Nancy Martin's Blog, page 27

Fear Times Three

 

By Elaine Viets

Recently, a three-foot hole was torn open in a Southwest Airlines plane – while it was flying. The plane landed safely. But the holey aircraft made me queasy. Especially since I was headed to St. Louis. On Southwest Airlines.

Then an Air France super jumbo jet clipped a Comair commuter plane. Again, nobody was hurt.

But this was serious. That second incident activated the Airplane Rule of Three. I needed another scary airplane incident fast.

My grandmother believed in the Rule of Three. She thought deaths – especially celebrity deaths – came in threes. I knew that was pure superstition. Grandma would simply notice that three famous people had died and then forget about the others.

The Airplane Rule of Three is a scientific fact. Airplane accidents happen in threes. There are three horrendous crashes and then the airways are safe again. There are near-misses, then smooth flying.

Before my trip last weekend, I watched the news, hoping the Rule of Three would be satisfied. I hate to fly, but I like Southwest. Their flight attendants make me laugh. I forget I'm hurtling through the air at six hundred miles an hour in an aluminum tube .

But I wasn't laughing when I boarded that flight last Friday. I was jittery as a junkie who needed a fix. The Rule of Three was short by one scary incident. It didn't help at takeoff when the woman next to me said, "Well, we got off the ground without any parts falling off."

Halfway through the flight, I joined the restroom line at the back of the plane.

"Can I get you something?" the flight attendant asked.

I glanced up at the "restroom occupied" sign and raised an eyebrow.

"To add to your problem," he finished, and grinned.

The man in line next to me asked the attendant about the holey plane.

"The planes were all checked and nobody was hurt," the flight attendant said.

"I'm surprised someone wasn't sucked out of the hole," I said.

"I'm sure that's an urban legend," the flight attendant said.

"No, it happened in 1988," I said. "A hole blew open in the fuselage and a flight attendant was sucked out."

Take that, I thought. You, too, could be an urban legend.

My fellow standee said, "She's right. It's true."

"I come from a long line of frightened flyers," I said. "My uncle Eddie carried a parachute with him on planes. He was a traveling salesman and hated to fly. He wouldn't get on a plane unless he had that parachute with him – not that it would have done him much good."

 

"If he'd been in a tall building like the Twin Towers, a parachute might work," the flight attendant said. "But not on a commercial aircraft."

The restroom door opened, ending our chat at 30,000 feet. I was grateful for the conversation. It distracted me for the rest of the flight. What would I do if I was trapped in a burning skyscraper and had a parachute?

Would I jump off the roof and save myself? Would I be up high enough so the parachute would open in time? Would I let friends cling to me when I jumped? If I did, would the extra weight make us all drop like rocks?

Or would I stay trapped in the burning skyscraper with my coworkers?

By the time the plane landed safely, I decided I wasn't noble enough to die with my colleagues. That was team player overkill.

Sunday, I took Southwest back home. The takeoff was delayed 30 minutes in St. Louis.

"Weather problem?" I asked a gate agent.

"Equipment," she said. "They're bringing in another plane."

Gulp. I waited with a Bissinger's chocolate bar and a Michael Connelly hardcover. I would die in style.

The plane made it safely to Fort Lauderdale.

I fly Southwest again April 28. Each day I check the news for one last scare to finish the Rule of Three. I want to fly fearlessly.

I'm two-thirds of the way there.

 

 

Rights of Spring

Rights of Spring

By Brunonia Barry

I've never understood why the New Year starts on January 1st, right at the height of winter instead of in the spring. What's new about it? Here in New England, January, February, and usually all of March are more of the same old same old: more cold, more snow, more ice, more darkness. I understand that the winter solstice means that the days are getting longer, and we've turned the corner on winter, but you'd never know it by looking at our heating bills. If we've turned a corner, it must be a blind one, because on January 1st, spring is nowhere in sight. Usually there isn't a hint of spring until early April, and even then we get the occasional freak snowstorm sent our way to remind us not to get too giddy just yet. 

In Salem, we are not a giddy people, but there are certain signs of spring that lighten our mood. These signs have nothing to do with flowers and robins, but they do have to do with birds of a different feather: snowbirds. I have come to believe that every seasonal business in New England is run by people who winter in Florida. And who can blame them? In any case, those snowbird businesses are now coming back, and the signs are everywhere. Here's one of my favorites:

The opening of the Lobster Shanty not only heralds spring in Salem, it does so with perfect New England attitude.

It's 61 degrees today, and everyone's out on the streets, high fiving each other with the attitude of survivors. We survived another New England winter, one of the worst in memory. We shoveled snow almost every day of the week, first when it fell from the sky, next when it fell from our roofs. In some cases, we even shoveled those roofs. We spread salt, then rethought the environmental implications and shoveled sand. If we have attitude, we have friggin' well earned it. You want a lobster? Get it your own damned self!

