It's true. I've had such fun. Today I'm at Fall into Reading Reviews with Alexandra Berkeley, my heroine. Stop by and read a few things about her you've never known! Don't forget to sign up for my giveaway while you're there! #BtGPromotions #historical #romance #tmpress
I'm at Reviews by Crystal today. Stop by! I'd love to visit with you. #btgpromotions #historical #romance #tmpress Whew! I'm visiting Em Epe Romances today. Richard Berkeley's in her spotlight! #bridgingthegap #emeperomances #historicalromances #richardberkeleysbride #tmpress I'm at two places today. My first stop is Melissa Keir's lovely blog. My 2nd stop is Deep In the Heart of Romance. Don't forget the prize giveaway!#BlogTour #Giveaway #tmpress Welcome BACK! Today is Day Three of my blog tour with Bridging the Gap Promotions. I'm at Harlie's Books today and having a terrific time! Come join me. Here's the link: http://www.harliesbooks.com/posts/excerpt-of-richard-berkeleys-bride-by-cate-parke-wa-rafflecopter-giveaway/. To be eligible to win prizes, take a look at my blog post below for details. I hope you win!
I'm starting a blog tour at Bridging the gap promotions today! I hope you'll join me...and Richard and Alexandra, too, as we make the rounds this week. As an added bonus, leave a comment on my last blog post, Like my Facebook Author Page, follow me on Twitter, Like my Amazon Author page, follow Bridging the Gap Promotions, add Richard Berkeley's Bride to your Goodreads shelf (here's mine), you win may win copies of either Richard Berkeley's Bride or Dreams Within Dreams, your choice! (Of course it means waiting until the week of May 18th to receive that particular prize. So-o sorry, but that's when it will be released.) Remember, Dreams Within Dreams is the second book in a series. You'll want to have read Richard Berkeley's Bride first. Anyway, winning involves accumulating points.
Excited? I am! Here's the Rafflecopter link. Whoever has the most points at the end of the tour wins the prizes. I'll post the winners on my blog next week. So keep checking back!
Hi! Today is Day 3 of my Blog Tour with Bridging the Gap Promotions! It's 5/7/ 2014. I'm at Harlie's Books today. Come join me. I'm having terrific time! Here's the link: http://www.harliesbooks.com/posts/excerpt-of-richard-berkeleys-bride-by-cate-parke-wa-rafflecopter-giveaway/
Here's the link for Bridging the Gap Promotions!
http://www.bridgingthegappromotions.blogspot.com/2014/05/tour-for-richard-berkeleys-bride-by.html I'm at A Room With Books today (5/6). Here's the link: http://roomwithbooks.com/parke-richard-berkeleys-bride/ I'll see you in the morning! Who cares??? It's finally May! The snow is gone for another year, the sun is shining, the temperatures are warm, and the earth is awakening. It's May--that lustiest of months! When you were small, did you ever deliver a May basket to a neighbor or family member? I did. It's a charming practice. Here's a pretty May basket, in case you wondered what I mean. Mothers help their offspring select someone to receive the basket, and help compose and assemble the contents. Once completed and ready for delivery, the children creep up the front steps of their recipient's home, trying for all their worth, to stifle their giggles, place the basket on the door handle, knob or latch, knock on the door or ring the bell. Then, they run from the scene at full tilt and hide themselves in the shrubbery to watch the person's face when they see their pretty gift. Have you ever danced around a May pole after sunset on a village green? Do you know what a May pole is? Here's an example. Isn't it pretty? Do you know where the custom comes from? Mostly, they're found in Germanic and Celtic countries of northern Europe. Nobody knows where they originated, but most agree they're a continuation of the reverence for sacred trees. Some view them as having phallic symbolism. Whoa, baby! That's some big, um-m, rod. These things could be as tall as trees! Which they were. The original ones were trees that had been stripped of all but their top leaves. John Cleland's controversial novel, Fanny Hill records, “...and now, disengag'd from the shirt, I saw, with wonder and surprise, what? not the play-thing of a boy, not the weapon of a man, but a maypole of so enormous a standard , that had proportions been observ'd, it must have belong'd to a young giant." The earliest recorded evidence comes from a Welsh poem written by Gyffydd ap Adda ap Dafydd during the mid-14th century, in which he described how people used a tall birch pole at Llanidloes in central Wales. Pairs of boys and girls (or men and women) stand alternately around the base of the pole, each holding the end of a ribbon. They weave in and around each other, boys going one way and girls going the other and the ribbons are woven together around the pole until the merry-makers meet at the base. Celts have long celebrated the first day of May as Bhealtainn, the day the god Belenos, the horned god of the woodlands and the Great Mother are united in sacred marriage. The lusty month, May is a time for drinking mead wearing bright colors, including