Lea Wait's Blog, page 149

Of Course We’re Giving Books for Christmas

Group Post:  Today, we’re sharing the whats and whys of some of the books our writers will be giving for Christmas this year. Hope you’ll chime in with some of yours as well.

Kate Flora: Recently, at an event for 826 Boston, an organization that coaches writing in[image error] schools founded by David Eggers, I heard Ambassador Samantha Power speak about her life and her new book. She was an impressive and inspiring speaker, and now I have a copy of her book. Another copy or two will be wrapped and under the tree for family members I hope will be equally inspired.

As a Mayflower descendent, I’ve always had a special interest in [image error]Thanksgiving, but it has been a Euro-centric one. Now that we have a daughter-in-law and step-grandson with Native American ancestry, I want to be more informed, so I’ve put this book on my list, and plan to get the children’s version for the ten-year-old. https://www.amazon.com/dp/0807049395/coliid=I2WO546GZOKU0R&colid=3IVXHNP7HI1Q1&psc=1&ref_=lv_ov_lig_dp_it

Darcy Scott: My husband loves both historical nonfiction and all things nautical; finding him a book that combines both (with a bit of true crime thrown in) can be a challenge. This year I think I nailed it with Murder Aboard: The Herbert Fuller Tragedy and the Ordeal of Thomas Bram by C. Michael Hiam—a book Sebastian Junger calls “An utterly original and gripping story of murder on the high seas.”

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The book chronicles the brutal murders of three of the twelve people aboard the Herbert Fuller, a ship hauling lumber from Boston to Argentina in the summer of 1896. Those killed included the captain and his wife, and all were asleep when the murders took place. Though 750 miles from shore, the Herbert Fuller makes for Halifax where the riveting inquest and subsequent trials take place.  C. Michael Hiam, Ph.D., is also the author of Dirigible Dreams: The Age of the Airship; A Monument to Deceit: Sam Adams and the Vietnam Intelligence Wars; and Eddie Shore and That Old-Time Hockey. He lives in Newton, Massachusetts.

Sebastian Junger’s full review: “Hiam has combined true crime with nautical adventure to create an utterly original and gripping story of murder on the high seas. Three people lay hacked to death in their bunks and the murderer had to be on board—but who was it? A fiction writer who dreamed up such a premise could rightfully be proud, and yet it actually happened—and has been brought to life for us by Hiam’s impeccable research and elegant prose.” https://amzn.to/33LEQuu 

Susan Vaughan: For a change of pace, a gift for my great-nieces is a picture book. Maine [image error]author Valerie L. Egar published this fall a delightful Christmas tale, Oh, No! Reindeer Flu!, beautifully illustrated by Tamara Campeau. When the reindeer fall ill on Christmas Eve, the North Pole huskies save the day by pulling Santa’s sleigh. Kirkus Reviews calls Oh, No! Reindeer Flu! “a lively holiday tale that may make youngsters wonder why Santa ever used reindeer in the first place.” To my delight as a dog lover, the huskies steal the show, and the story should charm old and young alike. Valerie L. Egar is also a published poet and author of other children’s stories, Snickertales, that may be viewed on the Snickertales Facebook page. Oh, No! Reindeer Flu! is available in Maine at Sherman’s Books & Stationery stores. For other retailers, readers can go to the publisher’s website at www.whistleoakpublishing.com.

[image error]Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson: As it happens, aside from copies of my own newest (Clause & Effect and an advance reading copy of A View to a Kilt) to two sets of relatives on my husband’s side of the family, I don’t think I’m giving any books this Christmas. Usually I do. I had hits two years running with our great niece, first with Lea Wait’s Pizza to Die For when she was 14 and then with Michelle Obama’s Becoming last year. Our nephew’s wife also got a book. Since she and said nephew were really into the television series based on it, I gave her a copy of Shirley Jackson’s original The Haunting of Hill House. Now it’s still two weeks short of Christmas, so things may change, but at the moment the closest to a book I’m giving is the Game of Thrones edition of Monopoly to that same nephew and his wife. Maybe I’ll do better next year.

Jen Blood: In an effort to do more handmade gifts for the holidays, I’m actually making books this year rather than buying… I’m in the process of hand binding a grimoire for my older niece, and have a naturalist’s diary and supply kit that I’m making for the younger of the two. This month’s post here at Maine Crime Writers will be all about the process, including many shots of the chaos my studio is currently in. 