It's a good thing that the tourists don't start showing up in Salem until mid May. They find us a whole lot more hospitable by late spring. By that time, we have almost forgotten the three-day storms, the stocking up on food, the fighting for shoveled out parking spaces. By the time those heralded May flowers arrive along with the emerald green lawns and the blooming dogwood, the cutting ocean wind has turned into gentle ocean breeze. We have all but forgotten those February vows of "Not one more winter!"

But it isn't May yet. It is only April. And though we finally know that spring has come, we don't quite trust it. I still remember the Nor'easter that dumped 14 inches of snow on us one April 23rd. I'm not going to tempt the imps by making some kind of declaration that the worst is over. Even though I think it probably is, I will never utter those words aloud.

So, in the spirit of Patriot's Day and those contrarians who fought for independence from their oppressors, I will (with all apologies to Stravinsky) declare independence from the oppression of winter by proclaiming my. . . 

RIGHTS OF SPRING

1.The right not to have our front vestibule look like a sand, salt, shovel, and gravel storage room.

2.The right to immediately get in my car and drive without having to warm it up and scrape the windshield for 15 minutes.

3.The right not to have to wear a thick sweater, a turtle neck, a waffle T-shirt, and six scarves under a down jacket that makes me look like the Michelin Man.

4.The right to actually leave the thermostat where my husband sets it and not sneak downstairs in the middle of the night to crank up the heat.

5.The right to drink my tea with ice.

6.The right not to grab onto walls, fences, sign posts, parked cars, fire hydrants and random passersby in an effort to stay upright while walking down the street.

7.The right to see the sun after 3:30 PM.

8.The right not to have my nose turn red and start to run whenever I step out the front door.

9.The right not to cause myself a medical emergency when I can't locate my hat, scarf, and/or gloves.

10.The right to happily say "It's too hot out here. I think I'll go back inside where it's cool."

 

Those are my Rights of Spring. What are yours?

 

Watson and the Snake Charmer

By Diane Chamberlain

When I posted about being a quasi-groupie back in the day, it made me want to reconnect with my old friend Marilyn, with whom I'd shared that adventure. Marilyn and I lost touch in our late teens and I don't know her married name, so although I've searched the Internet, I haven't been able to track her down. (Marilyn Butchko from Bayonne, New Jersey: if you're out there, please get in touch!) The experience prompted me to ask my Facebook friends if they'd been able to find people from their past through the 'net and I heard many heartwarming stories, but this is one of my favorites.

In 1964, I was a young teen growing up in Plainfield, New Jersey. Plainfield was a small ethnically diverse city on the cusp of huge upheaval brought about by the civil rights movement. To me, it was an exciting place and an exciting time to be alive. I particularly loved downtown Plainfield on Thursday nights, when the stores stayed open late and (it seemed to me) the teens took over the streets. One of those teens was a guy named Snake. Snake was a few years older than me and he was uber-cool. Well, probably the jocks and cheerleaders didn't even think of him that way, but kids like me--the mostly innocent pre-hippie, pre-folkie, pre-druggie ilk--all knew who Snake was. He was suspended for his long hair before the rest of the boys even thought of growing their locks. He was the quintessential bad boy--the guy you knew deep in your gut was really a lot safer than he looked, even if your parents didn't quite agree.  

Anyhow, fast forwarding a few decades: Snake is a now a Facebook friend of mine and when I asked my question about finding old friends via the Internet, he responded with his "reconnection story" with a girl he used to know. I asked him if I could interview the two of them about their relationship, so without further ado, here is their story. Snake's real name is Watson Garman, and even though he'll always be Snake to me, I'll break down and call him Watson here.

Diane: How did you two first meet?

WATSON: Late on a Thursday night in 1964,I was sitting at the Conca-Dorro Pizza Parlor in Plainfield. I had just enough money for one slice and a Coke. Two girls at another table invited me to join them and help them finish their pie. I wasn't used to getting a lot of attention from girls, so I was surprised, but naturallly, I accepted. We talked a bit and then one of them, Sandy, invited me to a party at her house for that Saturday. I never got invited to parties, so again I was surprised and again I accepted.

That Saturday night, I stood outside the house. I was a bit nervous about going in. On Friday night I'd been beaten up by some jocks from North Plainfield for being a "long haired faggotty freak" and I wondered what I was walking into. Plus, a friend's father had recently slammed his door in my face, saying he didn't want his son hanging around with any 'long haired creeps'. I wasn't excited about having another door slammed in my face or running into more guys who wanted to kick my ass. Eventually, though, I got up the nerve to knock on the door.

Sandy answered, gave me a big hug and thanked me for coming. She told me the party was downstairs. I asked to use her bathroom first. I was still nervous and wanted to comb my hair. Then I walked down the stairs real slow, scanning the room, checking everyone out. A guy and a girl sat on one end of a couch. The girl just  mesmerized me--dark hair, dark eyes, wow! Suddenly I noticed she was staring back at me and we both looked embarrassed and turned away quickly. I had just gotten my first glimpse of Carole.

