Me, ten years ago

 You know that old saying, “Time flies when you’re having fun.” And it’s true—the last ten years, my years of retirement, have flown by. And yet it’s been a long time encompassing many changes. All that is on my mind this evening because three things popped up on my computer—those automatic memory things that the computer world offers (or forces on) us.

First was a reminder that ten years ago today I posted about the publication of my second mystery, No Neighborhood for Old Women, featuring Kelly O’Connell, the intrepid real estate broker/renovator who led me down the mystery trail for eight books. When I submitted my first manuscript and notes on the second to a major NY publishing house, the editor, an old friend, wanted me to scrap the first and replace it with the second which was about a serial killer—no fears, it was still cozy, just with too many bodies. I didn’t want to do that, and I declined. I liked the way the first book, Skeleton in a Dead Space, set up the backstory for the series. Sometimes I wonder how different my career would have been. I might be rich and famous, or at least an inch closer, with the backing of a big house and more people would have read Kelly’s stories, but I’d had have to deal with sales quotas and contracts and deadlines. I think in the long run, I made the right choice.

The novel is still available in print and digital form. And, yes, for those who think the title is familiar, it is a play on Cormac McCarthy’s much more successful—and much grittier—No Country for Old Men. Since that novel, I have published, either through a small press or independently, fourteen more mysteries, two non-fiction titles, and a cookbook, which I’m now thinking of updating. Retirement has been good for me.

The second thing that came up was a picture of me, taken ten years ago by neighbor and photographer par excellence Polly Hooper. It was one of several shots she took that I used on book jackets, blogs, etc. for years because I thought it flattered me. Do you look at other people and think something like, “My, she’s aged. I am so glad I haven’t”? I do that, or, snarkily, I look at women my age and think, “I’m sure glad I don’t look that old!” Truth is, as the photo shows, I’ve aged a lot.

But it’s been a tumultuous ten years. Ten years ago I lived in a 2,000 sq. ft. house—today I am in 600 sq. ft. No matter that I love my cottage, it’s still an adjustment. I did say to someone today, however, that it seems like I’ve lived in the cottage forever, and I’m so content in it that some of my friends worry about blasting me out now that we don’t have to quarantine as strictly. Jordan, Christian, and Jacob lived clear across town in Hulen Bend, but I saw Jacob almost every day and kept him a lot. Pictures of that cute kid pop up a lot too, and they really make me nostalgic.

In these ten years I’ve broken an ankle so badly it was beyond surgical repair, had major hip surgery which landed me on a walker, been diagnosed with atrial fibrillation and acute kidney failure, and had scary eye surgery. Ask me today, and I’ll tell you I’m in good health. It’s all relative, but I sure hope the next ten years bring a more peaceful health scene.

Baby Sophie

Finally, a picture of Sophie popped up. She was a new pup, probably about nine months old. I still had Scooby, my beloved Aussie, and the two were inseparable, though Scooby tried hard to teach Sophie to be a good companion. She was wild, full of Border Collie energy and puppy mischief. If I have aged, so has she—in some ways. She’ll spend days, as she is now, lying by my desk. But when she takes a notion that there are too many squirrels in the yard, Katie bar the door! She is getting a bit of middle-age spread though I defensively claim that once she is groomed next week, she’ll be thin again. She’s a girl with a strong personality, a diva among dogs, and I’ve loved the last ten years. Hope we both get ten more.

So that’s my ten years. I won’t say I wouldn’t trade for a minute of it, because if I could go back in time, I’d change some things and hope not to have the health problems I’ve had. But I’m sure happy with where I’ve landed. Taken as a whole, it’s been a good ten years.

The Good Old Days—or were they?

Two longtime friends came for chili and conversation last night, women I’ve known since at least the seventies. All of us were once married to doctors. One, like me, is a divorcee, left by a husband who moved on to greener fields without the responsibility of kids; the other was widowed way too young by a heart attack that shouldn’t have happened. Today, we have outlived all three men—there’s a message there, though I’m not sure what it is.

But we talked about those heady days. We were young, happy, with young children—perfect families, we thought. Our husbands were newly out of residencies and in practice, and our lives were filled with camaraderie, conventions, cruises, and more money that any of us had ever known. (Those days are long gone for docs today, a fact I view with mixed emotions.) But as we talked, we recognized that those days weren’t quite as golden as we thought, that there was an undercurrent of tension, the feeling we were in a balloon that could pop at any time. It was an unreal existence, as though we were dancing too hard to keep our fears and doubts at bay. It was good to share.

I often think today’s good times are better. I never remarried because I only met one man who I thought would love my children as much as I did and who I wouldn’t have hesitated to welcome into our close family circle. (I saw too many women who concentrated on having a man in their life to the detriment of their children.) It didn’t work out for other reasons, and I have been single since the early eighties It’s been a great life, and I don’t think I’d trade. Two good careers—one at the TCU Press and one as an author, and a close family that I adore. Yes, I’ve been blessed.

The last few days I’ve been grateful for the blessings of my life, mostly because I had lots of visiting and getting out. One night dinner pal Betty and I went to her restaurant, the Star Café, and shared a tenderloin and baked potato—absolutely wonderful. Last night, my visit with the two friends, plus suddenly there were others in my cottage, carrying their wine—a woman I looked forward to meeting and hope to visit with more another night, and a woman I really like and admire but see infrequently. Today I had lunch with friend Carol, and we discovered at Lucille’s that it’s Lobsterama—a lobster roll and good conversation as I caught up with her recent trip to Australia.

There’s been a long thread on a subgroup of Sisters in Crime about whether you are an extrovert or an introvert. I think, like a lot of people, I’m a mix of the two. But I find being semi-housebound as I am and dependent on others to get out, I am tending more toward introvert. Some days it seems a big effort to gear up and get out, and those are the days I tell myself I need a social life and I need to get out and about. I need to make that effort and not spend the day at my computer in my pajamas. I’m working on not being an introvert, because that’s not how I want to live my life.

No big cocktail parties or cruise ships with six thousand people, thank you. But a quiet lunch or supper with from two to six people? Count me a happy camper. Too much solitude isn’t good for my mental health.

A big oops: I forgot to stand and face east at eleven this morning, in honor of our fallen soldiers. But a flag flew proudly at the foot of our driveway, and I hope each and every one of you remembered to say a prayer for our fallen soldiers, veterans, both those with severe problems and those who seem to have survived relatively unscathed, and those who serve today.