his thigh and grinned at Rob. "Asked her? I should jolly well hope so. Thank God I'm not heir to the Rhadyr estates or I'd have to marry her and produce scores of children."
Lady Rhadyr's eyes flashed danger signals at her son, and motioned a footman to pull out her chair.
"You are being extremely vulgar, Edward. Rob and Eleanor are admirably suited. It's an excellent match, one we've planned since they were children."
She rose to her feet. "Come along, Marion. I have a surprise. You shall have a new ball gown. I've had patterns and swatches of material sent down from London. They arrived this morning."
The men stood. As they left the room Marion's happy chatter pleased Rob. A severe childhood illness had weakened her right leg. The leg brace and special boot she'd worn as a child had long since been discarded but her limp was the bane of her existence. Shy around eligible young men, she tended to withdraw from male company.
He'd avoided answering her innocent question about his betrothal and future marriage to Eleanor Mainwaring. A year in the Indies visiting the family plantations had distanced him from her, literally and emotionally. Since his return a fortnight ago he'd spent little time with her. Estate business occupied him but he'd not sought her out nor had there been any discussion with his parents about his future.
He and Eleanor were not as admirably suited as his mother believed. She no longer resembled the girl he'd known from childhood but an arranged marriage with Eleanor might be possible. The joining of the Rhadyr and Mainwaring estates had enormous potential as a profitable enterprise. Although fond of Eleanor he had little desire to embark on a loveless marriage.
Rob drained his wine. He'd never asked her to marry him, not in so many words. They'd laughed about it during their young years when they frolicked in the hay stacked high in the barn. He'd never spoken to her father but something seemed to be afoot. Had some formal arrangement been made between his parents and hers while he'd been abroad?
For the Rhadyr name to continue it was his duty to marry and have children. If there was no issue from his loins Edward would inherit the title after his death. Rob shuddered at the thought. Not the thought of dying, the
thought of Edward inheriting, he'd ruin the estate. "Shall we take our port here or in the library?" his father asked and rang the bell for the butler.
"The library," Rob replied. He liked its austere atmosphere and the shelves lined with leather-bound books collected over the years by his father and grandfather. A section was devoted to current publications sent down every six months from Bickers and Bush, London booksellers. The library was the male domain since neither his mother nor sister cared much for reading.
As they crossed the hall Rob listened half-heartedly to Edward's joshing. "I'm glad you're to wed and not me. You and Eleanor have to produce an heir pretty damned quick. She'll be ripe and ready."
He nudged Rob in the ribs. "Did you bed some of those dusky beauties in the Indies? Passion under the palms. Moonlight nights. I'd like to try a few of them. Better than the girl's around here, stiff as boards they are. All want marriage, won't go for a quick tumble. I have to travel to London for that."
Rob didn't rise to the bait about Eleanor. She'd never struck him as ripe and ready. "Why wait for me to marry? Find yourself a plump comely girl and produce dozens of children, no more roistering around London."
Edward's laugh echoed around the hall. "Robert, Lord Colwyn, you are the son and heir. You do your duty and leave me to bounce atop willing London ladies and..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "When you need a night or two away from Eleanor, I'll find a pretty wench to heat your loins."
Their father had walked ahead of them and sat in his favorite chair by the hearth. Although it was mid-summer a small fire burned in the grate to take the chill from the room.
Rob stood with his back to one of the mullioned windows. Edward sprawled on a settle "What can I offer you, milord? Port as usual? Brandy perhaps?"
"Port, James."
The elderly butler poured the dark red port into crystal glasses and passed them around. "Will that be all, milord?"
"Send Morgan along to see me."
"At once, milord." He left as quietly as he had come.
Edward wrinkled his brow. "Why are you sending for Morgan? Not still concerned about the girl are you?"
"Allow me to conduct the affairs of this household, Edward. She wanted the salmon to feed her father. Until I learn otherwise I'm inclined to believe her story. I'll see what Morgan has to say about the man."
He harrumphed. "It's always been my practice to help the poor when I can. Mrs. Jenkins will see they have a good meal and a place to spend the night." He sipped his port.
"She's a pretty little thing. Much too thin though. She's a pretty little thing, hasn't had an easy time of it these past months. She was near to fainting from lack of food."
Rob held up his glass to catch the light from the candles burning in the three-branched candelabrum on the mantel. His thoughts turned to the girl in her ragged clothes, broken boots and big cap tipped over her face to shade it from view.
He twirled the stem of the glass. Why had he not seen through her disguise? Her beautiful eyes were not those of a boy and she was very frightened. Had he been more attentive her distress would have been obvious.
Morgan knocked on the door and opened it. Cap in hand he waited for permission to enter.
Lord Rhadyr leaned back in his chair. "Come in. Tell me about the girl's father. Is he ill?"
"Couldn't find him, milord, not where the girl said." He twisted the cap in his hands.
"Did you conduct a thorough search?" Lord Rhadyr stood and paced in front of the fireplace.
"Yes, milord. Not a sign of the man where she said to look." A ghost of a smile played across Morgan's thin lips.
Rob observed the swarthy, darkly handsome face of the gamekeeper. The man seldom smiled. He'd kept to himself since the death of his wife giving birth to a stillborn child a year ago. Something of a recluse he intruded very little into the life of his employer, only when necessary, like today, when he caught a poacher or reported a fox killing pheasant chicks.
