Kim Luke's Blog

It was an innocent notion that would take me down a rabbit hole so deep, I was looking for a white rabbit and a Cheshire cat. I did encounter lots of weird things, the most peculiar being a FLUX. What is a FLUX you ask? You will soon find out, and you will WANT one!

Stories have a way of transporting us to worlds unknown, and can offer a sweet respite from reality. Some of you are voracious readers, and many of you wish you had the time to be. Audio books are a viable way to “read” more books. Whether you are in your car, in the gym, outdoors or at home audio books are portable and can be enjoyed anywhere and anytime. Sixty percent of audio books are downloaded and listened to with our smart phones.

“I SHOULD CREATE AUDIO BOOKS FROM MY CIRCLE OF SUN SERIES!” Now you know the innocent notion that took me down the rabbit hole. Now how will I do that? Where would I find a narrator and how does the audio book get created, produced and published? There was a bright and shinning beacon on the horizon called ACX, a division of the mega giant Amazon. There I could get my books into audio form and publish on the largest audio platform in the world, Audible. (again, Amazon)

I did the audio book myself, and their submission requirements for quality audio was a crash course in sound editing, mastering and producing of audio files. Sample chapters were rejected more than once until I had them perfect. The learning curve was steep.

First I needed a sound studio to produce the kind of product they wanted. So I built one in my home and had to deal with lots of black electronic thing-a-ma-jigs and whatnots. The land was so foreign to me I longed to write and forget the notion of audio books.

These items listed below do not deserve to be inside the warm embrace of a paragraph. Please don’t try to actually read and understand this list. Just glance . . . you get the drift.

******Dragonpad Pop Filter, Studio Condenser Recording Microphone, Tripod stand with extending boom, Studio Monitor Headphones, measurement between -23dB and 18dB RMS, Maximum -60dB noise floor, 192kbps or higher, Constant Bit Rate 44.1 kHz and FLUX!! WHAT????*****

 I made the decision to narrate my own stories. I discovered listeners enjoy hearing authors read their own books.  Additionally I learned doing “voices” for various characters is enjoyable to the listener if one has the ability, if not it’s better to simply read. “Good!” I thought, “I will simply read.” However that is not what actually happened.

When my distinguished gentleman character Professor Enderlee appeared in his first scene, his voice came out of me like a surprise guest at a party! No matter how many “takes” I did he wouldn’t be silenced. Soon all the characters would usurp this lowly narrator and folks, I just let it happen. In the second volume of the series the majority of the action takes place in London, England in the 1600’s. This would mean a British accent . . . and I learned how to do that too. Sounds like a happy ending right? NO! FLUX!

Finally my files were submission perfect but once more I ran into a brick wall. Before I signed any contracts with ACX I had to decipher their terms. They wanted to take 60% of each sale, set their own retail price, and reserve the rights to the audio files for seven years! I just wouldn’t do that!

So I stood against the giant and went rogue. I published my submission ready, quality sound files on my own website, keeping my profit and the rights to my work.

Finally I chose FLUX PLAYER to host my audio books. It’s a weird word but an awesome application. Consumers simply download the free app “FLUX PLAYER” from the app store.

Then if you are so inclined to try out one of my audio books, just come back to my website (kimlukeauthor.com) and find the “shop” tab at the top of the page. From there you will find the books, sample of narration and purchase instructions.

Going rogue is pretty cool, but my books are not featured on the biggest platform in the world, they are on a tiny stage in scheme of things, my own website. Now the audio book journey is in my rear view   mirror. All that remains is for them to be enjoyed. Audio books are expensive to produce, even if you do everything yourself! The first book in the volume is ten+ hours of entertainment and normally sells for $26.00, but I have a limited time sale on volume 1 in the series . . . $7.99! This won’t last long.

I am eager to write another few books this year for both of the series. But I am considering producing audio books of the Enchanted Farm Series. I’ll keep you posted. If you are still reading this blog post, I am grateful. Thank you for caring about what I am doing. If you are wanting to purchase an audio book please read carefully below.

FLUX PLAYER, FLUX PLAYER, FLUX PLAYER, FLUX PLAYER

Please follow these simple steps.

1. Download the free Flux Player from the app store. (NOT my website) PLEASE REMEMBER THE EMAIL YOU ENTERED AND THE PASSWORD YOU CREATED, PLEASE REMEMBER THE EMAIL AND THE PASSWORD, EMAIL AND PASSWORD. Now that you have the FLUX PLAYER . . .

2. Go to my website and click the tab that says “shop”. There you will see three audio books. Click on any of the three to hear a few seconds of the narration.

3. When are asked to enter an email and password during the purchase, use the same one you used to download the FLUX player from the app store. The audio book will immediately download and you will have your first book in your library.

By the looks of my website, you can see the kind of genre I enjoy writing in. My  husband and my grandorables  have been after me for years to write a book for children. Although I love children’s books I didn’t see myself writing stories for the kiddos. Not until Karibou, our Alaskan Malamute joined the family. Karibou was a BIG PUPPY  that grew into a BIG DOG! We had owned two Mals before him, neither were as large, or as epic as him.

He was our family member, our Christmas Tree Farm mascot and friend to all. I mean the last part literally . . . he liked to socialize! He was the best ambassador, greeting every family car that arrived on our farm to choose that perfect tree for their holidays. Leading them out to the field, rolling over for belly rubs, swiping their candy canes and posing for pictures, this dog was the best! He also followed many cars off the property and showed up uninvited on neighbor’s doorsteps. If Farmer Bob turned his attention away, Karibou would be off on an adventure. We have been called to collect him from countless neighbors who greet us at the door with KARIBOU by their side! Yes, they always invite him in, and yes they feed him hot dogs and he’s even been allowed to crawl in bed with cranky kids that need naps!

    He has been in parades, headlined an ad campaign for our Slik Hound Dog collars, and been painted blue by an artist for Kansas City Royal’s pride. After each of his escapades I would imagine what he was up to . . .and that my friend, is where my stories were woven. 

My book has beautiful illustrations by Rembrandts Sister

I came up with a little mouse named Ollie who would become an unlikely best friend for the big white dog.  In Feb of 2017 I committed to writing a children’s book. But tragedy struck when our beautiful Karibou was killed by a car. We were heartbroken and shocked to lose our beloved puppy at 4.5 years. Needless to say, the passion for writing about him died too. But finally after several weeks, I felt “Ollie” lurking and waiting in my imagination. He wanted his story told! 

     What if a little mouse didn’t understand that fairytales are only stories? Ollie hears of a magical place called Fort Osage Farm, a land of Christmas trees. It is here that Ollie chooses to build his kingdom and rule his subjects. Now if he could only find a castle . . . and some subjects . . . and friends. 

