Margaret Maron's Sand Sharks Launch

Donald and Harley and I had a great little road trip to Raleigh last week.

We left Harley to guard our hotel and had a nice dinner out before going to Quail Ridge Books and Music for Margaret's launch for SAND SHARKS.






















This is the first time we've made it to one of Margaret's launch parties, and I think it's probably something we'll now add to our list of things we'll want to do every August from now until forever. It was easy to see that the people who came were not only exceptionally supportive long time fans of Margaret's Deborah Knott series, but they all just love Margaret to pieces and feel a strong connection to her. Not surprising in the least. She greeted each and every person with ease and graciousness as though they were the only other person in the room besides herself. She's a woman who sets the bar high for other writers, both with her writing and with her genuine friendliness, gentle elegance and candid humor.







I nominate myself #1 Margaret Maron Fan. What can I say - I adore her. And I absolutely, for sure, adore her Deborah Knott series and hope it lasts another 50, 60, or 70 so books cause I'm just sure there's lots more to learn about all those brothers, nieces and nephews. I just love those brothers, but mostly I have the biggest soft spot in my heart for Kezzie Knott, and as Margaret shows us from time to time - Kezzie still has some surprises for us. I also still hold out hope for another Sigrid Harald book. I know the chances of that happening are pretty much in vain, but a gal can hope, can't she?

The Things We Do for Research by Suzanne Adair

Suzanne Adair writes am ystery/suspense series set during the Southern theater of the Revolutionary War. Her first book, Paper Woman, won the 2007 Patrick D. Smith Literature Award from the Florida Historical Society. More recently, Camp Follower was nominated for the 2009 Daphne du Maurier Excellence in Historical Mystery/Suspense Award.
Check her web site or blog for more information.
















The Things We Do for Research by Suzanne Adair

Writers of mysteries, suspense, and thrillers dabble with ligatures, poisons, blades, and firearms. They read up on sociopaths and schizophrenics. They pester cops, hack hard drives, sketch plans on cocktail napkins for invading countries, study how to build bombs and organize cults, and verify procedures for manufacturing street drugs.

What fun! And to think that my ex-husband labeled me weird, obsessed, and admitted that my interests scared him. Poor fellow.

So why do we pursue these activities and risk being labeled odd birds? Well, one of our goals is to suspend our readers' sense of disbelief so they'll buy into our fictional worlds. No getting around the fact that world building requires a chunk of research. You must make sure that things work right, or readers will dismiss you.

On the Guppies discussion list several years ago, a subscriber confessed that she'd had her husband duct-tape her mouth, hands, and ankles, then close her into the trunk of her car so she could determine the difficulty of escape. (Note: That's a fate she'd planned for her protagonist in her manuscript.) My initial thought was, "Wow, I never would have trusted my ex to do that." But as I recall, she rewrote the scene because she learned just how difficult it was for a human being to escape duct tape. Do you think she was weird?

The things we do for research are unique and amazing. In my case, early into the first draft of Paper Woman, I realized that I take modern technology blissfully for granted. You know, stuff like indoor plumbing, central heat and air-conditioning, refrigerators, automobiles, cell phones, even the grocery store. Convenience and accessibility underpin my culture and shape my values and reactions. But during the Revolutionary War more than 225 years ago, very little was convenient or accessible. Danger and scarcity shaped decisions, especially for the middle and lower classes.

How well could a woman of the 21st century comprehend that from reading books and interviewing subject matter experts? Rather poorly, in fact. If I intended to create believable fiction about people who lived a couple of centuries ago, I had to get inside my characters' heads — learn what clothing of the era felt like, which everyday challenges people faced, how their world smelled, tasted, and sounded.

That's why I originally became a Revolutionary War reenactor. My family and I — yes, obsessed as I am, I dragged my family into this hobby — spend a typical reenacting weekend at the site of a historical battle, camped in white canvas army tents with no mosquito screens, dressed in eighteenth-century clothing made of natural fibers such as wool and linen. Our menu is limited by what meals we can prepare over a wood fire. Food sometimes gets eaten scorched; the temperature of an open fire isn't as easy to regulate as the temperature in an oven. Running water? Sometimes available. Flush toilets? If we're lucky. Heat or air-conditioning? Ha ha ha!


