Into the Wild

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by Susan McBride

Today I’m filling in for the Northern half of Evelyn David, and it’s my honor to do so. I decided to tell y’all the story of the cardinals who live in our yard, and I do mean the actual birds. If we had a pair of Cardinal ball players nesting in our pear tree, I have a feeling even animal-lover Tony LaRussa would not be too happy about it.

Let me start at the very beginning. When Ed and I bought our house three years ago, the yard had been neglected for quite awhile. The bad kind of honeysuckle had grown rampant in our backyard, and Ed practically had to go out wielding a machete to chop it back (and we still have more chopping to do–that stuff doesn’t die easily, does it?). I unearthed lots of brick garden surrounds and added more so I could plant like a maniac. We cut back ivy from the patio and found the loveliest stone border. The side yard, which we labeled “The Wasteland,” was regraded with help from a landscaping crew. A flagstone path was added with liriope on either side. Our rose bushes came back to life, and things started looking healthy and happy again.

The front yard was no better than the back. We hired Ray’s Tree Service to tear out a HUGE forsythia bush that had morphed into a 6′ x 6′ blob. Half of it grew over the driveway, which made it hard for Ed to put his car in on that side until he’d hacked it back to the grass. We managed to trim down another forsythia, and we demolished weeds that had grown over the gas meter and a downspout. Six other overgrown shrubs sat in the second tier of a “garden” directly in front of the house. We pruned them as much as we could, but still the tallest stood about 8′ or 9′ and even the flatter bushes went half-way up the frames of our nearly floor-to-ceiling windows. We finally decided to have those torn out as well after finding damage to the wood window frames and realizing rain-water was leaking into the basement down that outside wall.

I’m glad I was home the day Ray’s crew showed up to cut those suckers down. Just before they hauled the 8′ or 9′ shrub to their truck, I noticed a nest within and two baby birds practically falling out. I removed it, worried the babies were dead already beacuse they were SO tiny and pink. It was cold that day, sunny but with a blustery wind. I had no clue what to do with them. I stuck the nest in the only remaining bush nearby: the saved forysthia. Then I ran inside and called my mom.

Thank goodness, Mom remembered there was the Wild Bird Sanctuary in Overland, which wasn’t too far from where we live. I called the place first, asking what to do, and they basically advised I leave the nest in the forsythia bush so the mother could find her kids. Well, I sat behind the storm door for an hour or more, watching Mama Cardinal frantically hop around, chirping, looking for her babies. She flew all around the front of the house, but the wee cardinals obviously weren’t making a sound. So she couldn’t find them.

I felt awful, like a baby bird killer. Plus, here in St. Louis where the baseball Cardinals rule, it would have been sacrilegious to let newborn cardinals die. So I called the Wild Bird Sanctuary again (okay, and again and again), until they finally said, “Just bring ’em down here!” I was advised to fill a baggie with warm water, put it in a shoebox, then set the nest on top of it. I covered the whole thing with a soft piece of T-shirt. And I drove to Overland to get the babies into caring hands tout suite.

I was told the babies were a day-old at most, and I worried about them all night. I had promised my mom and my husband that I wouldn’t call and check on them. So, the next day, I started to dial a few times but made myself hang up. Until I couldn’t stand it anymore and rang the Sanctuary once more, asking as soon as they picked up, “How are the babies? Did they live through the night?” I realized the first 24-hours were the most crucial so when I was told, “They made it, and they’re keeping us busy today!” I breathed a huge sigh of relief. And, no, I didn’t call again. That was enough for me. I firmly believed they would live.

