Upcoming Book Signings at LifeWay Stores!

Come out if you can. I will be at the following stores this weekend:

Indianapolis LifeWay Christian Store
Friday, May 18th from 5:00-7:00 pm
LifeWay Castleton Crossing
5458 East 82nd Street
Indianapolis, IN 46250
Phone: 317-841-3200

My son Jordan and mom on Mother’s Day a couple of years ago

My sister, mom and I in Virginia Beach where Jen attended Regent University

I wrote this poem to my mom a few years ago for Mother’s Day and thought I would share it with you all. Hugs to all the moms out there this week!

Mother’s Day Poem

Our lives are filled with up and downs

of a million tiny moments lived and felt and forgotten

pains and sorrows – joys and rejoicing

and everything in between

Wedding days and baby births ring bright

from our mushy memories

while the quiet contented smiles, the sweet smells of life

the secret places of joyous abandon to God

echo from a life well lived

When I think of you and all that you are

when I try to remember

from a child’s eye view and then a woman full grown

the sacrifice, the love, the burden bearing you do

I find myself caught

unable to put to words this feeling I have

this feeling you give me

that I am so proud, so humbled, so honored

to have you as my mother

Your acts of fortitude have not gone unnoticed

they shine like a beacon to those of us afraid

that the cost is beyond us, that we have no hope

Your steadfast example is of the vine grafted in

of real flesh being made spirit

of a woman fully alive

I hope in the moments to come

that we can stop and smile at each other more often

that we’ll savor and commit to memory

the shared laughter and the tears

that makes up our lives

I see you growing into a twinkling-eyed little old lady

like you know something we don’t about all this life heaving

that everything ever taken is restored and more

it’s become a sure foundation of truth

knowing, the way I don’t always know, that everything is going to be all right

exactly how God planned it to be for eternity

Join us on the Forgotten Castles Facebook page for chances to win books and other prizes! This week  if we get to 1,000 likes by Monday (4/30) then we will put up the first 5 chapters of The Forgiven Duke on this page. Share our page with your friends for free reading!

Also, there is a contest on Goodreads for an advanced copy of The Forgiven Duke! Read it before it hits the shelves!

Happy reading! Hope you all are enjoying the beautiful spring weather!

The Knitting Box

 I sit, my spine straighter than natural in a waiting room on an overstuffed pink chair with frayed cording. The cold vinyl of the chair seeps through my jeans making me wrap my equally pink coat tighter across my chest.  The room is harsh in both light and smell causing me to revert to shallow nose breathing to avoid the anxiety building tension of knowing I’m allergic to mold.  Thank God, at least, I’m sitting here alone.

 The receptionist’s chair sits empty and poised for duty at the corner desk where an older, boxy monitor stares blankly back.  The walls, painted a pale shade of green in a room with pink to rose accents, scream sedation.  Sit still, they tell me . . . relax . . . breathe.  They should have painted it blood red, a wine baptism of the real, revealing truth.

Turning away from those thoughts, I glance at a white wicker table plied with magazines, Christian magazines this time.  I quickly push back the home decorating in favor of relational issues.  One title catches my eye, something about Christians and what’s allowed in the bedroom.  I laugh.  We Christians do so adore our boxes.

A few minutes later a couple walks out from the back of a long hall of offices. They are accompanied by my pastor and as of today, shrink I guess.  The woman, an acquaintance from church, is positively giddy and I think, it can’t be so bad as I smile and nod and chit-chat with her.  I know a few things going in . . . like this man is all about the heart, and living from the heart and getting healing for the heart.  It sounds so warm and fuzzy but nearly thirty-eight years tell me it probably won’t be.

We walk back, me with my long-legged, high-heeled booted stride behind his short, balding one.  I wonder if I’m overdoing the feminine thing again and what he’s thinking.  He’s mentioned the masculine/feminine thing enough times that I recognize it as part of some theory and since I tend to dress somewhere between a hooker and someone ready for a modeling shoot, I’m certain red flags are waving in his brain already.  Note to self:  dress more conservative next time, Viv.  It won’t do to be so obvious.

The neon lights follow us into his office, a spacious room with a large desk and several carefully placed leather chairs.

“Where’s the couch?” I quip, hating the words as fast as they leave my painted pink lips.

He smiles at me from behind round-rimmed glasses and replies, totally serious, “I’m getting a loveseat.”  He’s gleeful about it, which makes me try not to smile.  I can just imagine all of those troubled marriage partners squeezed together on a loveseat, arms touching, thighs rubbing, stiffly trying to keep to their side of the cushion.  Is he joking?  Apparently not. He goes on to say the clients at his last office just loved the loveseat.

