Mona Ingram

Historical Romance and Modern Love

Just Released! Book Five in the ‘Forever’ Series

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Forever Christmas is now live at Amazon, iTunes, B&N, Kobo and Scribd.

ForChristmasThe moment the words are out of her mouth, Tori Stanley wishes she hadn’t refused to decorate Devon Ballard’s home for Christmas. What is it about the handsome lawyer that frightens her? Is it his penetrating gaze, his impossibly good looks, or the fact that he awakens a need in her that she’s suppressed for far too long?

Devon Ballard only wants someone to decorate his home for Christmas. He’s not interested in the small, feisty woman with the delightful sprinkling of freckles across her nose… is he? Unaccustomed to being turned down, he tells himself it’s just as well. So why can’t he get her out of his mind? It must be Christmas…

Each book in the ‘Forever’ series focuses on a woman at a crossroads in her life. These romances contain no graphic sex, but instead focus on the woman’s story, and how her journey leads to love. Novella-length at between 28,00-40,000 words, they are complete stories, and may be read in any order. Enjoy!

Shop for Forever Christmas here.

Really? I didn’t know that…

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I thought I’d pass this on. It came from one of my Ontario cousins who always finds the most interesting things…

Where did “Piss Poor” come from? Interesting Story.
They used to use urine to tan animal skins, so families used to all pee in a pot. And then once it was full it was taken and sold to the tannery…
If you had to do this to survive you were “Piss Poor”. But worse than that were the really poor folk who couldn’t even afford to buy a pot…  They “didn’t have a pot to piss in” and were the lowest of the low.
The next time you are washing your hands and complain because the water temperature Isn’t just how you like it, think about how things used to be.

Here are some facts about the 1500’s:
Most people got married in June because they took their yearly bath in May, and they still smelled pretty good by June. However, since they were starting to smell, Brides carried a bouquet of flowers to hide the body odor.
Hence the custom today of carrying a bouquet when getting married.
Baths consisted of a big tub filled with hot water. The man of the house had the privilege of the nice clean water, then all the other sons and men, then the women and finally the children. Last of all, the babies. By then the water was so dirty you could actually lose someone in it.
Hence the saying, “Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water!”
Houses had thatched roofs-thick straw-piled high, with no wood underneath. It was the only place for animals to get warm, so all the cats and other small animals (mice, bugs) lived in the roof. When it rained it became slippery and sometimes the animals would slip and fall off the roof.
Hence the saying, “It’s raining cats and dogs.”
There was nothing to stop things from falling into the house. This posed a real problem in the bedroom where bugs and other droppings Could mess up your nice clean bed. Hence, a bed with big posts and a sheet hung over the top afforded some protection.
That’s how canopy beds came into existence.
The floor was dirt. Only the wealthy had something other than dirt.
Hence the saying, “Dirt poor.” 

The wealthy had slate floors that would get slippery In the winter when wet, so they spread thresh (straw) on the floor to help keep their footing. As the winter wore on, they added more thresh until, when you opened the door, It would all start slipping outside. A piece of wood was placed in the entrance-way.
Hence: a threshold.
(Getting quite an education, aren’t you?)
In those old days, they cooked in the kitchen with a big kettle that always hung over the fire. Every day they lit the fire and added things to the pot. They ate mostly vegetables and did not get much meat. They would eat the stew for dinner, leaving leftovers in the pot to get cold overnight and then start over the next day. Sometimes stew had food in it that had been there for quite a while.
Hence the rhyme:  “Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old.”
Sometimes they could obtain pork, which made them feel quite special.
When visitors came over, they would hang up their bacon to show off.
It was a sign of wealth that a man could, “bring home the bacon.”
They would cut off a little to share with guests and would all sit around and chew the fat.
Those with money had plates made of pewter. Food with high acid content caused some of the lead to leach onto the food, causing lead poisoning death. This happened most often with tomatoes, so for the next 400 years or so, tomatoes were considered poisonous.
Bread was divided according to status. Workers got the burnt bottom of the loaf, the family got the middle, And guests got the top, or the upper crust.
Lead cups were used to drink ale or whisky. The combination would sometimes knock the imbibers out for a couple of days. Someone walking along the road would take them for dead and prepare them for burial. They were laid out on the kitchen table for a couple of days and the family would gather around and eat and drink and wait and see if they would wake up.
Hence the custom; “holding a wake.”
England is old and small and the local folks started running out of places to bury people.
So they would dig up coffins and would take the bones to a bone-house, and reuse the grave. When reopening these coffins, 1 out of 25 coffins were found to have scratch marks on the inside and they realized they had been burying people alive. So they would tie a string on the wrist of the corpse, lead it through the coffin and up through the ground and tie it to a bell. Someone would have to sit out in the graveyard all night (the graveyard shift) to listen for the bell; thus, someone could be, “saved by the bell” or was “considered a dead ringer.” … And that’s the truth.
Now, whoever said history was boring!!!