This is undoubtedly what prompted one interviewer to tell me, "Honey, you really suffer for your art!" My "suffering" is temporary, a mere forty-eight hour sample of what our foremothers and forefathers dealt with 24/7. My hat's off to them. They were hardy folk.

But the peculiar payoff from hands-on research is the world-broadening effect it has on the researcher. At almost every weekend event I've attended, I've encountered an experience that no one could accurately anticipate from reading a book or interviewing an expert. These experiences have supplied me with a far deeper understanding of the trials faced by eighteenth-century people.

For example, learning to load and fire a musket with powder only, no ball. (Note: Reenactors use only powder. Otherwise, there'd be litigation issues and arrests.). Nothing I'd read prepared me for the noise of the musket, how hot it gets after firing, the weight of it, or how long it takes to reload. One time, I fired a ball in a secluded location, so I could feel the difference in the musket's kick when fully loaded. My smugness over hitting a pine tree at human heart level quickly vanished when I realized the musket ball could have ricocheted and killed someone. How often did that happen in skirmishes 225 years ago?

How about learning to start a fire from flint and steel? (Note: This is an exercise in hyperventilation.) Not until I'd fumbled this feat a few times did I comprehend the impact of natural variables, such as wind and humidity, on establishing a fire when you don't even have the convenience of matches. Try starting a fire with flint and steel on a windy, wintry night.

And learning to move in a petticoat. Imagine the difficulty of doing so when sweat plasters your shift to your upper thighs beneath the petticoat, or a brisk wind provides the "Flying Nun" effect while you carry firewood, or your petticoat becomes soaked with rain. No reference book could have prepared me for how quickly a sudden breeze whipped my petticoat into the campfire at one event. Did you know that being burned was one of the top causes of death for women in the eighteenth century? (Note: Every year, a few reenactor women have to be extinguished after their petticoats catch fire.)

Not all my moments of enlightenment have been so blatant or instantaneous.

My family and I reenact on the Crown forces side. For every battle, I watch the three most important guys in my life don scarlet coats and line up on the battlefield with their weapons. Across the field from them is a swarm of guys in blue coats. So I get asked the inevitable questions at booksignings and reenacting events, sometimes shyly, sometimes with indignation. Why have I chosen to portray a loyalist, rather than a patriot? A loser, rather than a winner? A villain, rather than a hero?



Initially, I sought the Crown forces camp because the protagonists of my first two books are neutrals. Since school age, I'd had the patriot point of view drilled into me, and I felt I needed the other point of view to create balanced, believable neutrals on the page. But I remained in the Crown forces camp because I absorbed another truth while there. Soldiers who fought for King George the Third in the colonies didn't see themselves as villains or losers. Neither did many colonists see them as such. History is, indeed, written by the victors, and there are two sides to every conflict. I don't forget that when I develop my characters. The pièce de résistance from my research has been raising two sons who have learned to pause and value the other side of an argument.

Research gives me a panoramic, three-dimensional perspective. It enables me to texture my stories differently from those set in contemporary times — and those stories should be different. How believable are fictional worlds in which historical characters are, beneath their period clothing, merely people with their hearts and heads in the 21st century?

My blessings upon you the next time you unroll the duct tape, take fencing lessons, leave another message on the answering machine of an elusive crime reporter, or read up on Charles Manson or Jim Jones.

Thanks for stopping by Meanderings and Muses today, and a big thanks to Kaye for having me as her guest.

What's the wildest thing you've done for your own research?

Who's Reading What We're Writing? Sit down my friends, and let me tell you a story . . .

Just when I think I have things figured out, the world does a shift. I have no idea why that might surprise me, you'd think I'd know all about that by now, huh? If there's one thing we can count on happening in this world, it's that things are going to change.

