Lea Wait's Blog, page 44

Gifting. No Wrapping Necessary.

Sandra Neily here with a gift from Maine Crime Writers’ reader Mary Ann and my story of the best gift ever. (My best gift ever.)

Raven gives the birds her gift, keeping squirrels off the feeder. 

 

The Affordable, but Really Good Eats Quest.

Last month, (fed up with not-worth-it but expensive food), I asked readers this question. “How might we eat out one or two times a month and spend less than $40-$45 per meal? Hopefully less than $35. Hopefully, around $75 per month for two evenings out. The food has to be really, really good food.”

 Mary Ann (using the formula I suggested), generously sent this review for us to share. Thanks, Mary Ann!  (I plan to head there for the flatbread pizza and coleslaw and of course, a long browse at Shermans Books.)

Trackside Station, Rockland, Maine    (Reviewed by Mary Ann)

The Good: Trackside combines the best of pub food with touches of fine dining. On the menu are such appetizers as pretzel bites and chicken wings, perfect to go with drinks at the bar. On that same menu you can also find Lobster Scampi, complete with herbs and white wine for date night. The daily specials include favorites such as poutine(house-made poutine gravy with One of my favorite meals to have is the flatbread “pizzas” which rotate through the specials menu. I still remember that steak and cheese with homemade aioli sauce.

Needs Work or Don’t Order: I can honestly say that I have had few disappointments with the food. If you like your fries crisp, the hand cut fries may not be for you. I’d suggest one of the best coleslaws I’ve had instead.

Good to Know: It’s located in an old railroad station and I am all about ambiance when I go out to eat. High ceilings and everywhere you look the décor includes signs that point the way to the baggage claim and the streets. Friday and Saturday nights include live music! A regular rotation of solo and duo acts create a lively atmosphere perfect for the weekend!

 The Approximate Bill: My husband and I dine here almost every weekend. It’s our end of the week treat. Entrees run between $15-$20, with seafood being a little higher at around $25. We order soft drinks and our bill runs about $45 to $50 without the generous tip that I leave. If you stop and take in the entertainment, this is a reasonable price to pay for an evening out.

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The Best Gift

This time of year, rather than buy gifts (granddaughters are an exception) I make cookie gifts and think about gifts I’ve enjoyed receiving as well as giving. This very short story (reprinted from a previous post) is about the Best Gift …ever.

The Backstory: Bread Loaf Writers Conference challenge:

We’re in the middle of a field looking at Vermont’s impossibly green hills, sitting where, since 1926, generations of writers have come to learn the craft. Our instructor tells us she wants a short, short story about something that deeply affected us, told in the point of view of someone else. She says our work merely skirts human emotions and we must go deeper. “Try letting yourself out through another’s eyes.”

Then she quotes Robert Frost who was an early and frequent teacher, presenter, and mentor at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.”

I called up my daughter’s voice and channeled my last real family Christmas—through her eyes. Months later, I showed her the story and she said, “You nailed it, Mum.” Better praise than any critic could give.

WHEN THE HOLIDAY IS OVER BEFORE IT’S BEGUN by Sandra Neily

When I pull into the driveway, I count five cars parked in the first winter snow next to the stone wall under the pines. The camp’s green walls are holiday card perfect with wispy flakes on sills and roof. I see that Mum has, as always, tucked red bows into pine branches hanging from window boxes. Red, green and white. So it’s going to be a traditional Christmas is it?

Wood smoke blows low across the deck, pushed by a bad-weather-wind toward the lake where ice is rattling in small rafts of cubes. One morning we will wake and find the cove glued into ice- hard silence. It could happen that fast. Lots can happen that fast. Overnight.

No tracks; everyone’s been inside for hours unwrapping presents, eating Mum’s coffee cake, probably made with berries she froze last summer anticipating weekends of blue-flecked muffins and family Scrabble games. Zachary, the youngest nephew, is probably walled inside a castle of toys and gifts and well on his way to an early afternoon breakdown from getting too much of what he wants.

And what do I want? I want this to be over. I want to crawl into the bed I’ve had since I was two, pull Pooh Bear under the covers with me, and when I wake up, find my father on the roof, shoveling great clots of snow into a mound I will make into a snow cave. Before I can get up the stairs to that Christmas wish, I have to open the door—and what?

Will we be pretending today? After fifteen years of camp family holidays, that seems likely.

They hear the front door and spill into the front room to hug me. The chaos is familiar and washes over me like a bright wave of welcome water.

“What took you so long?”

“How were the roads? Icy?”

“We saved all our Elizabeth presents to have Christmas part two with you!”

“Look at all the dragons I got. They’re on the floor breathing fire on each other. Some just got killed.”

I look around for Mum The living room floor is awash in paper, ribbon, half chewed dog toys and plates of cake crumbs. There’s a monument of a tree in the living room, easily over 10 feet tall and it looks like every light and ornament is out of storage and propped on its limbs. My aunt is setting the long dining room table with the traditional red cloth, and my grandmother is attempting to settle Zachary with a story.

The walls of pictures are rearranged. My Dad is missing except for early baby pictures of us together. There are no pictures of my parents together. There’s a lighter space on the wall where my dad’s tarpon used to hang over the bar counter. I wonder how long it will take for the wall’s fish outline to disappear into the smoke darkened panels beside it.

I climb up to drop my bag in my small room at the top of the stairs. Mum has put the Santa music box on my bedside table. I wind it up to hear its familiar holiday song. “You better not cry …” in tinkling tones. As Santa revolves, his serious eyes meet mine for a few seconds in each turn. “You better not cry.” This is the first time I’ve been home since I lost my family. Nothing has changed in my room; pictures of us together sit on my bureau and bookcase. Sitting on the bed I can sort out the smells of roasting turkey and simmering garlic from the spicier ones of pumpkin pie.

Mum must be in the kitchen, but then suddenly she is there at my door. She might look the same to her family. I can see the effort she’s made to be dry-eyed and energetic, but I think she looks too pale, even for winter. She’s made no effort to re-color the grey wisps at her temples, and under the apron she’s just thrown on an old T-shirt that’s inside out.

She hugs me and sits on the bed. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to do this anymore,” she says. “It was too late to change it this year.”

I nod. “This will be our last Christmas like this,” I say firmly.  “It’s over.”

“Let’s make a new tradition when we get this sorted out,” she sighs. “Everyone’s waiting for us to open your presents. Let’s go down.”

“Mum.” I lean on her. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Elizabeth. You are the best present that I ever got.”

And since she has said that to me with tears in her eyes on every birthday and every Christmas, just as she’s saying it today, I feel stronger. We hold hands and climb down the stairs.

Wishing you all a real Maine blizzard instead of a December flood.

 

Sandy’s debut novel, “Deadly Trespass, A Mystery in Maine” won a national Mystery Writers of America award, was a finalist in the Women’s Fiction Writers Association “Rising Star” contest, and was a finalist for a Maine Literary Award. The second Mystery in Maine, “Deadly Turn,” was published in 2021. Her third “Deadly” is due out next year. Find her novels at all Shermans Books (Maine) and on Amazon.

 

 

 

Kiki Saves The Day – A Christmas Story

Kate Flora: As promised, here’s this year’s Christmas story:

Kiki Saves The Day: A Christmas Story

I should introduce myself properly. My name is Kiki. I have blonde curly hair and shiny dark eyes. I am middle aged. I love exercise, primarily walking. I weigh a trim eighteen pounds, have a fondness for treats, and can dance on my hind legs to entertain my human.

Ah, yes. My human. I have primary responsibility for a human named Andy. More properly Andrew, but no one calls him that. Andy is in what humans call old age, meaning he is more than fifteen in dog years. Andy isn’t exactly lazy but without me, he wouldn’t get  much exercise. I do my best to take care of him, which is sometimes difficult. Andy likes to sit is his chair and read. My challenge is to get him to leave his work and come outside.

Once he’s outside, he’s usually glad he’s there. Andy isn’t antisocial, he’s shy. We have good neighbors, though, who understand about his shyness and find ways to engage with him anyway. There’s Alice, across the street, who worries about his nutrition and is always bringing him—us—food. We’re lucky that Alice is a good cook, because without her visits and the casseroles she brings, Andy would forget to eat. He’s what I’ve heard called “an absentminded professor.”

