I’m over at Everyone’s Story for the next week. Blog owner Elaine Stock asked me some excellent questions. Pop on over and share your philosophy on having a positive attitude (or a crappy attitude, your choice).

While I’m blabbing about my childhood influences, I might as well confess my childhood TV addictions. Because I think they also influenced my desire to become a writer. And my tendency to write humorous/comedy. Even when I’m writing emotional contemporary romance, I like my characters to possess healthy senses of humor. At least one of them, anyway. The other one can be serious. I’m flexible like that.

I tend to believe I’m one of those writers who was born a writer—or at least a reader. I learned to read early (aged 4, so family legend goes), and once I started reading, I couldn’t stop. Yes, we had TV, but for years we had one, maybe two channels. And neither of those channels was dedicated to children, let me tell you! (“Let me tell you!” is something my grandfather used to say all the time, so when I say it, I think of him, let me tell you). Oh, we had a couple of Canadian children’s television shows, like The Friendly Giant and Mr. Dress-Up. And we had The Walt Disney Show on Sunday nights. If we kids were good, we were allowed to watch The Ed Sullivan Show following Disney. And Ed had that little mouse who told jokes and made everyone laugh and feel good about themselves.

My father loved The Red Skelton Show. I watched and loved it, too. And so comedy seeped its way into my veins.

No one could top Red for me until The Carol Burnett Show happened along. I LOVED Carol Burnett. She was funny, too. Especially her pitiful Eunice character. Tragic and sad, yet, in the midst of all that dysfunction, laugh-out-loud funny. Suddenly, funny seemed so natural to me. When you’re shy as a child, humor is a great way to break out of your shell. Every once in a while I run across someone who tells me I was shy when they first met me. Usually, they just tell me I was weird.

Well, I was raised on Topo Gigio, Red Skelton, and Carol Burnett, with a healthy dose of Bugs Bunny and Grover from Sesame Street thrown in (I didn’t discover Grover until I was 15—long story involving a coveted color television set and my high school that year being on split shift and not starting until afternoon).

And people wonder why I’m a bit odd. Now you know.

Laura Ingalls Wilder’s LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE books are the earliest influence I can remember (other than Dr. Seuss) that made me want to become a writer. Well, Dr. Seuss didn’t make me want to be a writer so much as he made me want to learn to read. And I did learn to read as a preschooler, through the Dr. Seuss books. I didn’t go to Kindergarten (it didn’t exist in my little backwoods community and this was a few decades ago!), and, because I’m born in January, I was 6 and a half by the time I entered grade one. I would have been bored to tears if I hadn’t learned to read before grade one.

I most likely “taught myself” to read because my older sister, two grades ahead of me in school, would sit and read with my parents for her homework. I was a bit competitive, so was in there like a dirty shirt. If Big Sis was learning to read, then, by gum, I was learning to read, too!

So by the time I entered grade one, at six and a half, I was reading at a grade three level. Big Sis was in grade three. Makes sense.

My grade three teacher, Mrs. Brady, loved the Laura Ingalls Wilder books and read them to us every day. I fell in love with them, too. I must have read each book three times over the next couple of years. I identified with Laura because she had dark hair and had to wear pink all the time whereas her blonde sister got to wear blue. Yes, my mother was forever forcing me into pink. I was a tomboy (which is weird, because I have no athletic ability whatsoever…oh, yeah, I was competing with my brother, the only boy, for my father’s attention—that’s why I was a tomboy) (have I mentioned I’m a middle child?). As I said, I was a tomboy, and what tomboy wants to wear pink?

We also lived in a very tiny farming community that, to this day, doesn’t have a stop sign or a store of any kind. Laura came from a pioneering family, and as a child I felt pretty much that way about myself. Especially when a bear happened into the yard.

Did you know there’s a blog devoted to all things Laura Ingalls Wilder? Well, there is. It’s called Laura’s Little Houses. And it’s worth a visit.

