As you know, I’ve been posting a series of synopses of my upcoming publications from time to time. This one is called The Belle of the Bell City Bottom (working title). I’d love to hear your reaction to the synopsis as well as the title. I’m a bit worried that it might conjure up a totally different book from the actual one.
Synopsis: The Belle of the Bell City Bottom
Effie Shultz, born 1900 in western Kentucky, is far from a true southern belle. Rather, she is the youngest daughter in an impoverished family with too many children, claiming descent from Catherine the Great, eking out a living as sharecroppers. After her mother’s death, Effie—the only unmarried daughter—is expected to tend to her ill-tempered father and demanding brothers. She learns to enjoy controlling the boys and, to a lesser extent, her father. When she meets and falls in love with Dalton McClain, she’s torn between the drive to control him, as she did them, and a desire to be controlled.

Her inner conflict leads to behavior baffling to them both. Like It All Comes Down to This, The Belle of the Bell City Bottom focuses on strong-minded sisters, a dying mother, and the importance of family bonds and the past. It also shares nuanced character development with Properties of Thirst.

Afraid Dalton will think her too old to be marriage material, she lies about her age, a lie that haunts her until her death. Although Dalton comes from a line of rough, gun-toting drinkers, he seems gentle and kind. Having been abandoned by his father not long after his mother died, Dalton feels responsible for his younger alcoholic brother, Raymond. Time after time, Dalton rescues Raymond from bar fights and near-death encounters.

This devotion to family both endears him to Effie and arouses her jealousy. She fears she will never be able to take first place in his life when Raymond is so consistently needy. She flees from the Bell City bottom for a time to spread her wings as a career woman in Paris, Tennessee, where one of her favorite sisters is currently boarding. When Dalton shows up in Paris at Christmastime, Effie’s heart leaps with joy. The book follows their relationship over the years through and beyond the Depression. When their beautiful daughter, Marie, shows signs of manic-depressive behavior, Effie and Dalton unite in their desire for her happiness but not in the means to achieve that end.

I’m not the best retiree, though I’m getting there. I like having something to do. I love to write, but it’s far too easy to put it off or feel uninspired. My husband retired almost twenty-five years ago and claims he has never looked back. I can’t say that, although I try not to make a habit of looking back. The difference has to do with our personalities.

“I’m easily entertained,” he often says, and this seems to be true. He’s content with his phone, TV, or a book most of the time.

He’d say my greatest weakness is that I always want to be doing something, even when I’m sick. I’d say his might be a lack of interest in doing something, even when he’s well. For example, I like to do, or think about doing, board games, card games, tennis, ping pong pickleball, snow skiing (though I haven’t yet), swimming, boogie boarding, and theater. He likes none of these. To be fair, he does make an effort on occasion, but I know his heart isn’t in it.

I’m reminded of the comedian Leanne Morgan, who said of her husband, “Chuck Morgan doesn’t believe in joy.” Like her, I may complain but not too seriously.

And I love to travel. He does not, though he’s a better traveler than I am in many ways…once we get there and settled. It’s the getting there and settling that are difficult.

These thoughts came to me as I prepared to post another travel blog. I remember my sister remarking of one of my travel blogs, “It was mostly about food.”

She wasn’t wrong, and I realized that a love of good food is one thing we share. When we travel, we both enjoy trying new foods, and he’s even more adventurous than I am about experiencing the local cuisine, wherever we happen to be.

We passed this love on to our son, who has practically made a career of it by directing more episodes (I believe) of Chef’s Table than any other director. He loves doing the research, sampling the flavors, and getting to know the chefs, as well as the actual directing of the episodes.

So, as I prepare to post my travel notes from my most recent trip to New Zealand, Part III, don’t be surprised if I talk a lot about food.

New Zealand 2025, Part III:
Still in Rotorua, NZ, Governor Gardens…After strolling alongside the flowers and snapping a few photos, we went in search of food. We tried Duke’s, a bar/restaurant inside one of the hotels we considered (Prince’s). Norm ordered a beer, but they were only serving a few items of food, all of which were deep fried. Yummy as they sounded, I suspected they might not sit well in my stomach. It was an odd time of day, late for lunch and early for dinner.

We found a nearby pub, The Fainting Goat, and seated ourselves. A “Reserved” sign on the table had a time of 5:30 indicated. Our server approached, looking perplexed.

“Talk to us,” Norm said.

“I don’t know if there’s enough time.”

Comprehension dawned. It was now 4:30. I’d already looked at the menu posted outside, so I said, “We’re just going to have a shared platter of hummus and dips.”

“Should I put the order in?” she asked.

I nodded, and Norm ordered another beer. I settled for water.

The drive back to Auckland went smoothly, much less winding and nausea-inducing than the one the day before in the opposite direction. Tiring nonetheless, so we spent most of the following day, Saturday, resting.

We did venture out for brunch, thinking we might eat breakfast food but choosing instead an Indian restaurant just opening at 11 AM.

On Sunday, we drove to Devonport for the second time. We watched a movie called Spit, an Australian comedy with a New Zealand actor in the lead role. Silly but fun and generally uplifting. I ate a choc-top, which is chocolate ice cream coated in dark chocolate with a sprinkling of nuts. It was delicious. I wish they had those at the theaters in the U.S.

I had brought a black blazer with me and a new pale pink sweater in case of excessive air conditioning. I draped the jacket over the sweater to avoid dripping chocolate on the pale fabric. I tried to be careful in the dark theater but discovered later that I’d indeed dribbled a fair amount of chocolate on the jacket. Must run in the family. I was just talking to my daughter yesterday about a recent experience where her husband took Elise, their ten-year-old chocolate lover, for a croissant at Starbucks before church.

“Don’t let her get chocolate on her sweatshirt,” Nikki warned her husband. He’d been put in charge of the kids because Nikki was driving separately to cover the welcome station at their church.

