Life

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

Today is one of those days that probably inspired the lyrics of that famous song: “Oh, the weather outside is frightful, but inside it’s so delightful. And since there’s no place to go…let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!” I live in Michigan, so there is plenty of snow here. But I lived in Canada for eleven years, so I know lots of great things to do on a blustery, winter day. Here are just a few.

My favorite? Grab a warm quilt like this one that my dear daughter-in-law Vanessa stitched for me, and snuggle up with a good book. If there’s a cozy fire in the fireplace or the wood stove, even better. With so many great books to read and so little time to indulge, it’s nice once in a while to be forced to stay home and hunker down. I have a stack of books on my night stand just waiting for a day like this.

My second favorite thing to do is to go for a walk outside. I know, I know, who wants to leave a nice, warm house and go out in the cold? All I can say is, give it a try when cabin-fever strikes. The beauty alone makes it worth the effort, not to mention the benefits of exercise. I love the sound of snow crunching beneath my boots and the way my face tingles from the cold. Nearby Lake Michigan is beautiful in the winter. Besides, when I get home I’ll have a good excuse to snuggle by the fire and read a good book.

Winter is also the time when I like to tackle one of my long-neglected hobbies. Maybe I can finally finish my scrapbooking projects if I’m housebound. I could start a new sewing project, too—like these curtains and window seat cover that I made for my office. This year I purchased a nice supply of sketchbooks and watercolors so I can try my hand at painting again. There are so many hobbies I enjoy doing but rarely have time for, so I make sure I have everything ready for snowy days like these.

Another thing I love about winter is the warm, delicious food that it inspires. Foods like fresh, hot soup and homemade bread. Is there anything more wonderful than the aroma of baking bread? I love to roll up my sleeves and knead the dough myself, but the smell of frozen bread dough baking is just as tantalizing. So is the fragrance from a pot of soup that has simmered on the stove all day. I firmly believe that hot chocolate tastes better in wintertime than in summer. I especially enjoy a cup of hot chocolate when I return from my walk outside and sit down to read by the fire. See how nicely this all works out?

Time slows when we’re snowed in, so why not toss out our to-do list and simply enjoy the day. I know I’ll be tired of the wintry weather by March, but in the meantime I’m thankful for the excuse to stay home and enjoy some of my favorite things. In other words, “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…”

What is your favorite thing to do on a snowy day?

Thanksgiving Hospitality

It’s a tradition in our family to invite people who are alone on Thanksgiving to our family feast. The origins of our hospitality go back to when Ken and I were first married…

Ken was a graduate student and we lived in Connecticut at the time. After classes on Wednesday afternoon we packed the car and set off for my grandmother’s house in the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania. The rest of my family would gather there the next day for Thanksgiving. It was drizzling rain when we left Connecticut but we didn’t think to check the weather report. We didn’t even think to bring boots or gloves or warm coats.

By the time we reached the mountains in New York State, night had fallen and it was snowing very hard. The roads were a slippery mess and clogged with travelers. On one particularly steep stretch, cars were getting stuck halfway up the hill and blocking the road, so in the spirit of the season, everyone helped push each other’s cars up the slope. Our car was a cinch to push—a small, two-seater convertible sports car. Did I mention that we had our temperamental Siamese cat with us? She did not appreciate the excitement and howled and yowled in protest as only a Siamese can.

At this point, we were much closer to my parents’ house in New York State than to Grandma’s, and we could have detoured there for the night—we didn’t. After our boost up the hill we drove on, heedless of the snow and all the mountains ahead. We crossed into Pennsylvania near midnight and discovered that the state police had closed the road. The little border town had one small hotel, so we decided to get a room for the night. We arrived at the front desk at the same time as another couple our age.

“I don’t know who was here first,” the clerk said, “but we only have one room left with two single beds.” We decided to share the room with these strangers. The bathroom was down the hall and shared with everyone else on our floor. Not exactly five-star.

As we retrieved our luggage, the other husband said, “By the way, I hope you don’t mind but we have our cat with us.” Umm…so did we. The growling and hissing lasted all night as we tried to sleep squeezed together on our cot. We were lucky to have a bed at all. By morning, the hotel lobby was crammed with stranded Thanksgiving travelers.

