My Hickory Obsession and the Squirrel Vendetta

If you’ve ever seen one of my videos, you might’ve caught a glimpse—just a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of moment—of a massive old hickory tree standing like a stoic sentry in the park near my house. It’s an absolute beast of a tree. Towering. Majestic. With a trunk so wide it splits into two at the bottom like it’s got a dramatic flair for posing. This tree is old, scarred, and—dare I say it—glorious.

Naturally, I became obsessed. I mean, who doesn’t fall in love with an elderly tree that looks like it’s been through several wars and come out the other side throwing shade (literally and figuratively)?

Two autumns ago, while others were sipping pumpkin lattes and posting selfies with cinnamon sticks, I was crawling around on my hands and knees in the dirt, collecting hickory nuts like some sort of deranged woodland creature. But not just any nuts—oh no. I carefully selected only the viable ones. (I even did a float test in water, because yes, I am that person now.) Then came the cold stratification process, which sounds suspiciously like a medieval torture method and, honestly, isn't far off.

For months, those nuts chilled in my fridge like tiny nutty time bombs. Then finally—finally—they sprouted. Two precious, tiny baby hickory trees. I was giddy. I was proud. I was a botanical goddess.

So, what did I do? I set them outside in little pots to get some sun, thinking, "Grow, my children. Reach for the sky!"

And then the squirrels showed up.

The same squirrels who spend their mornings plotting crimes from the fence line. The same squirrels who look at me like, “You done yet, lady?” as I walk Blueberry (my ever-patient Papillon dog) past their turf.

They didn’t even hesitate. They dug them up like it was some sort of rodent treasure hunt. All that effort—months of careful tending, whispering words of encouragement to tiny roots—and crunch. Gone.

Reader, I was livid. I swore vengeance. I may or may not have shouted at a squirrel. (He didn’t seem to care.)

But I’m nothing if not persistent. Last fall, I tried again. I went back to the old hickory like a spurned lover returning to an ex. I gathered more nuts. Cold stratified them again. Nurtured them. And yes—they sprouted.

Now I’ve got a few more tiny hickory trees growing strong. But this time? Oh, this time I’m keeping them FAR away from the squirrels. I’ve got nets, cages, decoys. If necessary, I will install a full-scale Nut Protection Program.

Why does this matter, you ask? Why am I blathering on about baby trees and furry nemeses on my author blog?

Because I love that old tree. It’s tough. It’s endured. It’s split at the base but still standing tall. And honestly, isn’t that a metaphor for most of us? For writers? For creatives? For anyone who’s tried something, failed spectacularly, and then got up and tried again (only this time with squirrel-proofing)?

This gnarled, grand old hickory tree reminds me to keep going. To stay rooted. To be stubborn. And maybe to avoid trusting anything with a bushy tail and twitchy eyes.

So yes. I have a hickory obsession. And maybe, just maybe, that love of growing something from scratch—messy, risky, nutty—isn’t so different from how I approach writing.

And just like my books, I hope these tiny trees grow into something strong and lasting. Unless the squirrels get them again.

Stay tuned. War is not over.

Writers, Don’t Be a Slave to Word Count: Let the Story Speak for Itself

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Picking a Favorite Character? Impossible!

The question comes up all the time. It’s inevitable. Like taxes. Or discovering that you’ve been walking around with spinach in your teeth all day. "Who’s your favorite character?" And I should have a definitive answer, right? Like, boom—here’s my favorite! Neatly tied up, no hesitation, no emotional turmoil, no staring off into the middle distance questioning my life choices. But no. That is not how this works. That is not how any of this works. My knee-jerk reaction is always Pixie . Pixie, my telepathic, sass-infused, magical Papillon from the Magical Papillon Mysteries . How could I not pick her? She’s got it all—wit, charm, fluffy ears, and, most importantly, magic. I mean, who wouldn’t want a touch of magic? I can barely find my car keys half the time. Pixie would just twitch an ear, and boom—problem solved. And she’s funny. Not just “accidentally amusing” funny. No, she’s deliberately funny. She says the things we all wish we could say, with perfect comed...

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