Still, I thought I just might, at the very least, have this blogging thing pretty much figured out. At least to some extent.

You would think.

There are a few concrete things bloggers know about what's going on at their site. By comments left, by the number of hits shown in the counter, along with information captured by and analysis given by the site meter - such as who's visited, for how long, etc.

But here's what I don't know much about, and what I'm learning a little bit about, and what I'm finding fascinating.

Those anonymous people who type a word or a name or a phrase into Google and somehow end up here.

Earlier this week I had someone ask me to send them a recipe out of the Secrets from Atlanta's Best Kitchens. This was someone in Atlanta who owns the cookbook but can't find it since they moved to a new home. They had eaten Shrimp Scampi at The Ambassador many years ago and decided it was time to have it again. Being unable to find the cookbook they knew the recipe was in, they Googled it and ended up at Meanderings and Muses, where I had recently written about some of my favorite cookbooks. Cool! Don't you think that's cool? I am fascinated by the internet. I've said it a million times - look and dig hard enough and you can find practically anything you want. For someone who has a bit of curiosity about things and who loves to research things, the internet is just a whole bunch of fun.

And then this morning one of the saddest things ever occurred.

And with the permission of the person behind it, here's the story.

I received a little note that touched my heart and brought tears. It was from a woman named Lisa Wainwright.

In the piece I wrote here about attending Bouchercon last year, I talked the teeniest bit about the man who drove the limo to the airport from the hotel.

His name was Darryl Wainwright. and here's what I wrote:

"Mr. Darryl Wainwright, our driver, was typical of the kindness and grace I had basked in since arriving in Baltimore. We had a wonderful chat about the days when citizens of Baltimore were world famous for scrubbing down the marble steps to their brownstones. When Baltimore culture included window screens painted by local screen painters with murals. Mr. Wainwright is a gentleman, a husband and a dad who has raised five children in the City of Baltimore, and is now the proud grandparent of one grandson in college. He was gracious and humorous and gladdened when we voiced our appreciation to his fine city for a few days that will live in my heart forever."

and here's a copy of the note I received this morning.

Hello Ms. Barley,

My name is Lisa Wainwright the sister of Mr. Darryl Wainwright. I was searching the internet about other articles on my brother when I came across your article. I’m so very touched with your message regarding your encounter with Darryl. Your description of him being “kind, gentle and a gentleman” describes him completely. Thank you for your heart felt expressions and I’m glad you had the chance to meet one of God’s greatest gift “my brother”. Unfortunately, Darryl passed away on August 5^, 2009. I wanted to contact you because it is not everyday that a person touches your life for a brief moment and leave such wonderful impression. Thank you for your kind message.

Sincerely,

Lisa Wainwright

This note from Ms. Wainwright moves me to ponder a couple of things. One being the power of a man named Darryl Wainwright to touch lives. We, as a society, tend to measure success by a person's monetary assets. We could all be well served, I think, to remember another measurement is by the things people might say about us once we're gone. I think Darryl Wainwright was probably an exceptionally successful man if judged by the lives he apparently touched, and the things many - myself included - are now saying about him. I feel quite blessed to have had an opportunity to spend even a short little bit of time with a man who just may have been one of those angels who walks amongst us. I appreciate Lisa Wainwright letting me know of his passing so that I can spend a few minutes remembering his graciousness, his laugh, his pride of family and his smile as he said good-bye to me at the Baltimore Airport. It's a smile I will never forget.

So, along with that sadness that Lisa's note brought me, and through the notes she and I have exchanged this afternoon, comes something else. And it's lovely, I think. The fact that Lisa went on-line looking for articles about her brother, found quite a few, including this little snippet I had written last October, and felt moved enough to write to a complete stranger about a sadness that she's experiencing through the loss of her beloved brother. I'm quite honored. And I'm very humbled.

