Twenty-five years ago, our homeschooled son, Carlos, spent two weeks studying in an honors program at a small college. Even though he was seventeen, at the end of the session, the college offered Carlos a terrific scholarship and asked him to return as a freshman. My husband, John, and I talked to friends who taught college, and they agreed that Carlos was prepared to succeed in higher academics.

I have always loved shooting stars and looked forward to the Perseid Meteor Shower that arrives around mid-August. In the early years when I lived on the farm, less light pollution dimmed the skies, but I still step out and scan the heavens during meteor showers. That particular summer, I managed to convince John that despite his weariness from farm work, he should come out and count shooting stars. We stood in an open field, necks arched, eyes staring up into the soft black sky as stars emerged. Now and then, the blinking lights of an airplane crossed our line of vision.

“Look!” John pointed to the northeast. “There goes one.”

“One just flew over Pleasant Hill!”

For about twenty minutes, we exclaimed and counted stars as they streaked across the sky. Crickets creaked close by and a breeze ruffled the sassafras leaves.

“We should tell Carlos to come watch. He is missing this show.”

We walked back to our house and stood beneath his window.

“When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are…” we sang.

Carlos’ head popped into the window. “What are you guys doing? Have you gone nuts?”

“No, we’re star struck. Come and watch the meteor shower,” I said.

“I’m going back to bed.” He yawned.

John and I returned to the field, heads raised until out of a corner of my eye, I spied Carlos striding towards us, wearing a yellow sport jacket he had found in a thrift shop.

“Where should I look?” He gazed upward.

“They are flying from all directions. Over there!” John pointed, as one flew over us.

For another twenty minutes, we craned our necks until the mosquitoes discovered us as their late-night snack.

“I’m out of here.” Carlos jogged to the house, and we followed.

Two weeks later, we moved him into his new room and said goodbye in a parking lot. As he ambled back to his dorm, I knew that regardless of his young age, he would shine like a shooting star.

This year, the Perseid Meteor Shower will peak between August 12-13 when you can see up to one hundred meteorites in an hour.

“One does not begin to make a garden until she wants a garden. To want a garden is to be interested in plants, in the winds and rains, in birds and insects, in the warm-smelling earth.” Liberty Hyde Bailey

How do stars relate to gardening? Today, I noticed how the many yellow cucumber blossoms climbing up netting looked like stars twinkling between green leaves. Currently, I am planting my fall crops of kohlrabi, turnips, carrots, winter radishes and lots of kale that we will share with our goats and chickens. At the same time, tomatoes are ripening along with peppers and summer squash.

Merry Christmas! A couple of times, a fellow author has included my work in her Christmas collections. About two weeks ago, she contacted me and asked if I had anything that might fit the 2026 collection, Snowed in at Christmas. She liked my writing voice and encouraged me to participate. Although I was only a couple of thousand words into a contemporary story about a widow who moves to Rugby, TN and opens a quilt shop, I promised a complete manuscript by October 27^th. The author cheered me on, and now that you pick blueberries has ended, I can hopefully carve out more time for my quota of at least 1,000 words a day. Having sewn quilts since 1970, this novel allows me to toss in everything I love about quilting, and trips to my local quilt shop, Quilter’s Haven, count as research.

Book Club Zoom Meeting

This week, I will attend a book club meeting with a group located on the eastern side of Michigan who read Ae Fond Kiss. Meeting readers, answering questions, and hearing their response to my stories is so rewarding. I also love talking about writing and encouraging the readers to write the stories lingering in their imagination or the personal tale they have wanted to capture. If your book club is looking for authors, please contact me about local meetings or seeing each other through the internet.

Blueberries reign.

It’s that time of the year when I talk to my characters while watching blueberries fill thirty-pound boxes that I tape and stack on pallets. I am thankful for a crop, though a light one, and that we still grow organic fruit. Pretty soon, the harvest will be complete, and I can concentrate on writing. So, if you are yearning for more creative time, whatever season you are in, enjoy the current job while pondering how to write your story.

Turnip loves to hang out with me in the garden, and plants himself in the catnip

May the stars shine bright over you as the days shorten and the goldenrod blooms/

During my senior year in college, I would take a break from studying petrology and settle into a practice room in the music building. With the sheet music for Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor spread out on the piano, I tackled the piece phrase by phrase, reveling in the magic as the motifs wove in and out and restored my critical thinking skills.

At different times in a growing season, gardening blends together the removal of a spring crop while seeding plants to harvest in the fall. This morning, I picked the few remaining peas as I tore out the dying plants and hauled them to the compost pile while plotting where I should plant the fall beets, turnips, carrots, and endless rows of kale seedlings. In between those thoughts ran the question: how to piece together several scenes in an essay so that each one flowed into a narrative arc. Of course, a catbird chattered his opinion while kitty, Turnip, slept on the catnip plant, and the heat dome turned my garden into a sauna. The sweet potato plants grew about six inches overnight.

We are reaching the time of year when I balance writing, gardening, and overseeing you-pick blueberries. The beets are ready to pickle. the pale green tomatoes hint at an early ripening, and the Chinese cabbage will become kimchi next week. Abundance describes this season when beans and cucumbers fill baskets and red raspberries and blackberries glow on their tall canes.

Pleasant Hill Farm celebrates 50 years of organic agriculture in 2026! How different farming is from when numerous back-to-the-land folk gathered at the Decatur, Michigan library for monthly meetings on various farming topics. I miss those meetings where the newbies learned from the old-timers who guided us. YouTube videos have their place in passing on information, but many fine friendships grew from those Organic Grower meetings.

The poppies are still blooming and today, MLive posted a feature about it.

https://www.mlive.com/news/kalamazoo/2026/06/red-white-and-blue-poppy-fields-are-in-full-bloom-in-west-michigan-and-free-to-visit.html?outputType=amp

Two weeks ago, John and I attended a meet and greet with Carlos Fuentes, a Michigan Notable Author who wrote and published The Vacation. As a teenager, Fuentes traveled with his family from Alma, MI to Traverse City to pick cherries with other members of their extended clan. He described the hard work and the fun of camping with his cousins. Because he spoke to a crowd that included former cherry growers, including ourselves, other folks spoke of juice slicking their forearms along with those little brown husks. Fuentes and my husband talked about how the mechanical cherry picker changed harvesting because instead of a hundred or more pickers, a five-person crew could shake the trees, fill cherry tanks and drive them to a cooling station with a forklift. If you are looking for a book about Michigan agriculture and migrants, pick up a copy of The Vacation.

By the next newsletter, this chick and her siblings will have moved out of a box and into a coop. As the sunsets earlier and rises later, may fireflies and memories brighten your garden.

The setting sun brushed the ridges of the North Carolina mountains surrounding the John Campbell Folk School. Shaded by the heart-shaped leaves of a red bud tree, students and teachers and performers gathered on a deck to celebrate the Summer Solstice. A singer hummed a note and began the Scottish folk song, Wild Mountain Thyme.

Oh, the summertime is coming
And the trees are sweetly blooming
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?

And we’ll all go together
To pluck wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?

Some folks picked up harmonies that wove the voices together until the last words were sung, and the ending notes shimmered in the fading light.

If you would like to hear the song, try this link: https://www.bellsirishlyrics.com/wild-mountain-thyme.html

Wisps of mist threaded through the hills as the revelers chatted and entered a large dance hall where musicians tuned fiddles, guitars, and mandolins.

“Form contra lines for the Bridge of Athlone,” the caller shouted

The pianist pounded out two cords, and the dancers whirled.

I am grateful for the magical days spent at the John Campbell Folk School, studying Appalachian, Danish and English folk dancing, and listening to Donald Davis tell Appalachian stories. The traditions and folklore I learned flowed into On Viney’s Mountain, Hearts of Mercy, and Ae Fond Kiss. Plus, after settling into the greater Saugatuck area, my husband I introduced traditional music and dancing to a community of friends who united on the Summer Solstice of 1985 to raise the beams of our big barn.

We still recognize the Summer Solstice, yet John points out that I celebrate the day not because it signifies the start of summer, but because soon the days grow shorter. I look forward to more time in the evenings for reading and practicing music. A couple of friends and I are discussing an October gathering to celebrate fifty years of organic farming and forty years ago, we raised our barn.

Garden news:

In two weeks, a garden club will visit both my garden and the poppy field which grows more beautiful every day. Our weather remains mild verses last year’s heat, so plants are thriving and my heirloom roses and peonies are blooming.

Literary news: On An Inland Sea continues to earn great reviews, recently The Great Lakes Review praised the essays and poems included in the anthology. If you love nature stories, the writers will take you from Lake Superior to Lake Ontario as they describe their connections to the Great Lakes.

https://greatlakesreview.org/shaped-by-the-water-stories-of-the-great-lakes/

If you like stories set in the Great Smoky Mountains, here is marvelous contemporary novel to read:

Smoky Blue Sunrise by Lucille Guarino

Jolie-Mae blames her actions for the car accident that killed her sister, and after two years of grieving, she seeks a fresh start. An advertisement for a nanny brings her to Ashville, NC, where she cares for young Emma and baby Cameron, the children of Jesse and Amanda. Perched on a high hill, their home looks out at the rippling ridges of mountains who serve as another character in the novel. Despite enjoying the antics of Emma and snuggles with Cameron, Jolie-Mae exudes sadness and over the weeks, she reveals her story to Jesse and Amanda.