Predictably, when Elise showed up at the welcome station, she had a gigantic chocolate circle on the front of her white sweatshirt. “I told her to turn it wrong side out,” Nikki said just as I was about to say the exact same thing. Lots of experience.

Back to New Zealand…We ate lunch on Sunday at Manuka in Devonport, a café on the main drag where Norm had monk fish once before. He had it again, and I ordered a portobello mushroom drizzled in olive oil and balsamic with blue cheese. Both were very tasty.

As before, we drove to Cheltenham Beach. This time I changed into my swimsuit and went for a lovely swim. Two swims actually. We struck it between tides, which is ideal, At lower tides, the water isn’t quite so chilly, but it was high enough I didn’t have to go out very far to be able to swim or float about. We had guessed that Auckland traffic wouldn’t be quite so heavy around 5 PM on a weekend as on our previous visit, and we were right.

We drove north on Monday toward Puhoi and on to Matakana. We had reservations to eat at a winery for 2:30 PM, so we drove out to Goat Island, which we remembered for the bright blue maomao fish. Often, kids would be feeding crumbs to lure the fish to the surface, though the signs advocate against this. We saw no blue fish on this day, but we did climb around on the rocks and shoot a few photos.

The beach and water were the busiest we’ve ever seen there. Apparently a few school groups were taking advantage of the lovely weather. Many people were wearing wet suits and snorkeling. We both remembered the time we tried this, and Norm panicked in the cold water. So we weren’t tempted to repeat the experience. I asked one woman, who had Scuba gear, if she saw anything interesting.

She nodded. “Several rays. And some massive fish.”

During our one snorkel adventure here, I too saw a few massive fish. In fact, I was about to steer Norm toward them when I realized he was climbing ashore. Snapper, I think.

Next we shopped a bit in Matakana, and I bought a beautiful black cashmere sweater dotted with a smattering of brilliant blue reminiscent of some of the colorful fish we’ve seen snorkeling in Fiji or Tahiti.

Our lunch at Brick Bay Winery was excellent. We ordered several small plates, and Norm had a flight of wines. I had fruit-flavored sparkling water. Our dishes included prosciutto, venison, carpaccio, bruschetta, beetroot hummus, focaccia, and more. No complaints here. The setting was lovely also, with blooming lily pads, olive trees, and sunshine.

On Tuesday we returned once more to Devonport, where we saw a third movie at the Vic. The “Widow Clicquot” tells the story of Barb-Nicole Clicquot, a 19th century female entrepreneur. She takes over her husband’s failing champagne business and eventually transforms it into a global empire using techniques still followed today, though the film ends before she becomes truly successful.

We remembered a Devonport buffet restaurant where we ate Baked Alaska for the first time. Unfortunately, the restaurant had changed ownership since then, and our meals were mediocre at best. Norm’s eggs were overcooked, and my pancakes were thick and slightly burned (I prefer my pancakes to be thin and crispy rather than thick and fluffy, but definitely not burned). Oh, well. We did have some very good ice cream, though, on the main drag near the ferry station.

It's Wednesday today, as I write this update, and we’ve been to Mission Bay, another old favorite. I almost always swim at Mission Bay, but the beach didn’t look inviting today. It was overcast from the time I awoke, and the rain fell just as we reached Mission Bay. We checked out all the menus, which are posted for easy access, before settling on the upstairs restaurant at the Belgian Café.

I first had NZ scallops in Mission Bay, though not at this restaurant, and they are my favorite scallops ever. Never before had I seen scallops with the gonads attached, and I asked Farshid, a colleague from Auckland University who introduced us to Mission Bay about them. “What are these orange parts?”

He flushed and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

I asked the waitress, and she too avoided the question.

I was delighted that my small plate of scallops included plenty of pinkish-orange parts as they are exquisite. Norm had a snapper ceviche, and we both had gelato at a spot boasting a host of well-merited awards. Mine was lime-mango-passionfruit, topped with a dip of rich chocolate. Norm had chocolate peanut butter and coconut meringue.

I’d ordered an iced chocolate at the Belgian Café, but it wasn’t great. Norm had a dark Leffe, and I decided to drink a beer for once, since Leffe is hard to find outside of Belgium. In the late 1990s, I spent a few years teaching grad students in Ghent, and they introduced me to various beers (including Leffe and one they called devil beer) and the importance of always having a drink that matches the glass. I ordered a blonde.

“You don’t want a blonde beer,” Norm said.

“I like a blonde beer, and I think it’s less likely to cause a migraine,” I said. So far, so good. (Note from later: I did have a migraine several hours later, but there might be no connection).

My dad’s been having a string of health issues, and I spent quite a bit of time on the phone with my sister discussing options. Then I talked to Daddy, and he sounded good. Much better than the last time, which makes my heart sing.
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That’s enough for now. FIJI COMING SOON.

Around 2:30 pm, Wednesday, March 5, 2025, we made our way to the Esplanade in Devonport, an old favorite for afternoon tea. The date scones were a bit hard; Norm always called them “stones,” but the clotted cream and tea were delicious. I chose a Jasmine, and Norm a passionfruit oolong.

After tea, we headed to Cheltenham, my favorite beach on the north island. The tide was quite low, and I walked in up to my ankles without changing into my swimsuit. Most of the bathers in the water were standing rather than swimming. We saw a house we’d looked at a few years back when it was for sale. Still lovely, and probably worth a lot more now than it was then. Not right on the beach, but only one house away. We hit 5 o’clock rush hour traffic as we made our way back to Auckland.

“If we come again, maybe we can avoid rush hour by coming on a weekend rather than weekday,” I said. “I really shouldn’t complain though. It’s nothing like Nashville.”

Our apartment in Parnell, NZ, this time is on the fourth floor and right across from the heated lap pool and small gym. I’ve only used it once so far this trip, but it’s always pleasant.