CAROLE: Sandy told me she invited this guy she met downtown to her party. He was called Snake and he was really cool and he had long hair.  I was definitely intrigued to meet someone called Snake--the first guy to have long hair in Plainfield.  I was watching intently as he came down the basement stairs.  Halfway down the stairs he stopped to look around the room.  Our eyes met briefly and then we both looked away.  For me it was out of embarrassment because I didn't want him to think I was interested.  But I couldn't keep my eyes off him.  I never imagined he might be checking me out too.  

WATSON: Sandy led me around the room, introducing me to everyone. I was hoping the guy sitting next to Carole wasn't her boyfriend. When we got to them, Sandy said 'this is my friend Carole.' I took her hand and looked into her eyes and said 'I'm very happy to meet you.' She looked at me and said 'pleased to meet you too'. Reluctantly, I let go of her hand as Sandy introduced me to the guy sitting next to her. I tried to hide my elation when she didn't say he was Carole's boyfriend. Then I had to formulate a plan: How could I get her away from the guy on the couch?

I noticed their sodas were almost gone so I sat on the floor between them and where Sandy had the drinks. I figured if he went for the drinks, I'd go for the couch. If she went for them, I'd intercept her before she got back to the couch. If they went together, I'd have to come up with another plan.

CAROLE: He took a seat on the floor, and I sat there wondering if he would even talk to me.  You know the angst of a 15 yr old girl, right?  After about 15 minutes when he didn't come over I decided to try something to get him to notice me.  So, I got up from the couch and walked close by him to get a soda.  I purposely walked back by him and he suddenly reached for my hand and said something like, "Would like to join me on the floor?" Without hesitation I replied "I'd love to".  

WATSON: I was stunned when she said yes. Still holding her hand, I guided her down so she sat facing me and with her back to the guy on the couch. VICTORY!

CAROLE: Yes,  he wouldn't just let me plop down where I was standing.  In a gallant gesture, he led me by the hand, circling him until I was on the opposite side.  Then he gestured for me to sit.  At that point I was pretty much gone.  He tells me now he purposely placed me on the opposite side so that I couldn't see the guy I had been sitting next to on the couch.   To this day I can't remember that guy.  Once our eyes locked on that staircase, Snake was all I saw. 

WATSON: We talked for a long time about music, movies, school. All the topics that seem important when you're young.

CAROLE: We spent the rest of the party talking and having so much fun. I found out we both had passions for great literature and all the new and old rock and folk music which is what really connected us at first.  I remember thinking there probably were many people in town that just dismissed him because they thought that with a name like Snake, how intelligent could this guy be?  But as we talked and got to know each other more it was clear to me this guy was not only great looking and a charmer, but very smart too.  I was having the time of my life. I was still not sure how he felt, but obviously I was hooked. 

WATSON: I didn't want to push my luck, so after about an hour I told her, "your friend on the couch is shooting me dirty looks. If you want to go back to the couch, I understand." She looked and me and said, "I'm having a wonderful time right here." WOW! I couldn't believe it. She actually wanted to stay with me. I was flying.

CAROLE: I stayed there the rest of the night, oblivious to anyone else in the room.  

WATSON: When I noticed people were starting to leave I leaned over and asked her, "May I kiss you?"

CAROLE: I told him that most guys don't ask.  He just said "I'm not like most guys." (such an understatement!).  I said yes. 

WATSON: We then shared the first truly romantic kiss of my life and then we spent the next few seconds in silence, just looking at each other.

CAROLE: We kissed again, this time a little longer.  We kissed a few more times before he left but I never got over that first kiss with him.

WATSON: I asked her if I could walk her home, but she said she was spending the night at Sandy's with another friend.  

CAROLE: He took my phone number and said he would call.  I wasn't sure if I should believe him but I hoped he would.

WATSON: I left the party and started to walk down the street. After half a block, I turned and walked back. I leaned up against a tree and just looked the house. An upstairs light went on and I knew that must be where the girls were staying. I thought they must be talking about me and wondered what they were saying to Carole. Were they thinking it was cool that we hooked up or were they warning her to watch out for me? After awhile, I headed home singing out loud a song that had been playing on the radio earlier that day: Herman's Hermits I'm Into Something Good.

DIANE: -What was your relationship like back then? Why did it end?

CAROLE; It was a week before he called.  I was miserable that week, figuring he never would call.  But he did.  And we met across from the diner on Saturday.  He grabbed my hand and led me to Woolworth's, telling me "Let's go get our picture made!"  I thought that was a little strange but exciting too.  

 

 WATSON:  I thought of her as my girl friend and there was a lot of holding hands and kissing. I liked showing her the places I hung out.  It was a sweet and innocent relationship.