Jesse, a lawyer, introduces Jolie-Mae to Brody, an intern helping Jesse with a major case. He is also new to Ashville, and the two explore the area, and their relationship deepens. After Brody hears her account of the car accident, his lawyer’s mind asks questions that propel him towards a resolution for Jolie-Mae’s internal conflicts.

Then Hurricane Helene strikes. Guarino’s gripping descriptions of the physical and emotion impact of the storm will revive reader’s memories of the horrific photographs released after the hurricane ravaged Ashville. Smoky Blue Sunrise reveals hope, the satisfaction of helping others heal from personal and communal challenges, and the resilience of the Appalachian people.

Barn news:

The handy American Dairy Goat Gestation Calendar predicted that our goat, Betsy would kid today. I walked in the barn at noon and spied the first baby emerging. John and I herded Tullie and Trudie into the former ox stall so Betsy could have privacy. Within the next half hour, two more kids arrived and within minutes wobbled onto their legs and looked for milk. Betsy will be a very busy mama! Our grandchildren get to choose their names.

On the first day of the month, I text my friend, Deborah, Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit, which supposedly will bring us good luck. I hope that June brings you beautiful days and bouquets of peonies. Sending blessings, Joan

As a child, the afternoon before May Day, I pasted colored construction paper onto waxed paper cups, and just below the brim, stapled a small handle. From a row of violets planted by our garage, I picked handfuls of purple and white and purple flowers and placed them in a bucket with water. The next morning, I left a May Basket at our neighbor’s home, pressed the doorbell and hid in the shrubs by her porch. Mrs. Ellis acted surprised, looking about as if to spy the mysterious giver, and took her basket inside. I trotted off to school carrying a basket for my teacher and later in the day, I would leave one at my grandparent’s house. I still love May Day for celebrating flowers and surprises, and over the years, have left baskets at friends’ home. This year, my grandson, Ian, created a single flower for me!

A few days ago, a literary surprise arrived in my email box. The Historical Novel Society announced that my manuscript, Smooth Stones, The Pirates of Beaver Island won third place in their First Chapters Contest and will be recognized at the Society’s conference in August. In their words:

“The scoring again was intense, with many category rankings coming down to ties and/or a single point, so to reflect this, we have reflected those ties in the rankings (beyond the First Place / Gold Winner). The judges were extremely impressed with the stories this year - we are thrilled for you!”

And last week, another surprise snuck into our goat barn. During the afternoon, I checked on our young doe, Tullie who was due to kid. Her behavior and physical signs told that she would give birth soon. Upon the next trip into the barn, a baby goat talked to Tullie as she licked her little one. Soon, Gertie wobbled upward and learned how to nurse from her mom. At one week, the little girl follows her mother and our other goat, Betsy, out to the pasture and while they graze, she runs and gambles around them.

Author appearances:

On May 16^th at 11 am, I will tell the story of our poppy field at The Blue Stocking Bookstore in Holland, MI. Copies of my books will be available for purchase. If you have ever visited the field but don’t know why my family plants it, this is an event to learn the motivation behind the poppies that bloom in June. Here is a link

https://www.bluestockingbookshop.com/

Fourth Fridays in Fennville
Every month in Fennville on the fourth Friday, the town holds a special event such as celebration Earth Day in April. May’s theme is Unearthing a Story, and our wonderful Friends of the Library are sponsoring several activities for young people. An event for adults featuring me is Coffee with a Storyteller hosted at Root, the coffee shop on the main road through Fennville. The proposed times are 5:15 and 6:15.

What I am reading:

After reading a quote from the late John O’Donohue on Facebook, I bought his book titled Beauty, Rediscovering the True Sources of Compassion, Serenity, and Hope. Like many people I talk to, there are days when the chaos flowing from Washington invades the peace of my world. In amazing prose, O’Donohue’s writings beckon readers to listen to the music of beauty, the joy that shapes dance, and the color of beauty in the natural world.

The subtitle intrigued me because the thousands of people who visit our poppy field have posted messages about the Serenity and Hope they find in the flowers. From a veteran with PTSD to a couple whose baby died at birth or a family with a parent suffering from Alzheimer’s. As they stroll around the field, hearing birds and the wind in the hedgerow, their minds and bodies relax. Their first comments upon seeing the poppies are: “It’s so Beautiful!”

“The experience of Beauty has for the most part a particular force. It envelops and overcomes us. Yet there are times when beauty reveals itself slowly.”

So, if you are looking for a book that will speak to your soul, consider Beauty. The essays are only a page long, perfect for a short meditation in the morning. May Donohue’s wisdom restore peace in your hearts.

Gardeners and farmers are optimists. Planting seeds and watching them grow is one way to enter into hopeful world. I hope to see you at one of the events.

The other day, I walked through our sugar bush, searching the ground for dots of green. Usually, by the end of sugaring, the noses of the Mayapples poke through the carpet of brown leaves. Their arrival signals that the earth has warmed enough to set out my onion seedlings and plant peas. I welcomed the call of the Rufus Sided Towhee but never saw the tightly curled tips of Mayapples. Then yesterday, while walking to the far back pond to check on a pair of Bufflehead ducks, I spied the little English violets that always bloom by the first of April. Their fragrance is so intense that they perfume the air. While the Mayapples shiver, the violets proclaim spring.

Amazing news.

On the first of March, I almost deleted an email with the subject line, Please Read: Time Sensitive. I thought it was spam. Thankfully, I clicked on it and read that my manuscript, Smooth Stones: The Tale of the Pirates of Beaver Island, was shortlisted in the Historical Novel Society’s First Pages Contest. Stunned, I reread the email. I had entered the contest because of the low fee and because the judges would provide a short critique. For two years, my agent has tried to sell the manuscript, set on Beaver Island, during the 1850s when Jesse James Strang and his cult invaded the island and kicked off the Irish settlers. Strang married five wives and manipulated his followers.

So, now a second group of judges is reading my opening chapter, learning about Kitty who maintains the lighthouse on Whiskey Point. If my story wins the category of books set in the 1700-1900, it moves on to the final round of judges. They choose the three prize winning novels. Both the category winners and the finalists are celebrated at the Historical Novel Society’s Summer Conference in Ireland.

On an Inland Sea has received great reviews. Emily McClanathan, from Chicago, even mentioned me

Although climate change is a common theme, it isn’t the only threat to the Great Lakes region that looms in this collection. Joan Donaldson (“Sand”) highlights the ongoing fight to preserve Michigan’s Saugatuck Dunes from a billionaire’s plans to build a gated resort. Looking back at the region’s history, she recounts how deforestation and sand erosion caused by the logging industry literally buried the sawmill town of Singapore, Michigan in the 1800s. She cautions, “Nineteenth-century avarice destroyed an ecosystem.”

Here is a link to her page: https://authory.com/EmilyMcClanathan

Every fall, I plant hundreds of bulbs from daffodils to crocus to Siberian squill, a brilliant blue that sparkles over the leaf cover. Best of all, they multiple and spread over an area, turning it into a blue sea.

The soil in my garden is still too cold to plant beets and peas on Good Friday, but in another week, I hope to set out the onion plants that linger in my greenhouse. The bluebirds chortle as they bob over the greening pasture where the goats graze. Spring may disappear in a momentary temperature drop, but she is here. Even my goldfish are more active in the pond in front of our house.

May your spring days be filled with daffodils and bird song. Thank you for reading my work.

For the last few days, temperatures registered close to 60 degrees, and we shed our coats while collecting sap and listened to the returning sandhill cranes. Because I had not seen any bluebirds, I worried about them, but two pairs showed up, flashes of blue as they bobbed above our pasture. Hopefully, they will settle into the bluebird houses John made and hung around our little orchard.

But now gale force winds toss snow on top of this brave crocus that radiated her golden joy. Yet, in another week or so, thousands of crocuses, snowdrops and blue squill will scattered color across my front yard and throughout our farm. In the meantime, I visit my greenhouse every day and inhale the luscious scent of growing plants.

Literary News.

On an Inland Sea has launched! Please ask for it at your local bookstores or head over to Belt publishing to order a copy. The collection gathered essays by thirty-three writers, including me. The editor wrote to us and said, “The Millions listed the anthology as one of their most anticipated books of the year & we have coverage coming in Michigan Quarterly, NewCity, Chicago Review of Books, and more.”

https://beltpublishing.com/products/on-an-inland-sea

Meet the marvelous historical fiction writer, Peggy Williams and her novels!

Peggy and I met through the Historical Novel Society Midwest Chapter meetings, I always look forward to hearing her opinion on the craft of writing and about her current project.

