​“I’m glad events like the Olde Fashioned Christmas at Lanterman’s Mill existed, and that they’ll be back, one day.”
I wrote that just over a year ago, for my blog.

My love affair with Lanterman’s Mill, Youngstown, Ohio, began a long time ago. Before I even knew the Canfield Spinners Guild existed. Before I’d ever heard of the Farmpark in Chardon and their wonderful fleeces from many breeds of sheep and goats. I struggled to find fleece to spin, but I was a handspinner, demonstrating at events. Mary the potter saw me somewhere, and I got the contact.

In those days, you got recommended, and you got an invite, because you could demonstrate a skill: throw pots on a wheel, spin fleece into yarn, carve cherrywood into spoons. An invite to one of the coolest venues on earth: the historic—and working—grist mill known as Lanterman’s Mill.

Mary the potter gave them my name. I gave them Greg Kristofel, wooden spoon carver I met at the Harmony Christmas Market. We sold our crafts, and we showed people how we made the objects. On the Saturday and Sunday after Thanksgiving, for more years than I can count, I trained kids of all ages to make yarn on a drop spindle. Over the years there were icon painters and blacksmiths, honey producers, and old-fashioned soaps and lotions, birdhouses and hand-made pet toys, pottery pumpkins and rocks painted to look like every animal you can imagine. It’s where I bought the torch-carved shovel that stands by my driveway, that shows a horse—surely Valadan—jumping over a barn.

Came the Pandemic Year, I’d have signed up to spin whether or not selling was an option. I was, after all, already armored against the cold of the Gear Floor, with stone walls and Mill Creek on two sides of my corner and the mill wheel almost under my feet. Wool, head to toe, from my alpaca felt insoles to my boiled wool coat-dress to my Italian wool hat that I scored at a rummage sale. Turtleneck, leggings, and if it was truly cold, a red plaid wool skirt. I was always festive in red and always warm enough.

But there was no show at Lanterman’s in 2020. I was cautiously optimistic about 2021. I warped my carpet loom, and wove a fresh crop of rugs.

But Lanterman’s this year was a shadow of years past—and I was not there, except as a “civilian”. My choice. Totally my choice.

In the early days, the crafters were part of the Christmas at the Mill entertainment, demonstrating their specialties. Eventually, a vendor fee came into the picture. It was modest, because we were a part of the experience—like Santa Claus, like the juggler, like the bagpiper. And I understand that times change, and rates increase. I’d have been fine with a doubled fee. I’d have considered a tripled fee. After all, it supports a historic building that I love. But a six-fold increase? Hours of setting up, tearing down, to maybe sell a couple of rag rugs while I teach kids to make yarn? No. I support the Chardon FarmPark by buying their fleeces to spin, but I won’t pay to ply my drop spindle. Being at Lanterman’s was never about the selling, for me.

I stopped by, though. Wanted the chance to buy from crafters whose work I admire. They mostly weren’t there. Neither were the crowds. No juggler. No bagpiper dressed as Elvis. No Green Man. No live music. No one carving wooden spoons, when for once I would have had time to watch before hurrying back to my corner. No kielbassi sandwiches with kraut. No fresh-popped popcorn. A Christmas Story projected on a sheet where the musicians used to play bluegrass? It’s just not the same.

I did buy stone-ground wheat flour and corn meal. Because Lanterman’s Mill still grinds! And I saw my friends: Van, who oversees the Mitten Tree with a huge smile on his face. Greg, the Mill Manager who grinds the grain slowly, so that the grindstones don’t heat and maximum nutrition is retained in the flour. And maple syrup, tapped in the park.
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And I have my memories, of heading home on Saturday in the dusk, and looking back to see Lanterman’s Mill glowing in the Mill Creek gorge, every wreathed window lit, and the snow falling softly down. I’ll always have that!

​Forget Me Not: A Sweet Romance Anthology
Novellas by Janice Lynn, Lisa Childs and Kat Brookes.
A Romance Anthology “dedicated to those who have been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and the families and friends who have, or still are, facing the heartbreaking effect of this disease.” This is not a review, I’ve just begun to read the book—but I don’t want you to miss this one!
Don’t be put off by synopses and contents tables before the stories start—Find page one, Chapter One of the first book, and dive in! You won’t regret it!
Until August 31st, a percentage of sales will help to fund Alzheimer’s research.