Around noon, the snowplow came through and the road re-opened. We set off again, even though it was still snowing hard. We made it up a few more mountains before the road became impassable and cars got stuck again. Everything came to a halt in the middle of nowhere. We sat in a line of stranded cars in the Pennsylvania woods for the remainder of the day—Thanksgiving Day—watching the snow pile deeper and deeper. If Ken hadn’t gotten out of our car from time to time and shoveled snow away from our doors (with no hat or gloves or boots), our tiny sports car would have been buried. We ran the heater sparingly, worried about our gasoline supply. Our Siamese shivered and yowled.

Then, as the sun began to set once again, angels appeared! There were very few houses along this stretch of two-lane road, but one nearby family saw the line of stranded cars—there must have been twenty of us—and invited all of us (and our pets) inside their small home. With strangers crowded into every square inch of space, they not only shared their Thanksgiving dinner with us, they even thawed out food from their freezer until everyone was fed. Then, these kind, generous people allowed us to bed down for the night in their blessedly-warm home. The floors in every room were jammed with strangers. Their dog even shared his food with our cat, who finally settled down, grateful to be inside.

The snow stopped during the night. The sun came out the next morning and the snowplow came through, clearing the road to Grandma’s house. We helped each other dig out our cars then said goodbye to our wonderful, gracious hosts. Scripture says, “Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by doing so some people have entertained angels without knowing it” (Hebrews 13:2). But I believe the angels hosted us that day.

Grandma had a 25 pound turkey with all the trimmings waiting, and since my family hadn’t driven in the snowstorm, Ken and I and the cat had the meal all to ourselves. For the rest of her life, our Siamese craved turkey.

We tell this story to our children every Thanksgiving, emphasizing the three valuable lessons their foolish young parents learned: (1) Always watch the weather report. (2) Always have warm clothing and an emergency kit in your car. (3) And always remember, it’s a joy and a blessing to extend hospitality at Thanksgiving, especially to strangers.

Have a wonderful holiday!

Ninety Years and Counting

You can do some amazing things in your lifetime if you live to be ninety years old—and my mother, Virginia “Jinny” Davis, has. Two days ago we celebrated her ninetieth birthday with a gala party with her family, friends and neighbors. I wouldn’t be an author if it weren’t for my mom. Nor would I likely be a Christian. She has had a powerful influence on my love of books and on my faith in Christ.

Among my first memories are of Mom reading bedtime stories to my two sisters, Bonnie and Peggy, and me. Books always filled our home. Trips to the library—even if it meant walking a mile or more—were routine. Mom’s love of books began when she discovered the public library as a girl during the Great Depression. It’s probably not an exaggeration to say she read every novel in her town’s tiny library. The sympathetic librarian even let her borrow books from her personal collection.

Although a career as a librarian would have been her first choice, Mom never could have afforded a higher education after high school if it’s weren’t for WWII. She won a scholarship to become a registered nurse and became the first woman in her family to have a professional career. But her love of books never dwindled, and when the library in our small New York State town needed a librarian, she applied for the job. It’s also not much of an exaggeration to say that I grew up in that library, doing everything from processing books and working at the checkout desk, to shelving books and reading to the children for story hour. Within a few years, Mom transformed that library from a dark, dismal place that was open only a few hours a week, into the town’s thriving centerpiece with activities for people of all ages. The local elementary school decided to hire her as their librarian, too. I’m so proud of all that she accomplished.

Throughout my growing-up years, I also remember Mom sitting at her typewriter and writing short stories and poems and magazine articles. She wrote a regular column in a local newspaper for a time. I remember celebrating with her when one of her stories was accepted by Highlights for Children. She is still writing stories to this day. Mom showed me that if there’s something you want to do—like write a story—then why not sit down and do it? I attribute my own love of books and my talent for writing to her.

Even more important to Mom than books, though, was her faith in God. She experienced His presence during a church service as a teenager and her faith has continued to grow stronger and deeper ever since. She made sure that my sisters and I regularly attended Sunday school and church, and she modeled a life of prayer, regular Bible study, and loving God and our neighbor. She has experienced hard times and losses over the years—a stillborn baby, a life-threatening illness, my dad’s early death at age 62, my sister Bonnie’s tragic death from cancer nine years ago. But Mom’s faith in a loving God has never wavered. At age ninety she is a prayer warrior, rising early every day to pray for my sister and me and our spouses, her twelve grandchildren and their spouses, and her sixteen great-grandchildren, including three adopted ones, and those yet to be born. I feel her prayers holding me up when I travel and speak and when I sit down at my computer to write.

