Seeking Southern Charm: Do It Anyway!

Here's what I've learned so far on this book tour, this life tour, whatever we're calling it these days: if you think you shouldn't do something, do it anyway.

I learned this lesson again yesterday, in Beaufort, South Carolina, wearing the wrong swimsuit. Or rather, wearing no swimsuit at all, which turned out to be the whole point of the story.

They were calling for rain most of the day. Not a maybe-rain, a definitely-rain, the kind of forecast that gives a woman permission to stay in and call it wisdom. I wanted to go to Hunting Island State Park. I hesitated, because of the rain, because forecasts feel like promises even when they're just guesses in a uniform.

And then, because I am trying to be a person who goes anyway, I went.

It wasn't raining.

I should back up, because there was a small automotive subplot happening underneath all of this. My rear window — the one in my trusty old Lexus, the one that has carried me through more of this trip than I like to admit — had stopped working. Again. It had done this before I left home, and I'd had it fixed, both the rear window and the front, thank you very much, paid good money, drove away feeling very responsible. And then somewhere along this southern road it quit on me a second time. I told myself it was the rainstorms. Cars, like people, apparently hold onto old wounds and reopen them when the weather turns.

Anyway. I can already tell this story is going to run long. It's going to be worth it, I promise!

I got up early (well, as we’ve established, early is my natural rhythm) and looked at the brochures again for Hunting Island State Park — which, if you don't know, and I didn't know, is a genuinely beautiful beach, unspoiled by condos or restaurants elbowing each other for the ocean view. There are turtle nests tucked into that sand, and volunteers who love them the way you'd love something you'd sworn to protect, checking on them so gently, so faithfully, that no harm comes to those turtles on their watch. There is something about a place that has resisted being paved and franchised that makes you stand a little straighter.

I decided to go despite the forecast, and because it wasn't a sunny day, I didn't wear a swimsuit. Note this, dear reader, and do not make my mistake: always wear your swimsuit to the beach. Always. Even under the clouds. Especially under the clouds.

The drive out at 7 a.m. was stress-free — no traffic, just me and the road and the particular quiet of a world that hasn't fully woken up yet. I am so glad I went. Yes, it was overcast, but it was mesmerizing watching the sky do its slow, moody work, with storm clouds gathering off in the distance, rain falling on a horizon that was no where near me (or the turtles). 

There was nothing on the beach. Just a few people walking, way down by parking lot 8, and the turtle volunteers doing their quiet rounds. That was it. That was the whole congregation.

And I wished that I'd worn my swimsuit. It was the perfect morning for wave jumping, for just wading in and letting the ocean do what it does. There was no one there to laugh at my mismatched swimsuit, or at the fact that my soft belly is the color of grocery store white eggs while my arms and legs have gone the deep brown of eggs from the farmers market. It would have just been me and the Atlantic, having it out, no audience required.

I didn't get in the water. But I got the lesson anyway, delivered the way the best lessons always are — a little late, a little damp around the edges, and completely worth the drive.

And that, dear reader, was only the morning.

I left the beach craving a burger — a real one, red meat, no apologies — and set my sights on Biddy's, which I had seen was open at nine. What I had not seen was the fine print: nine, on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Not one of those days was today. Boo. I stood there a little bereft, the way you can only be bereft over a burger you never actually had. But it had already been a glorious morning, and we were only a few hours into it, so I let it go and kept driving.

Which is how I ended up in a Verizon store.

My phone had been refusing to hold a charge on this trip and it’s now a couple years old, tired, and done with me. And when you are a woman alone on the road, in towns you've never seen, your phone is not a convenience. It is a lifeline. 

So, in walked me, to a Verizon store I hadn't planned on, with an upgrade offer waiting and a gut feeling that this was going to go well.

It did. Even though it was 9:20 in the morning and they'd only opened twenty minutes before, they were already busy. A gentleman named Ken came over anyway, just to tell me it'd be about ten minutes and to have a seat. And Ken was wonderful. This is what I mean about southern charm, or small-town charm, or whatever the right mixture of the two turns out to be — I genuinely can't tell where one ends and the other begins. Ken was originally from Texas, his whole heart still there, but he'd come out to help his mother. He talked about his life a little, and it was plain as day that he adores his wife. He talked about her the way you talk about someone you still choose, every day, on purpose — she's creative too, he said, with real warmth in it. I don't think I've ever heard a man speak so lovingly about his wife to a total stranger in a phone store. It gave me hope. Maybe there are more Kens out there than I think.

He got me squared away, no upselling, none of the usual "you also need this, and this, and this" that I walk into every store back home in Pennsylvania bracing myself against — and still, somehow, I walk out with gadgets I don’t need or, if I’ve stuck to my guns and not added any extras, I still feel frustrated that I’ve had to say No a thousand times. I'm working on that about myself. But Ken didn't do it. He just helped. And then, hours later, he texted to check that everything was working fine! Come on now. How awesome is that!

And then — dear reader — when I tried to roll my back window down, it worked! 