With the overgrown shrubs gone, (thankfully) the Mama Cardinal and her red hubby moved into the backyard. We put out a feeder for them filled with wild bird seed (which Squirrelly Squirrel likes to hang by his toes and enjoy way too often–he’s already pulled it down twice). Best of all, I saw Mama Cardinal gobble at the feeder and then fly into the pear tree. Soon after, I heard chirping and could just barely see her feeding a wee cardinal. Ed and I witnessed several more tiny bird-lings hopping from branch to branch inside the pear tree not long after. It warmed my heart to think that Mama and Papa Cardinal had another batch of babies after the two lost to them (but saved from the tree shredder). Yeah, I’m a sucker for a story with a happy ending.

P.S. We’re on our second feeder (a “squirrel-proof” one this time) after Squirrely Squirrel knocked the first one down for the third time and broke it for good. Muhaha, we humans aren’t as stupid as we look, Squirrely Squirrel!

The Perils of Public Speaking

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Hannah Dennison began her writing career in 1977 as a trainee reporter for a small West Country newspaper in Devon, England. While the English countryside would always be home in her heart, she yearned to see the world on a grander scale. For more than a decade, she traveled the globe working as a flight attendant on private jets, while dreaming of someday landing in Hollywood to pursue a writing career. After an inspiring conversation with Steven Spielberg during a flight to the Middle East, Hannah decided to take his advice and follow her passion. Without a net in sight, she took a leap of faith and moved from England to Los Angeles, with her daughter and their two cats in tow. Once in Hollywood, she worked as a story analyst for several motion picture studios, while producing a hefty stack of her own screenplays. After enrolling in the UCLA Writer’s Program, Hannah decided to focus exclusively on writing long form narrative and began the Vicky Hill mysteries. Her first book, A VICKY HILL EXCLUSIVE! was published in March of 2008 with SCOOP! in March of 2009 – and the third, EXPOSE! will follow in December 2009. Hannah still has a demanding day job. For the past ten years she has worked as an executive assistant to the Chairman of a west coast advertising company. She is married to a fellow writer.

Call me naive, but I had no idea that public speaking would become such a huge part in my life as a published author. It’s one thing pretending to be someone else on stage or playing charades at Christmas, but being myself and trying to be witty and entertaining in front of strangers is mortifying. I can cope with simple book signings where spelling a name is easy enough; I can even handle a five-minute carefully rehearsed introduction, but it’s the bookstore appearances with a lively twenty-minute pitch that gets me hot under the collar. Taking part on a panel is only a tad more bearable because a) I am with kindred spirits and b) with luck, questions will have been sent over in advance—even though the Q & A that follows can sometimes be unpredictable.

You’d think I’d be more confident having published two books in the VICKY HILL mystery series with another coming out in December. I’m certainly better than the very first time I read aloud wearing a skirt above the knee. My husband said the audience was captivated by the speed at which my kneecaps were moving.

The worst is the after-dinner speaker gig that really sets my nerves on edge. My first humiliating experience came when I was guest speaker at a local mystery club with a three-course meal thrown in. No, I didn’t get plastered and fall off the podium in a drunken stupor but I was so anxious, I couldn’t eat a bite. When nervous, I make a habit of taking my eyeglasses on and off. On this particular evening—accompanied by the loud grumblings of an empty tummy—I thought I delivered my speech quite well. People seemed entertained. They were laughing. It was only on my way home that I discovered the large clump of strawberry cheesecake stuck in my hair above my right ear. I’d accidentally put my eyeglasses down in my dessert.

But now all that is about to change.

At a recent Los Angeles chapter meeting of Sisters in Crime, award winning Toastmaster maven, Susan Mayberry, and professional pitch consultant and author, Donna Sozio, gave us some great tips on the art of public speaking.

In a nutshell, it’s very cheering to know that listeners only pay attention to 5% of the actual words spoken, 38% to the tone of the voice and the remaining 55% to the presentation. The key is to be energetic and make eye contact with your audience. My favorite tip when reading aloud from a lectern is to type the excerpt in 18 pt font using only the top third of each sheet of paper. This means a quick downward glance keeps you on track. There is no shaking of papers with trembling hands and you can still maintain the all-important eye contact.