green, gathering flowers and celebrating the dawn of each new day. The color green, worn at this time, honors the earth mother. This is the month during which trial marriages, called handfasting, are made for a year and a day. On May Day young men use commonly to runne into woodes at night time, amongst maidens, to set bowls. So much as I have heard of tenne maidens whiche went to set May and nine of them came home with childe. ~ Unknown 16th century chronicler. And there you have it. Believe me, I didn't know I had so much to say on this topic! Why I Write What I Do My wonderful friend, critique partner par excellence, and Golden Heart finalist, Dawn Marie Hamilton, author of the exciting new book, Sea Panther and The Highlands Garden series, asked me to participate in a blog tour about our writing processes. Perhaps you might enjoy learning a little about why I write what I do. What Am I Currently Working On? My current project is called Patriot’s Dreams, the third (and last) book in my Dreams of Oakhurst series. It is the story of my two main characters who struggle to keep their home intact and their burning love alive through the long separations compelled by the long and bloody Revolutionary War in South Carolina’s back country. Richard is a Continental cavalry officer while Alexandra plays a difficult role of her own. It is to convince the British and Charlestowne's Tory elite that she and her husband sympathize with their cause. She plays a dangerous game. Who is her real adversary: Lord Cornwallis--or somebody else? Will she win or lose? She and Richard are determined it will be neither of them. How does my work differ from others of its genre? My books are set in pre-Revolutionary War, Charleston, South Carolina. The final book in the series, Patriot’s Dreams, is actually set during the Revolution. The war, as it was fought in the South, is largely unknown. Most Americans have heard about Concord and the Boston Tea Party since their first years in public school. How many know, though, that it was actually won in the South? My hero is Richard Berkeley, a scion of one of the oldest families in Charlestowne, a descendent of one of the Lords Proprietors. My heroine is the granddaughter of two dukes, the fourth Duke of Argyll and the Duke of Wessex whose ancestors were kings of England. Richard’s goal is to become one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in South Carolina. Hers is to be the son her father never had. Through Alexandra and the fabulous wealth from which she descends, Richard is set to achieve his goal. Alexandra has a little more difficulty—especially since she was raised to behave as a lady. Richard’s sister marries into the Henry family of Virginia. Remember Patrick Henry, whose classic words, “I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!” Alexandra’s cousins marry into the highest echelons of British nobility. One of their dearest friends is General Lord Cornwallis. I have tried to set a stage rife with possibilities for treachery and intrigue, yet remains one within which men and women can live with love and honor. How Does My Writing Process Work? I begin with an idea of when and where I want to set my book and then determine who my hero and heroine will be. I enjoy imagining possibilities of who these people are, what they might want, and how to make them work for what it is they hope to achieve. I try to write the story in the “house style” my publisher uses, but it’s a rough draft that I go back through, often many times and consider ways to say what it is I want my characters to say, feel, think or hear. A famous writing instructor, Margie Lawson, describes the ways we might make our characters smile, as “Miles of Smiles.” People smile when they’re happy—or when they’re trying to cover other emotions, but we can’t just say he (or she) smiled. How tedious! How did they smile—and why? Was it something someone said that evoked it? Or was it the comical way someone appeared that caused it? It’s the job of a writer to make the reader feel the character’s emotions, to despair when their character does or to laugh over a comical thought. I’ve always thought the mark of an excellent author was one who could make me cry from the force of the emotion they created. I know of some excellent authors who can do this, too. Diana Gabaldon accomplished it in her second novel, Dragonfly in Amber, and so did Renee Vincent in her magnificent novel, called Raeliksen. Màiri Norris, achieved it in her second novel, Rose of Hope. Grace Burrowes seems to manage it repeatedly. Her book, The Soldier, was the first one I read that touched me so deeply. I cried for five straight minutes with David. Such a moving story. Thank you, Grace! I hope I manage similar results in Dreams Within Dreams. Anyway, after I’ve written what I consider golden prose, I subject my manuscript chapters to my critique partners, during which process, they’re free to rip it apart and make me humble. Thank you Dawn, Cathy-and-Derek! Afterward, my wonderful editor, Ciara Knight, makes free with it. She is a lovely lady who is, for me a Rumpelstiltskin, hardly a gnome who weaves straw into gold, but a word-genius (or genie?) instead. The historical editor reviews it for historical accuracy and points crit partners, Ciara and I have both missed, and then the executive editor gets a final pass. It’s a long, arduous, exciting process that I feel privileged to have participated in to bring my stories to life. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about my writing process! Now sit back and enjoy the first scene from Dreams Within Dreams. “Mr. Richard Berkeley and Lady Alexandra Berkeley,” proclaimed the queen’s chamberlain in stentorian tones. Sharp pounding resounded throughout the noisy chamber when he struck his long mace against the marble floor once…twice. Heads swiveled their way. Painted and many-patched men and their ladies, garbed in gorgeous court clothes and dripping with jewels, thronged St. James Palace on this Thursday evening for the queen’s bi-weekly Drawing Room. Word of the Berkeleys’ appearance had spread through St. James District like fire through a ramshackle barn stuffed with dry hay bales. Richard’s and Alexandra’s sponsors, her grandmother and aunt, flanked them. Two duchesses as sponsors—such had never before been the case to everybody’s certain knowledge. Richard led Alexandra forward through crowds that parted like the Red Sea before Moses when they passed down the center of the mammoth room. Halting before the pregnant queen, Richard swept his grey tricorn from his head, extended a foot and bowed from his waist while his wife sank into a deep curtsey. Waves of murmurs swept through the assembly behind them, scarcely audible confidences, overheard by Richard’s keen ear. One of them, a girl born with every advantage, had allied herself to a mere gentleman whom nobody had ever heard of before, nobody would distinguish with an invitation anywhere, and nobody wanted to know. Yet from the number of invitations flooding in to Her Grace of Argyll’s secretary, everybody most plainly did. From the corner of Richard’s eye, he glimpsed several short men and a few women clamber onto chairs to capture a better view of them. One elderly dame even lifted a lorgnette containing pink glass to match her silk gown. Richard successfully stifled a smirk. For somebody nobody wanted to acknowledge, he’d garnered enormous attention. “We have not enjoyed your presence in our Court for the past year and more, Lady Alexandra.” Queen Charlotte’s gaze swept her from bright red, high-piled curls to the hem of her magnificent embroidered cloth-of-silver wedding gown, the only acceptable attire for her appearance today. “We hear you have given birth to a son, Lady Alexandra. What did you name him?” “Edward Thomas Rutledge Campbell Berkeley, Ma’am. He was born last December.” “We are pleased to see you in good health, for you appear well, indeed. You give no evidence of your recent travail. And you are happy, we see, for you are aglow with it. Very well, very well,” she smiled, a rare occurrence during one of these tedious events, and waved her hand in dismissal. “Now step aside, gel, while we acquaint ourself with your gentleman.” Richard snapped to attention and bowed his head. “Your servant, Ma’am,” he drawled. His accent, with its long, slow, in-gliding vowels brought a smile to the queen’s lips. Those near enough to witness her open appreciation gasped, their eyes widened with amazement. The small woman before him lifted her head and gazed into his eyes. He’d come to recognize such smiles. He’d seen them since he was a boy, fighting off advances from flirtatious females. “We are charmed by your distinctive accent, Mr. Berkeley. You are from Charlestowne of our South Carolina colony, are you not?” “Yes, Ma’am. I am.” “Yet you spent a number of years in England.” “That’s true, Ma’am,” he grinned, impressed she knew anything of him. Of course, Alexandra had written her and, doubtless, explained. “I attended school in England. Lord Edward Campbell convinced my father to send me to Eton when I was eight years old. Later, I entered his alma mater, Christ Church, Oxford. Afterward, I trained in the law at London’s Middle Temple.” “Is that when you met Lady Alexandra?” “No, Ma’am. I didn’t have that privilege until several years later.” From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Alexandra slanting a glance at him while he stood at ease, with hands folded behind his back, and flashed a grin at the queen. The small brown-haired, sallow-skinned woman with striking turquoise eyes lifted her chin. He suspected nobody ever presumed to grin at her. But Her Majesty was a woman and, he supposed, from her widened eyes and the flirty grin playing on her lips, he’d surprised and stricken her, as he had most women all his life. “How was that, Mr. Berkeley?” “Lord Edward Campbell, Lady Alexandra’s father, was my mentor and, later, my business partner, Ma’am. He and my father planned a betrothal between us since we were children—though, they didn’t bother to share the information with either of us until the spring of 1768. Since I was soon to embark upon a voyage to England, His Lordship