The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker

 

Only in my case it would be the veterinarian, the plumber, and the HVAC guy—doesn’t have quite the same ring, does it? Trust me, it has more pain to the pocketbook. Yesterday, Sophie spent several hours at the vet for treatment of an abscess—I won’t go into detail, but it involved several procedures, none of which are cheap. Now, she’s home, with medication, and snapping at those who give

The old house we all love but which is now
causing us maintenance problems

her an insulin shot (Jordan and Christian). And also yesterday, for the Burtons, they took their new-ish male kitten to be neutered. A traumatic pet day all around. And, my older brother was hospitalized. It was a medically oriented day.

But things are never dull around the Burton/Alter compound. Today it was plumbing and air conditioning. The plumbing problem seemed simple enough—the bobber on my toilet wouldn’t bob, and it was running all the time. The plumber I have sworn by for almost twenty-five years has retired, so I called a new company, recommended in our neighborhood list of vendors. The main house had a leaking sewage problem, but we planned to call a contract company about that. Then I suggested we ask the plumbers to look since they were on site. They diagnosed a severe problem, with water gushing out of a leaky sewage pipe. After an early afternoon call, they left, and said they’d be back either late afternoon or tomorrow. They came back late afternoon with the smallest, thinnest guy in their crew because part of the problem is that the deck is built over the sewage pipe. At first they said they’d have to shut the water off overnight, but then they recanted—after Jordan and Christian had filled pitchers and ice buckets and everything they could think of. The plumbers got the gushing slowed to a trickle, said they wanted to sleep on the solution, and went away.

Before I bought this property thirty years ago, an addition had been added on to the back and that’s apparently where the problem is—what should be two separate pipes for water and sewage is not (no, that does not mean we’ve been drinking sewage water—I don’t quite understand the whole thing, but the reason they didn’t cut the water at the curb is that they were afraid of backflow when it came back on). I had happily been thinking if the main house didn’t have water, they could have access to mine. Another no: it’s all one pipe which it shouldn’t be.

All of this meant Jordan and Christian were in and out of the cottage every five minutes around five o’clock, just when Donald from Rhinefort A/C was working to fix my heating/cooling units. He got them working and promptly got it so cool I needed a sweater. So there I was, wearing my sweater, trying to write my thousand words for a day with Jordan, Christian, and Donald coming and going and giving me updates. Proud to say that I did it.

But it’s not over. The plumbers had to cut a larger hole in the deck for their small guy to get down into that gosh-awful mess. Now they think they will have to come inside to the add-on back room, move the washer and dryer, cut the floor under them and locate the pipe that should have a Y and doesn’t. I told Jordan to ask for an estimate; she did, and the guy apparently in charge said, “I have no idea.” Not words to lull me to sleep tonight. And as plumbers, they won’t be repairing the floor where the washer and dryer go. Christian pointed out we will be without laundry services for a while, and I asked how he feels about the laundromat. If there was anything that made me grateful to be a homeowner, all those years ago, it was giving up the laundromat.

At least, as the sun goes down tonight, the dog and cat are healthy, my toilet isn’t running and my a/c works. The huge shadow looming over us is the plumbing problem. Wonder what tomorrow will bring. My brother is still in the hospital, and he has one thing in common with our plumbing: they aren’t sure what’s wrong (except maybe age—he’s almost 92 and our plumbing is a hundred in some parts of the house) and they don’t have a plan. He remains in fairly good spirits and his mind is sharp for which we are grateful. I do so much appreciate those of you who have sent good thoughts for his treatment.

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe it’s true that trouble always goes in threes. People caution that old houses are maintenance problems, but todays’ trouble spots are in mhy cottage which is a new construction except for the shell. I’m waiting for the plumber—the bobber in my toilet doesn’t bob, which means the toilet softly and gently runs all the time! Plumbers are never inexpensive—and the main house has a major sewage problem we’ll ask them to look at and give an estimate (that’s an old house problem, although that kitchen was redone less than ten years ago). And I’m also waiting for Donald, the faithful HVAC repairman. I discovered late last night that neither of my ceiling-hung units will open to operate. When I use the remote a light goes on and the thing beeps, but nothing else happens. It’s a lovely day today and will be okay, but it was stuffy and hot at midnight last night.

Testing the family culinary limits, progress on the bucket list, and 8,000 words.

 

Plaque certifying that our house is a hundred years old

It’s been a good week. My family has decided, a bit belatedly, that they ate too much over the holidays. So to avoid more Keto stuff and Whole 30 meals, I have started serving what I call light suppers, often meatless. These are the kind of meals that my mom used to fix on Sunday nights for us to dine in front of the fireplace in the living room. Since it’s acknowledged that I cook for some picky eaters, I approached this with some trepidation. A couple of nights ago I fixed Welsh Rarebit, a thick cheese sauce served on toast and fancied up with pickled onions and micro greens. My mom fixed Welsh Rarebit, but as I recall it was mostly melted sharp cheddar over saltines—once when I served it for supper, Colin said, “This is dinner?” No wonder I was nervous. This time, following a recipe, I served it on English muffins, and it seemed to be a hit. Christian praised the flavor of the cheese. Great! One down.

Last night supper was scrambled eggs with a ranchero sauce and (canned) refried beans on the side. The beans were, to me, a disappointment (I want Joe T’s refritos) but the ranchero sauce, heavy with chopped bacon, was another hit. Even Jacob ate with us, and Christian commandeered the leftover sauce for his eggs this morning. My light meals may not be exactly diet food, but I think people eat less in quantity than they do if we have a casserole or a meat-and-potatoes dish. Tonight, for a guest, I served creamed mushrooms on an English muffin (I’m really into that muffin business) and a marinated beet and feta salad. So good, and so colorful on the plate. Once again, I blew it and should have taken a picture. A digression: Central Market sent me the biggest beet I have ever seen. I ordered two, cooked the smaller one twice as long as should have, cooked the superhumongous one even longer, and I’m still not sure it’s done. The smaller one made plenty for me and my dinner guest.