Feeling like it might be my lucky day, and that taking chances pays off, I went and did something else I'd been putting off: getting the back of my hair trimmed. My hair grows fast, and I have a long history with hairstylists — one who was wonderful and then left, another who was wonderful and then left, a parade of colors and cuts over the years, pink, shaved, long and gorgeous (I still miss that one, if I'm honest), blonde, dark, everything but red. I walked into Hair Play Salon and Color Bar, a block from my Airbnb, and asked Tara if she'd just trim the back, dry, no wash, so I could watch it happen and know exactly what I was getting.

If you ever want to know a town, go get your hair cut there. That's where all the real knowledge lives. And this shop had it — that easy, unforced warmth that doesn't feel like a performance. Back home, conversation can feel like work. Down here, it feels like you've been let into the family. Maybe that's just how they treat the tourists. I've decided to believe it's how they are all the time.

Still craving that burger, I walked to the historic district, sat down at the next place I found, and opened the menu. No burgers there either. I asked, a little sheepishly, and the server pointed me a couple doors down to Luther's or Hemingway's. I know, you would THINK I’d have picked Hemingways, but she had assured me Luther’s had a burger, and it would be a good burger. 

It was, without exaggeration, the best burger I have ever eaten in my life. Amber was behind the bar — sweet tea for me, not a drop of anything stronger, and somewhere on this trip I have quietly become a sweet tea person, which I never saw coming. Amber grew up in Beaufort, lived for a while in New Jersey and New York, and came home anyway. She was wonderful, and she offered to take my picture right there at the bar, no fuss, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then I popped into a few book stores (I’m going to do a separate post on all the bookstores!) and finally made my way back to the Airbnb (I’m also going to list all those in a separate post!). 

So here's where the day landed: a day I had planned to spend indoors, hiding from rain that was supposed to fall from sunup to sundown. It didn't rain a drop until nine o'clock that night.

It's funny — I arrive in every town and immediately think, this is the one. Harrisonburg, maybe. North Carolina I never really got to know; that was just a one-night stop to break up a long drive, nothing against it. Charleston, where I stayed in Mount Pleasant with the beach practically outside my door, is the town I'd move to tomorrow if I won the lottery. And now Beaufort — beautiful, historic, gentle, full of the kind of nature sounds that feel like a good friend sitting quietly beside you. An hour and a half from Charleston, an hour from Savannah, all that charm in one small place, and I haven't even scratched the surface of it yet.

Tomorrow, I'm off to Savannah. Can it top all of this? I honestly don't know, but I’m betting I’ll adore it just as much as all the other places on my journey. 

So here it is again, the lesson I keep learning on repeat this trip: if you think you shouldn't, do it anyway. Bring the swimsuit. Go before the rain. Say yes to the Verizon store and if the trim turns into a haircut – it grows! But what you can't get back is a morning you talked yourself out of. Thank goodness I listened to the “do it anyway” voice!

Sweet things ahead! – Birdie Jane 

Bewfort, Not Beaufort: Finding My Sandy Feet in the Lowcountry

Here is the fastest way I know to explain the difference between Charleston and Beaufort: in Charleston, everyone called me Ma'am, like I was a lady of some consequence passing through. I liked that just fine. But when I landed in Beaufort and sat down at the Magnolia Café for a pecan-crusted chicken salad — strawberries, blueberries, feta, a lemon dressing I would've licked off the plate if there hadn't been witnesses — the waitress called me Honey. "Here you go, Honey." "How you doing, Honey?"

I did not take a photo of that salad, by the way. A woman has to draw the line somewhere, and mine is not looking like the tourist who photographs her lunch in a town of four thousand people who've seen every kind of fool come through.

Now, back home, I know women who'd draw themselves up to their full height if a stranger called them Honey. They'd tell you all about it later, too, at length, with their arms crossed.

Me, I could've wept a little. It's warm. It's unhurried. Nobody in Beaufort is in any rush to prove anything to you, and Lord, isn't that a relief.

My Airbnb has a screened-in porch, which is the entire reason I chose it — I did not come all this way to sit indoors like a woman with something to hide. And it's a good thing I have it, because it's been raining like the sky owes somebody money. My first night here, a thunderstorm came through that shook the windows in their frames, lightning going off like a photographer with no manners, and then — once it passed — the whole animal kingdom seemed to clear its throat at once. Cicadas. Crickets. Frogs holding a committee meeting somewhere in the dark. Some kind of fowl that sounded personally offended. I got it all on video, over on Instagram, @BirdieJaneLane, if you'd like to hear the Lowcountry argue with itself.

The next morning I walked into the historic district — fifteen minutes past white churches with steeples like they're reaching for something, old graveyards being minded, patiently, by live oaks so big and twisted they look like they've been standing guard since the Flood, Spanish moss hanging off every limb like gray lace some grandmother forgot to take off after the funeral. The sun didn't show itself, so I didn't get my good morning from my usual warm friend, but I had the whole town to myself at seven a.m., and there is something to be said for having a place all to yourself before it wakes up and puts its face on.

I found a coffee shop and nearly did a little dance. Then I got close enough to read the sign: Open at 8. Well, all right then. This may be a sleepy town, but I haven't slept until eight in the morning since I was sixteen years old and it was summer and nobody needed me for anything.

But that's the thing about Beaufort. It's slow on purpose. It's gentle on purpose. It's not an accident, and I don't think it's for sale, either — you either fall into that rhythm or you don't belong there, and I fell in without even trying.