On Thursday morning, we headed south toward Taupo. I wasted way too much time looking online at hotels in the Rotorua and Taupo area, trying to decide where to stay. The drive took the bulk of the day and was much more winding than I’d remembered. We were both tired and grumpy by the time we arrived.

The Wairakei resort seemed nice enough, but our room did not. Knowing the temperature would drop into the 40s Fahrenheit at night, Norm tried to turn the heater on and failed. Once more, we had to switch rooms.

“What were we thinking?” I said, chastising myself. We scrimped and saved, staying in cheap hotels when we were younger so we wouldn’t have to now. Old habits die hard, though. At least the heater worked in the second room, but the walls were scuffed and the carpet stained. Seemed clean, as far as bathroom and sheets were concerned.

The heated pool was warm as most hot tubs. Pleasant at first, but you couldn’t swim for long without overheating. The entire area is one of the geothermal reserves, and the sulfur smell permeates Rotorua but not quite so intensely in Taupo. The resort wasn’t exactly in either city but closer to Taupo and quite near Huka Falls, which we remembered for its brilliant blue hues.

We went to the spa (basically a hot tub) after leaving the pool. I could feel my blood pressure escalating so refrained from staying in very long. We had dinner on the premises at the Geyser bar. I ordered duck confit, and Norm had John Dory. Both were delicious, and huge portions.

The next morning we checked out early and headed toward Rotorua. I had intended our first stop to be the Waimangu Volcanic Valley, but a sign caught my eye for Orakei Korako Geothermal Park and Cave. I pointed it out.

“Do you want to do that?” Norm asked as we headed past the turn off.

I hesitated, knowing he hates to backtrack. Once he’s passed an exit with tempting restaurant or gas station choices, I know better than to ask. “Yes,” I said at last.

We didn’t have to backtrack far, but the road to the park and cave was very long and winding, or so it seemed to one prone to motion sickness. I never had that problem as a child (back then I could read a novel in a moving car), though both my kids did. I do now, however, but I made it reasonably well by concentrating on the road. Well worth the drive, in the end.

We took a short ferry across to the geothermal park. I could see there were going to be a lot of steps, and I prayed my knee would hold out. Luckily, there were numerous landings and terraces, and most of the steps were not steep ones.

Lots of thermal gasses, some bubbling pools, yellow and gold algae, very pretty really. More steps to get to the cave. We couldn’t go inside but impressive to look at, one of only two geothermal caves in the world. The other is in Italy.

Oh, I forgot to mention our stop in Hamilton on Thursday on our way to Taupo. We’ve been to the Hamilton gardens a few times before. I think I appreciate it more than the locals. When I mention it to my colleagues at Auckland, no one sounds very impressed. But I like it a lot.

A new garden celebrates Egypt, reminding me of a river cruise I’d scheduled a few years ago but canceled due to hip pain (I still hope to get there some day). The garden was very colorful, quite lovely, and we took several photos. We also visited the kitchen and herbal gardens, the Chinese garden, the English garden (always makes me think of a Paul McCartney song), the surreal (or fantasy) garden with huge doors and oddly shaped trees, reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. We strolled briefly through the Mansfield garden, having spent time there before, where a garden party is being laid out with cakes and pies on the tennis court.

We went to the café at the Hamilton Garden, ordered coffee for Norm, mince and cheese savories for both of us, and a delicious custard muffin to share. I planned to buy another muffin to take away on our departure, but they’d sold out.

As we left Orakei Korako, we walked through their café, planning to snack there. But the café had filled up, and a lengthy queue formed. We decided to move on toward Waimangu. The tickets for the boat ride there were quite expensive, about $370 for the two of us, but we’d expected them to be. Our feet and legs were tired, so we bought the ticket that allowed us to be driven by bus to the boat pickup and returned the same way.

The lake covers the area once famous for pink and white terraces. These were quite a tourist draw in the 1800s but destroyed by a volcano in the late 1800s. We saw a few smaller terraces with traces of the salmon pink color, as well as some bright yellow ones similar to those at Orakei.

Two smaller lakes once populated the area, now subsumed into one large lake. We sat in the bow of the boat in front of the captain alongside another family. The boat just before ours had been packed with people, but we were the only five passengers on our forty-five-minute cruise. The hot sun baked down on my black jeans until I thought to cover them with the map of our journey. Much better!
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Norm drove us next into the heart of Rotorua, where we parked in the Governor Gardens we remembered from previous visits. A gorgeous bed of ranunculus, replete with delicate, satin-like petals, reminded me of the ones at our daughter’s wedding, the first time I ever heard of the flower—now one of my favorites. PART III COMING SOON        

We returned to New Zealand this year for the first time since the pandemic struck in March of 2020. We were in Auckland at the time, planning a trip to Japan before going home.

My sister had warned me before we left the U.S. what might be coming. I dismissed it as an example of spending too much time on social media. When our trip to Japan fell through, I looked into booking a short stop in Tahiti on our way to Los Angeles. A few days later the Tahiti airport shut down. In the end, we felt fortunate to get one of the last flights out of New Zealand to Los Angeles.

Now, five years later, New Zealand is as lovely as I remember. We’re only spending two weeks here this time instead of our usual four. The first week is almost over. Already we’ve spent two gorgeous days in the village of Devonport, where we resided for over three months in 2003, our first time here. In the past, we only rented a car occasionally for specific purposes. This year we decided to keep one the entire stay, hoping it would prove a bit easier on knees, hips, and backs as we age.

This year we flew into Burbank, California, on February 23, planning to spend three nights with our son Clay and his family. However, our granddaughter Frankie was recovering from a virus, and Silas (age 3) was in the throes of it. Clay had started running a fever of 103 degrees around the time we arrived, and his symptoms worsened throughout our stay. We booked a cheap hotel about half an hour from his house, still hoping to them a bit. But, as Clay’s symptoms persisted, we decided not to chance catching a virus right before we flew again.

