Irene Onorato's Blog

If I could live anywhere in the world, where would it be? Interesting question, and one that made me put on my thinking cap.

After working in many places in the U.S., a job opportunity brought us to Louisiana. When our kids were grown, life threw us a curveball, and the job that brought us here vanished. For a period of time, we stewed over our misfortune and wondered what to do.

And then…

Out of the blue, (As an aside, let me explain. I interpret the phrase “Out of the blue” to mean “Then God stepped in.”), a former coworker called to let us know that both hubby and I were invited to submit our resumés to a power plant in Plymouth, Massachusetts. We did so, and bada-bing, bada-boom, we were accepted.

Plymouth proved to be a lovely, quaint seaside town. Friendly people, squawking seagulls, beaches, parks, and loads of history which included a replica of the Mayflower and Plimoth Plantation, a “living” museum of sorts where actors reinacted life as it was back in the 1600’s.

Despite having good jobs and living in a beautiful, peaceful town, pieces of our hearts were empty without our family – which now included grandchildren we seldom got to see.

After five years, we retired and returned to Louisiana.

Yes, Plymouth was lovely. The Rocky Mountains of Colorado had been breathtaking. The Great Lakes up north were awe-inspiring. And we’ll always remember the rolling hills of Pennsylvania dotted with Amish farmland with a degree of fondness.

But in the end, Toto, there’s no place like home. For us, home means family. Traveling is nice, but in truth, I’d rather stay right here. With them.

Introduction:

Many of us are intrigued by the history of the Great Depression. We envision mobsters, speakeasies, hobos riding the rails, and families struggling to make ends meet. Then, in 1939, came the news of war in Europe when Germany invaded Poland, which struck fear into many hearts. No one who lived through that era will ever forget the live radio broadcast from President Roosevelt two years later that began with: “Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”

It is during this period of history that author Phyllis B. Olson sets her captivating novel, The Faded Blue House. Though a work of fiction, the story reads like a genuine account of a family living through the joys, sorrows, and adversities of the time. Phyllis’s words are stitched together with masterful skill and pure love. The Faded Blue House is a story that will stay in my heart for a long, long time.

Without further ado, let me introduce you to Phyllis…

My book started with the story of Joey and the kittens, a true story told to me.  It touched me and made me angry at the adult who would do such a thing.  Then I was told the true story of the child who was given away because there was not enough food for everyone.  I continued collecting and writing Depression stories, some my own, and decided I could turn them into a book that became The Faded Blue House.  It took me several years to assemble the stories into a novel.  I do believe fiction can deliver a more compelling history lesson than a text book or a lecture.

The Faded Blue House is not a memoir but much of it is based on what I saw and heard as a child during the Great Depression. The fictional town of Maxwell well represents the small southern town where I grew up. Hobos did come to our back door, and unemployed people were taken in by families. Health care was skimpy, and my siblings and I were delivered at home.  Few of us are left to tell these stories. I hope you will read my book, and I would love to hear from you.  Phyllis B. Olson  fadedbluehouse@gmail.com

Because The Faded Blue House has been so kindly received, I have written a sequel, On Adelphi Road, that continues the story of Phoebe Evans and her family after they move from their faded blue rental.  The new book will be published in 2025.

Here for your enjoyment is the synopsis of The Faded Blue House:

Phoebe marries at age nineteen and moves to town anticipating a lively social life. Instead, she quickly has three children, the Great Depression descends, and her husband disengages from the family. In the midst of the struggles, she and her widowed neighbor, Faith Anne, commit to helping those around them including a disowned pregnant teenager, a family beset by alcoholism and a family ruined by the Dust Bowl. An unethical neighbor creates a problem for eight-year-old Joey, a self-righteous church-woman adds discord, racism abounds and World War II looms. All the while, the voice of FDR calms troubled souls.

The Faded Blue House is an illuminating depiction of life in a small Southern town during the 1930s, including shortages, financial struggles, racial inequities and The New Deal. The story ends as The United States enters World War II. It is a story of faith, generosity, hope and joy during a notable time in history.

When I first started writing, I gravitated toward the straight-up romance genre. Simplified, what I mean by “straight-up” is your typical formula romance that goes something like this:

While that’s still my primary trope, one that I enjoy both reading and writing, I occasionally have the desire to add something else to the basic formula. A little mystery? Suspense? Police procedural? Adventure?