Something was amiss with the man. That afternoon Rob had heard one of the grooms teasing the stable boy. "I seen Morgan take Megan Price to his cottage. You know her, Billy. About your age, has great billowy breasts. A real bounce Morgan will have atop her. How'd you like to ride that one and suck those big tits?"
Megan was but thirteen or fourteen years and Morgan close to thirty. She'd be with child soon if he didn't put a stop to it.
Rob had left the stable to look for Morgan when he caught sight of the shabby figure slumped on the bench. In the aftermath he'd neglected his duty to Megan and her parents, tomorrow he'd deal with the gamekeeper.
"Where is the girl now?" Rob asked.
The question seemed to surprise Morgan. He shuffled his feet on the carpet and cleared his throat. "Mrs. Jenkins says she fed her, let her have a wash and gave her some clothes."
He lowered his brows. "I fear she's made a fool of us. She's nowt but a common thief, milord. A real trickster that one, rigged up like a boy, thought she'd get away with poaching. Like as not it's something she's tried before playing on the kind hearts of gentlemen like yourself."
Angry spots glowed on Lord Rhadyr's cheeks. "Thank you, that will be all."
Edward broke the silence after Morgan left. "I thought as much. You were sorry for the girl. Too bad she turned out to be a conniving little strumpet."
Lord Rhadyr resumed his seat. "All her talk about having a father, fainting at my feet. She played me for a proper fool. She'd stolen those books and pretended they were hers."
Edward refilled his glass. "She probably travels the road with a man and he sent her off to steal some food. Girls like that live rough, take up with any man who'll have them."
A vague suspicion that Morgan was hiding something niggled at the back of Rob's mind. He couldn't put his finger on it. The man seemed uneasy.
"Don't be too hasty," he cautioned. "Perhaps her father walked away." For some reason he wanted to believe her.
"She must still be here. Ring for James. I'll send for Mrs. Jenkins and see what she has to say."
The butler entered quietly. "You rang, milord?"
"Run along and have Mrs. Jenkins come at once."
The thought of James running anywhere amused Rob. Their butler had been on the household staff for twenty years. He had stopped hurrying long ago.
Within minutes Mrs. Jenkins knocked and bustled in. "What is it, milord?"
"How is that young person? Fed and clothed is she? In the stable for the night?"
"Oh dear, no, not in the stable. I fed her, sent her to bathe and found one of the maid's uniforms to fit, even boots and stockings. Her boots were in a shocking state."
The housekeeper shifted from one foot to the other. "I didn't think to put her in the stable, milord, what with the grooms being there and all. I didn't think it right. She was very tired, dead on her feet, so I took her upstairs and put her in one of the maid's rooms. She was very anxious about her father."
"She has no father! Morgan found no trace of him. The girl is a thief and a liar, and you put her to bed upstairs! You must turn her out. Send her away at once. We can't have her sleeping over our heads, she might murder us in our beds."
"Wait." Something about the girl and her story perplexed Rob. He wanted an opportunity to speak with her.
"I think it unwise to send her out tonight. It's pitch dark. She would lose her way. Let her sleep here and send her off in the morning."
"Very well, that might be best." His father turned to the housekeeper. "Can you lock her door?"
"Certainly, milord, I'll see she doesn't stir outside that room until morning."
"Good. Mind you do it yourself and while you're at it, poke your head in and see what's she's doing. If she gives any trouble, fetch her to me and I will deal with her."
Mrs. Jenkins bobbed a curtsy and hurriedly left the room.
Lord Rhadyr waved his hand towards a locked glass case containing his prize collection of rare coins. "Those coins are worth a fortune. One of them would keep a tramp well fed for a year."
"Shall I stand guard outside her door?" Edward lounged lazily to his feet.
Rob had seen him flirting with a newly hired maid. The last thing the family needed was another scandal like the one involving Tessa Phillips, a pantry maid. He was seventeen at the time and randy as a goat. The maid blamed him for her pregnancy. She'd been paid off with a sum of money and dismissed. Rob would not allow his brother to spend the night on the third floor.
He grasped Edward's arm. "Goodnight, father. we'll take a turn outside."
Rob shut the library door. "You are not to go near the girl or the maids. Not tonight. Not ever."
Edward twisted away. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do."
"But I shall." Rob seized his shoulder. "If you can't keep your shaft under control get to London or Newport and find a wench. Is that clear?"
"Clear as a bell. Now let me go."
Rob loosened his grip. He disliked these rows with Edward. His father should be more strict with him. Sometimes he acted like a cock-crazed fool trying to get under the skirts of every girl who flirted with him. A year or two abroad to sow his wild oats might tame him.
He pushed his brother aside and sauntered out on the terrace. Moonlight flooded the gardens and the heady perfume of roses drifted on the warm night air.Absorbed in his thoughts he sat on the balustrade. A nightingale trilled its achingly beautiful song from a nearby tree.
Who was she, this red-haired stranger from Scotland? Shabby, dirty and clearly terrified, she hadn't the look of a tough young poacher.
He tried to clear his mind but the haunting appeal in her eyes disturbed him. He smoothed his hand on the cool marble.
Let her be. She's no concern of his. But. But what? He puzzled over his father's interview with Morgan. If he told the truth, the girl was lying. If not, she was safely locked in a third floor room. No harm would come to her. Perhaps her father had wandered off from where she'd left him. He'd speak with her in the morning, give her a few shillings and be done with it.