On the walk in, I passed the blue bottle trees and porch ceilings painted that same soft blue — a Gullah tradition, meant to keep out the haints, the evil spirits, who are said to mistake the color for sky or water and can't find a way across it. I like a town that paints its ceilings against ghosts and doesn't think twice about it.

Then I went to Publix — everyone in there was so nice, and everything in there cost more than it does back in Montgomery/ Bucks County, which I did not expect from a town this unbothered. Not everything. Most things. I've decided it's a small toll for living somewhere this pretty, and I paid it without complaint.

Even the fast food places here look like seaside restaurants. Pastel colors, striped awnings — like McDonald’s got confused

and thought it was in the Bahamas!

By noon, the church bells were announcing the hour like they had news, so I went back into town and took a historic golfcart tour with four other people and our guide, Chance. I called him Chase twice. He did not seem like a Chance to me — he seemed like a Chase (actually, I’m just at that age I forget things). My apologies to Chance, should he ever read this!

That tour was worth every dollar (it was only 36 bucks, and look, I saved money on not buying coffee from the closed coffee shop!). Two things I have not stopped thinking about since:

The "morality stairs." Some of the old homes split their staircases in two, rising separately before meeting again at the top, so a lady in a hoop skirt could climb one side and a gentleman the other, so the male wouldn’t so much as catch a glimpse of a naked ankle! I don't know who thought up architecture as a chaperone, but I respect the commitment.

The crooked front doors. A handful of the historic doors are set just slightly off — not quite square in their frames. The story goes that spirits can only travel in a straight line, so a door with a little crook in it is a door a haint can't find its way through. I don't know if that's true. I know that someone, generations back, built a small piece of protection into every doorway on purpose, and that's stayed with me longer than most facts do.

It was also on this tour that I learned mispronouncing Beaufort is a quiet sin around here. It is not "Beau" like "Bo" — that's Beaufort, North Carolina, and nobody here is interested in being confused with it. Here, it's Bewfort, South Carolina — second oldest town in the state, with Charleston holding the title of first, and don't let anybody in either town tell you different.

I'm reading Pat Conroy's A Low Country Heart while I'm here, which feels like the only correct choice. He's practically the patron saint of this place. We passed the house where he and his wife lived, and it was every bit as lovely as a house is supposed to be when a man like that loved it.

I keep getting this feeling of déjà vu here — like I've walked these streets before, in another life, or at least another Monday. Then I remember: it's because I've read so many of Conroy's books, and so many others besides, all set in exactly these places. I read about the moss and the live oaks and the humidity and the kind, odd, particular people long before I ever stood among them.

And now here I am, walking around inside somebody else's beautifully written story.

I understand, finally and completely, why the South keeps producing writers the way it produces peaches — like it can't help itself. This place is romantic and brutal in the same breath, kind and a little haunted, and there's something in the salt air I keep trying to name and never quite manage to catch.

It is charming. It really, truly is. And I am not even a little bit sorry to have fallen for it.

Seeking Southern Charm: Why I Left Pennsylvania With No Books, No Plan, and No Winter Left in Me

 For a photo journey: Follow me on Instagram @BirdieJaneLane If you enjoy reading, please consider buying my published books if they appeal to you! And please sign up to be notified for when Sorry Bob! is released. Thank you so much!!!

I left home on Monday, July 6th. No books in my trunk. Just a bumper sticker that says SorryBob.com, a car full of everything I own for the next 7 weeks, and a bet on myself that I'm honestly too scared to say out loud most days. I've been dreaming about the South for so long, and the time was never right. And then when it finally was, my husband was diagnosed with cancer, our dog Rocky passed suddenly (he was 14, still, we were not expecting it) and that was after our wonderful chocolate lab, Jack, passed 8 months prior. It didn't feel right to leave then. Even though my husband said, "Go! I'll be fine!" (and honestly, he probably wanted the silence!). But, still, I stayed. And then my husband got the 'all clear' this Spring, and so, the dream was back on again, with much less savings and more fear. 

I was a military brat and moved around much of my life. Even when my dad left the Air Force, if he had the itch to leave a place, he would. But, in all those moves, I'd never been in the South. 

I watched Steel Magnoli
as in 1989, a new wife, about to be a new mother, and something about those women on that porch felt more like home than home did. I subscribed to Southern Living for years after that and just... dreamed. I read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil — Berendt's book came out in January 1994 — and something in me went quiet and paid attention. The South is full of fascinating characters. What a rich, unhinged, fascinating story. Of course there was also Pat Conroy, and one of my favorite Southern authors, Michael Lee West. 

These places kept popping up in my daydreams: Beaufort. Charleston. Savannah. Fairhope.

This tour is about nature, nurture, and bookstores. Bookstores I hope to be in myself someday! (It's very dangerous though, all these bookstores because it's so hard to leave without adding more books to my collection! I am on a tight budget that's already dwindling!)