We sit down and I take a deep breath, hanging on to the fact that this man in front of me has a kind smile . . . kind eyes really, which means more.  Maybe he does care.  Maybe he’s not so harried and hurried and he really does like to drive across town everyday to this job.  I’m glad he’s still a stranger though.  It’s easier that way.  I suddenly envy the Catholics and their darkly shrouded confessional.  It must feel good to unload to a faceless voice once in a while, do a little penance and then go on with life, until the next overwhelming attack of guilt.

His cell phone rings saving me for the moment, giving me a few more seconds to figure out what I am going to say, what I’m really here for.  A few Sundays ago, my first Sunday at this church, Pastor Tim had given a homework assignment.  Homework from church isn’t something that I imagine is very popular, but I gave in to the temptation of knowing the answers to his questions and sat down at my computer.  He asked us to write five phrases or sentences about the condition of our hearts.  I ended up with five stanzas of what I thought was darkly beautiful prose, had brought the paper with me and imagined if I was brave enough I might hand it across the chasm of space that separated his thinking from mine in an effort to bridge the gap.  I fingered the folded edges hanging out from my notebook until he hung up and smiled at me, apologizing for the interruption.

“No secretary, eh?”  Again I point out the lack . . . the need . . . the negative.

He assures me that there is one during the day and that they are looking for more help.  I could easily do that job, am always on the lookout for new opportunities, but keep my mouth shut.  Guilt is no reason to work as a volunteer or for what little they could afford to pay.  He made the decision to give free counseling, not me.  Why do I always want to take responsibility for everyone’s feelings?  Why do I crave peace so much?

“So, what’s on your mind?”  He asks pleasantly.

Mind?  Wasn’t this supposed to be about the heart?  My prose would never connect with mind-sets.  Suddenly I wondered, why was I here?  Could this really make any difference in my life?  Would it stop the partying . . . the drinking . . . the early mid-life crisis I’d been going through for the last year?  Would I spill earnest guts in vain?

Squashing such questions, I say instead.  “I wrote something.  To explain the condition of my heart like you told us to do.”  I slip the paper out from the notebook, unfold it and pass it across the abyss.

Buried alive

Tied down –walls closing in

Trapped within the boundaries of my own skin

Straining toward soaring freedom

Do I have to wait for death?

 Afraid

Determined to conquer

Furiously mad

Stubbornly rebellious against authority

Want freedom – want freedom to do what I feel

 Enemies all around

Crazy voices that lie and think they’re right

Unable to see past their own versions of truth

Pinning me in – again

 Love lost

Unable to connect with these mindsets

Sad and angry and afraid to try

It’s never been worth it

The payoff is so small, so weak

The pain so real, so often

I’m better off with God

Eventhough I can’t see him

I’ll tell myself He is trustworthy and true

I’ll make myself believe it

Stubborn again – Ha

 Rock bottom

Nervous breakdown

What do they know?

I know what it feels like to fall apart inside

I know the black bottom of the pit

Why doesn’t He rescue me?

Where is the version of my white knight?

So I’ll wonder around kicking clods of dirt

Or try climbing out on my own again

Until the next time I fall  . . .

“This could be in the Psalms,” he states quietly, looking up at me with mixture of understanding and sadness and love.

It was easier after that.  Things I didn’t even know I believed flowed freely, made into concrete ideals by a set of kind eyes and listening ears.  I think about the impact of listening ears knowing how I fail my own family and friends.  It’s so selfless, but powerful, I realize.

I tell of my traumas and the way mankind has tried to suppress me and define me and how I’m thankful for my rebellious nature that told them all to go to hell, I’m wearing my tight jeans and pink fur jacket and loving the power I feel when eyes stare with their wanting ways.

“I had this dream,” I finally confess.

His eyes perk up and he poses his pen above the white sheets of spiral bound paper.

“I’m laying, curled up in the fetal position in a glass box.  It’s very tight and I can hardly breathe.”  I smile, a little embarrassed.  “I’m knitting furiously.”

He nods at the clear significance and continues scribbling.

“It’s as if . . . as long as I’m knitting, concentrating hard on this distraction, then I can’t feel the box.”  I break down, crying a little and reaching to my right on the floor for a tissue.  “If I look up from the knitting then I start to panic, to feel claustrophobic and like I can’t breath.”

He nods slowly, wisely, explains a method of space counseling that I’m hardly tracking with and then asks me, “If this room is your universe, where is the box?”

I’m slightly taken aback, looking around this strange office trying to image my world there.  Family, friends, neighbors, my house, my street, the errands and the car-pool and the kid’s activities . . . this church, a new church and yet to be fully tested – all whirl around in this small space.  Finally, pointing to the middle of the floor I say, “Right there in the middle of the room, with me in it.”

He asks if I will get down on the floor and curl up in the box.

Oh, God.