This week also marked progress on my bucket lists of maintenance chores. Jacob put my compost tumbler together, but it had far too many screws left over. Christian said he’d take it in the house and deal with it when he had time, but he was noticeably not enthusiastic about the chore. I called a handyman who advertises in the neighborhood newsletter and was recommended by a friend. He installed our brass hundred-year-plaque on the front of the house and fixed the tumbler, using almost all the screws. He said the instructions for the tumbler were totally inadequate and it was no wonder a highschooler didn’t get it right. So now I’m happily saving all those vegetable scraps and making a list of other chores that need a handyman. My walker and I have really dinged up the woodwork in the cottage, and I would like to have it touched up, repainted. whatever it needs.

It's been a great week for me in that I wrote 8,000 words on my novel-in-progress, tentatively titled, Irene in a Ghost Kitchen and fifth in my Irene in Chicago Culinary Mysteries. I had, as I may have said here before, put the manuscript aside at about 30,000 words. I’m not sure why I abandoned it except that I was in that muddle in the middle—halfway through and couldn’t see clear to the end. Ivan Doig once said writing is like driving in the dark—you can only see as far ahead as the headlights. And my headlights weren’t working very well. But at an informal gathering of publishing people someone praised Irene as a fascinating character, and that somehow was all I needed to hear to move ahead. So now I’m trying to write as much as I can. And I’m grateful to the former colleague who said that.

Big goof last night: Sophie wanted to go out at 5:30 in the morning. Somehow I set the burglar alarm off and didn’t get it cancelled in time to satisfy the security company’s automatic system. So there I was trying to talk to this recorded voice and unable to answer Subie’s call. Finally got it solved, only to have Jordan call, ask what was going on, and say Subie was on her way over here, which made me feel guilty. Got it all solved and went back to bed, with appropriate apologies to Jordan and Subie. But thanks to Subie for true friendship! And to Jordan and Christian for patience.

Politics, but maybe not as usual

 

Tonight was the only debate there will be between Texas gubernatorial candidates, Governor Greg Abbott and Democratic challenger Beto O’Rourke. Abbott decreed there would be only one debate and no audience, so questions came from three political journalists, plus a few call-in ones from across the state. There was some concern, at least on my part, that Beto’s temper might get the better of him, but he was good—calm, controlled, knowledgeable, sincere, and sharp. Sure, he responded a couple of times when it wasn’t his turn but nothing bad or obvious. Abbott was as he always is calm, cold. self-assured—and blaming everything on President Biden or accusing Beto of twisting the truth.

I could tell when Abbott was dodging, dissembling, and glossing over only because I’ve made a point of educating myself. He totally dodged a question about whether he had become extremely right-wing, and he blew it on abortion, saying Beto favored it up until the first breath. Clearly, Abbott doesn’t understand medical considerations or the Hippocratic Oath—doctors are bound by their oath and by law to do their best to save all patients. So they would resuscitate a baby about to take its first breath or one that survived an abortion procedure. I truly thought Beto came off much better, but I am prejudiced.

To put it in context: I had an interesting visitor tonight, a longtime friend (forty years or more) who I haven’t seen in several years. We caught up on families and old friends in common—mostly who had died, which is discouraging. But we have been estranged since 2015 over her support of trump. She apparently didn’t realize it and shrugged it off saying she had to vote with her late husband—but that’s another story. It came up easily in conversation, so I addressed the elephant in the room with us, and she asked me to explain my beliefs. So I talked about immigration and the unequal distribution of wealth under Republicans for the last forty years, among other topics. I thought maybe I had made a convert, but it turns out I flattered myself.

She asked how I knew all this, and I replied that I make it a point to be well informed. She said she has access to the New York Times and the Washington Post, but I couldn’t tell that she reads either. So I promised to send her some links. But as she left, she said, “I’m just not that interested in politics.” I replied that she should be because the future of our country is at stake, and she said, “I think the country’s doing just fine, no matter who’s in charge.” That, I thought, is it: voter apathy. I cannot tell you how discouraged I was. But now the debate has energized me again.

I’m anxious to read the analyses from political reporters. Guess I’ll go prowling on the web.

And that’s it for tonight, because my focus today was on the debate, though I will brag that I’ve written two thousand words in the last two days. And my puzzlement for the day: UPS has sent me a bill, with a return envelope, for three cents. I seriously thought of taping three pennies to the bill and returning it, but I’m not sure I could scrounge up three pennies—you never see them in circulation anymore. And I remember reading somewhere that it costs seven dollars to write and process a check. And they want me to write a check for three cents?

I did get rid of a bit of my corporate anger today. Cigna sent me a reminder that my six-month dental checkup is around the corner and in a separate email a reminder that my account was past due. This from the company that wrote me in September they had cancelled my insurance July 31? When I called, they said they still had an active account for me. I told them to cancel it because there was no way I would ever deal with Cigna again. Told them I had called simply because I thought they should know how poor their customer relations are but if they wanted to send me a gold-plated apology that, too, would be appropriate. I can’t remember which one of us hung up first, but they were profuse in their apologies.

And so the world goes on. Putin’s nuclear saber-rattling is the most troublesome thing I can think of tonight, and I am tempted to reread Faulkner’s 1950 Nobel Prize Speech: “I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail.” Putin has gone from claiming Ukraine was aggressive to blaming the western world, and one analyst has suggested we are already fighting World War III—on Ukrainian territory. That’s an awful thought to sign off on.

Live in the present moment: it’s fall, a time when life seems to pick up the pace again, another year begins with all its opportunities. I am tempted to quote the words with which the mother of a good friend from my childhood days used to waken us in the morning: “God has made another new day. Think! Shall we let it slip useless away?” Well, God has made another school year. We won’t let it slip useless away. Sweet dreams.