This tour is about nature, nurture, and bookstores — bookstores I hope to be in myself someday! I walk in and I stand there a minute, the way you do in a place you love. I run my fingers along the spines like I'm looking for something specific, though I'm not. And for just a second, I let myself imagine my own name on one of those shelves.  That's reason enough to go, even before anything else gets decided. I'm waiting to hear from an agent, and if that doesn't come through, I don't know what I go home to — except that I already know I can't survive another Pennsylvania winter, so "home" might not even be the word anymore.

I keep waiting for something to go wrong. That's an old habit of mine — when things go right for too long, I brace for the other shoe. Car trouble. Or Worse.

But after spending three morning's on Sullivan's Island watching the sun rise (sorry to my family for all the sunrise videos and photos!) here's what I keep landing on instead: even if the agent never calls, even if I end up figuring out the rest of this from the front seat of my car — this was still worth it. 

More from the road soon — Beaufort's next, then Savannah!

PS: Every Sunday, you'd find me at the Horsham library farmer's market, elbow-deep in the discount book bin like it's a garage sale at The Lilly Pulitzer. That's where I met Caroline- a volunteer at the library.  She took one look at my Spartina 449 bag and recognized it right away. Unheard of in Yankee Pennsylvania!  She too, felt a calling to the South. She too, felt that calling after reading Goodnight in the Garden of Good and Evil! (I did not, however, mention that I was about to pack up my car and go find out if my Southern soul had a return address- I should have and regretted it immediately after leaving).  Caroline, if you're reading this: we are officially Southern Soul Sisters, and this journey is as much for you as it is for me!

Day Four: Seeking Southern Charm — Sullivan’s Island, Sunrise, and a City I Didn’t Want to Disappoint Me

Day four of the book tour started before the sun did.

I made the twelve-minute drive from my adorable little Airbnb in Mount Pleasant out to Sullivan’s Island just as it was getting light, and I caught the sunrise on the beach. Spectacular. Absolutely spectacular. And here’s a confession: I don’t even know why I keep calling this trip “seeking” or “chasing” Southern charm, because I don’t have to seek or chase anything. It’s here. It’s everywhere I turn.

I didn’t think Harrisonburg could be topped. Turns out Charleston does it — not by much, just a little — but it’s bigger, and it comes with more history than I ever knew existed. These people take real pride in being America’s rebels, and you can feel it on every street. The folks here are every bit as kind as they were in Harrisonburg, and don’t even get me started on the fashion. Pastels everywhere. Gingham everywhere. Women who look like they stepped out of a catalog even in shorts — and I don’t mean the LA, Beverly Hills kind of polished. I mean something more relaxed, more artful, more lived in. That’s Charleston to me: colorful, proud of its art and its history and its nature and each other. And I’ve only scratched the surface — I know I haven’t seen everywhere yet.

The Water Taxi Was the Move

Once I’d had my fill of sunrise, I needed to figure out the best way into Charleston proper, so I asked my Airbnb host. She pointed me to the marina and told me to take the water taxi — eighteen dollars for an all-day pass, back and forth, with drops at different spots along the way. Best eighteen dollars I’ve spent. The captain and her assistant were phenomenal, and even though I had no real plan once I landed, I figured it out fast enough.

I walked past Miss Pat’s house from Southern Charm — heads up, don’t bother making a special trip, it’s all walled off — but it was still something to stand there and read the history of Rutledge Street and realize the role that family played in founding this country.

Then I just walked. Real feel of 108 degrees, humidity thick enough to swim through, and I didn’t care one bit. I’d almost hoped Charleston would let me down a little — give me a reason to say I wouldn’t actually want to live here. It did not cooperate. It’s everything I’d dreamed about for years.

Books, a Hat, and

I stopped into Ladybird Books on King Street — newly opened, painfully cute, smaller than I expected — and walked out about $100 poorer and much happier. Felix the bookstore dog was off duty, which was a real disappointment, but I’ll forgive him. At the City Market I bought an actual hat. I don’t wear hats. I am now, apparently, a woman who wears hats, because I’m trying this whole “getting a little more Southern” thing on for size.

The water taxi back gave me three dolphins as a farewell gift. I was home by two in the afternoon and asleep by six — because this, it turns out, has been quite the journey.

Follow me on Instagram for all the pictures and videos of the journey! @BirdieJaneLane 

Harrisonburg VA: A Stars Hollow Glow Up

 Day Two on the road, and I think I've found a little slice of heaven in Virginia.

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The Airbnb & Gwen's Southern Hospitality

Let me back up to where it all started: Gwen.

Gwen was my Airbnb host, and she is the very definition of Southern hospitality. On day one, I landed in a place that felt like exactly what I'd been seeking — and I'm discovering it's more the norm than the exception around here. Southern hospitality is actually a real thing, y'all.

The Airbnb itself was absolutely adorable. If you ever need that recommendation, drop me a line and I'll happily share the info. It was charming, cozy, and perfectly set the tone for everything that followed.

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The Magpie Diner — Hallmark Could Never

This morning I went to the Magpie Diner, and let me tell you: Hallmark couldn't even come close to this place.

All the feels. Beautiful, bright, wide-open space. Extremely nice staff. I sat at the counter and ordered biscuits and gravy, and I think I can never make it again at home — because this was hands-down the best biscuits and gravy I have ever had in my life. I'm ruined for all other biscuits and gravy now.

