I'm a hero! - excerpt from A Surprise Gift, Sparky's story

 

I’m a hero!

“I’m going rollerblading,” Servant said to Driver. 

(Servant and Driver are the names that Thomas the Cat gave our humans when he first met them.) 

Servant was carrying a pair of boots that had a row of wheels attached to the bottom, thick gloves, a hard thing like the moto drivers wear on their heads, and a broom.

“What’s the broom for?” Driver asked.

Good question. Why would she need a broom? I wondered.

“For sweeping the concrete pad at the park,” she replied. “The little kids like to toss pebbles onto the concrete. If my blades hit the stones, I might trip.”

“Okay, have a good time,” he said.

Wagging my tail excitedly, I waited for her to clip my leash to my collar and take me along. I have no clue what rollerblading is, but I want to go with her.

“No, Sparky, you have to stay home and look after the house,” she said.

I tucked my tail and slunk into my hiding place under the sofa. When she says those words, I know I must stay home with the cats.

Servant bent over and looked under the sofa. “Don’t worry, Sparky, we’ll go for a golf cart ride later.”

I gave her my sad-eyed-don’t-leave-me look, but she just smiled at me and shut the door.

A short time later, I heard a horrible shrieking noise coming from somewhere down the street. Oh no! I think Servant is hurt. I raced around the living room, looking for an exit. All the doors were tightly closed. Then I jumped onto the kitchen table and slammed my broad shoulders through the partially open window. It hurt! A lot! But I had to save my friend, Servant.

“Sparky! Stop!” Driver shouted at me.

I didn’t stop. I dashed outside and listened. There. More screams. Oh no, I hope I can save her. I ran south towards the little park where I sometimes swim in the ocean.

I ran, and ran, over the sharp rocks. Over the big stones. Over the sand, and through the prickly bushes. Suddenly, the screaming stopped.

Panting and frightened, I raced into the park searching frantically for my human.

Then I heard Servant’s laughter coming from the street.

“She’s so cute. But my goodness, she’s noisy.” Servant said. She was standing beside a man and his daughter. They were all looking down at a small dog.

What an ugly dog. It was pink and hairless and made snorting noises like those dogs with the squished faces. It had two toes on each foot that looked dangerously sharp. The man picked up the weird dog, and it started to scream again. “She doesn’t like to be picked up. But, she’s still too little to jump in the car on her own.”

Servant noticed me, “Sparky, what are you doing here?” She patted her thigh to call me to her, but I stayed back. My feet were planted. My sharp fangs were ready to use. I was prepared to spring into action if that pink dog attacked Servant.

“There he is,” said Driver as he parked the golf cart beside us. “When the screaming started, Sparky jumped on the table and barged his way through the window. The one that we leave locked open, just wide enough for the cats to come and go. It was a very tight fit for Sparky.”

The man stuffed his weird little dog inside his car, and the shrieks stopped. “I’m really sorry about the awful noise,” he said with a little shrug.

“It’s no problem,” Servant said, then bent down and called me to her. “Sparky baby, did you bruise your shoulders when you forced your way out of the window?”

“Guau-guau, jau-jau,” I answered. I was sore, but very relieved that she was okay.

“You are my hero! You saved me from the piglet,” she said with a wide grin.

Her hero! I felt very important. That piglet must be a dangerous animal. It certainly sounded dangerous.

Driver and Servant waved goodbye to the man, and we headed back home in our golf cart. A little later, we had lunch at Ballyhoo Restaurante in Centro, to celebrate.

Servant said we were celebrating me being her hero!

Woof, woof, Sparky

Read more of my stories in this book available on Amazon! 

And 11 mystery novels feature me! 

How to bring an entire village to a standstill.

 

The two-lane road in Mousehole

“Lady! Move the car!” A ginger-haired, spittle-spraying, police officer bellowed at me through the passenger’s window. He’d assumed that I was the driver, being as we were in the British Isles, and the person on the right-hand side of the car should have been the driver. 