Peggy created a coming of age story in Courting the Sun, set at Versailles. Her young protagonist, Sylvienne describes the details of court, as she moves from her quiet village life and experiences the drama surrounding noble life and the wealthy. Peggy knows how to insert sudden surprises that I had not expected and that complicate the narrative in a new way. Tender moments between Sylvienne and other women, show another layer to court life. I am thankful for Braving the Dawn, which continues Sylvienne’s story in New France. In the interview, Peggy explains her writing process and more about her new novel.

From February 28-March 2, Black Rose Writing has a promotional price of $1.99 for Ae Fond Kiss and Courting the Sun by Peggy Williams.

https://www.amazon.com/Courting-Sun-Peggy-Joque-Williams-ebook/dp/B0CV32PXBK/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0

Which was the most difficult scene to write in Braving the Dawn?

I think the first scene was the hardest, because I wasn’t sure where I was going with the book to begin with. I always knew how Courting the Sun would end, but Braving the Dawn was an open journey. I picked up where I had left off in the first book, with Sylvienne on the ship, but I didn’t know where it would go from there. Then a character from the first book showed up on the ship and surprised me. Later, Philippe—King Louis’ brother—wrote a letter to Sylvienne, and I decided that should come first, as a sort of prologue to help connect the two books. But my quandary was how to use that first scene on the ship to set up the trajectory of the story.

Among the “secondary characters” who is your favorite and why?

In Courting the Sun, Philippe, King Louis’ brother, was my favorite character. I did a lot of research on him, and had fun creating a sort of brotherly relationship between him and Sylvienne. In Braving the Dawn, I loved Catherine and Cecile, both Native Wendat women, both nods to my own 2nd great-grandmother who was Ojibwe. And of course there is someone else—a man—I loved as well. But hmm…spoiler!

Did you cry when you finished writing this novel or Courting the Sun?

I did not cry at the end of Courting the Sun, because I knew what was coming next, and I was eager to get to it (even if I didn’t know where it was going). Early on, I thought the story of Sylvienne going to Canada would be one book. It wasn’t until I was about a quarter to a third of the way into the first book, that I realized I needed two books to tell her story.

I did cry at one point in Braving the Dawn. I can’t tell you when, or it will be another spoiler. And, no I did not cry when I finished that book because…well, there might, maybe, could possibly…be a third book (shh! no promises).

And, believe it or not, I had already had a significant draft of an entirely different sort of book set in Paris at about the same time. This one is called Death Doth Protest Too Much, and it’s a historical mystery set in apothecary shop in Paris. I wanted to write a mystery, and I had so much research that I’d done for the first two books, that I just couldn’t let it go to waste. I’ve already signed a contract for that book, and it will come out in March of 2027.

How far back have you traced your family’s history and why did you choose this point in time for your two novels?

You are not going to believe this, but I have traced my family tree all the way back to William the Conqueror, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Charlemagne, and Rollo the Viking. I have paper-trail evidence of my family going back to a woman named Anne Couvent, who is considered to be a “gateway ancestor.” She emigrated from France to Canada sometime around 1635.

The reason she is called a gateway ancestor is that genealogists and historians have traced her ancestry to several kings and queens of France and England. I then cheated and used Wikipedia to see who the parents of those kings and queens were, and their parents, and so on. I was able to go back centuries further that way, because with royalty there are records. Of course the majority of my tree is made up of peasants, but they didn’t make it into the record until about the 15th or 16th century, and even then some are lost to time.

As far as why I chose the 1670s for my novels, it’s purely because of my interest in the Filles du Roi (Daughters of the King). They were young woman who were recruited and sponsored by King Louis XIV to travel to Canada, marry his soldiers, fur traders, and any other available men there and grow him a colony. This program lasted from 1663-1673, and was quite successful. Over 750 young women took the king up on his offer. I am descended from (at last count) twenty-three of them. They are among my 7th and 8th great-grandmothers. I’ve been intrigued by their lives and wanted to write about them. Granted, Courting the Sun is pure fiction—none of my Filles du Roi grandmothers that I know of ever set foot in any of the royal palaces in France. But Braving the Dawn reflects very much what their lives were like once they arrived in Quebec.

Thank you, Peggy!

Now I am racing through Braving the Dawn and love how Peggy provides historical details about New France that bring the location alive. The tension in the chapters keeps the story rolling along at a pleasurable pace.

Ae Fond Kiss can be found at:

https://www.amazon.com/Ae-Fond-Kiss-Tennessee-Cumberland-ebook/dp/B0DK3QQPCD/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_product_top?ie=UTF8

Here is a wonderful video review by a sweet author friend.

https://www.facebook.com/reel/1230824468582630

Finally, here is a quilt that I pieced and finished in early February. Turnip thinks I created it just for him.

May your hearts find joy as you dream about gardens.

.

During January, clouds blanketed southwest Michigan until my dentist’s four-year-old daughter asked her mother, “Where did the sun go?” Many adults asked the same question, but my chickens began laying more eggs, an early sign of spring. Thankfully, lake effect snow drifted down from the gray skies, providing coverage for the kale and winter radishes lingering in my garden. Yesterday the sunshine sparkled on the farm’s snowy fields and our hedgerows of evergreens, and the sun warmed my greenhouse where beds of lettuce thrive. February first is Saint Bridget’s Day in Ireland, and when I will plant my onion, shallots, and leek seeds. Plus, I hope to set out kale seedlings in the greenhouse.

On February third, Karen Osborne’s interview with me will go live on her podcast, What are you reading? What are you writing? If you like mysteries and crime thrillers, pick up a copy of Karen’s Justice for Emerson that was selected for the 2025 Best Thriller Book Awards and Mysteries of the Year. You will revel in her fast-paced writing and well-developed characters. Thank you, Karen for featuring me!

https://beltpublishing.com/products/on-an-inland-sea

On March 10^th, On and Inland Sea launches I hope to receive author copies sometime in February, and the editor mentioned organizing a reading with the essayists in Chicago in the spring. If Michael Welsh puts together such an event, I hope to include the date in the March newsletter.

Most of my novels require years of research, writing and rewriting, and sometimes that holds true for my quilts. I appliqued the center block of this quilt eight years ago! My New Year’s Resolutions included finishing quilting projects before starting any new quilts. I cheated a little because I finally sewed a small top from fabric I purchased in January 2025 but never sliced or sewed it into blocks. Now, this afternoon, I will attach the wide borders to this churn dash top and lay out the flowers and leaves that I will applique. As always, Puca jumped into the photo and looked adorable.

Last Saturday, I visited with a wonderful book club, a group of women taking a retreat in the Saugatuck area. My hometown librarian suggested they read Ae Fond Kiss. I made new friends as we chatted for three hours about literature, life, and the importance of strong female friends in the novel and in our lives. Hooray for new friends!

Have a wonderful February, filled with Valentines and good books. By the end of the month, we have tapped our maple trees and collected sap for maple syrup.

This New Year’s Day, snow slumps along pine branches and clings to my rose arbor. I am thankful for how snow insulates the turnips and carrots hidden under frost cloths. Small drifts shelter kale, and the walls-of-water protecting late cabbages. Despite several nights of 15 degrees, when I peeked, the cabbages still were alive. Today, we will eat black eyed peas harvested from the garden. After chipmunks stole the peas from the pods on the plants, I learned to pick and hide the pods in my basement. Once John left a box of chestnuts in the barn and when he returned, the chipmunks had confiscated every single nut. So much for our favorite dish, Brussel Sprouts and chestnuts!

When I was nine years old, my parents told me that instead of receiving a pile of Christmas presents, the three of us would build a wooden doll house. The previous year, my mother had fashioned a doll house out of a large box, and I had spent hours playing with it. I loved the novel, The Doll House, by Rumer Godden and illustrated by Tasha Tudor, so the house depicted on the cover served as our blueprint. My parents understood how working together was a gift that would create wonderful memories.

In his basement shop, my father built a base for the Victorian doll house and erected the outside three walls from plywood. My mother and I found wrapping paper with the doll size flowers and designs and wallpapered the parlor, kitchen and two bedroom. Over the next year, we cut narrow strips of white tape for mullions and applied them to plastic windows. I saved my allowance and bought a cast iron cookstove, cast iron pots and pans, and a pewter tea set. I wove rugs on a small Finnish loom with real heddles and a beater. Finding doll size plates and lamps from common items stretched our creativity. The next Christmas, my parents gave me a small jig saw and with it, I cut wood for a kitchen cabinet and a drop leaf table.

Because I wanted my dolls to have an old-fashioned milk can, my father gave me an empty aluminum film cannister. One Saturday, I filled it half full with water, added a tablespoon of flour, and shook it so the liquid looked like milk. The next week, when I opened the cannister, a smelly liquid bubbled out of the tin.

“You made a sour dough starter. Like pioneers used for pancakes,” my mother explained.

Many years later, Tasha Tudor took me under her wing, encouraging me to write, and not wait until my sons had grown. Several times, I visited her home in Vermont where we talked about gardening, books we loved, and about her creative journey as an illustrator. One evening, we ate dinner by candlelight in her parlor where Parma violets scented the room.

“What model did you use when you painted the cover of The Doll House?” I asked.

“I didn’t have a model. I painted what I saw in my imagination.”

