My name is Lea Wait, and I drink tea. That’s right. No coffee. No soda (although the protagonist in my Shadows mystery series is devoted to her Diet Pepsi). And since a hot drink seems an appropriate topic for a cold winter’s day, it seemed a good topic for today’s blog.
I probably inherited my love of tea from my grandmother. A Scot from Edinburgh through and through, despite the fact that she’d been born in Boston in 1890, her life had taken her back and forth to “the auld country” often as a child. For her, no afternoon was complete without tea. It didn’t necessarily have to include shortbread or scones … but sometimes it did. And since my grandparents lived with my parents and sisters and I for most of my childhood, I have warm memories of coming home from school and enjoying a cup of hot tea (with milk and a teaspoonful of sugar) with my grandmother.
Lea Wait
And we had wonderful tea. As a young child I knew that every Christmas we would get an unmarked carton of tea (in bags) from one of my grandmother’s brothers. I was a teenager before I understood that this was, indeed, “special tea.” I have no idea what kind of black tea it was. It was a private blend, and it wasn’t marked. You see, that great-uncle who sent us the tea each year had (yes, I’m telling the truth) invented the tea bag. Somewhere in my family files I have a copy of the patent, which I believe was dated in the 1930s. His name was William Patterson, should you want to check it out. And Uncle Bill had sold his patent to Lipton, who, as part of the deal, agreed to send him select tea each year for the rest of his life.
That annual tea supply in my house ended when my grandmother died … but her brother lived to be 98. That’s a lot of tea bags. And I’ll admit I was spoiled. I never got used to most brands (including Lipton) of “supermarket tea.”
In high school, sitting on the floor in candle-lit darkness and listening to Bob Dylan with my friends, we all drank coffee. Me included. But I sipped it slowly and suffered shortly after from stomach pains. It was hard to be a rebel when you didn’t drink coffee, though, so I kept trying.
By the time I got to college I was a bit smarter, and had officially given up coffee experimentation. My drink was tea, although the water in Pittsburgh, where I went to school, tasted awful, so I added Diet Pepsi to my list of approved drinks for those four years.
When I started working at a corporation, coffee, again, was the politically acceptable drink. Water (hot or cold) or tea had not yet appeared in conference rooms. It was coffee. I was already obvious enough — I was usually the only woman in the room, and one of the few nonsmokers — so I filled my cup with plain water or milk, if it was available, and at meeting breaks (“coffee breaks,” of course) if there was time, I’d head to the company cafeteria where they did have tea.
By the time I left the corporation, 30 years later, tea was always available at conferences and meetings, and, although there still weren’t too many of us drinking it, the biggest danger was putting a tea bag in a cup and then pouring hot coffee on top of it. Usually the carafe of hot water was unmarked. When I was at Bouchercon a few years back I did that again. A fellow tea drinker watched, sympathized … and offered to share his tea bag with me. (They were running low.) A truly generous soul! But I carry my own now. Just in case.
Today, sitting in my study in Maine, I’ve expanded my tea preferences. I begin my day with a cup of Red Rose. (For a couple of years I only drank green tea. Perhaps virtuous, but, especially in winter, I missed black tea.) Now my noon cup may either be green or black. Perhaps Earl Gray. Mid-afternoon calls for caffeine, so that cup is definitely black tea. But any caffeine after 4 p.m. ensures that I won’t sleep well that night, so after then I move to herb teas. “Sleepy time” or chamomile when I’m trying to relax. Red or Lemon zinger if I’m still working. Or maybe another cup of green tea. In the summer, of course, I brew my own iced tea: a mixture of black and herb teas. And on a very cold winter’s afternoon, I’ve been known to add a touch of brandy to my mid-afternoon black tea.
Today others have discovered the joys of tea, and any supermarket has diverse and wonderful selections. Happily, studies have also shown that teas of all kinds have varying amounts of antioxidants, and might even help in weight loss. I haven’t noticed any major differences … but, then, tea has always been a part of my life.
I suspect it always will be.
having learned that I’m a crime writer, kept asking if there was a plot emerging from the personalities and adventures on our trip. After years of toting my laptop along because of deadlines (and evil editors who sent manuscripts for revision just as I was about to leave), in the past year, I’ve vacationed without it. It’s part of an effort to be more present, or, in the words of Baba Ram Das, to “be here now.”