Here it comes…

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… the blog about being thankful. A reminder to all of my non-Canadian friends: it’s Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada.
   First of all, I’m thankful to be living in Canada. We’re not perfect by any means, but we’re known as being steadfast friends, both personally and internationally. In my opinion, that counts for a lot.
   I’m thankful for my family. When I first married into such a large family I thought I’d never be able to keep them all straight. And I was right, but I enjoy seeing what they’re up to on facebook, and in the occasional phone call. On ‘my’ side of the family, my father was one of six brothers. Almost all of them settled in the Niagara peninsula of Ontario, and that’s where my cousins live now. I don’t see them often enough, but they’re great people. I had an interesting experience last summer when my sister and I visited. “The girls” were meeting in a restaurant, and when I heard the server mention Mrs. Angle, I looked around for my mother. She was referring to the wife of one of my male cousins of course, but it startled me, and reminded me that many other people still use the name I grew up with. And the men on that side of the family … let’s just say they all inherited the handsome genes, not to mention charm. They’re something else.
   I’m thankful for my writing. Call me boring, but I enjoy the research before every book. There’s always something to look up. I’ve learned a lot of interesting facts since I started. Especially recently, while writing a historical romance series.
   I’m thankful for my eyesight. I just finished cataract surgery on both eyes. Perhaps I should rephrase that: the doctor finished the surgery… I just lay there. I’m an avid bird-watcher, and having 20-20 vision again is more than I could have hoped for. But I have it, nonetheless.
   I had intended to write a commercial-free post, but I don’t want to leave out the readers who have enjoyed my books. Just yesterday one of my books hit one hundred five-star reviews. What a gift! I appreciate every review on every book, but a milestone like that makes me want to keep writing. It also makes me want to get better with every book. So thank you.
   Now it’s time to get back to Book Three in the Gold Rush series. These books don’t write themselves, unfortunately…

Now in Kindle Unlimited

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ForeverThis has always been one of my favorite stories. Perhaps because it was inspired by an actual dance hall on the Canadian prairies. I just knew that a love story had unfolded in that historic building, but it took me something like eight years to get around to writing the story.

Former Title: Moonlight Dancer

City girl Charlie Mitchell travels to the Canadian prairies, only to find herself completely out of her element. To make matters worse, she’s attracted to Jason, the practical but appealing rancher next door. He’s brash, confident, and very easy on the eyes! In spite of a bitter breakup with a girl from the city, Jason finds himself falling for Charlie. As the attraction deepens, Charlie learns that her ancestor Charlotte suffered heartbreak right here on the family farm, and she vows to help re-unite Charlotte with the man she’s never stopped loving. A practical man, Jason wants to believe in Charlie’s quest, but he can’t. Can the two lovers from the past prove to Charlie and Jason that love is forever? A delightful modern romance with gentle, ghostly elements.

Buy at Amazon, or get it free with Kindle Unlimited:

Sometimes I Surprise Myself

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No kidding. I can still do that!
As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, I’d thought that my five books with my former publisher would languish and eventually fade away. I was ready to accept that, albeit reluctantly.
  As a goodbye gesture, I re-read them, just before Amazon’s Montlake Press took them over. And surprise, surprise, these are great story lines! Yes, there are the traditional romantic entanglements, but the stories are fresh and unique. I’m proud of them, and now even moreso, with Montlake’s new covers.  Here are two more:
But Not For Me
Many of us can relate to this story. Erin is a chef, and frankly, a little heavier than she’d like to be. She accepts a new position at a floating fishing lodge on the West Coast of British Columbia. On the way there, the boat she’s traveling in sinks, and she’s stuck with three other people on the beach. I like this one, and am so happy to see it revived.