     Ollie and Karibou are quite a pair, and I have adored writing these stories. The first “tale” in my newest series The Enchanted Farm at Fort Osage is ready to enjoy~The King of nobody Finds His Castle. 

     These are chapter books perfect for elementary school-aged children. They are perfect bedtime stories for the younger ones too. My stories are full of adventure, challenges and lessons of the heart. I hope you will enjoy reading them as much as I have creating them. All souls young and old should have big dreams! This series reminds the young and the young at heart . . .  dreams can change the world. 

Although I will still be selling Circle of Sun books from this website, my new series is only available on Amazon in paperbook and ebook. 

Kim’s Column Christmas Trees Magazine~World’s Leading Magazine for Christmas Tree Growers

Volume 42, No.4

Nov. 2016- Our most recent selling season preparation:

I’m loitering, lurking . . . anticipating. I casually meander over to the rim of the canyon and peer down. I only catch a glimpse of the swirling vortex before I look away and ignore, for a bit longer . . . knowing I too will be plunging in soon, the sands of time forcing my hand.

What we have worked for all year, our selling season is only weeks away. Of course not everyone holds the same perspective as the matriarch of the clan. My duties as wife to the farmer, mother of the kids, nana to the ” grands”, marketing guru, business owner and keeper of the flame dictate a loud call to action! Each year I store the experiences in my vault of do’s and don’ts, but I am not sure you can fully prepare for it all.

Our selling season has evolved in the 15 years we have been in business. In 2002 the number of choose and harvest tree farms in the Kansas City metro area was many, and attracting people to our farm was the name of the game. It was all about advertisement, getting the word out. How could we gain enough customers to sell what we needed to keep our farm going to the next year? We needed enough profits to pay for our opening costs, and our operating expenses. With a season that is over almost before it starts, each day is crucial, and poor weather on a busy sales day cuts deeply when you are battling for growth and profits…sustainability.

Today, because many Christmas Tree Farms have retired from the business in our area, the demand for choose and harvest trees is at an all-time high. Experiencing a few hours in the crisp and fragrant fields of a Christmas tree farm, to harvest that special tree has reached into the hearts of long-time plastic tree owners. This trend has changed what we do dramatically, God knew it needed to be baby steps for us to handle the way things are today. Last year we had approximately 6000 people roaming around Ft. Osage Christmas. Who shops for a tree alone? Our focus has changed from finding customers to providing the best experience and quality trees to meet the demand of a multiplying customer base.

Typically I assemble my weapons of choice; pencil and sharpie, datebook and “playbook” binder and a positive attitude. I usually divide my tasks into before opening day and after. When we open, it’s like a grand opening EVERY year. Some of my tasks will include:

Retail

~Clean, organize, set up and decorate gift shop.

~Decipher needed gift store merchandise and supplies, place orders.

~Make 250 Units of my original spiced tea “Christmas Cheer.”

~Cocoa station set up and stocked with 1000’s of cups and canisters of cocoa and cases of mini candy canes.

~Arrange for portable bathroom facilities (fingers crossed our new restroom facilities will be complete this year!)

~Arrange helpers for marking all field trees.

Support

~Contact and schedule help for unloading of our semi-full of Fraser Fir arriving three days before opening (brought in by request of our patrons, this tree not typically grown in Missouri)

~Organizing and creating work schedules for friends and family who become retail selling staff.

~Choosing days when a minimum of 50 wreaths can be created and ready for opening day.

~Lining up all workers for actual tree processing.

~Choose our Santa, schedule his appearances, dry clean the suit, create Santa’s stage with honorable chair, decorated trees, special “larger” candy canes, coloring books.

Communication

~Update website.

~Prepare six weeks of social media posts.

~Write, create and record detailed messages for callers, change weekly with updates.

~Update PickYourOwn.org with 2016 season information.

~Inventory existing signage, reorder as needed.

~Place signs and banners, arrows to farm.

Family

~Decorate our home for Christmas

~Choose set up and decorate our tree.

~Plan Thanksgiving meal, pre-prepare or arrange catering.

~Have plenty of easy meal choices stocked.

~Online Christmas shopping dates circled

The list does not include everything that my husband does, his list is scary. Even more frightening, he has never once utilized the little notebooks I have supplied him with for list making. He keeps mental lists . . . it’s a head scratcher.

I have learned a few things in this process. Decorate my house for Christmas early Nov. Stock the freezer and fridge. Try to have all Christmas shopping done before the first leaves fall, wrap as they arrive. Hire housekeeping help. Take Monday’s off. It all sounds good in theory, and some years I hit it out of the ball park and other times I just pray everyone has clean socks. A couple of times in the last 15 years while running an errand in the middle a furiously busy sales day, I pondered escape . . . the airport is not far.

I guess my loitering is over, its crunch time. Within the deep canyon, a cyclone rotates and I catch glimpses of objects caught in the fury. Autumn leaves swirl amid flying calendars, wreaths, fireplaces, roast turkeys on platters, shopping bags, Santa’s suit, tree stands and clocks, packages and bows and an occasional dog that barks. Time waits for no one, I say a prayer, take a deep breath and plunge into that whirlwind of consumption.

When my planning is done, and my strategy is laid out like mission possible, I seem to find my rhythm. I am no longer looking into the vortex, I am part of it. Like being in the eye of the storm, I find some peace when I begin to focus on the experience we provide to our patrons. A warm and cozy fire to sit by in a festive and magical gift shop. Hot cocoa or spiced tea served with a smile, holiday music covering our 20 acres, a friendly handshake from the farmer, breathtaking trees and wreaths to grace their homes. The rolling hills of Fort Osage Christmas will be ready, along with our gratitude for each family who chooses to create memories with us. Who needs sleep anyway?

Upon a heavy bed of dry maple leaves, she strums the melody Jon showed her. Cass can escape reality when she plays her guitar. An annoying fly dances with death, landing on her over and over, and ending her peaceful play. Autumn flies are slow but defiant clinging to the shirttails of summer. Time to head to school, no amount of escapism can change reality. Cass shuffles through the leaves and reaches campus as the first bell rings. Seven hours of boredom along with isolation is a punishment in itself.

Cass ran with a crowd, going to parties and being involved, but that was before everything changed.

“Megan!” Cass calls out to her best friend who walks with a group of girls. Megan doesn’t even respond as they continue on to class. Who can blame her or the rest of them, Cass wonders. She must now carry the burden of regret, complete high school so she can leave this dusty little town.

But something is different today. When she stands holding her lunch tray and awkwardly scanning the cafeteria for a place to sit, she finds kindness from a stranger who rescues her.