sent along a letter of introduction to the Duke of Argyll, in Inveraray, Scotland. After I saw to my affairs in London, I travelled north—and met my wife.” “I see. Yet, Lady Alexandra failed to mention it to us during the following year when she served us as a Maid of Honor.” Richard grinned again, amused. Her Majesty gasped and leaned toward him, her eyes widened further. He doubted any gentleman had ever been so audacious as to display genuine friendliness toward Her Majesty during all the years she’d sat beside her husband on his throne. “A delicious tale, Mr. Berkeley. We have always been fond of your lady wife, and are pleased you make her happy.” “I’ve tried, Your Majesty, but I’ve not always succeeded.” “And why is that, sir?” By her alert posture and the crinkling of her eyes at the corner, Richard knew laughter lurked while she awaited the outcome of his anecdote. “You see, once I refused to burn a house down for her. On another occasion, I forbade her to ride. I recall even threatening to post guards on her. She was remarkably unhappy with me on both occasions, Ma’am.” “And why were you commanded to burn a house down, Mr. Berkeley?” “It contained a nest of snakes, Ma’am.” The queen’s eyes flew wide and she glanced toward Alexandra. “A nest of vipers, Mr. Berkeley? Pray share the tale with us.” “Well, you see, I’d bought a sawmill upriver from our home. After cleaning and repairing homes for the workers I’d hired, my wife pulled aside a bed, and there they were. Believe me, Ma’am, I’ve never heard such blood-curdling screams.” “We should say not! What did you do?” “Well, I carried my wife outside before she strangled me, while others carried out the snakes. Once they were gone and the place was cleaned, there was no longer a need to burn down the house.” “She nearly strangled you, you say?” “Yes, Ma’am. She jumped at me and wouldn’t let go of my neck. It felt like I’d imagine a tightening noose might feel, you see. On that same occasion she nearly suffocated herself and our child, as well.” **** Beside him, and amused by his tale, Alexandra fidgeted, wanting to supply some detail that did not present her actions in quite such a…colorful manner. Queen Charlotte pointedly ignored her, though, and she dared not speak unless addressed by Her Majesty. “I must hear this tale now, if you please, Mr. Berkeley,” the queen demanded. “My wife took it upon herself to burn vermin-ridden bedding in a fireplace that didn’t work properly. Lady Alexandra was not happy with my response, I fear.” “Indeed? What did you do?” Another of her rarely seen public smiles wreathed her face. The muscles in her cheeks and about her mouth twitched with the effort to maintain her regal composure. “I wanted to turn her over my knee, I assure you. That might not have been appropriate, given her delicate condition, though. Instead, I snatched her into my arms, carried her outside and ordered her to sit. Without a single chair on the site, however, my only alternative was to assign her a simple task. It gave her something to do and kept her out of everyone else’s hair, at least.” A Queen of England may never be said to roar with mirth but her laughter rang through the Presence Chamber and she clapped her hands in delight. Her ladies fluttered about her, fanning her and dabbing the tears streaking her cheeks with lacy handkerchiefs. Finally, re-gaining control of herself, regret crossed her face. “We fear we must excuse you, Mr. Berkeley, and remember the others awaiting our notice. We look forward to meeting you again at court. Lady Alexandra, we are glad to welcome you back.” “Thank you, Ma’am,” Alexandra replied, sinking into another curtsey, then backed away from the throne, her hand again in Richard’s. Her Majesty had extended the usual five minutes granted to each couple by twice as long. This was to the consternation of her formidable chamberlain who stood nearby drumming his fingers on his lectern and waving his hand each time the queen glanced his way, hoping to attract her attention. After they retreated from the throne, another couple approached who had been kept waiting. The redoubtable Lady Mary Coke, ever present at these bi-weekly affairs, sallied forth and accosted Alexandra. Her Grandfather Argyll’s first cousin was the daughter of the great Second Duke of Argyll. Lady Mary reigned over St. James District. “You may introduce your gentleman, Lady Alexandra,” she commanded, as though nobly bestowing a great honor. Inward rage roiled within Alexandra’s breast at the woman’s haughty demeanor toward her tall, handsome husband. Richard bowed when Alexandra introduced him. Her grandfather, the Duke of Wessex, approached and greeted Lady Mary. Afterward, he claimed Richard’s attention and took him to meet a friend. Alexandra could have murdered him for taking Richard away and leaving her alone to combat the arrogant woman. She expected nothing but censure from the fearsome dame, nor was she long disillusioned that she might escape. Come visit my lovely friend, Lizzie Walker, next Monday, April 28th, at her terrific site, Bttrfliesz Are Free at bttrfly29.blogspot.com!