Alice has a dog that looks after her, too. A lumbering, joyous black Lab named Otto. People might scoff at this, since we’re animals, but I consider Otto to be my best friend. While Alice visits with Andy and catches him up on what’s happening in the neighborhood, Otto and I race around the yard. As a great example of why Otto is my friend, he is very considerate of the fact that he’s about three times my size, so he slows his pace to accommodate my short legs.

I guess I can say this: I really love Otto. He’s so kind and caring. He’s also smart, which his lumbering gait and exuberance don’t reveal. He can find things that people have lost. He’s good at comforting children who’ve fallen or who are shy and scared. He’s very protective of Alice and will get between her and anyone or anything he perceives as a threat. He can also catch a ball in midair and will carry his favorite stick for a mile if he and Alice are walking.

I watch the news with Andy every night, curled up on the sofa on my special blanket, and I often wish that humans could be as good as Otto instead of hurting each other.

We have other neighbors, too. On one side of our house we have Mike and Sally and their twins, Leo and Cleo. The twins are just learning to walk and talk and are very funny to watch. Sometimes Otto will walk with them so they have something to grab onto if they think they might fall. I wouldn’t be good at that. I am good at dancing to make them laugh and believe me, a toddler’s laugh is a marvelous thing. Even Andy, who is shy around children, loves the twins. Leo, who talks more, calls him “Dandy” which makes him laugh.

Lest you think our neighborhood is all sweetness and light, there’s our neighbor on the other side, Bad Billy. I didn’t name him that, though I like the alliteration. Andy did. He’s usually not judgmental but it would be hard for anyone not to judge Bad Billy. He’s so disagreeable it’s as though he has a smelly green cloud around him, like a poison gas or something.

Right. You are thinking: How would a dog know about poison gas, right? Well, remember we dogs have excellent senses of smell. Far better than humans. So of course I know Bad Billy doesn’t bathe often and consequently stinks. The use of the term “poison gas” though, comes from Andy. He lives so much in his head he pretty much ignores the world around him unless forced into being observant by neighbors like Alice or Mike and Sally. Once Andy used the word “miasma” about Billy. Alice asked what it meant and Andy said the thing about the poison gas.

Anyway, Billy’s the sort to complain about everything. He’ll call to complain about a barking dog, even though I am a very well-behaved animal. He will kick over our trashcans if he thinks they’re on his property, even though Andy is careful not to encroach. And while he complains about other’s noise, he plays loud music late into the night. He has very bad taste in music. He calls Leo and Cleo snot rats.

You get the picture.

So mostly our lives are pleasant and we try to ignore Bad Billy.

I told you this story is about Christmas, didn’t I? Christmas is a big deal in our town. People try to outdo each other with their decorations. It’s fun, though. Not an over-the-top competition such as happens in some places. I know this because I’ve seen it on the news and Andy will say, “Aren’t we lucky that we live here, Kiki, where people are pleasant?” I will bark an affirmative and we will return to watching TV.

Lately the news has been so unpleasant even Andy, who has a very calm and curious nature, will change the channel. This year we are watching Hallmark Christmas movies. Andy says when he was younger, he couldn’t stand them, but now that he’s older and slowed down and the world is in such a mess, he enjoys the romance, the small conflicts, the pretty small towns, and their message of love and happiness.

Once in a while he’ll sigh and say he wished he’d had a family. Andy did have a wife once. I never met her but he talks about her sometimes. He says she was beautiful and fun and used to sing as she did her housework and cooked. He says her name was Norah, which I think is very pretty, and when he says it, that single word is infused with love and memory. Andy and Norah never had any children, which he regrets, but he sighs and says sometimes life doesn’t give you what you hope for, so you have to make the best of what you have,

Andy, in case you didn’t guess this because of his shy nature and the hours he spends reading, is a retired teacher. Sometimes when we’re out for one of our walks, he’ll meet a former student and they’re always happy to see him, so I guess he was not one of those mean teachers who made all his students feel inadequate. Quite the opposite. I think he was inspiring. I mean, I am only a dog but he inspires me. He makes me feel like I am special, and worthy, and a great companion.

When I say my job is to look after him, I mean that Andy is getting older and slowing down and sometimes forgets things. If he leaves the keys in the door, for example, I will gently nudge him back to get them. If we’re going to leave the house and he doesn’t put them in his pocket, I will nose his pocket to remind him. He always laughs and says, “What would I do without you, Kiki,” which makes me feel very good.

When Alice stops in with one of her casseroles, she will pet me and say, “Now you keep an eye on Andy, Kiki. He depends on you.”

It’s a lot of responsibility for an eighteen pound creature, but I do my best.

Anyway, it’s the holiday season and our street is aglow with colored lights and silly inflatable Santas and reindeer and snowmen. It’s lovely to see and people are smiling. We aren’t big on decorations because Andy is old and alone, but he tries. We have lights around the porch and a big wreath on the door and a funny metal tree with lots of lights that’s also on the porch. Andy says he doesn’t care much about Christmas but he doesn’t want to let the neighborhood down.

Alice goes all out with strings of lights on her trees and along her porch and some crazy blue waterfall lights people stop to watch. Of course, Alice has her husband, her sisters, and sometimes her children to help. Otto says the whole family gets excited about doing it. Last year, one of the kids even got an illuminated leash for him, so he can be part of the fun. I admit I’m a bit envious and have to remind myself how good I have it. After all, I began my life in a shelter, surrounded by dogs nobody wanted.

When I think of that, it makes me sad until I remember the day that Andy came looking for a dog. He was sort of shambling down the row where we were all in cages like we were in prison. He looked like seeing us made him more unhappy, so I went over to the bars and stuck out my paw, like I wanted to shake hands. Really it was because I wanted to comfort him. He stopped and crouched down and shook my paw. Our eyes met and that was that. Kind of like in those movies we watch, except that he’s a man and I’m a dog. Anyway, I came home with him and we’ve been best friends ever since. Our own happily ever after.

Our lives were going along as usual, Andy puttering at his desk and I watching dust motes in a streak of sunlight, when something most unusual happened. The doorbell rang.

I should clarify: it wasn’t the ringing of the doorbell that was unusual. It was the person on the other side of the door.

Andy shuffled toward it, his slippers making those scuffing, old man sounds that made me want to chew them up so he couldn’t wear them anymore, and opened it. He was probably expecting Alice, since it was around her usual time to bring us food. Instead, he opened the door, saw the woman standing there, and stepped back in shock, his hands to his chest.

I’ve watched TV so I know, when someone puts their hand on their chest, they’re either having a heart attack or they’ve been shot. There had been no noise, so Andy wasn’t shot. I rushed to his side, hovering there in case he needed me.

The woman said, “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” not in an angry way but in a sweet and puzzled way, so Andy stepped back, gesturing for her to enter. Without a word, he led the way into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. She took a seat in a chair facing him and waited.

I decided I’d better give him time to recover, so I followed them into the room, did my little Kiki dance for her, and then planted my head on her knee. We would soon know whether this was a dog-friendly person or the kind who says, in a cranky voice, “Sorry. I am not a dog person.”

She was a dog person. Definitely, the way she stroked around my ears and along my back and said, in an apologetic voice, “I’m sorry I don’t have any treats for you.”

A dog just knows, right?

By then, two things had happened. First, Andy had recovered enough to speak, and I realized the woman looked like the photos of Norah that were around the house. So who was this person?

“As you’ve guessed,” our visitor said, “I am Norah’s sister Maeve.”

“Twin,” Andy said. “You’re her twin.” He could barely get the words out.

“She never told you, did she, that she had a twin?” the woman said.

Andy nodded.

“She probably never knew.”

Andy and I were both puzzled. How does a person not know they have a twin?

“I know.” The woman’s voice was soft and pleasant. A very nice voice. I imagined her saying, “Here, Kiki” or “What a good dog” and giving me a treat. It was that kind of voice.

“I know it sounds impossible. I didn’t know myself until recently, and frankly, it made me very angry. I was adopted, as was Norah, and a few years ago, I decided to look for my birth parents. You know . . . I imagine . . . that many adopted children feel a sense of not belonging, if not a great curiosity to know why they were given up and whether there are people out there in the world who are like them. Parents, aunts or uncles, siblings or cousins.”