I was so excited by the sound of Toastmasters that I decided to go to a meeting. It was a lot of fun, not remotely daunting and membership will not break the bank. Each week there are assignments that you can take part in or just observe until you feel confident to give it a go. Generally, there are prepared speeches between five and seven minutes and a “table-top” topic (a spontaneous off the cuff presentation) running around two to three minutes.

Each week, members are encouraged to volunteer for various roles. The Wizard of Ahs must pay attention to the number of ah’s, um’s and word repetitions uttered by all speakers; the Grammarian is responsible for grammar and sentence construction; the Timer holds up various colored coded cards to ensure speeches are kept to the correct length and the Master of Chuckles is self-explanatory! Evaluation is offered in a way that I found surprisingly nurturing and supportive.

I signed up immediately. With my next public speaking engagement only a few weeks away, I’m looking forward to reading aloud, wearing a skirt above the knee and devouring everything on the menu.

Hannah Dennison
http://www.hannahdennison.com/

August Fun in the Ozarks

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I usually end up taking my vacation from my “day job” in August. I say from my “day job” because I’m not sure writers ever take a vacation from writing or from thinking about writing. I’m still officially on vacation until Tuesday. I’ll spend the remaining days doing some home maintenance and plotting out a new stand-alone novel.

As I’m writing this blog, I’m eyeing the unpacked bags stacked on my living room floor. A few hours previously, I’d returned from a three day trip to Eureka Springs, Arkansas with a side trip on Tuesday to Branson, Missouri. A three day trip required two soft-side suitcases, my laptop, my camera, an ice chest, and a tote for miscellaneous stuff that wouldn’t fit into one of the other bags. I hate lugging so much stuff in and out of the hotel and car, but I just can’t seem to do with less. I count this last trip as a success since I didn’t forget to pack anything vital and I didn’t leave anything behind. (Note: whoever was staying the cabin 1003 before me left behind a green cotton t-shirt – sized small. It’s still hanging in the closet if you’re looking for it.)

Speaking of cabins, my brother and I stayed at a cabin at the Crescent Hotel in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Last year we stayed in regular rooms in the hotel proper. The cabins were a much better experience! I love visiting old buildings, but I like sleeping in new ones with air conditioning and updated plumbing. The cabin we stayed in was wonderful – two bedrooms, two baths, full kitchen, fireplace, deck, three flat screen televisions, excellent satellite reception, and wireless internet. With the floor to ceiling windows on the side facing the valley below – it felt like we were staying in a very elegant tree house.

The Crescent Hotel is a famous destination for weddings and – since being featured on Ghost Hunters – a hot spot for ghost tours. We were there for the ghost tour. Last year’s tour was wonderful – this year’s not so much. Have you noticed whenever something really good also becomes very popular, the quality almost immediately goes down? The first time there were about 20 people taking the tour. This week’s tour included almost three times that number. Everyone was stepping on each other in the narrow hallways, snapping photos of the back of someone’s head, and trying to hear the tour guide over the murmurings of the crowd. I’m sure the ghosts found better places to hang out – about halfway through, I did too.

But even with an absence of ghosts, the time I spent sitting in a rocker on the hotel veranda, watching an evening thunderstorm roll in, made the whole trip worthwhile.

On Tuesday we drove to Branson and went through the Titanic Museum. The self-guided tour included many interactive exhibits. Nothing like sitting in a lifeboat and listening to the stories of survivors of the sinking to put an Atlantic chill in your bones. Don’t confuse this museum with the traveling Titanic exhibits with items salvaged from the ship. The Titanic Museum in Branson offers fun doses of history and replicas of some of the ship staterooms and radio telegraph equipment, but no recovered items from the actual sunken ship. This museum is a great destination for history buffs and kids of all ages. I really wanted the “Rose Doll” (modeled on the character in the Titanic movie) sold in the gift ship, but I refrained. My house already has too many dolls – and I hardly ever play with them!