“Then I have the only doll house that looks like your illustration.”

I explained my story, and a contented expression settled over Tasha’s face.

“I am glad you were the person to recreate my illustration.”

Now, other small hands rearrange the furniture and put dolls to bed. During our Christmas celebration my youngest grandchildren, Ian and Sophia scampered off to the doll house. I dusted the rooms while Ian restored order to the rooms. On snowy afternoons, I know they will discover the magic of living in the dolls’ world.

Literary news:

The essay collection, On and Inland Sea, is still in preorder and will be released by April. I am eager to see my essay, Sand, in this new book.

https://beltpublishing.com/products/on-an-inland-sea

In late January, I look forward to talking with a book club taking a retreat in the Saugatuck/Douglas/Fennville area. If you belong to a book club, please consider asking me to speak with your group either in person or through Zoom.

If you are interested in organic farming, in 2026, Pleasant Hill Farm celebrates 50 years of organic agriculture. Back in October, my husband and I spoke to the Holland Area Senior Professionals about the history of the organic movement in Michigan and our farm. Here is a recording of the presentation.

Are you looking for a way discover more about your relationship to where you live? For several years, I have taken writing workshops with the award-winning author, Janisse Ray, and her latest book is Journey in Place, a field guide to belonging.

In Janisse’s words: “We destroy places, homogenize them. What matters is built environment. Yet, we are made of place. We are met to experience living with landscapes to flourish within the Earth’s cycles. Placelessness shows up as a kind of homelessness, a soul wound.”

The book grew out of a year-long workshop where students answered the question: How to be in place? As we all begin another year, Journey in Place could usher new ways to connect with your surroundings and especially the natural world.

As the days grow longer, my seed orders arrive, and my chickens offer me more eggs. I pray that 2026 will be a year of abundance for everyone.

Growing up north of Detroit, I rarely woke up to a foot of snow. At age two, my parents strapped on double runner skates and held my hand as I wobbled over the ice. By junior high, my friends and I ice skated, while boys played hockey on the rinks flooded by our town. When I moved to the west side of Michigan to attend college, I experienced lake effect snow that smothered my campus.

But during the Thanksgiving weekend of my senior year, my parents dropped me off at a friend’s home in Birmingham because Sarah had offered to drive myself and another coed back to our college. A snowstorm had swept across the state, so my parents skedaddled home. Sarah explained that a mechanic was repairing something on her car, but we would leave in a couple of hours. For some reason that I do not remember, her parents welcomed us and then drove off into the storm to attend a party. By this time, visibility had declined to less than a quarter mile as the snow heaped up in the backyard. We three girls took turns running out with a yard stick and measuring the inches….12….15….18….20.

The mechanic called. He was headed home and would finish the job tomorrow. Plus no one in their right mind should set off on the slick and snowy roads. Again, the telephone rang. Sarah’s parents would spend the night with their friends. I telephoned my parents. They were relieved that we would take off in the morning and offered to call my college and explain my absence.

While I didn’t relish the idea of missing Monday classes, we had no other choice. So, we turned on the John Denver Christmas program, singing and dancing along to the music. Sarah’s parents had left their refrigerator stocked with tiny cream cheese filled puff pastries, different cheese dips and crackers, pickles and olives, and leftover punch from their holiday meal. Despite feasting over Thanksgiving, we heaped the treats on plates and settled on the sofa as snowflakes hissed against the window.

In the morning, snowplows rumbled down roads and sunshine glittered on the mounds of snow. Sarah called the mechanic, who had run into problems and a part should arrive later that day. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

“I’ll buy you bus tickets. You have to get back to classes.”

Deborah and I exchanged glances.

“No way are we abandoning you,” I said. “Plus, other students are probably stranded, too.”

“It will take the crews most of the day to clear the roads.” Deborah hugged Sarah.

“I know. I spent a summer in the Philippines on a youth exchange. The women there condition their hair with coconut oil. I’ll oil your hair.”

Sarah melted the white chunks while we washed out hair. She arranged towels around our necks and gently massaged the warm oil into our scalps. With slick and shiny locks, we munch on more canapes, while reading our textbooks for an hour. At last, Sarah washed away the coconut oil, leaving our hair soft and smooth.

In the late afternoon winter sun, we hiked down snow crusted sidewalks to the mechanic’s shop and picked up Sarah’s car. The next morning Sarah’s parents returned and hugged their daughter, before we threw our duffle bags and backpacks into the car and drove west.

Last night a storm swirled over my farm, and I thought about my youthful Thanksgiving adventure. A couple of times during the night, I woke and shone a flashlight out into the blurry landscape as snow shawled from the sky. In the morning, I measured ten inches of snow. Gratitude washed over me. After the worst drought in 100 years, the land yearned for moisture. Every snowflake meant more sap to flow through our maple trees and a damp garden with soil ready for spring planting.

If you are a member of a book club and would like me to speak to your group either in person or over zoom, please contact me. In January, a book club is holding a retreat in a cottage by the lakeshore and invited me to talk to them. Then on May 16th, I will present a short slide show of our poppy field and my life as a Gold Star Mother at the Blue Stocking Bookstore in Holland, MI.

Just as I am grateful for moisture that waters my garden, I am thankful for readers who enjoy my books. I especially appreciate reviews and ratings on Ae Fond Kiss that will help boost the novel’s visibility.

If you wish to borrow either Ae Fond Kiss or Hearts of Mercy from a library, please check out these sites that now carry Black Rose Writing books:

• OverDrive

• Hoopla

• CloudLibrary

• BorrowBox

• Palace Marketplace

• Odilo

  

  

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  Thank you for spending a few moments on my farm. May your December be filled with snowflakes and days making memories with your families and friends.

After three nights of hard frost, I dug into the damp earth and pulled out a large, sweet potato. Folks marvel that in my northern climate, sweet potatoes, apricots, and artichokes thrive. Lake Michigan absorbs heat during the summer months and in the fall, it breathes warm air along the Lakeshore. Frost doesn’t glitter upon my garden until late October, then the lima bean leaves hang limp and the sweet potato vines turn dark. I work my spade along the row, pulling out tubers, dreaming of sweet potato pie and casseroles of buttered orange goodness.

While the tender crops succumbed to the killing temperatures, the feathery carrot tops ripple in the breeze along with the serrated tops of daikon radishes and turnips. After discovering the amazing flavor of slices of turnips sautéed in butter, I planted more rows of turnips with the hope they would grow into December. Meanwhile, a row of an Italian turnips graces our supper table

Sweet Turnips recipe:

If you wish, peel the turnip, then cut it in half and slice into thin half-moons. Melt one tablespoon of butter along with one tablespoon of coconut oil in a frying pan. Arrange the slices as a single layer, sprinkle with powdered chicken stock. I use the vegetarian stock sold at Country Life Natural Foods. When one side of the turnips is golden, flip over and sauté the other side. Finally, add about a quarter cup of water, place a lid on the frying pan and simmer for a couple of minutes.

This year, I placed Walls of Water around late red and green cabbages, so the individual green houses protect the plants and encourage growth. In late September, I placed two sets of cold frames in locations closed to the garden gate and planted them with lettuce and Asian greens. The plants need to reach maturity by December, and then they rest, sometimes with snow blanketing the cold frame. Today, I picked the last yellow and orange calendula for a final fall bouquet. This flower is a healing herb. Every summer, I pluck petals from a heap of flowers, stuff them in a half pint jar and cover them with apricot oil. One a snowy day in December, I will filter the golden oil and mix it with rose oil that has steeped since June. The oil sooths chapped hands and cheeks reddened by winter winds.

Fall promotion:

Watch my Facebook Page for a 99 cent promotion of Ae Fond Kiss that will begin in November and run through December. If you like my latest novel, please leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DK3QQPCD/?bestFormat=true&k=ae%20fond%20kiss&ref_=nb_sb_ss_w_scx-ent-pd-bk-d_k0_1_7_de&crid=JHB20P72DGJC&sprefix=Ae%20fond

The Cassatt Sisters, by Lisa Groen

Just as Mary Cassatt painted domestic scenes between a mother and children, or a young woman at the Opera, Lisa Groen has given readers an intimate look at the relationship between two sisters. One a rising star within the Impressionist community, and the other, a sister who grieves her fiancé’s death. Set in France during the period when the Impressionist artists were renegades, Mary is determined to make her living as an artist. She must prove her talents while assuaging her father’s repeated requests to marry and adapt to a more acceptable female role.

While readers may first view Lydia as the quiet supportive sister who knits in the garden and plans the family’s meals, she proves as tenacious as Mary. Lydia understands how to appease their parents while helping Mary with simple acts such as arriving at Mary’s studio with fresh bread, cheese, and fruit. As the novel progresses, Mary comprehends how Lydia serves as her muse. When her sister is ill, dust gathers on Mary’s easel as she dedicates herself to healing Lydia.

Readers will recognize the names of numerous Impressionist from Monet, to Camille Pissarro, to Manet. But Edgar Degas pulls Mary into an affair that reveals inner desires that she did not recognize in herself. Those emotions stimulate in Mary a greater appreciation of what Lydia lost, and how her sister has dedicated herself to advancing Mary’s artistic successes.

