That title sounds rather like a Peter, Paul and Mary tune, doesn’t it? It’s also the truth. Fall is here and winter is not far behind.
It’s the time of changing colors, mums, football and sweaters. Four our great-grands, it would have been harvest time. That means canning and smoking meat and cutting firewood and… The list must have felt endless, even to them.
I am a farmer’s granddaughter. Though by the time I was five, the farm was sold and my dad’s folks were living in town, I remember the stories. Grandma still canned and made bread five loaves at a time—she fed a large extended family on the farm--and scrapple.
[Scrapple is made with leftover scraps of pork. Since Grandma used everything but the oink, she also took the bits of available meat from the pig’s head. I’ll never forget the “Godfather” moment of coming face to snout with the porcine cranial unit sitting on ice in Grandma’s utility sink. Almost put me off scrapple… Almost.]
I wonder if all the stories of all that work are why I almost always set my stories in spring or summer? March, April, June… There was still work, but not the kind that would mean eating or starving over a long, cold winter.
Even HER SANCTUARY, my latest release included in the boxed set, A KISS TO REMEMBER, is set in March. In the first draft, the story was a Halloween tale, but it ended up at Easter time instead. Oh, well. There’s always next time.