However, we were driving an Aston Martin, built in Britain for the North American market, which meant the steering wheel was on the left-hand side of the car.

Ha! I fooled him. But I prudently didn’t mention that to the irate man.

I wasn’t oblivious to the problem building up around our car on Wharf Street, in the hamlet of Mousehole. The traffic had been creeping past by alternating one way then the other, accompanied by filthy looks from frustrated drivers, when a large delivery van firmly shoved a cork in the bottleneck. It was unable to pass between our car and the ancient stone wall of the hotel, and the entire seaside village came to a standstill.

Mousehole is a tiny gem on the edge of the English Channel, in Cornwall, England. In 1991, on an extended road trip through Europe, we had wandered our way southish from Northern Ireland, through the Welsh communities of Swansea, Cardiff, and on to Bristol, England, regrettably bypassing Bath. We continued on to Exeter, then Plymouth, until we were on narrow country lanes that were hemmed in by stone walls and overhanging vegetation and littered with sheep traveling to and from their home pastures. As with every discovery on this journey, we had no set plan or route to follow and were content to go where the road looked interesting.

The harbour in Mousehole, Cornwall

And Mousehole, in Cornwall, definitely looked interesting.

During the stormy winter months, the minuscule harbour was originally sealed with massive timbers that were lowered into metal brackets. We were there in August of 1991, at what should have been the height of tourist season. Because of the recent Gulf War, very few tourists and virtually no Americans were traveling. 

In Mousehole, pronounced by locals as Muzzle, or as it sounded to me, Mowzel, the roads predate horse and carriage days, barely one vehicle wide and not designed for modern-day transportation. Lawrie parked the Aston Martin near The Ship Inn, with two wheels close to the hotel wall and her wide butt hanging into traffic. Ignoring my protests, he hopped out of the car and headed into the hotel. The Ship Inn would normally have had a two-year waiting list for summer visitors. A few minutes later, I glimpsed Lawrie and the manager traipsing through the hotel viewing the available rooms. 

The Aston Martin (green) on a typical road

Just as the British bobby was spraying me with spittle and anger, Lawrie and the hotel manager crossed through the traffic to the annex on the other side of the road. The copper lost his cool, screaming at the hotel manager, who gaily waved and continued on his way. He was more concerned with snagging the seemingly rich guests for a few nights’ accommodation than he was with the tangled mess of local traffic.

Frustrated, the police officer turned his blue-eyed glare back on me, “I said, move this car, lady." His expression said quite clearly that he would like to bash the shit out of the expansive hood of the car with his wide hand. The tiny alcove that the car occupied was the only place that vehicles could squeeze past each other.

Sheepishly, I squashed my holiday-sized body out of the passenger’s door, rounded to the driver’s side, and contorted my way back into the car. Climbing across the front seats wasn’t an option. The gearshift and handbrake created hazards for my nether regions. I started the Aston and waited for the copper to clear a pathway. Stomping past several cars, he angrily indicated they should reverse. Then it was my turn to inch back a few feet, allowing the delivery van to make a left turn onto a side street. Another policeman did the same for the oncoming vehicles, making everyone move back two car lengths to allow the stupid tourist to get the hell out of the way.

Everyone quietly fumed in their cars. No horn honking. No road rage. Just quiet, seething anger aimed at the idiots with the British Columbia license plate proudly displaying a Canadian flag.

Lawrie writing postcards to family

I squeezed the Aston Martin into a spot on the wharf, in an area reserved for the hotel guests. By the time the traffic was inching forward to their original destinations, Lawrie had registered us for a two-night stay. Smiling happily at his choice of a lovely seaside room, he joined me on the wharf, “Everything okay, then?”

Seeing my exasperated expression, he started to laugh, “I knew you would handle it.”

“Thanks, so very much,” I retorted, “you are buying me a nice dinner this evening.”