Please leave a comment or drop a line to me at: anita.birt@gmail.com
Have a look at my web site: www.anitabirt.com and read excerpts of my five books published by Cerridwen Press. Order them from. www.jasmine-jade.com and download to your Kindle or other e-reader.

Anita

MY MEMORY PROJECT - on hold

2010-07-05T16:30:00.000-07:00

I have family visiting and my time is taken up going hither and thither. This evening we are going on a GHOST WALK. Victoria is a spooky place. Lots of ghosts.

In the meantime,I have books to sell. So many of you have e-readers and buying e-books is relatively cheap. Try my time travel, RING AROUND THE MOON My hero comes to the present time from 1800. There are many twists and turns in my story. My American heroine has rented Quest Cottage in Cornwall for a month of R&R but when Alan Tremaine turns up on her doorstep on the night she arrives at the cottage, her life and his are turned upside down.

The book cover and an excerpt are on my web site: www.anitabirt.com

I shall be back with Chapter Three on the week-end.

Anita Birt

MY MEMORY PROJECT - Story continuing

2010-07-01T20:35:00.000-07:00

I hope this works. This is the Second Chapter of my, as yet unpublished, historical romance, One For Sorrow. Two For Joy.

ONE FOR SORROW. TWO FOR JOY
Copyright Anita Birt 2010

CHAPTER TWO

He sat behind an imposing desk. Lips pursed, brow furrowed in an intimidating frown, he leaned forward to examine her.
"Here's the lad, sir, caught him in the act. He took one of your salmon with his bare hands. A sly character, this one, never seen that done before."
Morgan reached into his leather sack for the salmon. "Have a look at this. Poached one of your big ones, he did." He glared at the captive. "Take off your cap, boy! Besides being a thief, you've no manners."
He snatched the cap from Ailsa's head. The tortoise- shell comb securing her braids flew off with the cap. Her mop of red curly hair sprang loose and cascaded over her shoulders.
"Bless my soul," Lord Rhadyr snorted. "You told me you had a boy. This appears to be a girl." He came from behind the desk.
Expecting a blow, Ailsa shuddered and hunched her shoulders as he approached. The bundle dropped from her nerveless fingers.
"Here you," Morgan snarled. "What are you up to, dressed like a boy? Some new trick is it? Sent to poach by your thieving parents, were you? You'll not get away with it." Seizing her, he shook her like a rag doll.
Stressed to the breaking point from hunger and exhaustion, the last of Ailsa's courage ebbed. Close to collapse, her knees threatened to give way.
"That will do, Morgan, let her be. There's no need to be rough with the girl."
Lord Rhadyr smiled at her. "What is your name, child?"
"Ailsa Mary MacDonald." Eyes lowered, she studied the red, green and gold designs on the carpet. The patterns merged and flowed like clouds in the sky. How strange, she thought, and narrowed her eyes to make the carpet cease its restless motion.
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen, sir."
"Your accent is Scottish. What are you doing in Wales so far from home?"
"I...uh." She chewed her lip. "We have no home..." Every breath wearied her. Mumbling the words, she tried to continue. "We were driven off our land. My father..."
A gasping sob streaked across her bruised ribs. "Oh no, he is." The room melted under her feet and she crumpled on the carpet. Eyes closed, too fatigued to raise her head, she longed to disappear, to fade away.
"I'll put her outside, milord. You don't want the likes of her in your home." Morgan yanked her up.
"Leave the child alone. Fetch Mrs. Jenkins. She'll be in the kitchen most likely."
Morgan dropped Ailsa's limp body, slid his heavy boot under her and jabbed the raised toe of his boot into her side. "She's nowt but a tramp off the road, not worth your time, milord. I'll take her to the magistrate. He'll put her away."
Pain fogged Ailsa's tired brain. Hearing the dreaded words, she struggled to rouse herself. A cool hand rested on her forehead.
"Morgan, fetch Mrs. Jenkins at once. The girl is ill. I will decide what to do with her." He knelt on the carpet beside Ailsa. "Stay quiet. Our housekeeper will be here presently. You have nothing to fear."
Ailsa's eyes fluttered open as a plump, rosy-cheeked woman bustled into the room. "Is the poacher dead, sir?"
"Not at all. Fainted I think. Help me carry her to the settle."
Gentle hands lifted her. She tried to speak but words stuck in her throat. Helpless as a newborn babe, unable to move, she lay back and rested her head on soft cushions.
"Why she's light as a feather. Hasn't had a good meal for a bit, I'll be bound. If you'll just let me have a little brandy, milord, that should bring her round."
Ailsa tried to sit up and toppled back when the room spun in dizzying circles. A glass clinked behind her.
"That will do fine." Mrs. Jenkins sat beside Ailsa and slipped a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Sip this, child."
The fiery liquor burned down her throat. Sputtering and coughing, words tumbled out. "I must go to my father. He's very ill and doesn't know where I am. Please let me go. Please." She lurched to her feet, wavered briefly and kept her balance.
Mrs. Jenkins stood and patted Ailsa's hand. "Where is your father?"
Confused, not sure what to do, Ailsa's eyes filled with tears and she leaned against the ample bosom of the housekeeper.
Would they put her father in the workhouse? Not while she had breath in her body. Not Hamish MacDonald, a proud Highlander, the finest musician in their glen. Not her honest, hard-working father who'd tended the laird's land and made the crops flourish.
He loved her. She'd never abandon him. Never. It bruised her soul to think of him spending his last days in the workhouse, a destitute, penniless pauper.
"I beg you let me go. I'll not bother you again." She turned pleading eyes to Lord Rhadyr.
Ailsa knew her shabby clothes, disheveled hair and dirty face made her look like a tramp not worthy of his trust, yet he seemed a kindly man.
Lord Rhadyr stroked his neatly trimmed beard. "No harm will come to your father, I promise you. Tell me where he is. Morgan will fetch him and Mrs. Jenkins will see you have some food."
"You'll not harm him?" Ailsa searched his face. Reassured by a slight crinkling at the corners of his eyes and his calm voice, she mustered a tired smile. He reminded her of the young man who had spoken to her in the courtyard. The man who wanted her treated leniently. She forced away the memory of his dark eyes.
"I left him in the spinney near the bridge into Usk. He is ill. Please take care not to frighten him." She choked back a sob. "He's not himself."
Morgan waited at the open door. "No good will come of this, milord, taking in sluts is asking for trouble." He clenched his fists around his cap.
Lord Rhadyr frowned and waved Morgan off. "I want her father brought here at once. Take the pony and trap and be quick about it. The man will be worried about his daughter."
Ailsa flinched at the malice in Morgan's eyes before he left. Malice directed at her. Icy fingers of fear shivered along her skin. Fear of his brutal strength, fear of something unknown lurking behind his pale grey eyes.
Freed of his evil presence she dismissed her fears. Soon her father would join her. After a hearty meal, perhaps some bread and cheese to take away, they'd leave this place forever.
Down the road. Away from Usk. Away from the river. Her father cared not where she led, the fever had weakened his will.
Mrs. Jenkins grasped Ailsa's hand. "Come along and I'll sit you down in the kitchen to a bowl of good meaty soup, that will warm you and there'll be plenty for your father."
Ailsa paused at the door. "Thank you for your kindness, Lord Rhadyr." Hampered by her boy's clothing, she dropped a curtsy.
He picked up her bundle. "Here. You have left this."
The twine slipped and Ailsa's possessions tipped out. Books scattered at his feet.