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Lana

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Calvin

Sandra Neily: I’m with Jen, but with a digital twist. I’m giving sturdy board books to grandchildren. I collect family pics and write the text. This site assembles sturdy books with lots of creative tools that I use. https://pinholepress.com/c/custom-board-books-for-kids

And I am regifting The Hidden Life of Trees to my great friend/editor Kyle … as soon as I re-read a few chapters. Who knew trees could repel predators and assaults (sometimes), care for wounded family nearby, and figure out spring before we do?  Here’s some lines and I linked to an article as well:

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Raven in squirrel contemplation; I am simply loving trees.

“If we want to use forests as a weapon in the fight against climate change, then we must allow them to grow old, which is exactly what large conservation groups are asking us to do.”

“Forest air is the epitome of healthy air. People who want to take a deep breath of fresh air or engage in physical activity in a particularly agreeable atmosphere step out into the forest. There’s every reason to do so. The air truly is considerably cleaner under the trees, because the trees act as huge air filters. Their leaves and needles hang in a steady breeze, catching large and small particles as they float by. Per year and square mile this can amount to 20,000 tons of material.”

“There are more life forms in a handful of forest soil than there are people on the planet.”

― Peter Wohlleben, The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate—Discoveries from A Secret World

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O Tannenbaum!

Our neighborhood is especially bright with holiday lights this year, a reflection, perhaps, of a shared yearning to lessen the darkness in our world.

Before the recent snow, we strung some white lights around the yard, but it was far too early to hang the garland around the front door.  Now I’m hoping it’s not too late, because the greenery around the entry makes the house look so festive. We’ve done the ladder-on-ice thing once or twice in the past, but we’re getting smarter as we age, so here’s to a couple of warmish days ahead.

This weekend we’ll get our tree. The ritual around that has changed as well. Up to and including the year I had knee surgery in early December, we cut our own at a tree farm a few miles west of our home. I say “we,” but that year I ventured out into the field and picked out an absolutely perfect tree (I was walking okay by then, albeit with a cruch) but Diane had to kneel on the frozen ground and cut it (the doctor would have frowned on me doing that).

She also had to drag it back to the car, which turned out to be a fair distance away. She was a good sport about it, but let’s just say I was convinced by the following December that there were easier ways to proceed, and since then we’ve bought a tree at a local nursery. They have a nice selection. The helpful staff gives the stump a fresh cut. They tie it on the roof of the car. It costs a little more, but aching knees have their own price, so off to the tree store we will go.

That night or the next, we’ll haul the lights, garlands and ornament boxes up from the basement and transform the tree into the most beautiful one ever.

Here are some of the ornaments we will hang:

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A Claddagh, the Irish symbol of love, loyalty and friendship.

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A precious, retro ornament from Diane’s childhood.

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We love bird ornaments. Here, a snowy owl visits with a goldfinch, while another owl spies from the background.

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Oh, Canada! We were married there nearly 15 years ago, so this one always has a place of honor on our tree.

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Many readers of this blog have one of these, am I right?

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A very fancy bird, indeed.

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But of course.

I wish you happiness this season, whatever holidays you may celebrate, and a joyous, peaceful, wonderful new year.

To the readers of this blog: What are your favorite holiday traditions? Please let us know in the comments.

Brenda Buchanan is the author of the Joe Gale Mystery Series, featuring a diehard Maine newspaper reporter who covers the crime and courts beat. Three books—QUICK PIVOT, COVER STORY and TRUTH BEAT—are available everywhere e-books are sold. She is writing a new series that has as its protagonist a Portland criminal defense lawyer willing to take on cases others won’t touch in a town to which she swore she would never return.

 

Weekend Update: December 7-8, 2019

[image error]Next week at Maine Crime Writers, there will be posts by Vaughn Hardacker (Monday), Brenda Buchanan (Tuesday), a group post (Wednesday) John Clark (Thursday) and Joe Souza (Friday).

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

Sandra Neily is working up a newsletter to go out next week offering up free Kindle copies of her first novel, Deadly Trespass. Readers who sign up for the newsletter at her site this week will all get a free copy. www.authorsandraneily.com After losing her publisher (who simply disappeared) and regrouping, she will release the second novel of the Mystery in Maine series, in January. Meanwhile, she’s making cookies [image error] and training the dog to do her part. [image error]

 

 

 

 

 

For a limited time, Lea Wait‘s publisher has reduced prices on the ebook editions of some of her backlist at Amazon and Kobo.