 

The Benadryl Battle

 

Ny allergy queen

Sophie is sick again—or still sick. I hardly know which to say. Her tummy troubles seem gone, but her snorting, snuffling, whatever the sound, is still with us bigtime. I worry about describing it to the vet, and sometimes I want to say it sounds like a horse blowing. Or maybe she’s trying to clear her throat as a lot of us do in allergy season in Texas. And sometimes, when she’s not making all those noises but lying peacefully on the floor, you can hear a rattle as she breathes. I was really tempted today to ask the vet if dogs can get pneumonia. It stands to reason they can, but he keeps reassuring me it’s allergies.

Last night she began hawking, honking, whatever you want to call it at three in the morning. Poor thing was absolutely miserable. I gave her water, talked soothingly to her, massaged her throat. Nothing happened—except both of us lost sleep. I did get to doze a bit but it was not real sleep. I let her out and fed her about six-thirty, but she, who was ravenous last night, refused her food. About seven, I got in one of those funny hours—I dreamt but I knew I was dreaming. And in the back of my mind was the thought that she wouldn’t eat.

Relief, of course, comes from Benadryl. But I defy you to get a pill into that dog. She is far smarter than we poor humans. She has fished the pill out of the canned dog food she adores, pieces of Velveeta, spoonfuls of cottage cheese. This morning, in what I thought was a fit of brilliance, I pulverized two pills and mixed into the wet canned food she now loves. No go, one sniff and she wouldn’t go near it. She smelled the medicine. Tonight I gave her straight dog food and kibble, and she ignored it—but a couple of hours later she ate every bite.

Asking me about her behavior is sort of an exercise in futility. She’s an older dog, so she sleeps a lot during the day. I would say she was normal today, chasing a few squirrels, overjoyed when Zenaida came to clean the cottage, but tonight Jordan said, “She’s clearly not herself.” So there I went into panic mode again. Praying for good sleep tonight.

Other than Sophie worries, there’s always the larger problems of Ukraine and Russian aggression and worldwide moves toward autocracy—or in our country, the unraveling insurrection and worries about midterms and horrible disinformation—no, Joe biden is not senile; no, he is not in control of gas prices or inflation—and so it goes. In Texas, if you’re inclined to worry, I give you Abbott’s latest threat to declare an invasion at the border and the ongoing media blitz supportong the right. I am so disgusted with the Fort Worth Star-Telegram I am about to quit with a noisy flourish—but Fort Worth is my home, and I want to read my hometown paper. But it offends me they have a community board for conservative voices but not the same for liberals.

Closer to home, things look good. I have been finishing the first pass edits of Finding Florence and doing considerable rewriting, filling in plot holes, finding new scenes I think will improve it. I am so wrapped in that world that when a friend told me she was switching winter clothes for summer, I corrected—she meant putting away summer for winter. When she wrote back and said, no, she meant exactly what she said, she was getting out summer clothes, I realized that it is near winter in the book and I was still in the world of my fiction. Yes, in Texas, it is spring, although unusually cool. I could get spoiled to that.

Last night, out of the blue, I said to Jordan, “I want some Mexican food.” She laughed and said, “How did you know I just pulled up the menu from Enchiladas Olé!” I ordered a chalupa with ground beef—it came with all the good stuff, except the ground beef. I was bummed, but tonight everyone is gone, so I had my favorite: a salmon croquette and a big blue cheese salad. We’ve had such a busy week, we haven’t had many family meals in the cottage, and I hope we can get back to that.

Life is good. Pray for peace and love, not hate, here and abroad.

Bragging on a grand and some good writing

 

Morgan Alter on the left

So proud of Morgan Alter, my Tomball granddaughter. She and her team placed first in the food innovation regional competition of FCCLA (Family, Career, and Community Leaders of America). Now they go to the state competition. They had to prepare a lunchbox meal modeled on such delivered-to-your-door dinners as Hello Fresh. They came up with their own recipes, did taste tests, and did marketing research. Morgan, a high school junior, has been cooking for years, a big help to both Mom and Dad. On Father’s Day, she always fixes Colin’s dinner—last year was Beef Wellington. She’s more ambitious than I am, but I’m so glad to see a grand take up my foodie interests. Proud of her.

My own cooking was only so-so over the weekend. Last night Jean came over for an early supper, and I made my very first frittata—broccoli and mushroom. Between us, Jean and I cooked it too long. The flavor was good, but the texture should have been softer. Lesson learned. I tried to interest Jordan, because she likes her eggs cooked like concrete, but she didn’t want it for her lunch.

Tonight, I’m going to experiment—you’d think I’d learn that is not a good idea. Jordan brought me some smoked salmon, which I adore, and I’m going to try a pasta with a creamy sauce of cream cheese and sour cream, some green onions, maybe those hearts of palm in the fridge. I’ll get all that cooked and only then add the salmon because cooking it changes the taste and texture to me.

Tomorrow night I’ll get back to cooking for the family—baked cod with a buttery crumb topping. I think I’ll make a lemon sauce recipe I found on my favorite new food website—Kitchn. (Note there is no “e” in that!)

The snow has melted, the sun was bright today, and I’m just sure this will be a better week. I made good progress last week on the mystery I’m writing and yesterday I realized I was almost but not quite to the point of having half a novel. I was also to the point where I was about to go off the rails and needed to stop before I just kept adding words. (I swore this time I wasn’t going to write by word count, but it’s a hard habit to break.) So today I started reading at the beginning, filling in descriptions and other bits, correcting typos but that was only incidental. I am more concerned now with the structure of the story. And as I read each chapter, I construct an outline. I’m calling it a retrospective outline.

There's been a long thread about structure on a listserv I follow, with many people advocating various approaches, including one nice summary of the classic hero’s journey. But to my mind it all comes down to the basic Shakespearean plan—an instigating event, rising action (takes you into Act IV), climax—the high point where thing cannot get any worse or more complicated, and then the denouement, with its sharp drop-off in tension, the resolution of whatever has happened.

So far, I’ve only gotten three chapters into my manuscript, but I am pleased to see the complicating factors that I’ve scattered along the way. I may be ready to send it to one of my beta readers for an early look-through.