"What is this?" he demanded. "Where did these books come from?"
Ailsa blushed, gathered up her few shabby undergarments and her books.
"I asked you a question. Where did you acquire books? Stole them did you?" He glowered at her.
"They are mine, sir."
"Let me see."
Ailsa bit back the angry retort trembling on the tip of her tongue. What right had he to accuse her of theft? Holding her back straight like a soldier on parade, she handed them over.
Lord Rhadyr perused her meager library. "Hmm. The Bible, the poetry of Robert Burns, two of Shakespeare's plays;, Hamlet and Macbeth. How came you by these?"
"Read the inscriptions on the fly leaves, sir. The Bible was a gift from my father, Hamish MacDonald. The Burns' poetry a gift from my mother, Mary MacDonald. I studied the two plays when I attended the Andersonian Institute in Glasgow." Fairly crackling with indignation, she curbed her fiery temper.
He opened each book, read the inscriptions and returned them to her. "What pray is the Andersonian Institute?" An arrogant smile curled his lips.
Barely able to control her resentment, Ailsa collected her belongings, found her tortoiseshell comb shoved it into her hair and retied the bundle. "It's a college in Glasgow. I attended classes for four years. I hoped to be a teacher."
"Then what are you doing tramping the roads and stealing my salmon?"
Ailsa's head ached. Why did she have to answer his questions? All she wanted was a hot meal for her father. "Have you not heard of the highland clearances?"
Lord Rhadyr shook his head and returned to his chair behind the desk. "Go on." He drummed his fingers on the polished wood.
"Over twelve months past our cottage was burned to the ground, only the stone walls withstood the fire. We lost everything except what we carried with us. The landowners sent factors with gangs of thugs, dogs and fire to burn us out. Not just my family, all the crofting families were terrorized into leaving land they'd farmed for generations.
"The owners brought in shepherds with flocks of Cheviots to graze the highlands. Raising sheep for wool and meat was more profitable than the crops raised by the tenant farmers and the rents they paid."
Ailsa rubbed her arm where the jacket itched through her damp shirt. "Our old laird would never have allowed such a thing but he died two years ago and his son inherited the estate. Everything changed. We were cleared off the land like chaff to make way for sheep."
Lord Rhadyr glared at her. "Impossible!"
Incensed at his ignorance and overweening arrogance, bitterness soured her throat. Gritting her teeth, she continued. "The clearances are well recorded. We tramped the roads, refugees in our own country. My mother's heart cracked under the strain and within months of losing our home, she died."
Tears pricked behind Ailsa's eyes but she would not cry in front of this man. "My mother lies buried in a churchyard south of Inverness."
Her tormentor huffed. "No landowner would destroy property like that."
His assumption she was a lying tramp roused Ailsa to do battle. With a supreme effort she swallowed her pride and faking humbleness, bowed her head. What this man thought of her mattered nothing. She'd willingly go on her knees to the devil himself for the sake of her beloved father.
With a flick of his fingers, Lord Rhadyr dismissed her. "Mrs. Jenkins will see to you."
"Thank you, sir." Ailsa hoped she sounded properly chastened.
As the housekeeper led her away, Lord Rhadyr called after them. "Find some female clothing for her. One of the maid's uniforms will do. She can stay the night with her father. It's too late to send them out on the road. Morgan will take them to Usk in the morning."
Ailsa had no intention of staying until morning. When they were strengthened by a hot meal, off they'd go. She didn't fear the dark, by first light she expected to be well away from Usk.
Mrs. Jenkins sat Ailsa at one end of a large kitchen table and ladled out a steaming bowl of soup, thick with chunks of beef, potatoes, carrots and onions. The mouth-watering aroma tantalized Ailsa's taste buds.
She dipped in her spoon and blew impatiently on a piece of meat to cool it. Chewing slowly, she savored each delicious morsel in the soup until every last particle disappeared. The housekeeper refilled the bowl.
"We'll not stay here, Mrs. Jenkins." Ailsa buttered a chunk of fragrant crusty bread. "I think the gentleman regrets his kindness. He was very cross because of my books. When my father has something to eat, we'll be on our way."
"You'll do nothing of the kind. You will do as the master wishes. He's a good man and never turns a hungry wayfarer away from the door."
Hands on her hips, Mrs. Jenkins brooked no argument. "He ordered me to find you some clothing and a bed, and that I will do. Now finish your meal."
Ailsa pretended not to notice the curious glances from the maids and two young men dressed in blue and gold livery working at the far end of the kitchen. Drowsing in the warmth in the room she stifled a yawn and sagged in the chair.
"Miss!" The housekeeper's voice interrupted Ailsa's sleep.
"There's a tub of hot water in the bathing room along the passageway over there, second door on the right. I've put out some clothes for you, have a wash and then to bed."
Ailsa shook herself awake. "That's not necessary. My father will be here directly. I'll wait for him."
Mrs. Jenkins refused to change her plans. "The master said to find you a bed. You are nearly asleep. Off you go."
Too tired to argue, Ailsa found the bathing room and closed the door. Steam rose from a large tub of blessedly hot water. Tossing her clothes aside she sank into it and let the warmth soothe her bruises. She scrubbed herself clean with a tablet of yellow soap, washed and rinsed her hair and dried off with a coarse towel.
Neatly laid out on a table near the tub were a maid's black uniform, black cotton stockings, darned at the heel, and a pair of scuffed women's boots.
Ailsa dressed quickly. The boots were too large for her narrow feet and slim ankles but a decided improvement on what she'd been wearing. She tightened the laces and the boots didn't fit too badly. Tossing the old ones into a bin, she stuffed her shabby britches, shirt, jacket and cap into her bundle.
Back on the road, the long skirt would be useless. For safety, she'd change into her boy's clothing. The maid's uniform might fetch a few pence.
Mrs. Jenkins knocked. "Come along then."
Her eyes widened as Ailsa opened the door. "Why I would scarce recognize you, quite different, you look."
Ailsa smiled. "Thank you for your kindness. I feel much better now."
Mrs. Jenkins preceded Ailsa up a staircase at the rear of the house. As they entered an elegantly appointed hallway on the second floor Ailsa stopped to look around.
"No time to dilly dally, I have work to do below." The housekeeper hurried Ailsa across to a door on the far side and motioned up a narrow flight of stairs to the third floor. Laboring up behind Ailsa, Mrs. Jenkins paused at the top to catch her breath, plump cheeks glowing pink.
"The maids' rooms are here. Jessie's room is at the end of the hall. She's away seeing to her sick mother. You can have her bed for the night.
"Please fetch me when my father arrives. I must see him."
"One of the maids will come for you. She'll wake you if you fall asleep."
"Och no, I'll not fall asleep."
Ailsa closed the door and dropped her bundle on the floor. More tired than she'd ever been in her life, she sat on the bed, unlaced the boots and set them aside. Careful not to tear them, she removed the mended stockings and garters and draped them over a chair.
The pillow tempted her. She propped it behind her head and stretched out on the bed to await her father. A warm breeze whispered at the open window and the net curtains, like dreamy white sails, puffed into the room. Somewhere close by, a blackbird sang.