Imam Darryl Wainwright

July 25, 1950 - August 5, 2009

Unexpected Favorites by Neil Plakcy

Neil Plakcy is the author of Mahu, Mahu Surfer, Mahu Fire and Mahu Vice, mystery novels set in Hawaii, as well as the romance novels GayLife.com and Three Wrong Turns in the Desert (coming September 29 from Loose Id). He edited Paws & Reflect: A Special Bond Between Man and Dog and the gay erotic anthologies Hard Hats and Surfer Boys.

Plakcy is a journalist and book reviewer as well as an assistant professor of English at Broward College's south campus in Pembroke Pines. He is vice president of the Florida chapter of Mystery Writers of America.



www.mahubooks.com
http://twitter.com/NeilPlakcy






Unexpected Favorites by Neil Plakcy

If you know me as a writer of a police procedural series featuring a gay cop in Honolulu, Hawaii, you might make some assumptions about what I like to read. For the most part, you’d be right. I love mysteries, an affection I nourished throughout my teen years on a steady diet of Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham, and other classic detective authors.

I read almost everything that comes out in the gay mystery niche, which is bigger than you might think—there were 19 nominees for the Lambda Literary Award for best gay men’s mystery last year. It’s not a stretch to assume I’d read other gay fiction and at least a few books from the best-seller list. Delve a little deeper into my background and find that I was an English major in college, that I have a master’s in creative writing and I teach writing at a college, and you can see that I might appreciate James Joyce, Jane Austen and George Eliot.

But I have a few unexpected favorites, too. There’s a fantasy trend that runs through my reading, from Tolkien to Rowling to Neal Stephenson, whose works encompass historical and speculative fiction. Naomi Novik and her Napoleonic dragon series, and the Percy Jackson series by Rick Riordan, feed that appetite.

Those British mysteries honed my appetite for Anglophilia. I read the R. F. Delderfield historicals in high school, as well as the village stories of Miss Read, a pseudonymous country school teacher whose books are as charming as Alexander McCall Smith’s Mma. Ramotswe series, without quite so much murder and mayhem. (Though when the gypsies bring their carnival to Fairacre, watch out!)

When I ran out of library books at home, I could always dip into my mother’s teetering stack of Harlequin romances, and from them I developed a taste for chick lit and humorous romance. I love what are called “Aga Sagas” in Britain, big thick romances by Jilly Cooper and others, named for a kind of stove.

Maybe that’s what led me to Laurie Colwin.

For the most part, I don’t reread books. Colwin is one major exception. Happy All The Time is like comfort food to me, something I dip into over and over again. Colwin’s charm, insight into human behavior, and the way her domestic details illuminate character draw me back to her whenever I need a boost.

I’ve worn out one paperback edition and replaced it with a newer one. I’ve read and enjoyed her other books, including the two collections of her Gourmet magazine essays called Home Cooking. But Happy All The Time is the book that draws me back. It’s the story of two young men of wealth, education and privilege, living in 1980s Boston and New York, and the women they fall in love with. It’s a simple story, in the end, but the characters are so vivid, the locales so perfectly evoked, that it somehow transcends its simple material.

I’ll bet we all have one or more of those unexpected favorites. What are yours?

What might your friends or fans be surprised to learn that you read?

Saturday Morning Meanderings . . . and one of the prettiest, easiest desserts ever

One of my favorite mystery series is written by Vicki Lane; the Elizabeth Goodweather Appalachian Mystery Series. It just so happens, Vicki also writes one of my favorite blogs. Sometimes she writes about her writing, sometimes she writes about what wonderful foods are cooking in her kitchen, and sometimes she takes us for a stroll around her farm in these beautiful North Carolina mountains, which is a pure piece of heaven. Always she includes some of the most gorgeous photos imaginable.

I love Vicki's books. And I'm not alone - her In A Dark Season is up for an Anthony Award this year - a very prestigous award in the mystery world. The Anthony Awards are presented at Bouchercon, this year to be held in Indianapolis. While I'm waiting for Vicki's next book, I get a great deal of joy from her Vicki Lane Mysteries Blogspot. I hope she'll take my little attempt at copying the peace, serenity and joy of her lovely blog here at Meanderings and Muses this morning in the spirit meant and remember that "imitation is the greatest form of flattery."