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And in related news, THREAD AND BURIED debuted at # 21 on this week’s Barnes & Noble mass-market bestseller list.

Last Christmas, Kate Flora wrote a Christmas story for her friends (you) to enjoy. While she works on this year’s story, you can read last year’s by clicking here https://wordpress.com/view/kateclarkflora.com and then on A Christmas Story.

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora

What…Still No Dog?

Darcy Scott, again, determinedly ignoring the upcoming holiday to answer this most pressing of questions—one we’ve been getting a lot now that almost twenty years have passed since our dog, Harley, died. 

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t like dogs; I’ve loved many of these most devoted of creatures. Peering deeply into my mental rearview, I can conjure a childhood spent glued to the family TV watching fearless canines coming to the aid of mankind. Such classics as Lassie, The Adventures of RinTinTin, the feisty Toto in the annual re-runs of The Wizard of OZ. And when I wasn’t watching, I was reading: Buck in Jack London’s Call of the Wild, Old Yeller from the required-reading tear-jerker of the same name, and countless others that spoke to the loyalty and character of man’s best friend.    

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Dogs figure prominently in my own writing as well. In 2010’s Hunter Huntress, my protagonist Jamie Lloyd and her marine biologist husband shared their sailboat home with a Dachshund named Lucille—her sausage-like body constantly in motion—and Gus, whose wide, disinterested yawns emanated from beneath his furry, Airedale mustache. Boats being the snug (some would say impossibly tight) places that they are, these two were generally in the way, always underfoot, and loved beyond belief. In Matinicus, the first book in my Island Mystery series, a litter of thirteen Lab-mix pups unceremoniously dumped on one of the island beaches by some heartless lowlife are adopted by resident families to grow portly and gregarious, and all but interchangeable as they wander the island confusing the heck out of just about everyone.

[image error]The author with Chrissie,
circa 1956

My own family has always had dogs—the first in memory being Chrissie, a Boxer already seriously long in the tooth when I first registered her gray-muzzled presence snoozing beside me in the summer hammock. Next up was Susie, a black-as-night Standard Poodle and defacto puppy factory who stoically bore litter after litter of pureblood pups—their sale some eight weeks later helping to keep our family afloat through some seriously lean times. 

During my teen years there was Max, short for Maximilian DeFleurville Ginsberg, III—quite the moniker for a scruffy, shepherd-mix rescue with an uncanny aptitude for imitating human behavior, most notably his widely remarked-upon ability to ring the front doorbell when he wanted to come inside. Impressive.

Flash forward a few years, my siblings and I continuing our doggy love affair as we moved into adulthood—my brother raising a half-wild wolf/husky mix that spent some ten years determinedly chewing his way through most of bro’s belongings, while my sister’s growing attraction to smaller breeds blossomed into a fascination with Papillons that resulted in a long tenure as northeast coordinator of a national Papillon rescue organization. For me, though, there was Harley.

By the time Harley came into our lives, I was the single parent of a teenage daughter who more than kept me on my toes, and I had zero interest in acquiring the dog she’d been begging me for since she was five. Not in the plan, I kept telling both of us—one that changed the weekend we returned from a night away to find someone had broken into our home. A dog might actually be a good thing, I quickly backpedaled. He’d not only protect us, he’d teach my daughter some much needed responsibility.  And when she eventually moved out, he’d go with her. Yeah, right.

So, off we went to the shelter, where a male pup of about ten weeks quivered against the corner of a pen in abject terror. My daughter made a beeline, already having set her heart on those liquid brown eyes, despite the lack of any encouraging backstory. Quite the opposite. This little guy had been half-starved and severely traumatized when rescued just two weeks before from a farm in northern Maine where half-wild dogs were breeding indiscriminately, barely surviving a savage, Lord of the Flies existence. 

We dove in, heart and soul. How could we not? It was my daughter who named him Harley, certain he’d grow into an enormous German Shepherd who’d protect us from meanies and beasties alike. The vet wasn’t so sure of his ancestry. “Could be part Terrier,” he surmised when Harley pretty much stopped growing at nine months. “Some Dachshund thrown in, maybe.”