******************

            It’s my son’s birthday – six today.  He’s the baby of our family and spoiled in a way I couldn’t fathom as the oldest sibling until I had my own family.  I’ve savored every moment of his childhood like it was my last meal, and it was, in a way, knowing that he was the last of my children.  Knowing that each transition was a phase I’d never experience again made me want to imprint it on my soul forever.  The fat toddler thighs, how I squeezed and kissed them, not ever wanting to let them go.  How when they start to walk the energy eventually burns them into stout muscle with a will to go where they want into the neighborhood and the classroom and friendships where I’m no longer welcome.  From their bicycle to their first car and then anywhere they can manage and dream.  It all drops away into a person and in the meantime, while they grow up, I feel and see myself growing older.

I console myself with the baby, babying him with the grasping knowledge that the other two grew up too fast.  How stupid I was!  Pushing the firstborn, thinking in my mommy’s pride that if he was smarter and better and faster than his peers, I would have something special, not seeing the sweetness of savoring his childhood until it was too late.  Not so with my youngest, Alex.  He is so sweet, even with a faint unibrow and the beginning stages of stubborn male pride showing through.  God, I love my boys and males in general, how easy and predictable and fine they are.

I wake Alex by singing the birthday song and planting kisses across his forehead, cheeks and nose.  I tickle him, nearly smothering him with hugs until he sits up and yells, smiling, “Stop it, mom.”

We go to the grocery store to pick up his cake.  I’m happy to pay fourteen dollars for a store bought Buzz Lightyear cake and when I see it, call myself lucky that it has a toy on top that Alex will carry around in his backpack for weeks after the party.

That morning, before the trip to the store, I’d heard a television preacher teach on Ephesians and tried to apply her teaching and her prayer to my day, really feeling that what she said was real, had some meat to it and was claimable.  At the grocery, I was amazed how prayers really can be answered.

Alex had gotten a Mylar balloon at another store, which read, in big rainbow colors, “Happy Birthday!” that he insisted on carrying into the grocery store.  Once inside, we had two employees come up to us and wish him a big, squat-down in front of him, happy birthday, one man from the floral department even offering a weight so the balloon wouldn’t fly into the grey January sky once we left the store.

We walked through those isles like royalty.

It was like a little of God’s love had gotten over onto people until they couldn’t contain themselves and they had to come over and smile as big as they could and shower affection on a couple of strangers with a bobbing silver balloon.

Finally finished and a victim to sales signs with at least twenty more items in my cart than I’d come in for, we roll over to the checkout lanes to discover that the store is busy for a Tuesday morning and has few cashiers.  We are third in line, me as usual, distracted by the magazine headlines, titillated by the tabloid’s hints of breakups and diet successes despite my common sense efforts not to be.  As we edge forward, my attention shifts to the woman ahead of me in line.

She is elderly, shoulders humped forward with what must be osteoporosis, her head straining to stay erect.  Petite in stature, a white-haired bun with wispy stragglers around a crinkled face, wearing a shapeless dress that came mid-calf . . . she could be anyone’s grandmother.

I watch as she struggles to get a simple twelve-ounce can onto the conveyer belt, her fingers refusing to curl for a good grasp.  Sensing the impatience in the gathering line behind me, feeling the overwhelming sympathy that makes me want to shake my fists toward heaven, I suddenly blurt out, “Can I help you unload?”

I don’t tell her the sudden overwhelming love I feel for her, a stranger.  That would be crazy.  Instead, to buffer the blow to any pride she might have, I quickly add, “You know, I had a neck injury a year ago and my boys had to help me with everything.”

She looks at me.  Those sad, watery eyes that I will never forget and nods, “Thank you.”

Her cart is surprisingly full and I smile inside myself at her courage as I unload cases of pop, cans, boxes, vegetables and meat.  She hadn’t shopped with any fear that she couldn’t finish the task no matter how slow and painful.

“It’s my back.”  She confides quietly.  “It’s permanent, I’m afraid.”

She didn’t say it like she wanted my pity, though I felt that and anger and unfairness and remorse and bitterness and expectation . . . yes, God do something . . . hope. You know you can.  I make a sympathetic sound in my throat, but what I really want, what I can barely hold back, is my desire to lay my hands on the woman’s hunched shoulders and pray for them to be straightened.

GOD!  Where are you?  My entire being demands with each and every can and box I place on the conveyor belt.  This doesn’t have to be permanent, does it?  I’ve read and read and read Your Bible. Your Bible says that Jesus, your Son, healed people.  That He laid His hands on the sick and infirm and the needy and they became well.  Your Bible says that we, Your followers, will do even greater things, and most of all, my heart, my entire being is straining with every fiber to believe it and risk the ridicule of the long line behind me and the stern-faced cashier before me to reach out my hands and close my eyes and call upon Your name and those miracles.

Does she really have to live the rest of her life in the permanent prison of her own bones?  Can they be straightened and strengthened?  Or are we to languish and die in need…so someone like me will see it – see the greater picture, the greater good.

Lacking the courage to be a lunatic, a Jesus freak, I pray silently for her while I continue to unload.

