Coolest trailer carrying seedlings poised for planting.
As the farmer set off to work with four professional tree planters, I thought about the behind-the-scenes effort that’s often required to produce results.
Years of grit, guts, luck, courage, team work and a heap of money was behind our thrilling America’s Cup win. On average, each race took a few minutes short of 25. I’ll set the average at 20 which is perhaps a tad low, but remember nose-dive day? It counted but we didn’t cross the start line.
Our fast and, as it turns out, frail Aotearoa set sail 33 times – 10 in the Louis Vuitton Round Robins, seven a piece in the semis and finals and nine nail-biters against Oracle. This multiplies tidily to 660 minutes or just 11 hours of racing after an investment of gazillions of dollars and labour hours.
Now let’s look at the Melbourne Cup. In 1990, Kingston Rule finished in a record three minutes, 16 and a half seconds. Even the slowest time is less than four minutes. Vast amounts of skill, work, luck and money got those horses to the starting line – then finish line first.
Now to tree planting, less sexy but ain’t that life. No shiny silver cups, no roaring crowds or pots of prize money.
To have professional tree planters rock up, as if by magic, and plant 1000 baby native trees in two hours on the shore of the Kaipara Harbour has taken years of work by man with a mission Mark Vincent, countless volunteers and the farmer who’s fenced the shoreline, bought trees, divided flaxes, planted, planted and planted – and got involved with Otamatea HarbourCare.
It’s the brain child of Mark Vincent who’s created a native plant nursery, acquired seeds and seedlings and all they require to grow, nurtured them, got sponsorship, organised working bees and planting days, inspired celebrities to get on the end of spades (Te Radar, Paul Henry and our Kaipara mayor), delivered trees to planting sites, dug too many holes and done too much more to list here.
All this earned Otamatea HarbourCare the credibility to get funding for professional tree planters. They came courtesy of Reconnecting Northland and its Go with the Flow: Northern Kaipara Harbour Project.
Reconnecting Northland is the first WWF-NZ and NZ Landcare Trust project of its type and is designed to restore “natural processes and ecosystems”, while Go with the Flow is about restoration and working with landowners.
And there we were last Thursday with potted plants jam-packed on the oldest and coolest trailer I’ve ever met. Odd fact that relates to this yarn – the farmer bought it from the second female to ride in the Melbourne Cup, Linda Ballantyne, who used to live nearby.
In just two hours the four guys planted 1000 plants. Snap! Job done! But mostly tree planting is DIY and not quite so speedy. On Wednesday 16 August we’re having a planting day here at Batley and need new blood in our team, even if just for this project. You needn’t dig holes. That’s the domain of strong blokes. I generally follow along and pop in trees. Easy.
Beforehand you’ll have morning tea and learn about our 150-year-old house at Batley on the Kaipara Harbour near Maungaturoto and afterwards we’ll gather for lunch. Please say yes.
The harbour needs you, you’ll help our beleaguered planet and make a positive difference. Questions are welcome and RSVP is essential. Please message the Otamatea HarbourCare Society’s Facebook page.
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Little Feathers: “Whoa . . . what the hell just happened?”
The chain of events that saved the life of the baby white-faced heron began months before the stormy night it fell from the nest. The eternal rain also played a part, for if this winter had been as mild as last, the bulls wouldn’t have busted through a weak spot in the fence to scoff rank kikuyu.
Our fence fix was such a limp effort I moved the horse elsewhere when the bulls returned to the troublesome paddock and this turned out to be a wise move. Five bulls invaded the paddock and it was mid morning before the farmer returned them to their mates which by then had moved to fresh pasture.
He came home from this mission carrying a sodden, bedraggled and ominously still baby heron he’d found under the macrocarpa where the birds nest. Later he said it had looked so near death that he’d considered chopping off its head to put it out of its misery.
Soon the chick was in front of the blow heater while I turned it regularly to ensured it dried out and didn’t get toasted. A Whangarei Native Bird Recovery Centre volunteer advised that a hot water bottle be brought into service.
As the little bird dried out, life flowed back in and the bird perked up so much it squawked when it felt threatened, but soon gave up this aggressive attitude.
Recovery Centre staff had advised us against feeding it, but it did seem pleased to get a speck of smoked mullet down its gullet. Its body was the size of a large pine cone.