My favorite scenes in the novel involved the Impressionists discussion about their work and the moments showing the sisters deep love for each other and how that love motivated Mary. Readers who love historical fiction will revel in the storytelling of Lisa Groen as she captures the passion of the Impressionists and the two amazing Cassatt sisters.

Farm photos

Last night for about an hour, two Great Horned Owls called to each other. One resides near our house, but the other lives near the Far Back Pond.

Have a glorious November filled with gratitude and sweet potato pie.

As I weed my garden, I toss the chickweed and quack grass into a five-gallon bucket that I carry to my chickens. What my goats wait for are bouquets created from the lower leaves of kale plants. The winter garden is filled with kale, Swiss chard and rows of turnips, beets, and carrots, and winter radishes. The warm waters of Lake Michigan extend our mild fall weather, so that frost doesn’t sparkle in my garden until mid-October or later. But I haul in my cold frames by early September and plant winter lettuce, Bok choy and other greens. At this time of the year, cosmos, calendula and viola flowers glow at the ends of the beds.

Last fall, friends bought our neighbors’ fruit farm and in addition to maintaining the peach, apples and blueberry plants, they planted flowers. For several years, Mary and John Renaldi raised dahlias and peonies on land in Saugatuck Township, and they transplanted those tubers on their new farm. One June evening, my husband and I surveyed the lovely fluffy pink and white peonies, as a hermit thrush sang from the woods. And last week, we strolled through their dahlia beds.

Starbursts of yellow, apricot sparkled like 4^th of July fireworks while little pincushion shaped maroon blossoms glowed above dark green leaves. The tubers thrived in their locations, and yielded flowers that Mary sells at the Holland Farmers Market. In one corner of the field a row sported various colored flowers, resulting from Mary cross pollinated blossoms and planting their seeds. Like a treasure hunt, the flowers displayed brilliant colors and future offerings from the farm. If you would like to order dahlia tubers, here is their website:

www.whitebarnflowercompany.com

Literary News

My essay, SAND, appears in this collection that can now be preordered from

https://beltpublishing.com/products/on-an-inland-sea

One morning, I opened an email from a book club that had rented a house in Fennville for their winter retreat. They asked our librarian to recommend a local author, and Teresa kindly recommended that they read one of my novels. Next the group asked if I would speak at their retreat. Of course! If you are a member of a book club, please remember that I enjoy Zoom chats with groups, can show up at local meetings, or please consider scheduling your get-away in the Fennville area.

To learn more about me, please visit my website:

https://www.joandonaldson.com/joan-donaldsons-bio/

If you are searching for a place to rent, you can even stay on our farm! My son and his wife Orchard House, the original 1880s farmhouse built by the Wadsworth family from peach money they earned during the glorious days of peach farming along the lakeshore. To learn more, please look at the following link.

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61572618913705 or

Want a great read for yourself or to read to your children?

EC Quinn’s debut novel, Premonition, The Gift, shines with fast-paced writing as the reader jumps into a suspensive story and is the perfect book for upper elementary and Middle School students.

Bullies at school plague Sammy Green, who runs into a little white dog, both in his woods and in his dream. His deceased grandmother left him a message intended to encourage him, but Sammy would rather ignore her directive. But when the white dog leads him on a chase in the woods, Sammy stands lost and alone, outside a building where someone or something moans and wails. Along with his crafty pet mouse, Sammy faces thugs experimenting on animals and must plot how to free both the creatures and himself.

The Gift is the first in the Sammy Greene Adventure Series, and readers can look forward to more tales of a courageous lad and his mouse.

I will leave you with Turnip and a pot of catnip. Wherever you live, may you enjoy the fall colors and apple crips.

After hiking the Big Mac, Margo and I drove to Wilderness State Park, trolled the campground, and selected an isolated site with a view of the Straits. Neither Margo nor I owned a tent, so we borrowed a huge Coleman tent from Margo’s boyfriend’s family. Like any normal geologist, I traveled with my rock hammer and a pocket magnifying glass so I could examine the shapes of crystals. I pounded in the stakes for the “circus tent” as a car drove by once, then twice, and finally parked at the site next to us.

Margo and I cringed as four young men around our age pulled out camping gear. One ambled over to us.

“Do you have a hammer that we could borrow?” he asked.

“No,” Margo replied, and returned to preparing our supper.

Over the next fifty years, her comment endured, and we mentioned it to describe sticky situations. As Margo explained to me that afternoon, “We have a hammer, but they may not borrow it.” Sometimes friends experience a situation, and they draw new meanings from it as they age.

The next morning, we boarded a small ferry and rode seven miles with the wind slapping our faces. At first, the Grand Hotel appeared as a white rectangle protected by trees, but as the ferry plowed the waves, the 660-foot-long porch with yellow awnings materialized, and geraniums splashed red across the scene. A horse-drawn carriage transported us to the hotel.

Having spent our summer as housekeepers and companions to Miss Bartow, we viewed our stay at the hotel as an extravagance where others would wait on us. Not that Miss Bartow demanded much from us other than serving fresh fruit at every meal, helping her dress, and washing her hair. When she told stories about her summers in Saugatuck in the early 1900s, Margo and I thought we should pay her for the privilege of living with a remarkable woman and scientist. As we walked across the magnificent porch, men in uniforms polished the brass railings, other men opened the door, while another man took our meager luggage and directed us to the reception desk.

Dressed in jeans and sweatshirts and needing a shower, we hoped to receive the keys to our room and clean up before entering the dining room. The Grand Hotel has a strict dress code, and our attire did not meet the hotel’s standards.

“Your room is not ready yet, so please partake of our lunch buffet while the maids finish with it.”

“But we aren’t dressed properly.” I eyed Margo.

“Casual wear is allowed at lunch time.” The man smiled.

Every window and place setting in the large dining room gleamed. Wherever I looked, every inch of the historic hotel shone, whispering stories not only about guests such as Thomas Edison and Mark Twain, but about the hundreds of hands who cared for the grand lady. From the moment Margo and I stepped onto the red carpet, waiters showed us to our seats, escorted us to the buffet, and as soon as we filled one small plate, they handed us another and whisked our other plates to our table. We studied the dessert table.

“We will need to bike around the island after this feast.” I selected a sliver of dark chocolate cake.

“We may have to circle it twice.” Margo carried a slice of a fruit-filled torte.

Only a few groups of women and older couples occupied the other tables, but several young couples sat staring into each other’s eyes.

“Newlyweds,” Margo whispered. The scene planted an idea in her head, and in eight months, she would return with her new husband.

An hour later, we rented bicycles and pedaled five miles around the island, passing tall and stately lilac bushes. Many of the shrubs are over two hundred years old, and they thrive in the island’s limestone soil. I could envision their plumes of purple, white, and maroon blossoms nodding in the breeze as their perfume drifted through the village. The narrow tarmac hugged the coast, and we paused, gazing at stunning vistas of the Straits as freighters passed the island.

Because cars are not allowed on Mackinac, the calls of phoebes, catbirds, and wrens rippled from the woods and gardens. The perfect music to accompany a bike ride and carry us back to the Grand Hotel for afternoon tea and an amazing dinner.

While I cherish the glittering moments experienced in a lavish hotel, the true treasure of our adventure was hiking the Big Mac and sharing the beauty of the Great Lakes with a lifelong woman friend.

Because our publisher is offering our books in a giveaway, Lisa Groen and I decided to share interviews with each other in our newsletters. I met Lisa twenty years ago when we were students at Spalding University earning our Masters in Fine Arts degrees. Lisa always provided thoughtful critiques during our manuscript workshops. After the interviews, I will post my review of her fine novel, The Cassatt Sisters

The Cassatt Sisters: A Novel of Love and Art, by Lisa Groen

Book summary: In 1877 Paris, American artist Mary Cassatt is determined to break into the male-dominated world of French painting. When Edgar Degas invites her to join the Impressionists, she steps into a thrilling new world of creative freedom. With her sister Lydia by her side, Mary stands with the most avant-garde artists in Paris. And in doing so faces an ageless question: What must a woman sacrifice to live a life of freedom, authenticity, and accomplishment?

If your book could become a movie, who would star in it?

Lisa: I’d cast Elizabeth Olsen as Mary Cassatt and Bryce Dallas Howard as Lydia Cassatt. I’m not familiar with a lot of French actors, so I would choose Bradley Cooper to play Edgar Degas and Natalie Portman to play Berthe Morisot. (Both speak fluent French.)

You include many scenes where the characters are sharing a meal. What do you consider the perfect French breakfast?

Lisa: I didn’t realize how much food I’d written into this novel until people began mentioning it! My perfect French breakfast is freshly baked pain au chocolat, coffee, and yogurt with berries.

How did living abroad influence your story? Especially living in Germany vs in France.