I guess my grad school studies are showing with my reference to Shakespeare. Last night I complained to Jean that I had to memorize Beowulf in grad school. She countered that she had to memorize it in high school and could still recite. Whereupon she began, “Whan that Aprilles with his shoures suite ….”

“That’s Chaucer,” I said. “Canterbury Tales.”

She decided she’s never read Beowulf, and I told her she was lucky.

I was distracted a bit today when at my desk because the yard guys came to take out all the dead stuff in the back yard—I left the front for Christian. It’s his domain. But they took the dead hyacinth grape vines off the fence (I really hated tooking at that), cut back the oak leaf hydrangea, pulled up the dead fountain grass, and took out the mums that were so gorgeous in the fall. It’s still a bare, brown winter landscape, but it’s not as straggly. And I figure it’s a step toward spring.

“If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?”—Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Okay, this English major is signing off.

Chronicle of an amaryllis

 

My amaryllis this morning
Note the metal ring holding the second stalk
Ignore the junky desk--at least it's near a window

Because of Christmas in Austin and then, on return, covid and quarantine and who knows what else, I was late in starting the Christmas amaryllis I was given. But once I started it, it took off bigtime. Last night, Subie and Phil were here, and I was bemoaning my need for another dowel road since the plant is growing so fast. Today Subie brought me one that is a metal rod with a loop to gently hold the blooming stalk. I swear the plant has burst out more this evening than this morning, but I couldn’t capture the growth on camera.

Coincidentally, Jordan and I had given Subie an amaryllis for Christmas. True confession: it was one we happened on early in the shopping season. To my embarrassment, she said last night that when she opened it, it had already bloomed without growing a stalk. I wish she had taken a picture, but she said there was a cluster of blooms at the base. And now it has sprouted on entirely new plant, which she is nursing along.

I found the almost-blooming amaryllis a cheerful portent on this partly cloudy day with the threat of all of winter’s worst weapons hanging over us. But my day was compromised again by computer stuff. This morning, after one or two false starts, the Wi-Fi connection held all morning, so I put off calling AT&T so I could work while I had the connection. But this afternoon, it went on, off, on, off—as fast as I could blink. So I called. Had to call the automated man who three times told me he could fix it, and all I had to do was subscribe to something for seven more dollars a month. He would say just go to this website, and I ended up screaming, “I can’t, because I don’t have a connection.” I also screamed, “Talk to a person.”

Finally in a brief moment of connectivity I found a different 800 number and called. Best call I’ve ever had with AT&T, a company that generally raises my blood pressure fifteen notches. A young lady in whatever country—I had to ask her to speak up and slowly—said if I would be patient, she could clear the connection, whatever that means. And that’s where I was, being patient, when Mary came for happy hour.

The first fix the young lady tried didn’t work but the second seemed to, and so far I have Wi-Fi. So happy. It’s really impossible to do almost anything without it.

Mary and I had a good visit with lots of talk about cooking and plentiful advice from her about using my new air fryer. I’m about ready to try the marinated chicken drumettes I have in the freezer. She also watered the poinsettia that’s in a corner by the couch where I can’t get to it and found two books on my shelves that she wants to read.

And another piece of good news today—my car came home! I looked out this afternoon, and there it was in the driveway. Made me sad and nostalgic for a moment. It has been at a repair shop Christian uses for months—I got really suspicious. Was the guy driving it? Selling it for parts? What could possibly be taking that long? And how much would it cost me? Christian tried to reassure me, but I was a nag about it. So today, it’s home, the bill is reasonable, and Jordan wants to drive it from time to time. I thought we were going to sell it, but if she needs it—her car too is old and not always reliable—that’s okay. At least I have it where I can see it.

In a day of good omens, I reached the 20K mark on my novel-in-progress. Well, okay, it’s really 19, 967 so I am thirty-three words short, but, hey! I‘ll make those up tomorrow. The big deal to me is that I now have one-third of a novel. Still plugging along, wondering where it is going to take me next, what Irene has up her sleeve.

So, it’s been a good day. I’m afraid my feelings of optimist may get beaten down by rain, ice, sleet, and snow, but I hope to stay cozy in the cottage and keep on keeping on. I have lots of food—and Jordan will do a curbside pickup tomorrow. We have menus planned for the next few days, and we’ll be fine. I have a novel to write and lots of good books to read.

Y’all stay safe and warm. Take care of animals, and plants, and yourselves. Watch out for the elderly in your neighborhood. Arctic storms are one of those times when we all need to look out for each other.

 

 

A day of off timing

 

Ever have days when it seems you’re either early or late for everything you do? That was me today. Yesterday Jordan raised a glass and toasted, “Happy Friday.” I replied, curmudgeon-like, that Friday didn’t seem any different than any other day to me, and she replied, “It should. I’m a different person on Friday than I am on Monday.” So I took that lesson to heart and vowed Saturday would be a lazy, slow day\

It wasn’t. Sophie got me up before seven. She came right back in after taking care of business, and I harbored a hope that she’s learning she’ll get a treat if she comes right back. But she got me up again a bit after eight, and I reluctantly gave up and put aside thoughts of going back to bed. Still, I lazed through the morning, waiting for an 11:30 Zoom meeting. But about eleven several things landed on my desk at once—choose the newsletter issues to submit for competition, finish the half-written guest post on the food wars in Irene in Danger, and deal with the frozen spanakopita Jordan fetched from Mary who had brought it from the Greek Festival for me.

I connected to the Zoom session. Sponsored by the Grand Canyon Writers chapter of Sisters in Crime, it featured Delia Pitts talking about the importance of setting in mysteries. Delia, who has an interesting background as a journalist, a diplomat with the U.S. Foreign Service, and an educational administrator, is a former colleague. She served at TCU for several years, and we were friends, so it was fun a while back to discover she is now writing mysteries. We also have Hyde Park in Chicago in common—Delia also grew up there, and earned degrees at the University of Chicago, ending with a doctorate in African history. Check her out at http://www.deliapitts.com.