Our first night in Los Angeles proved miserable, as we were tired, jet-lagged, and irritable. The room had no working air, and we were very hot. We asked to be moved. The second room had a bathtub with no plug. Finally, we settled into a room nearby with two double beds and a working bathtub and air.

After that, our spirits improved, despite our disappointment at spending no time with Clay’s family. Several restaurants were within easy walking distance, including a Mexican restaurant practically next door. We savored the taquitos and chile rellenos, so much more flavorful than the Tennessee version of Mexican food.

Our next stop was Fiji, an old favorite. The weather, however, was the worst we’ve experienced in many trips to the islands. We expected a driver to be waiting at the Nadi airport with a sign. When no one showed, we hired a taxi to the port where the boat was scheduled to transport us to Serenity Island Resort. Our flight had arrived quite early in the morning, so we had several hours to wait.

Eventually the red boat arrived. The water was extremely choppy, and I feared motion sickness. However, the trip was quite short, and I breathed a sigh of relief when we saw land.

Because of the tumultuous waves, we docked on the opposite side of the island from the resort. As we trekked through the jungle, a small black insect bit my hand near the knuckles. Over the next several hours, the bite spread to about four pinpoints on my left hand. It reddened, itched, and burned. Hypochondriac that I am, I looked out at the tumultuous waters and wondered what I’d do if it spread throughout my body.

Fortunately, it did not.

We spent only two nights at Serenity. The people were extremely friendly and helpful, but the waters remained turbulent, the sky overcast, and the rain hard and frequent. During one lull, I located the shack with snorkel gear and found some fins in my size, one red and one yellow.

Norm went into the water with me, to my surprise as he’d not been feeling well. The water was warm but murky. Nonetheless, I saw a number of bright purple starfish, a beautiful branch of vivid purple coral, scores of tiny blue fish, a couple schools of large white fish, and a number of black and white striped fish. Although I saw no turtles while snorkeling, I did spot one from our beachfront bure one morning. I pointed it out to Norm, and we watched together as its head and flippers bobbed in and out of the water near shore.

Our breakfasts were included, and I always enjoy the fresh fruit, especially papaya and pineapple. I tried an omelet one morning and sunny-side-up eggs at the egg station the next. Our boat ride back to Nadi was nearly as turbulent as the first one, but again blessedly short. I covered my arms and legs, and pulled my sleeves over my hands as far as possible to dodge insects. My bite was healing by now and no more stings.

We spent one night in Nadi, since our flight to Auckland was an early AM flight. We’ve stayed at the Gateway Hotel across from the airport on multiple occasions. The rain slowed not long after we arrived, and I donned my swimsuit to take advantage of the large, warm-water pool. Other guests were coming out of the woodworks, and a number of them slid down the huge slide into the water. I resisted the temptation for once, not wanting to risk messing up my back just before New Zealand.

Our flight to Auckland went smoothly. I had pancakes, and they tasted delicious. When we got to the Quest Hotel in Parnell, the receptionist who greet me was so familiar I wanted to hug her. Her assistant guided us to a spot in the car garage, marked with my name.

Having not been here in so long, I began to question whether New Zealand is really as beautiful as I remembered. It is. You’re never far from water, and the colors of the inlets, the sea, the rivers are all spectacular. It helps, of course, that the weather has been divine so far. Gorgeous blue skies with a smattering of fluffy white clouds, sunshine most of the day every day. It rained once, but I didn’t realize it until I looked out the window of our apartment and saw a few puddles. 

I messaged my colleagues at the University of Auckland, and they said I could use my usual “visitor” office during my stay. I haven’t as yet, since we’ve been busy visiting old favorite haunts just about every day, or recovering from the previous day’s exercise and drive. Because of the time difference between here and home, I get confused sometimes about days of the week or month. I’m going to try to keep this straight as I write.

On Wednesday, March 5, we drove to Devonport. We used to catch the ferry every day when we lived there, but now we have a car. In preparation for the excursion, I called the Esplanade, a hotel restaurant directly across from the ferry station, to ask about tea. They no longer do a full high tea with all the trimmings, but assured me we could have scones with jam and clotted cream and a choice of teas or coffees.

I remember sharing high tea with my friend Caroline the last time I was there, so I knew I’d be thinking of her at the Esplanade. She’s British and has been living living in England again since around the start of the pandemic (after many years in New Zealand), if I remember correctly. Caroline was my student the first year I went to New Zealand, and a few years later, she began teaching and supervising the introductory accounting sections at the University of Auckland.
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The old Victoria theater, which was closed when we lived in Devonport, is back in service. We took in an 11AM movie in a tiny theater there. Bird, directed by Academy Award winner (female too!) Andrea Arnold, was hard to understand at times because of strong accents, but the storyline was easy to follow. I liked it a lot. After the movie we walked around the shops and purchased some books for the grandkids. PART II COMING SOON

My parents are in their nineties. My dad’s growing old with grace, my mom with humor. I can only hope that if I live to be their age, I’ll master at least one of the two.

When I call my dad, he’ll tell me how blessed he feels to be alive and to have kids, grandkids, and great grandkids, all of whom he loves so dearly. He names us one by one. My mom is almost always ready to laugh at herself even when she does the most outrageous things.

Recently we were trying to help them identify themselves with the Social Security folks in order to complete their income tax return, after they had lost their 1099s. We had to log in, go through a string of identification steps, and wait for a phone call.

It came at last. After a series of questions repeated a few times due to hearing issues, the caller at the other end asked my mother, “Did anyone text or email you to tell you to do this?”

“What?” she said.

He repeated the question.

“No!” she exclaimed. “Everyone I know is dead!”

The caller laughed, my husband and I laughed, and my mother laughed. Ah, the fun memories, the fun times…amidst the dark.

One day she tells me, “You and I are getting a little sag under here.” She pats her chin. Another day she says, “I think you and I look pretty good for our age.”

Does she think we’re the same age, I wonder. She’s wearing her teeth on this day at least.

I’m working on a trilogy about my parents, grandparents, and myself. I hope to publish it soon.