Hurray. It worked. Enjoy the Second Chapter. Please leave a comment or drop me a note to: anita.birt@gmail.com

www.anitabirt.com

MY MEMORY PROJECT - my historical romance

2010-06-29T15:20:00.000-07:00

I don't think this is going to work. I'm having so many problems sending my Word document to my blog. Here goes. Didn't work. Sorry about that. I shall try again tomorrow until I beat this problem.

In the meantime, I'm posting the cover of my romantic suspense here hoping to tempt someone, all of you, into purchasing it for your e-reader.

MY MEMORY PROJECT - Replacing Chapter One

2010-06-26T19:18:00.000-07:00

I wonder if this will work. The printing looks a bit better than the previous one. We shall see.

ONE FOR SORROW. TWO FOR JOY
Copyright Anita Birt 2010

CHAPTER ONE

Wales and Scotland, 1820

"Can we no' go into town, lass, I'm that weary, my bones ache. Let us find lodgings for the night, the constables will no' find us here."
Ailsa MacDonald tucked a wool blanket around her father's gaunt frame. He shivered. His eyes, bright with fever, searched hers.
"Tomorrow, father, the sun is well down the sky. Soon it will be dark and the rooms all taken. 'Tis a beautiful evening, we'll do better here in God's good fresh air than a stuffy room at an inn."
He sighed and rested a thin hand on Ailsa's arm. "What money do we have left?"
"Pennies, father, enough for a night or two's lodging. We'll stay awhile in the town until you're well enough to travel."
"Then we'll be away to Bristol and board a ship to..." His voice trailed away and his eyes closed.
Dreaming their dream, Ailsa thought. Their dream of taking ship to Canada to escape from the terror they had left behind in Scotland.
Sunlight filtered through the trees overhead and warmth of the July day lingered in the spinney where they'd sheltered. From a nearby field the scent of newly mown hay drifted on the summer air
Ailsa blinked back tears and gazed at the town across the river. Tomorrow they'd cross the bridge into Usk and seek help. Without nourishing food, her father would weaken further, except for a loaf of bread they had eaten nothing for two days.
He had forbidden her to spend the gold sovereign sewn into her jacket until they reached Bristol but soon she'd have to tell him their quest was hopeless. The sovereign would sustain them until he regained his health and she found employment.
Bending down she brushed a kiss across his cheek. "I'll be off to fetch something for supper, rest until I return." His eyes opened and Ailsa forced a smile. "I'll take my bundle with me. If there's no one about, I'll bathe in the river and wash off the dust from the road."
Her father nodded and raised his hand. "Away then and take your time. You're my bonny lass. I'm not so hungry I can't wait for you to bathe before fetching our supper."
Ailsa's heart sank into her shabby boots. If she was lucky, supper would be two or three eggs stolen from an unguarded coop or strawberries plucked from a farm wife's garden.
She hurried across the road and struck out along the path by the river. Walking quickly she left the town behind on the far side. At a bend in the river well out of sight of passersby on the road, Ailsa paused. A magpie screeched from the top of a nearby tree.
"One for sorrow," she murmured and glanced around hoping to see its mate.
Two for joy? It was a silly childish superstition. If joy were to come to her and her father it would not come from seeing two magpies at the same time, but she had wished for two and smiled at her foolishness.
Tempted to bathe before going on, she dropped to her knees on the river bank and peered into a quiet pool shaded by an overhanging willow. The river was in flood and she longed to strip off her worn clothing and slide into the water.
A flickering movement caught her eye. Salmon! She smothered a peal of laughter. Dame fortune had taken pity on her.
Elated at her discovery she studied the fish. It was a goodly size and would revive her father. Tonight they'd eat well and face the morrow with full stomachs.
A trout jumped farther out and sun-sparkled ripples disturbed the smooth surface of the water. Ailsa's reflection shimmered and stilled. Her dirt-smudged face stared up at her. A boy's scruffy cap hid her tightly braided hair.
Careful not to disturb the salmon with a sudden movement she crept backwards up the bank and wasting no time lest it swim away, shoved her shawl-wrapped bundle out of sight under a shrub. Thieves prowled everywhere. Long months on the road had taught her caution. Trust no one.
She dragged off her boots and socks, draped her shabby tweed jacket on a tree branch, hitched up her britches and tightened the frayed rope around her waist.
Shirtsleeves rolled above her elbows, she stretched face down on the bank and wriggled toward the river. At the pool, she anchored her legs and feet around the roots of the willow and hung head first over the riverbank.
She slithered her arms into the cold water. The river soon chilled her. Steadfastly ignoring the numbness creeping into her bones she fluttered her fingers in the crystal clear pool. The salmon approached to investigate.
"Thig thugam eisg mhoir," she whispered in Gaelic.
"Come big fish. Come for a nice wee guddle."
Ailsa curved her hand over the salmon and trailed her fingertips, butterfly-light, along its sides. Its tail fanned slowly, gills opened and closed.
"Now," she murmured and lightning quick thrust her fingers under the gills, flipped the fish clear of the water and landed it beside her.
Squirming away from the river with the salmon thrashing wildly in her hand, she inched up the bank to safety and sat down. Breathless, she dug her father's clasp knife from her pocket, flicked open the blade, slashed deep behind the gills and killed the fish. Blood spattered over her hands.
"What do you think you're doing, boy?" A loud bullying voice stunned Ailsa into shocked silence.
"I spoke to you, boy. Stealing fish, are you? Answer before I take my whip to you.
The man's heavy boot slammed into her ribs. Teeth clamped tight Ailsa scrambled to her feet and prayed he wouldn't see through her disguise. It had been her only protection on the long, difficult journey from Scotland.
Shoulders hunched, the salmon twitching in her hands, she glanced up at the man's dark, scowling face. His pale gray eyes bored into hers. Afraid to let him look too closely, Ailsa bowed her head. Heart thudding against her bruised ribs, knees shaking, she braved it out.
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm very hungry and didn't know this fish belonged to anyone."
"Hungry you may be but this stretch of the river belongs to Lord Rhadyr. He doesn't take kindly to thieving poachers stealing his salmon."
He seized her shirt. "Poaching is a crime in Wales, a very serious crime. I'll take the evidence to show his lordship. He'll thank me for this and then decide what to do with you." The man hefted the salmon and dropped it into a leather sack slung over his shoulder.
"Please sir, may I put on my boots?" She'd run, or jump in the river and swim across. She had to escape and return to her father.
"Be quick. I don't have all day."
Fearing another blow, Ailsa sat down to put on her socks and broken boots.
"Don't try any tricks." He picked up her knife, wiped it on his sleeve, sheathed the blade and and stuck it in his belt. "Stole this too, I wager, too good for the likes of you." He aimed another kick at her. The toe of his boot stabbed the end of her spine. Excruciating pain radiated up her back.
Frightened and dazed by his brutal kicks, Ailsa dragged on her socks and boots, jumped up and plucked her shabby jacket from the tree. The wet sleeves of her shirt clung to her arms as she thrust them into the rough jacket. Snatching up her bundle, she clutched it against her heaving chest.
The man's strong fingers gouged into her skin-and-bones shoulders as he half-led, half-dragged her along the river path. Leaving the river behind, they headed into a densely wooded forest. Weak from hunger and fatigue, Ailsa floundered beside him and fell.
He yanked her to her feet. "Stand up, boy. We've a way to go then you'll be for it. Off to the hulks for the likes of you and away to Australia on one of them convict ships with other thieving rogues."