And thanks for joining me today. When I began writing Richard Berkeley's Bride, I knew I had some research to do, but I had no idea quite how much. I'd planned to call my hero Richard Hutson, for instance. As you can see above, however, there really was a guy by that name who lived at that same time. Hm-m. Not a great plan here. So I decided to give him the name of someone who had never lived--at least as far as I can tell. He had to have a name of someone who might have, however. After very little deliberation, Richard Berkeley became his name. Ditto with my heroine's father. I initially named him Lord William Campbell. I made him the third son of the Fourth Duke of Argyll and the last Royal Governor of South Carolina. Guess what. There really was a Lord William Campbell who was the third son of the Fourth Duke of Argyll and what's even more coincidental, he was the last Royal Governor of South Carolina. How's that for coincidence? A name change was in store. I wanted someone entirely fictional. So he became Lord Edward Campbell, the second son of the 4th Duke of Argyll. That position actually belonged to Lord Henry Campbell who died at Lauffeldt in February, 1747. But I made Lord Edward a year older--I can do that. I'm an historical romance author. I write fiction. I love it! Hahaha. Ordinarily, I like encountering coincidences. Really. Not so when I'm trying to find names for characters. When I first met my heroine, her name was Louisa. Louisa Campbell. Interesting. There really was a Louisa Campbell and she really was the daughter of Lord William Campbell. A name change was in store. I named her Julia, but try as I might, I just couldn't like the name as well as I liked Louisa. I wanted a name that could be changed and given to a man, as in Louis...or Jules...or Alexander. Hm-m. Yes--I could like Alexandra. I really could, so Alexandra became my heroine's name. Speaking of coincidence, I'd named Lord William's plantation The Oaks. Guess what? There really was a plantation named The Oaks, though it wasn't placed where I'd placed the one now belonging to Lord Edward, along the Ashley River, upriver from Middleton Place Plantation. The Oaks was never owned by Lord William. It belonged to the Izard family--the family he married into. His son William lived there at one time. True. All true. So the plantation was renamed Oakhurst...and became the setting for my three Dreams of Oakhurst novels, Richard Berkeley's Bride, Dreams Within Dreams and Patriot's Dreams. I hope you like them! By the way, I've told you about the Fourth Duke of Argyll. Would you like to see his picture? Of course you would! He's shown in his ducal robes here. This painting is by Thomas Gainesborough. True love stories have no real endings . . . . Fortunately, the same isn’t true of travel. During my husband’s twenty-six year Navy career, we lived in North Chicago, Illinois; Vallejo, California…twice; Idaho Falls, Idaho; Newport News, Virginia; Charleston, South Carolina…twice, (with multiple moves in that city both times!); Westover Air Force Base (in Chicopee, Massachusetts); two lengthy sojourns back in Albuquerque while my husband attended Navy schools; Austin, Texas (HOOK ‘EM HORNS!); Monterey, California and Arlington, Virginia. Our last move brought us to the home we built among the foothills of the Smoky Mountains in lovely Northeast Tennessee. Oops! Forgot one. This weekend a friend reminded me of it. Hm-m . . . some friend. So I’ll resurrect these original blog posts of mine just this one time. I speak of the memorable trip my small daughter, elderly cat and I took to Newport, Rhode Island wherein I got lost in the wilds of New Jersey. Keep in mind, the family husband / father wasn't with us. No. He'd gone on ahead, pulling a U-Haul trailer loaded with the clothing and household goods we'd need for our six-month tour in Newport. He also had the family dog. It was very early January, 1980. The trip began well and just kept on progressing the same. But it was only Day 1. We finished loading the car and started out from Austin, Texas, waving farewell to the first house we'd ever owned, and drove up to my sister-in-law’s house in one of Dallas - Fort Worth’s center cities. That was the memorable opportunity my brother-in-law took to query my six year old daughter about how “cat” and “dog” are —or rather — are NOT spelled. It went something like this: “Okay, Gretchen, how is “cat” spelled?” The poor kid is a phonetic speller. And Jeff is a born and bred Texan with a broad Texas drawl. Gretchen's reply went something like this: “C . . . A . . . A . . . T.” I can see the wheels of her brain whirring like the fan in my car's radiator as she sounded out the word. No-o, says he, it's