Okay, so he’d be small, but he’d be fierce. Our own version of Toto, perhaps. After he got over being terrified of strangers, that is. Strangers of the male variety, to be exact. Males with beards. Harley hated beards—the sight of one inevitably resulting in episodes of what we called peeing in place.

[image error]Harley Opening His Christmas Presents

There were the usual puppy antics, of course, cute until they weren’t anymore—the gnawing of slippers morphing bizarrely into an enthusiastic gnawing of the walls—a blessedly short-lived craving for wallboard that seemingly overnight became an even scarier appetite for the pink, disposable razors my daughter kept on the edge of the bathtub. He was picky, though—delicately teasing out the blade for consumption while leaving the plastic bits behind. Twice.  

Back to the vet—who was skeptical, as well he might be. How could any dog consume such things without shredding those delicate canine insides? But the x-rays confirmed our story, x-rays that are still displayed on his office wall today. “You know,” he said, taking a hard look at Harley as we were on our way out that day, “there could be some Beagle in him. They’ll eat just about anything.” 

Harley might have been shy, a mere fifteen-inch high little dude, but he loved the company of people he knew and trusted. And he loved to converse in his own way. When company dropped in, he’d settle himself on the living room rug and join in the chit chat, articulating in long, yawn-like yowls. I kid you not. An aneurism in middle age almost felled him, left him dragging his back paw for the rest of his life, but any dog who could survive swallowing razor blades wasn’t about to let a few mobility issues slow him down. Aboard our boat, he continued to claw his way up the companionway with the ease of a mountain goat. Only once did I grow impatient and carry him up that short run of steps. The look he shot me was one of pure contempt. We never went there again. He remained proud to the end, uncowed by his rough start and the various challenges life kept throwing at him. How many of us can say that?

So back to that original question. Why not another dog? Losing Harley in the fall of 2000 broke our hearts; it’s as simple as that. The thought of replacing him with another, less quirky animal…well we simply couldn’t. His collar lives on a hook by the door to my writing studio now; and while its jingle’s not quite like having him here, it’s close.

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Darcy Scott (Winner, 2019 National Indie Excellence Award; Best Mystery, 2013 Indie Book Awards; Silver Award, 2013 Readers Favorite Book Awards; Bronze Award, 2013 IPPY Awards) is a live-aboard sailor and experienced ocean cruiser with more than 20,000 blue water miles under her belt. For all her wandering, her summer home and favorite cruising grounds remain along the coast of Maine—the history and rugged beauty of its sparsely populated out-islands serving as inspiration for much of her fiction, including her popular Maine-based Island Mystery Series. Her debut novel, Hunter Huntress, was published in 2010 by Snowbooks, Ltd., UK.

Nostalgia, Comfort Food, and Cherry Tomatoes

If nostalgia is the comfort food of memory, what do we make of the fact that memory is so slippery? For the first thirty years of my life, I believed wholly in the memory I had of waking up in the middle of my tonsillectomy, in a high gray operating theater with big windows, the murmur of voices above me, the dried saliva sticking my cheek to the sheet underneath me, then the smell of the rubber mask coming back down over my face to put me back under. [image error]But after several medical professionals explained to me how unlikely that might have been (I also lost a teddy bear in the hospital that my parents swore I never owned), I put the whole thing down to some after-anesthesia fantasy. Good story, though, right?

But if our memory is so untrustworthy, why do we believe so fervently in the images and  stories of the past?

It’s a peculiar twist of the human mind that we minimize our worst memories and focus on our positive ones. We are always tempted to believe that things were better “back then,” a mindset that’s infected our national discussion. Which says that not only is memory slippery, it’s incomplete.

We hear a lot about living in the present, and though this is a useful specific against too much worry about the future, living in the present and nostalgia combined mean we don’t learn much from the past. Take what outsiders think they know of Maine.

[image error]The non-Mainer’s view of the state tends to the heavily nostalgic: piney woods, the moose, sleigh bells and horses in winter, lobster boats, lighthouses. All of us who live here know better, or rather, know more. We also know the slush and sleet, the snow tires, the shoveling, the gray days, the black flies, and the ticks.

I recently came across a Facebook group called Retire to Maine that feeds this nostalgic view: wistful comments by people who would like to move here, who see the beauty and the peace of the state without acknowledging the poverty, the difficulties of making a living, the addiction problems we share with so many other places, and the general harshness of life outside the south-urban core. These are often people with independent incomes who can afford to escape whenever they want. [image error]And yes, I laughed at the woman who posted a picture of rose hips on a beach rugosa and wondered how the cherry tomatoes survived our winter. The nostalgic view gives them a comfortable sentimental view, incomplete at best, dead wrong at worst.