“Join me if you like,” he says motioning her to the empty place across from him.

“Thanks,” she replies plopping down.

“My name is Tom, you look like you could use a friend.”

“Hi, I’m Cass. And yes, you are right about that. I’ve only been here two hours, but I’m ready to leave.”

“It’s not time to go home yet,” Tom replies with compassion.

October drags on. Tom is always there, Cass likes having someone to talk to again.

Cass enjoys a walk in the evening. She relishes the solitude after the sun sets, the chirping of the crickets and the hoot of an owl. The dampness of the night cools everything down.

“Care if I tag along?” he asks her.

“Hi Tom, sure come along.”

“It was a long day, I think I blew my history test,” Tom tells her.

Many of their walks end up by the shores of the river watching the rapid current.

“You are my only friend these days, Tom.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says quietly.

“Don’t go home yet,” he says. Cass reaches in her backpack for an apple and a knife and splits it for them to share.

“This is where it happened,” Cass says.

“I know.”

“It was all just a game,” Cass says. “Jon and I shared music, and my best friend Megan’s jealousy put an end to that. She just never trusted me where he was concerned.”

“Do you like him?” Tom asks.

“Not in that way. Megan has been my friend for many years, no guy is worth that. But Megan doesn’t believe me. Megan’s jealousy grows into something darker.”

“Is where the dock was?” Tom asks her.

“Yes, we all knew to stay away from that rickety dock,” Cass says. The uneaten apple halves draw flies and Cass kicks them into the water.

On a dreary day before Halloween, Cass waits outside the school for Tom. The anniversary of the tragedy approaches. Talk circulates around the school about a candle vigil to be held at midnight on Halloween where it all happened. The warnings from officials about staying far away would be ignored. A year ago, it was a ghost story that originally brought them all to the old well on the grounds of the dilapidated old Hanson house. For decades the story was repeated about a young man who was pushed into the well and fell to his death on Halloween night. If you dare to trespass on the old grounds, the young man can be seen next to the well holding a burning lantern at midnight. Like a magnet the legend draws thrill seekers out on Halloween night, despite the warnings from the city to stay away from the crumbling house and grounds.

Cass sees Tom walking and catches up to him.

“How was your day?” he asks.

“No highlights, nothing really.”

“Let’s head to the park,” Tom suggests.

“Tell me more about you Tom. I always do most of the talking,” Cass says.

“I don’t have much of a story. I might win an award for the most addresses,” Tom says laughing.

“You have moved around?”

“Yes, but this is where it started, born right there,” Tom says pointing towards the hospital across the street.”

“What took you away?”

“My dad’s work, I guess. He’s been gone for a long time. I live with my Aunt now,” Tom says, kicking an acorn with his shoe and looking sad and empty. Tom avoids details and Cass never pushes for answers.

“I should go,” Cass announces.

“It’s not time to go home yet,” Tom tells her, “let’s walk a bit more.”

Most of the trees have lost their leaves, covering the park sidewalks.

“Tell me about last year, Halloween night,” Tom says. Cass is reluctant to tell Tom. She pulls her sweater closer around her.

“If I tell you, promise you won’t judge me?” Cass asks.

“I promise,” Tom replies.

We were all at my house, Megan and Jon and the rest. We were talking about the ghost from the well. Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No, I don’t think I do,” Tom says laughing.

“There is a ghost who shows himself at midnight on Halloween, he holds a lantern and stands next to the old well at the Hanson house, the site of his murder. He was pushed into the well, or that is the legend,” Cass tells him.

“That is horrific. I’ve heard that story too,” Tom tells her.

“I knew I wanted to kick up the intrigue a notch that Halloween night, so I challenged them. Who would be the brave one to reach the well first and snatch the glowing lantern at midnight? I knew most would be too spooked to even visit the grounds. There was only one rule, they couldn’t leave my house until they all received the same group text announcing the start of the fun. I planned to be watching and waiting on site to see the winner and to place the lighted lantern on the well myself. I wanted to make it fun.”

“So you don’t believe in ghosts?” Tom asks her.

“Never did, but it made for some fun that night,” Cass tells him. “It all feels like a dream.” Cass doesn’t feel like talking anymore and Tom rises and walks alone down the sidewalk as rain begins to fall.

Halloween arrives with the usual display of bizarre and outlandish revelry. Nobody follows the rules, and school officials are glad at the end of the day when they can send a rowdy bunch on their way. Cass wishes the night were over too. Tom finds her in a back booth in the coffee shop.

“Can I join you Cass?” he asks.

“Tom, I was just leaving,” she tells him.

“It’s not time to go home Cass,” he says to her. His smile charms her.

“Ok, join me. I think I’m starting to give off the scent of a loner,” she says in jest.

“Meaning, loners have a scent that others avoid?” he asks her laughing.

“Possible explanation maybe,” Cass says.

“Tell me more about that night, Cass,” Tom says.

“Yes, I just love repeating it Tom,” she says sarcastically.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” he tells her.

“Nah, it’s ok.”

“It was windy and cold. I lit the lantern and placed it on the well a few minutes before midnight. But Jon showed up. He confessed his feelings to me. He kissed me. Surprised and confused I ran away from the well with Jon following. I could hear the car doors slamming and the group rushing to the well to find the lantern. I told Jon I was Megan’s friend and he should leave me alone.”

“You are a true friend, Cass,” Tom tells her.

“When everyone got to the well the lantern was gone, it had been moved and placed on the end of the flimsy dock. I tried to stop the group from rushing the dock, but just about everyone was on it when we all went crashing into the fast moving river. Everyone except one of the girls made it back to the shoreline. There was panic and pandemonium, then emergency vehicles and search lights, but all to no avail her body was never found. The next few weeks were a blur. I had lacerated my arm when the dock crashed into the water, and could not attend the funeral. The whole town was in mourning. I was to blame for the tragedy. I lost every friend I had. When I returned to school weeks later I was ignored. I don’t know how that lantern got on the dock. I wouldn’t do that to my friends or anyone. Everything was different, and no one seemed to listen.”

“Cass it was an accident, you are not to blame,” Tom tells her.

“It was my game, I am to blame,” Cass says. “Tonight they’ll hold candles in her honor, I should be there,” Cass says.

“Yes, you should.”

From the shadows, Cass and Tom watch the group assembled. They hold candles and sing, their sad melody carried downstream by the winds. Megan speaks before them.

“At midnight one year ago, I watched from the tree line right over there as Cass placed the lantern on the dock, luring us all. There are consequences to every action. ” The crowd is solemn as Megan recounts the events leading up to the tragedy. And as if the final piece to a puzzle is found, Jon speaks up.