I did buy a book while I was away, In the Woods, a mystery by Tana French. I’m about a 100 pages into it and I’m hooked. Can’t wait to finish it.

I hope everyone managed some type of vacation this summer – even if it’s just a few hours on the deck with a good mystery!

Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com/

Non-Negotiables

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I was recently talking to a friend—a mother of four daughters ranging in age from 18 to 5—about her departure for London, which would take place the next day. Her oldest daughter is starting college in the fall so the family decided it would be a good time to take one last “family vacation” before life got more complicated and her oldest daughter either spent extra time at school or toiling away at a full-time job.

I asked her what time the car service was picking up the family. She seemed surprised that I asked. “We never take car service,” was her response. Her husband drives everyone to the terminal, drops them off, and then travels to some remote location on the border of Queens and Long Island and parks the car in long-term parking. That’s four children, one mom, six suitcases, and six carry-on bags. And because they’re going to London, six umbrellas. He returns to the terminal, hot and sweating and shaky from the excursion, hoping that he can reconnect with the family on the ticket line. “How do you usually get to the airport?” she asked.

“Car service,” I explained. There is no way in hell that I’m attempting to drive me, or god forbid, me and the family, to JFK. Driving to the airport in the New York metropolitan area is akin to being stabbed to death by ten thousand paper cuts. It’s long, it’s tortuous, and it never ends well. But for my friend, whose family could afford the luxury of car service, taking said service is a non-negotiable. It’s just not something that they do. They’ve always driven themselves to the airport and always put the car in long-term parking and that’s what they’ll continue to do.

My friend and I started talking about the non-negotiables in our lives and decided that we had a few in common one being the combined ATM/Visa card. I received one of these recently from our bank and promptly put it in a drawer. Why? 1) Because I didn’t order it from the bank and 2) because I only want an ATM card that dispenses money when I need it. I don’t need any more credit. I also don’t want to complicate things by not knowing if I’m debiting or charging or both. I want to use my debit card to take money from my account and my separate Visa card to charge things for which I don’t actually have the money for on that given day. My husband, Jim, asked me about the combo card the other day, having fielded a call from the bank. “Did you get your combined ATM/Visa card?” he asked, innocently enough. After the diatribe he received from me about how I didn’t ask for it and would never use it, his eyes went glassy and he said that I could talk to the bank the next time they called.

Another non-negotiable? Paying ATM fees. I will walk a thousand miles before I use an ATM from a bank that is not my own and that will charge anywhere from $2.50 to $8.00 to take my own money out of my own account. It’s not that I can’t afford the charge but it just bakes my scrod to give another bank money to use my money to pay for something.

One more non-negotiable: getting my hair dyed professionally. I am a $6 box of hair dye girl and by all accounts, do a pretty darn good job. I just will not pay $50 or more to sit in a chair and have someone else dye my hair when the $6 bottle does just as good a job as the $50 or more colorist. And if you need proof, ask the northern half of Evelyn David; she’s always complimenting my dye job and although she’s a good friend, I don’t think she’s lying. (Are you?)

However, I won’t drive even two miles from home to get cheaper gas. If I need gas, I pull into the nearest gas station and purchase it, regardless of cost. And since I live in an area that is notorious for higher-than-usual gas prices, chances are that I’ve spent in excess of five hundred dollars or more over the last twenty years purchasing expensive gas. But I just don’t care. It’s not worth it to me to make an extra trip or drive further than I need to. My mother is always asking me, “What do you pay for gas?” just so she can hear me say (I’m convinced), “I don’t know.”

I know that not paying an extra $2.50 to get money from a non-sanctioned ATM does not jibe with someone paying extra for gas, but as I said, this post is about non-negotiables which basically boils down to what we can and cannot stand for. I’d love to hear what your non-negotiables are. Do you abhor cheap wine? (I love it.) Or do you not buy generic or less-expensive brands of toiletries? (I buy a lot of Suave products but just so I can hear child #2 ask where the “SWAVE” body wash is.) Weigh in, dear readers.