Lisa: I lived in the wine region of Rhineland-Pfalz, Germany, in the village of Otterberg for five years. We were one hour from the border of France and four hours from Paris. I was able to explore incredible art museums and special exhibitions, including an all-female Impressionist show in Frankfurt, where I first learned and grew curious about Mary Cassatt. I traveled a lot then, spent time in Heidelberg, where Mary’s family lived for a while when she was a girl. I knew well the cities and countryside where she lived and worked as an adult. It was not difficult for me to imagine her walking to her studio in Montmartre, for example, heels clicking along cobblestone streets, carrying a box of her pastels. I understand how she would long for the culture, history, and artistic instruction in Europe as an American—especially post Civil War.

Do you think contemporary women artists have to struggle harder to have their work accepted?

Lisa: I confess that I don’t know how hard it might be still for contemporary female artists, but at least they are no longer barred as a gender from the finest art schools! And too, there is less judgement culturally about a woman pursuing art as a career. In my novel, Edgar Degas says, “I could not imagine such a fine painting coming from the hand of a woman.” He reportedly said this to compliment Mary Cassatt’s artwork. I can’t imagine a man saying this today—not aloud anyway. 🌿

You can enter the giveaways https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/enter_kindle_giveaway/420170-the-cassatt-sisters-a-novel-of-love-and-art

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/220179679-ae-fond-kiss?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=t2jFlIkmkD&rank=1

In The Cassatt Sisters, Lisa Groen skillfully develops scenes that display the intimate relationship between the Impressionist artist, Mary Cassatt, and her sister, Lydia. Historic details fill the flowing prose, immersing readers into a well-developed sense of place. Groen reveals the dynamics of the Impressionist community, and how Lydia ignites Mary’s passion to portray women in everyday settings. The tantalizing affair between Mary Cassatt and Edgar Degas adds another layer of tension to a remarkable novel.

One last view of the Grand Hotel in the springtime. I am waiting for my fall bulb order that I will plant in October. Until then, have a lovely September.

Goldfinches flit from one maroon sunflower to another golden disk. The plants stretch into the blue heavens, reveling in the air free of wildfire smoke and hazy heat. September escorts in mild weather. I count the days until my Canadian Gooseneck squash will be ripe, and I can simmer a pot of squash soup laced with dried tomatoes.

Fifty years ago on Labor Day, my friend, Margo and I stood on the peak of the Mackinac Bridge between the five-hundred- and fifty-two-foot towers. As the wind whipped our hair, we gazed out at the endless blue waters of Lake Huron. At age three, we met in our church nursery, sharing life throughout our youth and college years. That summer, we had worked together caring for a remarkable elderly woman at her summer cottage on Lake Michigan. (I wrote more about Miss Bartow in my essay SAND.) Because I would marry in two months and in a few weeks, Margo would move to Minneapolis for graduate school, we decided to splurge on an adventure that celebrated our long friendship and transitions.

“Let’s go to Scotland! We’ll keep it a secret. After we arrive, we’ll write postcards to our parents,” I suggested.

Thankfully, a trip to a travel agency nixed our plans because neither of us owned passports, and there was not sufficient time to gain those small blue books. Margo and I mulled over some other way to celebrate our metamorphosis into adult life.

“We could hike the Mackinac Bridge,” I mused.

“And then spend a night at the Grand Hotel!” Margo offered.

My family had walked the bridge a few years back so, I knew that on Labor Day, we could take a bus from Mackinac City to Saint Ignace. Along with thousands of others, we would stroll five miles back to the southern side of the bridge. Labor Day is the only day when folks can participate in the hike.

One of my uncles, an engineer, worked for the construction company that built Mighty Mac, and my first childhood memory of it was at night. Garlands of red and green lights glowed along the suspension cables while streetlamps flooded the tarmac. The next day, our car rumbled over the grates as we crossed over the Straits of Mackinac and into the Upper Peninsula.

Magic floated about the summit on that special Labor Day, as sun scattered the lingering clouds. Margo and I snacked on cheese and crackers, watching fathers push strollers while mothers held the hands of older children. Folks of all ages took photos standing in front of a tower or next to two-foot-thick cables with a view of the Upper Peninsula. Two hundred feet beneath our feet, a freighter steamed towards Lake Huron. At last, we ambled down the inclined plane, anticipating our arrival at the Grand Hotel and the chance to wander its grounds. I’ll tell that story next month.

If you haven’t had a chance to read Ae Fond Kiss, during September you can enter a giveaway on Goodreads for an ebook of the novel. So, click the link and try for a free copy

.

If you would like knit lace, here is a simple pattern for an edging that makes a splendid lace collar or could edge a shawl.

Here is a Canadian Gooseneck Squash, first raised by the Native Americans in the New England states. A few plants yielded dozens of beautiful squash.

May you enjoy these first cool nights and clear, mild days. I love the shorter days because now I have time to practice my harp and sew on quilts almost every night. God bless, Joan

Just outside of my garden fence, fluffy red, white and lavender blossoms shimmer on my Rose of Sharon trees. I prefer these hibiscus with their old-fashioned flowers that resemble my heirloom roses more than the modern dinner plate size hibiscus. Along the back roads of my rural county, I spy these tall shrub-like trees growing in front of farmhouses, bordering farm lanes, or standing sentinel in a vacant place where a home once flourished. Because cuttings from the shrub sprout easily, I imagine women shared them in the same way they exchanged quilt block patterns, or a packet of seeds saved from a favorite tomato.

Gardeners love to share with each other. Last August, when we dropped off our meat chickens for an Amish family to butcher, I noticed the riot of flowers thriving in the wife’s garden. I had started antique viola plants, so I tucked one in a small pot. That evening, goldenrod burnished the edges of fields and meadows, when we returned to pick up our meat, and I presented the seedling to Mrs. Bontrager.

“I thought you might like this yellow viola called Tiger Eye. It’s supposed to be fragrant.”

“Thank you. Oh, my, I should give you a plant from my garden.” She glanced at her flower beds.

“I wasn’t expecting anything, maybe next time,” I said, remembering how the week before a woman who often attended our you-pick blueberries had unexpectantly brought me an heirloom rose cutting. She loved wandering in my garden, smelling my roses, and thought I would appreciate a cutting from an heirloom passed down through her family.

Here in Michigan during August, each day loses 2-3 minutes of light. I look forward to this time when fall colors creep across the blueberry bog and wooded hills, from the swamp maples’ hint of red to the first purple asters at the edges of fields. The swallows still swoop near our goat barn, and today, one perched on the open window in the goat stall. She cocked her head, reminding me that by the middle of the month, the swallows will wing their way south and I miss their chattering.

If you are heading out on a road trip, consider taking the audio version of Ae Fond Kiss along with you. Ann Shehan crafted a remarkable recording that will land you inside the story.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DK47TBTW?binding=audio_download&qid=1754074696&sr=8-1&ref=dbs_dp_rwt_sb_pc_taud

Last fall, a friend offered me a large box of hand-dyed wool sock yarn, most of it imported from Ireland. When she asked what colors to send, and I requested the wilder and brighter the better. Here is a flaming orange from the softest wool yarn you can imagine. Next up on my needles, lime green speckled with dashes of color. If you are knitter, let me know what is your current project?

Today is Lammas in Scotland or Lughnasadh in Ireland when folks celebrate the harvest season.

May you have an abundant harvest from your garden!

Are brimming cornucopias which spill

Fruits red and purple…” From Wild Peaches, by Elinor Wylie

As a child, every spring I planted a row of radishes in a small plot behind my family’s garage. By the time the radishes grew round and red, I had spied enough spiders to cease weeding them. The fear of grabbing a spider instead of quack grass kept me away from gardening until I experienced a patch of vegetables in Tennessee.

In June 1974, I volunteered at Sunset Gap, a rural community center run by the Presbyterian Church in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains. After leaving the Knoxville airport, my two co-workers drove along a narrow road that twisted around and over mountains. Fewer and fewer white clapboard houses hugged the blacktop, as hay fields, woods, and outcropping rocks separated the dwindling number of homes. We rumbled deeper into the mountains until we reached Sunset Gap, a cluster of buildings nestled in an opening between the hills.

My jobs at the center varied from helping to prepare meals for the work campers who arrived for a week of manual labor, to teaching preschool, to leading classes on Wednesday during Community Day. One afternoon, I noticed that beyond a seldom used screen door in the kitchen, and behind a ridge of orange daylilies, someone had planted a garden. I ambled out and flopped down on a two-by-eight plank positioned on two stumps. A few bees buzzed around the cream and yellow bean blossoms while overhead a cardinal sang. After a brief rest, I weeded the green beans, then moved over a row of lettuce and radishes. No spiders lurked under leaves, and no copperheads or rattlesnakes revealed themselves. My weariness from shepherding children flowed away as I discovered how gardening rejuvenates a person.

Celebrating the Fourth of July at Sunset Gap revealed moments from another time. During the afternoon, men and boys played baseball games while guests from Knoxville, North Carolina, and the local hollows arrived with hampers of food. Back-to-the-land hippies ate baked beans and potato salad with mountaineers whose families had settled Appalachia. We rested on blankets as the sunset spread apricot and rose in the west, and fireflies sparkled over the ball field.