A lifelong reader who dabbled in writing since second grade, she has taken up the mystery genre and made it her own. Her 90-minutes presentation today was spot on—knowledgeable, lively, fun. She made me see some things about my writing—I too write short and always have to go back and add words, and I tend to write long dialogue scenes that float in space without trying the participants to a time and place. So now I’ll go back to the few words I have on Irene Keeps a Secret and read them again with Delia’s advice in mind.

I had tried to call Colin all day because he was to help me with a computer problem. I have that secure new password storage system, 1Password, so secure that it locked me out of paying my ATT bill and retweeting on Twitter. The latter not serious, but the former forced me to change the password on our joint account which always frustrates Jordan. So, when Sophie woke me early from my nap, I called Colin—no answer, so I gratefully called back into bed. Colin called about ten minutes later, and then I was glued to my computer. The fix took longer than I thought, and I began to look at the clock. I had company coming at five-thirty, and I was still in my pajamas.

‘Finally, I told Colin I’d have to leave him to the computer but would take my phone to the bedroom while I changed clothes. He had access to my computer, but he’d still ask me questions and I’d have to say, “I can’t look right now I don’t have any pants on.” I was sure Mary Volcansek was going to arrive while I was half-dressed.

She didn’t, put it was close. Colin got the computer fixed just before she walked up the driveway. I had made pan bagnat sandwiches (fancy French tuna sandwiches that you put in the fridge and weight down overnight) so fixing dinner was simply a matter of unwrapping the foil and serving the delicious salad Mary bought. We had a good visit, and she was on her way by seven-thirty. I felt like it was midnight and I had to go to bed.

I think there’s a sleep virus in the air, because I have been so ready to go back to bed all day. And I am again. Sweet dreams, everyone.

A week of moments

Junie Bug amidst the flowers

Sophie woke up this morning—early, sigh!--full of the joy of life and energy, itching to go after the squirrels. She went out, did her business, came back in, and did a dance by my bed, clicking her nails on the wood floor. I watched for signs my neighbor was up before I let her out, but finally I couldn’t contain her. I gave her a stern and strict talking to that had to do with no barking. She stared at me, tail wagging, impatient. And so began her morning outdoors. She ran, top speed, from one end of the yard to the other, from one side to the other. Occasionally I’d see her tail, raised in joy, swing by my patio door so I knew she was all right. But she didn’t bark. Ever. She squeaked occasionally in excitement. But no barking. Finally I called her in about two o’clock, and she voluntarily went into her crate and slept soundly all afternoon. She is such good company—except early in the morning.

It has been a week of moments—we began to stretch the limits of our quarantine, ever so tentatively. A big moment for me—I got my hair cut. The wonderful stylist/friend who cuts it came to the house, masked and armed with all kinds of sanitizers. I told Jordan she looks careless next to the precautions Rosa took.

Then that same night, I left my own property for the second time since March 12. We went to friends for a distanced happy hour on their patio. As one said, it’s a whole new way of entertainment—everyone brings their own wine, glasses, ice, and snacks. The friends we visited, Phil and Green, have a large and beautiful yard. Highlight for me was a tree I’d never heard of—the Vitek. Two of them in fact. Also known as Abraham’s balm or a chaste tree, it is a bushy tree similar in shape to crape myrtles. But the Vitek has lush and plentiful lavender or white blooms with a slight fragrance.

One day my memorable moment was that I took a holiday from the novel I’m writing. I wrote a cooking blog, cleaned my desk and organized a pile of papers that had accumulated, indulged in the luxury of lingering over recipe magazines—Food & Wine and Southern Living. I’m a compulsive recipe clipper, but these days I am trying to be sensible about. With steely resolve, I pass by a lot of things that sound wonderful to me—things I know my family won’t eat (like wonderful summer fruit desserts), things that in another life I would have served to dinner guests. When the pandemic quiets down, if ever, I hope I can get back to entertaining.

In site of all this activity, I added 6400 words to the novel. It’s coming close to an end—I’ve got to tie up all the ends and figure out who did what.

The weekend looms and with it cooking, good meals, patio time, some company. Hard times but good times. I am grateful.

The nothing-to-say blog

No inspiration for a blog tonight. Sometimes when that happens, I just start writing and see what happens. We were to have more storms today, but far as I know we were lucky to get a bit of rain. But it was not an inspiring day—cloudy and dull. I understand though that sunny days are ahead for us. Can you believe it’s the last day of February? I’m stunned.

I went to the eye doctor today, and while I wouldn’t say he jumped hoops over my progress, he didn’t seem alarmed. Said it’s getting better, but there’s still a lot of blood in the back of the eye—those of you who are squeamish just skip that part, please. I don’t see him again for a month, which I took as encouraging. If he were worried, I’d be back there more often. Of course, there’s an insurance problem with renewing the drops he prescribed but given the rate at which the government is un-insuring people I guess it would be churlish of me to complain.

I am so close to the end of the novel I’m working on! But today when I sat to write, it went off in an entirely different direction than I expected—sort of like I hope this blog will do. I wrote an entire scene, and then took a nap during which I rewrote that scene. Haven’t gotten back to it yet, but I will.

Tonight, friends of Jordan’s came for a glass of wine. Jordan is doing wine tastings for a company that markets organic wine—no sugar, no sulfites, no preservatives, etc. Translate that into no hangover. I read somewhere that all California wines have a trace of some chemical that is also found in Roundup weed killer. Not a comforting thought, so Jordan’s organic wines are pretty interesting. The chardonnay I tasted tonight was on the clean and crisp side, whereas I prefer something oakier. But it was good.

In honor of visitors, I turned on the projector that throw green twinkling lights on the casita across from my French doors. Tonight, I’m noticing that it also covers some branches in the yard with a profusion of lights. Maybe I see it because it’s balmy enough to leave the doors open. In February?

And that’s how the day went—nothing spectacular, neither good nor bad. But I guess we must treasure each day. I got a notice from Twitter that someone calling him- or her-self Crazy_Sex_Life is now following me. Does that count as excitement?