My favorite Laura Ingalls Wilder book was ON THE BANKS OF PLUM CREEK. Do you have a favorite Laura book? Or a favorite author from your childhood? One who inspired your love of reading or led to dreams of becoming a writer?

My grade seven teacher loved Ray Bradbury and read Bradbury short stories to us nearly every day. Ray was fun. But Ray wasn’t Laura.

It’s Laura for me!

Today is the fifth anniversary of my grandfather’s death. He lived to 106, so his memory has pretty much stuck like glue. Plus, he was pretty amazing (anecdotes and pictures about his life can be found on my Q&A page—scroll down to the second question). My grandmother, his wife, was amazing, too. She lived to nearly 89, dying at 88 a month short of her birthday while I was pregnant with Youngest Son. Her funeral was on Eldest Son’s 2nd birthday. Which means she died in 1990. Kind of hard to forget attending your grandmother’s funeral on your son’s birthday.

“Granny and Grampa” were an incredible couple. I grew up (1) down the road from them until I was 5; and then (2) next door to them until I left home. Grampa was pretty stubborn, so he needed a strong woman as his mate. And Clara E. Sigalet Procter was about as strong as they came. Not to mention beautiful. Here’s their wedding portrait:

They eloped in 1924 or 1925. And were married around 60 years. That I remember because they held a huge square dance for their anniversary, and as the evening ended Grampa joined the grandchildren in drinking out of the punchbowl.

I can’t remember what the E. in Granny’s middle name stood for. She hated the name, so rarely divulged it.

Grampa didn’t have a middle name. He was just William Procter, nicknamed Duke, son of William George Procter and Hannah Fry Procter of “Mable Lake” in B.C., Canada.

R.I.P. Grampa. R.I.P. “Granny Next Door.”

I still miss them both.

I’m slowly updating my website. As part of those updates, I’ve included an article previously published on Shebytches on my Q&A page. Rest assured, I didn’t just post the column out of laziness. People are always asking me why I’m obsessed with the spelling of my last name. Yes, they email me at least twice a decade about this. So it made sense to include the post on my website.

Short Answer: Because it’s my name and I want it spelled right!

Long Answer: Can be read here.

Is your name constantly misspelled? Does it drive you nuts? Do you go to extra effort not to misspell someone else’s name, because you know how it feels? Or, like me, are you guilty of misspelling others’ names, too? (Granted, names that are a lot harder to spell than Procter. Like Damschroder).

Note to Self: When get married in next life, schedule haircut a few days before ceremony so hair doesn’t bump into new husband’s face in pictures.

It never occurred to me to have my hair professionally done for my wedding. I’d had a perm 6 weeks before the wedding, though. Later, friends told me they would never experiment with a perm 6 weeks before something as important as a wedding (this was 1985—perms were pretty harsh on hair back then). But it was summer, and I wanted a perm. So I got one. It doesn’t look too bad.

Has anyone had a smoothly run wedding day? Our wedding was filled with SNAFUs. As is tradition, I got very little sleep the night before. My family allowed me to sleep in and went to decorate the hall. So of course Jehovah’s Witnesses chose that Saturday to knock on my parents’ door. And I answered. In a bathrobe and a towel on my head. I thought the Witness would understand that it was my wedding day (I told them) and I needed to dry my hair. Nope. They launched right into their spiel regardless. I was polite in expressing that this really wasn’t the time! Then they left.

It was hot as Hades on the day of my wedding, so it’s a good thing I’m not one for foundation. It would have melted off my face. But at least my dress was in order. I don’t know what the deal is now, but in 1985 in Canada you didn’t buy your bridesmaids dresses. You might pay for their fabric if you were feeling particularly generous, but they either sewed their dresses themselves or hired a seamstress. We didn’t think of buying off the rack (small town, zero selection).

