Month: February 2023

The Love Story of Susie Black’s Great-Grandparents

Posted on by Chelsey M. Ortega

I first learned about how my maternal great-grandparents got together and their interesting love story as a young woman just out of college while helping my nana prepare for the Jewish New Year celebration. The story Nana told was so riveting, that I remember the telling as clearly as if it was yesterday. We’d been chatting and working in the kitchen when Nana asked me to polish a gorgeous set of candlesticks set on the counter. I opened the bottle of polish she handed me and lifted one of the candlesticks. “Nana, how old are the candlesticks?” I fingered the intricately beveled brass. “I’ve never seen anything like these before. They must be antiques.”

Nana nodded. “They are antiques. They are over one hundred years old. My grandparents gave them to my parents as a wedding gift. They were the only personal things my mother could take with her when she left Warsaw.”

I looked at her puzzled. “They’re not very big. She must have had a really small suitcase.”

Nana gazed at the candlesticks, and the memory brought a wistful twist to her lips. “A beautiful young woman, my mother.” Nana waved her hands in the shape of a woman’s physique. “Mama was a buxom beauty with raven hair and an hourglass figure, like a Jewish Sophia Loren, and crazy in love with a handsome man. She wanted to marry for love and fought her parents against an arranged marriage. They finally relented, but Mama was devastated after being jilted at the altar. No one ever discovered the missing groom’s fate. Had he run away with another woman or been killed in a pogrom? He disappeared into thin air. In those days, women were not educated and held few jobs outside of the home. So, to be supported, a young girl had to marry. My father is the man Mama’s parents arranged the rejected marriage with. He was a tailor. His profession made him a desirable catch. After Mama was left at the altar, the community considered her damaged goods. But my mother was so beautiful that even after she had rejected the arrangement, my father still agreed to marry her. They met for the first time on their wedding day. Papa gazed lovingly into Mama’s violet eyes as the Rabbi pronounced them man and wife. And right then, Mama fell head over heels in love with the stranger she had just wed.”

Nana pursed her lips. “Once they married, things became even worse than ever for Polish Jews. My parents wanted to start a family, but neither wished to bring children into such a hateful, dangerous place. After one of the bloodier pogroms that killed many people they knew, my parents decided to leave Poland via the Jewish underground. This was a network of brave souls throughout Eastern Europe who helped Jews escape. My father went first. He made his way north to Birmingham, England, and took a job sewing the coal miners’ uniforms.”

Nana dipped her head. “Mama understood it was too dangerous for them to leave together. But once he left, panic set in, as she had no idea if he’d make it all the way to England or not. She feared he would be killed or captured and imprisoned during his treacherous journey and she’d never see him again. After almost a year had gone by without a word from Papa, Mama was convinced he was dead. She became despondent, sick in both body and soul, and almost died of a broken heart. Then she finally received a message from him. But letters took months to arrive, if at all, and were few and far between. Papa saved his money, and after two years, he sent for my mother. She received word from the underground and had to be ready to leave quickly. Can you imagine saying goodbye to your parents, siblings, and friends, realizing you might never see them again?”

My heart clenched as I nodded no.

“Anyway,” Nana continued, “A man came to their shtetel at midnight on a moonless night. My mother could only take one small knapsack that held some clothes, a family photo, and the candlesticks. She bid her family goodbye, and the man took her to the narrowest part of the wide Warsaw River, which was infamous for its dangerously strong currents. If you weren’t familiar with the way they ran, you’d be pulled under by the current and drown. My mother climbed on the man’s back, and he swam her across. On the other side, he handed her to the next underground person. She slept in forests and caves during the days and traveled either by horseback or on foot at night. Fighting off wild animals and the elements, as well as hiding from the law, it took her over two months to travel this way across Europe. She arrived at Calais and boarded a freighter to England. With little money, clothes, or the ability to speak English, she managed to travel to London, then north to Birmingham, and finally reunited with my father.”

I applauded like I would at the end of a play. “Oh, Nana, what a love story. It could be a movie or a play.”

Nana smiled. “Yes, it has all the drama of a film or a play. They defied the odds and their love sustained them through the darkest days. The unbreakable bond of love my parents had for one another turned the seemingly impossible into a reality.”

I pointed to the candlesticks. “Nana, when I get married, I want those candlesticks to be your wedding gift.”

Nana patted me on the cheek. “Consider them yours.”