Over and out. I really don’t have anything brilliant to say. Not even anything dumb. Blessings on all of you. Sleep tight.

Overcoming Inertia

 

Once I told a colleague that I usually got food for the cat while swishing mouthwash around in my mouth because who wants to just stand there for sixty seconds. She howled with laughter. “You of all people would not want to waste sixty seconds.” And that’s been the pattern of my life—maybe a little shy of OCD but not much. I’ve always kept busy.

Lately I’ve been troubled by a lack of energy, an unwillingness to do simple chores around the house, though I’m perfectly content to follow odd leads, read long e-mails, etc. at my computer. Is it the much-dreaded computer addiction? Is inertia a sign of aging? What happened to my ambition? It’s been worse, of course, since my swollen foot. I’ve written enough about that to last a lifetime, but I will say it’s better today—not perfect, but I’m wearing shoes and making a conscious effort to walk normally.

This morning I decided my project would be to dig in to the reader’s “points to ponder” in “Murder at Peacock Mansion”—they were all valid points that added depth to the manuscript, like a reference to Miss Havisham or the subtle difference between using “handgun” and “pistol.” Ten minutes later I’d taken care of all of them, so I decided I would read through the manuscript one more time before sending it to the editor.

About noon, while I ate lunch, I took a break and turned to the novel I’m currently reading. Didn’t take me long to decide my own manuscript was more interesting—is that ego or what?—and go back to editing. It’s amazing what you find even though you’ve read the darn thing countless times. Today I found a woman had two children on one page, one a bit later, and then four. Now she only has one—a spoiled diva of a young woman. I found on my own places where I could add a little depth of character, a little more sense of place—and I was having fun doing it.

Tonight I’m through—my mysteries are fairly short—and pleased with the result. One place I need to go back and tweet and then it goes to the editor. So maybe I’m past inertia. I also did two loads of laundry, tried on a new shirt I’d ordered and decided to keep it (it lay on the bedroom chair for several days), and managed to keep up with the kitchen—not hard when I’m home alone all day and a friend brings supper. But I’m going to keep working on this inertia thing—there are always little things to be done: the dishwasher should be run—it smells musty which may signal the end of my not using the hot-dry cycle; there’s a blue canvas bag on the dining room floor that belongs to a friend but needs to be safely stored for her; a few clean clothes to hang in my closet. Little stuff like that I once would never have overlooked and now I do. I have decided to tackle a bit of it each day.

Sweet dreams, friends.

 

 

 

 

 

Overcoming inertia

 Once I told a colleague that I usually got food for the cat while swishing mouthwash around in my mouth because who wants to just stand there for sixty seconds. She howled with laughter. “You of all people would not want to waste sixty seconds.” And that’s been the pattern of my life—maybe a little shy of OCD but not much. I’ve always kept busy.
Lately I’ve been troubled by a lack of energy, an unwillingness to do simple chores around the house, though I’m perfectly content to follow odd leads, read long e-mails, etc. at my computer. Is it the much-dreaded computer addiction? Is inertia a sign of aging? What happened to my ambition? It’s been worse, of course, since my swollen foot. I’ve written enough about that to last a lifetime, but I will say it’s better today—not perfect, but I’m wearing shoes and making a conscious effort to walk normally.
This morning I decided my project would be to dig in to the reader’s “points to ponder” in “Murder at Peacock Mansion”—they were all valid points that added depth to the manuscript, like a reference to Miss Havisham or the subtle difference between using “handgun” and “pistol.” Ten minutes later I’d taken care of all of them, so I decided I would read through the manuscript one more time before sending it to the editor.
About noon, while I ate lunch, I took a break and turned to the novel I’m currently reading. Didn’t take me long to decide my own manuscript was more interesting—is that ego or what?—and go back to editing. It’s amazing what you find even though you’ve read the darn thing countless times. Today I found a woman had two children on one page, one a bit later, and then four. Now she only has one—a spoiled diva of a young woman. I found on my own places where I could add a little depth of character, a little more sense of place—and I was having fun doing it.
Tonight I’m through—my mysteries are fairly short—and pleased with the result. One place I need to go back and tweak and then it goes to the editor. So maybe I’m past inertia. I also did two loads of laundry, tried on a new shirt I’d ordered and decided to keep it (it lay on the bedroom chair for several days), and managed to keep up with the kitchen—not hard when I’m home alone all day and a friend brings supper. But I’m going to keep working on this inertia thing—there are always little things to be done: the dishwasher should be run—it smells musty which may signal the end of my not using the hot-dry cycle; there’s a blue canvas bag on the dining room floor that belongs to a friend but needs to be safely stored for her; a few clean clothes to hang in my closet. Little stuff like that I once would never have overlooked and now I do. I have decided to tackle a bit of it each day.
Sweet dreams, friends.

 

 

Touring Ireland: Sit Back and Enjoy Your Trip

Please welcome my Wednesday guest, Maggie King, a lover of all things Irish. Maggie is the author of Murder at the Book Group, published in 2014 by Simon and Schuster Pocket Books. She contributed the short story, “A Not So Genteel Murder,” to the Sisters in Crime anthology Virginia is for Mysteries. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and the American Association of University Women and has worked as a software developer, retail sales manager, and customer service supervisor.

Maggie graduated from Elizabeth Seton College and earned a B.S. degree in Business Administration from Rochester Institute of Technology. She has called New Jersey, Massachusetts, and California home. These days she lives in Richmond, Virginia with her husband, Glen, and cats, Morris and Olive.

Visit Maggie at www.maggieking.com, on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/maggie.e.king, and on Twitter at https://twitter.com/MaggieKingAuthur.

****

Ireland. This verdant and magical land with its charming people and troubled history has been described countless times in literature and film. You’ve probably seen more movies and television shows with Irish settings than you realize: Angela’s Ashes, The Boxer, Circle of Friends, The Commitments, The Crying Game, Michael Collins, My Left Foot, Ryan’s Daughter, and The Snapper, to name a few.

