I snuggled pups, worked in the garden, and cleaned the pool this afternoon. And after a short nap this evening, I crept into my office to work.

I am up in the wee hours of the morn struggling with some character flaws in a novel I have been working on for some time. It's not a common practice to share my writing with others, but for the first time, I thought I would.

I enjoy so much making new friends on the the internet through MySpace and my new blog site. I often get asked, "what do I do, exactly." And I giggle a little bit because my life is somewhat that of a chameleon. I have written so much about the farm and how it benefits my family and that I also teach dance in the Arctic, but I am also a writer. I am especially inclined to write in the political and espionage genres.

Below you will find an excerpt from my current novel.

Chapter Twelve

Al, Big Mike, and Hugh go to play blackjack, but I spy Johnny heading to the men's room. This is when I make my move. I am wearing a figure hugging black silk dress. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was being watched closely.

I rush for the ladies room stall and sit delicately on the toilet. I can hear someone enter the room and I slip open my purse to make sure the gun is inside.

I hear the distinct sound of a knife leaving its sheath. I know this sound well. When I used to go hunting with my Grandfather, the other hunters always wore them on their belts. I knew then that Johnny was inside.

A single gunshot. No screams, no struggle, no lingering stares. I gingerly tiptoe over the body and emerge from the restroom with not a hair out of place. I comb my shoulder length hair back into one hand and calmly walk around the corner and straight into Agent Beard.

"Nice job Mrs. Silva.”

"Please... call me Allie."

The guys that had been with Johnny knew what just went down. No one was going to wait for Johnny or the police to see what went on in the ladies room. The three men dashed out of the hotel.

Johnny lies mortally wounded on the floor. Blood covers his dark Pendleton-type long sleeve shirt. His once spit-shined Italian loafers are splattered red. His dying hand clasps the gold cross hanging from his neck. Two cops enter the bathroom along with two more security guards.

Once I am alone, outside of the building, the adrenaline and assuredness wear off and my hands start to shake uncontrollably. I cannot believe what has just taken place. It won't be long 'til it gets back to Nicky that his 'boy Johnny' has been hit. And not long after that 'til he figures out my involvement. I know now that I have to get the hell away from Nicky Shaff.

But I am thankful that I carried the gun. And even more grateful that my Grandfather taught me how to use it.

I was in the middle of my garden this afternoon, when the first storm clouds rolled in. I knew I had about an hour's worth of weeding, hoeing, and watering of plants and vines before heading back to the house. I just crossed my fingers and drug out the garden hose.

I knew the garden would get the drink they needed if the clouds dropped on us, so I hurried to drench eight pots of flowers and
twelve hanging Boston ferns wrapped around my 70 ft. porch. Thirty-five feet on each side. Boy, if this old porch could talk. The stories it could tell. My grandparents and my great uncle Cecil would sit out on the porch for hours and swap interesting tid bits along with the gossip of the day.


By now I realized the rain was imminent. But I had more to do, so I put the memories away for a while and finished checking my garden. The tomatoes are growing like weeds, but still too green, even for fried green tomatoes. (Yum.)






The leaf lettuce, red lettuce, peppers, cucumbers, and squash all looked happy and healthy as well, so I high-tailed it over to cover the pool and "batten down the hatches" as grandmother would say.

The storm is rolling in fast and I can hear her plain as day: "You better get inside this house young lady. Unplug the TV's and stay away from the windows. And don't you dare think about gettin' on that phone." This old farm house has been hit by lightning so many times I've lost count. And she was good at reminding us. I can count many an evening sitting in the middle of the living room floor in the dark with only the sound of a portable radio ( no plugs, ha) and the distant sound of thunder. She'd sit in her big pink chair holding her fly swatter, humming some gospel tune until the thunder passed and only a few drops of rain water could be heard dripping from the gutters.

I had to remind my daughter of the windows today. She was too busy taking care of our nine puppies to notice the storm. She was busy washing puppy bowls in the sink right in front of the kitchen window. And without hesitating I heard my grandmother's words fly from my mouth: "Turn that water off and get away from that window, young lady."

I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

The storm blew over and all is well at the farm. We're cleaning up the puppy pen and washing puppy blankets this evening. I'm guessing I need to introduce you to my nine beautiful puppies soon. They take up a lot of our time, but it's just another part of farm life.

Thanks for the walk down memory lane. Have a good evening!