Notes from a Georgia Farmhouse, or How I Stumbled across my First Historical Romance
When I was sixteen, I accompanied my boyfriend (now my husband of forty years) to his family farm in southern Georgia for their yearly reunion. I met more than seventy wonderful people, drove my first pickup truck, bottle-fed a few baby goats, and waded through the swamp hoping for a glimpse of the rare “Granddaddy” snapping turtle. Family legend had it that he was so old he had Civil War bullets imbedded in his shell.
Evenings were spent on the porch of the hundred-year-old farmhouse swatting gnats and watching the sun set over the soybean fields while the “grownups” sipped bourbon and told tall tales. But by far the best part of that wonderful weekend was stumbling across a bookcase in the dusty old parlor filled with dozens of tattered books. Among the agricultural texts and political memoirs of the early 1900s were two worn copies of The Border Lord and The Hepburn by Jan Wescott.
Score! My first ever real historical romances and an introduction to the brooding, heather-covered moors of Scotland. Naturally, I was hooked, and the rest, as they say, is history.
So, thank you, Jan Wescott, for starting a reading love affair that even today knows no end. And thank you, Aunt Pat, for painting the lovely watercolor of the family farmhouse.