“Wait!” Jon yells over the wind. “That’s not true! I was with Cass when she placed the lantern on the well. I went to confess my feelings for her and she ran away from me. When I caught up to her, she explained her friendship with you Megan, was important to her. If you were watching from the shadows Megan, you saw me with Cass. You were the one who moved the lantern to the dock. You caused this tragedy! You caused Cass’s death.”

The group assembled is shocked at the revelation as Megan’s responsibility is exposed. Everyone departs, cell phones already spreading the information. With the shoreline abandon, Cass and Tom emerge from the shadows. Cass is stunned, confused. Tom takes her hand.

“You are vindicated Cass, everyone knows the truth now. You have done no wrong. You are free!” Cass looks into his eyes and slowly begins to understand.

“I am the one from the well,” Tom tells her, “my spirit too has wandered aimlessly waiting to guide you. I’ve been waiting a long time. Come now Cass, it’s finally time.”

She takes a deep breath and exhales months of turmoil savoring peace for the first time. Cass turns to see Jon watching. She smiles to him and then takes Tom’s hand and they walk beneath the glow of the moon, through the mist taking them home.

 If you enjoyed my Halloween Tale, please share.

  I admire all of you who own and operate “choose and harvest” tree farms. The art of producing quality trees and the skill required in marketing that product requires a box filled with varied and unique tools. At this point in our journey we have acquired a nice stash of tools but perhaps like you, we began with nothing but our work ethic and budding optimism.    

     The year was 2002 when our lives were transformed by a single piece of paper resting in a tube under a mailbox. The information on the paper was about the property for sale at the end of the 100-yard driveway hidden back away from the road. My husband Bob, was scouring the countryside near his high school for something that would end his commute from our suburban home twenty minutes away. Never mind the fact that I wasn’t looking for a move or the fact I actually enjoyed city/suburban living just fine. Whatever my husband saw through his baby blues that afternoon would become headline news between him and our 15 year old son Nick and would soon be revealed to me.

Before I get too far into the story you must know in 2002 my husband was a very busy teacher/high school wrestling coach in a different school district.  Our son Nick, a soon-to-be high school wrestler would have to compete against his dad’s team, if we didn’t relocate.  After a few unsuccessful attempts to sell our house and living in the “what if we move” scenario for a year, we decided to stay put. I breathed a sigh of relief knowing I wouldn’t have to plan, prepare and execute a move from our home and community of 16 years. But, then the phone call came.

What is the reason a husband might use his son to pitch the idea of considering this new found property? Because Bob already knew we had come to a joint decision on the matter, and chose to implement his son’s excellent persuasive tactics . . . and he understood his wife had never lived outside of any city limits.  In my former career I was wearing heels, hose and headed to the top. My son explained where he and his father had been- he said, “rolling hills”, lovely home tucked away” and then mentioned some foreign words . . . “Christmas Tree Farm”. Little did I know this phone call would become part of a week long process to entertain the idea of moving to a property with an established Christmas tree farm.

Both of my men had already fallen in love with the property and I was courted with vigor! “Yes, they both realized the house on the property was smaller than our present home and I would want to redecorate every room . . . but would I just take a look with them?” Our oldest Keli had just graduated from college and was newly married and our youngest Mikaela was nine years old. Everyone went along to see what the excitement was all about. The boys were right, the property was stunning. Twenty acres of rolling hills filled with Christmas trees. The home was nestled in the far western end of the property upon a gradual hill that overlooked a tree surrounded pond, complete with a fishing dock and a couple of weeping willows blowing gently in the summer breeze. The beauty of Fort Osage Christmas swept us all off our feet.

There are two kinds of people in the world. You have those awesome folks who must know the answers to all the questions before they make a decision. They play out all the possibilities and weigh matters on scales of conservatism. The others listen to their hearts and make decisions based on their level of commitment to succeed. We are of the latter group and that is how we made our decision. I do remember saying to my husband before we signed the papers.   “We don’t know anything about Christmas tree farming.”

He said, “We don’t know anything about farming period, but we can learn.”

Before the former owners left the state, Bob and Nick would be given a few crash courses. They spent a couple of days learning the art of pruning and shearing. They were shown how to shake and bale a tree and the process of “how to plant seedlings” was explained.   We moved in August and I was preoccupied with turning our house into a home, only to be sidetracked by the staggering number of God’s creatures I never knew on a personal level. Creepy, crawling, flying, swimming, and stalking, I would become indoctrinated by homesteaders of a different kind. I imagined a flying reptile swooping down over the pond every time I heard a prehistoric screech that would bring me to the window, but I could never catch a glimpse. The mystery only deepened that early autumn before I would be meeting many of my new “neighbors” face to face. I wasn’t sure if I was more intimidated by our new wild kingdom or the looming “first selling season” to come.  What exactly am I supposed to do and how exactly does this work? We would learn soon enough.

Like aliens from an unknown world stepping out of their flyer saucer that is how we ended up at Fort Osage Christmas. Two people who had super-sized careers, no farming know-how, no country living experience and a thick layer of naïveté that kept most of the red flags from getting in the way. Everything that transpired since has filled our lives with incredible challenges, and even some failures on the road called progress. If the school of hard knocks gave out diplomas, I’m sure we’ve earned one or two. But the journey has mostly been exciting and productive with enough victories to keep us committed. Providing that perfect tree for families at Christmas time has its own kind of magic that would become like a salve for our entrepreneurial battle wounds.     

      The Christmas Tree Magazine~Volume 42, No.3

The World’s Leading Magazine for Christmas Tree Growers

     Kim and her husband Bob operate Ft. Osage Christmas in Independence MO. Kim is the author of a mystery series Circle of Sun.  “I hope your sofa has a seat belt!” www.facebook.com/circleofsun/  OR  www.kimlukeauthor.com

     The sun comes up the sun goes down, and with the consistency of the rotating of the earth you can pretty much count on that. But everything else reminds me of the experience viewed from the seat of a bicycle as you travel down the sidewalk just after your dad has removed the training wheels. The harrowing steepness, the swerving, and yanking are all part of the experience we call living. Some days the rodeo gets the better of us, and when it does you might find yourself licking your wounds for an hour or a year.

Like the new bike rider we try to control our direction with a tight grip and steady resolve. But no matter your skill level, your planning or your blessings, we are all in for falls now and then. Should do you believe the cliches “mistakes are where you grow”, or “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”? Although I have no quantifiable proof of the validity of these phrases, I can tell you from personal experience they offer at least a soothing balm and some hope when things are bleak.