A screaming streak of gold announced the first fireworks, joined by whirling blue flames, red chrysanthemums and glittering silver stars. As the final explosion melted into the gloaming, fingers of mist floated over the field. Some parents departed with their young children, but most families remained for the big dance.

Back in my room, I changed into a blue skirt with a deep ruffle at the bottom and a peasant blouse while fiddle and banjo music drifted from the kitchen garden. I stuck my head out my window, absorbing the scene, as if the fog had conjured musicians from the 19^th century. Then the music stopped, and I raced to the community center, where more musicians tuned their instruments while people ambled into the gathering large room. The not-yet-famous folksinger, John McCutcheon, held his fiddle and called everyone into a big circle. Folks who knew the dance steps guided me, until John called for the active couple to move on. As blisters formed on my bare feet, I realized the Big Set belonged to the folks who lived in these hills. They hadn’t imported the dances, but clung to their traditions, nurturing 4th of July magic at Sunset Gap.

Literary news: My essay, SAND, is included in this anthology due out in March of 2026

It is now available for preorder:https://beltpublishing.com/products/on-an-inland-sea

I hope you are finding quiet moments to garden and listen to the bees. I leave you with Sunset Blush rose until August arrives.

“The month of June, trembled like a butterfly.” Pablo Neruda

Twenty years ago, I visited Beaver Island, Michigan to research a novel based on the conflict between James Jesse Strang and the resident Irish settlers. I stood by the Beaver Island Lighthouse, gazing at a trembling tree. Hundreds of yellow swallowtail butterflies flitted from one branch to another; their wings fluttered like aspen leaves. I assumed the shimmering cloud of butterflies followed the Lake Michigan shoreline as they migrated to their summer home. Had a few swallowtail butterflies veered away from their friends to settle in my garden? Every summer, I spied their green and yellow caterpillars munching on the feathery tops of my carrots. I left them alone so they could enjoy my garden as much as my kitties and I do.

In June, a few swallowtail butterflies dart to the old roses nestled by the wooden fence surrounding my garden. A patchwork of maroon, yellow, creamy pearl and dark and pink roses sparkled in the morning sunshine. Their perfume surrounds me as I weed beets or allow Turnip to sprawl in my lap. The author and illustrator, Tasha Tudor inspired me to hunt for old roses and taught me how to propagate them. Most of my visits to her home occurred during the winter, but one June, my family arrived for her Summer Solstice party.

“What can I do to help?” I asked on the afternoon of the party.

“Please, water my potted plants.”

The door to her greenhouse stood open, so I filled a watering can and soaked the soil in a pot nearby. Tasha loved to tuck terracotta pots on her porches, along brick paths and in special locations in her garden. Barefoot, I wandered by flower beds overflowing with stately foxgloves, fluffy peonies, a cluster of hazy lupines and mounds of blue forget-me-nots. Peace flowed from the hemlocks and birches as a white-throated sparrow and the flute-like voice of the thrush poured magic into the moment.

Soon, Tasha’s corgis, Owen and Rebecca barked as friends arrived, carrying fragrant casseroles and bowls of tossed salad or glistening red strawberries. The corgis trotted behind the guests, hoping to earn a snippet of chicken or a ripe berry. Some of the women donned 1830’s gowns with the large puffed dropped sleeves and skirts brushing the grass. Along with Tasha, I helped her arrange the culinary offerings on a large table while my husband positioned chairs on the porches and in the gardens near the house. When Tasha deemed her guest had all come, we feasted and chatted until the sun gleamed through the feathery hemlocks.

Like a scene from Tasha’s illustrations, we ambled to her carriage house where the late Paul Peabody Sr. had set up his small theater. The children sat on the floor, and the adults claimed benches and chairs. His marionettes teased each other as they told stories that sent giggles through the children. Finally, Paul’s son, a violinist for the New York Ballet, played fiddle music, and the puppets danced.

The music didn’t end with the show, but Paul Jr. and my husband, John, on his piano accordion ushered the crowd to a different section of the barn. When Paul Jr. learned that John played traditional Irish and Scottish music, they had swapped tunes in Tasha’s parlor while learning each other’s repertoire. Now, another fiddler and a guitar player joined them as their fingers flew from one reel to another. A dance caller produced a broom, couples form two lines, and everyone learned a simple contra dance. Other folks chose to listen as the dancers’ feet tapped the wide floorboards and through the open barn doors, stars glimmered in the dark sky. Joy shone on everyone’s faces, and gratitude for a simple celebration filled our hearts.

On the literary scene:

An organization from Holland, Michigan, invited me to speak in late fall about sustainable agriculture. The programmer read my collection of essays, Wedded to the Land, and thought folks would enjoy hearing about the evolution of Pleasant Hill Farm, which celebrates fifty years of organic agriculture in 2026.

https://pleasanthillblueberryfarm.com/

In addition to the Historical Novel Society giving Ae Fond Kiss a lovely review, my book also appeared on Book Glow’s list of seven historical novels to read.

https://bookglow.net/7-must-read-historical-novels/

May your June days bring roses, bird song, and celebrations for the longest day of the year.

On the first day of May, we buried our nineteen-year-old kitty, Fergi, beneath a rhododendron bush near our home. Selecting his grave site reflected how twenty years before, my husband and I had toured southwest Ireland with two good female friends, one who had grown the rhododendron in her nursey. We had flown away from snowy Michigan and on late February day, landed at Shannon Airport where daffodils bloomed along the highway. Sometimes in the evenings we strolled the country lanes and spied yellow primroses unfolding their star shaped blossoms beneath the gorse hedges.

While we hiked in parks, climbed steep rock steps inside castles, and wandered through a cow pasture to the ruins of a long-ago abbey, John, Robin, and I also sought out opportunities to play in Irish traditional sessions. My button accordion case sat between Linda and myself and served as a kitchen counter where I sliced cheese and handed out chunks of brown bread for our lunches. John’s piano accordion and Robin’s flute resided in the trunk with our limited luggage.

On the night we stayed in Dingle, I was too tired to eat dinner, so the trio headed to a pub owned by a fellow named Fergus O’Flaherty. When John and Robin explained how they played Irish music, Fergus pulled his tenor banjo from its case and blasted a rake of reels. In Ireland, we learned that our musical instrument cases were a portal to the community of local musicians. John and Robin shared more tunes with Fergus and later parted as new friends.

About weeks after our Irish adventure, our elderly kitty, Rosie died. John and I grieved our loss but a couple of months later, our hearts longed for another cat. After having two female calico cats, we decided to look for an orange kitty, and I spied a notice about free kittens at the feed store. The next day, we visited the small farm and brought home our orange and white Fergus O’Flaherty, with big ears and large paws.

Over that year, Fergi grew into an eighteen-pound hunter who brought home mice and chipmunks. He patrolled my garden for voles and stalked our orchard for rabbits. Yet, by the end of the day, he snuggled in our laps or rested beneath my wood cookstove. Once near our house, he was snatched by a coyote, but we heard his yowling as he struggled and scratched his enemy. We started shouting and dashed to the battle, so the coyote dropped him and ran off. Fergi needed several stitches, but his wounds healed, and he resumed hunting.

Maybe because of his namesake, Fergi loved when I played Irish tunes on my folk harp. He would wiggle his way onto my lap, placing himself between my body and the vibrating soundboard resting on my shoulder. He had the opposite response to button accordions and my concertina that sent him racing upstairs. I knew Fergi had gone deaf when he slept as I practiced the dreaded concertina.

He not only charmed us, but when children arrived with their families for you pick blueberry season, Fergi would weave in an out of kids’ legs and draw them towards my garden. Once, after I had checked in a mother and eight-year-old son, about fifteen minutes later I noticed the boy sitting in my driveway petting Fergi. He assured me that his mother knew he had returned and for the next hour he hung out with our sweet kitty.

When you have lived with a pet for almost twenty years, they share in the flow of your life. When the men in blue knocked on our door and informed us of our soldier, son’s death, Fergi rested his head on my shoulder. He hunted less and slept beneath my peonies as I weeded in my garden, ready to wander over and sit on my lap. When frost claimed our blueberry crop and droughts wilted the leaves on our peach trees, Fergi would join me on our porch swing. He tucked his paws together and meditated as we rocked back and forth. After he accumulated fifteen years, Fergi transformed into an indoor cat who sat on a windowsill, tail swishing as he watched the bird feeder.

Last April our wonderful veterinarian who specializes in cats, explained that Fergi had lost weight not because he was eighteen years old, but due to abdominal cancer and prescribed a daily steroid to limit the pain. Fergi slept constantly as the cancer whittled his muscles and body mass. We placed a heating pad in his fleece lined kitty bed to warm his thin body. During this time, our supposed-to-be barn cats, Turnip and Puca convinced us that they should become indoor-outdoor cats so they could snooze on the sofa or a pile of quilting fabric. Sometimes, I found Turnip curled up next to Fergi, a cozy mound of orange fur.