In The Past Ever Present, my father recalls his childhood. Although he grew up during the Great Depression and his family was far from wealthy, his memories radiate joy. When I talk to him these days, he says, “Enjoy life while you’re young.”
https://www.amazon.com/Past-Present-Debra-Coleman-Jeter/dp/1425745555
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Audio books: https://www.audible.com/author/Debra-Coleman-Jeter/B00UDTPPC6

When my son Clay was about nine, he landed the role of Creed Allen in the TV series Christy, being filmed in the mountains of east Tennessee. As the series progressed, so did his role in the show. We saved most of the money he earned working at this young age to apply toward his college fund.

We did, however, allow him one significant purchase. An older boy not far from our neighborhood in Clarksville wanted to sell his go kart, and Clay wanted to buy it. After some debate and a lot of rules, we allowed the purchase of the go kart, Sunny.

The previous owner had painted Sunny a few times, and you could still see some red paint bleeding through the topcoat of blue. This only added to his charm. The brakes were worn out, and the connecting rod missing. This did not keep Clay off the machine, but it added to the rules! It also provided opportunities for Clay and his dad to expand their mechanical skills.

Clay and his best friend Brian soon graduated from driving it in the grass to begging to take it on the road. Reluctantly we agreed, and soon they were taking turns zipping around our neighborhood.

One day a policeman appears at our front door in Clarksville. A sheepish Clay and Sunny watched from our driveway.

“Is this your son?”

I nodded.

“Did you know it’s against the law for him to take his go kart on the street?”

I wasn’t actually familiar with the laws about go karts, and the internet had not yet become my source of information. I shook my head.

“Well, it is. So, keep it off the street in the future, son.” He patted Clay on the shoulder.

We also took Sunny to our lake cottage, where both Clay and Sunny loved the scenic maze of roads.

Although Sunny spent more time alone after Clay entered high school, he was still a beloved member of our family. When Clay graduated from film school at USC and embarked on his first project, he wanted Sunny to be in it.

Austin Vickers, cast as Jimmy in Clay’s short film, “Five Dollars,” was about the age Clay had been when he met Sunny. Austen loved Sunny almost as much as Clay did.
In the film, Jimmy wanted nothing more than to get his beloved go kart in running condition with a full tank of gas. But money was short for Jimmy and his daddy. When Jimmy’s daddy finally got Sunny running, he treated himself to the first ride and wrecked Sunny before Jimmy got his turn.

In one of the scenes in “Five Dollars,” Jimmy’s sitting on Sunny watching an older boy zoom past on a motorcycle. Because Sunny is not in working order, Jimmy can only fantasize and improvise his ride, his riding gloves, the sounds, and the speed, which he does with great pizzazz.

Now, several years later, Sunny has been passed to Clay’s nephew Finn. Finn can hardly wait to get on Sunny when he gets home from school each day. He and his dad have given Sunny a new heart (i.e. motor) and replaced the rotted seat with soft new clothes.

Finn wakes each morning thinking of Sunny. “I can’t wait…”

“You’ll have to,” his mother says. “And if you give me any grief about getting up and ready for school, there will be no Sunny when you get home either.”

Who knew Sunny would work like a charm for bribery? Oh, well, a little bribe now and then makes for good parenting. Don’t you think?

To read more about Clay’s exploits on the set of Christy, see my book, The Past Ever Present.

River Cruise with 3 Nights Pre-cruise in Paris
July & August 2025
 
Flights on July 26 and 27 from Nashville to JFK and then on to CDG went fine. We caught an Uber to our hotel. As expected, we were much too early to expect our room to be ready. We walked to the Eiffel Tower, which wasn’t far from our hotel (the Renaissance Paris Nobel Tour Eiffel). As the room was still not ready when we returned, we settled ourselves onto comfortable sofas in the lobby. Before too long, someone approached to say the room was ready, and not to tell anyone in our group we were getting a larger-than-normal room.

True, it was much larger than the last time we stayed in Paris. And it had a bath tub! We knew the next day would be an early one for us, given the time change and lack of sleep on the plane, so we allowed ourselves a short nap. Norm set his watch for 5:30 pm Paris time. I napped too but jerked awake around 5 pm, convinced his alarm had failed. I was wrong, obviously.

We met with our tour group and tour guide, Milan, briefly around 6 pm, as we were part of a pre-river cruise extension in Paris. The group had a morning tour scheduled for the next day, but it conflicted with our prearranged motorcycle tour.
We’d signed up in advance for a wild ride where a motorcyclist would lead us on a brief tour of Paris highlights and then drop us at the House of Dior Museum. Our motorcycle guide texted to warn us his wife was expecting a baby any day now, and he might have to cancel. His baby did not come yet, so our tour went off on time.

Lots of fun! I started in the sidecar, with Norm riding behind the driver, and we switched halfway through. Our driver was careful, and we wore helmets. He pointed out Notre Dame, the Arc of Triumph (Arc de Triomphe), the Louvre, Musee d’Orsay, the Eiffel Tower, of course, and told some anecdotes we had not heard before. He had observed the fire at Notre Dame from close proximity. We knew the Eiffel Tower had been built for a world’s fair in the late 1800s, but I had forgotten it was originally intended to be demolished a few years later. Apparently, the architect who designed it kept finding ways to add features and extend its life up through the present.

The House of Dior was well done. I loved seeing the early fashion designs, reminiscent of styles I’ve seen my mom wear in old photos. There were rooms of all black gowns, or all white, some with illumination and changing wall and light patterns. I loved the miniature displays along the stairwells with lots of accessories, reminding me of the awe I once felt for Barbie fashions. Of course, the line continued well past the death of Christian Dior. We’d recently watched a miniseries about him and his sister, and everything here was consistent with the image portrayed of a humble man who simply had an eye for fashion (and perfumes), many based on flowers from his family garden.