CAROLE: It was only 2-3 months before my Dad transferred to Oklahoma City and I had to move.  We never told each other how we felt about each other.  You know--as kids you just didn't put your heart out there like that. 

DIANE: -Did you think about each other over the years?

WATSON:   I often thought about Carole and wondered where she was. I even got an Oklahoma City phone book and tried calling all the people with her surname in there. I figured she was probably married and had a new name but I thought I might at least find her family. I just wanted to know that she was happy. Once I was doing a photo shoot on top of one of the largest buidings in Los Angeles. Somehow people started talking about old boyfriends/girlfriends we'd like to see again. Just before we left the building I went over to edge, faced east and yelled out loud, "Carole, where are you?"

CAROLE: I moved on. I married a wonderful guy and had a great life with him for a very long time, but I never forgot about Snake.  I just couldn't get rid of his letters and pictures after I married like they say you should, so I kept them hidden away. I'd occasionally get them out and wonder what had happened to him. 

DIANE:Who started looking for the other first?

CAROLE: I got amicably divorced in 1996.  In 2000 a couple of Plainfield friends I kept in touch with told me they thought Snake was dead, killed in Vietnam.  For some weird reason I didn't believe it.  Something told me he was still alive somewhere.  When I found Classmates.com, I decided to put a message on the Plainfield High School site to see if anyone knew what had happened to him.  I got lots of responses.  Finally someone said they thought he was living in California with his wife and daughter.  I was happy to know he was alive.  Eventually I gave up my Classmates membership and never looked at that message string again. 

DIANE: How did you find each other again?

WATSON: Eventually, I saw the thread about me on the Classmates.com site and I sent her a message. Two weeks went by without a reply, so I decided to give it one more try.

CAROLE: I had moved to Houston in 2001 and had a new email address with my new Internet access, but I never looked at it.  One night I decided to go to that account and delete all the accumulated junk mail, you know?  There were about 500-600 emails and I was just quickly checking them for deletion.  Suddenly, one of them got my attention.  The last name was Garman. I had already checked it for deletion but luckily had not yet deleted it.  It took me about 5 minutes to get the nerve up to open it.   I don't know why I was scared but I knew that once I opened that email I would be either very excited or very disappointed.  Either way I just knew my life would be forever impacted by it.  It read, "I don't know if you remember me but we dated in Plainfield.  I just wanted you to know you were always very special to me and I kept your pictures in my wallet for 20 years."  To this day I think about how close we came to missing each other.  I would never have known how much he cared for me all those years ago. 

 DIANE: When did you know you wanted to make a go of your relationship?

WATSON: After we started e-mailing, our notes got flirtatious in very short order.

 CAROLE: Yes, within a couple of emails we were flirting again and we quickly changed from emails to phone calls. He was in the middle of getting a divorce, I was divorced.  He happened to be living just a two-hour flight from me. Within a couple of months I knew I was getting hung up on him all over again.  I knew we had to see each other at least one time.  So 2 months after that first email, he came to Dallas.  Of course we were both nervous and scared.  Neither one of us looked the same as we did 42 years ago.   What would happen when we actually saw each other again?   He told me I would know him because he would be the guy wearing a black cowboy hat.  I told him "you're coming to Dallas…that won't exactly set you apart from the crowd at the airport, you know."  

WATSON: I was scared shitless! I was no longer that 17-year-old kid she met at that party. I knew either way it was going to be a life changing event. Either the magic would still be there or she would take one look at me and say "what the hell was I thinking?"

That walk from the plane to the baggage area, where I knew she was waiting, was one of the longest walks of my life.

CAROLE: The airport is called Love Field.  Isn't that crazy?

WATSON: We saw each other and rushed into each other's arms like a scene in some old film on Turner Classic Movies, and I felt that things just might work out. It only took a matter of hours for us to know that something was happening.

CAROLE: We  had a wonderful weekend. 

WATSON: It really hit me when it came time for me to go back to Albuquerque that I didn't want to get on that plane.
 
CAROLE: We were both so sad when he had to leave on Sunday.  He came back every 2 months for the next year.  Within a couple of visits we knew he was going to eventually come here after his divorce was final.  Almost 1 year to the day of that email, he moved here and we have been having the time of our lives ever since! 

 

What more is there to say? Thank you, Snake and Carole, for sharing your story and your wonderful pictures. I love it!

So how about the rest of you? Who have you reconnected with on the Internet?

Black and White and Read All Over

 

By Elaine Viets

Beach reads. That's what my novels are often called.

Those words are supposed to conjure up a carefree day by the sea, where readers have a cold drink in one hand and an entertaining book in the other.

Here's the truth. I don't like reading on the beach. It's too hot. Between sweating, slapping on sunscreen and swatting sand flies, it's hard to pay attention.

Besides, I grew up in St. Louis, which doesn't have beaches. My favorite place to read was my grandparents' backyard. I'd sit in the shade of my Grandmother's honeysuckle vine with a cold glass of lemonade. The honeybees didn't bother me. I wasn't sweet enough.