As soon as we seem to wrangle one area of our lives into shape, another goes completely haywire and we turn our attention to it. If you’re not careful, daydreams of that perfect problem free existence paints the serenity of you by the ocean in your Adirondack chair, your hair blowing in the soft salty breezes, not a care in the world. Go ahead and indulge in the sense-altering out-of-body experiences for a while but snap out of it a.s.a.p. Because challenges and pain, fear and worry and doubt, illness and despair and loss, mean something. They usually mean you love, you strive, you care . . . you are living. My faith teaches me that I am not in control anyway, He is the rock that anchors me when life tries to wretch the joy out of me.

Possibly your list of what qualifies as a perfect day changes as your days increase in numbers. Focusing on what you are grateful for brings this life lesson into focus. I can’t tell you the value of two principals worth their weight in gold, gratitude and optimism, and I was reminded of it in a funny way this morning.

My husband and I have grown and sold Christmas trees on our 20 acre farm for 14 years. Recently I wrote about an unusual method of saving some of our trees that were being attacked by scale. Scale is a predator that craves Scotch pine trees and will kill every one you have. One way to combat these predators is with nature itself. The Lindorus beetle requests a steady diet of scale! Release them on your farm, and your problem is gone. We did this last year and found it to be very effective.This year we have only a few of our surviving Scotch pines and once again this season, scale has come to dine. Mr. B (husband-tree grower) orders the bugs which arrived first thing this morning. Mr. B intends on taking the beetles and moving them to a vial. If you can picture a small little fabric bag with drawstring and some straw substance inside and 50 very small beetles that fly, you might begin to understand the ramifications of this task.

Mr. B has a list as long as your arm of things he wants to accomplish. There is no grass that grows under his feet. As soon as those bugs arrived he was ready to attack the day. He proceeds to transfer the bugs from the drawstring bag into a vial thinking it will make scattering them easier once he is out in the trees.

“Halt!” I tell him. “You don’t want a few of those to end up in our dinner, take your task into the laundry room please!” Mr. B takes his little fabric sack and his empty vial (fat, plastic, clear medicine bottle with lid) into the laundry room and sets them on the counter. I feel compelled to share my strategy for this “mission impossible” task, but Mr. B’s optimism has sprung the operation into full swing. He removes the cap of the vial and then loosens the drawstring bag. He puts his fingers in and pulls out crumpled straw with plenty of little black bugs attached. I was thinking this may be easier than I thought, so I left him alone with his mission. It wouldn’t be long before I could hear the chopping sound of the vial turned upside down, trying frantically to imprison various beetles beneath it.

“Wow, they can fly!” Mr. B announces as I rejoin the crisis in progress. That was a curious comment for him to make, as we knew they could fly from last year, but it was more his realization the beetles were not going to follow his game plan.

I’m sure if I was on the “red-eye” from California like these little critters were, I would be all about stretching my legs too! Although all the straw went from the drawstring bag into the vial, many of the curious travelers were off with their own itinerary. They crawled on the counter, and over the edge of the counter, a few crawled the other way, and rested on my cute lampshade at the corner of the folding counter. Mr. B was doing his best to stay calm while I spied a few on the window trying to get out. I thought my job was to point out the escapees, but he said . . .

“No! Watch for the ones still coming from the drawstring bag!”

Sure enough the beetles slowly meandered out of the bag onto the counter and as each did, Mr. B directed the foreigner into a vial. There were one or two instances when the unfortunate dissenter did not clear the edge of plastic vial coming down over them, but there was no time for a moment of silence.

When the task was done, grateful he collected most, he went out to distribute them and I went back to my own tasks. I didn’t tell Mr. B that one was on the floor of the breezeway, and one just crawled across my computer screen while writing this. I opened the back door for any remaining beetles and pointed to the fields of trees.

“Dinner is that way, you’re late for the game!”

As usual Mr. B was optimistic on the onset and grateful that he managed to capture the majority.

Just like the beetle rodeo in my laundry room this morning, you won’t be able to avoid all the potholes in the journey of life any more than you can herd beetles, but the optimism in which you approach the mission and your standard of gratitude could have an impact on the outcome.

Prairie Du Chien Wisconsin was the beginning. When you are far from home, home has a way of finding you.

A small town in Wisconsin right on the Mississippi river is where my roots grow deep. Growing up near the river provided a storehouse of memories related to the water. One brilliant summer day our parents took us to a secluded fishing spot along the river. I had to hold my mother’s hand as we gingerly walked on a rocky shore side to reach our destination. This particular spot offered such a magical opportunity for a child. We could sit on the rock and fish, and then swing our legs around and fish directly behind us. So the rock we sat on was like a little bridge with water on each side of us.

What made it even more memorable and unforgettable was the way the morning sun illuminated the water and the fish. The fishing hole was filled with bright colored sun fish that seemed almost transparent in the sun-drenched pool.

We moved away from the state but I have returned through the years. From the car window the view transforms from the flat fields of Iowa to the rolling hills and bluffs near the river. Crossing from Iowa into Wisconsin, into Prairie Du Chien, takes my breath away every time.

So it was with this connection to the Mississippi River that felt like I was returning home when I went for a weekend holiday to Herman Mo. As I crossed the Missouri River I was reminded of my home. See the similarities?

Herman MO, is a small town nestled alongside the river bluffs of the Missouri River. A strong German heritage brought original vines from the homeland, Herman is wine country. Dozens of wineries draw wine lovers to sample Midwest wines. We had a wonderful time in the charming little village of Herman, tasting wine and shopping in the quaint shops. The setting of the Circle of Sun series is a fictitious riverside village created from the strong and deep impressions of those two places. Home found me between the pages of Black Inferno . . .

“The dogwoods lining Main Street give a formal welcome to those visiting the tiny riverside village of White Oak. Branches of honeysuckle droop over white fences, its scent heady and sweet. German immigrants brought family vines from home, preserving their heritage and spreading the art of wine making. A dozen wineries with acres of vineyards make their home among the rolling hills and valleys along the Missouri River. Tourism bolstered growth in the form of restaurants, coffee shops and bed and breakfasts and unique storefronts filled with local art and old world delicacies.

The restored McCracken House, home to the Chamber of Commerce, sits across the street from Lena’s German Bakery. The aromas of baking savory onion pie and buttery strudel fill the morning air for joggers or dog walkers. The post office, City Hall and a refurbished old theater stand next to Marmaduke’s European Confections. The richness of the roasting coffee beans lead many to the door of Mocha Joe’s and Fireside Books.”

White Oak seems idyllic with church steeples that stand high on the bluffs surrounded by leafy oak and hickory trees, but the little town is anything but sleepy. Secrets lie in the lush rolling vineyards, hidden oak barrels, the Grand Royce Estate and even the quaint Fireside Books. There is something wrong with White Oak’s drinking water, and birds are falling from the dark skies. A darkness has taken root and crawls like ground fog into the lives of the innocent.

Ready to ready my stories? I hope your sofa has a seatbelt!

For those of you who don’t know, being a Christmas tree grower is unique. You plant from seedlings and your harvest comes IN SEVEN OR EIGHT YEARS!    

Ugh!

Mr. B and I took the appropriate two to three weeks to recoil from our intense Christmas Tree Farm selling season. It was a wonderful season in terms of familiar faces and astounding numbers of new families who came out to Fort Osage Christmas! If I had a single drop of energy and time to spare, it would be enlightening to share some stories from “from the trenches” in the midst of it all, but last check I had no viable solutions for breathing space during our “crunch time” of the year.

The catalyst for all the huff and puff this year was indeed our massive loss of Scotch pine trees. Mr. B had already had his fill of the finicky variety and stopped planting the “she devil” of pines over four years ago. Up until this time the Scotch had behaved and been the majority of our inventory, like most other farms in Missouri. The European Scotch Pine is a foreigner to Missouri, even North America, it hails from Scotland where it is the national tree (called a Scots Pine).

 This foreigner needs to pack it up and head back to the land of bagpipes, haggis and whiskey.  

What we’ve learned from our experience, the Missouri Department of Conservation and from our other Christmas tree growers: You might get a decade of healthy scotches, then disease develops. And like a rebellious teenager the problems started three or four years ago with ours, and that variety has outstayed its welcome on our farm.    

     The first “acting out” from the scotches began on a beautiful mild and sunny day. Many of the tasks on the farm fall out of my range of . . . expertise, but sadly mowing has not. Important considerations must be taken. My penchant for preserving my skin and complexion requires white long sleeved cotton button down over my tank top, and long pants and tennis shoes. Then my hat needs to have a wide enough brim to cover not only my face, but the back of my neck. Then lastly I wear gloves so the top of my hands won’t take the fast track to freckling. (Positive spin on the words age spots) I wear a 50 SPF on anything exposed. I always wear lipstick, and when I do the final check in the mirror I have to take a few moments for the pep talk I will need after seeing my “farm hand” image. The promise of the rows of beautiful pine trees, fresh air and white clouds against blue skies usually does the trick.

After rows and rows, then more rows and rows of the same thing, the mind can wander. I have to tell you this is where several of my story lines have developed. Besides the occasional shock and furious swatting surrounding unusual insects that might land on me, my imagination is enough to keep me entertained. 

Was that a figure lurking from behind one of the trees? What would happen if I came upon a crime scene and when I returned with authorities, the scene was nowhere to be found? Could the lost Union payroll from the civil war  be in this exact location, perhaps  lying under the tires of my zero degree mower?

When my body has been shimmied and shaken for miles, and the sun is low on the horizon, I can hang up my sun hat and call it a day. Mr. B comes into the house after a little inspection.

Mr. B: Honey couldn’t you see this all over the trees?”     Mr. B proceeds to take me out to the trees and show me.

      Me: Um . . . what is that?

Mr. B: It’s a scale infestation, it’s everywhere!

Me: I didn’t see anything like that, honey.

 

I saw a lot of this…. 

Since this pest problem Mr. B has retired from teaching school and coaching high school wrestling, so now he is on site to catch any potential problems, whew!    Here is a picture of what he was seeing magnified  . . .

Now here is another even further magnified….

     Me: I had some weird things that landed on me, but that’s it.

Mr. B goes into crisis mode to save our inventory, our future from the clutches of the enemy. I’m left scratching my head . . .

How a man who can’t find the cinnamon in the pantry, his black belt hanging in the closet or fail to notice the blaring words “sugar free” on cookies in the supermarket, notice this tiny predator?    

The next several weeks would bring the chemical guru, and mad dashes of spraying the scotches…that season we lost a few hundred…    Why is the scale so hard to kill you may ask? Apparently they can only be sprayed during a specific stage of infestation, before they form a hard shell protecting themselves. If you spray after the shell is there, you are wasting your time and money.

I informed my husband that he would not be able to depend on me to monitor the health of the trees, thank you kindly.

The next few years would bring a similar scenario, except we would have a different variety of scale to contend with (different look, and treatment)    This new particular kind of scale would suck large quantities of sap from the tree, and because the insect can’t completely utilize all the nutrients in this large volume of fluid, it uses what it needs and excretes the rest as “honeydew”… which quickly becomes a sooty mold and the sweet black mess attracts flies and lots of bees. The soot is the “aftermath” of the infestation, and can remain when the predator has been eliminated. It is harmless but makes it is hard for the tree to survive covered in the gunk.

Another visit from the chemical guru, conservation guys, Missouri Dept. of Ag we were advised to try and remove any of the soot that we could. We were informed that spraying water with a mild solution of dawn detergent might save some of the trees.

It was a very soggy experience around here. You can imagine the water bill. The familiar scene of an industrial sized bottle of dawn next to the water spout near our barn welcomed me each time I came home for a few weeks. We lost hundreds of trees but were able to stop the insect….that time.

Before the next disastrous infestation of scale, we learned about the Lindorus beetle a scale predator! They EAT scale!

 Would they be wearing little red capes and have “L” on their chest?

Mr. B: I will contact the bug farm and order some.

Bug farm? Things could be worse!

Out of all the things you can shop for on line, this has to be one of the most disappointing

Mr. B: You release the beetles on the trees and they multiply….you are supposed to put 10-15 on a tree after dark.

 I don’t want to be involved in handling beetles for obvious reasons

How do you count out a bunch of moving bugs….ask them to choose teams?

If you are supposed to do it at night, how can see what you are doing? Or is this suggestion so the critters can’t follow you back in the house?

Out Mr. B goes, on his mission to save our trees, again!

     He comes in later with a smile of satisfaction. Supposedly the Lindorus Beetles multiply very quickly and live until the next frost. All summer long they devour their favorite food, scale. They are harmless to the trees and all nature. And fortunately they did the job!

They should, they cost a pretty penny! 

Of course the next obvious comment from my entrepreneurial husband . . .

Mr. B: I think we should breed these Lindorus beetles ourselves! They have to be kept in a dark place and if fed they multiply. We could put them in aquariums in our storage area under the stairs.

Me: Ummm . . NO! That is what we have Orkin for! We have enough challenges keeping pest OUT of our house!

     The last portion of my Scotch pine saga is a chapter called “brown spot”…

Christmas trees must be sheared and pruned individually at the end of their growing season, here it’s early summer. After the growing season they could star in a Dr. Suess story with their wiggly and squiggly tentacles growing out of control. About 12 inches of the new growth must be removed for the tree to have the kind of shape and spacing expected of traditional Christmas trees. The task would be no big deal if you had a handful of trees, but when you have 10,000 trees, the shearing season stops life as you know it. (A story for another time!)

When the shearing was completed this past season, we breathed a sigh of relief. But soon we saw real problems forming. The bottom branches of many of the Scotch pine trees were brown. There were so many that had this brown that I didn’t want to mention it to Mr. B. I was hoping the wet spring might be the culprit (27 inches out here last spring) and the trees would snap out of it. but soon the brown crept higher on thousands of trees.  We had another major problem, but this one was not so easily identified, and was not a predator that we could see.

We would be opening our doors for our busy season on Nov. 1st and the stress was moving from our feet upward just like the brown branches of our scotch pines. Enter chemical guru, Missouri Dept. of Ag, and University of Missouri Extension office, and conservation people. Two independent labs confirmed we had “brown spot”.

This scientific lab calls it this? Yup, already knew that!

This is a fungus that forms on the tree roots in wet soil. The entire tree can be consumed and the spores can go airborne and infect other trees. We would be the poster child of those exact particulars.

Our infected trees turned brown from root to tip top. I think Mr. B was in mourning for several weeks. But that would only be the first portion of a big problem. How would he be able to remove these trees before opening? Cut each down with chainsaw? That lasted about a week, after a dozen trips to sharpen the blades and not even a small portion of removal accomplished. Next he would run them over with his bobcat….effective but left a “war zone” look, and a big stump problem. Finally he rented a “fork” attachment for his bobcat and was able to pull them out by the roots.

In two days he was able to remove 1000’s of dead trees.   The next hurdle would be burning them without burning down the entire corner of our county. We would need a burn permit and so it goes. Day after day Mr. B and a friend pulled them up from the roots, loaded them on a trailer and then burned. The two men would come in for lunch hungry and sooty….I think having a buddy took some of the horror out of what we were doing.         At the end of the painful experience, they uprooted, loaded and then burned 8,000 of our 10,000 trees and we still had our whole season in front of us.  Trust me people, you need to be rested and at the top of your game prior to the intensity of the season, so it was not an easy way to start.  Mr. B did not want our loyal customers to wonder what happened when they came to find so many blank spaces, so sparse from last season. So he set a goal to replant about 800 White pines, another big undertaking.

     We managed to prepare for our season  and serve the 5000 visitors we had to our family Christmas tree farm. Mr. B reminds me and the rest of the family:    We are in the “happy business” and we will not dwell on the loss, or worry about the future. Be thankful the disease didn’t harm our white pines! Right now we have families who count on us to carry on their traditions, and that is what we will do!

Through all the bumps, bruises and beetles  in the process of growing live Christmas trees, it’s a guy like Mr. B that makes you want to!

I would consider myself an autumn girl. Summer not so much, but after a long winter we would all like to be summer girls. I was preparing mentally for the outing. Tonight was the night I would sit in my lawn chair and see both Gran~dorables 8 & 5, field the ball, hit the ball and run the bases. The sun would be lowering in the horizon, and the mild summer air would blow through my hair. With my sunglasses and my iced tea I would soak up eternal summer like I did for all of those weekends at the softball and baseball diamonds with our own three kids, now grown. Kansas City summers can be brutal, but the summer had been unusually kind, until today. A heat advisory had been posted for the afternoon, but what are you going to do? Like all mothers and grandmothers, once you commit to attend, it would take an act of God to keep you from it.  

   

      I have noticed I don’t do so well in the heat lately. When did this happen? I was the mom with the cooler and the Gatorade who was present for the opening 8am game of a two day softball/baseball tournament, who made it to Sunday night, who wiped the dust from her body with a canister of wet- naps and applied lip gloss to watch the championship game.     

      I am a fan of my kids and grands, that spirit still ruled my day as I prepared for the evening. My wisdom reminded me that I am not “conditioned” to this kind of outing, as our lives are no longer spent at the ballpark. With this in mind, I prepared like a seasoned veteran. I would naturally wear shorts rolled above the knee, and a light weight white peasant top with embroidery, sandals and a touch of shimmer (my summer acrylic rings with rhinestones . . . light fragrance and complexion correction with sunscreen and a soft melon gloss for my lips) My motto always has been “the ballfield can use a bit of elegance, ball diamond=diamonds!” Duh!     

      I pack my lawn chair and opt for a super-sized umbrella, to shelter not only myself, but any of the three Gran~dorables who hopefully will sit by Nana. It’s a little bigger to carry, but in the end I will be one cool cucumber. When the weather called for it, I would fill my mister fan with cool water and stay comfortable. But the Grandorables love the contraption, and I was in need of a new one. Walgreens didn’t have the same one, but they had a mister about the size of an eyeglass case. This mister had no batteries but a nifty pump at the bottom that you pumped four times that provided about six sprays of cooling MIST! That was a smart purchase. The next purchase was not so well thought-out. When I stopped at Q-Trip for my extra-large iced tea, in a foam cup, I decided I needed a whole liter of water to refill the mister.     

      I have learned to arrive just a bit earlier than the team and parents, to find a parking spot that is in the same county. My plan was working beautifully, I parked right in front of the entrance. The interior of my car was cool and the sun was beaming, the grass was green and the clouds were white and fluffy….a perfect evening to watch my two little girls show off their skills. When I turned off the car and lifted the hatchback to get out my gear, the heat of hades hit me. My first inkling that things might become difficult is when I saw how far the actual fields were from the entrance. Usually my husband would be with me to carry the load, but he was not able to go with me this night. I put the bag containing my lawn chair over my shoulder, wondering why it felt so heavy. I put the super-sized umbrella under my arm, my purse over my other shoulder, I hugged the liter of water (water is heavy!) to my chest with one arm and with my free hand I held the mega icy Styrofoam drink. I closed the hatchback and turned to get sight of the correct field, there would be no room for error. My daughter told me the first game would be way to the back off to the left. When I scanned the sidewalk that stretched to the great beyond, I could see the heat rising from the cement. Well, the flip flops might be cool, but they are not the best walking shoes. I set out with a smile of anticipation knowing I just had to make it to the ball field. I would keep my head down and go due south. I knew if I made it to the concession stand, the hub between all the fields, I was almost there. In the back of my mind I also figured there might be some kind of first aid if things went south. My initial enthusiasm quickly was curbed as a few families passed me and when I looked up I was only half of the way to the concession stand. Is there a record for how fast you can become completely saturated in sweat? I adjusted my load and used the mister, (MIST!) when the hot wind hit me. Only a little further before I would be at the concession stand, (MIST, MIST!) and then turn to the east and claim my spot at the diamond.     

