cousins and an eclectic mix of Native American and Hispanic buddies. Her fascination with interesting, unusual and southern-comfort cuisine reflects the feelings, colors and smells of her youth. She wants everyone in the world to adore fry bread and beans—or biscuits, gravy and sassafras tea—as much as she does.
Right off the bat, I need to let you know that I haven’t conducted a Gallup Poll about who does and doesn’t read romance novels.
I’m not basing my opinion on any audience measurement, or public-opinion tallies or anything else quite so snooty-wooty.
My theory evolved accidently. I didn’t expect it. 
Flashback: Long ago. Arizona. Small, satellite office. Boxes of Harlequin Romance paperbacks everywhere – packed, unpacked, mailed somewhere. Typewriters clacking away in another room. Jodi working for a temp agency before her major move to California.
Have to admit I was a bit of a clerical snob back then. I was a shorthand whiz (130 wpm) and typed at least 80 wpm on a normal day. So when I was told my job for the next two weeks was to read mail, highlight the main points and hand the letters off to someone else to type a response…I scoffed.
Say what? Read letters? In a romance novel office? Embarrassing!
Basically, I needed the job, but my attitude stunk. It got stinkier when they wheeled in a huge mail-room cart full of handwritten letters.
We’re talking back when people wrote to publishers, and their letters were actually read and answered.
Now run outside and scream.
I know.
It’s that strange.
With a heavy spirit, I started reading. Before I knew it, it was lunch time. Then it was time to go home. Next morning, I was back and eager to continue. I read and read, highlighted and highlighted. *personal habit…isn’t everything important?*
Women poured out their hearts about what those books meant to them, and how they managed to squeeze water out of a rock – that is, find time to read. The largest percentage of letters I read was from farm wives in the Midwest and the South. Coming from a country/ranch background, I identified with them.
Somewhere into my umpty-umpth letter, I began to like the gals who wrote to Harlequin. A lot. I learned all about their lives.
They cooked huge country breakfasts for their families and cleaned up the mess themselves. No husband help in the kitchen back then. Most of the time, the kids were still in diapers, or off to school or doing other chores.
After breakfast, these farm wives headed to the garden to hoe or pick vegetables to clean, can, freeze, puree or cook. If not that, hundreds of other tasks needed “tended to.”
Hubby resurfaced about lunchtime, often rolling in from the fields on his tractor– HUNGRY!
They cooked three meals a day, scrubbed their houses, raised kids, worked beside their husbands, grew crops, turned live chickens into dinner, slopped pigs, tended to livestock, watered lawns with hoses, sewed clothes and curtains and raised flowers.
They were deeply involved in their children’s school activities, neighbors’ calamities and successes…and church.
They talked about their husbands in positive, humorous ways. Sometimes they caught them reading their Harlequin romances, and it delighted them, even as it gave them fodder to tease those poor dudes unmercifully.
Somehow, bless their hearts, they found a little time to curl up with a Harlequin romance paperback.
Their letters dripped with sincere praise as they literally begged for the next exciting adventure.
So here’s my homemade theory – romance books were (are) the best little mini-vacations for rural women facing a daily flood of endless tasks.
Picture it! After farm wife…
Snapped a zillion bushels of green beans, and/or,
Spooned the last batch of scalded, peeled peaches into sterilized Mason jars with a few whole cloves and a sprinkle of cinnamon, and/or,
Stayed up all night with a stressed-out mama cow in labor,
…she dives into the pages of a romance novel for an imaginary ski trip to Aspen, an ocean romp in Jamaica or a wild holiday in Rome with a handsome rogue *think Gerard Butler* pursuing her knock-down, gorgeous bod and brilliant mind.
For oh-so-brief lapses of time, farm wife’s own impossibly thick lashes fluttered,
her fair cheeks burned,
her pulse raced.
She was admired, beloved, and sought after like the rare beauty she truly is.
Scores of men want her, but only her one true-love hero will ever win her heart!
Sigh.
Farm wife closes the book and stares wistfully out the window for a few seconds.
Okay.
On her feet.
Time to mop, weed, cook, can, drive, water, hoe, plant, sew, feed, restore, carry, soothe a worry, smooth an argument, or smooch a kid.
See what I mean?
Romance books are escapism on steroids for work-weary females.
You love these farm ladies now too, don’t you?
Are farm wives still into romance books? I don’t know. I would really love to hear from some of the rural wives out there. Also from you brave urban warrior wives.
What books transport you to another world where you don’t think about wiping noses, cleaning dog poop off your shoes or worrying about cooking meals?
We’re all dying to know!
Of course, a visit isn’t a visit without a two-way conversation. I really want to hear from you.
I truly hope you’ll pick up a copy of my novel Silki, the Girl of Many Scarves: SUMMER OF THE ANCIENT. The print version is on sale at Amazon for only $9.85!!! For your convenience, it’s also available for Kindle, the Nook and for most other eBook readers. If you love the Southwest and kooky little characters that make you laugh aloud as authentic danger and mystery swirl at every turn, you’ll love this novel! The second book in the series, CANYON OF DOOM, debuts in early 2013.
While you’re here, please have a look around my website. To sign up to receive notices of my new blogs, recipes, appearances and media news, just leave your email address above. I’ll take care of the rest. Y’all come back soon…I miss you already!
Doodles was eight years younger than me and my responsibility. Truth is, I was so glad to get another girl in this family, I didn’t mind doing anything for that skinny little baby. I had two older sisters, but they was already married.
Mom counted our heads to see if we was all there. After the last head, her usual serious face broke out in a smile bigger than the whole of Oklahoma. She stepped away from the iron-post bed where her and Dad, and sometimes a few young’uns, slept. I tell you, us kids scampered under that bed like rabbits running from a pack of slobbery hound dogs! When we came back out, we was holding on to one of Dad’s long grey and white wintertime socks. Those socks looked like they got the mumps, they was so full. Doodles laughed right out loud at us holding our fat socks in both our arms like someone would steal them.
The bottom of our socks sagged with every kind of hard candy. Oh, them colors and shapes just made us nutty. Some of the candies was square with dimples all in them. Other kinds was round with flat ends and little drawings like Christmas trees and holly inside. Best of all was the big hunks of folded over ribbon candy. That was our mom’s favorite, too.
After making them banana pies, Mom got out a hammer and put a big peppermint stick and some of them ribbon candies inside a dishtowel. We all gathered around her to watch. Every time she swung that hammer in the air and brung it down to crush the candy, we made saucer eyes at each other. I can’t swear if it’s true or not, but I think God Himself must have gave my mom that recipe for the Christmas cake.
Dark or light?
What does that have to do with a blog? Well, a blog, unless it’s about a specific subject like writing or pickling beets or whatnot, can be a sampling—or collection—of one’s life journey.