I liked to read mysteries, mostly Agatha Christie and Nancy Drew.

Nancy had the ideal life for a teenage girl: She had a doting Daddy who bought her a car, lots of money, no annoying mother and a housekeeper to wait on her. Nancy also had a convenient boyfriend who only appeared when she wanted him around, and never tried to get in her pants.

Teenage boys were terrifying creatures to many young women and front-seat wrestling was a major sport. Back then, nice girls had to guard their virtue or they would be Damaged Goods and no nice man would marry them. At least, that's what Mom told me.

So there I was, a nice Missouri girl, sitting under the honeysuckle reading Nancy Drew. Grandma had the old-fashioned round-back metal lawn chairs. I'd read in one and put my feet up on the other. The lush scent of honeysuckle and reading are forever linked in my mind.

So is the trickle of a brook. That was my second-favorite reading spot, by a brook in the Ozarks. I mean the Ozarks before Branson, Missouri, had hot tubs and country glitz.

My family spent vacations at tourist cabins in the Ozarks. The un-airconditioned cabins smelled faintly of mold and had kitchenettes. That meant Mom got to cook dinner for six with one frying pan and two beat-up pots on a two-burner stove. We kids slept in roll-away beds that cost fifty cents extra. With three rambunctious brothers, I didn't have much privacy.

But during the day, I could take my book and read under a tree by an Ozark stream. I'd listen to the water tumble over the mossy stones while my family was getting sun-burned by the pool. Those afternoons were luxurious.

My third favorite reading spot was neither luxurious or romantic, but it sure was exciting.

Until I was in my teens, my bedtime was nine o'clock. My parents insisted on lights off when I wanted to read. I had my own room. I would seal off my door and stuff rugs in the cracks so the light wouldn't show and wake up my parents.

Usually it worked.

When it didn't, my furious mother would stomp down the hall and shove open the door. It was jammed by the rug.

Then it was definitely lights out for me. I had to sleep with my door open.

The thrill of reading was almost equaled by the thrill of not getting caught. (NOTE TO PARENTS: If you want your children to become bookworms, restrict their reading time.)

Now I can read any time I want. I like to go out in the early morning and sit by the pool at my condo. It's on the Intracoastal Waterway, so I can watch the boats go by while I enjoy my book. I sit in one lawn chair and put my feet up in the other. I listen to the water slap the side of the pilings.

Sometimes I catch the faintest scent of honeysuckle.

 

 

 

Miscast Characters

Margaret Maron

Who was your favorite Miss Marple?  Margaret Rutherford, Angela Lansbury, Geraldine McEwan, Julia McKenzie or  Joan Hickson?  >>>>>

 

 

 

 

 

So how did you react to the news that Jennifer Garner is going to be the new Miss Marple if Disney has its way?

What about Robert Downey, Jr. as Sherlock Holmes?   Even though I think Jeremy Britt's twitchy Holmes is the best of the traditional takes, I can suspend my disbelief with Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman as a modern day Holmes and Watson.

 But a young and sexy Miss Marple?

It's set me thinking about other actors who have—for better or for worse— inhabited iconic roles. 

 

007.  David Niven,  Sean Connery, Roger Moore, or Pierce Brosnan? 

Indiana Jones. George Lucas originally wanted Tom Selleck to play the role, not Harrison Ford.

Clark Gable as Rhett Butler.  Can you imagine any other actor of the time in that role?  Yet Errol Flynn of Robin Hood fame was a serious contender.  Even Jimmy Stewart was briefly considered.  And while Vivian Leigh's southern accent left much to be desired,  she did look like a Scarlett O'Hara.  But so did Paulette Goddard, who would probably have played Scarlett had she not been openly playing house with Charlie Chaplin at the time.   Too much scandal for the studio heads even though Leigh was having an extramarital (but more discreet) affair with Laurence Olivier.        >>>>>>>>>>

I can't imagine anyone besides Bette Davis as Margo Channing in All About Eve (sorry, Claudette Colbert), but I never quite bought Ann Baxter as Eve.  Did you?

Think Wizard of Oz and you immediately think Judy Garland.  But Shirley Temple was an early contender for Dorothy and a young singing actress, Deanna Durbin, almost got the role. I've read that the reason she lost out is because the first script called for a singing contest between Dorothy and an opera singer from the Emerald City.

                                                        
Durbin's voice was ruled to be too operatic for good contrast, while Garland's voice was more jazzy.  In the end, that scene was cut, but by then the part was Garland's.

Frank Morgan was not the original choice for the Wizard either.  W.C. Fields would be our image of the man behind the curtain had he not kept dickering over his contract so long that they went with someone less demanding.