That evening Little Feathers, named by a friend, joined our three cats in front of the fire, kept safe by a mesh cage over its box. Residual heat keeps the room warm, but in the early hours I refilled the hottie. Little Features slept curled in a tight ball.
The next morning it was awake and alert, watching as I prepared to set off for the Recovery Centre. It spent the journey curled up in her – or his – box. Little Feathers waited in my warm car during my morning appointment and, by the time I returned, was sitting up and swivelling her head to check out the surroundings. I was enchanted. The feathers on her neck lay in a spiral pattern as if she could turn her head full circle.
Little Feathers perked up in my warm car.
A Recovery Centre volunteer gave us a warm welcome, took Little Feathers into her arms and muttered about the foolishness of white-faced herons. “They make ridiculous nests,” she said. “A few sticks crossed over each other high in a tree.” I imagined a set up for noughts and crosses.
She assured me that when the time came to release the bird, it would return to its home at Batley and I can hardly wait.
As I farewelled Little Feathers knowing she would get better care than the farmer and I could give her, I felt a rush of emotion. Saving that bird’s life had been extraordinarily rewarding.
Little Feathers will enjoy a bonus in life simply because it fell from the nest. The little grey bird won’t be forced to take its maiden flight from an uppermost branch of a tall macrocarpa.
Having watched baby herons teeter for ages as they pluck up courage to fly while their mother screams instructions from nearby, I reckon it might almost have been worth taking the fall on that dark and stormy night.
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Spark staff, from left, Rachita Dahama and Gurpreet Jaura planting the coastline at Batley on the Kaipara Harbour.
People power to plant the edge of the largest harbour in the southern hemisphere is being provided gratis by one of our country’s largest companies.
Spark NZ, through its charitable arm the Spark Foundation, enables its staff to spend a day a year contributing to a worthy cause. Last week, 11 Spark people turned their attention to waterfront land at our place where hundreds of native saplings sat ready to be planted.
Mark Vincent, the initiator of Otamatea HarbourCare, which has a goal of planting many kilometres of harbour waterways, had grown them in his nursery with the help of volunteers. The week before Mark had attended another planting day, this one with children from diverse backgrounds. Although they were horticulture students, they turned up in school uniforms. No gumboots in sight.
We were luckier, despite many of our guests having begun life in other countries – or their parents had. Most were quietly spoken, making communication a test; when a young man waved a paper cup and said ‘Rubbish bin’, I thought he said ‘Aspirin’ and offered him a Panadol. We worked it out.
We also struck luck with the weather. Friday dawned still, clear and beautiful. Our guests arrived when the tide was in and began taking photos of our calm and glittering Kaipara Harbour.
While eating pikelets and muffins (cooked by the farmer’s mother), we introduced them to the place – they were beside the Otamatea River, the central arm of the harbour and in a house that began life in 1866. And that’s one reason Mark chose Batley for the first Spark Foundation day – we’re on the waterfront and the house and area abound with wondrous stories. The first settlers, for example, had seven daughters but only one reached adulthood. Twins were still born, three girls drowned and another died of pneumonia and is buried on the hill behind our house.
After planting, we served lunch to our rather exhausted guests. Practice has taught us that soup is the answer when feeding a large or unknown number of people. It can be eaten standing up if necessary and can cater for all diets. We served pea and ham, seafood chowder and Thai pumpkin.
While we were from different worlds, we women bonded over the pumpkin soup. It’s simple and delicious. First, split your pumpkin. This doesn’t need a knife or the slightest effort. Drop your pumpkin, with force, on a hard surface like your concrete drive or path. It will break in two, easing the business of cutting it into pieces.
Already another batch of pea and ham soup is in the freezer and I’m primed to crack another pumpkin on our concrete courtyard. Our second group of Spark volunteers is due soon.
Margaret’s Thai Pumpkin Soup
(I name recipes after those who give them to me – our visitors took away a recipe for Rae’s Thai Pumpkin Soup.)
1.5 kg pumpkin (I bake the pieces, cool then peel them).
2 onions, chopped
3 stalks celery, chopped
4 cups chicken stock (use vegetable stock to cater for vegetarians)
1 Tb red curry paste (Gregg’s is good and the only one I use)
Simmer the lot, whizz till creamy then add a can of coconut cream. It is especially lovely with coriander sprinkled atop its surface.