It's a gorgeous, cool day in the mountains. We're lucky for not having to suffer extreme heat or humidity here in Boone, but I must say - this is the coolest summer I can remember. Perfect!
Let's get out and enjoy it -


Time for a walk, Harley!!


hmmm. . .
maybe not.


okay - I'm going without you . . .


oh? changed your mind, huh?


well, then - let's take a little stroll








wonder when this bed is going to fill in enough to hide the telephone pole thingie, since that was the whole purpose of putting it here . . .




okeey doke, Harley; let's run run run -
back to the house.

Time to fix a dessert.


When Donald and I were still in Atlanta and working at Georgia Tech, I worked for awhile with a young woman named Gigi Markyna. Gigi is a fantastic cook, and an even better baker - ooooooh mercy - those desserts! One of my favorites is her Obsttorte (or fruit torte) which she bakes from her mother's recipe, and which she was gracious enough to share with me.

Funny coincidence concerning Gigi and her Obsttorte. I made this lovely dessert for our neighborhood 4th of July party. I had not made it in forever; simply because I had forgotten all about it. Donald suggested it, saying "how 'bout that dessert Gigi used to make?" I remembered immediately which dessert he meant, and we wondered how Gigi might be and what she was up to.

Then not even two weeks later, Gigi and I rediscovered one another at Facebook and are in the process of playing "catch-up."

So - get yourself a torte pan, like this one - - -


and pull out your prettiest platter (I happen to be addicted to pottery. More about that another day in another blog).


Whip up your torte, and choose whatever fruit and/or berries you want to use on top. On this one I used strawberries and blackberries, but the choices are endless.


Spoon a little whipped cream on top, and Voilà, a taste of summer!

Two-on-Two Interview of Crime Fiction Couple Robert W. & Miranda Phillips Walker by Kaye Barley

I, Kaye Barley, being of sound mind and body, caught up with Robert W. Walker and wife Miranda Phillips Walker in Kill Devil Hills, NC in a shady, seedy dark dive that specialized in exotic drinks and an ocean breeze, as the bar amounted to a garage door that opened and closed on the sea. You know the type of place where seagulls and pelicans pick apart the leavings from your table? Where paper towels stand in for napkins? Where tattooed servers look like meth heads? The Walkers were doing research, and it was the only time I could see them for an interview before they left NC. I found them in a jolly, receptive mood here at Buck’s Gunshop and Oyster Bar.

My initial question broke the ice as I sat across the picnic bench from the infamous crime writing duo, asking, “So how have you two managed to only kill off fictional characters with two crime novelists under one roof?” Rob, whose latest is Dead On, Five Star Books and Miranda's latest and first is The Well Meaning Killer from Krill Press, turned to one another and smiled wide.

Rob sardonically replied, “Both our books are enjoying rave reviews. No reason for any ahhh…in-house bloodshed, right dear?”

Miranda nodded appreciatively. “The wonder is that the dogs in both our books also managed to survive.”

I asked, “I understand your son, Stephen, did the artwork and cover design for Dead On, and it is a fantastic cover.

Rob perked up at this. “The kid’s got his own graphic arts biz, and he’s a genius at it. How many publishers do you know who go with a cover designed by the author’s son?”

Miranda smiled proudly. “Stephen’s helped us with promotion material and business cards as well. It’s all in the family. And while my cover art is not designed by Stephen, it’s pretty hot, too!”

Recording the answers, I next asked, “What’re you two hoping to find here in the Outer Banks? I understand you’re doing research for your next book?”

Miranda shouted, “Oh, oh—this one’s for me. My sequel to The Well Meaning Killer is set here, and while we’ve visited the area before, Rob says there’s nothing like firsthand research for a book—especially if I’m footing the hotel bill.”

Rob leapt in with, “She’s seriously researching, and I’m seriously on R&R—came for the beach, the sun, surf, Buck’s Oysters, the Wright Brothers museum, the nightlife. But I think a setting with the name Kill Devil Hills in itself tells a reader to be on the look-out.”