This is my Rooster for Flock to the Fairgrounds.

Agri-Cultural is sponsored by Farmer's National Bank! Watch his feathers grow, from sketch to paint until he is covered with all things agriculture. (And he's not done yet!)

Can you spot the Vineyard and the Maple Syrup in the tail feathers? Other crops are coming!

I got my fiberglass form on April 3rd, and I started right in.

When I finish the Rooster, I will start covering the base with painted fruits and vegetables. Giant Pumpkin!

After the Roosters are delivered back to Canfield, they will spend the summer at locations chosen by their sponsors, then make their appearance at the 175th Canfield Fair. Then in November, there will be a statue auction.
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Collect Peels. I used Aldi’s “Mandies”. Mandarin oranges are full of Vitamin C and easy to peel. You can also use any orange or lemon peel. Save them in a gallon zip bag. You can keep them in the freezer till you have enough to play with. Three bags of “Mandie” peels made a nice dye.

Put the peels in a saucepan, add water and simmer a couple of hours. I used an old enamelware pan which is NOT food-safe, and that’s why I use it for dyeing. In general, you should never dye anything in pans you cook food in. (Also, it is white, so I can judge the color of the dye more easily. This little pan is great for sampling dyes.) This dye is non-toxic, though, so you can use any pan. You can even use a big pot and lots of water. It will make your house smell great! Don’t let it boil dry.

Now, put the wool you want to dye (I used a “Bundle of Fluff”: Romney sheep’s wool roving from Three Sheep Gallery and Workshop) in a quart of water with a cup of white vinegar in it.  Let it soak for an hour or so, then gently drain it. (You can put baking soda down the drain and follow with the vinegar water. Keep your drain clean!)

Carefully strain the peels out of your dye. Remember, don’t pour the dyebath down the drain! I took the peels right out of the dye, squeezed them to get every last drop—this will not stain your skin, but Black Walnut will—and put the saucepan back on the stove. Put your soaked, drained wool into the saucepan, and bring it to a simmer.

Don’t stir. Stirring wet, hot wool is a wonderful way to make felt. Felting is lots of fun, but do it on purpose, not while you are dyeing. After a couple of hours of simmering, turn off the heat and let the pot cool. Let all the dye attach to the wool. (The vinegar in the soak helps the dye do that.

When the dyebath was cool, I took the roving out, rinsed it in cool water and let it dry. I combed some on my wool combs, and spun it into yarn on my drop spindle. You can see all of them in one photo—original roving, dyed roving, combed wool spun into a single yarn on the spindle. I love the color—I would call it “saffron”.

I made two balls of the yarn, and spun them together to make a double-ply yarn. Cool yarn from what would otherwise be thrown away!
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If you don’t spin, you can still dye—find an old, light-colored wool sweater or some wool yarn and have fun!

​That’s the headline. (And this is pre-Oprah interview, so still a slow news day.) So, what’s the greatest Murder Mystery? Jack the Ripper? Princess Di? The Earl of Leicester’s wife?
But noooooo…it’s the Princes in the Tower, and Richard III did it. Of course he did. Because the not-yet-sainted Thomas More resided in the same town as the children of one of the confessed murderers. Case solved, after 538 years.
Not that we have a body. Those bones found in the Tower? For all we know, they belong to two girls who died in Roman times. Forensics in the 1700s were primitive. And I struggle to believe that someone dug under a stone stairway in a royal palace/fortress, buried not one but two bodies—and no one noticed! It’s not  impossible that the burials predate the stairs, and the Tower of London itself.
You should know that I’m a Ricardian—used to be a regular contributor to the Ricardian Register, the newsletter of the American Branch of the Richard III Society. I provided art for them, back in the days before desktop publishing made printing photos possible. I am more than familiar with the world of Ricardian fiction—I even added to it when I wrote The Wizard’s Shadow.
So, I know that novelists have been solving the murder of the Princes in the Tower for well over a hundred  years. The chosen suspects include: the Duke of Buckingham, Richard’s cousin; Cecily Neville, Richard’s mother and grandmother of the Princes; Anne Neville, Richard’s Queen; Dr. John Argentine, who made them vampires; disease; unfortunate accident.
Or, not dead at all: sent into protective custody; entered religious life; fled into exile at the court of Margaret of Burgundy, Richard’s sister and their aunt.
So, let’s not pretend the mystery is solved. Such early days, for that. And as I list out the suspects, there’s one I don’t recall anyone using: the Princess Elizabeth, future wife of Henry VII and future mother of Henry VIII. Firstborn of Edward IV, heir presumptive for years, as sister after sister was born. Until her brothers are born, she is a precious possession of the crown. Eldest child of the King of England. A valuable chip in a high-stakes game. Without her brothers, she’s Queen, whether she marries Richard (as was rumored); marries Henry Tudor (as happened); or in her own right (if Richard and Henry had both died at Bosworth).
Richard took the throne—at Parliament’s request—after his brother’s children were declared illegitimate. If the Princes were alive when Richard died on Bosworth Field, then how could Henry Tudor bolster his shaky claim to the throne by marrying the Princess Elizabeth? If she’s legitimate, then they’re legitimate. So Henry’s a suspect.
England’s Greatest Murder Mystery Solved? It’s been solved dozens of times, I think. And that’s as close as we’re going to get, until someone invents a really good Time Machine.

