Remembering the Military History of New Brunswick

Fort Howe, protection from the American War of Independence.

In researching my novel set in New Brunswick, Canada, in the eighteenth century, I needed a fort for my heroine’s father to be stationed. Several forts had been built around the Bay of Fundy coast. Unfortunately, none have survived. The French constructed forts during the seventeenth century when France occupied the area they’d named New France.

England took possession in 1763 after the Seven Years War (also called the French and Indian War) and built their own forts.

 I traveled to the port city of Saint John in New Brunswick in May 2017, and discovered a lone block house on a hill behind the town. Thus, I ferreted out the history.

 In 1777, Brigade-Major Gilfred Studholme was sent to Parr Town (future Saint John) to ensure the settlement’s security. Two years before the American colonies to the south had erupted in rebellion against Britain. American privateers were raiding the harbor and encampments up the St John River.

On the limestone knoll that overlooked the harbor, Studholme’s detachment along with local inhabitants built Fort Howe, named for General William Howe, commander of the North American British forces.

The fort was surrounded by a palisade of massive, pointed wooden logs. A blockhouse sat on the west side with a barracks and residences in the center. The Royal Fencible Americans, Studholme’s regiment, manned the blockhouse on the eastern side. The coastal end of the Appalachian Mountains formed a part of the fortifications. Fort Howe provided security, and doled out food during starvation conditions, for the area.

 Even the famous—or infamous—Benedict Arnold, traitor to some, hero to others, lived at the fort in the later 1780s. General Arnold had started out on the American side, but then, feeling underappreciated, and underpaid, he joined the British forces.

 A fire destroyed Fort Howe in 1819. Two hundred years later I stood on the isolated hill where a plaque commemorates the fort. A reconstructed Block House is the only evidence a great fort once existed here.

 I incorporate life at the fort in my novel, On a Stormy Primeval Shore:

 

In 1784, Englishwoman Amelia Latimer sails to the new colony of New Brunswick in faraway Canada. She’s to marry a man chosen by her soldier father. Amelia is repulsed by her betrothed, and refuses to marry him. She is attracted to a handsome Acadian trader, Gilbert, a man beneath her in status. Gilbert must fight the incursion of English Loyalists from the American war to hold onto his land and heritage. Will he and Amelia find peace when events seek to destroy their love and lives.

E-book and paperback are available at Amazon and All Markets

For more information on me and my books, please visit my website: www.dianescottlewis.org

 

Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the world with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives with her husband in Pennsylvania.

 

I Shoulda Kept on Writin'

I began to pen stories at age five, or rather I drew the pictures and my mother wrote in the words I dictated to her.
I loved telling tales, writing of ancient Egypt and Rome (I'd just watched the moved Cleopatra). I also wrote with my best friend. Together we concocted a murder mystery ala Alfred Hitchcock (we'd just watched the movie Marnie).

We drew pictures to go with our stories and that was half the fun. My best drawing had nothing to do with my novels but was of my favorite cat, Lucretia. I might have been fifteen when I drew this.

When I started working in an office at eighteen, and was so efficient I had time left over, I wrote more stories and kept some. I read them not too long ago and one was very good.

But at nineteen I joined the navy and traveled all over, married, had children, and let my writing slide.

I should have honed my skills, taken classes, and kept on writing. I had a workshop with bestselling author Sherryl Woods years later, and she said in the 80s everyone was being published. I missed my chance, because I hadn't written through most of the 70s and throughout the 80s. I only picked it up again in the mid-nineties.

When we were stationed in San Diego in the late 70s, I should have taken creative writing classes, but somewhere along the way I'd lost the urge to write. An urge I once couldn't deny or ignore, it had burned inside me, compelling me to constantly spin tales.

I forced myself to write again in the late 90s, to see what I could come up with. My story meandered all over the place. I researched at the Library of Congress, got library loans, and stuffed all the fascinating details into my book. No internet for the average person existed yet.
I thought I knew everything there was about writing, but soon found out I knew very little. I had rejections galore.

