Tuesday: Deb explains what prompted her to write a 9-book series set in a small town in the Black Hills of South Dakota. I mean, seriously, girlfriend, how many people even know where South Dakota is?
Wednesday: Ellen answers those hard questions like...hockey? Really? You decide to write a sports-theme book and you choose hockey?
Thursday: Jeannie is quizzed about rattlesnakes and marathon running because...well, neither Deb nor Ellen get the running thing, but they're dying to hear some rattlesnake stories. (Who isn't?)
Today I'm giving away a $15 gift card to either Amazon or Starbucks--your choice. May the luck of Irish be with you.
Deb: You’re a runner in a hot yet beautiful state. What's that like?
|I like the part after running the best|
Jeannie: First of all, I never meant to be a runner. I fought it tooth and nail, but my husband coached cross country (six state champion teams), my kids ran cross country (members of those state champion teams), and eventually I ran, too (no state championships to date). I was convinced I couldn’t run because no one ever told me there were speed options. I thought there was only one speed. Fast. And I couldn’t run fast for more than a couple hundred meters. When I was in college, my gymnastic coach told us that anyone who couldn’t run a mile would be kicked off the team. I tried to run the mile, but failed miserably because I was, of course, trying to sprint that mile at breakneck speed. I was quite possibly approaching the 4-minute-mile mark when I collapsed like a heap of quivering Jello on the track. After scraping me up, the coach had mercy and did not kick me off the team. Probably because my team was like the Bad News Bears and we needed everyone foolish enough to be on it.
As to running in Nevada, I'm usually battling either heat, snow, mud or snakes. There's only a few times of year when I can run when I want, where I want. Usually I run early in the morning to avoid the heat and I stay on the road to avoid the snakes.
I do have stories. There was the rattlesnake that floated down the creek and docked next to my son who was playing in the water (that snake is toast). The two snakes waiting for me where I pump water out of the creek (also obliterated). The one my hairdresser killed with a rock in my driveway when she came to the house to cut my hair. (We have tough beauticians where I live.) There are many others, but in eighteen years, I’ve probably encountered only a dozen rattlers close to the house. My neighbor, on the other hand, lives in the adobe officer’s quarters of an honest to goodness frontier fort. It’s very old, as you can imagine. One morning she found a rattlesnake on her kitchen drain board. Compared to that, I have no good stories.