We spent two memorable days exploring the lovely side streets, cafés, and interesting boutique stores in the original cottages that had belonged to the fishermen and their families. At one store, we came across a sweet little children’s book by Antonia Barber, The Mousehole Cat. The cat, Mouser, is credited with saving the villagers one stormy winter’s night. The villagers were starving because they couldn’t get their fishing boats out through the narrow opening in the harbour, the seas were too rough, and the wind was ferocious. The old cat and her elderly owner, Tom Bawcock, set off in their tiny fishing boat to find fish for the residents, knowing they might never return.

Stargazy Pie

The fishing adventure ends with great success, and everyone in the village, including an assortment of cats, enjoys a hearty meal of Mouser’s favourite meal, Stargazy Pie. This pie is traditionally made with a combination of seven types of fish, including mackerel, ling cod, herring, and whole pilchards (sardines), and topped with a pasty crust. The pilchards are baked whole with heads poking through the pastry top, appearing to gaze at the stars. There are many variations of the original recipe, which include hard-boiled eggs, bacon, onion, mustard, or white wine. In late December on Tom Bawcock's Eve, Stargazy Pie is served at The Ship Inn in Mousehole, sometimes accompanied by a re-enactment of the legend.

Before we left Mousehole, I purchased a copy of The Mousehole Cat. The book traveled from Cornwall, England, through fifteen countries, before returning to Canada with us later in 1991.

Somewhere in the sorting and packing preparations to move to Isla Mujeres, Mexico, in 2008, I gave the book to a good friend as a keepsake. Recently, I discovered I could order another copy from Amazon! It arrived today. 

Tonight, I poured a glass of wine and re-read The Mousehole Cat, and reminisced about an entertaining experience thirty years ago with my love, my adventure partner, Lawrie.

For the full story, watch this little video on YouTube: Mousehole Cat

Link to The Ship Inn: https://shipinnmousehole.co.uk/

Cheers, 

Lynda and Sparky 

~

Something for everyone! 

Bilingual books for children 

or entertaining murder mysteries for the grownups.

Murder and mayhem, revenge and romance! 

Grab your copy! Paperback and e-books. 

Goats on the roof!

Goats on Roof - posing for photos. 

"What if we put goats on the roof?" 

It's a simple question that created a hugely popular tourist destination located in the community of Coombs, on Vancouver Island. 

The original Old Country Market was created in the early 1970s by Kristian Graaten and his wife, Solveig, who had emigrated with their children to Vancouver Island from Norway in the 1950s. 

The Old Country Market

The sod roof was inspired by their Norwegian homeland, where farm structures are frequently built directly into the hillside with the roof becoming an extension of the land. 

The complex is an eclectic mixture of shops and eateries, including the original fruit stand, a diverse market, a yummy donut shop, a coffee house, La Taqueria Mexican cantina, the Cuckoo Trattoria Italian restaurant, and an amazing selection of huge garden pots. 

Okanagan fresh fruit

We arrived late on a Thursday afternoon, but couldn't find a parking space within three blocks, so decided to return the next morning at opening time.

On Friday morning, my friends and I freely roamed the original marketplace purchasing olives, artisan cheese, gourmet crackers, their own brand of olive oil, and beautiful Mexican glass tumblers. 

Then we moved on to the fresh produce in the next building and stocked up on Okanagan fruit and local vegetables.

Ninety minutes later as we were leaving the complex was rapidly filling up with locals and tourists coming to experience this unique combination of fun and function.

Mexican glass tumblers

As for the question, “What if we put goats on the roof?” 

According to the company's webpage, it was the weekend of the Coombs Fall Fair, and the grass was getting rather long. Legend has it that, after a few glasses of wine, Larry suggested that they ‘borrow’ some goats to ‘mow’ the grass and perhaps provide some entertainment for passing cars. 

The goats hang out here when not on roof duty

The goats became permanent tenants of the Coombs market that weekend and have been there for more than thirty years. Each spring, a group of goats makes their home on the roof, entertaining both locals and visitors from all over the world. The goats take turns on the rooftop, posing for tourists while other members of the tribe relax in the shady field below the complex. 