Susie Black as an Author:

Named Best US Author of the Year by N. N. Lights Book Heaven, award-winning cozy mystery author Susie Black was born in the Big Apple but now calls sunny Southern California home. Like the protagonist in her Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series, Susie is a successful apparel sales executive. Susie began telling stories as soon as she learned to talk. Now she’s telling all the stories from her garment industry experiences in humorous mysteries. Connect to Susie here: https://linktr.ee/susieblack.com

Highlight of Susie Black’s latest release:

Slated for publication release on February 15, 2023, the second book of The Holly Swimsuit Mystery Series is set in the heart of the competitive Los Angeles Apparel Industry. Death by Pins and Needles is the story of one ruthless woman who didn’t care who she had to step on to get to the top. Lissa Charney is the showroom manager of a ladies’ swimwear line in the California Apparel Mart. Since Lissa didn’t think any of the rules applied to her, she had no problem breaking them all. From job stealing to dumping a boyfriend when he needed her the most, selfish and self-centered Lissa’s list of enemies rivaled those of Al Capone. So, when Lissa is murdered, no one on the swimwear aisle was particularly surprised…the only surprise was what had taken so long.

Who wanted Lissa Charney dead? The list was as long as your arm…. but which one actually killed her? The last thing Mermaid Swimwear sales exec Holly Schlivnik expected to find when she opened the closet door was nasty competitor Lissa Charney’s battered corpse nailed to the wall. When Holly’s colleague is wrongly arrested for Lissa’s murder, the wise-cracking, irreverent amateur sleuth sticks her nose everywhere it doesn’t belong to sniff out the real killer. Nothing turns out the way she thinks it will as Holly matches wits with a heartless killer hellbent for revenge.   And as if Holly’s life is not already a hot mess, throw the complication of a hunky new man who sets her every nerve ending on fire into the mix, and things get really interesting.

I Got Engaged in a Women’s Prison by D.V. Stone

Posted on by Chelsey M. Ortega

Once upon a time, I was married to a man everyone warned me about. I was young and thought I knew better than them. Turns out they were correct. My first marriage ended in divorce with restraining orders. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say I wasn’t in a hurry for another relationship.

At the time, I worked in a women’s prison in New Jersey as an emergency medical technician and had been there for several years and made many friends. There was always an influx of new correction officers. They came, they went. I never really paid attention. Remember, I was not long past an ugly relationship.

Several of the officers and nurses I was especially close with had taken a liking to one of the “new boots” (a term for recent hires who still had a shine on their boots). The C.O.s were quite persistent about him and his charms. One kept telling me how interested he was in me and wanted to take me out.

That so wasn’t happening. I had a child and often worked sixty hours a week trying to save my home from foreclosure due to the aforementioned husband and his drug problem, and I was a volunteer on the local rescue squad. No time, no interest, totally gun-shy. Little did I know that one of the other officers was telling him how interested I was in him and wanted to go out.

Long story short. One of our first conversations was, “well, you wanted to go out with me.”

“No, you wanted to go out with me.”

The badgering continued, and we went on a first date which was my annual squad banquet. Pete was the first man to ever bring me flowers. We ended up going to the banquet and dancing all night.

The banquet was in March. We became engaged in May of the same year. I believe the statute of limitations has run out. Most of the people involved are retired or gone, so here’s the fun part.

As an EMT, I had responded to a call for an officer down in our administration building. Joe happened to be a friend. While waiting for the local ambulance to come, my radio kept going off and asking me if I was coming back to the hospital. About the third time, I was angry at the interruptions. “I’ll be back when I’m done!”

Joe went off to the hospital (he was okay). I returned to my office, still fired up and ready to give the report to my nursing supervisor. As I moved past my desk, a balloon, and a twinkle caught my eye.

My supervisor stopped me in the doorway (we had connecting offices), gently pushed me back, and closed the door.

Pete was behind it.

I’m guessing you realize what the twinkle was. We married one year later. Oh, the reason everyone kept bugging me to get back? The entire prison was shut down, waiting for Pete to get to line up.

That was over twenty-eight years ago. Since then, we’ve never been apart for more than a week except when he goes on an annual mission trip to restore houses in West Virginia.

Often people say you are attracted to the same sort of person. I’m here to tell you that’s not true, at least in my case. I’m living my best life with a man who loves and supports me. Is it always sunshine and rainbows? Nope. There’s the occasional “dust-up”. But we both love and respect each other.

Love and marriage are never a 50/50 deal. It’s 100% as often as you can. That way, when the other person is unable to give it, the partner can work with what’s in the bank.

Hi, my name is Donna, and I write as D. V. Stone. Thank you for letting me share about love and relationships. Happy Valentine’s Day!

I’d love to share with readers about my latest release Sea Hunter, and a free sample of the series. My first historical/adventure/romance is coming out on March 16th as part of a seven-author series about couples who need help finding the love of their life. All the books are stand-alone novellas in different genres. To tempt you, we put together a sample series available for free at

https://dl.bookfunnel.com/b1ytv2r7nq

And if you’re interested, Sea Hunter is on a pre-release sale for only .99¢ at Amazon.

Here’s a bit about it

On the turbulent high seas, an archeologist must protect a historic shipwreck from treasure hunters—not fall for one. 