“Is your neck better, dear?”  She asks.

I feel guilty that it is, but say, “Yes, after a year of physical therapy, it is much better.”

I’m strong now, in better shape and looking better than I did when I was twenty, but I don’t tell her that.  I do Yoga, Pilates, the treadmill, anything to keep that horrible, life-robbing pain from my back and neck.  I now have the posture of a dancer . . . but the cost . . . I inhale, remembering . . . I’ll never forget the cost.

The woman leaves and it’s our turn to check out.  Somehow, in the space of a few giving moments the whole atmosphere of the store has changed.  The cashier is nice to me.  The good-looking man behind me is smiling at me with something beyond my usual goal of male admiration.

He respects me.

The people behind me look with patience, approval, and a peace that truly does pass all understanding floods over a checkout line and leaves the lot of us basking in a taste of heaven.

God . . . I pray as I leave on a cloud . . . I want to lay hands on people and see them healed.

It’s crazy.  I’m a mixed-up, crazy woman, but the desire to see the sick well is so deep in my core that my breathing increases when I imagine it and I find I can only pray that somehow, someway, someday, He will make it possible from such flawed, fallen clay as I am to lay hands upon the suffering and see a freaking miracle.

Alex and I walk out of those double doors, his balloon flashing mirror-silver in the grey of anIndianamorning. I want to fall onto my knees to the pot-holed concrete in the hopeless drizzle, my hands uplifted, my cry loud and lamenting on behalf of the hurting and the aged and the fallen.  Where is our Savior?  Be real . . . be real to us . . . Jesus, please God, be so real.

I’ve prayed for her everyday afterward.  I imagine her shoulders straightening to a grand five foot two, her backbone a beautiful S that my physical therapist assured was perfection and as sure as any thirty year olds.  I image her living out the rest of her days strong enough to unload her own grocery cart and even able to turn and help another.  I stretch out my hands into time and space and speak aloud phrases of faith I’ve been taught to believe . . . and then I hope with a knot in my stomach.  I hope that somehow a miracle is happening even though I’m quiet and private in my faith for it.  Eventhough I fail every day, in so many ways.

My third counseling session and I’ve had an epiphany.

My father was a pastor, a Bible teacher really, and I remember growing up as a little girl in awe of him.  He was the kind of man that with little advance preparation, no canned speech or even notes, could hold a crowd enthralled on the combination of his charisma and Bible scriptures.  It’s not that he didn’t study . . . he did little else throughout the week, letting mom deal with “real life” situations.   But when the crowd quieted from worship, when all eyes were turned toward him, something special happened. When he talked we all hung on every word as if God himself had come down from His Holy Hill to communicate with us.  It was a gift, it truly was, a gift he let define him.

In counseling, I learned this was dysfunctional.  Imagine that.  Dad was the controller, mom the enabler, and us kids, well, with our dad, I guess we were all enablers.  That special talent, that special gift he has, it had to be given respect . . . credence . . . and yes, if all were very honest, even a form of worship of sorts.  We did and could and would sacrifice ourselves to it so that it could survive and thrive.  His need for acclaim eclipsed all our needs until we were used up rags waiting by the washing machine for someone to decide on our worth . . . should we be thrown in with a capful of bleach and soap or just thrown out?  Liability cost.

I walked in to see Pastor Tim on a high.

“I know what the box is.” I state with excitement.

He flips open his notepad, pen poised and eager.

I begin with a story.  “My dad, he used to take me with him on road trips.  We would go, two, two and a half hours away to some little towns in Indiana where he would preach at a home Bible study.  There might only be ten or twenty people there, but he never cared, never complained about numbers.  We would pull into the driveway in our small, light-blue Dotson that got so hot on the floor I had to hold my feet up, curled under me on the seat, so they wouldn’t feel the floor board beneath my tennis shoes.

We would arrive at a house and my dad would start the meeting.  I don’t remember much aside from some praise songs, a message, and then a pre-teens exhaustion as the night of preaching and ministry stretched until after midnight.  But when we left, that was the best part, the part I remember in full-color, slow-motion detail.  We would drive and talk of things beyond earth’s bounds:  creation and the fall, God and Jesus and the rapture, the earthly walk compared to the spiritual walk and how we’re all born for more than what we can see or hear or feel.

The meaning of life.

The highlight of the night was stopping at a truck stop along the way.  Dad would spend a little of the offering basket on two slices of pie and a couple of Cokes.  Nothing ever felt so special as a middle of the night slice of pie with my dad.  He could squint his eyes and lean toward me over the table and tell me in his deep, sure voice the mysteries of the universe and I believed him like he was a demigod dropped down to earth to take a turn as my father.  Could anyone be as lucky as I was?