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Photo by Geoff Walker
Dear Readers,
I can hardly believe it, but I’m having to backtrack on a bold declaration made in a previous column. Early this year I declared full of certainty that while Jas the puppy could bark and jump and beg, she would never, ever make me play. I backed up this emphatic statement by saying that I’m 13 years old, which puts me in my 70s in dog years, well past the time of playing just for fun.
Obviously I jump up and down with excitement when it’s food time, when my boss gets home, when my boss takes me for a walk or when I find her in the garden. But these situations don’t qualify as playing.
Playing is what Jas the puppy does. It involves jumping, spinning and dancing for no reason whatsoever. Why, I used to wonder, does Jas think dropping into what you humans call the ‘soliciting play’ position will make me play? Just in case you’re not clear, soliciting play when done by dogs involves poking the front legs forward, dropping the chest on the ground (which happens when the front legs are thrust forward) and poking one’s backside in the air
This ingratiating position also involves vigorous tail wagging, although this barely rates a mention as vigorous tail wagging is automatic for dogs when we’re pleased. On the odd occasion I’ve felt pleased and have tried not to wag my tail, it’s been an epic fail. That tail of mine has a mind of its own.
Anyway, on the fated day when I played for no reason whatsoever, I’d followed my boss Rae into the paddock when she went to give the horse a snack. Already, I was acting strangely because I often only follow her part way to the horse.
You can’t kid me that this counts as a walk. A walk is when she devotes her attention to me and I follow her. Walks are mostly along the beach and moving bulls. They used to include paddocks, but I’m now suspicious when she goes into the big paddock by the house because she might just be going to visit or catch the horse. Last week, I was suspicious as usual, then I realised my boss was off to gather mushrooms. I had to run to catch up.
Anyway, on this day she’d fed the horse and was walking home when this unearthly desire to play overcame me. It was as if I’d been taken over by the character of Jas the puppy who was standing nearby. I jumped, I lunged, I spun around and I dropped into that ingratiating solicit play position and begged my boss to play. She grinned and I thought she was going to laugh at me but she jumped and frisked and lunged and ruffled by furry neck and together we played in the paddock. Golly, it was fun.
For once Jas didn’t play at all. This silly and thrilling moment was just for me and my boss. Then the feeling passed and even though my boss patted me on the head and told me she loved me, it hasn’t happened since.
It was, I’ve decided, a moment that may never be repeated. Note my use of the word ‘may’. Once I’d have said never but now I’ve learned never to say never. Oh, perhaps I’ll amend that because I know myself too well – I’ve learned almost never to say never.
Your friend, Floss.
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Special notebook – made with love and Batley House skirting board
It was surely a world first. A bloke who contacted me to buy a copy of my book asked for a hunk of the house as well.
“Sure,” I replied. “I’ll see what I can find.” Dave suggested weather board, but a scavenge in the wood heap in the back paddock turned up something I thought would be even better. As I inspected the piece of skirting from the bathroom, back when it was white and that old-fashioned pale green, I wished for the creativity to do something clever with it. A small hole added to its rustic charm. The farmer says it accommodated a water pipe.
I posted it with a copy of ‘Love at the End of the Road’ and, soon afterwards, Dave reported that the gift had been a success. He knew this because when Vicky received my book and the notebook he’d made using the wood as a cover, she was overcome with emotion. The reason for her tears – Vicky lived here in the 1960s and 70s when children from families in strife stayed at Batley House which had started its life a century earlier as a home, boarding house and store.
A few weeks later, Dave, Vicky and her sister Michele visited. Twice they’d been to Batley, but had been hesitant about returning to their former home. This time, here they were in our living room remembering not just what the house had been like back then, but what their lives had been like.
When they arrived in 1967, Vicky had a special honour. Lance and Olive Field, who had foster children and cared for children from troubled homes during school holidays, drew the line at babies – except for Vicky. She and her four siblings were wards of the state. Their father was in prison and their mother wasn’t coping. Of course, they had to be together.
“We loved it here,” said Michele as they remembered being called to meals by a bell and siren, the massive vegetable garden and the loving care and guidance provided by Lance and Olive. There had been excitement chasing possums in the night, and thrills sliding down the bank in front of the house on a wet plastic sheet. One boy, going rather too fast, flew high and landed on the road. The children loved to swim. One day Lance had screamed, “Get out of the water.” The kids, not used to hearing his voice raised, obeyed – and just as well. A five-metre shark cruised along nearby.