When I’m planning a trip I enjoy watching movies and shows produced by my potential hosts and set in their homeland. By the time I visited Ireland in 2007, I’d seen the above films plus a few more.

And when I returned home, I continued my tour of the Emerald Isle as an armchair traveler. For your own tour, I recommend the following:

Father Ted follows the hilarious adventures of three Roman Catholic priests who, due to “improprieties” in their pasts, have been banished to a parish on the fictional Craggy Island, off Ireland’s west coast. The show is laugh-out-loud funny but sometimes crosses the line into poor taste. If you tend to be refined, you may want to skip this one. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Father_Ted.

Ballykissangel, filmed in Avoca, a picturesque Irish village in County Wicklow, revolves around a young English Roman Catholic priest as he becomes part of a rural community. The show captures the delightful Irish spirit and the stories, with their ensemble cast of well-drawn characters who captivate viewers from the get-go. http://visitwicklow.ie/attractions/ballykissangel/

Single-Handed is a gritty police drama set and filmed in the west of Ireland. It features Sergeant Jack Driscoll, a member of the Garda (police) and one of the grimmest characters in the history of television anywhere. The breathtaking scenery in Single-Handed belies the darkness of the stories and the evil they evoke. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Single-Handed_%28TV_series%29

Once, a film set in Dublin, is based on the true story of musical collaborators Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová. What makes this delightful film extra special for me is that I can spot the restaurant Kafka is the background of one of the scenes. My husband and I enjoyed a wonderful dinner at Kafka (in fact, we enjoyed great dinners all over Ireland, especially at the pubs). http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Once_%28film%29

The Irish R.M. is set at the turn of the 20th century and filmed in Kildare, Wicklow, and various locations in the West of Ireland. This comedy-drama series stars Peter Bowles and is based on stories written by Anglo-Irish novelists E. Somerville and M.Ross. If you’re knowledgeable of Ireland’s history with England, you’re sure to enjoy this one.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Irish_R.M.

I also like to read books, especially mysteries, set in other places. So it’s no surprise that my fictitious characters share my passion. The Murder on Tour book group is the travel-themed group featured in Murder at the Book Group, my debut mystery. The members each read a different mystery based on a geographical setting, and gather to “booktalk” their selections—a fancy way of saying they give oral book reports, reminiscent of grade school.

When the group becomes skittish about reading murder mysteries after one of its members is killed, they transition to a film group, also with a travel theme—and no murders!

Here is a list of Irish films in chronological order: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Irish_films

Irish films and shows from Netflix: http://www.irishcentral.com/culture/entertainment/the-top-ten-irish-tv-shows-and-movies-to-watch-on-netflix-this-christmas-videos-237122711-237793501.html

Do you enjoy movies and TV shows set in other lands? Please share  your favorites.

It''s all Ronald Reagan's fault (nope, not a political post)

Please welcome my Wednesday guest historian Marilynn Larew who has published in such disparate fields as American Colonial and architectural history, Vietnamese military history, and terrorism, and has taught courses in each of them in the University of Maryland System.
Before settling on the Mason-Dixon line in southern Pennsylvania, she lived in Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri, Georgia, Wisconsin, Ohio, South Carolina, Maryland, in Manila, and on Okinawa. It’s no surprise that she likes to travel. When she’s climbing the first hill in Istanbul to Topkapi Palace, strolling around Hoan Kiem Lake in Hanoi, or exploring the back streets of Kowloon, she is not just having fun, she’s looking for locations for her next novel. She’s busy now on Lee Carruthers #3, "Hong Kong Central."
When she’s not traveling, she is writing or reading. She writes thrillers and likes to read them. She also likes to read Vietnamese history and Asian history in general, as well as military history. Marilynn lives with her husband in a 200-year-old farmhouse in southern Pennsylvania and belongs to Sisters in Crime, the Guppies, and the Chinese Military History Society.

****

It’s All Ronald Reagan’s Fault

That may sound extreme, but bear with me. My series heroine, Lee Carruthers, started out as a CIA analyst stationed in Paris. She found and seized the proceeds of gunrunning, drug smuggling, human trafficking, and terrorism funding. Particularly terrorism funding. And that is where Ronald Reagan comes in.
They say you should write what you know, and one of the things I know is terrorism. In 1981, shortly after John Hinckley attempted to assassinate President Reagan, my boss at the University of Maryland called me into his office and said he thought a course in the history of terrorism might be interesting. So did I, so I developed one. But it didn’t stay interesting to me for long. American presidential assassinations are essentially quite dull. I found assassinations in other countries much more interesting, so I began adding them to the course as a contrast. Soon I began to discover terrorist assassinations. And then somehow the terrorists took over the course, and I found myself teaching the history of terrorism. It was the heyday of the Red Brigades, and terrorism was a hot topic.
I retired from teaching just as the current group of Islamic terrorists came online, but I retained an interest. After the 9/11 bombing of the World Trade Center it became impossible to ignore them.
I retired, settled down to writing, and created Lee Carruthers, a woman who works on the international scene in situations taken from the daily news. I wanted her to have some connection with the CIA but not as a field operative, so I made her an analyst and put her in Paris, a city I know reasonably well, rather than in Langley, Virginia, where I would have to write all of the agency’s internal politicking, a topic which would have made my books quite different from what I wanted them to be. But sitting before a computer in Paris was also quite dull, so I gave her a boss who sent her into the field to do things analysts don’t usually do, and then I had to give her skills analysts don’t usually acquire.
When we first meet her in The Spider Catchers, Lee’s been with the agency for about ten years and is getting mortally tired of it. One of my reviewers said she was world-weary but also essentially optimistic, a contradiction in terms of there ever was one.
After fighting her way out of a terrorist camp in Spider, she branches out. In Dead in Dubai, she confronts a violent struggle between two major arms dealers for control of the market. In Hong Kong Central, I’ll take her into the middle of the pro-democracy demonstrations there. There’s another plot in the back of my head that takes place in Istanbul, and I’ll eventually find a way to use the time I spent in Hanoi.
And all because of Ronald Reagan.
Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Dead-Dbai-Lee-Carruthers-2-ebook/dp/B00V5DNYHM/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1427254830&sr=1-3&keywords=marilynn+larew
Smashwords https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/530408
Find Marilynn at http://www.marilynnlarew.com or contact her at larew_2000@yahoo.com.