He would pay the bill in ones from the offering basket and then we would get back into the car that I didn’t realize was cheap and small, that I thought was cozy and wonderful.  The air outside would be dark and crisp, and then on the rest of the way home we would imagine all the things that night creatures imagine . . . angels and devils and other worldly beings in the sky, knowing with everything within us that there is more – so much more, if only we would see.

The night with him was never scary – it was alive and alight with meaning, humming with exciting possibilities.  It was at those times that he made me feel as special as he was.  He took me up and into his realm of thinking and made me feel a feeling that I hadn’t fathomed existed, a feeling that thrilled me to my core.

Now, as much as I love my father and want to validate his great gift, I realize that his box was trying to be someone special to mankind, to be validated and known, and yet he was special, he has had something special to give.  He gave it to me.

It was his addiction, his need, his calling and his meaning.  He passed it on to each one of his children who I now see struggling to come to grips with the passion of it.

I look at it now as a grown-up woman – a mother, a wife.  I see the cost my family bore, our mother and my brothers and sister and me.  I see how we paid for it, at times feeding it and loving it and at other times reviling it.  My father did have a gift, as many of the great and talented in history have had, those bright stars that burn with a brilliance that destroy those closest and dearest.  The wives that endure the pain of a heart’s infidelity in a passionate nature that can’t be held in check.  The children who languish in the aftermath of a parent living their passion.  Some say there is a balance and to turn fully over to the passion will engulf and destroy, but as I look at my three sons and a good husband who I know I’m lucky to have, I wonder . . . what would happen if I fully yielded to it – this raging, storming desire to do something great.  Would it be worth the cost?  Was it worth what it cost me?  This counseling session?  This healing absent father hole?

Is the box my fear to fully follow in my father’s footsteps?  The desire for self-satisfied acclaim?  Will we arrive in heaven and see it all from an above the clouds prospective that changes everything?  Where’s the balance between self-glorification and God-glorification?  From heathen to Christian.  The drug need is still there and still killing me if I deny it and them if I don’t.

I laugh bitterly.  “The box is my fear – fear what this flesh and blood earthly clay will do if I let it.  I’m afraid of what will happen if I let go of the restraint and what will happen if I don’t.  But I can’t knit anymore.  No more distractions.”

Pastor Tim nods, “What will you do now?”

“I’ll live.  I’ll feel the ups and downs, the joys and disappointments, the love and the hate.  Some days I’ll be the best mother, hugging on them and helping with homework and listening, I’ll listen better.  Some days I’ll sing with my sister, dancing and wild and as real as this mind and body lets me be.  Some days I’ll write, letting whatever is overflowing from my heart become my beloved black words on a white page, and some days I will dance alone to Him in my living room like a Middle Eastern, scarf-draped, jewel in the middle of my forehead, enchantress.

He smiles . . . triumphant.  “Then what will you do?”

I tear up, seeing the pinnacle.  “Someday . . . someday I’ll be brave enough to lay my hands on an old lady in the middle of a grocery store and hope . . . . I’ll hope so hard that her life will be touched by God through me.”

“Go and explore outside the box,” he prays for me.

Yes, I will . . . . I will.

I will be signing copies of my books and having a Q&A at the Laurel and Brookville Public Libraries this Thursday, April 12th. These events are open to the public so stop by and say hello if you can!

Laurel Library – 2:00-3:00 PM
200 N. Clay Street
Laurel, IN  47024

Brookville Library – 6:30-7:30 pm
919 Main Street
Brookville, IN  47012

Praise God for His master plan
Praise Him for His son that came
Praise Jesus for a life laid down
Praise Him for our eternal gain.

I wish you all a wonderful and deeply blessed Easter! May His death break our hearts and His resurrection fill us with HOPE and the thanksgiving of knowing that when we die in this flesh it will only be as if we are asleep until Jesus, by His sacrifice, welcomes us into eternal life in heaven with Him!

As my son, Nick (age 13) says after every prayer. “I love you Jesus, Praise you Jesus, I have faith in you Jesus, I love you Jesus! Amen.”

This is too cute for words!!!

We have some winners! The winner for the Irish prize package is Rina! Please send me your address and I will mail your package right out! Congratulations!!

And for the second contest (see yesterday’s post if you missed this) . . . it was so hard to choose! But I’m going to have to go with Ladette Kerr’s limerick: (send me your address as well!)

The Guardian Duke is handsome.
He has tons of money and then some.
Alex is fair,
her parents aren’t there.
Are they being held for ransom?

On a search she will go,
For the truth she must know.
Will her guardian stop her?
Will the Spaniards catch her?
She continues to traipse to and fro.

Through letters they meet.
She’s devious but sweet.
He’s smart and kind.
Not what she had in mind.
They both feel some passion and heat.

Another man catches her eye,
Is he real or is it just a lie?
The Duke is coming behind her,
He must protect her.
She’s gone before he can say good-bye.