She stopped talking and put a hand to her lips. “Excuse me. I’m so sorry to barge in like this and then start babbling at you like an idiot. This must be a great shock.”

By now, Andy had recovered somewhat and was staring at her with what humans probably call wonder.

“Babble all you want,” he said. “My Norah . . . your sister . . . your twin . . . she did the same. I always found it charming. It was fun to see where her conversation would go.” He waved a hand, more animated than I’d seen him in a long time. “Go on.”

“They aren’t very cooperative, these agencies, even though the laws are more liberal now. It took a lot of work, so much I sometimes felt more like a detective than like a woman who wanted to know her story. And then, when I finally discovered the fascinating truth that I had been one of a pair of identical twins and we’d been given to different families and never told . . . Well,” she spread her hands in one of those human gestures that can mean many things, “I was amazed and furious. Then, just when I was excited that I not only had family but a sister just like me, I learned that Norah was dead.”

She slapped her hands down on her knees, and I gave a startled yip and moved away. She looked at me. “Sorry. I can get carried away.”

“It must have been a terrible shock,” Andy said.

I remembered that you’re supposed to offer guests tea or coffee. Some kind of refreshment. But Andy wasn’t offering or moving toward the kitchen, so I went to the kitchen door and did my little Kiki dance and gave a little bark. Andy and I are quite attuned and he got the message.

“I’m forgetting my manners,” he told the woman. “May I offer you some tea or coffee? And I think we have some cookies, too.”

We did, I knew, because Alice wouldn’t let Andy go through the season without a tin of cookies, and Sally must have felt the same way, because she’d also brought us a plate of cookies. In fact, Sally had brought people cookies for Andy and dog cookies for me. As I’ve said, we have great neighbors.

“Coffee would be great,” the woman said, standing up. “Can I help?”

Smart woman. She could sense, as I could, that Andy did his best but was quite a bungler in the kitchen. He could probably manage coffee, though. Andy said sure and she followed him into the kitchen. There she stopped again, as though something had surprised her, and then she started to cry.

Andy, always a gentleman, handed her the handkerchief he always carried and steered her to a chair.

Then, instead of a flurry of questions, he set about fixing coffee and putting some cookies on a plate while she collected herself. When she could speak, her voice muffled by the handkerchief, she said, “Your kitchen . . . her kitchen . . . is just like mine. I know, I mean I’ve read, that identical twins often do this even when they’ve been separated. But seeing it is different. I . . .”

The doorbell rang again. This time, it would be Alice, I was sure. But instead of Alice, it was Bad Billy. He was clutching one hand, wrapped in a blood-soaked towel, with the other, and looked very pale.

“Cut my hand,” he said, gruffly. “Came to see if you had some bandages.”

I may only be a dog, but even I could see he needed more than bandages. He needed the Emergency Room. That’s the place humans go when they’re hurt too badly to fix it themselves. We dogs usually just lick our wounds and hope for the best. Except now that I have Andy, I go to the vet and they take good care of me and tell me what an excellent dog I am. I give them my best doggy smile and dance for them. But even though Bad Billy wasn’t civilized enough even to go to a vet, he needed help.

Andy said, “Come in. Sit down. I’ll get my keys and drive you to the hospital.”

“Don’t need no damned hospital,” Billy said, hovering in the doorway, dripping blood on the floor.

While Andy and Billy stood there staring at each other, the woman named Maeve appeared. She was holding a kitchen towel and a plastic bag, and took charge before anyone to object.

She wrapped Billy’s hand in the clean towel, slipped the plastic bag over it, and said, “Let’s go. Andy, you’ll have to direct me. I don’t know my way around.”

Andy was doing that stunned, staring thing again. After a moment, he said, “You’re a nurse, aren’t you? Norah was, too.”

That made Maeve cry again, but she didn’t pause in her headlong journey out the door, one hand firmly on Billy’s arm.

When they were gone, the house felt oddly quiet. Andy and I are quiet, but this felt beyond quiet. It felt empty, and made me realize how important Andy’s presence was even when he was only reading. Also what a lucky dog I am.

Human say that: You lucky dog. I expect it means pretty much what I was feeling.

Since I had no job to do looking after Andy, and no one to take me for a walk, I curled up in my cozy dog bed and went to sleep. I only woke when I heard voices, and Andy’s key in the door.

All three of them were back. Maeve and Andy both looking a bit dazed and Bad Billy, his hand swathed in gauze, cursing in his usual fashion. Andy and Maeve took off their coats and Andy hung them in the closet. Billy didn’t have a coat.

“We were going to have some coffee,” Andy said. “Billy, would you like some?”

“Just wanna go home,” Billy said. “I have enough of people fussing over me and all. Didn’t need that. Don’t need that. I’m not some namby pamby wimp, ya know.”

“A warm cup of tea with milk and sugar would do you good,” Maeve said.

“Not some namby—” Billy began.

“Happy to fix you some tea, or you can go home,” Andy said. He sounded much tougher than my normal Andy, as though Maeve’s presence had restored him to an earlier, more assertive Andy. I was surprised but thought I understood. He couldn’t have let himself be bullied when he was teaching or the students would have run all over him. He’d told me stories about them, sometimes when there was nothing good on TV and we were sitting by the fire, just hanging out.

Bad Billy looked surprised. Maybe he’d gotten used to quiet, unassertive Andy, who took his noise and abuse without complaint.

All very well, but it was time for me to remind that I, too, needed some attention. Not to put too fine a point on things, I needed to go outside and pee, and wanted to stretch my legs in a stroll around the block.

I went to Andy, stood on my hind legs, and tapped his knee with a paw. When he looked down, he seemed almost surprised to see me, as though with so much going on, he’d forgotten all about me. I was crushed. I know I’m not the center of the universe, but still. I give him unwavering care and affection and the moment this woman shows up, I’m forgotten?

Dogs can sigh, you know, and I did that as I dropped to the floor and was sulking off to my bed, leaving Andy to deal with his unexpected guests, when the doorbell rang again. This time, it had to be Alice.

It was.

She came bustling in—she was a great bustler—then stopped when she saw Maeve.

She said, “Oh my God! Norah? But it can’t be . . .” and fell silent, still holding out the casserole like an offering.

Maeve, who seemed to be calmest of all of them, took the casserole, set it on the hall table, and held out her hand. “Hi. I’m Maeve. Norah’s twin. A long story, I’m afraid. Sorry if I startled you.”

There hadn’t been this many people in Andy’s house since I’d lived there.

At that point, Bad Billy, who’d been lurking by the door, said, “I’m going home.”

As he was walking out, Maeve said, “Wait. I’ve got your meds here—”

He cut her off. “Don’t need ’em. Got a bottle at home.”

Alice started to ask, “Billy, what happened?”

Andy said, “Billy, you should—”

Ignoring them, he left.

Alice said, “You’ve got company, Andy. I should go.”

Andy said, “Please don’t.”

Maeve said, “I’m afraid I’m being a bit of a nuisance.”

Andy and Alice said, “You’re not.”

The door was still open so I slipped out. Too much commotion for me.

Outside I found Otto, who must have come over with Alice. After I’d done my business, I said, “You won’t believe what’s happened.”

Of course, this was all while we were racing around the house. It felt so good to be moving. To be hanging out with a friend.

“Things are crazy at my house, too,” Otto said. “Alice’s youngest, Carrie, is home from college and sulking because they won’t buy her a car for Christmas. Alan brought a girlfriend without telling anyone. And Jack, who can usually be relied on to keep the peace and make everyone happy, has called and said he doesn’t know if he’ll be home for Christmas. So Alice is in a state. It’s so important to her to have her children home for Christmas.”

“Andy’s usually sad at Christmas because he misses Norah.”  I sighed. “I do my best.”

“Of course you do. We both do. There’s only so much a dog can do.”

I agreed. After our romp, Otto and I settled down on the porch, where there was still some sun, and snoozed. People think dogs are lazy because they see us sleeping, but it’s not true. We’re more like soldiers who sleep when we can so we can be alert when we’re needed. There are plenty of times at night when we’re awake and patrolling the house or the yard while our humans are sleeping. We don’t get credit for that.