Maggie Barbieri

An Attempt to Think Up Something For My Turn on This Blog

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Everyone who posts on this blog comes up with such clever topic ideas. For some unknown reason, my mind has drawn a blank. Not that I’m ever that clever, but it does seem like something would pop into my mind.

Because I’m so embroiled in planning the promo for my next Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery, Dispel the Mist, that’s all I can think about. Though the manuscript has been through the editing process at my publishers, I’m now waiting on the galley proof to go over. For some reason, galley proofs never seem to arrive in a timely manner. With my very first book the galley arrived on a Friday with instruction to have them back by Monday. This was long before email and it was an impossibility to get them back that fast. I sent in my corrections, but the typos were all still there when the book came out.

Last year, I had a big book launch planned for Kindred Spirits, out of town and in a Bed and Breakfast with pre-sold tickets for a luncheon. I sweated bullets. I got the books about four days before I had to leave for the event.

With Dispel the Mist, I don’t have anything quite so lavish planned–though I do have events nearly every weekend and I’m hoping I’ll have books by then.

This is the way it is with every book I’ve written. I’m told when the book will be out, I make plans, then I go through the nerve wracking process of whether or not I’ll get the galleys, have enough time to proof (very necessary) and get them back for the whole printing process.

I’m truly eager for Dispel the Mist since one of the characters is the Hairy Man, an Indian legend who may or may not still be roaming the mountains above the Tule River Indian Reservation (Bear Creek Reservation in my books). The cover has a very realistic rendition of the pictograph of the Hairy Man on the Painted Rock on the reservation.

I had a great time writing this book and my heroine’s encounter with this legendary creature.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Vacation Memories with a Smile

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We took our summer vacation last November. When folks ask us where we are going this summer, we’re happy to whip out 50 of our best photos from our trip to visit our daughter in Scotland last Thanksgiving. I notice that people tend not to pursue the conversation further.

I once did an article on traveling with children and an expert I interviewed advised parents not to think of those trips as vacations. Rather, it’s just experiencing family life in a different location. She had a point. No matter where we went, there was always laundry to be done, meals to be figured out, and squabbling to contend with.

Family vacations take on a mythic lore only after you are back home. Then the minor inconveniences (or major ones like the time the entire backyard of the house we rented was covered in tiny cacti!) are the stuff of family legends. Some of our family trips make the movie National Lampoon’s Vacation look like an expensive guided tour.

Like the stream that was described in the brochure as straight out of a Huck Finn adventure, which was instead 30 degrees in August, and didn’t come up to our ankles, once we dipped our toes in it. Or the hike to the top of the mountain in the middle of August that was advertised as experiencing winter in the summer (and why did that seem like a good idea?), which was instead, a sliver of ice between two rocks and more black flies than found in a stable of horses. Or the ski vacation in the Poconos, when we all attempted the bunny slope in the pouring rain. One by one the children went up the rope tow line, let go about half way up what they were describing as Mt. Everest, but was approximately a 20 degree angle and maybe 100 feet high. In any case, first son goes half way up the mountain, lets go of the rope, and immediately drops into a heap unable to get himself up. Son number three follows him, stops a few feet before him, falls into a heap, unable to get up. Son number two, daredevil that he was, holds onto the rope all the way to the top. Screams triumphantly, and immediately falls into a heap…unable to get up.

Father of this crew starts up the same rope tow line (see a pattern here?), falls into a heap – but flips himself over, takes off the d**n skis, and plods his way from one wailing kid to another, unbuckling skis, and standing each child upright to walk down the slope. Mother of the tribe was at the bottom, alternately a little concerned, but also trying desperately not to fall to the ground in hysterics at yet another family vacation gone to Hell in a Handbasket.