Zahra Corbyn.

I’m a Sea Hunter. As an underwater archeologist and professor of antiquities, it is my duty to stop treasure hunters and looters from raiding Sea Wraith. But fate is a funny thing. Now I find myself working with Jack Alexander, a treasure hunter, to protect history from a known looter. Did my heart’s desire change?

Captain Jack Alexander.

I’ve been told women on a ship are unlucky, but this one has the two pieces of the map I need to finally claim Sea Wraith. Now I find myself in a deal that makes me one-third partner with her and a known scoundrel.

Can the two unlikely allies work together while safeguarding their hearts against the power of the Mortar and Pestle?

If you like Lara Croft and Indiana Jones, you’ll love Zahra Corbyn and Jack Alexander.

A Boy Carrying a Watermelon by Kitty Shields

Posted on by Chelsey M. Ortega

The original Kitty Shields was a titan at 5”0’. She could convince the tides to turn left and guilt the devil into helping her clean the house. She was a force of nature, and also my mommom. As with most love stories, this is as much legend as truth. But let me tell you a romance that started with a boy carrying a watermelon down the street.

Kitty Shields and Joe McElhenny grew up in the same neighborhood in South Philadelphia—both products of a strong Irish Catholic upbringing in a close-knit community. He was seven years older than her, so for the early part of their lives, they ran in different circles. Until one June morning when an eleven-year-old girl struggled to carry a watermelon twice the size of herself down the steep hill to her house. And a gallant eighteen-year-old boy offered to carry it for her. She never forgot that morning or the kindness of that boy.

The two continued to circle each other. As these things usually happen, Kitty grew into a beautiful woman. When she was about seventeen, she walked by a group of young men loitering out on their front steps. Joe saw her and called out, “Kitty, can I walk you home?” She looked him dead in the eye and said, “You look fine right where you are.” Because nothing says romance like telling the boy you like to stay the hell away from you. Years later, Kitty admitted her mouth sometimes went a little too fast for her head.

Soon after, Joe joined the Navy. It was 1938 and the U.S. had not entered WWII yet. In fact, his ship, the U.S.S. Canopus, pulled out of Pearl Harbor ten days before the attack that would take America into the war. In 1942, the U.S.S. Canopus was assigned to the Philippines, where the crew served and repaired submarines and other ships. After the surrender at Bataan, the crew scuttled and sank the Canopus rather than giving it over to the enemy. Along with over two hundred other members of the crew, Joe was taken prisoner and held by the Japanese for two years.

Meanwhile, Kitty took a job as an administrator at the Philadelphia Naval Yard. More than most, she was aware of what the war really cost in terms of lives. And like many people during that time, she had put her life and dreams on hold. But after the war was won, Kitty made a decision that she was ready to get married and she went looking for a certain boy that she remembered from the neighborhood. Using her connections at the navy, she tracked him down in the middle of the Pacific where he had been assigned on the U.S.S. Missouri.

Joe was out at sea when he received a letter from home, a letter in handwriting he didn’t recognize. He tore it open, worried about what news might be inside. After scanning the contents, he jumped up and headed out of the room where his friends were. They called after him, “Bad news, Joe?” He stopped long enough to grin back at them and say, “No. Best news of my life.” Then he ran off to write his reply.

After that, Kitty and Joe corresponded, getting to know each other and growing a healthy respect and affection for this person that neither had set eyes on in years. When Joe’s ship finally returned to Philadelphia, they dated properly. On the third date, Joe asked Kitty to marry him. She looked at him dead and said, “You’re insane. People don’t marry after three dates. We have to wait a while.”

“Well, what’s a while?” he asked.

“A year,” she said.

“Okay.” He shrugged. “I mean, I already know, but I’ll wait forever if that’s what you want.”

She didn’t make him wait forever. She did make him wait a year, though. At long last, they were wed, and Joe was transferred to the naval yard as a legal officer. Now, Joe was a bit sluggish in the mornings. And one morning he was being particularly slow to get out the door. Kitty threatened his life if he didn’t get his behind moving and get to work. She was eight months pregnant with their first, and a little ungainly and a lot uncomfortable.

He looked at her and said, “I’m afraid to leave you. What if you fall and I lose you? I can’t handle that.” She patted his cheek and stood on her tip-toes to give him a kiss and told him she’d be fine. And to please, get the hell to work.

Some love stories are epic. Some love stories are tragic. And some love stories are about falling in love with your husband all over again because he hovers over you while you’re pregnant. Kitty said she never forgot the way he looked at her that morning and knew she’d made the best decision of her life. Joe said he never loved anyone else. This is a love story that started with a boy carrying a watermelon down the street.

By: Kitty Shields (the younger)

About the Author: Kitty Shields (she/her) lives outside Philadelphia, where she writes to overcome the fact that she was born a middle child with hobbit feet, vampire skin, and a tendency to daydream. In her spare time, she binds books, takes bad photos, and dodges the death traps her cat sets.