“I see, so this will be a continuation of Megan McKenna’s FBI casework, eh?” I asked.

“That’s right, and I bring on some new characters to kill off! Bringing back some characters, who didn’t die in The Well Meaning Killer.”

Rob piped in with, “I think only Max, the dog, survived that last one, hon.”

“Nooooo! Some people survived that book as well.”

“Here I thought you were trying to trump my body count,” Rob joked and sipped at his Blue Moon.

At this point, I felt I should ask another question or order a drink. I did both. “Rob, you don’t intend to use Kill Devil Hills in a sequel to Dead On or another title?”

“When I set a book in New Orleans, I do NOT use Anne Rice’s cemetery, and I also steer clear of anything smacking of James Lee Burke, so as to make my New Orleans unique. Using Kill Devil Hills on the “heels” of Miranda Phillips Walker, no way. Colorful place but no way.”

Miranda muttered in his ear, “That’s OK, Rob, if he wanna use the location in the future sometime.” Rob pouted and said it was spoiled now for him.

“Will you two ever collaborate on a book?” I asked and man did this break up the bit of bickering.

They looked like two deer caught in the headlights. And both said at once, “No, no, no,” as in a chant. Then they added, “Maybe, maybe, maybe.”

“We love one another too much for that,” Miranda suggested.

“Family is far more important than fame, fortune, or any of that sort of nonsense,” added Rob, the two of them talking over one another in a rush. “However,” added Rob, “never say never. If the right idea came along, and if we can put our egos on the shelf, who knows?”

“Stranger things have happened,” added Miranda. “But honestly, we do read over one another’s work, and we do take good direction from one another.

“Yeah we do help one another throughout the process,” added Rob, “but more importantly, we maintain a respectful relationship toward one another in all we do.”

“Well this has been splendid but time’s run out for me.”

“That sounds like a line in a gangster movie…Curtains for ya…time’s run out for ya, Blackey,” joked Rob and Miranda grabbed him by the arm and tugged him to her. I left the couple in high spirits and laughter amid the music of Buck’s Gunshop and Oyster Bar, but the partners in crime fiction insisted on walking me safely to my car. Outside, the three of us strolled along a thumping, withered old wharf, surrounded by sea oats, below a huge moon over the ocean. At my car, we said our good-byes.

“ I surely wish to thank you and it’s wonderful you two know how to enjoy yourselves in wonderful North Carolina! I never knew this place existed.”

“You gotta go so soon?” asked Rob.

Yeah, the night’s young,” added Miranda.

I slipped into my car with photos taken and recording done wondering if I could sell this thing on eBay or even to Writer’s Crack Me Up Journal, unsure really what I had just faced, but on waking the next day and reviewing my notes, I realized wow, an interesting review overall and I figure Meanderings and Muses could use an infusion of the Walker mystique

For more info on Robert find him on the web where writers hang out and at www.robertwalkerbooks.com

For more info on Miranda find her on the web where writers hang out and at www.mirandawalkerbooks.com

(Note: while I would truly love taking credit for the above piece, in all fairness, I must admit it was written by the talented and ever clever, Mr. Rob Walker. But! One of these days I intend to catch up with Rob and Miranda and kick back with a Blue Moon or two. For real - they're adorable! AND talented!)

Good Stuff

Do you ever have times in your life that you just feel "blah." Nothing really terribly wrong, nothing you can put your finger on and say "this is why I'm feeling (pick a word - mean, sad, ornery, whatever.)."

Well, I go through them. The "blahs."

Not often. Thank Goodness.

And when they pass I want to kick myself because all in all, I have a lovely life.



I have the dearest husband on God's green earth.
























I still have my mom, who is my buddy. She's 82 and still spry and sharp and funny and dear.




I have Harley.




I have a home I love.




And I have some of the best friends ever. Some have been in my life since I was a little girl, some have been with me since I was a young single woman in Atlanta, some I've met since I've become a happily married woman. There are my new friends I've met since we moved here to Boone 12 years ago. And there are those who are involved in some way in the mystery community, and those in the blogging world.