Family vacations are part of the glue that binds us to another. Who else will remember the trip to Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream Factory? All of us were atwitter at the concept of a free ice cone. The flavor of the day was Chunky Monkey. With no disrespect to a fine company that does good works, the banana flavor was gross. All six cones, including the one for the then year-old baby daughter, were immediately dumped into the nearest garbage can, with attendant wailing at pitches known to shatter glass. Only Nana, who had politely declined the freebie, and instead paid for her own delicious flavor in a cup, was happy. Obviously, the only solution was to buy ice cream cones for everyone. But now, years later, all anyone has to do to ensure guffaws all around is whisper Chunky Monkey.

This summer is a staycation. We’re enjoying reminiscing about our family forays – and planning a new one. Maybe we can find somewhere that has a rope tow to an ice cream factory?

Where are you headed this summer?

Evelyn David

Murder Takes the Cake by Evelyn David
Murder Off the Books by Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com

Stink You Very Much

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by Susan McBride

Last week, I read about an office in Texas where 34 people were taken to the hospital after a co-worker spritzed herself with perfume. I wondered what that perfume was–Eau de Skunk, perhaps?–and I started having flashbacks.

Years ago, I worked with a very nice woman in the transcription department at a medical practice. She loved Dollar Store perfume. Bear in mind that the “transcription department” was the two of us stuck in a walk-in closet with our computers and no ventilation. The moment she showed up for work and I inhaled the extremely sweet fragrance, I got an instant pounding headache. I tried to breathe through my mouth until I couldn’t stand it anymore. One day I finally broke down and said, “I’m begging you, please, keep the cap on that perfume and use some Ivory soap instead!” She ran crying to everyone else in the place, and I was branded the Mean Girl.

Fortunately for me, she actually listened. She stopped wearing the offending scent. And I stopped getting those pounding headaches.

I recall a year or so back when another Susan McBride sued the City of Detroit after a co-worker’s perfume and perchant for plug-in air fresheners caused illness in the scent-sensitive Detroit Susan. The lawsuit came after Detroit Susan requested that her fellow employee cease and desist with the stink. Although the co-worker said she could do without the air fresheners, she couldn’t live without her perfume. I’m not sure what happened in this case (must Google), but I actually sympathize with Detroit Susan. Being forced to routinely breathe a powerful smell that makes you nauseous isn’t pleasant.

One of my former high school beaus has a lovely mother who regularly doused herself in White Linen. If y’all know what White Linen smells like, you also realize it’s a very strong scent. During car rides with that old boyfriend’s family, I breathed through my mouth and didn’t say a word. I never had the heart to tell Mom o’ Beau that I couldn’t stand to be in a tight space with her because the fumes near to killed me.

I used to wear White Shoulders to every junior high school dance, and I doubt there was a day during high school that didn’t begin with my rubbing Ralph Lauren onto the backs of my wrists. But sometime around college I stopped enjoying perfumes and colognes, and I looked for really softly-scented soaps and body gels instead. That’s when I began experiencing the joy of seasonal allergies, too, so I don’t doubt there’s a connection.

Have you ever gotten in an elevator with someone whose scent made your eyes water? Or run away from an overzealous perfume-squirting sales lady in a department store, screaming, “No, thank you!” Surely I’m not the only one with a sensitivity to smells (okay, me and my Doppelganger in Detroit).

My husband teases me, saying whenever we go out–especially to a sports venue–I’ll always remark, “It smells funny in here.” But then again, places like ice rinks where men play hockey for hours in stinky gear they’ve stuffed in bags in their car trunks (and refuse to wash until the end of the season) does make for a very special odor. Eau de Hockey Gear. Not exactly something the French will decide to bottle in lieu of Chanel No. 5.

Believe it or not, there are scents I adore: fresh strawberries, my mom’s kitchen on Thanksgiving, a crisp fall day, sheets just out of the dryer, cookies hot out of the oven, baby powder, lily-of-the-valley, and newly-cut grass (even if it makes me sneeze!).