You can check her debut novel Pillar of Heaven from Amazon here (https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08GFV95K5). It’s a Tale of Assassins, Telepaths, & Lattes:

With the holidays looming and student loans coming to call, Kate McGovern needs to find a good-paying job and fast, preferably away from the masses of caffeine junkies and coffee snobs at her current job. But finding a job sucks. Finding your first proper job after college when you have no experience and no idea what you want to do really sucks. Then Kate’s favorite customer puts her up for an executive assistant gig with one of the richest men in Boston. And suddenly, Kate’s luck has changed. The catch? Her new boss expects her to read his mind. Literally. And she’s pretty sure he’s evil. No big deal. First jobs are always tough, right?

A Real Love Story by Randy Overbeck

Posted on by Chelsey M. Ortega

I’d like to share a real love story.

Not a fairy tale love story because “happily ever after” is little more than a smoky illusion. But a real love story.

It all started with a bet.

I’d seen Cathy several times before. I’d even said a casual “Hi” a few times. She was a pretty girl, sparkling green eyes, short brown hair, a slightly larger nose and warm smile. Oh, and not a bad figure, too. Most of the times when I caught sight of her, she had paint on her hands and sometimes in her hair.

Only sixteen at the time, I went to St. Xavier High School, an all guys school. I was in a play. Well, okay, I was only one of the multitude in the chorus but I was in the play. Cathy attended a girls high school across town but came to participate in the play. (It was a good way to meet guys.) In fact, she was the art director for the play and created the sets for the musical we were doing called Take Me Along.

Now to the bet. I got my nerve to approach her on dress rehearsal night while she was busy painting the final flat, a red dragon for the bar scene in the musical. I said, “I don’t think you’re going to have that ready for opening night.” (I know, great pick up line.)

She flashed that beautiful smile at me and asked, with a twinkle in those green eyes—at least I think it was a twinkle. She also had paint on her face. “What do you want to bet?”

“A coke.” I was a real big spender.

“Done.” She reached out her hand splattered with red and I shook.

Returning two hours later, I found her standing next to the finished flat, hands and face now clean. I bought her the Coke and we found a quiet place to talk. Oh, and we had our first kiss that evening in the bleachers. We still celebrate it as our first date. April 26.

But you see, I wasn’t that easy to catch. Back then, I considered myself somewhat of a ladies man. What did I know. I once invited three different girls to the same dance, one of them Cathy. (By the way, that didn’t go very well.) Other girls I knew and dated were prettier or had bigger hair or were more seductive, but Cathy had something special. When we were together and she gave me that incredible smile, my heart melted.

By the end of our junior year, we found each other and “went steady” from then on.  In fact, we dated for five years, through the end of high school and through three years of college—which is all it took me because I wanted to get married.

We tied the knot in 1972.

And that was only the beginning. Our love produced three beautiful, talented, loving children, a girl and two boys. Each new arrival stretched the bounds of the love story and only made it richer.

But it certainly wasn’t happily ever after. Our love story had to survive some very lean years. For more than a decade, we were a one salary family and a teacher’s salary at that.

“No dear, we have to wait till Friday to go the grocery. I’ll get paid then.”

“Sorry, son, we can’t afford to buy the Nintendo.”

Even broke, we managed to smile and laugh through most of it.

Our love story endured moves to six different towns, all for my work. Thank you, Cathy. Together, we built four new houses—you know, the experience they say makes or breaks a marriage. We survived and even prospered.

Fast forward Fifty years.

Perhaps, best of all, our story breathed love into our three grown children, one now the Aquatic Director for the largest YMCA in the country, another a senior computer engineer for Apple and the third, the Creative Director for CNN International and most important, each with their own love story. And all three are remarkable partners and parents. Then, the piece de resistance of our epic amore, seven incredible grandchildren, who only continue to expand our love story even further.

Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had easy times and not-so-easy times. We suffered through hard patches and had soft landings. Certainly not a bed of roses, although maybe that applies as roses come with plenty of thorns. A few years back, I thought I was going to lose Cathy when she contracted a strange infection, candida albicans, which claims 45% of its victims. She has recovered well but talk about obtaining clarity on what’s important.

Like I said, definitely not happily ever after.

The remarkable nature and longevity of our real love story hit me a few years ago. As it happened, we were touring Hawaii in February and were having a celebratory dinner on Valentine’s Day at this beautiful restaurant on the beach. For the occasion, the maître de was visiting tables and offering a rose to each of the ladies. He stopped, wished us Happy Valentine’s Day and asked how many we had celebrated together. Cathy and I glanced at each other, calculating, and after a beat, both announced this was the 50th Valentines Day we had shared. We hadn’t realized it until that moment.

