I’m excited, and a little bit scared, about Thanksgiving.
I’ve had dreams of the turkey suddenly jumping up. It runs up and down the table, at first entertaining us all with a Broadway song and dance number, it’s trussed little feet tapping to the tune. Then the wings start flapping and the damned thing is all over the room.

Interesting.

Thanksgiving is a big day for me–it’s one of the few when I get my entire family. My children, my nephew, my daughter-in-law, niece-in-law, two great nephews, and, this year, Jeremy (my daughter’s boyfriend, the family loves him to pieces!) and his children, my cousin-in-law–a very favorite relative, along with his wife–a best friend before they were even married–and their three children, and three friends. We’re headed up to the Dolphin at Disney where we’ve spent many a holiday. (Working holidays, but hey!)

We used to try the restaurants, but that entailed a lot of rushing around, a lot of standing around, and, usually, harried service and not the best food. Thanks to Joe, we now have the meal catered to the room which makes it nice–home away from home. When traveling with toddlers, this is a great plan. When the toddlers get restless, they can move about, they are not locked into a high chair, or in a position where they’re driving the wait staff crazy. I like it. No, I love it.

So why the nightmares about the turkey?

Hm.

I’m afraid. Very afraid. We put a great deal of expectation into holidays, and forget that each person remains an individual with all the quirks and personality traits that make them–well, individual. I want everyone to be happy.

Twenty two people.

Some rise early, and some don’t. Some can’t wait to get to the parks, and some couldn’t be bothered–they want to vegetate. Some are compulsive, some are, to be kind, a bit piggy. So, speaking of Disney, I think of something that Jefferson says, paraphrased, in the American exhibit at Epcot. “Trying to get thirteen clocks to chime as one is hard enough . . . .” Jefferson goes on to say that one stroke of his pen brings about a hundred changes from congress. Hey, things don’t really change.

I have twenty-two clocks.

Here’s the thing–my clocks will probably be just fine. They won’t chime as one. Whoever wants to do whatever will do it. The parents of small children will be with their kids in the parks early, they’ll be at different parks, but they’ll be happy, and each group will do what they choose. Shayne is a loner sometimes–he’ll take off by himself to do something if no one else is interested. Derek and Zhenia now live in Connecticut–she dreams of going swimming. Some of us will head to karaoke at the Swam–where they also have super sushi. We’ll trail in at different times at night, and often wind up down in the twenty-four hour buffet.

But I can’t help thinking about my dancing turkey.

It’s not the end of the year yet, but I’m still reflective on the year. In many ways, it’s been a difficult year, personally. I–and the publishing community–lost a best friend, and a brilliant editor, Kate Duffy. We lost Pablo the cat, and Chloe, the albino skunk. Pets don’t compare to a person, but they are still gone for our lives, and since we’ve lost family as well, we know the difference. I’ve had wonderful times with my family, and with my many writing groups. I’ve traveled new places, been up and been down–oh, and in the accountants office about five times with the IRS.

But it’s Thanksgiving. And I’m grateful. I’m grateful I was blessed to know Kate, grateful for the friendship and the many favors she gave me. I still buy broccoli for the skunk, and then remember that she isn’t there, and I miss her on my lap when I’m typing. We didn’t have Jeremy in our lives until last February, and he’s a wonderful addition. I may be going through the audit from hell, but my IRS agent is a doll, helping me comprehend what I’m doing–and what I’ve done wrong, and how to fix it in the future. Most of all, I have the people in my life, and I have a career, doing what I love.

Anyone who knows me is well aware that Martha Stewart would definitely have nothing to fear from me. I am the worst housekeeper, and a “real” dinner party means buying the good, plastic coated paper plates. I am accustomed to large numbers; my brother-in-law called me “dial a party.” But I do have that thing that so many of us seem to have–it’s the mother syndrome. Somehow, we must make everyone be happy at every minute. So I worry.

But I’ve got it covered–when the bird starts flying around, I’ll put on the soundtrack from Peter Pan, and we’ll watch it go. And, actually, once, at 3:00 on Thanksgiving, twenty-two clocks will chime as one when we sit down to Thanksgiving dinner. And I’ll be grateful for those twenty-two people, and grateful for the cacophony of sound! Thankful, just like the pilgrims, that my parents came to this country, and my holiday will include a bevy of nationalities. I’m going to be so glad that we have Thanksgiving, and doubly grateful that I have the privilege of being neurotic and crazy, and having the luxury of wanting not just survival, but happiness. The glass is looking awfully damned full.