Italian restaurant and produce market

The Old Country Market is now owned and operated by Larry and Lene Geekie and their family. ‘Goats on the Roof’ has become one of the top tourist destinations in British Columbia. 

If you are on Vancouver Island, it is worth the time to stop and experience Goats on Roof.

Cheers

Lynda & my travel buddy Sparky

Available at Coles Penticton, Coles Vernon, 

SS Sicamous & Museum, and Ruby Blues Winery

Driving into the past

Summerland

Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was restless. I just had to get out of the condo and do something! Anything. It was a perfect day for a road trip, a contact-free road trip staying within my approved region in keeping with the British Columbia COVID restrictions. (Sigh!)

I quickly assembled a few necessities: camera, credit card for gas, water, and snacks for both Sparky and me, his water bowl and leash, my sunglasses, and off we go. We headed north to Summerland, stopping at one of our favourite places to allow him a last chance to pee before we hit the mountainous, four-lane Coquihalla Highway with its limited places to stop for a puppy-dog pee break. 

Tim McGraw

We arrived in my old hometown, Merritt, population 7000, around ten in the morning. I did a quick tour, driving past our house on Merritt Avenue, the Claybanks swimming hole, and the compact downtown area. I spent my teenage years in this town, and for me it was a great place to grow up. I walked everywhere with my large white mutt, never worrying about my safety and always able to find a friend or two to hang out with.

Martina, Reba, Carrie

Merritt has been host to a number of high-profile country music stars over the years. Big names that anyone would recognize, Reba McEntire, Carrie Underwood, Tim McGraw, to name a few. Wikipedia has a more complete list of the stars who performed in Merritt. Many have been honored with large murals covering downtown buildings or on the Walk of the Stars. The Merritt Mountain Music Festival, at its peak, attracted 148,000 to the six-day event, but the accommodations were RVs and motorhomes when the small city was inundated with people.

That event petered out in 2012 and was replaced with the Rockin' River Music Festival, attracting stars like Keith Urban, Jon Pardi, and Travis Tritt. Unfortunately, due to the COVID pandemic, everything is on hold for the time being. 

Nicola Stock Farm 

From Merritt, I headed north towards the well-preserved remains of the Nicola Stock Farm, which was started in 1919. A stately manor, the courthouse, and a few other smaller buildings still remain. When I was a teenager, the ranch manager and family lived on site, but now it is part of the massive Douglas Lake Ranch encompassing about 271,000 acres of land. The remaining buildings are a tourist attraction that can be viewed from the outside.

Our next brief stop was at the Quilchena Hotel, just a little further up the road. Again, this was once an independent and well-known ranching family's property, which has been folded into the Douglas Lake Ranch. The hotel, restaurant, and golf course have recently closed due to a lack of business caused by travel restrictions and a drop in tourism. It's a lovely old place that, as a kid, fascinated me. 

Quilchena Hotel

Lawrie and I once stayed at the Quilchena Hotel for a weekend in the early 1980s. I still remember when the young woman checked us in, she said, "Every room comes with a horse." We burst out laughing at the thought of a large horse climbing the grand staircase to our room and settling into our double bed. We were so amused that we did take her up on the offer and went horseback riding the next morning. Neither of us could be considered riders, and I am certain the horses were relieved when we told our guide to take us back earlier than planned. A nice cold drink in the original bar was far more our style.

Nicola Lake

From Quilchena, I drove along the shores of the Nicola Lake towards Kamloops. At the entrance to Kamloops, I turned south along the other arm of the Coquihalla Highway and headed back to Merritt. When I'm on a road trip, I like to stop frequently and explore, or take photos, and by the time we turned south, we had been traveling for five hours. My little buddy was tired of being in the car. His tummy was upset, and he just wanted to go home. 

I hardly stopped at all on the return trip, but even so, we were eight hours on the road by the time we got back. And we didn't have contact with anyone except the drive-through person who handed me a cup of coffee in Merritt. 