Convict! Australia! Numb with pain, unable to think clearly, the hate-filled words swamped her senses. Stumbling along beside him she lost track of time. It was dark under the trees. Had night fallen?
As suddenly as they'd entered it they emerged from the forest. Ailsa blinked in the late afternoon sunlight. Ahead was a great sweep of lawn, magnificent formal gardens and a towering mansion that dominated the landscape. Transfixed, she stared at the building.
Two great wings angled away from a central core. Mullioned windows recessed into weathered stone walls reflected the last rays of the setting sun. Golden light shimmered on the glass like eyes empty of life. An ominous quiet loomed over the waning day.
Terrified at what faced her behind those forbidding walls, Ailsa fell to her knees. "Please, sir, don't make me go in there. Whip me and let me go. I'll never go near your river again."
He pulled her up and smacked the side of her head. Stunned from the blow, she fell against him. Tears spilled down her cheeks. With her free hand, she swiped them away with the sleeve of her jacket.
Don't cry. She told herself. Boys don't cry.
The man led her to the rear of the building and shoved her down on a bench beside a closed door.
"Dare to move and I'll have the dogs on you." He whistled and two huge mastiffs bounded across the cobblestone courtyard. He jabbed a finger at Ailsa. "See he stays there." Teeth bared the dogs growled deep in their throats. The man entered the house and closed the door.
Ailsa hugged her bundle, tucked her feet under the bench and some of her panic seeped away. The dangerous animals, stiff hackles ridged along their backs, didn't frighten her. She examined them under lowered lashes careful not to make them nervous with eye contact.
She relaxed, raised her head briefly and risked a smile. The huge dogs examined her. Ailsa breathed deeply and whispered. "I had a dog like you back home. He pretended to be fierce but really wasn't. He was gentle as a lamb just like you."
Her voice, lulling soft, calmed them. Their deep throated growls ceased. Their hackles flattened. Mindful not to alarm them Ailsa put out one hand, palm up, and leaned towards them.
"My name is Ailsa. I wish I knew yours then we'd be friends. That man caught me guddling a salmon. I'm sure no one would miss one fish. What do you think?"
The dogs cocked their heads seeming to puzzle over the question.
"I want you to lie down." Ailsa spoke firmly, raised her hand and signaled. "Lie down."
They flopped at her feet. Someone had trained them well. "That's much better, now I can pat you and we'll be friends."
"How lovely you are." She crooned and rubbed their shaggy heads. "I knew you weren't fierce. I could tell by your eyes but I have to go before that man comes back."
Ailsa stretched and stood. "Stay." She commanded. Tongues lolling, the dogs gazed at her and remained motionless.
The sound of boots rapping sharply on the cobblestones startled her. Frozen to the spot she watched a young man stride across the courtyard towards her. Fearing the worst, Ailsa cowered down on the bench and plucked nervously at the twine holding her bundle together.
The man was tall, taller than the other one, taller than her father. She spied a riding crop in his hand and icy shivers squeezed her chest. Head bent submissively she closed her eyes waiting for him to close in and strike her.
Ailsa's captor threw open the door. "Come here, you young ruffian. The master will see to you." He twisted her arm and dragged her off the bench.
Glowering at the animals lying at her feet, he lashed out with his boot. "Forgot what I told you. I'll fix that!" The dogs sprang out of reach and slunk off, whining.
"What is this about, Morgan? What has the boy done?"
Ailsa stared at the leather crop and the braided thongs swishing idly against shining black riding boots. Hands clenched, she waited dumbly for the blow to fall.
Morgan doffed his cap. "Caught him poaching salmon, milord. Your father will see to him. You know how strict he is about poaching. He'd sooner lose a pheasant or two than a salmon. Likely this rascal will go to the magistrate for sentencing."
The man in the shining boots spoke to Ailsa. "Look at me, lad. Have you been poaching?"
Fearing to disobey, she raised her head. His voice came from far away. From a distant place. It was gentle. Different from the other. Not loud or harsh.
His eyes held hers. Mesmerizing eyes. Above the open collar of his white shirt, his face and strongly muscled neck were deeply tanned. She forced herself to look away.
Timeless seconds passed. A familiar tingling swept up her spine. Ailsa dreaded the gift her great grandmother Elspeth MacDonald had bestowed on her. A fearful premonition overwhelmed her. She had to escape from this place. Away from this man whose dark eyes searched hers, in his questioning gaze danger lurked. Danger to her. Danger to him.
Conscious thought gave way to a future unfolding behind her eyes. In a brilliantly lighted ballroom she whirled around the floor in the arms of the dark-eyed man, laughing up at him but a menacing shadow edged the scene. Evil lurked there. Waiting for her.
Panic seized her. She struggled to breathe. What had she to do with this man?
"Didn't you hear, boy? Lord Colwyn spoke to you. Answer him!" Morgan wrenched her shoulder.
Ailsa winced and gulped in air. Pain shot through her bruised ribs. Eyes downcast, she nodded. "Yes sir, I stole a fish." She peeked up at him from under her cap. His mouth curved in a slight smile.
"Have the boy treated leniently, Morgan. There are plenty of salmon in the river." He rested his hand lightly on Ailsa's trembling shoulder. If he gazed into her eyes again he would surely see through her disguise.
"No more poaching, lad." He turned on his heel, walked a few paces, paused and turned back. "Speak to my father, Morgan. A warning is all the boy needs."
He tapped the riding crop on his boots, frowned slightly, studied Ailsa for several seconds then walked slowly to the whitewashed, stone buildings on the far side of the courtyard.
A glimmer of hope flickered in Ailsa's heart. The touch of Lord Colwyn's hand on her shoulder and his comforting words calmed her worst fears. Morgan pushed her into the house shut the door. The walls closed in.
"Warning indeed," he hissed through clenched teeth. "You'll not get away with poaching while I'm gamekeeper here."
He led her through a labyrinth of passageways. Mouth watering smells drifted through an open kitchen door. Ailsa's nose twitched. Hunger gnawed at her empty stomach.
A few steps past the kitchen, she glanced into a large pantry. Shelves were laden with earthenware crocks. On the floor close by a window baskets brimmed with fruits and vegetables. Hams hung from the ceiling alongside strings of onions and dried herbs.
Staggering in Morgan's tight-fisted grasp she tried desperately to fix an escape route in her mind but terror dimmed her memory. Trapped like an animal by the gamekeeper she was hopelessly lost.
Suddenly Morgan flung open a door. Ailsa paused at the threshold of a vast, lavishly appointed rectangular hall soaring two stories high. Cherubs draped in leafy marble adorned each corner. The last light of day filtered through the beveled glass of a vestibule door. Beyond it, a brass-studded outer door stood open leading to a wide terrace.
Morgan shook her. "Move! Lord Rhadyr wants a look at you before sending you to the magistrate."
Ailsa's footsteps echoed on the white and black marble floor. Opulence surrounded her. Rich tapestries draped the walls. Burnished sconces gleamed beside closed doors. In every sconce were fresh, unlit candles. A wide carpeted staircase swept up to the second floor.
A long-case clock chimed the half-hour its brass pendulum swinging back and forth marking time. Doomed by her crime Ailsa clattered across the floor. Out of harmony with the silvery chime of the clock her last few seconds of freedom ticked away.
Morgan knocked on a door, opened it with a flourish and shoved Ailsa ahead of him. Her broken boots tangled on the thick carpet and she stumbled into the presence of Lord Rhadyr. Rigid with fear, she struggled to her feet and faced the enemy.