I don’t think the turkey nightmare has anything to do with Thanksgiving day. I think it’s all about trying to get the Christmas card done. Most of our Christmas cards could be labeled “bah humbug!” cards. Trying to get all those people to smile at the same time . . . .

Well, that’s a challenge!

Heather Graham

Ah, Friday the 13th! Be afraid, be very afraid.

But why?

Well, the number has to do with several events in myth and ancient history.

Most familiar to Americans and Christians worldwide would be the fact that there were twelve apostles and Jesus, making the number 13, and, hm, we all know about Judas, whose name has become synonymous with betrayal, and it’s hard to thinking of a time of greater fear or mourning than the death of Christ.

And, remember, Jesus Christ was crucified on a Friday.

Beyond that, once Christianity was established, and looking into Judaism and the Moslem religions, we know that there were angels, and once there were angels, there were fallen angels—including the devil, or Satan. In ancient times, covens consisted of the number 12—but, actually, they were considered to consist of 13—Satan and his twelve apostles.

Actually, originally, some cultures saw the number 13 as lucky. Somehow, across the millennia, they were voted down. In certain ancient societies, the number 13 was viewed as an odd number—after all, there were twelve months. But this came about in a strange way, and not to get the battle of the sexes going, 13 was fine in matriarchal societies because there were (usually) 13 cycles for a woman in a year. When matriarchal societies gave way to male dominated cultures, well, that 13 had to go, and the solar calendar built the hell out of the lunar.

The Hindus consider 13 an unlucky number for any grouping. They might have somehow gotten that from the Norse. Once upon a time, the gods were having a grand old time at Valhalla. Only twelve gods were invited, but—totally uninvited—Loki showed up anyway, making the number 13. Loki then tricked Hoder, the blind god of darkness, into shooting Balder, the god of joy and happiness, with an arrow dipped in mistletoe. Balder died, and the world became dark, and, naturally, joy and happiness departed the world. Okay, no joy and happiness sounds very unlucky indeed.

They say that people who feel that there are unlucky are more disturbed by the day than others. We’ve all noticed that some buildings don’t have a 13th floor. Some people won’t go to work, and others won’t dare step out the door, that’s how bad it might be!

There’s a name for it.

Paraskevidekatriaphobics.

Okay, so these are some aspects of our little human minds and psyches that lead to the fear of 13—but Friday? Well, there is the Crucifixion. It was also hanging day in the middle ages and so on, but worse! Friday was dedicated to Freya, the Norse goddess who was dedicated to love and sex, among other things. And in Rome, Friday had been dedicated to Venus, another mistress of love—and sex.

When trying to tamp down the ancient religions, the Christian rulers wanted to be very careful with Friday—which became known as the witch’s Sabbath. It was just a bad day all along, as they saw it.

Ah, well.

I happen to like Friday the 13th. My sister was due to be married on Saturday, the 14th—a big grand church wedding. Well, she’d forgotten to get her wedding license, so she had to fly with her groom to be to Georgia, where she didn’t need to have the same waiting period to be married legally–so that she could be married in the beautiful ceremony that was planned. (My parents, naturally, were ready to throttle her.) Anyway, time went by, she celebrated both, her church wedding in Florida—and her first wedding , in Georgia, on Friday 13th. She wore a black dress—they had to pack fast!

My nephew, DJ, one of my favorite people in the word, was born on Friday, February 13th, 1981. If that’s not lucky, I don’t know what is!

Ghosts, goblins, and ghoulies will out be soon. Not to mention vampires and rock stars, princes, princesses, Jedi warriors and more. Halloween.

It’s a fun holiday! It’s a religious holiday! It’s just the scene in Chinatown, it’s both, especially when you slap it all around.