I am honored to announce that my Flock to the Fair design, "Agri-Cultural", has been chosen by a sponsor. Thanks, Farmer's National Bank!

Thanks, Canfield Fair Marketing, for coming up with such a fun project. I can't wait to get started! Now is when those photos I have taken at the Canfield Fair year after year come in handy.

The rooster will be covered with all things "Farm". The base will be covered with Ohio produce, giant pumpkins to raspberries to corn and soybeans.

Fruits, vegetables and grains on the base.

Dragon Challenge:
This little Lusterware saucer—less than 4” in diameter—is a souvenir of Niagara Falls. It is also Moriage (slip decorated) Japanese Dragonware. I think I paid ten cents for it, because it was purple, and because all I could think when I looked at it was: what a cool title for a short story—“The Dragon of Niagara Falls”.
All entries remain under copyright to their authors.

The Challengers:
                                                      Blue Eyes—Cathy Seckman
   The moriage dragon lives in a purple lusterware sea, and he has blue eyes—very unusual for a white dragon. From the time he was old enough to notice the blue eyes, he’d blamed his mother for them.
   “YOUR eyes aren’t blue,” he’d complained often and loudly. “You just HAD to fall in love with that blue-eyed freak, and now I’m a freak, too. Didn’t you even THINK?”
   Mama had puffed an irritated burst of smoke at him on this particular occasion. “What I think right now, Son, is that I’ve heard this complaint one too many times. You’re 75 now, almost an adult, and maybe it’s time you started acting like one.”
   “What the blessed blue flame does that mean?” Now Son was irritated.
   “It means that I think it’s time you went to have a talk with your father, the blue-eyed freak.”
   “Talk?!?!” Son nearly fell of his ledge. “What? You want me to talk to my father? Wait a minute!” he roared. The roar was actually quite good, for a 75-year-old.
   “Are you saying you actually know where he is? You do, don’t you? Don’t you???” Now the roar filled their cavern. It shook pebbles from the walls, and dislodged an old bone from a shelf at the back. Mama was impressed. 
   “Yes,” she nodded. “Of course I know where he is.” She preened a little, smoothing a few ruffled scales on her glittering tail. “But never mind that. Tomorrow morning you’ll fly south across the Lusterware Sea, and when you see the Pointed Rock, follow it east. In two days you’ll come to Dragon’s Mount – you’ll know it when you see it. Your father lives on the highest level of the west face.”
                                                                                #
   wo days’ flying was a long way for such a young dragon. Son was flapping heavily by the time he sighted Dragon’s Mount, dropping low to the ground and struggling to keep level. He was slammed into an unexpected somersault when a guard dive-bombed him from above and crashed into his shoulder.