My mom sewed my little sister’s dress. My maid of honor hired a seamstress. My second bridesmaid was a childhood friend who’d moved to Montreal with her mom when her parents divorced. Several months before the wedding, I bought her fabric and mailed it to her with the pattern. She was an excellent seamstress. No need to be afeared!

I can’t remember when she called me, but at some point she phoned freaking out and asking if there was any more fabric available. Uh, no. I’d bought the last of the roll at the fabric store. You see, my most excellent seamstress friend had accidentally cut the pattern for a sleeve out of one of the pieces that would form her skirt (still floor-length bridesmaids dresses in 1985; the fashion went to short dresses shortly thereafter). My friend thought I would be horrified. But I wasn’t. “Just sew the sleeve back into the skirt piece,” I told her. After all, the fabric had a design imprinted in the fabric (not sure what you call that, but, you know, it’s textured somehow even though the fabric was all one color), and who’d be looking at her skirt? She wasn’t the bride!

I thought that was it for SNAFUs. I forgot who I was dealing with (me).

The wedding went off without a hitch, except my niece by blood (one of my flower girls, who was 3 or 4 at the time) weeped throughout the ceremony. She thought the music was sad. And maybe she was suffering stage fright. The ceremony was late in the afternoon. I think it was at 5 p.m. or something. The church we were married in was very popular for weddings, and it was a long weekend. But it was August 3rd, and I have a thing for eights and threes. Plus 8 + 5 (’85) = 13, and 13 is my favorite number (because I’m born on the 13th and needed to dispel the myth that 13 is somehow unlucky). I HAD to get married on 08/03/85. There was no other choice!

So off the wedding party went to the photographer’s studio. We hadn’t hired a professional to follow us throughout the day. I thought that was overkill. All I needed were a few studio photos. Candids I could get from family and friends. But the photographer wasn’t there! He’d had another wedding that day in a nearby town, and he was 30-45 minutes late for our session. Meanwhile, we had a tiny window between ceremony and reception, because the wedding had been at 5 p.m. And this was in the days of no cell phones. I can’t remember, but we might have just sat there waiting. Someone might have trucked to a pay phone and called his home to find out where he was. I can’t recall!

He arrived, and the photos went off without a hitch. Except my blood niece cried throughout her pictures. She’s super cute, though, so you can’t tell in the photos. The wedding party whisked off to the reception. And then we had to deal with…the receiving line.

Receiving lines went out of fashion with floor-length bridesmaids’ dresses a year or two after our wedding. I have no clue if the fashion has ever returned. For those who don’t know, the receiving line is when the entire wedding party lines up and the guests shake everyone’s hands and kiss the bride. Usually, you arrive at the hall and the receiving line is there waiting to, well, receive you. But all our guests were already at the hall, because we were so late.

My mother asked me if I wanted to go ahead with the receiving line, because the caterer was getting nervous about dinner. Especially because some of it was fish (a lot of my mother’s family are vegetarians). I insisted we do the receiving line. Silly me! Because the receiving line went on and on and on. At some point I was informed that dinner HAD to be served. The receiving line continued while the first guests got their dinner.

You know how at weddings you cross your fingers that your table will be one of the first to get called? But of course the head table, with the bride and groom, gets served first. I thought, at my own wedding, I would finally get served first. Nope. Several tables had their meals before my new husband and I even had a chance to sit down.

From thereon in, everything proceeded smoothly. My maid of honor’s father break-danced. We had a live band, and they were wonderful (live bands quickly went the way of receiving lines and long bridesmaids’ dresses a couple years later, but we PARTIED ON!). We danced to Downstream by SuperTramp (beautiful song). My maid of honor, known around these parts as Claudia, changed out of her bridesmaid dress into shorts and a top so she could “have fun,” as she put it. I counted myself lucky she and the best man didn’t switch clothes. Because, yes, Claudia and the best man did this at another wedding where she was maid of honor.