For many of the ancient peoples, it was already a holiday. Especially in Great Britain, Ireland, and northern France, where pagan Druid and cultures and others similar were very real. The night, for them, was sacred to the harvest, the gods and godesses of harvest, and a Celtic festival known as Samhein. (For those of you, like him, who call this sam-hine, it’s closer to sowe-in.) It marked the end of one year, and the beginning of another. To honor that passing and beginning, the people dressed up in animals skins and other such array. They believed that the spirits of the dead came back on this night, and the priests and priestesses could better foretell the future, and help the people through a hard and lonely winter. The had great bonfires and sacrificed animals (animals, I can’t find a reference to people, though we kind of do know because of peat bodies that they did offer up human sacrifices!)

Ahha. Along came the Romans.

Feralia and Pomona! Let’s face, one did not conquer the known world by being stupid. The Romans wanted to keep control of subdued people who learned to co-abide. It was really difficult, you see, to instantly repopulate the known world with Romans. Feralia was a holiday that celebrated the spirits of the dead. The second of the imported celebrations, Pomono, celebrated fruit and the bounty of the earth.

Hey, folks, let’s have one holiday that we all acknowledge. And thus, from this, the concept of bobbing for apples became part of the holiday as well.

By the early eighteen-hundreds, Christianity had replaced what had come before–almost. In the collective soul of many of the people, the old holidays still existed. The pope was a bright man, too. He decreed that all Hallow’s Eve might be the eve of All Saints day, and therefore, all together in a holiday that was religious–and still one that celebrated the secrets of the human mind.

Some Christians dressed up as saints, angels, and demons. Others were still dressed up as animals. Trees, maybe Roman soldiers, Celtic priests and priestesses, and more.

Now, you will still see animals, saints, angels, trees, and demons. You’ll see warlocks, witches, and vampires. You might just bob for apples, though in these days of terrible flu strains, it’s unlikely!

But you will see a few handsome fellows from Twilight now, Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles, a few rock stars, and more. There’s always my favorite. Dropping by church one night, I saw a wolfman and a vampire walk in together. Luckily, I attend a university church, and the Father–dressed in his favorite Dolphin colors–went on with the rite of communion though his church was filled with costumed creatures–and then warned everyone to be careful!

So, whatever your mode of celebration, go forth and enjoy–and just be careful. As the good Father said, “We don’t need to be adding any more souls in for next year, we’ve plenty to honor as it is!”

Heather Graham

Touring with a ghost book is fun.

Okay, let’s face it, touring with any book can be torture. I loathe autographings. I love people, I just hate autographings. Sometimes a store knows you’re coming and they care–and sometimes they’ve even put a poster in the window. But many times, and I don’t care who you are–I know a truly big name author who was at a Costco and counted the lettuce leaves–autographings are torture. You’re not in your hometown, your family and friends aren’t there, and you don’t a soul who lives in the city and . . . I digress.

But, well, most authors have been there.

And, still, ghost books are fun. There is always someone to meet who has their own great ghost story.

This tour wound up being even better than fun. It included nights in haunted rooms and ghost tours. It meant I got a chance to go out with the Peace River Ghost Trackers. We were going to do a ghost expedition in the old Spanish military hospital in St. Augustine. I’ve been corresponding with Sprout for a while, and it was wonderful to finally meet her and her group–Scott, Craig, Mike, Lori, Sawyer the dog, and . . . . . .

First off, a tour of the old jail. One of the most frightening aspects was that it had just closed in 1953. A recreation of the gallows had been built, and a picture–taken against strict rules–hung on the walls. Everyone dressed for the occasion, but there was no picnic atmosphere in St. Augustine at the time. The loss of any human life was a somber affair.

Next, a tour of Ripley’s. The building is old and beautiful. It was once apartments, and a hotel. There was a fire there, and two women died in like manner, wrapped in towels in their bathrooms. There are questions, of course, as in–why didn’t the one in the penthouse just break through her windows and go out on the balcony? These are the questions that “haunt” as time goes by.

We made a stop for pizza. Ghost trackers have to eat.

I was impressed by the methods used. Ghost trackers aren’t out to prove–they’re out to search and discover. Cameras were set up, heat indicators were used, and recorders. I was startled by something on the film, quickly certain that I might just be seeing something. But it was pointed out to me that I was only seeing dust motes in the air. Sprout’s group is really seeking truth–not to make up what isn’t there.

We sat in different rooms, and asked different questions with the voice recorders. It was a Spanish military hospital, so we spoke to the spirits in English and Spanish.

The trackers are still checking their recordings, so I don’t know yet if they came up with answers that night. I do know that I wasn’t being left alone in any of the rooms. When the ghost trackers moved, I moved with them.