To our surprise, the gentleman straightened up and announced to the entire dining crowd we were celebrating our 50th Valentine’s Day! Patrons around the room rose and gave us a standing ovation. We were a bit embarrassed, but secretly loved it. Throughout our meal, several woman came by to say congrats and handed Cathy their rose. She left with a bouquet.

Perhaps not happily ever after, but definitely happy.

Like I said, a real love story.

Hope this Valentine’s Day found you adding to your real love story.

Dr. Overbeck’s bestselling trilogy, the Haunted Shores Mysteries, have gained recognition and earned national awards—nine thus far—as convincing paranormal mysteries. But beneath the mysteries and the who-hoo lie a compelling love story. The lovers meet in Blood on the Chesapeake, their love blossoms in Crimson at Cape May and they honeymoon together in Scarlet at Crystal River, all the while unraveling mysteries and hunting bad guys. Perhaps, not your usual love story as it is entwined with murders and ghosts, but one readers will enjoy, especially during this month of romance. Details on his books can be found on his website, http://www.authorrandyoverbeck.com

Follow Randy on social media:

Twitter

Facebook

Instagram

YouTube

Meant for Me by Kim Ligon

Posted on by Chelsey M. Ortega

I worked for a woman who told my teenage self that there was someone for everyone, if you are paying attention and grab them when they come into your life.

I met him because I was dating the guy who lived across the hall from him in the dorm. I saw him from time to time on campus and thought he was cute. He had a Southern kind of accent… And those amazing blue eyes.

We shared our first kiss before we ever had our first date. He invited me to his birthday party in the dorm. I was late for a date with someone else so I could accept the invitation to go to his party first. He walked me to my car and kissed me. It was remembering all the specifics of that kiss – on that February night standing next to my green Gremlin in the cold outside Scott Hall – that scored us big points in the Newlywed game we played at the church Sweetheart Banquet years later. When both of our answers matched exactly, the preacher said, “It must have been some kiss!”

In the fall, I stopped to see my friend, Susie, in that same co-ed dorm. She wasn’t in, but when I cut through the guys’ side, there he was. I must have been remembering that kiss. I invited him to come home with me for lunch, even though I was still dating someone else. He said yes. We had to make a detour on the way to my apartment, to the grocery store to pick up something to make for lunch – chicken noodle soup, bologna, bread and barbeque potato chips. If he thought it was odd that I had no groceries after inviting him to lunch, he didn’t say anything.

We had a nice lunch, sitting at my table in front of the big picture window of my first floor apartment. My landlord walked by and waved. He went back to the dorm after lunch. I was still thinking about him, when the guy I was dating called. He screamed, “You had a man in your apartment!” My landlord was his brother-in-law so news like that didn’t take too long to be delivered.

The long story made short is I called him sobbing about the break-up. I guess he felt sorry for me. In between sobs, he asked if I wanted to go out with him that night and forget my troubles. I said yes. On the way out the door, I dumped my penny jar in my purse. Much to the dismay of our waitress, we paid for our pitcher with two hundred pennies. The date was just what I needed. He was fun. He was smart and charming and those eyes… And the kiss six months earlier was only a preview of those to come.

After our impromptu date, there was no one else for either of us. Although, there was one old flame who liked to borrow albums from him so she could see him alone when he came to get them back. Her taste in music must have changed. When I picked up the borrowed album, instead of him, she never borrowed one again.

Now we celebrate two anniversaries every year – our first “date” and our wedding! That first kiss that started my romance was forty-nine years ago this month. The preacher was right… it was some kiss!

Kim Ligon has been writing stories for most of her life – some on paper and some only in her head. She has lots of source material growing up as the oldest child in a large family in a small town in Wisconsin. Her father was a veternarian so there were not only lots of children around, but all manner of house pets and farm animals too. Her love of reading comes from her mother who was seldom seen sitting down without a book in her hand. After a demanding career in healthcare information technology, she is now getting to do all the creative things she loves which includes writing her stories to share with you. She lives with her chief encourager and personal romantic hero, her husband of almost forever, in Alabama. Please follow her further adventures at www.spinningromance.com.

Kim’s debut novel, Polly’s List is available now.

CJ Reynolds couldn’t wait to escape his hometown. He’s loving his bachelor life as a software developer in California. So much so that he hasn’t been back in years to see the grandmother who raised him.

Mikal Benson believes he small town is perfect for raising her son, Will, alone. When Mikal finds her neighbor, Polly Rogers, sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood, barely clinging to life, she calls Polly’s grandson – CJ Reynolds – and insists he must come home. Now!

From her coma, Polly whispers three words that change everything. Did she fall or was she pushed? CJ, Mikal, and Will form an unlikely team coming together to discover the truth as danger engulfs and love transforms them into a family.