Thanks to everyone who participated! Cheers and Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Well, my dears, our St. Paddy’s Day fun is almost done and I’ve saved the best for last. While writing The Guardian Duke I met a wonderful gentleman named Clive Scoular. Clive ended up reading the whole manuscript (I had to ease him into the idea – no, just kidding – he generously offered) to check it for accuracy and make sure that my references to all things Irish were believable. An historian and author himself (view his website here) Clive helped me make Killyleagh, the castle and especially the references to Hans Sloane come to life. If you ever make it to Killyleagh be sure and go to the Duffernin Coaching Inn and ask for Clive’s contact information. I imagine, if he’s not too busy, he’ll give you a tour of this enchanting village. And he knows a lot about it! Now, let’s turn it over to Clive:

The Dufferin Coaching Inn. A B&B set in the shadows of Killyleagh Castle.

Were you born in Killyleagh? If not, how did you come to be in Killyleagh? Tell us a little about yourself and your background.

I was born in Hamilton, Scotland and I was brought up outside Glasgow. My father was Scottish and my mother from Belfast. I came to live in Ireland as soon as I left school in the early 1960s by which time, sadly, my mother had died. After a couple of years I entered the social work profession and was posted to Downpatrick. I quickly realised that this was the place for me and have been here ever since. I got involved with Scouting in Killyleagh and that firmly set me in this lovely part of the world.

What is the best part of living in Killyleagh?

The best part of living in Killyleagh is twofold – the kindly people and the wonderful countryside. County Down is the most spectacular county in all of Ireland – I should know for my partner and I have played nearly 300 different golf courses all over Ireland and know every county and town. We have loughs and mountains, rivers and lots of places to play all sorts of sports and no where is very far from the next town or village. Everyone is made to feel welcome as I was throughout the years. The people are just lovely and would do anything for you – I found this out when I ran the Scout troop in Killyleagh for many years.

You have written a book entitled The Famous Sons of Killyleagh that I enjoyed reading during my research of Killyleagh. Can you tell us about Hans Sloane, a person who is referenced in The Guardian Duke?

Hans Sloane is the most famous son of Killyleagh. You have read the book so you know. He learnt his collecting and cataloging skills as a boy and young man in the village. He went on to found the British Museum and the British library, two of the biggest establishments in the entire British Isles and in the world. He also discovered chocolate when he was in the West Indies in the late seventeenth century and brought it back to this country. We are exceedingly proud of Sloane and we celebrated the 350th anniversary of his birth in 2010 – for the most part of this year I played the part of Sir Hans and was dressed up as him on many occasions during the year.

What are some of the things tourists can see and do in Killyleagh and the surrounding area?

Tourists would love the area – it is beside Strangford Lough and there’s lots to do – walks in closeby Delamont Park and fishing and sailing on the lough. The Mountains of Mourne are also nearby and lots of picturesque towns and villages in the vicinity. The cathedral town of Downpatrick is just 6 miles away with its fine cathedral and the burial place of Ireland’s three greatest saints – ss Patrick, Brigid and Columba. There is also a fine museum and the S Patrick Centre displaying the life and works of the saint.

Any closing thoughts about what is next for Killyleagh and your work in particular?

All of us in the village are keen to move forward -  we have saved the library and we look forward to restoring Killyleagh to its rightful place. We would very much welcome visitors from the United States – I do see lots of them at the cathedral when I am on duty there (I am a parishioner and am there each Sunday).

Thanks, Clive! And now for today’s fun video!

This video gave me an idea!

The Celtic Woman contest was for last year but we can still play here. Just comment your limerick on this post and I will pick my favorite and send the winner . . . drumroll please . . . an advanced copy of The Forgiven Duke!!! Yes, you heard right! I have a very few of them to giveaway before the second book in the series comes out in July! Here’s an example of a limerick: (AABBA ryhme scheme)

If you were longing for more pages at the end of Guardian Duke
Maybe you even wanted to hit me with a kind rebuke
I have your solution
Your needed resolution
Creative and funny might win you The Forgiven Duke!

Good luck! I’ll announce this winner tomorrow also!

Just stop by during the week and comment on any of the posts (one comment/entry per person, please)  Monday 3/12/2012 through Friday 3/16/2012 for a chance to win. I am excited to give away this beautiful music box, the new Celtic Woman CD Believe and a signed copy of The Guardian Duke!

You can hear samples of the songs here.

And a signed copy of The Guardian Duke – set in Holy Island, England and Belfast, Killyleagh and Dublin, Ireland

I will draw a winner on Saturday, March 17th – St. Patrick’sDay! Don’t forget to leave a way for me to reach you!

One entry per person. Contest ends midnight, March 16, 2012. By entering the giveaway you agree to be added to the e-newsletter mailing list of Jamie Carie. Giveaway open to U.S. and Ireland residents only. You must be 18 years old to enter. No purchase necessary. Jamie Carie is not responsible for transmission failures, computer glitches, or lost, late, damaged or returned mail.