Anita
www.anitabirt.com

MY MEMORY PROJECT - First chapter of a book!

2010-06-21T15:37:00.000-07:00

I am going out of my mind trying to download the first chapter of my historical romance novel, tentatively titled: ONE FOR SORROW. TWO FOR JOY.

ONE FOR SORROW. TWO FOR JOY

CHAPTER ONE

Wales and Scotland, 1820

"Can we no' go into town, lass, I'm that weary, my bones ache. Let us find lodgings for the night, the constables will no' find us here."

Ailsa MacDonald tucked a wool blanket around her father's gaunt frame. He shivered. His eyes, bright with fever, searched hers.

"Tomorrow, father, the sun is well down the sky. Soon it will be dark and the rooms all taken. 'Tis a beautiful evening, we'll do better here in God's good fresh air than a stuffy room at an inn."

He sighed and rested a thin hand on Ailsa's arm. "What money do we have left?"

"Pennies, father, enough for a night or two's lodging. We'll stay awhile in the town until you're well enough to travel."

"Then we'll be away to Bristol and board a ship to..." His voice trailed away and his eyes closed.

Dreaming their dream, Ailsa thought. Their dream of taking ship to Canada to escape from the terror they had left behind in Scotland.

Sunlight filtered through the trees overhead and warmth of the July day lingered in the spinney where they'd sheltered. From a nearby field the scent of newly mown hay drifted on the summer air

Ailsa blinked back tears and gazed at the town across the river. Tomorrow they'd cross the bridge into Usk and seek help. Without nourishing food, her father would weaken further, except for a loaf of bread they had eaten nothing for two days.

He had forbidden her to spend the gold sovereign sewn into her jacket until they reached Bristol but soon she'd have to tell him their quest was hopeless. The sovereign would sustain them until he regained his health and she found employment.

Bending down she brushed a kiss across his cheek. "I'll be off to fetch something for supper, rest until I return." His eyes opened and Ailsa forced a smile. "I'll take my bundle with me. If there's no one about, I'll bathe in the river and wash off the dust from the road."

Her father nodded and raised his hand. "Away then and take your time. You're my bonny lass. I'm not so hungry I can't wait for you to bathe before fetching our supper."

Ailsa's heart sank into her shabby boots. If she was lucky, supper would be two or three eggs stolen from an unguarded coop or strawberries plucked from a farm wife's garden.

She hurried across the road and struck out along the path by the river. Walking quickly she left the town behind on the far side. At a bend in the river well out of sight of passersby on the road, Ailsa paused. A magpie screeched from the top of a nearby tree.

"One for sorrow," she murmured and glanced around hoping to see its mate.

Two for joy? It was a silly childish superstition. If joy were to come to her and her father it would not come from seeing two magpies at the same time, but she had wished for two and smiled at her foolishness.

Tempted to bathe before going on, she dropped to her knees on the river bank and peered into a quiet pool shaded by an overhanging willow. The river was in flood and she longed to strip off her worn clothing and slide into the water.

A flickering movement caught her eye. Salmon! She smothered a peal of laughter. Dame fortune had taken pity on her.

Elated at her discovery she studied the fish. It was a goodly size and would revive her father. Tonight they'd eat well and face the morrow with full stomachs.

A trout jumped farther out and sun-sparkled ripples disturbed the smooth surface of the water. Ailsa's reflection shimmered and stilled. Her dirt-smudged face stared up at her. A boy's scruffy cap hid her tightly braided hair.

Careful not to disturb the salmon with a sudden movement she crept backwards up the bank and wasting no time lest it swim away, shoved her shawl-wrapped bundle out of sight under a shrub. Thieves prowled everywhere. Long months on the road had taught her caution. Trust no one.

She dragged off her boots and socks, draped her shabby tweed jacket on a tree branch, hitched up her britches and tightened the frayed rope around her waist.

Shirtsleeves rolled above her elbows, she stretched face down on the bank and wriggled toward the river. At the pool, she anchored her legs and feet around the roots of the willow and hung head first over the riverbank.

She slithered her arms into the cold water. The river soon chilled her. Steadfastly ignoring the numbness creeping into her bones she fluttered her fingers in the crystal clear pool. The salmon approached to investigate.

"Thig thugam eisg mhoir," she whispered in Gaelic.

"Come big fish. Come for a nice wee guddle."

Ailsa curved her hand over the salmon and trailed her fingertips, butterfly-light, along its sides. Its tail fanned slowly, gills opened and closed.

"Now," she murmured and lightning quick thrust her fingers under the gills, flipped the fish clear of the water and landed it beside her.

Squirming away from the river with the salmon thrashing wildly in her hand, she inched up the bank to safety and sat down. Breathless, she dug her father's clasp knife from her pocket, flicked open the blade, slashed deep behind the gills and killed the fish. Blood spattered over her hands.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?" A loud bullying voice stunned Ailsa into shocked silence.

"I spoke to you, boy. Stealing fish, are you? Answer before I take my whip to you.

The man's heavy boot slammed into her ribs. Teeth clamped tight Ailsa scrambled to her feet and prayed he wouldn't see through her disguise. It had been her only protection on the long, difficult journey from Scotland.

Shoulders hunched, the salmon twitching in her hands, she glanced up at the man's dark, scowling face. His pale gray eyes bored into hers. Afraid to let him look too closely, Ailsa bowed her head. Heart thudding against her bruised ribs, knees shaking, she braved it out.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm very hungry and didn't know this fish belonged to anyone."

"Hungry you may be but this stretch of the river belongs to Lord Rhadyr. He doesn't take kindly to thieving poachers stealing his salmon."

He seized her shirt. "Poaching is a crime in Wales, a very serious crime. I'll take the evidence to show his lordship. He'll thank me for this and then decide what to do with you." The man hefted the salmon and dropped it into a leather sack slung over his shoulder.

"Please sir, may I put on my boots?" She'd run, or jump in the river and swim across. She had to escape and return to her father.

"Be quick. I don't have all day."

Fearing another blow, Ailsa sat down to put on her socks and broken boots.

"Don't try any tricks." He picked up her knife, wiped it on his sleeve, sheathed the blade and and stuck it in his belt. "Stole this too, I wager, too good for the likes of you." He aimed another kick at her. The toe of his boot stabbed the end of her spine. Excruciating pain radiated up her back.

Frightened and dazed by his brutal kicks, Ailsa dragged on her socks and boots, jumped up and plucked her shabby jacket from the tree. The wet sleeves of her shirt clung to her arms as she thrust them into the rough jacket. Snatching up her bundle, she clutched it against her heaving chest.

The man's strong fingers gouged into her skin-and-bones shoulders as he half-led, half-dragged her along the river path. Leaving the river behind, they headed into a densely wooded forest. Weak from hunger and fatigue, Ailsa floundered beside him and fell.

He yanked her to her feet. "Stand up, boy. We've a way to go then you'll be for it. Off to the hulks for the likes of you and away to Australia on one of them convict ships with other thieving rogues."

Convict! Australia! Numb with pain, unable to think clearly, the hate-filled words swamped her senses. Stumbling along beside him she lost track of time. It was dark under the trees. Had night fallen?

As suddenly as they'd entered it they emerged from the forest. Ailsa blinked in the late afternoon sunlight. Ahead was a great sweep of lawn, magnificent formal gardens and a towering mansion that dominated the landscape. Transfixed, she stared at the building.

Two great wings angled away from a central core. Mullioned windows recessed into weathered stone walls reflected the last rays of the setting sun. Golden light shimmered on the glass like eyes empty of life. An ominous quiet loomed over the waning day.