Sounding awfully whiny, aren’t I? Even if I’m only a dog, I must reform. I need to be there for Andy, and who knows how the sudden appearance of Norah’s twin will take him? He can fall into these deep funks, sometimes for days at time, when if he didn’t have to walk me and feed me, he probably wouldn’t get out of bed. We dogs do a lot of caretaking for our humans that they never notice.

“I’m worried,” I told Otto when he woke from his nap. “What if this woman’s visit sends him into a funk?”

“I’m worried, too,” Otto said. “The reason Jack isn’t sure he’s coming home is that his car broke down but he doesn’t want to burden Alice with that at Christmas time. Maybe because he knows she’ll jump in the car and drive to wherever he is when she has so much to do here and she’s not supposed to drive long distances Alice isn’t as healthy as she seems and she won’t slow down. And Mister Alice has to work because, you know, Christmas is such a busy season at the post office.”

“If only we could talk,” I said.

“Or drive,” he said.

Just then, Alice came out. She looked frazzled but she was smiling. “You guys,” she said. “Isn’t it nice that you are friends.” She gave us each treats, let me back into my house, and she and Otto crossed the street to home.

Maeve and Andy were in the living room, drinking coffee, and talking a mile a minute. It was as though they’d been friends forever.

I was trying to figure out how to tell Andy that Alice needed help. He was old but he was a good and competent driver and we’ve had so much generosity from Alice. Darn it. I couldn’t spell, or write, or talk, so how was I going to tell him what needed to be done? Alice would never ask. She was a giver, not a taker.

Then the doorbell rang again. A record day here.

It was Alice’s youngest, Carrie. She came in looking nervous, hugged Andy—she calls him Uncle Andy—and shook Maeve’s hand.

Carrie, despite what Otto had said about her sulking, was a sweet person. Now she sat in a chair and squirmed and wrung her hands as she worked up the courage to speak. To give her a moment, I danced around, then jumped up and sat in her lap. She smiled and stroked my head. “You’re just the cutest thing, Kiki.”

Which was true.

“Uncle Andy,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “We need a favor. I mean, you don’t have to do it, of course, because I know you’re older and everything and besides you have company, but it’s about Jack.”

Then she faltered and couldn’t go on.

“What do you need, Carrie?” Andy asked. “You know I’d do anything for your mom. And Jack.”

I think Alice’s kids are the kids Andy never had.

She looked down at her shoes for a while before she said, “Jack’s stuck in Abbotsville. His car’s broken down and he can’t get home for Christmas and he doesn’t want to ask Mom and Dad for help and it will break her heart if Jack isn’t home for Christmas. Alan should do it but, like me, he’s got a temporary job at the post office, so he can’t, and then I thought of you.”

Andy looked surprised and uneasy. Those human faces, you know? He wanted to help but I could tell he thought he wasn’t up to it. So could Carrie.

She slid me gently to the floor and stood up. “I’m sorry, Uncle Andy. It was a crazy idea. I shouldn’t have asked you. It’s just . . . you know . . . I knew Mom would be so sad. You know how hard she tries to make Christmas special for all of us.”

Of course he knew. Alice’s family was like Andy’s family. He always went there for Christmas dinner.

There was such a long silence I was worried. I watched Andy’s chest anxiously. Too many shocks today. It wasn’t good for him.

“Not at all,” Andy finally said. “I can do it. I don’t mind. It’s only about two and a half hours and Kiki and I like going for drives. Is Jack ready to come home now?”

She nodded. “He’s sad about not coming home. None of his friends can drive him and there are no busses.”

“Well, will you tell him that I’ll be there in,” he consulted his watch, “about three hours. Maybe sooner? And write down his phone number for me, in case I need to contact him?”

Carrie’s sweet face was glowing with joy. Humans really do that, you know. Their faces are amazing, the way they convey information. “Will you really, Uncle Andy? But you have company, and tonight’s Christmas Eve.”

“I love long drives in the car, too,” Maeve said. “It will be fun. Andy and I have so much to talk about.” She hesitated, then added, “And I can share the driving, Andy, unless you’re a macho man who doesn’t let women drive?”

“I’m pretty good at sharing,” Andy said. Which was true.

So it was settled. Soon the three of us were in Andy’s car and on the road. We had water and my bowl, and some kibble just in case. I usually sit in front, but today Maeve was in my place and I was in the back. Ordinarily, I resent being displaced but Andy seemed happy so I was happy. There are jealous and possessive dogs. I try not to be one of them.

Andy is a good driver. Good and careful. He keeps his car in good repair and the gas tank is always full. The roads were crowded. It’s always that way around the holidays, which is why Andy usually doesn’t like to drive. He was doing this for Alice.

He and Maeve talked all the way, to my ears their conversation rising and falling like a pair of birds. Andy and I have been together for almost six years and I’d never heard him so animated. It seemed like Maeve needed to talk just as much. She wanted to learn about Norah, the sister she’d never meet, and Andy loved to talk about Norah.

It seemed like no time at all before we were stopping at Jack’s place and he was bounding down the path. Another face that was shining with happiness. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much happiness. I really liked it. We dogs like our humans to be happy.

Jack had a suitcase and a bag of presents, which he put in the trunk. I got out and did a quick pee. Then Jack climbed in with a cheerful, “Thanks a million, Uncle Andy. Aunt Norah . . .” And then he stopped.

“I’m sorry,” he said. I didn’t . . . only you look just like—” He had no other words so he petted me. “Hi, Kiki, did you come to pick me up?”

I licked his hand.

“Jack. It’s okay,” Andy said. “This is Maeve. She’s Norah’s twin who didn’t know, until just recently, that she had a twin. And Norah never knew.”

More silence. Then Jack said, “It’s amazing.”

Which it was.

Maeve said, “Andy, would you like me to drive? You must have a lot to catch up on with Jack.”

Smart. She didn’t tell him he looked tired, then he’d insist on driving. They switched places, Andy carefully telling her how to adjust the seat and the mirrors since she was shorter, and we were on our way.

Jack called his mom to say he was on his way, then he and Andy started catching up. I snoozed in Jack’s lap. Norah drove us home.

We, or rather she, stopped once on the way to buy two wreaths. They went in the back seat with me and Jack. Jack said they smelled great. I thought they were prickly and should have ridden in the trunk.

We’d barely parked in the driveway before Alice and her family had spilled out of the house and swarmed the car. Alan and Mr. Alice—he actually has a name, which is George—did doubletakes when they met Maeve, but any confusion was quickly eclipsed in their joy at having Jack home. Soon, they’d all headed back across the street, with Alice calling back over her shoulder, “Come over in an hour for eggnog. All of you.”

All of us meant me and Andy and Maeve, I supposed.

Maeve gave the keys to Andy and picked up the two wreaths. She set one on the porch, then headed for Bad Billy’s house.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Andy cautioned.

She shrugged. “Can’t hurt” and kept walking.

“Just like Norah.” Andy looked down at me and held out his arms. I jumped up and he hugged me. “We’ve had a pretty crazy day, haven’t we, Kiki?”

We sure had.

It was my dinner time and I was impatient to go inside, but Andy was waiting for Maeve. She’d disappeared into Bad Billy’s house and he was worried.

“She doesn’t know what he’s like, does she, Kiki?”

I yipped a response.

He was rocking from one foot to the other. “I should go over there,” he said. “Billy might be drunk and we know when he’s drunk he gets mean.”

I was looking at him, trying to communicate that I didn’t care about Billy, who was always a problem. I cared about my dinner. I did my Lassie trick, where I went up the steps to the door, stared at it meaningfully and barked, then came back to Andy. I did it twice but he barely noticed.

“Got to go over there,” he said. “And no, you can’t come. You’re a mighty dog but you’re still small and we know Billy can’t be trusted.”

He wanted to put me inside but I didn’t let him. I’m supposed to look after Andy. Protect him from others and from himself. It’s my job. How could I do that if I was shut inside?

While he went to check on Billy and Maeve, I went out to the street to see what was happening. And my little doggie heart jumped. Both of the twins, Leo and Cleo, were outside with no adult in sight, and they were heading for the road.