Thanks, Judy, for inviting me to come by and chat.

 

 

 

On perfect people

The Perfect Coed got a strong review the other day on Lelia Taylor's Creatures 'n Crooks. The reviewer had good things to say about plentiful suspects, twists, turns, and red herrings, threats and tension-filled scenes, and a satisfying ending with just the right amount of explanation. Such comments always thrill an author's heart.
But one thing puzzled this reviewer: "why Susan is so prickly...especially with her loved ones and her supporters." She wrote, "I found her reluctance to accept help or even to discuss measures to preserve her own life distracting at times."
It's not a new criticism for Susan. The reader/friend/teacher who has read almost everything I've written for nearly forty years didn't "warm to Susan," which led another early reader to say, "Of course he didn't. He's a guy!"
I had carefully constructed a blurb that warned readers of Susan's prickliness:

"Susan Hogan is smart, pretty—and prickly. There is no other word for it. She is prickly with Jake Phillips and her Aunt Jenny, the two people who love her most in the world. And she is prickly and impatient with some of her academic colleagues and the petty jealousies in the English department at Oak Grove University. When a coed’s body is found in her car and she is suspected of murder, Susan gets even more defensive.

"But when someone begins to stalk and threaten her—trying to run her down, killing the plants on her deck, causing a moped wreck that breaks her ankle—prickly mixes with fear. Susan decides she has to find the killer to save her reputation—and her life. What she suspects she’s found on a quiet campus in Texas is so bizarre Jake doesn’t believe her. Until she’s almost killed.
"The death of one coed unravels a tale of greed, lust, and obsession."
Apparently that didn't satisfy all question. I have tried to explain that characters mostly spring into our minds full blown--they are who they are, without much direction from an author. If I had any control over Susan, though, I would have left her prickly, mostly because it fits the story. And another friend wrote to say, "Nobody's perfect. We all like characters with flaws." Isn't that the theory behind Shakespearean tragedy? Not that I would ever dare reach for that comparison. As the author of cozies, I think sometimes our cozy heroines are too good, too naïve, too forgiving. Susan stands out. That and those "tension-filled" scenes are the reason I call this a traditional mystery instead of a cozy. But even in cozies, most readers like strong female characters who will take matters into their own hands--not women who are ordered around by the men in their lives.
But what about you? Do you like prickly or strong heroines? How about love-struck ones? I'd really like to hear some opinions.

As the page turns

Please welcome my Wednesday guest, award-winning author, Vicki Batman. Vicki has sold many romantic comedy stories to the True magazines, several publishers, and most recently, a romantic comedy mystery to The Wild Rose Press. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and several writing groups. An avid Jazzerciser. Handbag lover. Mahjong player. Yoga practioner. Movie fan. Book devourer. Cat fancier. Best Mom ever. And adores Handsome Hubby.

Most days begin with her hands set to the keyboard and thinking "What if??"

 ***

What if a friend decided to play a silly Q & A game while we were driving home from a fun girl weekend?

What if she asked the question, “Write the opening words of a book using the word window.”

What if your answer was doggie doo-doo?

That was the boat I rowed the weekend I was prompted to write. And after she’d asked the window question, I had nothing and I was embarrassed I had nothing. And I think my friend knew I had nothing for she added, “You can always email something later.”

An out--sorta.

Two days after the trip, I sat at my computer with the TV blaring in the background, thinking “I can do this.”

I did--sorta. I wrote eight chapters. However, I liked what I’d done; so I kept adding, editing, and revising. Finally, I grew brave and asked my friend to read it. She returned the file to me and said, “Keep going.”

Awfully nice of her. LOL.

A few months later and I still hadn’t confessed to a soul what I’d been doing. The secret was pushing inside me, wanting to burst out. So before a high school reunion, I went to dinner with Handsome who’d been traveling a lot. After the meal had been served, I summoned all my nerve and said, “I’ve been writing.”

He sat up in his chair. “What?!!”

“I’m writing a book.” And all the words I’d been holding back streamed forth. I explained what I was writing and for how long and how wonderful...

After I’d paused, he studied me hard. “You’ve...changed.”

Guess I had. But I liked it. Yet, because of what he’d said and how he’d said it, I carried a little pang in my chest. There was no “that’s great, Beautiful” or anything else. He didn’t want to talk about it. Perhaps, mom-me had evolved and he didn’t know what to do with her yet.

My book turned out to be a romantic comedy mystery, Temporarily Employed. I worked that baby and even outlined Books 2 and 3. Time tick-tocked by and three years later, I hadn’t sold it. By chance, a friend asked me to critique her six submissions for Women’s World—you know, the newspaper at the supermarket checkout. I did. Osmosis must have set in because I cranked out short stories, selling fourteen to the True magazines. Then different e-publishers pubbed my erotic novella and four more short stories. I’ve also indie pubbed several others.

At a plotting retreat, I whined to my chapter mates about not selling Temporarily Employed. They suggested trying again. I did, and The Wild Rose Press wanted it. Euphoria!

My book. It feels good.

 

*****

Blurb for Temporarily Employed:

New Job. New Love. And Murder. Hattie Cook's dream job is down the toilet and her new SUV violated. Desperate for cash to cover the basic necessities, she takes a temporary job where she uncovers an embezzling scam tied to the death of a former employee--the very one she replaced.

When the police determine there's more to the death of a former Buy Rite employee, Detective Allan Charles Wellborn steps in to lead the investigation. Overly dedicated, always perfect, he puts his job first, even if doing so ultimately hurts the one he loves.

Can the killer be found before Hattie's time is up?