Selective memory doesn’t let us learn the lessons that hammer hardest or allow us to move past our desire for only pleasant ones. We don’t learn to be better friends by being with our friends, for example, so much as we do by losing them. We learn far more from our failures than our successes. Which means we should not be in too great a hurry to pretend the past is all beautiful.

I have to close on a thankful note, though the actual day is past. The response to Last Call has been nothing less than uplifting. [image error]Writers like to think they would keep on writing even if no one was listening, but too long a time between bits of encouragement can blunt a person’s pen. So thank you and remember: books make lovely gifts . . . You could give much less thoughtful presents than books from the people who bring you this daily taste of Maine and writing.

All best for a new year.

Prowling Through the Cookbooks

Kate Flora: It is December, and I realize that with Thanksgiving so late, I am giving my [image error]annual Christmas party this weekend and must shove that turkey aside to make room for party food for fifty. We’ve been giving the same party for many, many years. In the early years I used to cook for about three weeks to get ready. Little phyllo dough triangles with spinach and feta, and others with curried walnut chicken. Artichoke toasts on mini-pumpernickel bread. Mahogany chicken wings. Empanadas. Chicken balls with almonds, apricots and cream cheese rolled in toasted coconut. When I look back, I wonder how I did it.

One year, just as I’d started to cook the hot hors d’oeuvres, the power went out. We put sterno in the oven to keep things warm, scrounged around for all the candles in the house, and borrowed a camping lantern for the kitchen. No one knew it wasn’t deliberately dark, and when the power came back, around nine, everyone decided to leave the lights off.

Each year sees me scaling back a little more. And yet each year also finds me thumbing through cookbooks and checking out on-line cooking sites, looking for one or two new recipes to introduce to the array. A few years ago, it was crab cakes, one of my husband’s favorite foods, with a chive-caper sauce. Two years ago? Tiny potatoes wrapped in bacon and served with dilled sour cream. This year I think I’ll do those little smokeys wrapped in crescent rolls. I’m still on the fence about an herb topping.

[image error]The years have seen a lot of changes. The neighborhood girl who was my party help, and once showed up in a prom dress for the party, has teenagers of her own. The two boys who used to don Santa hats and pass hors d’oeuvres (and sampled the margarita punch) have grown up and moved on. Three of the guests are now widowed. When I’m at the Christmas-crazy grocery store, piling my cart with shrimp and ham, caviar and chicken wings, I sometimes think: Do I really want to do this?

Still, that moment when I finish lighting dozens of candles, and Ken finishes the punch, and the doorbell rings with neighbors and friends arriving, is magical. There is such a warmth and joy in seeing everyone come together. We’ve done this so long they just walk in, grab punch, stow the desserts they’re brought for the second half of the evening, and start talking. There’s no awkward moment, just a smiling “we know the drill.”

Soon, that will be happening, so today I’ll make chicken wings and try to find that one special new recipe to try out this year.

Friends, do you have special holiday traditions that mean the season has started for you? Share them with me, please. And one lucky person who comments on this post will receive a copy of my mother’s mystery, The Maine Mulch Murder.

 

Christmas Letters

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson here, trying to figure out what to include in my annual Christmas letter to family and friends. Please note, I’m calling it a Christmas letter and the top of the page usually features a Christmas tree, but what I actually wish people is “Happy Holidays.” When I send out greetings at this time of year, they are going to folks of all faiths.

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I have to be honest, I don’t always get one written in time to mail before Christmas. Sometimes it has been an after-New-Year’s letter. Some years I’ve never gotten around to writing it at all. But since I enjoy receiving newsy once-a-year updates from folks I don’t often see in person, this is one tradition I try to follow as the holiday season gets under way.

Once upon a time, notes in Christmas cards were just that. They were handwritten on the card itself. Sometimes there would be a snapshot enclosed, if the card itself wasn’t a photograph of the family or the children in that family. If there was a lot to report, a handwritten letter might be folded inside the card. Somewhere along the line, probably about the time that word processors became cheap enough for everyone to own one, handwritten turned into printed. The advantage was that the letter could include more news. The downside was that a printout will never feel as personal as reading what someone has written by setting pen to paper. On the other hand, type is far easier to interpret than some people’s handwriting!