Something else that doesn’t stink: my editor loved my revision of THE COUGAR CLUB. Hooray! I’ve got a sneak peek of my new cover, too (see the sidebar for a glimpse). Though the first attempt at cover art definitely had me pinching my nose, this one looks delish! 😉

Good Fences

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I would never just walk into someone’s house. Even if I’d known them for years. I do not take an open or unlocked door as an invitation to enter without permission. But that’s not the case for many – especially in Oklahoma. To counter this, I keep my doors locked – all the time. I’d lock the gates to my backyard if I could, but with no alley, meter readers etc, need access.

My house sits on a long narrow lot, surrounded by smaller square lots. Which means instead of one house on my left, one to my right, and one behind me – I have two on my right, two on my left, and one way, way out back. In other words – I’m surrounded by lots of people.

To counter the feeling that anytime I step outside someone is watching, I’ve planted shrubs and trees and other thick foliage along the four foot chain-link fence that borders my backyard. You’d think this would be enough to ensure my privacy. But it seems like whenever I’m mowing, weeding, or doing anything outside, I have company. Kids who want to sell me candy or magazine subscriptions for their latest school fund raising project, strangers wanting to use the phone, strangers wanting me to pay them to mow my yard, strangers inviting me to their church, and neighbors just wanting to chat as I lug in my groceries.

I’m not a person who likes to chat. I don’t want to know everyone’s business. I’d probably be very happy living in the country with no neighbors playing loud music late on Sunday nights (what reasonable person parties on Sunday nights anyway?); no neighbors using power equipment outside at 8 am on Saturdays; and no neighbors having abusive midnight conversations with their soon to be ex-spouses as they make their way from slamming front door to slamming car door (note: if you’re leaving forever, for heaven’s sake just do it and shut up about it.)

My day job requires me to talk to all kinds of people all day long. Sometimes I spend most of the day on the telephone dealing with problems. I’ve done this for more than 25 years. I only have so much goodwill to give each day. When I come home, I want to do the Greta Garbo thing – I want to be alone.

I treasure my privacy. I want to come home, roll up the drawbridge, and keep the world out. To achieve this, I try not to engage my neighbors in idle conversation. I wave from a distance and hope they do the same. Usually it works, but not always. I had one senior citizen neighbor who insisted on getting my mail out of my mailbox and holding it for me when I was travelling. Sometimes he did it when I was just late getting home from work for the day. This necessitated me checking with him whenever I returned to see if he had any of my mail. I finally got a locking mailbox and that solved one problem.

Now the neighbor to the right of me has moved out. He was one of my favorite neighbors. In twenty years, we’d only had three or four conversations: once when he broke my bathroom window with a rock from his riding lawn mover; once when he cut a tree down and it landed on my fence; once when I found a dying kitten in my backyard (since he had cats, I thought it was one of his. It wasn’t but he took it anyway) and once when he let me know he was moving. Even with the accidents, he was my idea of a good neighbor.

New people are in the process of moving in. If I was a better person, I’d bake some cookies and take them over, but I wouldn’t want them to get the wrong idea. Best to start the way I want to go on.

I’ll smile and wave at them as I fill my moat and feed the alligators. Hopefully, they’ll get the message.

Robert Frost had it right. Good fences make good neighbors.

Any neighbor stories you want to share?

Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com

Bad News Abounds

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There are certain things I just don’t do anymore (thanks to suggestions from my Stiletto posse) which include Googling my name, checking my Amazon numbers, or reading reviews (I’m in good company…apparently Philip Roth doesn’t read his reviews either). I’ve found that all are anxiety producing and I don’t need any reason to feel more nervous than I already do on a daily basis. But last night, after checking out the first ten minutes of the local news—something I do every evening at five o’clock—I’ve added that to my list. No more televised news. Ever—or until my resolve wavers.

