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HANK
PHILLIPPI RYAN: Is it snowing where you are? We were BURIED, earlier this week,
But hey, it’s New England. But you know, if bet if I took a little whiff of
that orange gel Bain de Soleil, I might be transported. And when I wear the ivory leather jacket I got
in Florence—well, I am back on the Ponte Vecchio.
Our dear
Carol Pouliot has been thinking about what conjures her favorite memories. See
if you agree.
First of all
let me say how thrilled I am to be here with the wonderful Jungle
Red Writers.
A sincere thank you to Hank Phillippi Ryan
for inviting me to stop by today.
In the midst
of the holidays and most of the country already
in the grip of winter weather, summer vacation is a fond memory. But . . . we do have our souvenirs.
The French verb
se souvenir de means “to remember.”
That is exactly what our travel treasures are. They elicit those carefree times,
when we pack away our everyday problems and pack our suitcases instead. Now,
when we gaze on the shells that we picked up on the beach, we hear the roar of
the ocean, feel the heat of the sun on our skin, and smell the salt in the air.
When we uncork that special bottle of Bordeaux and unwrap the brie or
camembert, we are transported back to the Paris métro and its signature aromas
of garlic, Gauloises, and wine. And
when we don the cherished baseball cap, we can still hear the crack of the bat
and the cheering fans; we can practically taste the hot dogs.
When I was
sixteen, I went on a school trip to New York City. It was the first time I
travelled without my parents. I was thrilled beyond expression to be in this
most glamorous and exciting of cities. During our visit to the Museum of
Natural History, I saw things I never imagined existed. My mind exploded with
curiosity about archeological digs, ancient cultures, foreign lands, and
dinosaurs! I still have the souvenir I bought in the gift shop. It’s a tiny bronze
statue of a rooster, Pre-Columbian in design. I have had this statue on my desk
for over 50 years. Every time I look at it, I am back in that place, in that
time. I can smell the crisp spring air mixing with the diesel fuel from
vehicles crowding the streets and the pretzels sold on every other corner. I
hear the blaring horns, squealing brakes, and shouting people. I feel alive.
We all have
our favorite things to bring back. People collect salt and pepper shaker sets,
rocks and shells, t-shirts, mugs, and refrigerator magnets. Many of us purchase
an addition to a personal collection. I’ve collected statues of owls since I
was a freshman in college. I usually buy one unique to the city or country I’m
visiting−sculpted from lava rock, hand-painted
ceramic, blown glass, carved wood. For years, I bought a purse in every
foreign city I visited. Yes, some women like shoes, I go for the leather bags.
And since I never lost that yearning for exotic locales and archeological digs, I have a small collection of things I’ve picked up off the ground: a piece of limestone from the Great Pyramid at Giza, a tiny bottle of sand that I scooped up in the Sahara Desert, a black volcanic rock from the Minoan eruption of Thera, a stone from Mycenae, and one from Troy that I like to think dates back to 1300 BC.
And since I never lost that yearning for exotic locales and archeological digs, I have a small collection of things I’ve picked up off the ground: a piece of limestone from the Great Pyramid at Giza, a tiny bottle of sand that I scooped up in the Sahara Desert, a black volcanic rock from the Minoan eruption of Thera, a stone from Mycenae, and one from Troy that I like to think dates back to 1300 BC.
But, despite all these beautiful and intriguing objects that
I’ve picked up or purchased, my number one souvenir continues to be the
photographs I’ve taken. Years ago, I established “My Dining Room Wall,” a
display of framed 8x10 photos that I’ve taken. When I return from a trip,
friends and family ask, “What’s the new dining room wall picture?” It’s become
a conversation starter. The space gets crowded so I rotate them from time to
time. I also print out all the best shots and keep an actual, physical album
with the pictures pasted in and captions under each. Old school but I love it.
In Threshold of Deceit,
the 2nd book of my time-travel mystery series, 21st-century
Olivia Watson travels back to 1934 to spend some time with Depression-era cop
Steven Blackwell. As a former reporter, Olivia is a news junkie. She can’t wait
to get lost in the local newspaper shop and buy as many newspapers and
magazines she can get her hands on. Those and a stack of comic books, to feed
her inner child, will be her souvenirs from that incredible trip.
Let’s do a give-away. Every comment is entered to win a copy
of Threshold of Deceit, A Blackwell andWatson Time-Travel Mystery.
HANK: Oh,
this is great! And your dining room wall is such a great idea! Like a room
sized photo album. I have little trinkets from all over—including lots of
elegant stationery from hotels in Florence and Milan. I should use it, but I
can’t bring myself to. Matches. And postcards! And shells. And a billion little
soaps. And little bath gels from Paris. How about you reds and readers? What are your favorite souvenirs? And Carol, why owls?
About the Author
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A Francophile at age 11,
Carol Pouliot dreamed of getting her passport and going to Paris. After
obtaining her MA in French at Stony Brook University, she headed to France for
her first teaching job. She taught French and Spanish for over 30 years in
Upstate New York. She also founded and operated an agency that provided translations in over 24 languages. Carol is the
author of The Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mystery series, which includes Doorway to Murder (Book 1) and Threshold of Deceit (Book 2). When not
working on her series, Carol can be found reaching for her passport and packing
a suitcase for her next adventure. Find Carol at
THRESHOLD OF DECEIT
On a sunny spring day in
1934, local lothario Frankie Russo is murdered in broad daylight. It seems no
one saw anything, but things are not always what they seem in this small New
York town.
Tackling the
investigation, Detective Steven Blackwell discovers Frankie’s little black
book, a coded list of dozens of flings, affairs, and one-night stands−and a solid motive for the widow. Soon, what appeared
to be a straight-forward case gets complicated. A witness goes missing, a second body turns up, the victim’s
cousin disappears, and an old flame surfaces. Faced with conflicting pieces of evidence, lies, and false alibis,
Steven creates a psychological portrait of the killer. He realizes he’s looking
for someone wearing a mask. But the killer is not the only one in
disguise.
Two months ago, Steven came
face-to-face with 21st-century journalist Olivia Watson when time
folded over in the house they share−80
years apart. They’ve experimented within the safety of its walls and proven Einstein was right: there is no
past, present, or future. All time exists simultaneously. Now, Steven and
Olivia test the boundaries of time travel, risking the exposure of their secret.
Olivia travels to Steven’s time, where she is embraced by the community, unaware of who she really is. She unwittingly falls in with Steven’s main suspect,
putting her life in jeopardy.