Here’s the link:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00A9T5W50

The Shell Game
I was inspired to write this one when I visited cottage country in Ontario. The Muskokas are famous as boating and cottage country, and my husband grew up in the area. Rebecca inherits a bed and breakfast lodge when her grandmother dies, but her wily grandmother has left a surprise:  She must share it with the man who broke her heart on the night of her school graduation. Fun, light, and ultimately romantic, it’s a great story.

Here’s the link:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00A2FTIQK

What’s Your Ideal Day?

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We’ve all sat around with our friends at one time or another and talked about who we’d choose for company on a deserted island. Or who we’d like to invite for dinner.
I heard some high school kids in the mall the other day having their own unique version of this conversation, and it started me thinking.
If I only had one more day, what would I do? I suppose the question is similar to the bucket list question…but different.
In the movie The Bucket List, they had some amazing adventures. But that was fiction, and just for now, let’s set fiction aside.
So what would I do? What do I love?
Besides my family, I love the outdoors. I love to see cottonwood seeds floating on the air during hot summer days and I love the way they gather in windrows at the side of the road. I love the funky smell of rain on hot pavement. I love the sight of sun streaming through the trees at the end of the day. We’re usually at the park, and when the sun drops low in the sky, the potato salad and the rest of the picnic isn’t far behind. And then, when my heart is full, an Osprey soars overhead, searching the depths of the lake for a fish.
So, if I had one more day, I’d spend most of it outside with my family, but I’d also spend some of it writing. Writing is a joy to me, and no, I never tire of it. Where else can you control events, make dreams come true, and make people happy when they read your stories?
It’s not much, to be true, but for me these things represent true happiness. Perhaps that’s why many of my stories end with a family scene that takes place outside.
What’s your ideal day?

Winter Has Arrived

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I woke up yesterday morning to a fine dusting of snow creeping down the hills across the lake. Does this mean no more shorts? Jack would be bereft; he hated to put his shorts away for the season.
   For some reason, when winter comes adults tend to talk about times gone by. I’m no different. At the sight of the snow, I started thinking about winter on the small acreage in Ontario where our family lived until I was twelve.
   In those days farmers didn’t mind if you went across their fields to get to the tobogganing hill. We had a long toboggan; eight feet if I recall correctly. It was Dad’s job to pull it up the hill, and then sit in the front to steer, but his real role was snowcatcher. By the time we came to rest at the bottom of the hill, his face would be covered with snow.  Always goodnatured, he’d shake it off and trudge up again.
  Some years the creek would flood just before the temperature dipped. Those were great times for skating. The ice would freeze, and then the water level would go down a bit, creating shallow dishes of ice suspended from clumps of grasses. It was like skating in a fun-house where everything is distorted. The grasses gave us something to skate around.
  We lived in an old two-story farmhouse that Dad worked hard to modernize. A bathing tub upstairs! What luxury!
  As dinner hour approached, our mother would call us. Normally we could hear her clearly, but some days when we were having a particularly good time her voice didn’t carry. She solved that by hanging a rug over the railing on the top floor, but sometimes we simply didn’t see it.
  I suppose we got scolded for those times we were mysteriously struck deaf and blind. If so, it was worth it. Those winter days are some of my most treasured memories.

I still miss hockey

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Having said that, I hear there are rumblings that something might be happening to get hockey back on before the season passes us by completely.

Blogging From The Heart is free October 24, 25, 26. it’s a light romance that combines the issue of violence in hockey with blogging.
It’s a short read, so if you if you like a gentle romance, try this one. The price is right for three days… FREE!  Only at Amazon.com

 