We have had a particularly bad stretch of bad news in these parts, though I don’t think we’re unusual in that regard. In the past week alone, we’ve lost a local police officer (a father of three) to a gunshot wound to the face. A woman, inexplicably driving the wrong way on a local road, died in a crash as did her three nieces, her daughter, and three men in another car that she hit. A woman jumped to her death from a local bridge a few nights ago. A young dad walking through Central Park was hit by the branch of a one hundred year old tree and went into a coma. And we’ve always got the fluctuating Dow Jones Industrial, the now-bankrupt “Cash for Clunkers” program, the unemployment rate, and the fate of universal health care to make us remember that not too many good things are happening in the country or the world.

I’ve decided that a head in the sand approach is the best defense against all of this. Goodbye televised news. Hello glass of chardonnay and latest copy of chick lit book.

I made a decision years ago to not see any movies that might upset me. So as good as I hear “The Hurt Locker” is and how amazing the direction is, I’m not going to see it. People possibly getting blown up in Iraq? No, thank you. I thought maybe I’d cut my work day short on Friday and go see “Funny People” until I read in a review that one of the main characters has a fatal blood disease. That’s out. I’m thinking “Aliens in the Attic” might be my safest bet. If one of those aliens—or god forbid one of the children—in the movie meet an untimely end, I will be extremely perturbed.

We’re only a few days into the news moratorium, so I’m not exactly sure how long it will last and I’m sure curiosity will eventually give way. And I also have to admit that I’m still reading the paper every morning, even though I skip the nasty stuff and go straight to the “Hot Finds for Summer!” (it’s always sandals I’m too old to wear) in the Style section or the sports section, where the list of steroid users and their pathetic excuses grow by the day. As someone who has been on steroids for medical reasons, I can tell you this: anyone who would willingly take steroids without a necessitating medical condition is a moron. Plain and simple. Between the weight gain, the mood swings, and the hair sprouting up in places where hair shouldn’t grow on a woman (let’s leave it at that), I wouldn’t care if I could hit a ball a country mile. They just aren’t worth the trouble. (Unless you’ve got extreme intestinal distress, in which case, they are a god send.)

Is there more bad news than usual? Or have I just become extremely sensitized to it? On the plus size, we had the beer summit…and the beer summit…and…I can’t think of anything else. What’s the good news coming out of your neck of the woods these days? And what do you do to combat the weariness you feel after reading day after day of horrible news?

Maggie Barbieri

What I Like and Don’t Like

/in /by

Because I’ll be off visiting my daughters in southern California when this blog comes out I decided to follow what my blog mates have been doing and write a list of things about me, namely what I do and don’t like.

I don’t like TV and radio commentators and reporters from either party who are mean. Being mean is NOT reporting the news nor is it going to change how anyone thinks.

I don’t like people who presume I believe the same way as they do just because I don’t blast my beliefs all over the place.

I don’t like movies that are full of naked people, sex that doesn’t do anything for the story, and coarse language that’s only there for the shock appeal. (I know what people look like without their clothes and most look best covered up, after being married for 57 years I know all about sex and don’t need lessons, and I’m offended by the use of bad language when it isn’t necessary.)

I dislike negative people and avoid them–if I can’t, I think of ways to put them in my next book.

What I do like is a good mystery–one that entertains me and keeps me guessing to the end.

I also like to eat a good meal whether I cooked it or someone else did.

I love being around my family and friends. Nothing more delightful than seeing how the kids are maturing and learning what everyone is doing.

I love being around my church family who I know I can count on for prayer when I need it.

I love good movies: funny movies, scary movies, romantic movies, exciting movies.

I like Facebook despite its addicting qualities.

I love writing mysteries, I love my characters who seem real to me, and I enjoy meeting people who have read my books.

I like more things than I dislike and I tend to avoid the things that I dislike. Life is too short to waste time on things you don’t like.

Now you know more about me than you probably ever wanted to know, but my blog is done and I can go off and have fun with my daughters.

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com