My next move was to join critique groups and learn to edit my work. Busy with family and a job, years went by before I polished my first novel. A small press took it on, but their e-books were overpriced, and paperback prices outrageous. Finally, a good friend invited me to submit to my current publisher, BWL, and my first book, now titled Escape the Revolution, sold very well.

To sum it up, if you have a dream, pursue it!

My latest project is part of the Canadian Brides Series.

 

Blurb: In 1784, Englishwoman Amelia Latimer sails to New Brunswick to marry a man chosen by her father. Amelia is repulsed and refuses the marriage. She is attracted to a handsome Acadian, Gilbert, a man beneath her. Gilbert fights the incursion of Loyalists from the American war to hold onto his heritage. Will they find love when events seek to destroy them?

 

E-book and paperback are available at Amazon and All Markets

For more information on me and my books, please visit my website: www.dianescottlewis.org

 

Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the world with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives with her husband in Pennsylvania.

Writing and Other Resolutions.

Like most writers, except for the rare hermit-type, I'd love a NYTimes best seller. Then I can hire a cutthroat publicity team to make sure my novels are out there, without me harassing my friends, and strangers, to review, buy, etc.

For this year, 2018, I hope for better family relations. Why are relatives so stubborn? They never behave the way you wish they would (tongue in cheek). And I hope that my ailing mother makes it past her 90th birthday in May.

Well, these aren't resolutions, only wishes. I resolve to be kinder, calmer, to think before I react.
To not want to throw books or keyboards across the room when miffed.

Stop writing in the Passive Voice, though often I don't know what that entails.
Convince people that I have no 'narrators' in my stories, those are my characters' thoughts. I was taught not to add 'she thought' in a critique group. When you're in someone's POV every detail is in your character's thoughts.

And the bigee of 'show' don't 'tell.' I love to show, but often get it wrong. I will work on that one.

Eliminate 'could', 'would,' and no 'should', when possible. Delete those 'there was' and 'it was.' Pretty soon, few words are left to form a sentence.

But every writer has their own voice, and I notice the majority of best-selling authors don't follow any of this advice. These writers even have the audacity to write in incomplete sentences!

I dislike that everyone wants stories to be fast-paced, no nuance, no in-depth characterization. Just action, action. I guess I was born in the wrong era. While writers of yore can be too flowery, or have inner thoughts that run for pages, the classics are classic for a reason.

 

Most of all I resolve to keep writing and learning and becoming a better person all around (how is that for too many 'gerunds'?)

 

My just released novel is On a Stormy Primeval Shore:

In 1784, Amelia sails to New Brunswick, a land overrun by Loyalists escaping the American Revolution, to marry a soldier whom she rejects. Acadian Gilbert fights to preserve his heritage and property—will they find love when events seek to destroy them?

Purchase on my BWL Author page

Or on Amazon

Visit my website: www.dianescottlewis.org

Diane Scott Lewis grew up in California, traveled the world with the navy, edited for magazines and an on-line publisher. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband.

 

I Remember When...

photo © Janice Lang

Memories can be tricky little devils. Some are so crystal clear that no manner of dispute by people who were there can derail our version of that particular truth, even if it might be a tad faulty. They can be faded sepia by time like an old photograph, or replayed in the mind like a scratchy copy of an 8mm home movie. Others are dim recollections, fragments here and there, disconnected one from another, some even running together to form one imperfect memory. And then there are other those that remain intact throughout our lives, complete with enough sensory imagery to recall every detail.

I retain a number of such memories, some from earliest childhood…like when I was two or three and I made my first snowman (a tiny one, about the size of a baby doll) outside our apartment in the Bronx. I didn’t want to part with it, even as my mother insisted it was time for a nap. Eventually she acceded to my demands and let me take it upstairs, where we put it in the bath tub for safekeeping. Not understanding the properties of snow at the time, I woke from my nap and eagerly made a beeline to the bathroom, only to find a puddle, my red woolen scarf, and a couple of pieces of coal where my masterpiece had been. A lesson in disappointment.