GOODREADS https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/61135497-polly-s-list

BOOK BUB     https://www.bookbub.com/books/Polly-s-list-by-Kim-Janine-Ligon

AMAZON        https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09ZYVGWF1

BARNES & NOBLE https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/pollys-list-kim-janine-ligon/1141488044

Follow Your Man by Helen C. Johannes

Posted on by Chelsey M. Ortega

1947 Germany…

WWII has been over for nearly two years, but the Occupation is ongoing. Americans hold Bavaria and the small city southwest of Munich where my mother lives. She’s 26, still living with her parents. She’s lost a brother in the submarine corps. Her sister’s husband was shot down on the Russian front, but he somehow made it home. Rationing and curfews are the stuff of their daily life. She works the late shift as a nurse’s aide. She and her coworkers must be escorted home by the US Military Police.

Drafted at his high school graduation on VE day, my father is barely 20, one of the lucky ones posted to Occupation Europe. It’s cold, damp, and the rations are nothing to write home about, but he grew up in the Northwoods without indoor plumbing or electricity, and he worked his way through high school milking cows. Life in the Army is pretty good for a smart kid who doesn’t drink or smoke. He’s already a sergeant in the MPs. 

One night he and his partner escort local nurses’ aides home after curfew. They pick them up in their jeep and drive the women home through darkened cobblestone streets. One of the women, a pretty brunette with long, wavy hair smiles at him. He remembers that smile. She only speaks German, but he can fix that. The army offers courses in German. Soon, he’s teaching her English with comic books while he practices his German.

By 1948 he and his buddies all have German girlfriends, and some couples want to marry. Regulations say anyone who marries a foreign national must return stateside with the spouse within a month of the wedding. Decision time. Will my mother leave everyone she loves, the city she grew up in, her entire culture to follow this American soldier to a country that defeated hers? Will she step into the unknown with only the man she loves to keep her company? Will the new world be better than the current one?

It’s a life-changing choice, but she makes it. In a whirlwind they have three weddings over two weekends: one to satisfy the German government, one to satisfy the American government, and one to satisfy the church. Then they’re on a train to Bremerhaven for her first ocean crossing. As she stands on deck, she says goodbye to her homeland, her continent, wondering if she’ll ever return, if she’ll ever see her family again.

She’s followed her man to New Jersey, then to his home in the Northwoods while he serves in Korea, then to Illinois when he returns. On to Ft. Lewis, Washington, traveling across this vast nation by car in 1956, then back six months later all the way to the port of NYC for a much-desired return tour of duty in Germany for three years to spend reconnecting with family. Then to West Texas for three years, then back to Illinois, then on to the Northwoods when he retires. Now she has a new role, wife of a teacher. Later, when he retires from that, she’s the wife of an alderman.

Seventy-two years she’s followed her man, become a citizen, adapted to a new culture, worked and played and made friends, raised a family. Together, she and my father have created a legacy of love, hard work, and adventure for those of us that follow. When love calls, they’ve shown us, take a chance.

After growing up following these parents around this country and Europe, I couldn’t help but take their example to heart. I’ve followed my man in government service from Montana to the Midwest, and we’ve traveled together to three continents and dozens of countries. Everywhere I’ve lived or visited has informed my writing, and the love I’ve seen and shared inspires my work. My author tagline is “Hearts in Search of Home” because I’ve learned that home is wherever those you love choose to make it: https://helencjohannes.blogspot.com/

In celebration of the Month of Love, I’ve put my first book on sale on Amazon Kindle for 99 cents. An enemies-to-lovers fantasy romance, THE PRINCE OF VAL-FEYRIDGE, Crown of Tolem Series #1, is loosely inspired by that sense of adventure and willingness to take a chance my parents imparted to me.

She’s all wrong for Prince Arn, this lowborn healer who keeps meddling in his march to conquer her homeland. If only she hadn’t helped him, and he hadn’t kissed her, he could stop looking for her everywhere, hoping to find her…again.

Check it out here: https://www.amazon.com/Prince-Val-Feyridge-Helen-c-Johannes-ebook/dp/B003JH8CO2?ref_=ast_author_dp

The Kindness of Strangers by Annie R. McEwen

Posted on by Chelsey M. Ortega

When people say “love defies boundaries,” I’m pretty sure they mean national, geographic, or even topographical. The Chinese-Welsh couple. The girl from Seattle and the boy from Miami. The groom who climbs the mountain to claim his bride on the other side.

My experience of love is that species is as permeable a boundary as any other. I’ve been lucky enough to find interspecies sweethearts many times, from my first turtle Soozie to my boa constrictor Stripe. But my heart was never filled—or broken—so thoroughly in cross-species love as by Blanche.

Blanche got her name from A Streetcar Named Desire. You know, the character Blanche DuBois, who says, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” Blanche came to my hand as a ten-day-old feral kitten. When I say “came to my hand,” I mean that literally. She was so tiny her whole body fit on my palm. Her eyes hadn’t opened yet.