My oldest son, Jason, was with me. We like to jokingly call him “ghost repellant.” He doesn’t disbelieve, he would love to see something happen. Far more than me. He wasn’t allowed to tell me about the ghost in our St. Augustine B and B until we were gone.

Savannah is one of the most beautiful cities you’ll ever see, and we went on a wonderful ghost tour there–wait, we went on several. We took the Trolley of the Damned, the Haunted Hearse, and the walking tour. All were wonderful, good stories, good story tellers. And I can’t begin to tell you just how many ghosts are walking around Savannah. I had a few of my spirits, however, in the bar at the 17 Hundred 90 House. Room 204 is haunted by Anna, the pregnant victim of a jilted lover. He didn’t kill her–she jumped. One of the most interesting aspects of the “haunted” room was what the innkeeper told me was the “bad mannequin.” She didn’t mean that mannequin behaved badly. It’s just a bad mannequin. But she’s creepy–the mannequin, not the innkeeper–and I had to pass by her every evening to reach my room. My room–another interesting feature about it. Miley Cyrus had recently been a guest. While filming in Georgia, she had chosen to stay in the room. 204. Certainly, for Anna. And, according to the “anonymous” letter she sent, Anna moved her boots about in her suitcase. She also blogged about her experience in the room, and seemed to enjoy it very much. (We had to compare the handwriting by looking her up!)

Anna was kind to me. The lights in the bathroom flickered, but I’m not sure if that was Anna or faulty wiring.

One thing certain, the bar at the inn was one of the coziest places I’ve ever seen, and filled with the nicest people in the world. Rhonda was great, and told me a story that had happened to her–pots and pans flying off a shelf when the only other three people in at the time were walking behind her!

Anyway, I’m home again, home again, and about to head to Bouchercon. I don’t know if Indianapolis is supposed to have as many ghosts as St. Augustine and Savannah, but I’m sure there’s a tour out there!

Heather Graham

Kate was like a force of nature, so unbelievably strong, managing to find the irony and humor in any situation. The vitality of her life makes it hard to accept her death.

She passed away on Sunday. We’re all trying to come to grips with that fact. There is not a soul who worked with Kate, met Kate, or knew Kate in any way who doesn’t have a wonderful story about her. She was generous to a fault, and I’m not referring to money–I’m referring to her spirit. I told her once, when she asked me to go to a luncheon at a conference, that I felt guilty–I wasn’t writing for Kensington at the time. She told me flatly that Kensington still had my books for reprint, and who knew? Life was ever changing. One day I could write the piece that they’d fight for, and I wouldn’t be able to refuse their offer. She was the same with everyone.

Lost authors were welcomed into her fold.

I met her in 1982. Nowadays, we’re the old guard. Not the oldest guard–some came before us–but a pretty old guard. Kate was there for the groundwork of the genre. She saw the beginning, she saw the trends, and more than anything, she had a vision for what she wanted, for what was coming, for people, and for books. Kate knew that books were more than a commodity; she knew authors. She was an advocate who was never afraid to speak. She loved her authors, but demanded that they work, that they imagine, and turn in nothing but their finest work. She let nothing slide.

She drew the best from us. Once, I was irritated, hearing about a book similar to one that I had suggested to her. She told me that it was different–she was expecting far more from me and she intended to get it.

My heart bleeds for her wonderful family. And for all of us. Whether people in publishing worked with Kate, they knew her name. They knew her for her amazing sense of humor–and the truth, and for the fact that she was certainly not a shrinking violet. Kate fought constantly for what she believed in. She took the blows that came from being honest at time, but she would just fight back again. Nothing ever quelled her spirit.

Kate never offered lip service. What was–was. Usually, she could give any subject an ironic twist of humor.

There was no better friend. There was no such thing as being afraid to ask for a favor. She had a temper, and fur could fly. But she listened, and when something was really needed, Kate was right there.

Friends are calling me who didn’t really know Kate, still saddened because they had heard about her. And I’m glad. Whether we knew her, worked with her, or just heard about her, Kate seriously changed the world for the genre, for books, and for human beings.

Her loss in unimaginable, and I pray that she left those of us who loved her with just an iota of her strength, passion, and spirit.

Heather Graham