Terrified at what faced her behind those forbidding walls, Ailsa fell to her knees. "Please, sir, don't make me go in there. Whip me and let me go. I'll never go near your river again."

He pulled her up and smacked the side of her head. Stunned from the blow, she fell against him. Tears spilled down her cheeks. With her free hand, she swiped them away with the sleeve of her jacket.

Don't cry. She told herself. Boys don't cry.

The man led her to the rear of the building and shoved her down on a bench beside a closed door.

"Dare to move and I'll have the dogs on you." He whistled and two huge mastiffs bounded across the cobblestone courtyard. He jabbed a finger at Ailsa. "See he stays there." Teeth bared the dogs growled deep in their throats. The man entered the house and closed the door.

Ailsa hugged her bundle, tucked her feet under the bench and some of her panic seeped away. The dangerous animals, stiff hackles ridged along their backs, didn't frighten her. She examined them under lowered lashes careful not to make them nervous with eye contact.

She relaxed, raised her head briefly and risked a smile. The huge dogs examined her. Ailsa breathed deeply and whispered. "I had a dog like you back home. He pretended to be fierce but really wasn't. He was gentle as a lamb just like you."

Her voice, lulling soft, calmed them. Their deep throated growls ceased. Their hackles flattened. Mindful not to alarm them Ailsa put out one hand, palm up, and leaned towards them.

"My name is Ailsa. I wish I knew yours then we'd be friends. That man caught me guddling a salmon. I'm sure no one would miss one fish. What do you think?"

The dogs cocked their heads seeming to puzzle over the question.

"I want you to lie down." Ailsa spoke firmly, raised her hand and signaled. "Lie down."

They flopped at her feet. Someone had trained them well. "That's much better, now I can pat you and we'll be friends."

"How lovely you are." She crooned and rubbed their shaggy heads. "I knew you weren't fierce. I could tell by your eyes but I have to go before that man comes back."

Ailsa stretched and stood. "Stay." She commanded. Tongues lolling, the dogs gazed at her and remained motionless.

The sound of boots rapping sharply on the cobblestones startled her. Frozen to the spot she watched a young man stride across the courtyard towards her. Fearing the worst, Ailsa cowered down on the bench and plucked nervously at the twine holding her bundle together.

The man was tall, taller than the other one, taller than her father. She spied a riding crop in his hand and icy shivers squeezed her chest. Head bent submissively she closed her eyes waiting for him to close in and strike her.

Ailsa's captor threw open the door. "Come here, you young ruffian. The master will see to you." He twisted her arm and dragged her off the bench.

Glowering at the animals lying at her feet, he lashed out with his boot. "Forgot what I told you. I'll fix that!" The dogs sprang out of reach and slunk off, whining.

"What is this about, Morgan? What has the boy done?"

Ailsa stared at the leather crop and the braided thongs swishing idly against shining black riding boots. Hands clenched, she waited dumbly for the blow to fall.

Morgan doffed his cap. "Caught him poaching salmon, milord. Your father will see to him. You know how strict he is about poaching. He'd sooner lose a pheasant or two than a salmon. Likely this rascal will go to the magistrate for sentencing."

The man in the shining boots spoke to Ailsa. "Look at me, lad. Have you been poaching?"

Fearing to disobey, she raised her head. His voice came from far away. From a distant place. It was gentle. Different from the other. Not loud or harsh.

His eyes held hers. Mesmerizing eyes. Above the open collar of his white shirt, his face and strongly muscled neck were deeply tanned. She forced herself to look away.

Timeless seconds passed. A familiar tingling swept up her spine. Ailsa dreaded the gift her great grandmother Elspeth MacDonald had bestowed on her. A fearful premonition overwhelmed her. She had to escape from this place. Away from this man whose dark eyes searched hers, in his questioning gaze danger lurked. Danger to her. Danger to him.

Conscious thought gave way to a future unfolding behind her eyes. In a brilliantly lighted ballroom she whirled around the floor in the arms of the dark-eyed man, laughing up at him but a menacing shadow edged the scene. Evil lurked there. Waiting for her.

Panic seized her. She struggled to breathe. What had she to do with this man?

"Didn't you hear, boy? Lord Colwyn spoke to you. Answer him!" Morgan wrenched her shoulder.

Ailsa winced and gulped in air. Pain shot through her bruised ribs. Eyes downcast, she nodded. "Yes sir, I stole a fish." She peeked up at him from under her cap. His mouth curved in a slight smile.

"Have the boy treated leniently, Morgan. There are plenty of salmon in the river." He rested his hand lightly on Ailsa's trembling shoulder. If he gazed into her eyes again he would surely see through her disguise.

"No more poaching, lad." He turned on his heel, walked a few paces, paused and turned back. "Speak to my father, Morgan. A warning is all the boy needs."

He tapped the riding crop on his boots, frowned slightly, studied Ailsa for several seconds then walked slowly to the whitewashed, stone buildings on the far side of the courtyard.

A glimmer of hope flickered in Ailsa's heart. The touch of Lord Colwyn's hand on her shoulder and his comforting words calmed her worst fears. Morgan pushed her into the house shut the door. The walls closed in.

"Warning indeed," he hissed through clenched teeth. "You'll not get away with poaching while I'm gamekeeper here."

He led her through a labyrinth of passageways. Mouth watering smells drifted through an open kitchen door. Ailsa's nose twitched. Hunger gnawed at her empty stomach.

A few steps past the kitchen, she glanced into a large pantry. Shelves were laden with earthenware crocks. On the floor close by a window baskets brimmed with fruits and vegetables. Hams hung from the ceiling alongside strings of onions and dried herbs.

Staggering in Morgan's tight-fisted grasp she tried desperately to fix an escape route in her mind but terror dimmed her memory. Trapped like an animal by the gamekeeper she was hopelessly lost.

Suddenly Morgan flung open a door. Ailsa paused at the threshold of a vast, lavishly appointed rectangular hall soaring two stories high. Cherubs draped in leafy marble adorned each corner. The last light of day filtered through the beveled glass of a vestibule door. Beyond it, a brass-studded outer door stood open leading to a wide terrace.

Morgan shook her. "Move! Lord Rhadyr wants a look at you before sending you to the magistrate."

Ailsa's footsteps echoed on the white and black marble floor. Opulence surrounded her. Rich tapestries draped the walls. Burnished sconces gleamed beside closed doors. In every sconce were fresh, unlit candles. A wide carpeted staircase swept up to the second floor.

A long-case clock chimed the half-hour its brass pendulum swinging back and forth marking time. Doomed by her crime Ailsa clattered across the floor. Out of harmony with the silvery chime of the clock her last few seconds of freedom ticked away.

Morgan knocked on a door, opened it with a flourish and shoved Ailsa ahead of him. Her broken boots tangled on the thick carpet and she stumbled into the presence of Lord Rhadyr. Rigid with fear, she struggled to her feet and faced the enemy.