I dashed over there, placing myself between them and the street, and started doing my doggie dance keep them away from the street, and barking to summon their parents. The dancing worked for a while, and then I let them pet me and hang onto me as they giggled. But despite my barking, no parent appeared.

Just as Leo slipped past me, toddling for the street, I saw Otto come out his door. I barked, “Otto. Help. Hurry. We have to stop them.”

Otto is very quick. He immediately understood the problem. Between us—his size helped, of course—we herded the little ones back onto their lawn, keeping them there while we barked together like a canine chorus.

Something was wrong inside. Our noise didn’t summon Mike and Sally. But Alice and Jack came bounding across the street to see what was wrong.

They each scooped up a toddler, praising us for keeping them out of the street.

“Leo,” Alice said. “Where are mommy and daddy?”

Leo giggled. “They sleeping. We go play outside.”

Alice and Jack turned so they were facing the road. “Leo. Cleo. That is a road. Cars drive on that road and they drive very fast. Never never go in the road. You could get hurt and your mommy and daddy would be very sad. Okay?”

The littles nodded their head. “We won’t go in road, Alice,” they said.

Alice looked at me. “Kiki, where is Andy? Is everything okay?”

One of those times when I wished I could talk so I could explain. I could only turn toward Bad Billy’s and bark.

Again, I felt like I was in some Lassie program when Alice said, “Andy and Maeve have gone over to Billy’s?”

I said “Woof.”

“Oh Lord. I’d better check on them.” Alice handed Leo to Jack. “Take them inside and find Mike and Sally. Wake them up if you have to. This could have been such a disaster.”

Jack, his arms full of toddlers, headed up the steps. Alice crossed the lawn toward Billy’s.

Otto and I followed Alice. Right up onto the porch. We peered through the windows as Alice knocked on the door.

Andy opened it and I dashed in. I needed to see that everything was okay.

“Kiki and Otto just kept the twins from running into the street,” Alice said. “We’re so lucky to have great dogs.” Then, as she craned her neck to see past Andy, “What’s going on with Billy?”

“Oh. Maeve is reading him the riot act about not taking care of himself. He says she’s just like Norah.” Andy smiled. “Which she is. It’s like a miracle.” He reached down to pet me. “I have to take Kiki home and give her dinner. She’s been very patient.”

He called over to Maeve, “Going home to feed the dog. Come along when you’re ready.”

We went up our steps and Alice went next door to check on Mike and Sally and the twins.

It turned out that whether she meant such an open invitation or not, everyone went to Alice’s for eggnog. Me and Andy and Maeve. Mike and Sally and the twins. And even, in a surprise that left us all speechless and gaping, a clean and shaven Bad Billy, who sat silently near Maeve, almost smiling, and never swore once.

I got two very special Christmas gifts. A happier human and a wonderful illuminated leash that changed colors from Sally and Mike. As for Maeve? She never went home.

The End

 

 

Some Christmas Stories for You

Kate Flora: Every year I write a Christmas story for you. This year, the season is too busy and the story is going very slowly, so here are the links to the past four stories, and the beginning of this year’s, which I will finish and post the rest on Wednesday.

Enjoy!

 

Kiki Saves The Day: A Christmas Story

 I should introduce myself properly. My name is Kiki. I have white curly hair and shiny dark eyes. I am middle aged and I weigh a trim eighteen pounds. I love exercise, primarily walking, have a fondness for treats, and can dance on my hind legs to entertain my human.

Ah, yes. My human. I have primary responsibility for a human named Andy. More properly Andrew, but no one calls him that. Andy is in what humans call old age, meaning he is more than fifteen in dog years. Andy isn’t exactly lazy but without me, he wouldn’t get  much exercise. I do my best to take care of him, which is sometimes difficult. Andy likes to sit at his desk and work, so my challenge is to find ways to get him to leave his work and come outside.

Once he’s outside, he’s usually glad he’s there. Andy isn’t so much antisocial as he is shy. We have good neighbors, though, who understand about his shyness and find ways to engage with him anyway. There’s Alice, across the street, who worries about his nutrition and is always bringing him—us—food. We’re lucky that Alice is a good cook, because without her visits and the casseroles she brings, Andy would forget to eat. He’s what I’ve heard called “an absentminded professor.”

Alice had a dog that looks after her, too. A lumbering, joyous black Lab named Otto. People might scoff at this, since we’re animals, but I consider Otto to be my best friend. While Alice visits with Andy and catches him up on what’s happening in the neighborhood, Otto and I race around the yard. As a great example of why Otto is my friend, he is very considerate of the fact that he’s about three times my size, so he slows his pace to accommodate my short legs.

I guess I can say this: I really love Otto. He’s so kind and caring. He’s also smart, which his lumbering gait and exuberance don’t reveal. He can find things that people have lost. He’s good at comforting children who’ve fallen or who are shy and scared. He’s very protective of Alice and will get between her and anyone or anything he perceives as a threat. He can also catch a ball in midair and will carry his favorite stick for a mile if he and Alice are walking.

I watch the news with Andy every night, curled up on the sofa on my special blanket, and I often wish that humans could be as good as Otto instead of hurting each other.

We have other good neighbors, too. On one side of our house we have Mike and Sally and their twins, Leo and Cleo. The twins are just learning to walk and it is very funny to watch. Sometimes Otto will walk with them so they have something to grab onto if they think they might fall. I wouldn’t be good at that. I am good at dancing to make them laugh and believe me, a toddler’s laugh is a marvelous thing. Even Andy, who is shy around children, loves the twins. Leo, who talks more, called him “Dandy” which makes him laugh.

Lest you think our neighborhood is all sweetness and light, I must tell you about our neighbor on the other side, Bad Billy. I didn’t name him that, even though I like the alliteration. Andy did. He’s usually not very judgmental but it would be hard for anyone not to judge Bad Billy. He’s so disagreeable it’s almost as though he had a smelly green cloud around him, like a poison gas or something.

Right. You are thinking: How would a dog know about poison gas, right? Well, remember that we dogs have excellent senses of smell. Far better than humans. So of course I know that Bad Billy doesn’t bathe often and consequently stinks. The use of the term “poison gas” though, comes from Andy. He isn’t normally very critical. He lives so much in his head that he pretty much ignores the world around him unless forced into being observant by neighbors like Alice or Mike and Sally.

Anyway, about Billy. He’s the sort to complain about everything. He will call up to complain about a barking dog, even though I am a very well-behaved animal. He will kick over our trashcans if he thinks they’re on his property, even though Andy is very careful not to encroach. And while he complains about anyone else’s noise, he will play his loud music late into the night. And he has very bad taste in music. He calls Leo and Cleo snot rats.

You get the picture.

So mostly our lives are pleasant and we do our best to ignore Bad Billy.

I think I told you this story is about Christmas, didn’t I? Christmas is a big deal in our town. People try to outdo each other with their decorations. It’s fun, though. Not an over-the-top competition such as happens in some places. I know this because I’ve seen it on the news and Andy will say, “Aren’t we lucky that we live here, Kiki, where people are pleasant?” I will bark an affirmative and we will go back to watching TV.

Lately the news has been so unpleasant that even Andy, who has a very calm and curious nature, will change the channel. This year we are watching Hallmark Christmas movies. Andy says that when he was younger, he couldn’t stand them, but now that he’s older and slowed down and the world is in such a mess, he enjoys the romance, the small conflicts, the pretty small towns, and their message of love and happiness.

Once in a while he’ll sigh and say he wished he’d had a family. Andy did have a wife once. I never met her but he tells me about her sometimes. He says she was beautiful and fun and used to sing as she did her housework and cooked. He says her name was Norah, which I think is a very pretty name, and when he says it, that single word is infused with love and memory. Andy and Norah never had any children, which he regrets, but he signs and says that sometimes life doesn’t give you what you hope for, so you have to make the best of what you have,

Andy, in case you didn’t guess this because of his shy nature and the hours he spends at his desk, is a retired teacher. Sometimes when we’re out for one of our walks, he’ll meet a former student and they’re always happy to see him, so I guess he was not one of those mean teachers who made all his students feel inadequate. Quite the opposite. I think he was inspiring. I mean, I am only a dog but he inspires me. He makes me feel like I am special, and worthy, and a great companion.