I loved the drive, but I miss the human contact. I can't wait until these restrictions end.

Cheers 

Lynda and The Sparkinator

   Love, lust, and loot in the affluent world of wine and wineries. 

Corked is the newest murder mystery from the author of the exciting Isla Mujeres Mysteries. Murder follows Jessica Sanderson and her detective dog Sparky as they relocate from their Caribbean paradise in Mexico to the Okanagan wine country in Canada. On Isla Mujeres, big changes are coming for Jessica’s friends as the COVID-19 virus gains momentum. Leaving her beloved island, Jessica follows her new love interest, Mike Lyons, into a new adventure.

Grab your copy!

The chore that I hate the most!

Cleaning the inside of my car is not my favourite chore. Okay, it's my least favourite chore. I would rather do anything else than clean the inside of my vehicle.

Today I spent a frustrating hour contorting my body to scour out some of Sparky’s accumulated dog hair from under the dash, on the floor mats, and under or between the seats. I scrubbed at pawprints and vacuumed up some of the sand and gravel that he tracked inside my pretty blue Mazda 3. 

And that got me thinking about the cars of my childhood. When I was a little kid, Dad owned a 1950 beige serviceable Ford; it might have been a Customline Ford. It was a functional vehicle barely big enough for two adults, four growing daughters, and the family dog. 

The four of us were assigned the job of washing the car and cleaning the windows inside and out. I don't remember my mother owning a vacuum until the mid-to-late fifties. Yes, the car was Dad’s and the vacuum was Mom’s. It was the 1950s. 

So, how did we clean the inside of the car? Think about it. Two adults who smoked in the vehicle with the windows rolled up. Four messy, noisy kids. And a farty Cocker Spaniel who shed a lot. 

Somewhere in the late 1950s, Mom eventually got a big, awkward Hoover Constellation vacuum, but the back alley where we cleaned the family automobile didn’t have electricity, so vacuuming the inside would have been impossible. In 1955, Dad was able to upgrade to a maroon-coloured two-door 1955 Oldsmobile Super-88. He was pretty darn proud of that car. 

I remember one Saturday morning when Dad told us to wash and wax The Oldsmobile. We very industriously applied wax to the entire vehicle, only to discover that it was the worst possible scenario. The particular type of wax that we were given was to be applied in small areas and then buffed off as soon as the surface clouded. We scrubbed furiously at the hard wax in hopes of removing it before Dad discovered our mistake. 

Yeah, no such luck. He was less than impressed when he had to apply his muscles to remove the mess. 

Our next family automobile was a smaller, sportier one, a Mercury Meteor. There were only two of the four daughters at home by that time, plus a large, white dog who also shed a lot more than the Cocker Spaniel. The Mercury Meteor didn’t last long because Dad was long-legged, and the car was too small. 

The final family car was a big, long, boat of a thing, a copper-coloured 1967 Dodge Monaco. And we still had the big white dog who shed an amazing amount of fur, and who went with us whenever possible. 

 

Our driveway didn’t have an electrical outlet, and I am pretty sure Dad wouldn’t have spent money on someone else cleaning his car when he had two healthy, strong teenage daughters living at home. 

I’ve driven and owned an eclectic assortment of vehicles since I became a licensed driver many, many years ago; everything from a two-hundred-dollar junker to a 1915 Overland delivery truck, to an expensive Aston Martin. 

I love the freedom of a car. 

I just hate to clean the inside.

Cheers, Lynda and The Mucky Sparkinator

Widowhood 101 - dealing with Amazon

 

Lawrie and I

It's been two years, six months, and fifteen days since Lawrie passed away, and I honestly thought I had come to the end of the stressful paperwork associated with losing my partner, my best friend. 

But no, it continues.

Today's frustration isn't one of the difficult things like seeing 'cancelled' stamped across the face of his new passport, or straightening out our joint bank accounts, or advising the government that he won't be filing income tax, ever again, it's about access to over 4000 titles of e-books that Lawrie and I have purchased via Amazon Kindle e-books since 2008.