On the last day of April, Fergi showed us that his body ached, and he needed us to release him from this world. Now his body rests beneath the shiny green leaves of a rhododendron studded with rosy blossoms. In the fall, I will encircled the site with daffodils and blue squilla, honoring an orange and white kitty who loved us.

For those of you who missed my announcement, here is the link to the BBC Radio4 program that features a short interview with me. I speak about halfway through the recording about my book, Ae Fond Kiss. https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m0029ygx

Yesterday, the Historical Novel Society posted a link to their review for Ae Fond Kiss. https://historicalnovelsociety.org/reviews/ae-fond-kiss-the-cumberland-mountain-series/ My favorite line follows:

“The novel embraces the values of living in a small rural community and the importance of female friendships and family support. “

https://www.joandonaldson.com/books/ae-fond-kiss/

Are you looking for another book to enjoy?

In The Last Kept Secret, Elaine Stock weaves together the stories of three women who defend Kenny, a young man who describes himself as “slow”. Gina and Kenny fall in love and marry despite her grandmother, Helene’s misgivings. In the sections when the narrative turns to Helene’s point of view, the narrative reveals the events in her past life in Germany during WWII that shaped her approach to life. But the changing attitudes of the 1960s influence Gina and Kenny as they embrace the expectations of having their first child.

But when the police charge Kenny with murdering a co-worker, trauma envelopes the couple as Fanny, a lawyer, steps into their lives. Fanny understands the injustice of Kenny’s situation who vows he did not kill Samuel. Despite the prejudices against female lawyers in the 1960s, Fanny sniffs out different leads, unearth facts, and reassures Kenny and Gina that she will win their case.

As the story unfolds, family secrets are exposed, and the explosive ending reveals details this reader did not see coming. For me, one of the strengths of The Last Kept Secret was how the author sensitively created the character of Kenny who won this reader’s heart. Like Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird, Kenny shows that he understands far more about life than how society judges him. This is an excellent read for those who enjoy books that twine together different timelines

https://www.amazon.com/Last-Secret-Kept-When-Calls-ebook/dp/B0DS699CNL/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0

Like many of you, I am headed outside to weed and plant in my garden.

Who was Robert Burns?

Robert Burns was born in Alloway, Scotland, on January 25, 1759, and was the first of seven children. Along with his siblings, he worked on the family farm, and later Burns wove agrarian images into his poems and songs. Unlike other poets of his time, Burns wrote in the Scots dialect spoken by his neighbors. He wrote Ae Fond Kiss to his first love when she left Scotland for Jamaica where her husband lived. Scotland and its diaspora celebrate Robert Burns as their national poet. In 1796 Burns died at age 37.

Here are Karen Matheson, my favorite Scottish singer, and Paul Brady singing Ae Fond Kiss. Matheson was also interviewed for today’s Soul Music feature.

“Mary had been running, and her hair was loose and blown and she was bright with the air and pink-cheeked… ‘It’s so beautiful….It has come, the Spring!’”

Like Mistress Mary in The Secret Garden, spring has come to my garden.

For several afternoons, I have pruned my heirloom roses, cutting away dead wood or clipping back a branch so it will not trail on the ground. Instead of using the twine off the hay bales that are fed to the goats, I tie the roses with the salvages cut from fabric. It’s better to remove the densely woven ends of the fabric when sewing together a backing for a quilt. I try to prune before the leaf buds emerge, but spurts of warm weather have nudged the buds to grow.

I never know what I might find as I pull dead grass away from the base of a rosebush. Yesterday, either a mouse or a rabbit had hidden a fluffy nest behind the bush. During our blueberry harvest season, the weeds and grass laugh at me as they grow unhampered. By the time I finish packing blueberries, I turn to planting my fall crops of beets, carrots, and kale.

During spring, I prune and weed with vengeance. I’ll finish the roses and then tackle the blackberries, raspberries and Concord grapes. The soil is still cold, so I’ll have to wait a couple of weeks before I can sow my peas and potatoes.

Sometimes magic blossoms in surprising ways.

In late January, I opened an email sent through my author website. I figured someone sought information about when our poppy field would bloom, but instead a BBC editor wanted to know more about my new novel, Ae Fond Kiss. She asked if we could connect on a Zoom call. The next morning, Maggie described a program called Soul Music, that looks at a song from different angles. Her current theme was Robert Burns’ love song, Ae Fond Kiss and at the end of our conversation, Maggie invited me to be on the feature. She sent me a list of questions to answer, and explained how we would record my segment.

So, I set up my studio in my closet….that’s correct. A smaller space with softer elements such as my rack of dresses and a box of Christmas decorations absorb small noises. Maggie had suggested heaping a blanket over my head, but an editor from Michigan Radio, had taught me to record my essays in a closet. With my laptop on a small stool, a cup of tea, a recording app on my phone, and a printout of the questions I clicked on Zoom.

From our earlier chat, Maggie had revealed her kind, wise, and gentle personality. We learned that Ae Fond Kiss was one of her favorite songs, too, especially when sung by the Scottish singer, Karen Mattheson. When she asked for my second favorite Burns song, I replied, My Love is Like a Red Red Rose.

“A line from that song is engraved on my mother’s headstone,” Maggie said.

Although I sat surrounded by clothing, Maggie acted as if we were in her kitchen, conversing about Robert Burns writing in the Scottish dialect, my favorite verse from Ae Fond Kiss, and then about how grief had influenced the storyline of my novel. A half an hour later, I saved my recording of the interview and emailed it to Maggie who had also recorded it. In case one of the sound files was garbled, she would have a spare one. This week, Maggie emailed me that the feature will air on Saturday, April 12^th at 10:30 pm, Scottish time…or 5:30 Easter Daylight Time.

Here is the link that will activate on April 12^th. https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m0029ygx

While I always look for opportunities to market my books, I never imagined that a wonderful editor from the BBC would knock on my door. Magic.

Ae Fond Kiss is now available as an audiobook. I loved working with the artist who recorded the narrative. She contacted me a couple of times to ensure that she had the correct accents and to send me samples of her work. I think you will also approve of her presentation of the story.

https://www.amazon.com/Ae-Fond-Kiss-Tennessee-Cumberland

If you like stories with a magical theme, then open the pages of The Secret Garden and meet Mary, Colin and Dickon. For over a century, readers have walked with Mary through the ivy draped door into a walled garden that no one has touched for ten years. Because the crocus appear as if they can’t breathe, she pulls away the grass choking the bulbs. One-by-one, Dickon and his tamed fox help Mary in the garden, and finally, her unhealthy cousin, Colin, is wheeled through the gate. The magic of nature works in everyone’s hearts while an English robin watches the children bring the garden back to life. My favorite edition is the one illustrated by the famous artist, Tasha Tudor who also illustrated my first book, The Real Pretend.

New life is stirring both in my garden and in my goat barn. This morning, our goat Betsy delivered triplets. She prefers to give birth without me around and usually picks a time such as 3 am, but today I found these sweet baby goats around 9 am. Everyone is thriving and Betsy is a great mother.

May you enjoy the watching your garden come alive this month.

More weeks need to pass before primroses will bloom, but the noses of my snowdrops poke out of their nest of brown oak leaves beside a few daffodil spires. The soil has thawed in patches warmed by longer sunnier days. I shoveled the snow off of my cold frames so I could gather beet greens and chickweed, because my chickens and goats gobble up fresh greens. Especially my pregnant goat, Betsy, who yearns for green pastures and mild temperatures. Today when I eyed her swollen tummy, I wondered if she would deliver triplets sooner than her estimated due date of March 28^th. Most does birth twins or triplets rather than a single kid.

Because snow still covers much of my garden, I focus on starting seeds inside underneath grow lights and with heat mats. When the seedlings are sturdy enough to leave their controlled environment, I carry the flat out to my green house where flats of shallots, onions, and leeks already thrive. This month, I’ve enjoyed the small blue flowers on my rosemary bush that remind me of Tasha Tudor and her wonderful book, Rosemary for Remembrance. And if pansies stimulate thoughts, then I will have many of them, because I planted the one-hundred seeds from the Historic Pansies packet. The tiny plants are in the flat on the bottom of the plant rack.

The pansies love the lights. Those odd narrow-leaf plants on the top rack are artichokes!

On February 16^th, the editors of the Dunes Review hosted an online launch party for their spring issue. I was thrilled to join the other writers and poets. I read a short section from my essay, Sand, that weaves geology, Michigan history, and reflections on my relationship with Lake Michigan and the local sand dunes. If you are interested, you can order a copy of the literary magazine at a bookstore or from the review’s website. https://www.michwriters.org/dunesreview

I hope to hear soon that the audiobook for Ae Fond Kiss is available, in the meantime, if you have read and enjoyed the novel, please leave a review on Amazon or Barnes and Noble. Thank you.

One major February project was working with a website local designer and friend to update and revise my author website. She created a beautiful website and I love the little birds in the banner. Please take a look at it and tell me what you think! We included book club questions for all of my novels. If you belong to a book club, please consider reading my latest novel and invite me to participate either in person or online. https://www.joandonaldson.com/

Thank you for reading about my plants, animals and literary events. May you have a memorable March filled with the spicy perfume of rosemary.