For me, the saddest part of that movie is that Buddy Ebsen did not get to play Tin Man.  Jack Haley was barely adequate.  Buddy Ebsen, who was a marvelous song-and-dance man long before he played Jed Clampett on The Beverly Hillbillies, was originally cast as the Scarecrow and Ray Bolger was to play Tin Man.  But Bolger was so anxious to play Scarecrow that the amiable Ebsen agreed to switch.  He recorded most of the Tin Man songs that we hear today on the film and that's Ebsen seen from behind when the three friends enter the Wicked Witch's castle to rescue Dorothy.  Tragically, when filming began, the aluminum powder used in his make-up almost killed him.  It coated his lungs to such a degree that he had to be hospitalized and even spent some time in an iron lung.  That's when Jack Haley was brought in.  Haley's make-up used aluminum in a paste that was spread over a protective layer of clown make-up.

I can't watch the movie without thinking how much better Ebsen would have been.

But Jennifer Garner as Miss Marple?  That's as bad as James Cagney with his Lower East Side accent playing Bottom the Weaver in Midsummer Night's Dream.

What gets your vote for the best or worst miscasting of an iconic character?

 

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

By Sarah

There once was a time when my hair used to be sexy.

I can remember this era vaguely, very vaguely, back in high school when I spent hours obsessing over my dirty blond locks. Mostly this was due to the Clairol Kindness hot curlers I received for my sixteenth birthday and that, in my adolescent delusion, I believed would transform me from a clairnet-playing, honor society geek into Farrah Fawcett.

Clairol Kindness hot curlers didn't mess around, the "Kindness" being a red herring to throw off the unsuspecting fool who assumed adding water to curlers - as if - would diminsh the split ends. They were white plastic with little spikes that gripped the hair and didn't let go. I knew my hair was done when I heard the satisfying "riiip" as I unrolled them, along with a fulfilling "hiss."

All marketing to the contrary, curling was not the goal, frying to a crisp was. You could put your hair up in those, brush it out and walk into a Level 5 hurricane without fear. Not a hair would be out of place. Hey, it was the 70s. Beauty before brains, ya know?

 

Now, the only time I see hot curlers is when I'm on deadline - like this week. I haul out my mproved purple padded curlers, do my hair, put on makeup, jewelry perfume and, uhm, clothes, douse myself in a cloud of hairspray and walk to my office, eerily resembling Pat Nixon even though no one will see me but my dogs and the stray Jehovah's Witness.

Don't ask why I do this days before a book is due. I just do, okay?

My hairdresser Melodie, God Bless Her, says I'm the only client of hers who likes hairspray. Maybe I should move to the South.

Lately, however, I've noticed a few disturbing hair trends. For starters, my big bald forehead (you're getting a lovely image of me now, no?) that my mother claimed was "royal," has grown bigger and balder. I know guys, hold yourselves back. I can't say where this will end, but I suspect I'll be like those old ladies in church who comb and spray their remaining five red/orange stands into a magical convection resembling hair.

On the flip side, hair is growing on places I would not prefer. This, by the way, is not normal hair. This is Brillo and it could strip paint. My tweezers, God Bless Them, have thrown in the towel and waved the white flag. I may have to succumb to road-side laser treatment which, in Vermont, is often a home-based business along with taxidermy. In the same room.

 No one told me about this hair. I was not briefed. Which raises questions, how many other mysteries of 40+ womanhood await? And just when did being a woman become a juggling act - drop one ball and the whole thing goes to hell in a handbasket.

So, here's my strategy and tell me if it works. I will continue to be blond until my dying day. Even if Melodie has to visit me in the chemo ward to dye my roots and gossip, I will do this. Also, as God is my witness, I will tweez, wax, burn and acidify every other follicle on my body, no matter how great the pain.

In the end I'll be like this woman because I can't believe at her age Helen Mirren's so thin, talented, beautiful and sexy.

I'm sure it has nothing to do with her discipline, talent and DNA. It must be the hair.

Sarah 

 

TheTrill is Gone

by Hank

 

 Dear Telephone.

I fear to tell you, since we've had such a wonderful relationship over all these years, and certainly I'm grateful, but the thrill is gone.

I remember you, CLifford 1-4858. You were a black rotary phone on the wall and my cute little sister and I had such fun with you! We'd call a random number, then say "Yes, May I help you?" And when the person on the other end was confused, and insisted WE'D called THEM, we'd excoriate them for playing with the phone. (No lame "is your refrigerator running" phone pranks for us.)  Yes, phone, I liked you then. 

(And we had a party line, didn't we, for part of  the time? And it was weird but fun to pick up the receiver and hear someone's voice that we didn't quite know who was. And we were not allowed to listen in.)

 
I remember you, UPtown 3-2768. I remember you were a pink princess phone  with buttons, so very new,  in the Beatle-wallpapered bedroom I shared with my suddenly bratty and annoying little sister. We'd would call the radio station to try to win records and tickets, and you were so good at it! And I know you were always ready to take the calls from the boys who rarely called...and you were so patient  when I'd check to see whether maybe, maybe, there was something wrong with you when the calls didn't come. Maybe our phone was broken? Maybe it was busy? Off the hook? And that's why they didn't call?  I relied on you!  You were my lifeline to coolness. 