I needed to go to the toilet before our time slot for the museum, and we tried several restaurants. We wanted to order only a coffee or ice cream and use their toilet, but everyone turned us away, saving the tables for the lunch crowd. Finally, I asked outright if I might simply use the toilet, and the hostess graciously agreed.

After leaving the House of Dior, we ate lunch at a Thai restaurant. The food was delicious, especially the steamed sea bass, but the bathroom floor felt unpleasantly sticky. We caught an Uber back to the hotel.

The tour guide told us about several restaurants nearby, and we asked the receptionist about an ATM machine, also nearby. We found a lovely patisserie, and I order quiche (mushroom, with a fluffy texture and a flaky crust). We sat outside, but inside we examined all of the tempting sweets and took a couple back to the hotel. Better even than they looked! We would make our way back here each day we were in Paris. Favorites included the flan, which I never knew could be so good, the strawberry tart, and the mango-passionfruit éclair. Well, everything really!

The following day, July 29, we were able to sleep in a bit, then ate breakfast at the hotel. No commitments until 2 pm, at which time we’d set up a guided tour of Impressionist paintings at the Musee d’Orsay. Our tour guide was very enthusiastic, and the place was super crowded, particularly the Van Gogh section, which he saved for last. He did a great job of leading us through and making a few points that would stick, at least for a time. He started with the Napoleon era and the rules artists were forced to follow, as well as the clever ways they found to get around them.

Our guide focused on a couple of paintings by Manet with a prostitute, one with a cat and a black woman, the other with two fully clothed men. The “line” was the guide’s first point. The second, as I recall, related to color, with lots of blues and contrasting reds or oranges and yellows in the works of Monet. We were reminded of our visit several years ago to the gardens at Giverny, where Monet lived and painted.

We ended up, of course, in the Van Gogh room, after a brief study of Renoir and discussion of shapes. When I look at the swarms of people competing for a mere peek at Van Gogh’s work, I’m always reminded of the stories about his poverty, his lack of success during his lifetime, his worry over being a burden to his brother, and his possible suicide. A few years ago, we visited the very modest burial place of him and his brother in Auvers-sur-Oise. We also saw the source material for several of his paintings there, including the church, which is currently housed at the Musee d-Orsay.

Later this evening, we caught a bus with our tour group to visit Montmartre. We’ve been there a couple of times before, but we got some new commentary about the history of the area. Also, we went inside the church, with its lovely Coeur and large Jesus with outspread welcoming arms. We ate in Montmartre at two restaurants, a lovely salad with fruit and Crepe Suzettes at the first, and ice cream at the second (chocolate and salted caramel). Then we drove to watch the Eiffel Tower light up after dark.

We checked out on Wednesday, July 30, and spent all day getting to the AmaWaterways riverboat. Everything in the original itinerary had changed for the first part of the river cruise due to a damaged lock.

Our cabin was really tiny, smaller than any I remember from past cruises. We always book the cheapest level, so we’re accustomed to the cabin being fairly small. But I’d packed heavily, and it took some creative management to figure out where to stack everything, especially in the triangular bathroom. I managed, though, and was pretty tired when I finished. Norm thought the suitcases would fit under the bed, but something blocked us from pushing them in.

We located the desk of the tour manager, Milan, whom we met during our pre-cruise stay in Paris. When I mentioned the size of the cabin, he offered a 50% discount to upgrade to the next level. The worst thing about our level was the number of stairs involved and lack of elevator service on the bottom floor. We were too tired to unpack and repack but said we’d consider it for the following night. The cabin he showed us had a balcony as well as sliding French doors, which might be nice for cruising if the weather permits.

On Thursday, July 31, after talking it over, we decided to take Milan’s offer though not until late in the day. Due to the broken lock, an all-day excursion was mandatory for all passengers, since none were allowed onboard while the ship relocated. After breakfast on the ship, we were bussed to Berncastel, Germany, where we had to choose among a regular, gentle, or active tour to (and inside) the castle. We decided to go gentle due to my knee issues, thinking to avoid stairs. Some folks were far slower and more disabled than us, but we did not mind the slower pace. Picturesque little town.

We were given cash for lunch, since everyone had expected all meals to be provided on the boat. Norm and I (and several others) bought inexpensive bratwurst on buns from a stand and carried them to a bench to eat. Later, to rest our feet and use their toilets, we moved over to some outdoor seating for a restaurant serving waffles, ice cream, coffee, and apple strudel. The menu was mainly in German, so I wasn’t exactly sure what I was ordering. Turned out to be apple strudel with a strong coffee (which Norm drank). Tasty strudel.

Returning to the ship, we rushed to tell Milan our decision to switch cabins. First, I hurried to the toilet, and then we waited for him at his desk upstairs. He suggested we pack up first and then return to tell him we were ready. We did so, but he’d vanished. The guy at the other desk next to his had been advised, and he called someone to help us move.

The young man was great, and he transferred all of our clothes on hangers as well as our luggage. Milan was giving a speech in the lounge about upcoming events, so we joined him there. Dinner followed, and we sat with a nice couple, lovely, energetic lady named Anita and an eighty-year-old British man with early to mid-stage Alzheimer’s. We followed the Chef’s recommendations and were not disappointed.

When we returned to our new cabin, I realized my teal sweater (merino-mink from New Zealand, with paua buttons) was missing. We searched everywhere, including the lounge, the restaurant, the shelves, the suitcases, etc. We asked at reception. Finally, we located Milan, and he let us back into our original cabin on the basement level. No luck.

“All I can do is call the bus driver tomorrow,” he said, “but it’s a long way off by now and will be expensive to ship.”

“Okay,” I said. “Do call him please. It’s a two-hundred-dollar sweater from New Zealand.”

After dinner, we went to the lounge for a few minutes to listen to music—several songs from movies like Fiddler on the Roof, Doctor Zhivago, and Pink Panther. Norm was tired, though, and we didn’t stay long. 