My latest funk was pulled right out from under my feet very recently by women of the mystery world and a new woman friend in the blogging world.

It's hard to feel sorry for yourself when you find your very own name in one of your favorite mystery author's newsletter. Hard to feel sorry for yourself when you open your mailbox and find a copy of a yet to be released mystery novel with a sweet note full of hugs tucked inside the book. And hard to feel sorry for yourself when a new blogging friend sends you an award and writes nice things about your blog at her own blog. That would be Sam Hoffer at the wonderful My Carolina Kitchen. Sam's recipes and photos are enough to keep me hungry, and her lovely stories keep me entertained. And bless her heart, she sent me this little award just when I was in sincere need of a boost.


This is an award given to blogs that have made a splash. That, my friends, is heartening beyond words. If Meanderings and Muses has caused even a ripple, a smile, or moved someone to think a little harder about something, I am pleased. If it has perhaps helped someone discover a new author or a new book, or has maybe just helped someone enjoy a little bit of time away from a day that wasn't one of their best. Then, as the saying goes, my work is done.

I enjoy being told I've made a splash, and as with all the blogger awards, I will pass it along to one of my favorite bloggers who has, for sure, made a splash.

Jen Forbus is making a very big splash with her Jen's Book Thoughts. She's captured the attention of the mystery community in a big way, and is one of its favorite bloggers. One of her most fun weekly events is "You Have the Right to Six Words: Six-Word Memoirs From Crime Fiction's Greatest Writers." She's had some heavy hitters, for real! Including one of my very favorite writers - Laura Lippman. If you haven't visited with Jen yet, do drop by and say hey to her. I think you'll enjoy your visit.

And about those blahs? Honey - they're long gone. Counting your blessings can always help chase the blues away.

That and planning a little trip. We're going to head down to Raleigh next week for Margaret Maron's book launch for her newest - Sand Sharks. And I promise to come back and tell you all about it.

Dad Duty by P. J. Coldren

P. J has been reading mystery (and other genres) since before she can remember. She started with, as so many of us did, Nancy Drew and moved on to Agatha Christie when her mother got tired of listening to her raving about (as she phrased it) "that nosy little witch" and told her to read something worthwhile. She read Agatha Christie and Rex Stout until she met Luci Zahray, "The Poison Lady" who broadened and deepened her mystery reading. She and P.J. used to teach Community Education classes on "The Mystery Novel" when they both lived in Holland MI. P.J. has been a preliminary judge for the Malice Domestic/St. Martin's Press Best First Traditional Mystery Novel Contest for over a decade and picked the 2003 winner. She used to review for Ann Williams' fanzine The Criminal Record and several other small fanzines none of which are still in existence. When she is at the top of her game she has a book-a-day habit not all of it mystery.

I spent 7 hours yesterday on "Dad Duty".

My father is 85 years old. He lives about 20 miles from me, in an assisted living facility. There is nothing radically wrong with Dad: no diabetes, heart disease, lung problems, cancer, nothing specific that will kill him. Still, he is losing mobility, and cognitive function.

Yesterday was, as these days go, a good day. It only took an hour or so to get him from flat in bed to dressed and wheeling out the door. When he first moved out here, a year and a half ago, it took closer to half an hour. Some days, he never does get vertical.

About the only thing that motivates Dad to get up these days is a "cigar ride". He is not allowed to smoke in his apartment. He understands the reasons for this, but he doesn't much like them. So, for the last year and a half, the only time he can smoke a cigar is when I'm driving someplace or when he comes out and sits on my deck. I live in northern Michigan; deck days are limited by weather and my work schedule. Yesterday was a two-cigar day. He smokes Churchill TeAmos, so one cigar is about an hour of driving. I had errands to run in town, and then I just drove around the countryside for a while.