(Even though being on the AXminster exchange was cooler. One could always know who lived in the flossy neighborhoods because they were AXminster. Or TRinity. We were UPtown, which meant rural. But I digress.)

Even years later, when you received your three-new-numbered area code (those would never last, right?) and lost your instantly-recognizable glamorously geographical nametags, and became all numbers, I still couldn''t live without you.  Newstips and news sources and appointments and dating and guys and endless endless chatting with girlfriends about what had REALLY happened that night or what we should DO or SAY or tell someone.

And when I lived in Washington DC, I had an answering service, a real person, like in Bells Are Ringing, who'd take my messages and then tell me when I got home who had called. (She seemed to really care about my personal life, in a big-sister kind of way.) And I looked forward to talking to her. She know what was going to happen in my life before I did!

 So, dear telephone, when did it happen?

 When did the sound of your trill lose its thrill? 

I remember my first cell phone--yikes for some reason I can't remember that number, psychologists will have a field day-- and I DID love it, it was convenient (although huge) and I could call for reservations and pizza and tell people I'd be late. Nice. And my landline (when did we start saying that word?) had a tiny tape cassette as the answering machine.

 But now--I have a cell phone, which everyone expects to be on ALL  the time, and everyone expects me to answer it, and talk to them when THEY want to talk.

And when I'm home? How does our landline know to ring RIGHT when the pasta is ready, or RIGHT when The Good Wife is starting or RIGHT when we've just opened the Sunday paper and our coffee is perfectly hot and the cream cheese is melting beautifully on the bagel?

RINNNNNG!  So, what?  I'm supposed to drop everything and answer it?

 (Yes, when the lovely Malice people called about DRIVE TIME's Agatha nomination, I was thrilled to have you, dear phone, and saved the message so I can listen to it over and over, but that' s anther blog.  And when my husband fell and I had to all 911, I was pretty darn happy with you.)

Caller ID is new to our territory...love it. But to me, it's just proof of the bleak spectrum of potential callers--fundraisers, solicitors, powerwashing offers and the drugstore saying our prescription is ready. Fine, but I don't wanna talk about it. Please, leave a message, delete delete delete.

But caller ID is also a diabolical dilemma. If someone calls, and they think I'm home, and I don't answer they know I'm gasp--screening calls. Which is rude rude rude.   

And now, dear telephone, I'm sorry to say every time you ring now, I cringe. Frankly, part of it, I fear, is the apprehension that there'll be something bad on the other end.   Or something I have to do or take care of, or decide about.

(Oh,  tarts, you should be at our house when the phone rings. Jonathan and I look at each other. Answer it, I say.  RING RING No! He says, you answer it, It's going to be for you. No, I reply, It is not! RING RING!  YOU get it, okay? It's your turn. You get the picture. 

Then we wait til it stops ringing. And  then we check the message. And if there isn't one, we win. We hope.)

 To be fair, I don't call OUT much, either. But everyone , everyone, I see walking down the street,  (or driving, yikes) is on the phone.    Why? How would they have handled their life before you?

Remember Jason Robards, in A Thousand Clowns? He'd answer the phone: "Is it someone with good news or money? No?" And then he'd hang up.

 Dear telephone, what am I missing here? Do others love you, need you, want you, lust after the sound of your voice?

I'd love to know. Perhaps in the comments. Or send me an email. But don't call me, okay?

Where in the World are the Tarts?

Brunonia Barry
I've been on the paperback book tour for The Map of True Places. Or rather, I should call it the culinary tour of Connecticut and Vermont. Great stores, great people, and great food and wine at about nine PM every night. I tried, Weight Watchers, I really tried! But it's just not hospitable to refuse these local favorites. Local Vermont Cheeses and maple cured sausages? Okay, so maybe that was breakfast, but you get the idea. I'm back home for a few days, hitting the treadmill and the bike and eating my five point Think Thin bars. More tour to come, but I'm determined. Thank God I'm not going south this time. On my last tour, I went to Charleston and New Orleans. Weight Watchers didn't stand a chance.

 

Elaine Viets    
I'm spending this weekend in my hometown, St. Louis, at the Missouri Writers' Guild Conference, where I'll get to see Nancy Pickard, another featured speaker. I hope I didn't disgrace myself giving the keynote speech at the banquet last night. I promised the conference organizers my talk would be mercifully short. Sunday morning, I teach a three-hour master's class on creating characters. Then I fly home to Fort Lauderdale on Southwest Airlines. That's the airline that had a plane with a huge hole in the fuselage. Don assures me the flight will be perfectly safe. I told him if I die in a plane crash, I will haunt him for the rest of his days. At night, he will hear me whispering "I told you so."