My all-time favorite memory from childhood is quite the opposite. After over 60 years, it remains as vivid as yesterday.

I was six years old on Christmas Eve in 1956, when my dad took me to the gas station to have snow tires put on my mom’s car. I don’t remember why I went along with him to Frank’s Amoco, but there I was in the office, standing face-to-face with a glossy little stub-tailed black mutt. Sitting by the door to the bays on an oil-stained spot, he reacted with a joyful countenance as soon as he saw me enter. We struck up a conversation (mostly one way). But he had an expressive face and cocked his ears in a most appealing way, tilting his head when I spoke, as if he understood everything I said.

Time soon came for the car to get moved into the shop, so we all filed back out onto the blacktop. The day was chilly and blustery (I’d been wearing mittens, which I’d taken off inside). Just as we stepped out the door, a mighty blast of wind took one of my mittens and blew it across the lot. I watched in a dull sort of stupor as the mitten flew on a swirling gust and then kicked around at the curb. Before I could take a step toward it, the dog tore off, picked it up, trotted back to me, and dropped the mitten at my feet. And there was that look he gave me as he sat gazing up so expectantly, wagging his little tail….

I thought he had to be the smartest dog in the world (on a par with Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin), and I told him so. Together we climbed into the back seat of my mother’s 1955 Rambler and went up on the lift while the mechanic changed the tires. All the while we talked about what it would be like if he could come home and live with me. I told him about my two sisters and our mom, our house and yard, and “the pit,” which was the greatest place on earth for us kids to play. Like the world’s biggest playground surrounded by acres and acres of trees, and slopes to sled down in winter, picking blueberries and blackberries in summer….

The whole time we were up there on the lift, Frank and my dad had been involved in what looked to be a conspiratorial conversation, and when the dog and I got out of the car, my father was smiling from ear to ear.

“Do you want that dog?” Frank asked with a wink at my dad.

I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. It just couldn’t be true. But when I glanced up at my father, heart thumping with wild expectation, anticipating a let-down, he grinned at me like a little boy and nodded. Of course I wanted the dog, and so did he it seemed, almost as much I did.

I guess Frank was relieved that the stray mutt had found a

Shadow and me, circa 1964

place to live and be loved. He explained that the dog had shown up at the gas station a few days before and hung around day and night following the mechanics as they went about their business—a kind of a nuisance—but they fed him scraps from their lunchboxes and he slept in the shop and earned his keep watching over the place. They called him Shadow, and that was to be his forever name.

My mom wasn’t thrilled—not one bit—and it took all we had to convince her that I would walk him, feed and clean up after him. Finally, she gave in, albeit reluctantly. After all, he was smelly and grungy with grease and dirt. So we gave him a bath in the tub. With all that filthy, soapy water gurgling down the drain, I fully expected him to turn white.

For the first few weeks, Shadow would manage to get out of the house and disappear from morning until supper time. We soon discovered that he spent that time hanging out at his old place of employment (a goodly trek, I might add)…until he discovered Paul the mailman. For a couple of years he even got picked up and dropped off at our house on the days Paul’s route was scheduled through our neighborhood. He became the most famous dog in our part of Massapequa. Wherever we went (he followed me on my bicycle), kids would always shout, “Hey, isn't that the mailman’s dog?”

Shadow retired from the US Postal Service when Paul was replaced (I learned from my mother later in life that he was a bit of a Lothario). 

For the remainder of his life Shadow’s only job was as friend, protector, clown and trickster. He also had a lot of Scrappy-Doo in him, often getting into fights with much larger dogs and paying the price. But he survived the follies of his youth to remain with us for 14 years before crossing over the Rainbow Bridge a week shy of Christmas Eve, 1970. By that time we had shared countless adventures and had lots of fun together. And I had a trove of stories to tell my kids as they grew up. Maybe one day I'll write them down.

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, "The Serpent’s Tooth" trilogy: Lord Esterleigh's Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan's Wife,  and The Return of Tachlanad, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her Books We Love Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon, Kobo, and other online retailers.