My quest for that something else is what led me to write Justice for Hattie Mayfair. It’s set in South Louisiana, an area I’m familiar with because I live there. The story begins with Lexi, a poor, preteen girl who witnesses something terrible in the woods. Something she must keep secret to ensure her safety.

In her early twenties, Lexi meets a man who ignites her hope of one day being free from the past. Free from fear. From constantly looking over her shoulder.

One reader said if Justice for Hattie Mayfair was my way of writing outside the box, that I should do it more often. Maybe I will! I loved writing this book, and I hope you’ll enjoy reading it.

JUSTICE FOR HATTIE MAYFAIR

Romance/Suspense

Available from all major retail outlets.

Saving Chase now has a sequel —- LOVING DORY.

Check both books out HERE.

We love coleslaw. It’s cheap, easy to make, cool and refreshing. So, when hubby asked me to make some, I gladly jumped on the project and began assembling the few needed ingredients. I asked Jim to get the food processor I use to shred the cabbage and carrot from the hall pantry’s top shelf where we keep things that simply don’t fit in any of the kitchen cabinets.

“Hey, Renie,” Jim called from the hall. “How come the Cuisinart is wet?”

Wet? Huh? I hurried over, and sure enough, the appliance was indeed wet. So was everything else on the top shelf. Overhead, a small leak was oozing out of the slightly cracked ceiling. I knew instantly there was something wrong with the A/C unit even though the house was nice and cool.

A quick trip to the attic told Jim the problem had something to do with the A/C drain line, but he didn’t feel he had the expertise to fix it. Hence the call to son number one, who lives nearby. Later, the two of them descended from the broiling-hot attic with the determination that we needed to call “The Guy.”

Before #1 son left, I reminded him that his father needed help shoring up our back fence which was leaning a bit from last year’s hurricane. I brought up, once again, the forty-seven hours of agonizing labor and painful delivery I went through to birth him. I said, “You owe me!” He rolled his eyes and we laughed. Again.

Long story short, “The Guy,” actually two of them, came over a few days later and took care of the leak. We still have to repair the ceiling that sagged over the weekend and fell in a few places, but we’re thankful the damage was inside a closet and not somewhere else.

If it wasn’t for the coleslaw, we wouldn’t have caught the leak until much later. Probably not until the damage had extended into the hallway. And, if son number one hadn’t come over to help hubby, I might still be waiting to get my fence fixed.

Yay for coleslaw, I say! I think I’ll have some now.

Coleslaw dressing:

There’s something enormously satisfying about writing a book, going through the agony of edits, and finally launching it into the world for all to see. A jumble of thoughts fill my head… Did I do my very best? Was this the final-final-final draft, or should I have gone over it ONE MORE time? Oh, dear, did I miss anything? Will my readers like it?

To put it bluntly, releasing a book is scary. Rewarding? Yes. Still, scary.

The last book I put out was the third in the Unlikely Love series titled, The Street Magician and the Librarian. So far, so good. Reviewers have been kind in their assessments.

For me, there’s always the question of what to write next. Or, I wonder if I should take a breather and write a short work like a novellette? Maybe concentrate on promoting the books I have? Decisions, decisions.

Happily, after conferring with my wonderful critique partners and weighing their excellent advice, I’ve decided to write a sequel to Saving Chase. Of course, the decision didn’t come without drawbacks. For the past three nights, the characters from Saving Chase have been keeping me awake at night, each one vying for top billing.

I’ve got the storyline in my head. Now, to put it down on paper.

What am I going to call the new book? Good question. I have no idea. Oy. Another thing to agonize about…

While driving home from Winn Dixie the other day, a familiar old song niggled my brain and I couldn’t hold it in. In the passenger seat, hubby joined in and we sang it to the end. Hubs smiled and said, “Did I harmonate good with you?”

I had to laugh. Jim has a gift for butchering the English language by slightly altering or making up totally new words on the fly. But, this gift—if you could call it that—didn’t develop by accident. Nope. It was passed down in his genes from his mother.

My mother-in-law passed away over twenty years ago, yet I think of her often, especially on her birthday, which would have been today. She was a special lady, and sometimes the sweet memories of her becomes a nostalgic lump in my throat, making it hard to swallow. Tears brim my eyes, and I’ll admit to sometimes letting them fall unashamedly. Love does that, and when you think about it, it’s a beautiful thing.