Lance and Olive showed the children nothing but kindness. The only time he got angry was when he put a stop to the mischievous kids’ attempt to dig up the grave on the hill behind the house.
“We thought it was a Maori princess,” recalls Michele. It’s the grave of Grace Masefield, a daughter of the first settlers who died in 1874.
Batley House was the only place the five children stayed together. In other homes, Vicky, Michele, their two sisters and brother were separated and sometimes endured harsh conditions.
“We felt privileged to come here,” they said. “We didn’t have a home. When we thought of a home, this is where we’d think of.”
And now, almost half a century later, Vicky’s notebook is a permanent reminder of the place she and her siblings call home, the place where they were cared for and loved.
Love at the End of the Road is now an ebook: /Rae-Roadley/e/B013Q6NKWY
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Pink beribboned hammer
I had the shaming idea after the farmer nicked my precious hammer once too often, despite owning several himself. I tied a pretty pink bow on its neck and now, while the farmer uses my hammer, he no longer walks off with it. I guess the guilt he’d feel untying the bow or the shame while using a girlie work tool did the trick.
When he emptied my lawnmower petrol container once too often, I wrote threatening messages on it: ‘Rae’s petrol can. Do not touch.’ But he’d still sneak it to fill the pump for the nearby dam. Finally, I acted in the manner of an employer planning to fire someone who wouldn’t have a chance of winning in the employment court. After more strategic pleas, the day came when I said, “If you take it away again or leave it empty once more, I will never, ever mow a blade of grass again.” These days the container only departs briefly when the farmer refills it.
I’m devoted to my old green spade. It’s small, light and perfect. So why did the farmer keep using it? Eventually, I just bought him a new spade. But I did want it sharpened. My requests produced no action until the day I took it to Whangarei and phoned him to ask where I could get it sharpened. “I’ll do it,” he replied.
The next day I presented the spade. “Please sharpen this. I’m really, really hot on getting my spade sharpened.”
He grinned. “Really hot?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Really, really hot.”
He sharpened the spade.
And now to the vegetable garden which so big I’ve resigned. It’s now a weed jungle apart from rocket, a patch of kale and mustard greens (which are surprisingly delicious). Then I found the farmer hunched over his computer doing research. A raised garden bed is now under construction.
Then there’s the ancient bellows bought at a secondhand shop. They were gorgeous till he used them to start a fire in his smokehouse after a good catch of mullet. Pity he left them outside.
“We’ve got two choices,” I said, pointing out the dry, cracked leather and, therefore, useless bellows. “Toss them out or get them repaired, but that’ll cost a fortune.”
“I’ll fix them,” he said.
“You’ll fix them,” I spluttered. “I bet you don’t.”
“How much?”
“$200 and I’ll give you two years.” I felt supremely confident, having spent 16 years observing the farmer leave a trail of small DIY projects in his wake. (Fortunately he’s good at the big jobs.)
Two days later, he’d turned the dining table into a craft table where he sat cutting and hammering (with my prettily beribboned hammer) while bathed in an aura of self-satisfaction.
The repaired bellows look so beautiful I’d bet good money they won’t be left outside any time soon.
Finally . . . you can get the ebook – go to: /author/raeroadley
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Otamatea HarbourCare members – the farmer front left – getting stuck in planting natives to improve water quality in the Kaipara Harbour.
Each morning I’m a picture of sartorial style in muddy overalls, beanie and gumboots as the farmer and I move cattle. Up until the big wet we moved young bulls in the intensive grazing system every two days, but now they’re in smaller paddocks. In larger areas they stomp the lot to muck by the end of day one and stage a mutinous break-out in day two.
As it was, there were break outs because the electric fence system took a hammering in the storm. But that’s a tiny glitch compared to what many farmers are facing, plus I’ve found returning Houdini cattle to their paddocks to be surprisingly satisfying.
My dog Floss and I sometimes walk several hundred metres to bring back escapees. One lot spotted me as I approached and came running at a gallop, like naughty schoolboys who’d been caught out. There’s always one laggard and as we plodded to get him, I expressed this to Floss in strong farmer language. The big wet does tend to inspire a colourful vocabulary, even among lucky ones like us.