   After a few embarrassingly long seconds of floundering, he righted himself, flapping frantically. Ahead of him a young female hovered. Son wished he could hover like that.
   “Identify yourself!” To show she meant business, the guard shot a jet of flame that missed his nose by inches.
   “S-S-Son of Wind Catcher,” he managed.
   The guard snorted. “Wind Catcher’s our leader, you idiot. And he doesn’t have any sons. Follow me.”
   She wheeled on one wing and shot off. Not knowing what else to do, he followed.
   Wind Catcher, unlike the guard, was happy to see him. “I greet you, Son,” he boomed.      “Last time I saw your mother, she told me I’d be seeing you soon. She said you’d have a question for me.”
   Son was too busy goggling to catch that last bit. He was in an ornate cavern, the biggest he’d ever seen, at the top of Dragon’s Mount. At least two dozen dragons filled the hall. Every single one of them, as far as he could tell, had blue eyes.
   Huh.
   “Well?” Wind Catcher boomed.
   “Well – ah – well what? Um. Papa?”
   “You have a question for me, don’t you? What is it?”
   Son all but melted into the floor of the cavern. He felt like a 50-year-old. He sounded like one, too. He groveled, darting frightened glances around the sea of blue eyes. How could he – What could he --?
   The young guard stood four-square beside his father, judging him, finding him wanting. Her pitying stare made him want to be better. It made him want to amaze her. So he straightened up.
   He knew how impressive his wingspan was. It was the best thing he’d inherited from his mother, and he had just enough wits left to use it. In a sudden movement he flared his wings up and out as far as he could stretch them. Two immature dragons had to scramble out of the way. He felt his left wingtip brush a low spot in the cavern roof. Iridescent greens and yellows and golds flashed in a beam of sunlight from the mouth of the hall. A collective “Ahhhh!” issued from the crowd. Son held his head high.
   “I came to my father,” he said, “wanting to know why my eyes are blue. It’s unheard of among my pride.” He turned slowly, meeting a hundred pairs of eyes with boldness. “Now that I’m here – I know. And I’m proud.”
   The sound started as a rustle, wing against wing, then quickly grew to a thunder of susurration. He felt the approval of his father’s pride.
   His father stepped forward, his own wings flaring. “Welcome,” he said, “Fierce Eyes.”
                                                               The End
 
 
                              The Dragon of Niagara Falls—Susan Dexter
   Heliotrope laired in a grotto beneath Niagara Falls, bathed in lavender twilight, where water fell past like endless rain. In a damp hollow in the bedrock, she kept a pearl like the moon, wrought by the tumbling waters of the falls, rounding a lump of quartz smooth as cream and white as snow new-fallen.
   When she slept, lulled by water-thunder, the smoke escaping from her nostrils blended with the mist of the falls. She was not old, but she was older than the dragon of Angel Falls. She was not young, but she was younger than the dragon of Victoria Falls, for that was her mother.
   Heliotrope slept, unaware that, not far away as a dragon flies, plans were being made to divert the Niagara River, stop the flow of water over the American Falls, and explore the talus heap beneath the falls.
The End? Oh, Noooo…

At the end of The Ring of Allaire, Tristan invites Elisena to share his cottage. But then things get in the way…who she is, who he is…and all that. After The Mountains of Channadran, the moment comes at last:
 