Then I asked the server what she recommended from the bakery. She said everybody — including her — loves the vanilla braid. And the gentleman sitting to my right at the counter nodded his head vigorously. Yes. Get the vanilla braid.

So I got the vanilla braid.

And I am here to tell you: it is magnificent. Vanilla-sweet, yet flaky. It's like a croissant, but not as layered as a croissant — yet it has that crispness of a croissant. Oh my goodness. Just trust me on this one.

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Lost Credit Card, Zero Panic

Here's the thing: I left my credit card at the diner.

I didn't realize it until I was browsing the thrift store across town (found some wonderful treasures, by the way — and the people there were so nice too). When I went to pay, it hit me: Oh no. I think I left my card at Magpie.

But here's the beautiful part — I didn't freak out. You know why? Because I knew it would probably be there when I got back.

I drove the four minutes across town in zero traffic (amazing), walked back into the diner, and sure enough — the lady handed me my card immediately. Her name is Kaitlyn, and I love the name Kaitlyn (because family name!) and its one of the best names out there. She told me she tried to run after me but only made it as far as the stop sign before I was gone.

That's Harrisonburg for you. 

The Morning Walk

After breakfast, I took a walk around the neighborhood. Adorable doesn't even cover it. Harrisonburg reminds me of Stars Hollow — but with a glow up. People were out walking, waving, saying good morning. It was garbage day and even the guys on the truck were wearing nice uniforms and were genuinely friendly, calling out good morning as they passed! 

I love that. I love that.

Final Verdict

If I were an influencer, people would be mad at me for broadcasting how wonderful this town is. But since I'm not an influencer, nobody's gonna listen to me — so for the few people who might:

Harrisonburg is probably one of the best towns I have ever been in.

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Oh wait — I forgot to tell y'all about Buccees too. You know what? I'll save Buccees for tomorrow.

I'm currently in North Carolina at a cute little cabin, and I'll post the rest of Day Two along with Day Three when I get to my next stop. Stay tuned!

For photos and videos check out my Instagram @BirdieJaneLane

Chasing Southern Charm: Day One of Birdie's Southern Book Tour!

 Guys! I did it! I’m currently at my first stop on “Birdie’s Southern Book Tour” (this name may change. If you have any ideas, please email me!” 

I left Bucks County Pa, to start my Southern Spirit (Southern Soul? Southern Romance (like, I’m in love with the Southern culture – I think I’m in love with the culture – the slower way of life, the manners, the food, the stories. But maybe, once I’ve been immersed in it, maybe I will find I fell under the influence of books like “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” and “South of Broad.” And Michael Lee West (wherever you are, I hope you are ok).)

But I feel like I’m going to love it. 

As soon as I left Pennsylvania, the traffic thinned out. There were a few stretches of road where I was the only car! As someone that loathes traffic (I mean, we all do, right?) this was thrilling. Some people might be thrilled going to a Morgan Wallen concert; I’m thrilled when all drivers keep at least three car lengths away from each other!

I almost backed out. Four a.m. this morning, I woke up, the house was still. It was that time of morning when all inside and all outside the house are quiet. It was the hour where questions of sanity push all confidence aside. The mean girl voice: WHAT IF YOU DIE. WHAT IF YOU GET KIDNAPPED? WHAT IF YOU GET LOST AND CANT FIND YOUR WAY BACK. 

I texted my daughter who was working. She texted back: You’re going. And that’s that!

And so I said, “Yes, that’s that. I’m going.” 

Also, I spent two days packing, unpacking (Chanel’s advice – but traveling wise: pack what you think you’ll need, then, subtract a few things.) and the thought of unpacking it all, trying to reschedule this bucket list/life is short/book tour was more dreadful then heading into the bad weather that the radar was taunting me with. 

I’m here in Harrisonburg. It’s just a quick stop. So no bookstores today. 

But I did stop at a Hardees in Virgina! I grew up with Hardees, and there hasn’t been one in our area for at least 15 years. 

I started out around 7:45 – hit some rain, some fog, some traffic, and then the sky turned blue and I had the windows down because the air just feels…more energetic, more…pure? 

As soon as I arrived at the cutest Airbnb- a big clap of thunder shook the sky. 

Which reminds me, the trip started off on a rocky note. My cooler tipped over and leaked all over everything. I had to pull off the road and ended up throwing the whole thing out because the water had collected in the fabric holder of the cooler. Note to self: only hard coolers while traveling! 

The second incident: I got off an exit for gas. Only, the exit I got off at was under construction and I went at least 8 miles in a slow moving narrow cattle shoot. I will admit to not being a Southern Lady at all with the foul language that was captured on my car camera. (Which has since been erased!). 

All the streets were closed off, and Google kept saying “rerouting” “rerouting” “rerouting” and then Apple wanted me to keep driving for 21 miles (21 miles! Are you HIGH right now Apple?)

So, I used common sense (which I doubt all the time when it comes to travel because my sense of direction is like a five year old chasing fireflies) and made the first left I could, then I reckoned I should stop for gas since it was right there, and the kind gray haired man with the racing t-shirt told me how to get back to 81 South. And then, he did the sweetest thing, he waited for me to top of my car, and I followed him out. When the split came to get onto 81 South, he stuck his arm out the window and pointed to the right, to make sure I found my way. I really appreciated this. And, this is exactly what I mean about the South and manners and a kinder way of life!