I had lost my longtime feline friend Kitty O’Shea just a month earlier, and wasn’t ready for another cat. Definitely not ready for an infant cat, one whose chances of survival without a mother and littermates was slim.

“Oh, no,” I told my friend John, who’d found the kitten on his farm. “I can’t do this.”

“I couldn’t just leave her. That mother cat never comes back to her kittens. She’s stressed and dumps them so she can survive.”

The harsh truth of feral life. I didn’t try to argue about it. Instead, I gave a heavy sigh, put the kitten in a nest of rags with a hot water bottle, and went out to buy feline pediatric formula and the tiniest feeding bottle I had ever seen.

At an age when my own fertility was a rapidly receding image in the rear view mirror, I became a new mom. Four-hour feedings—including in the middle of the night. My furry newborn had such strong feral genes that she fought even sustenance, and a nursing session left me with bloody scratches on the hand holding the bottle. After the feeding, came the burping, with Blanche draped over my shoulder on a flannel cloth to catch the bubbles of milk when she belched. Then, the bum washing, which I learned to do under a stream of warm water from the sink faucet. After that, the patting dry, the stowing of the by-then sleeping baby in a padded orange crate, with a corncob pillow heated gently in the microwave.

Feed. Burp. Wash. Dry. Tuck in. Sleep. Repeat.

When Blanche got old enough to walk without falling over, she explored. Tiny circles on the living room rug at first, then slightly bigger ones, always returning to my lap. She was a cute infant, but with each passing day she became more beautiful. More beautiful, in fact, than any cat I’d ever owned. (And believe me, I passed that “every life has nine cats” yardstick a couple decades ago.)

She was totally white, not a black hair on her body. Pink toe pads, nose, and inside ears. Eyes … Blanche’s eyes were sapphires, seen through ice. Large, brilliant blue, clear, knowing.

Apart from beauty, she had courage—another donation from her feral genes, or so the vet said. She was so fearless she scared the wits out of me at least once a day. One of her favorite perches was the top edge of an interior door—an inch and a half in width and six feet off the floor. For safety’s sake, since suburbia is at least as dangerous as the country, she lived indoors. But there wasn’t a square inch of my 1920s bungalow that Blanche hadn’t found a way to turn into a jungle gym.

And not just the house. Blanche loved the car. John and I had an Irish band, which periodically meant piling instruments, P.A., and ourselves in a van and heading off to festivals, workshops, ceilis, concerts, pub gigs, St. Patrick’s Day … After the gear went in, Blanche went in, too. She had a traveling crate, of course, but her favorite perch was on top of a speaker, where she could glare out the window at people in passing cars.

People. That’s where the love story becomes complicated. Blanche—who apparently thought I was her birth mother—adored me. Every day, in a dozen different ways, she said I was the center of her universe, her reason for getting off the bed in the morning and curling up peacefully at night. John, she tolerated. Most of the time.

And that was it. She let one pair of two-legs into her life and the needle of her tolerance went to Full. It wasn’t just dislike of outsiders; it was full-on, battle-ready rage. The plumber, the a/c repair tech, the census taker, the UPS person, the hapless kid selling candy bars for the high school band—in Blanche’s book, they were marked for death the instant they attempted to ring the doorbell.

It was—challenging. Over the years, I adapted more and more to Blanche’s unreasonable and unyielding hatred of strangers. She couldn’t change. I could, and I did. Over time, I got fewer visitors and had almost no friends left. Unscarred ones, anyway.

Some people—people who’ve never loved an animal that deeply and been loved that deeply in return—thought I was loopydoodle. They’re entitled to an opinion. Blanche would have given her life for me; that was her opinion. If that plumber or a/c repairman or kid with the candy bars had made the slightest hostile move in my direction, my furry warrior would’ve taken them on. A fight to the death to protect her loved one. Morituri te salutant, as the gladiators said.

Blanche had to be euthanized, due to terminal lymphoma, at age ten. At the end, she could only get around by dragging her hindquarters. She hadn’t eaten in weeks, and weighed four pounds. She was on morphine for the pain. But the blue fire of her eyes—that still glowed. And the beat of her heart, the tiny heart I’d felt against my shoulder when she fell asleep after a bottle feeding …

That heart was still there. It beat for me, as mine—after years and years—still beats for her.