On Friday, August 1, we looked again for my sweater, and then for Milan. “I called,” he said, “but they did not find it on the bus. Would you like me to make an announcement?”

“Yes, Please.”

“I’ll do it tonight.”

We’d cruised to Cochem, where we toured the Reichsburg Castle. The castle had a lot of stairs, but they weren’t overly steep and I did fine. Th rooms were small for the most part, largely due to the difficulty of heating large rooms. Nice, though. The castle had been restored, but some sections were original and restoration was done well. Impressive from the outside, atop a hill, but the gentle walking group was transported up the hill in a tram.

I went for a brief swim in the heated pool on the sundeck in the afternoon. As promised, Milan announced my sweater at dinner, along with an announcement about a Neil Diamond tribute singer starting shortly in the lounge. We returned to our cabin a few minutes later to find my sweater nearly folded and lying on the bed.
My throat started aching before bedtime. The Neil Diamond tribute singer, however, was great, and we enjoyed the songs with his German accent.

“Sing Porcupine Pie!” my husband kept shouting, but he did not. He sang most of our favorites, though, including “I Am, I Said,” “Cherry, Cherry,” “Cracklin’ Rose,” “Kentucky Woman,” “Song Sung Blue,” and “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore” (this was my suggestion).

“Of course, Barbra Streisand isn’t here,” he apologized.

Some women kept shouting for “Sweet Caroline.” We thought he’d save it for last, but he didn’t. They left immediately after the song. We stayed quite a while longer, and he was still singing when we left.

Very sore throat and stuffy nose on August 2. We passed on the excursion this day to Rudesheim, which we’d seen on a previous cruise, where we’d taken the gondola ride. I worked on editing a few pages and looking for comparables for my various books. My stomach was upset, and I looked forward to a better night’s rest, happy to have my sweater back.

Our excursion on Sunday, August 3, was to Wertheim, where we visited a pretzel bakery. The baker was pretty funny, speaking broken English translated by our tour guide. He coughed throughout his presentation, sounding worse than I felt at this point. He demonstrated rolling out the dough, naming the ingredients (surprisingly including lye) as he went, which he referred to by their percentages. Then he shaped the dough into knots, twists, etc.

I had very little appetite until dinner, which was French cuisine and delicious, especially the liver pate and rack of lamb. Also Crepe Suzettes. We sat with an interesting couple. The man, also named Michael, as was Anita’s husband, is a coastal civil engineer. He specializes in predicting coastal disaster, and has written a Wiley textbook; his wife’s a retired dean of nursing. He speaks with a lovely British accent with a hint of Indian, where he grew up until age fifteen. Impressed by our stories about Clay’s career in directing, he looked him up on his phone and approached me the following day.

“Is this your son?” he asked. He pointed to a listing for Chef's Table.

“It is.”

“Wow, very impressive.”

Norm didn’t feel great the morning of August 4, and I was still unwell. He decided before I awoke to forego the excursions to Wurzburg, as well as the six-hour trip to a fairytale castle town we’d visited previously. It was cold and rainy, and I agreed with his decision. We rushed into the dining room just before breakfast closed, and I ate a generous portion of yogurt, as well as a bit of ham and cheese and a yummy pastry. Probably too much. They make a nice decaf cappuccino, though we haven’t been able to replicate it ourselves using the machine.

They have a sip ‘n sail hour prior to dinner each evening with a complimentary specialty drink and mock cocktail. Sunday night they both looked pink and overly sweet. Michael, the engineer, was sipping a margarita.

“Did you have to pay for that?” I asked.

“Nope. During sip ‘n sail, all the drinks are free.”

“Nice. Wish I’d known that sooner.”

I ordered one for myself and one for Norm, and they were much better. One day I’d had a mock mojito, which was also good. Same day as the whiskey sour, I believe, which Norm liked. Another day we both tried the cosmopolitan, but I did not drink much of mine. No migraines so far, thankfully, but I’ve been dealing with a scratchy throat, stuffy and drippy nose (I’m always amazed how both things seem to happen simultaneously), and upset stomach. Just hope to be better before Norway. Started on low-dose steroids today, along with decongestants, antihistamines, antibiotics, and zinc cold tablets. Little wonder my stomach complains!

A professor lectured this afternoon in the lounge on the history of Bavaria. He started with an overview of Bavaria today, and then went back about two hundred years. Bavaria is known for its landscapes, mountains, lifestyle, and beer, with over two hundred breweries, Bamberg boasting the most. Munich has the highest average wage, at around 55,000 Euros per year. I enjoyed the history discussion, but it was a brief overview; so, anyone interested in details would probably find better discussions elsewhere than I could provide from my abbreviated notes.

On our last day aboard the riverboat, we joined a gentle excursion to Bamberg. The pace of the gentle walkers was almost too slow for us. I asked the tour guide where we might go during leisure time, and she suggested the hike to the cathedral, which was open, and the rose garden, reminiscent of Parnell, New Zealand, for me. The view was lovely from up there too. We shopped for a few inexpensive Christmas souvenirs and tried the smoky local beer. I had a Coke Zero, which I don’t care for, being so accustomed to Diet Coke (Diet Coke is hard to find in Europe these days, as most people seem to prefer Coke Zero).

For dinner, we had the Chef’s special tasting menu on the fourth floor, which was delicious. Unfortunately, the man seated next to Norm was coughing almost constantly, making it difficult for me to relax and enjoy the food for fear of catching a new germ shortly before our trip to Norway. Immediately after dessert, I suggested we retire to our room.

We cruised overnight to Nuremburg. On our last morning on the riverboat, we checked out of our room and hung out in the lounge for a couple of hours. Then we took an Uber to our hotel in Nuremburg, where we were scheduled to spend two nights.

Across from the hotel (Franconia City in Nuremburg Old Towne), we ate at the oldest sausage house in all of Germany. We shared a plate of sausages with barrel kraut and potato salad. Nice! Then we walked around the Old Towne, taking in the sights and joined a tour to the torture chambers from the Middle Ages beneath the City Hall. The tour guide was well prepared and had a dry wit.

