Green Freakin' Habah, 30 Years Latah

30years ago there was a little storm, not forecasted to do too much, here in New England. Of the communities hit hard by the Blizzard of 78, my own was among the most devastated. Green Harbor and Brant Rock flooded. My own home, right by the harbor river and marshes, sits high enough on a knoll of sorts among the antique apple trees to be spared the floods, winds, hurled boulders, and ocean damage that wiped out many of our friends.

My Labrador retriever, Charcoal, was kind enough to deliver 11 puppies at the zenith of the thing. The horse, my chestnut mare Becky, was spared any trauma. We broke through the ice on her drinking bucket every morning for a while. We all put coolers on our back porches and let mother nature keep our perishables safe. We offered our gas stove to cook for anyone who lost theirs to electricity. We checked on, and delivered to, friends, neighbors, loved ones, and even strangers stranded among the powdery drifts as we waited-- some for weeks-- to dig out and have power restored.

Things have changed, but not much, in Green Harbor. There are more houses. Many were rebuilt after that very storm. But a significant chunk of this old Yankee neighborhood-- working class people with homes worth more than their retirement, many passed down through generations-- are the same faces. We are a quiet, tough little neighborhood. Townies, most of us-- Marshfield born and bred, but prouder of GREEN HAHBAH than of anything else. Many of us will never leave, not even for the more affluent northern borders. We'd rather eat dirt than cross the borders to Duxbury. We're not budging. We didn't evacuate when the world came down upon us in '78, and we're not leaving now, either. We're in a class by ourselves. You are welcome to visit, but please take your crap with you when you leave-- it spoils the beach. We'll see you this summer.

For it takes a particular brand of stick-beat mean to survive in Green Harbor year round. The same people who will load a sleigh or fire up the snowmobile to make a grocery run for a dozen snowed-in neighbors will give you wrong directions come June if you have the nerve to pull up as we walk OUR sidewalks with the obnoxious question "whayah is tha beach?" Feel free. We send those people to Duxbury, where they can pay to park and visit the snack stand. The beach sucks, though. It has been eroding for ages. Guess where all that delightful powder ends up?

Yup. We dredge the harbor every season to scrape Duxbury's overpriced sand out of our gullet. Have to keep it nice and tidy, you know. And guess where all the sewage passing through Brant Rock University ends up?

Enjoy those hot-dogs, tourists! I hear they boil them in very special water.

Anyway, it's 30 years later. The tide, this morning, was ridiculously high as it generally is this time of year when the moon starts pushing full. That was the special ingredient for that perfect storm long ago. It hit just as the moon was full, and followed the various harbor rivers to sit waiting for the tide to turn... then rather than blow out to sea it came right back with the tide again.

But it didn't beat us and nothing ever will. This is Green Freakin' Habah, not Mahshfield Hills, baby. We can take anything you got!

A Day of Storms, Crackles, Snaps, and Pops

Mayday, Mayday! We have a situation. Romance Divas is DOWN, repeat, Romance Divas is DOWN!

Thing is, it's a crappy assed day here in New England. The six inches of snow predicted for my area has manifested as 4 inches of goo. Slush. Flavor and dye free slurpee. Mush.

Which is fine, that's what the weather does around here. It's January. But the big guy worries, you know. And last night Ahmed spoke thusly:

"You're very crackly."

"Your mother buys you ugly ties," I said rather wittily (okay, rather lamely).

"You need to promise me you'll STAY IN tomorrow."

"How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Speak in caps."

"You need to stay in."

"I am not going to promise you," I said, knowing how promises tend to become crow bars with which to beat me about the head, "that I will not go out. I may need to go out. But unless I actually need to go out, I will, in fact, stay in."

"You're very crackly."

"And snappy and poppy, too. All part of my charm."

"$*unintelligible kurdish grumblings involving donkeys, but other than that it's anybody's guess*$"

So I really did intend to stay home today. Honest. But here's the thing...

Romance Divas is DOWN!

Now, I can live without RD. I can live without Starbucks, since I have a lovely Duetto espresso maker right on my counter. I can manage without the cheerful faces at the drive-through. I can manage without my pink screen and red lips and Diva comfort.

I CAN'T DO WITHOUT BOTH. Deal breaker. I'm going to Starbucks. Snap, crackle, pop...

Post Storm Catch-Up

I do love livng in New England but sometimes it's a pain in the ass. Case in point: this past weekend I lost access to my ATT wireless satellite internet and had to resurrect my cheapo free dial-up. I was out of the loop and cranky.

To make matters worse, I also found my tied-for-first-place addiction, Romance Divas' Forum down. There was a temporary Yahoo group that proved more aggravating than isolation and I am recovering nicely now that the geniuses (geni? genum?) at RD figured stuff out. It was a rough few days. I was main-lining Starbucks like a Crystal Meth Head hiding from a bounty hunter. Been like a ferret on speed for 4 days.

So I got bored and did some very cool, sexy tattoo headers for Websong. Check them out here if you are so inclined:

Tattoo Headers

Oh, yeah, and the first novel I ever wrote-- Echo's Daemon, has been lying in dust on floppy disks for over 10 years. First time I submitted it I got a single reply telling me it was "too dark" and "too complicated for younger readers." Now, everything I thought I knew about publishing indicated that slush piles were cleaned out pretty regularly, but somehow ED managed to survive one. An editor at a Very Important Place contacted me from the wayback machine and expressed interest. Go figger.

So to catch up:

I found the floppies, was relieved to find they were still working, and am reformatting. Max is eating spiders. Ahmed is keeping holiday secrets. The snow melted, froze, melted, and froze again. And my erotic paranormal dark humorous fantasy is out there waiting to become a best seller soon.