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I always enjoy reading about other peoples kids and grandkids, their travels during the previous year, their accomplishments at work or in retirement. Sometimes there is sad news to share, but that, too, is something I’m glad to know about. Photos printed alongside the text are always a delight to see.

Unfortunately, deciding what to include in the Christmas letter I write isn’t easy. I look back on what I’ve written in previous years and what I’ve done in the one just past isn’t usually very different. We still live in the same place. I wrote books. There has usually been at least one new book out in the preceding year, but I don’t want this letter to come across as an exercise in self-promotion. Husband made jigsaw-puzzle tables. I went to one or more mystery conferences. And that’s about it. Since we chose not to have children, there are no kids or grandkids to report on. The cat news the last few years has been a downer—we’ve lost one elderly cat each of the last three years. I have Shadow to write about this time around, but even that is sad, since she only came to us because she lost both of her original people. The only other news is that our email address has changed.

Instead of actually writing this year’s Christmas letter, I’m sitting here writing about writing it. Can you say procrastinate?

How about you, dear readers? Do you write Christmas letters? Do you send holiday greetings at all? Do you enjoy receiving cards with notes or letters included? How about e-cards? Love them or hate them? Inquiring minds want to know.

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With the June 2019 publication of Clause & Effect, Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett has had sixty books traditionally published. She won the Agatha Award and was an Anthony and Macavity finalist for best mystery nonfiction of 2008 for How to Write Killer Historical Mysteries and was an Agatha Award finalist in 2015 in the best mystery short story category. She was the Malice Domestic Guest of Honor in 2014. Currently she writes the contemporary Liss MacCrimmon Mysteries and the “Deadly Edits” series as Kaitlyn. As Kathy, her most recent book is a collection of short stories, Different Times, Different Crimes. Her websites are www.KaitlynDunnett.com and www.KathyLynnEmerson.com and she maintains a website about women who lived in England between 1485 and 1603 at A Who’s Who of Tudor Women.

 

Weekend Update: November 30-December 1, 2019

[image error]Next week at Maine Crime Writers, there will be posts by Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson (Monday), Kate Flora (Tuesday), Dick Cass (Thursday) and Darcy Scott (Friday).

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

[image error]from Kaitlyn Dunnett: The large print edition of Clause & Effect, the second “Deadly Edits” mystery, is now available from Thorndike, a publishing company that just happens to be right here in Maine. In this one, retired teacher turned freelance editor Mikki Lincoln agrees to help out with the pageant planned for Lenape Hollow’s quasquibicentennial celebration. Little does she know that editing a 25 year old manuscript will result in unearthing a 25 year old murder.

 

 

from John Clark: I have three crime stories in the new 2019 BOULD Awards anthology which came out last week. They are: In A Town Most Forgotten, Pinning Ceremony and Take Nothing For Granite. Info on the anthology is here http://bouldawards.com/ I like the jazzy cover.

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An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora

Time for Thanksgiving – and Crime.

Ah, the week of Thanksgiving. Time for family, friends, food—and crime?

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It’s true. According to the Journal of Criminal Justice “Crimes of expressive violence were significantly more prevalent on major holidays ….” (2003, vol. 31, pages 351-360).

Sad to say, holiday cheer plus the proximity of family explains this finding because there are “additional opportunities for violent behavior”.

A 2009 murder is one example. On Thanksgiving, a Colorado Springs grandfather shot his son in the head with a revolver because the son refused to leave the house when asked.

Poke around and you’ll find a plethora of bad stuff that’s happened on Thanksgiving. Witness the Bount family of Fort Worth, TX. After a Thanksgiving outing in 1985, teenage daughter Angela found a briefcase on the family’s front porch. She opened the briefcase which exploded killing Angela, her father, and a cousin. The guy convicted a decade later was freed because the prosecution withheld information exonerating him.

A birder enjoying the outdoors on Thanksgiving pulled out her binoculars to watch a heron in a Pennsylvania creek. Focusing, she saw a pair of sneakers attached to a man’s decomposing body. To this day both the identify and cause of death remain unknown.

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Then there was a family game of Trivial Pursuit that went bad when an unhappy player pulled out a hatchet. Justice reigned when police linked the hatchet to a drug crime.