When Lawrie passed away in September 2018, I continued to buy e-books on the account because it was easier than trying to sort out yet another problem. I read on average three or four books a week; it's a method to fill the hours and keep from thinking about him.

I recently purchased another Kindle to replace my aging and finicky reader. As I have done many times before, I logged in to connect my new reader to the account. I haven't logged in for quite a while, and the site wanted me to input a code that had been sent to his cellphone. That cellphone doesn't exist anymore.

So, I called the Amazon help line for assistance - big mistake!

Now that they know he has passed away, they have locked his account, and I have lost access to all of the books, including the one that I am halfway through reading. It's Amazon's policy that e-books are not transferable - even to the surviving spouse. 

I'm frustrated and angry. I'm the only person who has been ordering and paying for the e-books since Lawrie passed away, but I am not allowed to access them or any of the previous titles.

I asked for a supervisor's contact information and was told, "We don't have supervisors. We are the last line." 

Great, just great. This is another emotional kick in the teeth for surviving spouses. 

Lynda

UPDATE: three full days of chatting on the help line with a variety of agents, two phone calls, and several emails later, it looks like I have a solution to the problem. Fingers-crossed. 

A little wine research and development: CORKED

Friday was research and development day for my newest novel, Corked. 

It's a murder-mystery set in a local, but fictitious, winery. 

With over three hundred wineries in British Columbia, Canada, it was a challenge to pick a name for my winery that wasn't already in use. I chose one of Lawrie's favourite expressions and named my fictitious winery No Regrets. It is supposedly located in the southern part of the Okanagan Valley. 

For authenticity in the story, I picked the brains of my winey-friends, Prudence Mayer, owner of Ruby Blues on the Naramata Bench, in Penticton, Sharon Hickey, who works at Ruby Blues, plus wine consultant and long-time friend, Eric von Krosigk at Frind Estate in West Kelowna. 

Sharon Hickey and Kerry Younie - let's go!

This past week was bottling time at Ruby Blues for their whites: Gewürztraminer, Grüner Veltliner, Viognier, Riesling, and White Stiletto. Sparky and I received an invite to pop out and watch the action, so we did. Early Friday morning, I drove to the property just in time to see the crew start the process. What an amazing operation. 

Rudy tipped the clean bottles onto the line to be whisked away and cleaned, then filled, capped, and capsuled. The bottles automatically made their way along the line until they arrived at the boxing station where Sharon Hickey and Kerry Younie checked each one for correct placement of the labels, and that it had been filled to the proper level, then added six each to the case before it passed under the taping device and slid down the line to be stacked on the wooden pallet. Wine-maker, Blair Gillingham, took turns with Melanie, Spencer, Paul, and Prudence lifting and stacking the boxes. 

The hard-working crew was flying to keep up with the speeding bottles. At the end of the day, they had bottled eighteen pallets of wine. 

That equals 18 pallets x 56 boxes on each pallet x 12 bottles in each box, or 12096 bottles of yummy Ruby Blues wine. So, 12096 times in one day, someone picked up a bottle, examined the label and the fill line, then placed it in the box. That's a shoulder-killing repetitive movement all for our sakes, so that we can enjoy the delicious product. 

Video of the bottling line and workers in action.

When you read Corked, keep them in mind.

The automated line is the brainchild of Norman Cole, founder and owner of Artus Bottling Ltd. Started in 2005, the company provides a much-needed, mobile beverage bottling for small to medium-sized wineries and cideries in the Okanagan Valley. Previously, many smaller wineries struggled to afford equipment that was used twice a year; once in the spring to bottle the whites, and again in the fall for the reds.

Ruby Blues Wine & Gift Shop

I am looking forward to enjoying my Ruby Blues wine.

Cheers, 

Lynda and The Sparkinator

CORKED 

Cover design by Mary Fry Designs