Now for the other contest!

Go to The Forgotten Castles Facebook page to see all the details on a second give away. This prize is worth over $100 and includes:

- Cross of Faith
- Irish Fragrant Soap
- Irish Breakfast Tea
- The Guardian Duke

And now for today’s fun! Take this quiz and see how knowledgeable you are about St. Patrick’s Day!

In old Irish superstition, on which day of the week is it considered unlucky to marry?

a) Monday
b) Wednesday
c) Friday
d) Saturday

St. Patrick used what to illustrate the concept of the Holy Trinity?

a) A seamroy
b) A trefoil
c) A shamrock
d) All of the above

It is said that if you catch a leprechaun, he will promise great wealth if you let him go. What must you do in order to obtain the “pot o’ gold”?

a) Offer the leprechaun a drink of poteen.
b) Give the leprechaun a “luck penny”.
c) Never take your eyes off the leprechaun.
d) Throw salt over your shoulder.

In Irish superstition, if a black cat crosses your path on a moonlit night, what does it portend?

a) Evil spirits are about.
b) Death in an epidemic.
c) Good fortune.
d) Seventeen years bad luck.

The long-lived yew tree was regarded as magical by the Celts. They believed it could be used to

a) Produce magical visions.
b) Protect against evil.
c) Connect with your dead ancestors.
d) All of the above.

When St. Patrick first came to Ireland, what was his profession?

a) Priest
b) Bishop
c) Fisherman
d) Slave

According to a popular folk tale, Saint Patrick drove what out of Ireland and into the ocean?

a) Snakes
b) Rats
c) Druids
d) Leprechauns

What trade do leprechauns traditionally practice?

a) Cobbler or shoemaker
b) Blacksmith
c) Tailor
d) Banker

Why do over 300,000 people kiss the Blarney Stone each year?

a) For protection from the ‘little people’.
b) For the power of eloquent speech.
c) For a long life.
d) For good fortune.

What must you do to with a four-leaf shamrock to benefit from the good luck it is purported to bring?

a) Carry it with you everywhere.
b) Give it away.
c) Show it to everyone.
d) Sprinkle it with holy water.
St. Patrick’s Day is considered the luckiest day of the year to do what?

a) Be born.
b) Get married.
c) Sign a contract.
d) Plant the crops.

ANSWERS:

1) The correct answer is “d”.
An old proverb states: Marry on Monday for wealth – Tuesday for health – Wednesday the best day of all – Thursday for losses – Friday for crosses – Saturday for no luck at all.
2) The correct answer is “d”.
It is said that the shamrock, also called trefoil or seamroy, was used by St. Patrick to illustrate the existence of the Holy Trinity.
3) The correct answer is “c”.
You must never take your eye off him, for he can vanish in an instant.
4) The correct answer is “b”.
According to an old Irish superstition, having a black cat cross your path by moonlight meant that death would come in an epidemic.
5) The correct answer is “d”.
6) The correct answer is “d”.
7) The correct answer is “a”.
The correct answer is “a”.
9) Good Job! The correct answer is “b”.
10) The correct answer is “a”.
It is said that a four-leaf shamrock will bring good luck in gambling and racing, and will render witchcraft powerless. But, one must carry it with them at all times. Giving it away or showing it to others will cause the luck to fail.
11) The correct answer is “b”.
St. Patrick’s Day is considered to be the luckiest wedding anniversary date in Ireland.

This quiz was found on About.com

Stop by tomorrow for an interview with my friend – Clive Scoular from Killyleagh!

Cheers, my dears!

You come from a long line of Rowan Hamiltons, the founders of Killyleagh. Can you tell us about your heritage and how Killyleagh came to be?

In 1604, James Hamilton (later Viscount Clandeboye) was granted significant land rights in County Down by James 1st (originally James VI of Scotland before acceding to the English throne) in payment for services rendered. Hamilton had been dispatched by James VI to Dublin to report on the Irish issues in relation to James VI’s claim to the English throne. While in Dublin Hamilton uncovered a plot by Hugh Montgomery to spring Con O’Neill from Carrickfergus Castle following his arrest as a result of some drunk and disorderly behaviour of his men at arms. In return for springing Con O’Neill, Montgomery was going to be given by Con O’Neill half his property in County Down. However Hamilton got to the King before Montgomery reached the King to petition him for Con O’Neill’s pardon. Hamilton explained to the King that allowing Montgomery to take half O’Neill’s property would leave O’Neill with too much and allow Montgomery unfettered control over the area. As a result the King agreed to split O’Neill’s land three ways, permitting the three protagonists equal shares.