The farmer calculated that at flood’s peak, only about one percent of the farm was under water. Some farmers have 90 percent of their land swamped. That morning Floss and I did face a sludgy battle of wills, but the bulls eventually galloped into a valley and up the other side and were soon with their mates. I was thrilled.
Then, last Saturday, cattle moving done, the farmer and I picked up spades and headed off to plant native trees. I also find it surprising satisfying to head off the farm clad in muddy overalls and gumboots and not give, as my dog Floss would say, a dog’s biscuit what I look like.
It was my second planting of the week and the farmer’s third. With the manager and helpers, he’d planted about 1200 natives on the edge of the farm, then he and I dug up flaxes that had taken root in his mother’s garden. After separating the big ones, we planted about 70 between the coastal fence and harbour.
“They don’t go far,” observed the farmer after we were done.
On Saturday we attended the inaugural planting day of the fledgling Otamatea HarbourCare group which has the slogan, ‘Productive land with a healthy harbour’.The team put in about 750 flaxes, cabbage trees and manuka by a waterway on a farm that borders State Highway 12. It will be a living advertisement for the group and the massive and long-term effort required to plant the edge of the Kaipara Harbour to reduce run-off and increase water quality.
Afterwards we gathered in a farm shed. As lunch came to an end, it was time for a speech acknowledging the momentous occasion. Mark Vincent, who’s taken on the task of getting the group going, drew inspiration from Winston Churchill: “Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”
If spending a weekend morning in mud and gumboots (overalls optional) and leaving a legacy of coastal plants appeals, you can find out about future planting days by emailing mark.cindy.vincent @ gmail.com (remove the spaces which are there to prevent spam).
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Here I am looking dorky in my Elizabethan collar and with my leg in a bright green bandage.
Dear Readers,
Who’d have thought one little lick could have started all this? Dogs lick. It’s what we do. Then I licked again and again until – and I was fascinated by this – a lump formed. I’m just regurgitating what the vet said here. I usually only regurgitate after I eat grass, but these are unusual circumstances which are, apparently about flea treatments. Because I’m special and sensitive, some of the usual stuff doesn’t quite work.
Anyway, here I am looking like a dork. I know this because the lady at the vet centre who I used to like looked at me and smiled and said, “Oh Floss, you look so funny.” Just because people can’t speak dog lingo, doesn’t mean I can’t understand every flipping word they say.
My boss, who I’m also cool on at the moment, has been heard marvelling about my good nature because when she gets me out of my cage to pee and poo I can’t wait to get back in. I don’t do this because I’m nice. I do it because I don’t want to be seen looking like a dork and I can avoid Jas the puppy. They call my neck gear an Elizabethan collar which confirms that the royal family, who my boss finds fascinating, are dingbats.
My leg, meanwhile, has a few teeny problems because I’ve ended up with insufficient skin to contain it. Ugggh. Doesn’t bear thinking about.
The only excitement during my incarceration has been thanks to the farmer. Soon after I’d had my right foreleg bandaged he came home with his right forepaw in plaster. What a guy! He fell off a truck while loading wool bales – just to make me feel better. Some bone that links his thumb to his wrist, apparently.
Then, when the farmer let me out to do ablutions, he forgot to put me on a lead. I was off up the back paddock at a gallop – finally in a private place to do what should be done in private. Then there’s the dodgy door he made for my pen. I had many long hours to check out that door before the day of my escape.
As usual, my boss was walking Kate and the annoying puppy along the beach. But I could no longer overlook her disloyal behaviour because she was with her friend Fluffy. Some people get us mixed up and call me Fluffy. I love that.
Then Kate barked, “Come on, Floss. It’s fun on the beach.” That did it! I ripped some slats off my door, wriggled out and was off, peg legging it along the beach, not giving a dog’s biscuit who saw me.
Finally, on the same day, the farmer and I set off to get our appendages released from prison. He came home bare pawed, but I was still bandaged – and furious.
One night, I bent my horrible collar, gripped the end of the bandage with my teeth and pulled like you wouldn’t believe. I was free!
I love going in the car, except once again I found myself at the vet centre with the lady who tells me I look funny. Turns out I knew best. They let me come home with no bandages, but I’m still locked up. Something about my skin being very fragile. Let me tell you, it’s not nearly as fragile as my patience.