My new husband and I arrived at the hotel fairly late. I had elected not to visit the hotel earlier that night and change into “going-away” clothes. I thought that was overkill. But when we arrived at the hotel, the night clerk was aghast. We’d apparently already checked in. There I was, in a wedding gown with a veil and a train. My dh was in a tuxedo. “But the young couple who checked in looked so happy!” the desk clerk said. No doubt. They’d just finagled their way into our wedding suite. I guess my gown convinced the clerk, because he gave us a key. Turned out my new sister-in-law and her husband had written in lipstick all over the mirrors and they might have also done something to the bed. More power to them for getting past the clerk! We, um, went on to enjoy the night. Years later, I learned that a lot of couples don’t “enjoy” their wedding night. Apparently, they think it’s overkill. It’s good to know I have my priorities in order.

My parents had a small houseboat at the time, which they allowed my dh and me to use for our honeymoon. When we arrived at the yacht club where the houseboat was moored, it was stuffed FULL of balloons. Very cool. Except we had to pop a bunch.

The honeymoon was fantastic for 1 or 2 days. Then a huge storm chased us 30 miles back down the lake, and we had to cut the honeymoon short.

A couple months later, a teenager set fire to the pulpit in the church in which we were married. The church burned to the ground, and now a strip mall resides there.

Top that!

According to my calendar, I should be flying to Nashville today. But I’m not. Because the RWA National Conference there was cancelled due to the flooding of the Opryland Hotel, where the conference was being held. Once I learned the conference was cancelled and then the venue later changed to Orlando, I decided not to go to Florida. Orlando is about as far away from B.C. as I can travel within North America. Because I live in a town small enough that it doesn’t have an airport, it takes at least three plane changes to reach Orlando. I know, because I’ve done it (DisneyWorld with the fam).

I should be mourning Nashville, and I am, because I really wanted to go. More for personal reasons than conference, I realized when the venue changed because of the flooding. I might have mentioned before that my parents’ love story revolves around Nashville, even though neither of them are American. Basically, my mother and her older sister were sent to Seventh Day Adventist Academy (private high school) in an area of Nashville known as Madison when my grandmother moved to Ontario for a nursing job with the younger children. My father, who’s a few years older than my mother, drove down to Nashville and enrolled in college to be near her. She snuck out at night often to see him, eventually she was caught, and, for lack of a better way to put it, she was kicked out. They drove back to Canada, got married, practiced making my older sister, and then had me. They’ve been married for 53 years now.

The school my mother attended is still in Madison. There’s no mistaking the laundry. She worked in the laundry there in the 1950s. Had I gone to Nashville, I would have tried working in a trip to the school. My mother’s stories of the night the headmistress asked her to choose between my father and the school are now family legend.

Yes, those are my parents in the photo. Aren’t they cute?

Seeing as I’m not going to Nashville, I’m going to do my darnedest to attend the RWA Conference in New York City next June. Meanwhile, while RWA members are enjoying Orlando without me, I’m embroiled in a never-ending battle to finish several outside painting jobs before September (the weather has not been conducive to painting this year—it’s either raining or it’s boiling hot) and finishing revisions on a single title. Whenever I start to mourn not attending National, I consider that if I were going the last two weeks would have been consumed with conference preparations while the first half of August would have been consumed with post-conference recovery. Considering I’m approaching a milestone anniversary in early August, yeah, it’s better that I decided not to go. I would have been exhausted during my own romantic celebration.

How about you? Are you not going to conference and wishing you were? Are you going, but haven’t left yet? Are you there and for some reason are so bored you’re reading my blog instead of networking? (Are you nuts?).

I’m sure several writers are blogging or Facebooking or Twittering about National. I’ll get my fix that way. Guaranteed.

To achieve your dreams.

Yesterday I blogged at Nobody Writes It Better about my now-deceased grandfather, who lived to 106 and jumped out of an airplane to celebrate his 100th birthday. He’s my inspiration. Who’s yours? Share your thoughts at Nobody Writes It Better. I’m continuing to drop by today to check the comment trail.