It’s Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada

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  I went for a drive this morning. I often grab a breakfast item from McDonald’s and go down to one of the many provincial parks along the shore of Okanagan Lake.
  It was still this morning. No breeze at all. Temperature in the low 20s. (That’s low 70s for my American friends). The only disturbance on the water was the occasional duck, or seagull. As I sat there enjoying my coffee and reading my Kindle a few more people came to sit down. A family settled nearby and I couldn’t help but wonder if they were celebrating Thanksgiving by having the last picnic of the season.
  On the way back home I noticed several men in their gardens, cleaning up the last of this year’s growth. They weren’t working hard. After all, it’s Sunday, but in spite of the balmy weather we all know there could be a cold snap any day now, and that it will stay cold. My neighbour is getting his snow tires put on this week.
  Seeing those men in the gardens reminded me of the gardens that occupied the space around our family home in Ontario. Dad laughingly referred to the property out back as “the back forty”. Later on I learned that this expression wasn’t unique to him, but it always delighted me when he said it.
  We had an amazing variety of food, but my memories are mainly of:
Raspberries:   We had red raspberries and black raspberries. I liked the black ones best. They were hard to find until my father showed me how they hid under the leaves.
Strawberries:   I remember these well. My sister and I were required to weed the rows, but we were also allowed to pick and sell strawberries to earn money for camp.
Potatoes:    Dad made a game out of digging potatoes. “How many in this shovelful?” he’d ask and we’d all guess. I don’t remember if we picked them out of the soil, but if we didn’t, he missed out on six eager hands. The potatoes would go down in the basement on a raised platform. It was dark down there in the corner, and by the time spring came around the roots on the potatoes were longer than what was left of them.
Cantaloupe:    Muskmelon, actually. We always had far too many. Like today’s zucchinis, they were hard to give away; everyone grew their own.
Corn:   Fresh and sweet. One year my sister had a corn roast. That must have been shortly before we came out to British Columbia, because in my memory it was an adult occasion. I still love corn.
Asparagus:   I’m not sure if Mom sold it on the side of the road or not. There was so much.
And lastly: Wild strawberries. Somewhere out in the ‘back forty’ was my secret patch of wild strawberries. The rest of the family pretended that they didn’t know where it was…or maybe they didn’t, but I always felt special when I brought a handful to my mother, who made a fuss over them. Even now, the taste lingers in my mouth.
We didn’t have the latest Nikes, cell phones, or computer games back then, but we had lots to eat; we had family. Life was good…and it still is. Happy Thanksgiving.
  
   

Tell Me A Story

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  I saw a television story a few years ago about Don Hewitt, the creator of 60 Minutes. According to the program, he would ask his journalists to “Tell Me A Story”.
  I love telling stories. If it’s a good story, readers will want to read it, and that gives me a warm fuzzy feeling.
  Is storytelling becoming a lost art? Are we so inundated with digital content that we’ve forgotten the art of sitting around a campfire, swapping stories? Consider the societies in the world that pass on knowledge verbally. Stories handed down for hundreds of years, virtually verbatim. It boggles the mind. Could we do that? I doubt it.
  I find myself wishing that I had listened more closely to the people in my life who had unique stories to tell. My grandfather on my father’s side worked on building the CPR across Canada. He was obviously highly skilled, as he was allowed to bring his family on the train as they moved. What I’d give to go back in time and hear his experiences.
  My grandmother on my mother’s side emigrated from Ireland with my mother after her husband was killed in WWI. She must have been a great storyteller because I recall her telling me how she worked in the linen factory. The details escape me, but she was young at the time and worked in a confined space where the looms whizzed very close to her. Come back, Grandma. I’d like to hear more.
  My own father rode the rails with a friend across Canada in the “dirty thirties.” He and a Peeler were hauled off the train by the police in Alberta and sent to work on a farm. Probably the best food they had; they went back the following year and worked there again. He told me about the hobo camps along the way, and how he actually rode on Kettle Valley section of the railway, only a portion of which still exists as a tourist destination in the town where I now live. Dad also worked in a gold mine in northern Quebec as a mucker. His knuckles were misshapen for the rest of his life, but he was still a sight to behold when he was fly fishing. How many people do you know would say “no thanks” when National Geographic asked to film him fishing? That was my Dad.
  My husband told me stories about a year spent commercial fishing off the west coast of Vancouver Island. He told me of foggy nights in his bunk, listening to the screws of huge tankers coming close, closer, and then finally passing. Or of circular bait balls of fish measuring fifty feet across, dotting the surface of the ocean as far as could be seen.
  I can’t get those stories back now, but these days I’m more likely to slow down and say “Tell Me A Story.”

About Mona Ingram

Romance author Mona Ingram has written dozens of novels, including the Forever Series, the Gold Rush Series, and the Women of Independence Series. She lives in British Columbia, Canada.

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Email me at mona@monaingram.com.

All text copyright Mona Ingram.