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Some Thanksgiving goings on are just plain comical. In 2014 a monkey – described as “three feet tall, brown, and fast” – was seen running around in Tampa Bay. The local zoo said it wasn’t theirs. I’m not sure what happened to said monkey.

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Lady Gaga was in Peru celebrating the holiday with her family when she discovered 35 “Lady Gob Gobs” in the garage.[image error]

And finally, of course, so many of us participate in crimes against turkeys.

A great Christmas movie that’s not on any list but mine

So, Thanksgiving, right? I feel under some pressure to do a “what I’m thankful for” post, so here it goes…

Ha ha! I almost had you, didn’t I? I think you guys know me better than that.

‘Tis the season for “top Christmas movie lists.” Let’s talk about that.

Do we really need to be told that “It’s a Wonderful Life” is something people watch? And if you’re a fan of “A Christmas Story,” skip it this year. Instead, if you can find it, check out the darker, edgier and so much funnier “Phantom of the Open Hearth,” which aired on PBS in the 1970s and is the original movie based on the Jean Shepherd essay that the Christmas movie later came from.

My friend Brian Ruel and I saw “A Christmas Story” when it first came out. He had to review it for the late, great Biddeford Journal-Tribune, which no longer exists, and we saw it in an afternoon showing at the Cines 5 theater in Biddeford, which had just opened, but also no longer exists. When it ended we both said something like, “Wow, they really watered down ‘Phantom of the Open Hearth.'”

But I digress.

Want to see a Christmas movie you haven’t seen a zillion times? Watch “Desk Set.” I downloaded it from Amazon Prime Video — I also have it on DVD, but it was easier to buy it from a streaming service than to hook the DVD player back up.

[image error]The 1957 Spencer Tracy/Katherine Hepburn film has a snappy Henry and Phoebe Ephron script that’ll soak into you like heavily spiked egg nog in front of a fire.

The movie begins in November and you can feel that pre-Christmas giddiness that you’re all probably feeling at this very moment. Its climatic scene is one of those boozy office-shredding Christmas parties that have gone the way of the Journal-Tribune, Cines 5 and “Phanton of the Open Hearth.”

The biggest gifts are some classic Tracy-Hepburn scenes, including lunch on a roof early in the movie and a bottle of champagne and some whip-smart flirting in the research stacks during the Christmas party.

But the best is a dinner scene at Hepburn’s apartment involving her, Tracy, Gig Young and a monogrammed robe Hepburn was going to give Young for Christmas. The scene is perfect in every way, and I’d put it up against anything from “Elf” or whatever else people put on their “best Christmas movies list.”

There aren’t any fart jokes, excrement in the punch bowl, the dog getting electrocuted by Christmas lights. It’s not about a guy trashing his dreams and resigning himself to a life in a go-nowhere job because everyone in his town is too hapless to get out of their own way if he isn’t there to hold their hands. Sorry, maybe I’ve seen that one too many times.

The technology aspects of the plot — the movie was bankrolled by IBM — may seem dated, but it’s really not. The gals in the research department of a TV station are afraid a computer is going to take their jobs. When I turned the movie off, I switched on an episode of “Superstore,” and the gang at the store was afraid a new robot that cleans floors and stocks shelves was going to take over their jobs. Ditto for some of the gender issues — sure they’re through a 62-year-old lens, but things haven’t changed nearly as much as they should have.

Anyway, the plot is secondary to what’s going on, if you know what I mean.

[image error]Wow, not to interrupt, but I just saw on TV that the HLN Thanksgiving “Forensic Files” marathon begins at midnight. It’s going to be a late night for this mashed potato!

Speaking of Thanksgiving, I heard someone say recently that there are “no good books” centered around Thanksgiving. Not for nothing, but my second Bernie O’Dea mystery, NO NEWS IS BAD NEWS, has a climatic Thanksgiving Day scene, where an uncooked turkey rotting on a counter is not even in the top five of bad things that happen. And, not to brag or anything, but a reader at an author talk this summer told me I ruined Thanksgiving for them forever.

You know? I know I said this wasn’t going to be some sappy post about what I’m thankful for, but man — from “Desk Set” to “Forensic Files” to “Hey! I’m a writer who does it well enough to ruin holidays for strangers!” — if I were the kind of person who said said things like “I’m truly blessed” I’d say it.

Happy Thanksgiving folks!