Not surprisingly this interference led to running skirmishes between the Hamiltons and Montgomerys for the next sixty years, but by the end Hamilton had got the upperhand and had even managed to inveigle the remaining third of the property from O’Neill. One of the conditions of the grant of land was that both Hamilton and Montgomery had to build a fortified house sufficient to hold a garrison of men at arms – and as a consequence Hamilton converted the Norman castle at Killyleagh into his military headquarters. The building of the courtyard, or bawn as it is known in Ireland dates from this period. The castle itself was in existence in 1180 and is likely to have been built by Norman/English knight called John de Courcey who built many of the castles along the eastern seaboard of Northern Ireland. The original castle looked across to the Narrows – the relatively narrow channel to the Irish Sea up which the Vikings would sail as they visited the local monasteries around Strangford Lough for their traditional activities.

Hamilton and Montgomery then started to import their fellow lowland Scots as skilled workers to help build houses and settlements to permit the commercialisation of their properties. In fact James 1st was pleased with the results as harvests continued to improve, although he quite quickly realised that he had granted too much land to these first settlers and when he executed the First Plantation he made sure that the land grants were significantly smaller.

Prior to Hamilton’s arrival, Killyleagh is likely to have been a small fishing village. The southern part of County Down for the previous 30 years had been a battle ground between the English settlers in the south of Ireland and local Irish feudal landowners. Most of the physical buildings would have been burnt out by intra family quarrels as well as English troops from Dublin. Indeed Hamilton built a row of cottages in the town – the road still called Plantation Street exists today. Over the next four hundred years the village grew as commercial activity took off. A harbour was built and would have traded in local produce – beef and milk initially, but then later as the linen industry grew, textiles would have gone out and coal in. With no significant local employer nowadays it is really a dormitory town for Belfast.

By the time James Hamilton died he was rumoured to be the largest landowner in Ireland. He had been a driven frontiersman and had managed to grow his interests significantly. His son, who was raised to an Earldom (the Earl of Clanbrassil) continued in his father’s footsteps, but the grandson, the second Earl, was a wastrel and while he had one son, the son died at the age of 12, followed shortly by the second Earl (poisoned by his wife in an attempt to steal the Hamilton properties for her own family) and the estates were split between James Hamilton’s five younger brothers who had followed James to Ireland from Scotland. My lineage is derived from James Hamilton’s next brother down. Beyond that my antecedents include adventurers, gamblers, layabouts and even traitors. Archibald Hamilton Rowan (he took on the name Rowan in order to ensure an inheritance from his maternal grandfather), an Irish Patriot and acting chairman of the United Irishman was not only a friend of Marie Antoinette but also sentenced to death by hanging by the British in Dublin. He escaped from Dublin Gaol and fled to the United States, where 3 of the authors of the US Constitution lived in his boarding house in Philadelphia. He was eventually pardoned and returned back to the castle at Killyleagh to live out his old age.

You and your family live in the picturesque Killyleagh Castle. What is it like to live in a castle? What are the challenges and rewards?

I was born and brought up in Killyleagh so much of the wow factor misses me. It is simply my family home. Just before my father handed the keys to me he said to me that I should not let living in this house drag me into penury. He told me that I should not be too proud to sell it if it was unaffordable. As he drove away he jokingly also mentioned that in 2 years time I was to hold a large party to celebrate the fact that the family would have been living in the house for 400 years. So as you can see, there is always a challenge to any incumbent. Luckily for me I have been successful in my work so the future, at least for this generation, should be secure.
There is no doubt however, that on a hot sunny day in July, there is no other place I would be. It certainly outweighs the occasions that I have found myself on the roof in a howling gale in the middle of the night clearing out gutters to prevent water coming in.

Can tourists stay at the castle? Is there a place online to book a room?

Twenty years ago I converted the gatehouses that overlook the village into three apartments that are available for holiday lets – http://www.discovernorthernireland.com/Killyleagh-Castle-Towers-Ava-Killyleagh-Downpatrick-P6623

Do you give castle tours?

The castle is a private family home, and with five children it looks like any other person’s home. Yes I give tours by arrangement but you have to call in advance.

What did you think of Jamie Carie’s portrayal of Killyleagh and the castle?

Jamie clearly did her research – she captures the feel of the village and the castle itself. She describes the brightly colored cottages on the High Street running up to the castle, with its pointed towers and crenellations overlooking the village itself. Once inside the house she comments on how comfortable it is and makes the point that the comfort only came with the refurbishment of the building by my great great grandmother. I am not quite sure whether the refurbishment would quite have happened when Alex visited, but I guess that is just a technicality and why should it get in the way of a great story. I was amused by Alex’s meeting with Archibald Hamilton Rowan – he was a giant of a man, well over six foot tall and immensely tall for the period. He himself would have had great many stories to tell as he was not only a traitor to the Crown but a good friend of Marie Antoinette as well as Benjamin Franklin.

Any closing thoughts?

Come and see us sometime.

To purchase the full length video of Killyleagh, go here. I’ve seen it and it is excellent!!

And now it is time for today’s fun Irish video: