Wednesday, October 11, 2017

New Release - The Christmas Stranger (A Swiss Amish Christmas) $0.99

A cold front moved in yesterday and now I'm sitting here in long fuzzy socks and a long-sleeve wrap, glad that the heat of summer is finally behind us. Now it's time to write! And for those of you who love to read Amish fiction, it's time for you to settle in someplace cozy and catch up on your reading list.

A Swiss Amish Christmas features three heartwarming Amish romances set at Christmastime and are overflowing with Swiss Amish culture and tradition.

The Christmas Stranger is the third book in the series but need not be read in order. It's $0.99 for Kindle, Free on Kindle Unlimited, and the paperback is only $3.68. Here are the links and description.

The Englisher was the perfect person to help her leave, only he had secrets of his own.

Maddie Graber has had it with farm life and is moving to Asheville. Ever since her brother Thomas left her with all his chores she’s been thinking on it. But when Dat hires an Englisher to be his new farm hand, Maddie begins to second-guess her decision. Life on the farm is no longer boring, but can the stranger fix everything else that’s wrong with the place, and will he capture her heart in the process?
Approximately 22,000 words.



Other books in A Swiss Amish Christmas series:

Monday, September 18, 2017

We're NOT Farmers - Not By Any Stretch Of The Imagination

I begged. I pleaded. "Please, don't make me do it," I said. "Anything but that." I made the man a huge plate of bacon. (I hate cooking bacon.) I made him coffee. (I can't drink coffee). Then I smiled while he ate, hoping he was joking.

Hours later, darkness came. I finally finished my five thousand word quota for the day on my new Swiss Amish Christmas story. We settle in to watch American Ninja Warrior when he says, "After this goes off, we'll go cut the rooster's spurs."
My mouth drops open. He wasn't kidding. "Can't we just eat him?" (I don't eat meat.)
"It won't be so bad."
"No." I shake my head. "Get your dad to help you."
"Dad's already in bed."
"He is not!" He just got a new TV for his bedroom last weekend at a garage sale for $5. I know he's not sleeping, even though you can't see the lights on in his house across the road.
"It'll just take a minute."

My husband gets the pliers, my good pair of garden snippers, and a flimsy cardboard nailfile. (Again, mine). I tell my daughter we'll be right back, but of course she wants to come watch. We take a flashlight to the henhouse and I hold the light while he goes in and picks the rooster up by the feet off the roost. Needless to say, the rooster is not happy about being so rudely awakened, but you have to do it at night or you'll never catch him. He's been tearing up the hens pretty bad lately and my husband fears for the oldest ones.

We're not farmers. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Farmers make money with their livestock. We pay for feed every month and beg people to help relieve us from a fridge overflowing with eggs. I'm a vegetarian. One who doesn't even eat eggs or dairy, but I'm not Vegan. Vegan is some strange religion people around here are especially leery of.

I pull the pliers from my husband's pocket and hand them to him. We know how to do this because we watched two youtube videos on it before we walked out of the house.

"I need another hand," he says. "Take his other foot."
I cringe and reach for his huge, yellow foot but draw my hand back quickly before I touch it. "Do I have to?"
My daughter laughs hysterically.
The Bible verse about submitting to your husband comes to mind. I whimper as I make contact with the leg this time, holding onto it firmly. "Oh, please hurry," I say in a high-pitched voice.

My husband takes hold of the spur and gently rocks it just like in the video. It slips off easily and he spends the next minute and a half examining it because he's completely fascinated.
"We're going to get eat up," I say. (I'm not getting bit by mosquitoes and haven't seen one tonight but I want him to hurry.)

He pulls the other one off and he finally takes the other leg from me and sets the rooster down gently on the nest box. Still stunned, it doesn't even try to move.
"He's just been upside down too long. He'll be fine," I say.
"You think?"
"Yeah, you don't want him floppin' around in the dirt anyway. He's fine. Let's go inside."

My husband doesn't let us go inside yet. There could be snakes out (we know a guy who got bit by a copperhead this summer) and we only brought one flashlight so we all have to go together. (Our yard is pitch black without it.) He watches the rooster a few more minutes until he finally lets us come back in the house.

"That was a really good idea," he says. "I never would have thought to do that."
"Youtube, Dear. It's the wave of the future." I wash my hands twice and head back to my computer, thankful once again to be getting some use out my overpriced internet package. "But next time," I call out from the bedroom, "ask your dad."

Sunday, September 17, 2017

Sunday Morning Before Church

"It's Sunday, ain't so?" I ask. Most days I don't know what world I'm in, much less the day.
"Yeah," my husband says. "Did you wash my overhauls?"
I roll my eyes at his word for overalls, then I cringe when he pulls them out of his closet. He's going to wear them again. He disappears into the bathroom with clanking of heavy metal buckles. I wonder what age men should start wearing overalls, but I'm sure it's not forty.

I try to wake my daughter for the third time, but she still won't rise. Acorns sound like rocks hitting the tin roof. Sometimes it's so loud it sends the dog hiding in my daughter's closet.

I'm glad for Sundays. Sunday means rest and my brain feels overheated. On Sundays I can read the Bible, visit family between churches, and practice my ukulele. Jim will be expecting a song. Jim's a long, toothpick of a man with a crooked grin you can't help but smile along with. He lets me watch his fingers when he plays guitar or dobro and I do my best to follow along on the ukulele. He calls it my little guitar. I love Jim and when he tells me to sing, I sing, whether I've practiced or not.

The first fall leaves sail down in the breeze outside the sliding glass window. It's dreary looking. If it rains I won't be able to take my ukulele to church with me tonight. My husband said he'd buy me a case for my birthday, but that was months ago. This year has gone by so fast. Ever since I started writing Amish books in January it's flew by. I've recently lost count of how many I've written, but I know I just published number nine.

I put on my headcover, a wide band of black, stretchy cloth, and slip on my sandals. It's time to go and I can't wait to get my day of rest started. I warn myself not to speak to any of my Amish characters today, but I doubt that's possible. In my mind another story's already swimming.