When I say my job is to look after him, I mean that Andy is getting older and slowing down and he sometimes forgets things. If he leaves the keys in the door, for example, I will gently nudge him back to get them. If we’re going to leave the house and he doesn’t put them in his pocket, I will nose his pocket to remind him. He always laughs and says, “What would I do without you, Kiki,” which makes me feel very good.

When Alice stops in with one of her casseroles, she will pet me and say, “Now you keep an eye on Andy, Kiki. He depends on you.”

It’s a lot of responsibility for an eighteen pound creature, but I do my best.

Anyway, it’s the holiday season and our street is aglow with colored lights and silly inflatable Santas and reindeer and snowmen. It’s lovely to see and people are smiling. We aren’t big on decorations because Andy is old and alone, but he tries. We have lights around the porch and a big wreath on the door and a funny metal tree with lots of lights that’s also on the porch. Andy says he doesn’t care that much about Christmas but he doesn’t want to let the neighborhood down.

Alice goes all out with strings of lights on her trees and along her porch and some crazy blue waterfall lights people stop to watch. Of course, Alice has her husband and children to help. Otto says the whole family gets excited about doing it. Last year, one of the kids even got an illuminated leash for him, so he can be part of the fun. I admit I’m a bit envious and have to remind myself how good I have it. After all, I began my life in shelter, surrounded by dogs nobody wanted.

When I think of that, it makes me sad until I remember the day that Andy came looking for a dog. He was sort of shambling down the row where we were all in cages like we were prisoners. He looked like seeing us just made him more unhappy, so I went over to the bars and stuck out my paw, like I wanted to shake hands. Really it was because I wanted to comfort him. He stopped and crouched down and shook my paw. Our eyes met and that was that. Kind of like in those movies we watch, except that he’s a man and I’m a dog. Anyway, I came home with him and we’ve been best friends ever since. Our own happily ever after.

Our lives were going along as usual, Andy puttering at his desk and I watching dust motes in a streak of sunlight, when something most unusual happened. The doorbell rang.

Uh. I should clarify: it wasn’t the ringing of the doorbell that was unusual. It was the person on the other side of the door.

Andy shuffled toward it, his slippers making those scuffing, old man sounds that made me want to chew them up so he couldn’t wear them anymore, and opened it. He was probably expecting Alice, since it was around her usual time to bring us food. Instead, he opened the door, saw the woman standing there, and stepped back in shock, his hands to his chest.

I’ve watched TV so I know, when someone puts their hand on their chest, they’re either having a heart attack or they’ve been shot. There had been no noise, so Andy wasn’t shot. I rushed to his side, hovering there in case he needed me.

The woman said, “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” not in an angry way but in a sweet and puzzled way, and Andy stepped back and gestured for her to enter. Without a word, he led the way into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. She took a seat in a chair facing him and waited.

I decided I’d better give him time to recover, so I followed them into the room, did my little Kiki dance for her, and then planted my head on her knee. We would soon know whether this was a dog-friendly person or the kind who says, in a cranky voice, “Sorry. I am not a dog person.”

She was a dog person. Definitely, the way she stroked around my ears and along my back and said, in an apologetic voice, “I’m sorry I don’t have any treats for you.”

A dog just knows, right?

By then, two things had happened. First, Andy had recovered enough to speak, and I realized the woman looked like the photos of Norah that were around the house. So who was this person?

“As you’ve guessed,” our visitor said, “I am Norah’s sister Maeve.”

“Twin,” Andy said. “You’re her twin.” He sounded like he was choking on the words. He could barely get them out.

“She never told you, did she, that she had a twin?” the woman said.

Andy nodded.

“She probably never knew.”

Andy and I were both puzzled. How does a person not know they have a twin?

“I know.” The woman’s voice was soft and pleasant. A very nice voice. I imagined her sayinh, “Here, Kiki” and giving me a treat. It was that kind of voice.

“I know that it sounds impossible. I didn’t know about it myself until recently, and frankly, it made me very angry. I was adopted, as was Norah, and a few years ago, I decided to look for my birth parents. You know . . . I imagine . . . that many adopted children feel a sense of not belonging, if not a great curiosity to know why they were given up and whether there are people other there in the world who are like them. Parents, aunts or uncles, siblings or cousins.”

She stopped talking and put a hand to her lips. “Excuse me. I’m so sorry to barge in like this and then start babbling at you like an idiot. This must be a great shock.”

By now, Andy had recovered somewhat and was staring at he with what humans probably call wonder.

“Babble all you want,” he said. “My Norah . . . your sister . . . your twin . . . she did the same. I always found it charming. It was fun to see where her conversation would go.” He waved a hand, more animated than I’d seen him in a long time. “Go on.”

“They aren’t very cooperative, these agencies, even though the laws are more liberal now. It took a lot of work, so much I sometimes felt more like a detective than like a woman who wanted to know her story. And then, when I finally discovered the fascinating truth that I had been one of a pair of identical twins and we’d been given to different families and never told . . . Well,” she spread her hands in one of those human gestures that can mean many things, “I was amazed and furious. Then, just when I was excited that I not only had family but a sister just like me, I learned that Norah was dead.”

She slapped her hands down on her knees, and I gave a startled yip and moved away. She looked at me. “Sorry. I can get carried away.”

The Good Bad Guy – A Christmas Story

A Christmas Story

Angel’s Christmas Eve

Reform School: A Christmas Story

Weekend Update: December 16-17, 2023

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Kate Flora (Monday), Maureen Milliken (Tuesday), Sandra Neily (Thursday) and Dick Cass (Friday).

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

John Clark along with Matt Cost and Vaughn Hardacker, were at the biggest author event ever last weekend. We were part of 100 authors and poets filling the Bangor Public Library. Here are some photos of the event.

Christopher Packard, the man who made it happen.

Brook Merrow is on the left, her YA mystery, Trapped, is a top notch read.

Matt Cost setting up.

Some people were very civil

Tim Caverly, author of many Maine books for kids.

Colorful displays abounded.

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, along with the very popular “Making a Mystery” with audience participation, and “Casting Call: How We Staff Our Mysteries.” We also do programs on Zoom. Contact Kate Flora

One Writer’s Christmas Traditions

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson here, this time writing about my personal Christmas traditions. A lot of the things I did in my younger days aren’t practical any more. We stopped decorating the house ages ago out of respect for our sanity—Christmas decorations, particularly Christmas trees, and cats, do not mix! I don’t bake cookies and other goodies because we aren’t the ones entertaining family and my nieces are much better at it anyway. What does that leave? Why movies and books, of course.

By the time you read this, I will already have worked my way through at least my top four Christmas favorites. I’ve heard it suggested that the ideal order for two of them is Love, Actually followed by Die Hard. Why? Alan Rickman is in both. If you look at what his character does in the first, one could say that what happens to his character in the second is poetic justice. I know. That’s a stretch. But admit it, the concept made you smile.

The Holiday is also on my list, despite the fact that none of the four lead actors are particular favorites of mine. There’s just something about the story that grabs me. Plus there’s a wonderful subplot involving an elderly screenwriter.

Well before any of those movies were made, and before DVDs and streaming were even invented, I regularly watched both White Christmas and Holiday Inn on network TV. I had a little thing for Bing Crosby growing up. These days I find scenes in both that are cringeworthy, but still watch. I have a definite preference for the latter, but that could be because it has Fred Astaire as well as Bing Crosby. I fast forward through the Lincoln’s Birthday number. Blackface wasn’t considered demeaning when the movie was made, but times and attitudes change.

Moving on to books, there are plenty of Christmas titles out there, including several I wrote myself, but my hands-on favorite, and a definite annual reread, is Charlotte MacLeod’s Rest You Merry. It’s irreverent, funny, and the first book in her wonderful Peter Shandy series.

I’ll probably reread at least one of Donna Andrews’ Christmas mysteries, too. The trick will be picking which title, since she adds one to her Meg Langslow series every year. I’ve already read this year’s (Let it Crow! Let it Crow! Let it Crow!), which came out in October, and it did not disappoint.