spelled ‘c-a-t’. Okay, now, this one is easy. How do you spell 'dog?' ” “D . . . A . . . W . . . G,” Gretchen dutifully replies, spelling it, of course, just the way it sounded. Poor little kid. “No,” Jeff says once more, his muscular Texas drawl doing the verbal equivalent of push-ups and pull-ups a Marine Gunny would have been proud of. “It’s spelled “d-o-g.” I let it go. More on this topic later. Believe me -- there's ALWAYS a later. I’m just glad she finally learned to spell the English language. So we depart DFW the next morning and make our way to I-40 without a hitch. Things are going far too well. I should have been warned. We pass through a blizzard as soon as we hit I-81 in the gorgeous state of Tennessee. What did Tennessee look like? I couldn’t have told you up to that point. I’d only passed through it in either a long winter’s deep dark night, driving rain or white-out blizzard. Not auspicious introductions to the beautiful state I now call home. I digress. We finally arrived in Bristol, TN / VA and stopped for hot chocolate — and a potty break, of course. Sorry . . . TMI. So we soldiered on . . . and on . . . and on through driving, blinding snow. As I'm becoming cross-eyed. We reach Roanoke, Virginia as darkness falls with a resounding thud. Find a hotel, eat supper and collapse in our beds. Next morning, frigid air, but clear skies greet us with a great big grin. I should have been warned — again. It wouldn’t last. Oh — it remained clear; and sunny. But that was all. I drove up I-81 to Harrisburg, PA. I continue on, dutifully following my Rand McNally. You may recall that only the U.S. Navy possessed GPS at that time. No Garmins or any of those other handy tools available for people such as me. Of course not. I find I-78 . . . no problem. But don't scream "YAY!" just yet. Just past the state line with New Jersey, the plot thickened. I come across a sign that reads something like I-78 South to I-95 (where I need to go, by the way). But . . . South??? Despite the fact that the car tries to turn south, instinct tells me, Rhode Island is north. Right? Wrong. Within five miles I hit village streets. Endless village streets. One little town after another . . . wall-to-wall. But, hey, I’m still headed north, by gosh and by golly! At least give me a “P.” (Stands for Persistence.) I don’t know how many miles we travelled through those endless small towns and tiny villages. Thousands and thousands of them, surely. The sun is going down and I'm getting desperate — still without a single clue where I am. I know I have to cross the Tappan Zee Bridge, but where is the um-m . . . bleeping thing? It isn’t small. It crosses the Hudson River, for Pete’s sake. It’s huge. Mammoth. Get the picture? So finally, near tears, I stop in a parking lot to peer at the map — still clueless, but persistent. (See what I mean? Gimme another P!) A working man strolls out the union hall door wherein the parking lot is located. Union hall? This isn't the place Jimmy Hoffa got murdered . . . is it? “Can I help you, lady?” he asks pleasantly. So far, so good. He sounds nice. Not like someone who would murder me for asking really stupid questions. Questions like "Please, sir, where is the Tappan Zee Bridge?" He should have collapsed on the ground holding his sides. After my pathetic admission, and he finally stops hee-hawing (I never said he didn't laugh), he points down the street and says, “Go down three blocks then take a left. Go down two more blocks then turn right for one block and you’ll see the bridge . . . or words to that effect. I repeat those directions and cling to them as if it was a life preserver and I was stranded at sea. “Don’t say anything to me,” I demand of my dearest child. “That goes for you, too,” I order the cat. Everybody stares at me with big round eyes as I mutter the directions to myself over and over like some sort of idiotic mantra. I go down two blocks, turn left and go down two more (or whatever), turn right and — there’s the BLESSED bridge! Where did it come from? It isn’t like New Jersey hid the thing behind an Invisibility Cloak. Like I said, the darned thing’s colossal. We get through Connecticut before completely losing the light and then we’re off the freeway, following backroads in the dark. GREAT! We get to a high but narrow and rickety two-lane bridge, called the Old Jamestown Bridge. It actually shook as we drove over it. No truer word was ever applied to a bridge — “Old,” that is. Really old. I laugh my idiot head off. An elderly nurse I’d worked with in Austin had gripped the car door’s armrest each time she crossed the I-35 bridge over the Colorado River with me. Maybe she knew something I didn’t, but the bridge through