Creepy Relics and BatPigs
The day after sending the Darling Daughter back to college, I began to put the house back in order.
Somewhat.
The whirlwind of laundry, packing, shifting, sorting then traveling left my husband and me exhausted and melancholy. He was melancholy because the house was emptier.
I was melancholy, even slightly terrified by the open-ended project the Darling Daughter had left behind. Wasn’t sure I was up to her standards of perfection to finish it properly. Over the summer, she created an “Herb Wall” in the small formerly unusable space between the kitchen door and the doorway to the great room. Using curtain rods, galvanized buckets, metal hooks and her own flair for ingenuity, she created this:

Don’t get me wrong. I was beyond tickled. I LOVE it.
But do you see the empty pots and bins?
The herbs go there. Where are the herbs? In my herb garden outside, except for the ones she is rooting on the windowsill in the kitchen.
“Don’t let my herb babies die,” she called on her way out the door.

Oh boy. That’s pressure.
My kitchen windowsill has a BatPig, an odd ceramic chicken, and 3 glass jars filled with water and plant cuttings. Each jar also has a blue marble in it, because “according to principles of Feng Shui, blue in the northern corner of our house is fortuitous.” (There’s blue in the German Bier Stein on the shelf, but ok, whatever).
The odd ceramic chicken says “Spoon with me” (it has 2 silver spoons sticking out of its backside as “feathers”). I think my mom put it there. Where she got it, I don’t know.

But believe me, now that I know what it is, I’m gonna find out where she found it.
I started to wipe off the windowsill and knocked the chicken over, spilling the spoons. I’d never taken a good look at them, so as I wiped them off I studied them more closely. The handles were different shapes: one formed an alligator, the other a ship. I was more than a little creeped out when I read the tiny print on the spoons.

Both were from churches in New Orleans, which gave me chills, because the book I’ve nearly finished is set there. It’s a historical romance and contains a plot to steal relics from the St. Louis Cathedral during the Battle of New Orleans in 1815.
The spoon with the alligator handle is from St. Roch’s Chapel the other with the ship handle is from St. Louis Cathedral.
Now I had goosebumps.
What are the chances I’d discover these old spoons in my house after writing a book set there? Exactly there? Containing a pirate and a ship? Perhaps I was meant to write that book.
I’d already done all kinds of research on St. Louis for this next novel (The Pirate and the Nun), but knew nothing of St. Roch Chapel (Saint Roch is associated with healing and health. During the Black Plague in what is now part of France, it’s said he cared for — and cured — plague victims, even contacting and surviving the disease himself). Curious, I did some research on the chapel in New Orleans.
And found out some fun, but creepy stuff.
40,000 people had died in New Orleans between 1817 and 1867 of a yellow fever epidemic that seemed to take a hold of the city and refuse to let go. In 1867, desperate to protect his people, Reverend Thevis prayed to St. Roch for help, promising to build a shrine to him if members of his parish were protected. His community suffered no losses during the epidemic. So, a Gothic Revival Chapel was constructed and named after St. Roch.
But here’s the interesting part…
For decades, people who have prayed to St. Roch for healing and good health have been leaving behind in and around the chapel prosthetic limbs, plaster feet, polio braces, false teeth, even glass eyeballs…when their health returned.

For a long time, my favorite item on my kitchen windowsill was my BatPig.

But, now I think my affections have drifted to include the “Spoon with me” chicken and her “feathers.”
So…tell me, what treasures do you have on your windowsill?
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The Pirate and the Nun is currently available for preorder on iBooks, Barnes & Noble and Kobo. It will be released this fall on all platforms, including Amazon.
Here is a quick excerpt:
“Dis de sick girl child?” Miss Kalia approached the wagon, swaying like seaweed with the tide, perhaps due to aching joints, but on a night like this it was bewitching and unnerving, like a cobra mesmerizing prey. Her brightly patched skirt was subdued by the moonlight into shades of grayish red, green, blue and yellow. Her silver hair was piled high on her head, and adorned with colorful feathers which poked out in every direction. A streak of white paint trailed from one ear, ran along her jawline across her chin, then ended at other ear, like a gruesome grin.
Eva gave her a silent nod. Just like the old woman had predicted.
“A dark-hearted mon wit a sick girl-child ‘bout to cross you path. Him be drawn to de light in you. You light — it might can save him, but be wary. Him dark is strong. De dark wants to pull you into him doomed shadow.”
“Hmmm. Tot’ so. Drago, see I in a vision. Woke I wide up.” Before either of them could respond, the woman scampered up into the wagon bed. Julian didn’t take his eyes from her, but still leaned away as she bent over his sister. She felt the girl’s cheek, her brown hand contrasting sharply with Jacqueline’s pale skin, even though it was still flushed with fever. She tilted the girl’s head back, pressed her chin down to open her mouth. Sniffed her breath.
Unsure what to say or do, Eva dragged her gaze from the old woman and peered at Captain Drago Gamponetti. Miss Kalia’s visions were uncannily accurate. The captain’s eyes followed Kalia’s every move, his fingers clenched the reins as if they kept him from blowing away. Or perhaps beating a hasty retreat.
Miss Kalia hopped down and stepped to Eva’s side of the wagon. The old woman pressed a bag of herbs against Eva’s palm. “Her need dis. It be best tea for dee girl. Drago,” Miss Kalia nodded toward Captain Gamponetti and lowered her voice. “Him to drink dis.” She caught Eva’s gaze and held it. “Him drink dis an dat what you need by him, you get.” She held out a small flask and Eva took it and slipped it into her herb bag, afraid to refuse it, and unsure of what else to do or say.
The Jamaican woman stepped back from the wagon and lifted both hands in farewell. Or was she sending along some sort of blessing?
Surely not a curse?
A white witch, the captain called her. There was no telling what spell she thought she was incanting or bestowing upon them. Captain Gamponetti slapped the reins sharply and clucked the mule forward, eager to move along.
As they passed, Kalia spoke again, but this time to the captain, her voice both smoky and chiseled. “Change in de wind, Drago. You — dat break a vow. Before it done, you befriend a foe and lay wit you enemy. Light calls to you, but de dark always a seductress. ’Tis you who must choose.” Her gaze locked with Eva’s. “Which voice will him follow? Him heart or him head?”
Eva shifted her gaze sideways at the captain. Tension emanated from him like waves of heat. Kalia had managed to slither past his dark, menacing aura to find and strike the tiniest gap between courage and unease. The muscles in his jaw clenched, but he did not look at the old woman as they passed her.
“I…I don’t know how to answer her question.” Eva looked over her shoulder, but the woman was gone.
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