A Day in the Life of Kathy Fischer-Brown

photo © Janice Lang

I suppose I take after my father. He was a “night owl,” even when he owned a printing business and spent long days in the car visiting clients and providing personalized service throughout the tristate New York, New Jersey and Connecticut area, often getting home well past the time my sisters and I were in bed. Long past midnight, I’d lie in a haze of semi-consciousness, the sounds from his state-of-art stereo system drifting through the silence of the house as he unwound from his torturous commute. Strains of Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Haydn often lulled me back to sleep. Even after he retired, you could find him in the wee hours at his computer, designing posters and greeting cards, or sitting in his recliner dozing off to his favorite music, an open book in his lap.

Maybe it’s in my DNA. I can’t get to bed at what most people consider a “reasonable hour,” and for the past few years I’ve even stopped resetting the clock in my office and work year round on Daylight Saving Time to get that extra hour in :-) I’m most productive and often do my best writing at night. My brain is just hardwired that way and has been since I was teen. Even then, I’d sit in my bed, pen and notebook at the ready, scribbling stories and crummy poems well into the early A.M.

These days, long since my kids have grown and my life is no longer ruled by an alarm clock and a nine-to-five job, I find myself sitting here late at night. Sometimes it has nothing to do with my muse and everything to do with aches and pains that (so far) nothing can relieve. So, instead of tossing and turning and keeping my husband awake, I research online for whatever I’m working on at the moment, or I read…or force myself to write until the pain subsides.

Aimee, aka Munch

A usual day for me starts when most people have already put in a few good hours at their jobs. I don’t caffeinate, but I do like to begin my day with a small pot of decaf coffee (which my husband thoughtfully leaves ready to switch on), a half a bagel, or a cup of yogurt and fresh berries; sometimes, in winter especially, I’ll have a cup of homemade soup or slice of a frittata I’d made the night before. This, while I catch up on the news online, check my email and Facebook. Then I let out one dog into the yard (protected by an invisible fence, or as my grandson calls it, the “magic fence”), and walk the other, our 17-year old, blind cairn terrier, around the block. When I get Aimee re-situated after she’s done her business and we’ve visited her neighborhood friends, I’ll play ball with Evie (our almost 7-year old mutant springer spaniel) until either her tongue is hanging out, or mine is after shlepping around the yard for the tennis balls she refuses to retrieve.

From that point, I usually have a few solid hours to work. Writing, editing, doing research, drinking lots of water. Often Evie gets needy, and she’ll whine or whistle at me, and I’ll have to drop what I’m doing to toss a few more balls and fetch them for her. My husband, a recently retired teacher, keeps himself busy substitute teaching a few days a week at one of the local elementary schools. When he’s home, he’ll take care of the pooches and even do the grocery shopping, which used to be my late afternoon job…that and getting supper prepared. Sometimes he does that as well, giving me more time to do what I do, especially when it’s difficult to stop in the middle of something.

After supper, my husband and I usually watch something together on TV. “Nova” or “Nature,” a few innings of a Yankees baseball game, or a show we’ve DVR’d. Then it’s off to bed for him, and back to work for me.

Evie, aka Evila Monster

I’ll write, edit, read, or research until around 10:30. Then it’s time to take Evie out for “last whiz.” (Aimee is cared for by my daughter and her boyfriend in the evenings and early mornings.) For about an hour or so after that I’ll try to complete the NY Times Crossword puzzle (which I do online), read some news (if I can bear it), some sports news (ditto), check email and Facebook. Then then it’s back to what I was working on until around 2:00-or so. 

Sometimes, when I’m on a roll and my muse is inspired, I’ll lose track of time. Before my husband retired, it was not unusual to pass him in the hallway as he began his day and I ended mine.

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, Lord Esterleigh’s Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan’s Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad, her latest release, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Where the River Narrows, a BWL Canadian Historical Brides book about Loyalist refugees in Quebec (with BWL author Ronald Ady Crouch), will be published in July 2018. 

Check out Kathy’s Books We Love Author page or visit her website. All BWL books are available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon, Kobo, and other online retailers.