Austin is something like eight lanes wide, doesn't shimmy and shake when you drive over it, and is absolutely flat. Eureka! City lights ahead! Not many, I grant you, but any are better than the none I’d encountered since leaving the interstate. So we cross into Newport on the wide, stable Narragansett Bay Bridge and . . . now what??? I don’t have a clue where my husband is . . . or even where the Navy base is located. It’s big, too. But it’s not like they put up signs that point the way. No siree, Mama! Not the U.S. Navy. They cross trackless oceans without a road map — and presumably, their wives can navigate a city to locate the base. In the dark. In an unfamiliar town. With an exhausted child and an elderly, hungry Siamese cat who shares the fact for mile upon endless mile. Then I see a little white sign off to the left. It said something about “Gate.” Navy bases all have gates on them so that’s the way I head. The guard at the gate made the B - A - D mistake of shaking his head when I asked him to call my husband. Have you ever witnessed an already wild-eyed woman come completely unglued? I must have scared him because he grabbed his phone pronto and handed it to me when my husband answered. My wonderful guy tells me to meet him at the Burger King in ten minutes. (I have a six-year-old with me and they all like those cute, cute, cute paper crowns, right?) He'll be there in five minutes. "Just one question. Where’s the Burger King?" It’s not like I know this place. It isn’t as if I couldn’t get lost on an island -- or in a brown paper bag, for that matter. I clearly hadn't yet managed to get over being lost in New Jersey, for Pete’s sake! So I get the directions (the gate-guard is getting nicer by the nanosecond), followed ‘em, and there we were. Easy, peasy. Water and feed the Siamese cat his favorite kibbles and shepherd the child inside and seat her beneath a heating vent anywhere but near the door where ice shards hover in the air. Husband arrives, happy as a clam. We eat. Husband asks questions like, “What’s wrong with you?” Then has the temerity to laugh like a wild monkey when I tell him my sorry tale. Brave man. He clearly doesn’t know who he’s messing with here — doesn’t have a clue of the danger he’s in. My blue eyes start flashing and the whites turn red to match my red hair. I morph into an honest-to-God fire-breathing dragon — I mean wife. He’s a fearless U.S. Navy officer, but understands retreat is sometimes the better part of valor. He changes the subject fast. Tells me all about the gatehouse full of antiques he’s rented for our winter stay in the city. Sounds fun. But if antiques amount to old and ugly, then those furnishings fit the bill. But, hey, I’m a Navy wife — I can make anyplace feel like home. Right? Right! It seems he's also had a mishap during his second day in the city. The dog was sitting on the front seat of the car -- not tethered in -- and he stops for a red light. The dog must have made a decision that driving so far sucks for young, healthy, rambunctious Labrador Retrievers and dives for the open window. (Open window? It's January in Newport, RI, for Pete's sake! Where the high temperature for the day hovers somewhere near zero degrees Kelvin!) Husband pulls up beside her and goes through the "BAD DOG" routine. She absolutely adores him. So that's sufficient to make her cower in abject shame. He points to the open car door and that's all it takes. All's well that ends well . . . to borrow a phrase.
Do you know that, during early January, it gets dark in Newport by 4:30 p.m.? Me either. Except for a nine month tour in Idaho Falls, ID while my husband was a student at the Nuclear Power Training Center and a six month stint in central Massachusetts where he taught at another such facility from late November through late April, 1976, I’d always managed to live south of the Mason-Dixon. Don't ask why it never occurred to me that the sun set that early in higher latitude states. I couldn't have told you. My husband offered to take us out for supper our second night in Newport. He got home late -- wouldn't you know. Gretchen was ready to eat the cat by the time he finally showed up. But he redeemed himself. He took us to this fabulous restaurant right on the waterfront, called Sala’s. Daughter ordered her favorite food, spaghetti (what else?)and husband makes it a quarter serving. “She’s hungry,” I warned. “Trust me,” said he. He's a Navy officer, after all, not to mention, an electrical engineer. He’s always right. A quarter serving filled an enormous platter. And I had my first ever whole steamed lobster — fresh from the ocean — laying on a platter placed right before my famished eyes. <Sigh-h . . . . > ~Life is good. |