White Flower Farm, and some off-brand catalog from the Midwest in the mail, full of glorious color pictures of fruit-heavy blueberry bushes, blossomed-out hydrangeas and lilies, pages of tomato varieties, and the various greens of, well, green vegetables. The profusion of color and juice was almost more than I could stand, look-look-look-looking out at the gray and brown of my dead back yard.
you understand this urge. In the dead cold frozen-ground of the garden season, hope and energy springs eternal. I will, by gosh, add those six more raised beds this spring, rotate my crops so I have a continuous supply of greens into the hot weather, tomatoes and peppers after that, and the plans go on and on.
and garlic
. Slash, erase. Then I remember how poorly my tomato seedlings did last year, when we went to Florida for a week in March and the house sitter neglected to water them. Erase.
Next week at Maine Crime Writers, there will be posts by Dick Cass (Monday), Kate Flora (Tuesday) John Clark (Wednesday) Lea Wait (Thursday), and Bruce Coffin (Friday).
I had this happen with my second published novel, a story for middle-grade readers called Julia’s Mending. My grandfather’s memoirs were a primary source for details in this tale set in Sullivan County, New York in 1887. No one doubted the part about Julia falling through the hay hole in her cousins’ barn and breaking her leg, or what was done to set the leg—something that really did happen to my grandfather—but when I had Julia’s cousin Simon ride for the doctor, and had something else in my grandfather’s past happen to him, nobody would believe it. According to Grampa, when his horse stopped short, he was flipped forward over its head, did a complete turn, and landed, unhurt, on his feet.
Similarly, using accurate language in historical novels rarely strikes modern readers as authentic. One of my favorite examples of both problems is a true story that appeared in the New York Times in January of 1888. I used a very small portion of this tale in my Deadlier than the Pen, but here, for your reading enjoyment, in its entirety, is the newspaper account of “A Circus on Broadway, in which the camel was performer and ringmaster.”
Meanwhile the camel continued down Broadway without being molested, and was approaching the Sinclair House for the entertainment of the guests safely planted behind the windows when a private carriage containing a gentleman, his wife, and baby wheeled into view going up Broadway. The driver had a chill and the horses an attack of St. Vitus dance, when their eyes caught the humped vision. Between the driver and horses it was nip and tuck whether the carriage would remain upright, or capsize, or have a wheel wrenched off by the centre-bearing street rail on Mayor Hewitt. The camel made a bee line for the carriage, apparently with an idea that he could bunt it out of existence. His bowed head was in close proximity to one of the glass doors, and the horses were in the air when two men suddenly sprang to the rescue. They seized the camel by the nostrils, one on each side, kicked him in the forelegs, and in a jiffy the beast was thrown, and they were holding him firmly. 
regularly go crazy that month. I love being stuck at my desk and winter is great for writing, but when the ice dam is six inches thick, the heat tape isn’t working, and my husband and I have to keep going out to shovel the roof, it can have an effect on the disposition. I suggest that a few good soup recipes can help. Just don’t keep doing this until you run out of pots.
coriander, wine, coconut milk, and liquid. Cover and bring to a simmer. Stir in the corn and sweet potatoes, and cook about 15 minutes, until potatoes are tender.
Susan Vaughan:
Brown’s paperback Lethal , a riveting thriller. On the treadmill or stationary bike at the Y, I read on my Kindle. Again, see #4. My recent e-book is our own Kate Flora’s Be My Little Sugar: Another Girls’ Night Out Novella. Also unputdownable, this story is suspenseful, witty, and humorous. The third book is nonfiction, unusual for me. I read reviews and saw an interview with Jill Lepore, award-winning historian and knew I needed to read her These Truths: a History of the United States. It’s dense, insightful, and beautifully written as well as thoroughly researched. I’m making my way through it a little each day because I need to digest and ponder as I go. I’m learning facts and background I didn’t pay attention to in school.
and scat messages. (Kids love scat clues.) How do you snowshoe? I tell folks, wear warm boots, walk a bit wider and use poles for balance. In March, there will be hooting owls! 
are my favorite guides: small, easy to carry, and easy to understand. Last week, using my Track Finder, I solved a mystery where large fluffy tracks disappeared at the edge of the woods. Lynx! Jumping up into a tree. How cool is that? 
Whether it’s 20 degrees or 5 below, whether the air wouldn’t lift a kite or 40 mph gusts make it a slow walk in one direction and an exceedingly quick one in the other, I’m at home on the beach in the winter, especially on Sunday afternoons. As Bruce says about his winter hikes, there are no tourists, no entry fee and it’s easy-peasy to find a parking space.
Lea Wait/Cornelia Kidd