He decided that pizza sounded good for supper. Fine by me. So we went to a local, non-chain, pizza place that we like and he had 2 glasses of Chianti; he rated them slightly higher in quality than the Gallo Paisano he used to buy in gallon jugs when I was a kid, the wine I still use when I make lasagna. And he ate almost all his pizza, which was wonderful. His appetite has been shrinking; all his appetites have been shrinking. He doesn't eat much, he has all but stopped drinking (which stuns the rest of the family), and he's pretty content with one cigar ride a week.

We got back to his place just as a thunderstorm hit. The rain started just as I wheeled him into his room. Lots of lightning and thunder, rain in buckets. Still, he wanted to go to bed. There was a time when he'd have wanted to sit out under the canopy and watch the storm. Not any more. So I helped him get ready, which consisted of taking off his slippers and his shirt. And I headed for home.

What, if anything, does this have to do with mysteries? The only books Dad has any interest at all in reading are the Nero Wolfe Rex Stouts. Not the Inspector Cramer. Not the Dol Bonner. Just the Wolfes. And he's worked his way through most of them since he's been here. I can't get him interested in anyone else. Reading is difficult for him because he has some macular degeneration. I grew up reading Rex Stout because they were around the house, along with lots of other books. I don't remember a time when Dad didn't read. It's hard for me to see Dad lose his interest in reading. It's hard for me to watch Dad give up.

He's never been a give-up kind of guy. When my mother killed herself, they had five kids. The oldest was 14 and mentally retarded. The youngest was a little over 2. He had a family meeting, and we all decided that we could do what needed to be done to stay together. And we did. I'm still amazed that the man is anything resembling sane. He met a woman who was smart enough not to marry him until we were all pretty much grown and gone; they were together at least twenty-five years. He did whatever needed to be done while she was dying from lung cancer. He was an engineer; he does what he calls "my sorts" to prioritize. Then he does what has to be done. Giving up just isn't on his list. Until now.

We have conversations about what the professionals so cautiously and delicately, euphemistically, refer to as "end of life" issues. He's made it very clear what he does want (not much) and what he doesn't want (pretty much any intervention). He's given me the paperwork to make sure he gets what he wants. And he's just waiting, as he puts it, to "wake up dead".

So yesterday was a good day. I could tell you about bad days. The day I spent with Dad and my sister Billy, the developmentally disabled oldest child. She's not comfortable in strange places, and for her, Dad's place is still strange. So she doesn't talk much. When she does talk, she doesn't speak loudly. Dad's totally deaf in one ear and probably significantly impaired in the other ear. Dad asks Billy a question. She shrugs her shoulders. He repeats the question. She answers him, softly. He asks her again, loudly. She answers, loudly. He gets upset because she's yelling at him. I sit in my chair, nudging Billy to answer.

Or the day I spent forty-five minutes listening to Dad tell me his concerns about breakfast. And I quote. First of all, they don't always bring it. (Yes, they do.). Secondly, there is no correlation between the toast and the jam: Sometimes it's two pieces of toast which is one slice of bread sliced in two, and two packets of jelly, never butter although the toast is buttered. Sometimes it's three pieces of toast and only one jelly, still no butter. Sometimes it's four pieces of toast and 3 jellies. And it's hard to tell if the eggs are done. Sometimes the yolk drips out when I bite into the sandwich. (Yes, I know, because I can see the egg drips on the carpet by your table.) And there's no rhyme nor reason to the bacon, when it comes or how many pieces there are. Forty-five minutes.

In my head, I can hear Trace Atkins' song, "You're Gonna Miss This". I know I will. Even on days when I dread "Dad Duty", I know I won't have it too much longer. So days like yesterday are wonderful. He said, just before I left, that he'd had a good day. Me, too.

What Makes You Crazy?

Is there something that makes you nuts? Something that just pushes your buttons? Something that will make you run run run far away?

Negativity.

That's the thing I can say without hesitation that I truly hate. SEE?! The very word conjures up another negative word!

Negativity breeds negativity.
and apathy.
and hostility.

Tis a bad thing.

I'd like very much to hear how you feel about it.

But if it's not negativity that makes you nuts, what might it be?