Anyway, I’m going to be stopping into bookstores and libraries along the way, as well as doing some touristy things! 

Day 1 is in the books. 

See you tomorrow! 

Reality TV, Prozac, and Problems

The Night I Left My Sanity in a Hotel Room Drawer

I became a pill person the way most people become a pill person: slowly, accidentally, and with the enthusiastic assistance of the medical profession!

It started with EMS. Shift work. You haven't known exhaustion until you've run calls all night, watched the sun come up over a hospital parking lot, and then lain in bed at 9 a.m. while your neighbors mow their lawns and your circadian rhythm files a formal complaint with the universe. Sleep wouldn't come. So I went to the doctor.

He gave me Ambien. And it worked!  Which is the thing nobody warns you about when a drug works too well. It's not a blessing, it's a seduction. After that, the floodgates opened. Headache? Pill. Stress? Pill. A twinge in my knee that was probably just the consequence of having knees for fifty years? Pill. Every single one came with a little speech about how safe it was, how well-tolerated, how I just needed to give it time.

What they didn't mention was what happened when you tried to stop.

Then came the Ativan. "Just for sleep," the doctor said. Because you know why? The Ambien was no longer working as well. That's what happens when you take it over a long period. It was meant to be temporary. My doctor didn't tell me, "Your body will eventually file a formal complaint if you try to stop." He did not say, "This is a loan from a bank that charges interest on your central nervous system." He wrote the prescription and with optimism, I thanked him and skipped over to the pharmacy. 

A few years later, came vacation. Nashville!  I packed vitamins, books I wouldn't read, and a bathing suit that had lied to me in the dressing room. Of course, I packed my Ativan. 

I was a wonderful vacation. I love Nashville. The people, the music, the food!

Returned home, but darn, I left my Ativan behind! No worries, only a week left anyway before I can pick up a refill. 3 days after trying to sleep without Ativan, and I felt like I was dying of a flu so aggressive it ought to have its own Netflix documentary. My skin crawled. My brain felt like someone had replaced it with static electricity and old television snow. I was sure there were bugs crawling on my skin. What kind of horrible flu was this? 

I Googled my symptoms.

Readers, it was NOT the flue. It was far worse. Benzodiazepine withdrawal. A thing I didn't know existed. Oh, I knew about withdrawl from booze and drugs...but...a prescribed medication? Does this mean I am an addict? 

I cried for about an hour. Then I got angry. Then I got practical, because that's what women do when the alternative is lying on the floor and the floor needs vacuuming.

It took a year to taper off. A year. I cut those pills into slivers so tiny they looked like dandruff. And then, slowly, it passed. It was difficult. One of the most difficult things I've ever had to overcome in my life. The frustrating part was, I wish I had been told about this being a possibility. But, I DID overcome it. It's amazing how life becomes clear when not depending on a bottle in the nightstand. 

I've been watching these reality stars lately — hair freshly blown out, teeth so white they could signal aircraft — leaning into a microphone to announce, "I've been on Prozac for two years and it's changed my life!" (Amanda Batula energetically announced this on Watch What Happens Live) The audience applauds the courage. Someone in the comments writes thank you for normalizing this!

And I watch their lives unravel in high definition and think: Honey.

Nobody asks the obvious question. If the medication is working, why does your life look like a controlled demolition in slow motion? Because these pills don't just blunt the anxiety. They blunt the instinct that says this person is bad for me. They blunt the gut feeling that says something needs to change. You stop being able to tell which problems are real and which ones you've chemically agreed to tolerate. The numbness starts to feel like wellness. You've confused the absence of sharp pain with the presence of actual health.

I did it too. For years.

The pill wasn't the problem — it was a solution to a problem I wasn't fixing. These medications are meant to be bridges, not permanent addresses. You're supposed to cross them, not build a house in the middle and hang curtains.

I keep my Altoids close now. Ginger candy in the purse. It took a year of tapering and a lifetime of learning to get here, but I can feel again — all of it. The sharp parts and the soft parts and the parts that still wake me up at 3 a.m.

Turns out that's not a medical problem. That's just being alive!

Treating Dog Allergies Can Feel Impossible!

 My Dog Has Allergies and My Bank Account Is Developing Trust Issues

I used to think having a dog would involve scenic walks, tasteful bandanas, and the occasional muddy paw print. I did not anticipate becoming the CEO of an international allergy task force headquartered in my kitchen. My dog isn't even two years old, and somehow he has more specialists than a retired rock star, football player, and retired movie stunt double, combined. I have now reached the stage where he has her own filing system. Not an actual filing cabinet because those are ugly and depressing, but a floral accordion folder bulging with lab reports, prescriptions, ingredient lists, and notes that say things like "Ask about duck?" and "Maybe lamb?" and "Who decided chicken should be in absolutely everything?" I carry it into appointments like a woman presenting classified government documents.