Speaking of the linguistic gift… Most people pour oil into their car’s engine. Not my mother-in-law. She used earl. Remember way back when we used to buy film for our cameras? Mom bought fill-um for hers. Oh, and here’s some sage advice from my MIL:  don’t ever put a plastic bag over your head. Know why? You’ll smothercate!

Little things etched themselves deep in my heart. When my first child was born, my mother-in-law held him close, her eyes misting, and said, “Thank you for giving me a grandson.” It was a sweet and tender moment between us.

Mom had a little problem with her weight, but kept a candy stash in her dresser drawer, away from my father-in-law’s watchful eye. She shared her secret with my daughter and they would sneak a private snack together with shushes and giggles.

My little girl loved miniature tea sets, and Mom made it a point to present her with gifts to add to her collection. Ever thoughtful, she seemed to know exactly how to make a child smile.

Most of all, I’ll remember my mother-in-law’s hearty, infectious laugh forever. She threw back her head and laughed with her whole being. I loved it. Once, she and my father-in-law came to visit when my youngest son, Jesse, was about four years old. My dad was present also. We were standing outside talking when Jesse looked up and said, “How ‘bout that. Two grandpas and a lady grandpa.” My mother-in-law had a good, long belly-laugh that set off a chain reaction. Good times.

I hope when I’m long gone my memory will be the lump in my loved ones’ throats. That I will have made a difference and my presence will be missed.

Most of us like to dip our toes into the water before diving in. We want to feel it out and see if we’re comfortable with what lies ahead before making the committment.

It was no different for me with diving into a new venture of producing audiobook versions of my existing repertoire of novels, etc. For my toe-dipping experience I chose a novelette titled, One and Only. I’m super excited about it and am glad I took the plunge.

Here you go. I hope you like it. Have a listen, then click the audiobook cover to visit ONE AND ONLY on audible.com (Also available on Amazon.)

Let me preface by telling you that we own two cats and this guy isn’t one of them.

Hubby and I were standing in the carport when a cat strolled toward us and began weaving between our ankles and rubbing against our legs. Not only was he affectionate, but also very vocal with kitty trills, singsong meows, and a host of other cat conversation.

When hubs opened the door to go inside, the cat zoomed past him and walked around the house as if he owned the place. He ate a bit of our cats’ food, found their litter pan, and used the “facilities.” After exploring the whole house from one end to the other, he decided a nap was in order.

Judging by his clean and ultra-soft coat, this kitty was loved and well-taken care of. He wore a red collar with a little bell hanging from it, but didn’t have any kind of identification tag. I uploaded his photo on the NextDoor app and hoped his owner would see it. Also, I decided to bring him to a local vet and see if he was chipped.

Turns out, Simba was indeed chipped! But no one responded to the phone number associated with the chip. I had no choice but to take the cat back home with me, which was okay. I needed a nap and Simba did too. He cudled with me as if we were long-lost buddies.

Lo and behold, someone recognized Simba’s photo on the NextDoor app, notified the owner, and the pair were reunited. I kidded the young lady who came to pick Simba up and told her the cat had cheated on her and slept with me. We had a good laugh, and Simba went home where he belonged.

Simba, claiming the top spot on the cat tree.

It’s been several months since I unplugged from Facebook and Twitter. In that time, I thought I’d be free from reading about the constant bickering, disagreements, name-calling, posturing, threats, so-called “fact-checking,” and the host of other unsavory junk that comes from being on “social” (here I snicker at the term) media.

Alas, the long arms of those two platforms have reached out and wrapped their tentacles around the news media. It seems every other “news” article involves telling us what so-and-so (whomever is the most recent object of their hate and ridicule) has said on….you guessed it — social media. Good grief. Is there no escape? Is resistance really futile?

What ever happened to old-fashioned NEWS? You know… The “who, what, when, where, and why” kind that doesn’t attempt to tell me how feel about it. IE: A masked man. Robbed XYZ bank. Yesterday at noon. In Festerbestertonville, LA. End of story. Facts. Not feelings.

I was listening to an online weather report the other day that went something like this: “It’s going to be an awful, dreary day tomorrow with lots and lots of rain, and…”

Wait a second! Awful and dreary? But, I like rain. Sigh. Et tu, Brute?