Your friend Floss.
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Valentine’s Day is a big deal for me. I especially loved my Feb 14 celebratory champers after my first visit to Batley when Rex presented me with a hibiscus. Charmer that he is, he’s continued the tradition to this day.
Valentine’s Day 2012 was also a biggie – I sent a “Yay, you’ve done it!” email to my writer friend Jenn J McLeod who’d just had this to say:
“Yep! I have accepted an offer from Simon & Schuster (Australia) for the first two novels in my Seasons Collection.
I jotted down the names of the people/novels that have inspired me along the way. You are on that list so I wanted you to be amongst the first to share my excitement.”
Jenn’s novel House for all Seasons (number five on Neilsen’s debut novel bestseller list for 2013) has had many happy readers hanging out for the next book in the series – Simmering Season due out April 1.
Here’s the blurb: Back in Calingarry Crossing to sell the family pub, Maggie Lindeman has no idea a perfect storm is heading her way until her past and present collide with the unexpected.
Maggie once had a crush on Dan Ireland, now a work-weary police crash investigator, still hell-bent on punishing himself for his misspent youth. Dan has ample reason for not going home to Calingarry Crossing for the school reunion, but one very good reason why he should.
Maggie is dealing with a restless seventeen-year-old son, a father with dementia, a fame-obsessed musician husband, a dwindling bank account and a country pub that just won’t sell.
The last thing she needs is a surprise houseguest for the summer. Fiona Bailey-Blair, daughter of an old friend and spoilt with everything but the truth, whips up a maelstrom of gossip when she blows into town.
This storm season, when a school reunion brings home more than memories, Maggie Lindeman will discover … there’s no keeping a lid on some secrets.
And here’s Jenn to tell us her story:
Hi Jenn, first question, okay, questions: When did you start writing and when did you first dream of having a novel published?
I tend to restrict my ‘real writing’ tenure to the years following 2008, which is when I took a more business-like approach: applying myself, learning my craft and setting goals, etc
Did I always want to become an author? No! I wanted to be a singer/actress. As it turns out, my writing process satisfies the latent drama queen in me. I am a ‘method writer’. (I become my character and act out scenes and dialogue when I write. Quite hilarious to watch, so I am told.) I knew from a young age I had stories I wanted to tell. What I didn’t know was now hard getting published would be, or what it involved, or that people (friends and family) would not really understand the pull or dedication required. Had I know how stressful and isolating, I may never have tried. I guess ignorance was bliss.
Rae, can I just clarify something you said above? You didn’t just ‘inspire’ me. Your patience and generosity all those times I sent my “best efforts” for you to critique meant so much to me. Remember when I couldn’t grasp past tense? Then you threw past perfect into the mix and my head exploded! But you made me want to learn and be a better writer. I will love you forever, for that.
Wow! Thanks for the kind words. Umm . . . what’s past perfect tense?
Can you tell us a little about your life? Here’s a hint to get you started: “Woof woof.”
Yes, I am an old dog, Rae. Thanks for pointing that out! 
Oh, you mean my B&B, purpose-built for people traveling with their dogs? You know I am a dedicated dog person and a Floss fan (of the dog – not the dental – variety). Creating canine characters for my novels happens to be a bonus to this writing gig. Jackpot the Jack Russell from House for all Seasons even makes a cameo in Simmering Season, along with his mate, Achilles (who, btw, does not heel!)
But, yes, when not writing I am making B&B beds and mopping furry floors. Very glamorous, this writing life.
In case you’re wondering – Floss is my dog, a long-haired border collie.
Jenn, you write books, are busy on social media, have an amazing blog, contribute to other writers and speak at conferences – do you have more hours in the day than the rest of us – or what?
I wish! What I miss is reading time. I was once told “to be a good writer, one must be a good reader”. Too true – then and still. But, just as important these days is connecting with readers and the internet makes it possible and easy. Even though it can be time-consuming, publishers expect their authors to be online and actively engaging with readers. (Another steep learning curve for an old dog who, not too long ago, thought a chat room was a sleazy online pick-up joint.) I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks – woof!
Online, I strive to be like the authors I enjoy following – bloggers who (like you, Rae – and Floss!) evoke discussion,make me think and most importantly, make me smile. I love blogging because I get to support other authors. I once heard someone say, “No author ever hurt their career by being generous to another author”. I live by that.