So Happy Birthday Mom! You continue to be a role model and an inspiration to me, and to your 30 descendants, and to everyone you meet.

A Woman’s Place

I attended a baby shower last week for a young woman who is expecting her first baby. As we munched on muffins and spinach quiche, the discussion meandered to a controversial subject—working mothers versus stay-at-home moms. The new mother-to-be, who was happily ripping open presents, won’t have to choose between the two. She has a job that she loves in her family’s business that will allow her to bring her little one to work with her. But the varying opinions of the other guests—ages 10 to 85—fascinated me. I was reminded of the research I did a few years ago for my novel, “A Woman’s Place.”

If I had asked the women at the shower to complete this once popular saying: “A woman’s place is . . .” I imagine only those who were baby-boomers or older would have known the answer: “A woman’s place is in the home.” Up until World War II, that’s where the majority of women in America were. But when war broke out and every able-bodied man in the nation marched off to do his duty, the call went out for women to take their places in the workforce. The women were nicknamed “Rosie the Riveters” and millions of them went to work in factories and shipyards and hangars for the duration of the war, building tanks and airplanes and aircraft carriers. Before that time, women were known as “the weaker sex” and no one believed they were capable of doing “men’s” work. Rosie proved them wrong and forever changed society’s perception of working women.

My novel tells the stories of four very different women who meet and become friends when they go to work in a shipyard in 1942. This is one of the pictures that inspired me:

I asked my publisher to try to convey this wonderful sense of camaraderie and “we can do it” attitude on the book’s cover. I think they did a great job. (Don’t you love the shoes?)

This is another picture that inspired me:

She could be “Leave it to Beaver’s” mom, an ordinary housewife who never imagined she could weld an airplane wing or operate a rivet gun or build a jet engine. But she did. And her brave efforts helped win the war. When it finally ended, Rosie and her fellow workers went back to their kitchens, letting the returning soldiers have “their” jobs back. Once again, the popular sentiment was “a woman’s place is in the home.” Rosie became Mom to an explosion of baby-boom children.

I graduated from high school in the late 1960s and wasn’t sure what I wanted to be. But I knew I wanted to go to college. “The best jobs for women are as nurses or teachers,” my high school guidance counselor advised. “You’ll only end up getting married and having children anyway.” Ouch! By the time my generation finished college, that attitude was beginning to change. “A women’s place is . . .” wherever she wants it to be.

I toured three modern-day shipyards while doing my research and took this photo in one that builds yachts. Fully half of the employees were women, working side-by-side with men. I wondered if they knew how Rosie had paved the way for them.

Like the expectant mom at the baby shower, my career as a writer means I didn’t have to choose between my family and my work. For most women, the choice isn’t that simple. But whatever path a young woman takes in the Twentieth Century, she can thank Rosie and the generation of women who did their part during World War II for opening the door wide to the range of opportunities she now enjoys.

Tulip Time

If you live in Michigan—as I do—you just can’t miss “Tulip Time” in Holland. Tulips and klompen (wooden shoes) are everywhere, as you can see from this sign posted in the public library.

This year I watched the parades and Dutch dancers for the very first time—and what fun! The young people seem to really enjoy dressing up in traditional Dutch costumes and putting on a show. The Holland High School marching band performs a dance routine to “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” (what else!) and march the entire parade route in klompen. There is also delicious Dutch food to sample as well as all the usual parade treats like corn dogs and elephant ears.

The flower gardens all around town are magnificent with tulips in nearly every color of the rainbow. The city designates certain public streets as “tulip lanes” for those who want to drive around and see even more flowers. And of course the gardens at Holland’s Windmill Island are spectacular. DeZwaan is a genuine Dutch windmill built in 1761 and brought over to Holland, Michigan 50 years ago to become the city’s centerpiece.

I had a lot of fun but I was also hard at work. I’m currently researching my next novel, which just happens to feature a family of Dutch immigrants who come to Michigan in 1847 and settle the town of Holland. Who says researching historical novels isn’t fun?