Gelato for dinner! Norm’s not feeling well, and I’m hoping it’s not a new bug from the Texan at dinner last night. Very sunny weather and warm this afternoon, but predicted to drop to 49 degrees Fahrenheit tonight.

On Thursday, August 7, we ate breakfast in a really cute nook at the hotel. Nice fruit and yogurt, cereal, pastries, meats, and cheese, boiled egg (they offered to scramble eggs too), juices and coffee.

After breakfast and a shower, we headed to the city center, where we took a little train around town (Stadtrundfahrt), listening to headphones in English pointing out the sights and providing interesting bits of history. Very hot sunny day. I bought some cheese-eggplant spread, paprika spread, and bread from a street vendor, and we ate on a bench. Then we made our way, with some difficulty, to a toy museum. Pretty interesting—trains, old dolls, lots of dishes and dollhouses, some dating back to early to mid-1800s.

I had a migraine on the last night, my first on this trip, and we’re still battling colds as we look forward to our upcoming adventure in Norway. Coming soon!

Remember Kathy Bates’ character in the movie version of Fried Green Tomatoes? As I recall, some younger drivers had cut her off, claiming to be faster. She retorted, “Face it, girls. I’m older and I have more insurance.”

I loved that, and yet I haven’t adopted that sassy attitude as much as I wish as I age.
My mother, on the other hand, didn’t wait to age to become sassy. She’s always been outspoken. She doesn’t reserve her blunt commentary for family either.

At a doctor’s office, if she’s kept waiting too long—and, for my mother, that isn’t very long—she complains to everyone from receptionist to nurse to physician.

“How are you today?” the doctor will ask.

“Better now that I’m finally seeing you,” she’ll reply. “Do you realize my appointment was over forty minutes ago?”

On her next visit to the same doctor, she will remind him of his misbehavior on the previous appointment. “I love your mother,” one of them said recently, a lovely plastic surgeon sewing up my mother’s forehead after a large basal cell carcinoma had been excised.

Years earlier, my friends’ attitude toward my mother varied between those who thought her hilarious and those who called her a witch. She often laughs when she says something rude, and maybe that softens the impact.

Perhaps I confused being outspoken with being rude and bossy for too long. Two examples come to mind from my childhood of my mealy-mouthed behavior, something I generally dislike in characters in books or movies… and yet something I have to work to overcome.

I took swimming lessons when I was around ten, at a pool in town. I’d been swimming for years in Kentucky Lake by then, and I could float easily on my back or swim with my head upheld from the water. As we learned the crawl, I wasn’t comfortable putting my face in the water and breathing properly. But I tried.

On the last day of lessons, the instructor lined us up. “You have to swim from one end of the pool to the other to earn your certificate. It will come in the mail to inform you whether you advanced to the next level.”

I thought I did okay, though half the time I held my breath when I should have exhaled. As the days and weeks passed, I checked the mail regularly to see if I’d passed.

“Anything in the mail for me?” I’d ask.

“Nope.”

No certificate ever arrived, and I never told my parents what I was looking for. I was too ashamed at the mere possibility of having failed the test.

A couple of years later, we were living in Chattanooga, Tennessee, where I was adapting to a new school. I loved art class. One project involved drawing something of our choice and filling in the spaces with bits of paper cut and glued from magazines.

I had a new baby sister, so I was well acquainted with changing diapers. An ad at the time for suntan lotion portrayed a tanned toddler whose white bottom was revealed when a dog pulled her diaper down. I worked hard to draw the images freehand and filled them in meticulously with color-coordinated fragments.

“We’re going to display your work at the local library,” our instructor said, “so bring your parents to see what you’ve accomplished.”

I was eager to show off my work. My parents obliged, and we searched every floor of that library for my project. Plenty of projects on display appeared sloppier to me, but what did I know?

I was mortified. Perhaps mine was so bad our teacher could not post it. Or perhaps the subject matter was deemed inappropriate. I will never know because I was too mealy-mouthed to ask. I never saw my project again.
​
Now, as I age, I resolve to be a little more like my mom and a little less like myself. Sorting the actual character flaws in ourselves from our often-flawed perception of what constitutes a defect is challenge enough. Beyond that, even if we succeed in the sorting, what can we do?

Just got back from a trip to Norway, so I've got a new travel blog to post as soon as I can get it typed. I've been having a bit of trouble with my eyes when I spend too much time on screens, so I'm lagging behind a bit on typing. The blog from my trip to New Zealand is also in the queue. Let me know if anyone has a preference as to which to type first!

As mentioned previously, I have several projects in the works, and I'm posting a synopsis of each to solicit input if you have any thoughts. The one below is sort of a thriller, but--like all my books--more character than plot driven. See what you think, and let me know if you'd like to see an excerpt.

As child TV stars, twins Adelise and Del Malone finish each other’s sentences.  When the series ends, offers abound for Del, but not for Adelise. She seeks love in a variety of doomed relationships, all aimed at replacing the one overpowering love she cannot pursue. In a vulnerable state, she meets Academy Award-winning writer Cole Townsend, who’s suffering from writer’s block. The secrets of Cole’s haunted psyche include the murder of his baby brother, which resulted eventually in the vivid detail of a brilliant screenplay. When he senses Adelise loves him less than her brother—just as his mother’s love for him was less than that for the new baby—he sees that only in murdering Adelise can he ignite the creativity he craves.

Like The Griffin Sisters’ Greatest Hits, Beyond the Yellow Brick Road uses multiple points of view and flashbacks to focus on a woman whose path has been shaped by her early experiences in the entertainment industry and by a lack of self-confidence. However, with respect to the complexity of the characters and the impact of sibling relationships in the face of parental abandonment, Beyond the Yellow Brick Road might be more aptly compared to The Dutch House.