      When I arrived I didn’t see any jerseys with the color I was looking for. (MIST!) Sadly I took two additional laps around the concession stand, scanning the four fields. (MIST!) I dropped my load and called daughter for direction.    

      “Mom, you are at the wrong field! Look to the right, at the end of the parking lot, it’s the back field you see in the east. Don’t walk all the way. Get in your car and drive, it’s too hot!”     

      “Ok, honey. See you soon.” (MIST! MIST! MIST!)     

      New plan. If I walk back to the car, it’s just as far in the opposite direction of the destination. I load back up and head on foot to the field. I put my head down and went at it again. (MIST!) My footwear was not boding well, and one of the flips actually flopped under my step rolling the rubber under my fresh pedicure, and skinning my toe. I couldn’t really see the damage, because my complexion correcting cream with sunscreen was beginning to run from my forehead into my eyes, and the stinging was real. My eyes were watering and without a free hand to help dab I just walked with my eyes closed, praying I would stay on the sidewalk. Tears ran all the way down my cheeks and I was fairly certain my eye makeup would be on my jawline by now. (By the way you can still MIST! With your eyes closed.) But I made it to the ball field! The game was an hour, and I was proud as a peacock to see the blonde braided girl confidently playing ball. Not a sliver of shade to be had, and my large umbrella did the trick. I wasn’t sure if all the eyes that watched me were envious of my shade, or waiting for me to take flight as I struggled with the umbrella to stay grounded.     

      I refilled the mister twice before game was over, and spilled my drink, but was able to recover most of it. Daughter announces the next game is on the other field, the one I was at originally. Well at least I know the way.     

      With as much enthusiasm as I could muster, I made my way to the next game, with one of the Gran~dorables carrying my chair. (MIST!) I saw a square of shade near the field! Another nana was fast approaching, her sights set on it too. With the agility of a ninja I picked up my pace, I had to claim that spot. It was survival as the heat index was 100 degrees. I made it, but when I found out the game didn’t start for another hour, there was no amount of shade that would sustain life in this heat. I was going to have to go for the a/c in the car. Once the decision was made, the promise of the cool car caused me to nearly leap with new found energy on my way to the parking lot. There I stayed for 45 delicious cool minutes, and felt like a new woman….until I made the trek back to the ballfield. (MIST!) My jean shorts started out as one size but after sweating and drying out, wrestling with the umbrella, they felt like they were now two sizes too big, and I prayed they wouldn’t drop, as I had no free hand to catch them.

      I enjoyed the second game more, the sun began to set, and the oppressive heat lifted a bit. After a bee when down my back and my son in law rescued me from that, I was ready to assess the damage. I took my little mirror from my purse, sure enough the eye makeup was no longer on the eyes, and the streams of tears made streaks down my cheeks. But I happily misted my face, and replaced my sunglasses. As long as I didn’t pass out, and I was cooler, I only wanted to focus on the real reason for the night, my Gran~dorables. Sitting on the sidelines is a privilege, and I would do it all again. Good thing, because the heat index for tomorrow night is 100, and yup, we have a game.

     I’m not exactly sure how one experience translates to another, but I know it goes through a process called “Kim’s imagination” and then it comes out the other side. Take this experience for example. I am home alone, my family out of town. The weather takes an ugly turn, and the rain and wind beat at my door. I am writing my first novel Circle of Sun and take a break for dinner. To set the record straight, I don’t have a winery in my house, but I do have a good imagination. Instead of eating at my dining room table. I enjoy my meal with a glass of wine at my little bar downstairs. The bar is made from wood with a brass foot rail. The bar top itself is smooth with a small narrow shelf on one side, and a wooden dowel at the opposite end. They support a little overhead to hang glasses from and it even has a little lantern. We have only really used it as a bar a few times, but it goes with the décor of our family room. My husband was not too keen on the purchase. I found it on Craig’s list for $75. I don’t even know how much it weighs, but if my husband’s mutterings were recorded when we were transporting it . . . you get the idea. I wish I could tell you I am a gourmet cook and whipped up something fantastic for myself for dinner, but the honest truth is I enjoy a break from cooking when the family is gone. The Smart Ones frozen pasta with ricotta/spinach was not placed on my brick oven (ummm don’t have one of those), allowing the artisan cheeses to melt to perfection, it was hastily prepared in my silver microwave oven. I did prepare a salad, had some bread and a yummy cabernet. I have a distressed vintage wooden tray propped up on the bar with the words “Langford Cellars” painted on it. (see picture) This became the inspiration for the family that owns the winery in White Oak, Carolynn and Adam Langford. The lights are low and I light a candle while my Pandora station plays some smooth jazz. There I sat eating my dinner with my computer and here is how the scene worked out in my book.

      My heroine Quinn is meeting her friend at a restaurant called Bordeaux’s within Langford Winery, to fill her in on the accident that happened just that afternoon.     

“I check my visor mirror quickly as I arrive windblown at Bordeaux’s. I work my fingers through my hair for a quick lift, and apply lipstick, all the primping I have patience for today. Tera is a natural Latin beauty with dark eyes and olive skin. Her image will be amazing, as usual, and she won’t say anything about my appearance, under the good friend clause.

Bordeaux’s itself is lodge-like in design and surrounded by large oak trees. The heritage of Langford Winery goes back to 1851 when the family emigrated from Germany to join other Germans in Missouri. Langford’s is my favorite winery among the several in the area of White Oak, with Bordeaux’s being the main reason… A portion of Bordeaux’s is built into the bluff. Some of the wine storage barrels sit here. Hearty oak booths, low lighting, limestone walls and bountiful faux grape vines and soft jazz create a relaxing ambiance….     Carolynn serves our meals, a feast for the eyes. The steaming Ziti is tossed gently in Bordeaux’s own marinara and topped with freshly grated parmesan cheese and fresh basil. A toasted baguette with goat cheese rests alongside a salad with frilly lettuce, artichokes and olives and dressed with Bordeaux’s own savory recipe of olive oil, basil, oregano and lemon.”      The meal and the wine are enjoyed over the conversation that quickly takes top billing. A mystery woman makes a purchase in Quinn’s bookstore and leaves. Quinn discovers a revealing and threatening note left in the store by her. The woman is run down and killed before Quinn has a chance to question her.

     The scene is written, the wind is howling, the candle burns softly and the music is mellow. Guess I’ll have another glass of cabernet. It’s been a great evening.