House for all Seasons has a cast of fabulous characters – and, boy, do you put them through the hoops. What inspired this novel – and Simmering Season?
House for all Seasons started with the simple premise of four parts with four characters – each one as different as the seasons. The original storyline had a male character (the vet).
The seasons inspire all my stories. What better analogy than the seasons for a story about growth and change? I love the contrast, and contrast makes for great characters and conflict. And I do bring plenty of conflict to Simmering Season’s poor Maggie.
A sweltering small town during storm season,
A school reunion that brings home more than memories,
And an unexpected houseguest who’ll blow the lid off a lifetime of secrets for local publican—Maggie Lindeman.
What’s coming next – is there a third book in the series? And what about after that?
Simon & Schuster have now contracted four novels, so my dream of having a ‘Seasons Collection’ will come true in 2016 when Book 4 comes out.
April 2015 will see Book 3 (Season of Shadow & Light) released, but there are two chapters in the back of Simmering Season to give readers a taste. I am moving away from Calingarry Crossing (the setting for books 1 and 2) to a new town with a different cast of quirky and colourful characters for me to traumatise.
Let’s finish on a high note – tell us a highlight or two in your life as a published author.
- Emails from readers. Nothing better than a personal note from a reader to say my story touched them in some way.
- The surreal sense of celebrity that only comes from living in a small town, when strangers come up to you in the supermarket and say, “You’re that author! I loved your book.”
How can readers get your book – will it be on New Zealand bookshelves – and when?
April 1 is the official release date for Aust/NZ.
Simmering Season will be available in print in bookshops, from e-tailers and in e-book. I already have some lovely NZ readers who connect with me via Facebook and Twitter. Will be venturing into Pinterest and Google+ this year too.
There is no stopping this old dog!
Woof right back atchya, Rae and Flossy!
Connect
Facebook: www.facebook.com/JennJMcLeod.Books
Twitter: @jennjmcleod
Website: www.jennjmcleod.com (where people can follow my blog or sign up for my ‘Odd and Newsy Newsletter’ – irregular book news and giveaways.)
You can read a sample chapter of Simmering Season here – and view the book trailer
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Floss, a vet’s dream (broken leg, infected foot, devoured a chocolate cake, spayed) being smooched by Cheetah, a budget cat so far, neutered with a quick snip – fingers crossed he’ll keep well and safe.
If you surrendered to a loved one who wanted a pet for Christmas it’s not too late to supplement your gift. Yep – I’m talking money. When animals break or get sick they need to be repaired unlike other gifts which can be returned or trashed.
Animals are for life – or that’s the idea – although I do know of two dogs and a cat that went to new homes when their owners couldn’t cope.
Over the years, some of our pets have notched up big veterinary bills.
Lilac had hyperthyroidism (she went to heaven in May). The symptoms were odd – she stopped hissing at the dogs, was no longer hostile to the cats. When picked up, she’d unfailingly slump, purring, on anyone’s shoulder. She’d always thrown up hair balls, but not food, and her fur seemed sticky, like she’d been in paspalum.
The clever vet’s guess was confirmed by a blood test. Lilac gobbled tablets for the rest of her days – we chose not to shell out $600 for radiation treatment – but regular blood tests meant regular outgoings.
Tara the cat’s decaying teeth made her breath smell like a Chernobyl drain – until a vet did dental work. Dot the cat is allergic to fleas – and perhaps something else, still undefined – while miniscule mites gnaw Floss’s skin (dogs are even more costly than cats) unless I use a special flea and mite killer.
The ills of the farmer’s dog Mo (now deceased) sent her to four-figure vet bill class. She had a growth removed from a mammary gland and snapped something in her leg that required surgery. Kate still suffers occasional pain following a hip op after she got run over, while Floss got skittled as a puppy, had an infected foot and scoffed too much chocolate cake. Chocolate can kill dogs, and the cocoa in cakes delivers a vicious punch. The loss of the cake paled in comparison to the cost of the Sunday treatment to make Floss puke.
So if you gave a pet for Christmas perhaps you could add a savings account. And if you got given an animal, it might be wise to drop hints about its running costs.
Happy 2014 and a big, warm thank you for reading my blog.
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