    Crogen’s greatest hall, supplied with trestles, was more than adequate to contain reunited friends, the castle’s garrison, and every other soul calling Crogen home, whether in the short run or the long. It was convenient, to tell their tale once for all. It was pleasant, to dine on hot food, sip wine, listen to bards and fiddles, to watch Kitri dance. To accept congratulations and catch up with old friends. The hall was a bustle of light and color, motion and music and chatter. It was all…
    Too much. Too busy, too loud, too many questions, too many things warring for attention.
   Halfway through the next ballad, Tristan slipped quietly out the door that lead to the kitchens. He collected a loaf of bread, a few sticks of firewood, a sack of apples—and a flagon of cider. He climbed the spiral stair up the tower he and Elisena had chosen for home.
                                                                              #
    The fire was lit already. Elisena had the kettle hanging over it, just beginning to sing a soft, silver sound.
    “I wondered what happened to the magewood,” Tristan said, setting the kindling down out of the way. “I clean lost track of whose pack it was in.”
     “Cup of tea?” Elisena asked.
     “My plan was to come up here, light the fire, then fetch you away from the feast. Only you must have got tired of it as fast as I did.” He set the loaf of bread down, and the cider, then sat himself down on their bed.
    “It was quiet, in Channadran,” Elisena said, putting the mug of tea into his hands. “Now everything seems…too much. It’s delightful, but—”
     “I know.” He sipped, and sighed. “How did you know? All that feasting, and I was just longing for a cup of tea.”
     She settled beside him with her own mug.           
    “I was thinking…after we send Polassar and Allaire home to Lassair, or throw them out, or convince them that they need to put Polassar’s castle to rights—I’d like to go to the cottage for a few days. Would you like that?”
     Elisena’s eyes shone, silver as the teakettle. “Yes, please! You asked me to share it with you, but I’ve never stepped foot there.”
     “Well, things…got in the way. Ending winter. Saving the world…”
                                                                         #
    The cottage door opened as they set foot on the threshold, and Elisena caught her breath. Every shelf, the mantel, the table, the edges of the hearth, all were covered with thousands of tiny white sea-pebbles, and each pebble was softly glowing. She looked sidelong at Tristan, who was watching her with what was surely anxiety. From outside the cottage, there had been no sign of the magic, only a single wax candle set in the window to welcome them in an ordinary way.
   The stones began to twinkle, pulsing on and off in a rapid rhythm. A rhythm like a fast-beating heart. Elisena smiled. The blinking steadied as she caught Tristan’s hand… 

We threw these “story-starters” out at one of our Writers Group Panera meetings, back when we had those: “You look out a window and a face is looking back at you”; “I had a dream last night about”; “You come home to find the front door is unlocked”; “You come upon a dragon”. So here’s mine:

I came upon a dragon. Just walked down the hallway, and there he was at the bottom. He had eyes like a cat’s, and his belly scales were jewels. He was flying over a castle, but he didn’t seem to be threatening it, because none of the castle folk were crying out, and none of the other people in the hallway seemed too concerned. They just went on looking at the quilts or heading down the hallway toward the rest rooms.
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Maybe the dragon was plotting to fly out of his quilt and soar around the corner to snatch the big sheep out of the Ireland art quilt. That sheep looked nice and plump, and he was just lying there, near the edge of the quilt, and the Border Collie was far, far away, keeping the rest of the flock together.

April 13, 2018—A Community Lecture Series Event: Tolkien and the Function of Fantasy—Holly Ordway, PhD.

The acknowledgment that Fantasy has a function was empowering. There’s a subtle vibe that writing about wizards and witches might not be a positive contribution to the world. This lecture said that there is. And it emphasized the importance of Storytelling, a defense against the notion that “telling stories” always and only equals lying and the bias that a writer “just makes things up” makes a story less true.

And I learned a new word: EUCATASTROPHE.

It has its own Wikipedia Page. It’s the technical term for something every reader has surely experienced: the unexpected happy ending when doom seemed certain. Tolkien coined the word Eucatastrophe, and it appears in his On Fairy-Stories.

Tolkien coined the name, and he makes use of eucatastrophe in the Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, but he didn’t invent it. It’s found in Fairy Tales and Fairy Stories—the illustration on the Wikipedia page shows the Prince in Sleeping Beauty emerging from the lethal ring of thorns and about to wake the Princess after 100 years. Says it “needs citation”, but it’s dead-on. Tolkien calls the Incarnation of Christ the eucatastrophe of human history—and the Resurrection the eucatastrophe of the Incarnation.

At the end of The Return of the King, all certainly seems lost. Despite an alliance of Men, Elves and Dwarves, despite enchanted swords and rings of power, it seems impossible that Sauron can be defeated. Anyone who touches the One Ring is corrupted by it. Frodo can’t bear to destroy the Ring. Gollum doesn’t want to destroy the Ring. And yet…

One of the functions of Fantasy is Consolation. Consolation after sorrow. Reversal of tragedy. And a eucatastrophe is always a consolation. We have a need for that consolation, and we turn to storytellers in quest of it.

That’s never to say writers have to obsess about including eucatastrophes in their work. Eucatastrophe is more of an academic term for the use of literary critics—like theme, trope, allegory. Writers shouldn’t worry about including any of those things in their stories. Chances are, if the story needs it, it’s probably in there!

Writers should tell their stories—that’s the writer’s job, after all!