The truly astonishing part is that every veterinarian seems to begin with a dramatic retelling of why the previous veterinarian was wrong. One says it's environmental. Another says it's food. A third gently suggests it's probably both while looking at me in a way that implies I should somehow have solved immunology by now. Meanwhile, my poor Finn is just scratching away, blissfully unaware that he has become the center of a very expensive committee meeting. My bank account, I should mention, has stopped making eye contact with me. Won’t return my calls. And my texts get left on “delivered.”  There are special shampoos, prescription wipes, supplements, tiny treats that cost more per ounce than jewelry, and foods with ingredient panels so mysterious they sound like they were developed for astronauts. Every time I think, "This has to be the answer," another invoice arrives and another patch of itchy skin pops up to remind me that certainty is a luxury item.

But the money isn't the part that breaks me. It's watching someone you love be uncomfortable when they can't explain what's wrong. He looks at me with complete trust, wagging his tail after yet another bath he didn't ask for, another pill hidden in cheese, another trip to another clinic where strangers inspect his ears and paws. He never complains. He just keeps believing that wherever we're going, I'm taking him somewhere fun. Sometimes I catch myself apologizing to him. "I'm trying, sweetheart," I'll whisper while rubbing his ears. "We're going to figure this out." Then he’ll lick my hand as if to reassure me that he's already forgiven every failed food trial and every bottle of shampoo that promised miracles but delivered disappointment with a faint oatmeal scent.

People say money can't buy happiness, but it can certainly buy an impressive collection of unopened allergy remedies that looked promising at 11:30 on a Tuesday night. I make another appointment. I read another article before bed. I compare ingredient labels like they're ancient treasure maps. I celebrate tiny victories with embarrassing enthusiasm. "Look!" I'll announce to the empty kitchen. "He only scratched three times during breakfast!" Somewhere out there I hope there's one missing puzzle piece, whether it's the right food, the right medication, the right specialist, or the right season.

Until then, I'll keep showing up with my floral folder and my increasingly frazzled optimism because he’s worth every frustrating phone call and every penny I don't really have. After all, he's not asking for designer toys or gourmet biscuits or a luxury dog spa. He's asking for the simple privilege of feeling comfortable in his own skin. And if love could cure allergies, he'd have been healed a very long time ago!

Justify The Means (cozy thriller) and Christmas Bells & Wedding Spells Available Everywhere

 Hello Friends!

When I worked at Germantown Academy, it was suggested we call everyone "friends." This was supposed to take place of "Hey Guys" or "Hey Girls" (something that old school me always does and it's difficult to not say this when talking to a group of guys or a group of girls. But kids today get their feathers ruffled so easily, mostly because adults are steering them in this direction of collection (we are all friends, we are all one, individuals aren't special))

It felts so odd to me, calling students "friends." I wasn't there to be friends with them. I was there as a guide rail, if you will, to help keep order and keep things as secure as possible (well, this ended up being less about security and more about visibility, but that's another story, I have so many Germantown Academy stories I could write a book. And I just might!) Don't get me wrong, the kids at the academy were mostly well behaved. And they were smart. And I enjoyed hearing stories from them, but I wasn't their to be their 'friend." 

Anyway, this post was meant to tell you that my books, Justify the Means and Christmas Bells and Wedding Spells - are now available everywhere! Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Apple, etc. Where-ever ebooks are sold. And you can order a printed copy on Amazon as well. 

And Sorry Bob! is in the final editing stages and should be available by the end of April! Just in time for May Flowers!

Justify The Means - A Cozy Vigilante Story

 

I actually wrote this book more than 20 years ago. It’s a quirky little whodunit set in Cranberry County, just outside Philadelphia. At the time, agents and publishers turned it down because the plot centers around a vigilante hunting down pedophiles. “Too dark,” they told me.

Available wherever you buy books! 

But here we are, years later, and the conversation around crimes against children is everywhere. People are talking about accountability, justice, and the frustration of watching terrible people slip through the cracks. It made me think…maybe the timing for this story is finally right.

So I decided to dust it off and bring it back to life.

If you enjoy a mystery with a little humor, a little romance, and a few twists along the way, you might like meeting Detective Molly O’Brien and the strange cast of characters she encounters while trying to solve
the case.

The book is free until April 1st. You can download the Nook app from Barnes & Noble for free and read it on any device. 

If you do give it a read, I’d truly love to hear what you think, good or bad. And I’m especially curious if you were surprised when you discovered who the vigilante really is.

Justify The Means...

Meet loveable but quirky (and always starving) Detective Molly O'Brien.

And meet her next assignment... a serial killer loose in Cranberry County, just outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

As the murder list grows, Molly's problems grow just as fast; her partner Jake follows the letter of the law, and is ruthless in his pursuit to find the vigilante.

Handsome FBI agent Luke Foreman is assigned to the case and carries his own secrets.

A bumbling detective compromising crime scenes.

A hyperactive male dancer who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and worries he's a suspect.

And a gun found by Molly in her best-friend's closet that matches the one used in the crimes.

Molly soon finds the boundaries of friendship, romance, and the law tested as she struggles with the idea "The End Justifies The Means."

This cozy mystery has a little romance, a little humor, a little bit of an edge, and will keep you wondering 'whodunit' until the surprising conclusion.

(This is a PG rated book, contains light romance, very few curse words, and non-graphic violence.)