A career historian, Annie R. McEwen has lived in Spain, France, the U.K., and Morocco. Her background helps her create award-winning romance set in faraway times and places. Winner of the 2022 Page Turners Award, Genre (Romance) Category, Annie also garnered both First and Second Place honors in the 2022 RTTA (Romance Through Ages Award from Romance Writers of America) and multiple Honorable Mentions and/or publication on platforms like Globe Soup, Reedsy, and others. When not in her 1920s bungalow in Florida, Annie lives, researches, and writes in Wales. Annie is represented by Blue Ridge Literary Agency. To follow her journey check out her website: https://www.anniermcewen.com/

Love at First Sight in JCPenney

Posted on by Chelsey M. Ortega

I was the new hire at JCPenney, working in the fragrance department. I had just graduated from high school, and was ready to fulfill big dreams. Upon clocking in, going on break, and clocking out, I had to walk through the young men’s department; where he worked. Spiky black hair, deep brown eyes, an infectious laugh, garnished with a studded belt and a leather wrist strap. 

I don’t know if the traditional version of love at first sight exists, but I do know that I felt something when I locked eyes with him. (Uh, yeah, Chelsey, it’s called lust.) No, it wasn’t. The thoughts running through my mind were not, “Omg, he’s so hot!” There was a strong spiritual pull, and I had to get to know him.  

For the first several weeks all we exchanged was a smile and “Hi.” Then one day he stopped me. “How do you say your name?”

“Chelsey.” I looked down at his name tag: GERSON. I was screwed. My rudimentary high school Spanish had not prepared me to even begin to attempt a correct pronunciation. “How do you say your name?”

He smiled. A wicked glint in his eye. “Try.”

I stared at his name tag. “Gare-sun?”

He chuckled. “Close. It’s Grr-sun, rhymes with person.”

The correct pronunciation is actually hare-sone. When Gerson was in kindergarten, his teacher called him “grr-sun” and he stuck with it.  

The summer was almost over when Gerson overheard me talking to another coworker about college preparations. Gerson butted into the conversation in what I would later learn is his personal brand of teasing. “You’re going to BYU?” His tone came across as incredibly judgmental. (You see, in Utah, you either love BYU or hate BYU.)

I might have put my hand on my hips. “Yeah. Do you have a problem with that?”

Gerson laughed. “No. I go to BYU, too.”

Shortly after that, he learned I was 18, and I learned he was 24. We almost stopped pursuing one another, but we couldn’t stay away. Plus, in our shared religious culture, that kind of age difference isn’t a big deal. I technically asked him on our first date, but I brought my friend as a third wheel so it wasn’t a real date. I wanted him to ask me on our first real date; and he did, a couple days later. 

From that second date on, we ate lunch together on campus every day. We spent every free moment together. We fell in love fast and hard. Even then, I didn’t think we should get engaged for at least a year. I was barely 19, had big dreams for my ballroom dance career, and he was six years older than me. Gerson agreed because he didn’t want to push me and lose me, but he was ready to marry ASAP. 

Gerson went home to California for Christmas, and I was miserable. When couples spend time apart, one of two things happen: “Absence makes the heart grow fonder” or “Out of sight, out of mind”. Luckily for us, the first one happened. When Gerson returned to Utah to celebrate New Year’s with me, I told him I had missed him so much that I didn’t want to wait a year to get engaged. I wanted to marry him as soon as he wanted. 

Telling my parents was really scary. I talked to my mom first. I started crying and asked her if she and my dad would support me if I married Gerson that year. She hugged me and said, “Of course!” She talked to my dad privately and he called Gerson and I into his office. (The fourth bedroom in our house, full of storage boxes and a card table with my dad’s desktop computer and my mom’s sewing machine.)

“Mom said you two want to get married.” His facial expression was neutral. 

My heart stopped. Gerson and I looked at each other, panic in our eyes. “Yes.”

My dad smiled. “It’s okay. We’ll support you.”

We did things a little backwards after that. We picked the date and booked the venue before he officially proposed, but the ring was on its way. We knew we were going to get married. 

Gerson had one more fun conversation to have with my dad: the traditional asking for permission. They were watching sports (probably Football considering it was February) and my dad was grading papers (he’s a high school math teacher). 

Gerson cleared his throat. “I don’t know if Debbie told you, but the ring arrived.”

My dad nodded. “Yeah, she told me.”

“And I know I’m supposed to ask you permission…”

My dad leaned back and chuckled. “I have always told Chelsey that I will never tell her who to marry, but I will tell her who to not marry. And I haven’t told her to not marry you.”

Gerson nodded. “Thanks.” And they went back to watching TV.  

He proposed on the banks of Utah Lake, where he had asked me to be his girlfriend five months prior. It was Superbowl Sunday, and I felt pretty special that he missed the beginning of the game to propose – though he would later admit it was because he didn’t care about the teams playing that year. Still, it was a great day, and February is a special month for us. 

I may have been young. We might have dated for too short a time in the eyes of many. But thirteen years later, I don’t regret it. We have a beautiful family. We support one another in our dreams and desires. And we love each other.

This post is the first of several other Real Life Romances to come during this month of love. New authors, new stories each post. Check back Friday February 3rd for the next installment.