What about you, readers? Do you have “traditional” Christmas watches and reads?

Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett has had sixty-four books traditionally published and has self published others. 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. In 2023 she won the Lea Wait Award for “excellence and achievement” from the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance. She was the Malice Domestic Guest of Honor in 2014. She is currently working on creating new omnibus e-book editions of her backlist titles. Her website is www.KathyLynnEmerson.com.

 

Excuses, Excuses

There is something to be said for habitually hibernating in winter. In my case, circumstances nearly demanded it, and now I am used to it, perhaps even relishing it. Bears R Us.

Our previous house on McGrath Pond in Belgrade was reached by three-tenths of a mile of twisty, icy camp road through the woods. I cannot tell you how many visitors and delivery people got stuck. UPS refused to come at all until spring.

One time I decided to walk up with our dog to get the mail, only to find a really heavy box at the end of the driveway. To this day, I’m not sure how I made it home. The dog was no help at all, and I remember leaning against a high snowbank trying to catch my breath, sweating (!), wondering what the hell I had been thinking. The mail-fetching-on-foot was never to be repeated.

Now, though we live in town in Farmington, we have another tricky, if much shorter, driveway. Even with no bad weather, it’s perfectly possible for me to clip the corner of the house or run into the rhododendrons one way/stone wall the other as I back out down the slope. Factor in a four-foot pile of snow left by our excellent plow guy, and I’m staying home.

I don’t ski or snowshoe or snowmobile. The last time I ice-skated, I twisted my ankle and limped around for weeks. With one replaced knee and another ready to give up the ghost, my mobility is not the best in the best of times. So my sedentary ways become sendentary-er once December rolls around.

I’d like to say this is great for my writing, but that would be a lie. It is also not great for my waistline or Vitamin D consumption. I do a fair bit of gardening, dog-brushing, and zhuzhing in our backyard in the summer, but winter is not conducive to such activities. I will dream indoors over my seed packets instead and vacuum up the dog hair.

However, I’m writing a murder mystery set in December on a Maine island, so I hope to use my aversion to all things frigid and freezing to set the grim tone. Winter’s got to be good for something, right?

“The path to the ice house is icy, which suddenly strikes me as funny. It is not a house at all, but a hole, kind of a cave, built deep into a mound of earth and rocks on the way to our beach. Two overgrown lilac bushes guard it. I know that it’s a fancy, but sometimes when I open the ice box door I can smell spring.”

Are you a fan of cold weather? Inspired by the wooliness in the L.L. Bean catalog? Or are you planning a cruise to the Bahamas? Have a wonderful holiday season no matter where you are!

www.maggierobinson.net

Christmas and Crime Writing

The Christmas season is a reminder that hope and joy can triumph over the evils going on in the world, and in our own hearts. I say this as someone who writes books about mystery and murder, and who often questions his own motives for writing about such topics. Can the two be reconciled?

I’ve said many times that crime writers are often the nicest people I’ve ever met, and I often wondered why that is. A lot of crime writers have had careers in law enforcement, or social service agencies. These are people who have seen evil close-up and personal, and who have dedicated their lives to keeping the rest of us safe from murderers and predators. For this reason, I believe writers write about crime in order to show how justice can prevail over chaos and lawlessness. The criminal usually gets his or her comeuppance by the end of the novel, and sees the error of their ways. Lawfulness and good wins out at the end.

Christmas time is about giving and about expressing goodwill to the people around you. Writers give of themselves fully when they publish books. Their stories come from deep within in them, and emanate from the heart. In many ways, it’s the greatest gift they can give to others, most they don’t even know. Their stories are parables about doing good and to treat others as they would want to be treated. A lot of the time, these stories are redemption tales. Also messages about the pitfalls of breaking the rules that society has created for us. But we all know that morality comes from deep within us.

I’m grateful to my family and friends during this Christmas season, especially my writer friends, and for being born in such a wonderful country that allows us to express our views. I’m grateful that I have the freedom to write the kinds of stories I want, and that I have an amazing publisher that puts them out into the world. Loving our family and neighbors should be an all consuming priority and we should spread such a message of joy and goodwill throughout the year. The state of the world is in rough place right now, but I’m not without optimism. Hopefully someday, most crimes will be a thing of the past and only in crime fiction will we be able to experience such evil.

I hope everyone has a wonderful Christmas and holiday season with their friends and family. Oh, and my new novel, THE ANCHORMAN’S WIFE, will make a wonderful gift for you or any of your crime reading friends and family.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy New Year!

Best,

Joe

Weekend Update: December 9-10, 2023

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Joe Souza (Monday), Vaughn Hardacker (Tuesday), Maggie Robinson (Thursday) and Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson (Friday).

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

 Maureen Milliken will be at three Authors for Lewiston events in the coming week:

Saturday, Dec. 9, 9:30 a.m.-12:30 p.m. Auburn Public Library, 49 Spring St., Auburn; Thursday, Dec. 14, 6-7:30 p.m., Camden Public Library, 55 Main St., Camden; Saturday, Dec. 16, 9:30 a.m.-12:30 p.m., Lewiston Public Library, 200 Lisbon St., Lewiston.

Authors for Lewiston is raising money for three causes related to the Oct. 25 Lewiston shootings: Central Maine Medical Center Compassionate Care Fund; City of Lewiston Support Fund; Maine Community Foundation Lewiston-Auburn Response Fund.

Up to 20 authors will be on hand selling books, with a portion of their proceeds going to the nonprofit organizations. Stop by and say hi!

In other news, Maureen’s Bernadette “Bernie” O’Dea mystery series is being republished under the Nevermore Mystery Press imprint in anticipation of the fourth book in the series, DYING FOR NEWS, being released in June. The new edition of COLD HARD NEWS, the first book in the series, is available this month, with a new look and revised content. Look for NO NEWS IS BAD NEWS and BAD NEWS TRAVELS FAST early in the new year!

The new cover for COLD HARD NEWS, the first in Maureen Milliken’s Bernie O’Dea mystery series. The series is being republished with a new look and some minor content revisions as a lead-up to DYING FOR NEWS, scheduled for release in June.

 

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, along with the very popular “Making a Mystery” with audience participation, and “Casting Call: How We Staff Our Mysteries.” We also do programs on Zoom. Contact Kate Flora

RUBIROSA – The Real James Bond?

by Jule Selbo

Maybe like any other James Bond movie lover, the question of who will be taking over the role from Daniel Craig (No Time to Die was his swan song) has popped into my mind. A few days ago, in a random wonder-wandering on this topic, I came upon a name – one I was not familiar with: Porfirio Rubirosa.

Several amateur-sleuth articles point to this Rubirosa (1906-1965) as a man of Afro-Latino or Creole/Criolo or Meszita descent as the real inspiration. He was in Fleming’s orbit before and during the creation of the James Bond tales. Who was he? A Dominican Republic soldier, a diplomat representing his country, a daredevil, a race car driver, a polo player, an international playboy, a man who earned the title of ‘Caribbean Casanova’, a spy, an assassin – a man of action (ethical and unethical?) in politics, world finance and famous for personal relationships with beautiful women.

Sir Ian Lancaster Fleming (pictured here) never mentioned Rubirosa as an inspiration. In an interview in the London Times, Fleming claimed his popular character was an amalgam of a few individuals: ones he came across during his time in Naval Intelligence during WW II, his own brother, a skiing spy (with the odd name Conrad O’Brian-ffrench), and a combination of MI6 operatives that Fleming had met during the war. The character’s name, he claimed, was chosen because of a book Fleming had on his bookshelf in Jamaica, one written by an American ornithologist named James Bond. In the ornithologist’s NY Times obituary (1989) it was reported that Fleming told the bird-maven’s wife that the name ‘struck me as brief, unromantic, Anglo-Saxon and yet very masculine – just what I needed, and so, a second James Bond was born”.

Others have suggested Bond came together in Fleming’s mind through his reading of British Phyllis Bottome’s 1946 spy novel, The Lifeline, (she had been one of Fleming’s teachers) and characters created by Nigel West, another Brit spy writer. But these two conjectures seem to be just that – dots being strung together by outsiders that don’t really have much “juice” to them.