Signs, The South, and Lady Bugs

 Do you believe in signs?

I do.

The other morning, when it was twenty-eight degrees in Pennsylvania (far too cold for anything red and spotted with wings to be crawling around) I found a ladybug on my windowsill. On its back, wriggling. I righted it gently with my fingertip, and it paused for a moment as if to say thank you, then meandered on my desk and disappeared.

A ladybug in February felt like a cosmic telegram. At the time, I was planning a book tour, toggling between cash flow and Airbnbs, wondering if I could justify a little Southern sunshine as a business expense. I had my eye on a lake house, all soft greens and blush pinks…exactly how I’d decorate if someone handed me a blank check and a new home. But this dreamy dreamy lake house was only available sooner rather than later (and I’d wanted to go later – there are finishing touches to Sorry Bob! that I’ve been procrastinating on). But I wasn’t sure: was I meant to go now, or should I give it a few more weeks so I didn’t rush through the 2,747 edit of Sorry Bob!

What are you trying to tell me ladybug? I looked it up:  a ladybug symbolizes protection, good luck, and is often associated with the Virgin Mary. 

Though I was raised Catholic, I’m more spiritual than I am religious but I’ve always loved the Virgin Mary

Ok, but what was the ladybug telling me? It seemed to say GO! But…I started overthinking it. Because sometimes a sign is more about the feeling it gives you…  

Years ago (before anyone became divided over politics, that’s how long ago it was!), I dated a man we’ll just call G. He was charming and disastrous in equal measure. He gave romantic gifts (that I ended up tossing out moving car windows when I finding out he had cheated again) but not out of the goodness of his heart. But! I was convinced that if I loved him enough, I could fix him, that love alone could outwit addiction and ego and all the worst parts of someone pretending to be better.

One day, we were at a horse race. The least-favored horse bore his sister’s name, which was also  his mother’s. “If that horse wins,” he said, “it’s a sign we should get married.”

You can guess how that went.

The horse won.

And my stomach dropped straight through the grandstand. I realized (perhaps for the first time) that sometimes the sign isn’t the event you witness, but the feeling that floods your body when it happens. His sign said marriage. Mine said run!

Back to present day (if you’re still reading, thank you, I appreciate your patience) …another sign arrived not long ago, and it had to do with moving…though, as always, I’ll take the scenic route to explain.

When you reach a certain age, you start thinking about where to spend the next chapter of your life. My husband wanted Montana: big skies, quiet mountains, a place where you could feel small in the best possible way. I, on the other hand, hate the cold. I’ve never understood the cult of “crisp air.” I’m the person sitting in a sweatshirt in the sun when it’s seventy degrees.

I tell people getting married…talk about weather preference before you say “I do.” Love may conquer many things, but frostbite is not one of them!

But life, with its dark sense of humor, threw a wrench into our moving ideas. 

My husband got cancer.

Like so many men, he didn’t want to tell anyone until the procedures were nearly over… that quiet, stoic pride that pretends it’s protection. The medication stripped his testosterone down to nothing, and for the first time in our marriage I watched this strong, self-sufficient man become emotional. Tender. Not broken, just unguarded.

Then, one winter morning, he shivered as we stepped outside and said, “I finally get it. No more Montana.”

Florida was too crowded and hot for him, but South Carolina and Tennessee rose to the top of the list. And driving to Wegmans a few days before I was scheduled to visit family in Florida, a car with South Carolina plates pulled in front of us!

“See?” I said. “A sign.”

When we got home, I pulled out my Spartina 449 clutch that I’d purchased (because it had a map of the islands in South Carolina). I’d never even used it. I flipped over the label and stared in disbelief. The code number on it combined digits from my Social Security number and my husband’s old police badge! C’mon now! Even he raised an eyebrow at the coincidence. 

THEN, a few days later, in the Allentown-Bethlehem Airport (the second best airport in the world – Nashville being the first), another sign was waiting for me. Her name was Amy. 

ABE airport has this sweet little free library at the gates. I was admiring the shelves when I met Amy: fabulous purple jacket, Pilates instructor, and volunteer philosopher. She told me she’d lived everywhere: Montana (her husband adored it for the hiking), Idaho (which, she said, has “Idaho nice” people.

Wouldn’t you know it, Montana and Idaho were the two places my husband had wanted to move prior to his health challenges!

But Amy (who has lived in the Allentown area for a long time) said she loved South Carolina! If she could pick anywhere, that’s where she’d live (she had no idea it was on my list!) 

Naturally. Another sign.

We stood there chatting until her flight boarded. Amy was strong, graceful, the kind of woman who looks ten years younger because she spends her energy in all the right places.

 I do believe the universe conspires to help us. 

But sometimes, we think we know better. Sometimes, we overthink. Sometimes, the sign says: how would you actually feel if you got what you wanted?

So what was the ladybug telling me? 

Maybe the ladybug wasn’t sending me a destination; maybe just a message: You’re still protected. You’re still guided.

So wherever I land, whether it’s in the Carolinas or just in this moment, I’ll take it. Because sometimes protection doesn’t mean staying safe — it means finding the courage to go.

One thing I do know is, I’ll be trying Pilates! Thanks Amy!