Handsome, charming Porifirio Rubirosa (Rubi) is a compelling notion – mostly because his life is the stuff that inspires movies and novels. Fleming and Rubi knew each other and enjoyed many aspects of the suave, Caribbean island-hopping life and being bon-vivants along with Errol Flynn, Noel Coward, Hemingway, Frank Sinatra and other famous, upscale party-goers.

Born in the Dominican Republic, Rubi grew up in an affluent family (his father was high up in military and political ranks). Rubi spent early and late teenage years in Paris, went home to the DR to study law, got bored, joined the army, and met dictator Rafael Trujillo at a country club (Rubi was an accomplished polo player). Trujillo was impressed, and legend has it that within twenty-four hours, charismatic Rubi was a lieutenant of the President’s Guard. Trujillo also agreed him to let him marry his daughter  – this accelerated Rubi’s place on the government’s inside track. Rubi’s ability to commit long-term to one woman brought the marriage to an end in less than five years, but Trujillo did not punish Rubi. Shawn Levy, in his 2005 book on Rubirosa, quotes Trujillo as saying, “He is good at his job, because women like him and he is a wonderful liar.” Trujillo kept Rubi on as an attaché with diplomatic immunity, a spy and – some stories go – as an assassin who protected Trujillo’s regime.

Rubi loved fast cars and rich women. The “Gold Dust Twins” – the heiresses, Doris Duke and Barbara Hutton – were among his five wives.

His marriage with Hutton lasted 53 days and in the divorce proceedings, he “earned” a DR coffee plantation, a plane, polo ponies, a few race cars and 2.5 million dollars.

Doris Duke got out of her marriage with him in less than one year – she awarded Rubi a Parisian home, a B-25 bomber, a sports car, a fishing fleet off Africa and (only) $25,000 a year in alimony. (Side note: Rubi was “infamous” for his lovemaking skills. The oversized pepper mill, still used in France (the one the waiter brings to the table to add the spice to your dish) is still called the Rubirosa to this day.)

A Chicago litigator and forensic historian, Daniel J. Voelker, in 2016, published a paper in attempt to support his belief that Rubirosa was the inspiration for – or at least a great influencer – on the James Bond character.

Here are a few more Rubi facts to consider. (I’ve put together from the research of Voelker and others, let’s see what you think):

Fleming bought his Goldeneye estate in Jamacia in 1946 and spent most of his post-war time there. This is where he started writing the James Bond series. Rubi, when not in the DR or traveling around the world, did a lot of ‘island hopping’ in the Caribbean – this includes time in Jamacia. So did the fictional Bond.Both Rubi and the fictional Bond spent much of their childhoods in Paris.Both wore handmade suits made in England. (Rubi was often on the Best Dressed List and is given credit for inspiring Ralph Lauren’s Polo brand.) Rubi had impeccable style, a dashing charisma, and an adventurous spirit; he captivated everyone he met. The fictional James Bond became famous for similar traits and charms.Rubi was known to look good with a gun – or a cocktail – in his hand. Just like James Bond.Fleming’s first Bond tale was published in 1953. One of the character descriptions Fleming wrote: “…skill at gambling and knowledge of how to behave in a casino…”Rubi ordered his martinis “shaken, not stirred”. So did the fictional James Bond.Rubi was known as the Casanova of the Caribbean, famous for his ability to woo women. Some of his paramours included Dolores Del Rio, Eartha Kitt, the famous Portuguese fado singer Amalia, Marilyn Monroe, Maria Montez, Rita Hayworth, Eva Peron and more. An important part of James Bond’s reputation is his ability to woo the ladies – even those who have been sent to kill him.Both Rubi and the fictional Bond worked out in the boxing ring to keep in shape.Both Rubi and the fictional Bond loved fast cars, polo and gadgets.In the spring of 1952, Rubi spent months scuba diving for treasure off the coast of Jamacia where several Spanish galleons had sunk. The new scuba technology he used was described by Fleming in Thunderball (which he started writing in 1959).Rubi, in his work for the DR, carried a “license to kill” (according to Voelker). Famously, fictional James Bond had a “license to kill”.

Some researchers (including Voelker in 2016) suggest the reasons Fleming never mentioned Rubi was for marketing reasons. Voelker wrote: “Fleming was restrained from identifying Rubi as his inspiration given Rubirosa’s Creole, or mixed racial background; Fleming’s audience in the 1950s and early ’60s may not, unfortunately, have been very accepting of such a revelation.

Perhaps one of the reasons why Rubirosa’s life has gotten attention lately is that a comic named Christopher Rivas has based part of his stand-up on Rubirosa’s life; he’s imagining if Fleming had made Bond of Creole/Criolo or Meszita or Afro-Latin heritage, his life (Rivas’) might be different today.  There are a few documentaries on Rubirosa’s life, but IMO, they could be better. However, one of the books I want to check out is written in 2005 by Michael Wall and Isabelle Wall. Its title is Chasing Rubi, The Truth About Porfirio Rubirosa. The book covers their twenty-two years of research on the man – including details in his 700+ page FBI file.

This shallow dive into Rubirosa has me planning to watch the foreign releases (2018 and 2019) TV movies about him, hoping there are subtitles)  – but it might be time for a full-scale movie on the life of Rubirosa. Too bad Sean (IMO, the best Bond) is not around to play him.

 

 

 

 

Let’s have more fun

John Clark: Sometime back, I posted a blog with ten story starts and invited readers to tell me which they thought would make good writing projects. Oddly enough, two of them turned into complete books last year, albeit unpublished as of today. I thought I would try it again to see what in might become a piece (or book) in 2024. I invite readers to decide which ones sound most intriguing.

1-Mary-Ellis Gagnon lay quietly, her brain not particularly engaging with a day that began like most others had. She lived in a cold creaky house permeated by the odor of a nearby paper mill. That familiarity was about to be turned upside down in a big way.

2-Everything hurt, but my hands and feet were the worst. Once I was able to get past the pain, I looked around. I wasn’t alone. Everywhere I looked, other people were moaning and hanging from squares that resembled a vertical bingo card.

3-Why couldn’t I die? Nothing I’d ever heard or read came close to this pain. To say that terminal cancer sucked was the understatement of all times. Nathan took a cool wash cloth and bathed my forehead. “There is one thing you have to do before the illness will grant you relief. Do you want to know what that is?”

4-”What do you mean I’m in violation of the dress code? This is a nudist colony.”

5-Lotta folks in Maine think of the Haynesville Woods as the most dangerous place in Maine. It ain’t so. If my cousin Eldrich could speak, he’d for sure tell you the swamp below West Appleton Ridge is a hell of a lot worse, but then, he never made it out of that place.”

6-I sat in a darkened theater, angry, hurt and abandoned. Angry at parents who thought foisting the their tickets onto me would allow them to get hammered at the country club. Hurt when my girlfriend dumped me for some jock, and abandoned by everything and everyone in my life. A half pint of stolen vodka had blurred my edges and I must have dozed off. I awoke, feeling confused, then was overcome by complete numbness when I looked at the Lakewood Theater program In my hand. It looked brand new, but featured a play called Naughty Cinderella and was dated August 13, 1932, ninety years ago.

7-I had no clue who or where I was. When I opened my eyes, it seemed like I was in some sort of tunnel. Then the chilling cold hit and I realized I was semi-submerged in slowly flowing water that was covered with a thin sheet of ice.

8-She had that shade of red-gold hair that always made my heart stutter with a face to match, but the way she was staring at me was extremely unsettling. I’d never seen her before. Then she spoke those words no guy ever wants to hear; ‘We need to talk about last night.”

9-I vaguely remembered reading something about thin spots, but didn’t they exist in exotic places, not decrepit barns in Sclearville, Maine? That didn’t stop me from moving closer to the shimmering rectangle on the back wall of Bessie’s pen. What would happen if I touched it? My hand made the decision for me, extending until it was an inch from something inexplicable.

10-”Where’s Aunt Ruth?” I asked my uncle. Lester gave me one of those dead eye looks that always creeped me out. “She’s out back in that damn garden she loves more than me.” I hustled around the corner, hoping to see her weeding like she usually was, but all I saw was a fresh mound of dirt where her cucumber plants had been a week ago.