 

Barbara O'Neal
I am cooking for zillions, cleaning my house because it hasn't really been cleaned since I went underground to finish the current book two months ago.  (It is not finished, BTW.) There is a wedding this week.  My son and his smart, tough, beautiful fiance, whose mother referred to her as "ours."  Doesn't get any better than this, I promise you.   Next week, I'll get back to finishing the book.  Now, if you will excuse me, I have some bacon jam that needs to go in the crockpot.....

 

Sarah Strohmeyer
I am on deadline for my YA book Smart Girls Get Everything!

[Yet she had time to look up the recipe for Barbara's Bacon Jam to post on Facebook.][Sarah's link broke, but this is another recipe.]

 

Margaret Maron
I'm hunkered down with the windows closed, praying for rain, waiting out pine pollen season. Another week should do it. These pine trees are way oversexed. No wonder they're the first trees to grow in a barren field.
Tomorrow, I'm off to a week-long retreat with some of my writer friends, so I'm packing the car with computer, notebooks, bedlinens, a 12-pack of Pepsis,a bottle of bourbon and a frozen casserole for the night when it's my turn to cook supper. (No Cheetos though. Gave them up for Lent.) I hope to come home with 5000 more words on my 2012 book and a good sense of where the book's going.

 

[When I asked the Tarts to write these, I sent a reply to Margaret that I had problems with alder tree pollen and had in Washington State, Vermont and California. To which Diane chimed in…]

 

Diane Chamberlain
No no, Holly, you don't understand what Margaret is talking about. The pine pollen isn't the make-you-sneeze type. it's the takes-over-the-entire-world type. I made the mistake of opening my office window yesterday and by evening a layer of yellow dust was on every sheet of paper and piece of equipment and ME in my office. I'd covered all the porch furniture with green sheets that are now completely yellow. I've lived lots of places but never experienced anything like this till moving to NC. So this time of year, when you long to open the windows, you must fight the urge and keep them closed.

So that's what I'm up to, along with being chained to my desk, 2 weeks from deadline with the book from hell (oh wait...they all are) that still has no title. It's this deadline that's preventing me from going away with Margaret and the gang for a week of writing and balderdash. :(

 

Harley Jane Kozak
I'm rehearsing this week for the Romantic Times Convention -- I'm the M.C./Joan Rivers-type person for the Mr. Romance Contest (male cover models), as well as singing, dancing and performing Shakespeare at the Vampire Ball, in a show entitled "Zombie Dancers from Planet 9."

 

Kathy Reschini Sweeney
Today, I am in shock.  My baby boy is 16.  He was a bit of a surprise - one that has turned out to be the greatest delight of my life.  But don't tell him I said that.  He already gets away with too much. How did all these years go by?  I need cake.  Stat.

 

Joshilyn Jackson
Today my husband and I are engaged in an EPIC SCRABBLE BATTLE. The loser must give Mentally Ill Grudge-Holding Cat his Kitty-Prozac all month. Mentally-Ill Grudge-Holding Cat needs his meds, but he hates to be touched only slightly less than he hates to be pilled. The person who loses this battle gains Mentally Ill Grudge-Holding Cat's considerable, baleful, and long-memoried  ire. OH, this cat. You shouldn't make him angry. You wouldn't LIKE him when he is angry. And since I work from home, I am available to be ired at all hours of the day. So.  I am not going to lose. I have a pocket full of blank tiles and a fistful of illegal tranqs. I LOVE my husband, but if first skill and then luck and finally cheating all fail me, I will have no choice but to roofie my beloved and swear up and down I was victorious.
PS Margaret! I read this and immediately thought
Margaret are you grieving over all your pines unleaving?
 But pines don't have leaves. And un-needling does not rhyme.
Margaret are you feeding, needing, bleeding, pleading, BAH!
 I actually get a grant from the state of Georgia to NOT write poetry.

Yes yes it is a SPECIAL pollen bowl kind. We have it. For a month the purple car is yellow and the orange car is yellow and my cream trimmed rosey-bricked house is yellow and the green grass is yellow and THE VERY FREAKING AIR IS GOT'DAMNABLY YELLOW.

 

Nancy Martin
I'm hitting the campaign trail to sell Sticky Fingers.  (In the Philadelphia area?  Come to the Borders store in Springfield on Friday, April 15th at 6pm or at the Philadelphia Book Fest on Saturday from 11am to 1pm.)  I'm also finishing up the 8th Blackbird book--which should be published early in 2012.  And . . . my iPad arrived!  Now I have to learn how to use it.  Any suggestions for good apps?

 

Nancy Pickard
I'm busy distracting myself from my book that keeps saying it doesn't care if I need to make a living, it still has percolating to do.  Have I ever mentioned that I think commerce and art are TERRIBLE bedfellows?  Of course, that's not what my favorite Kansas playwright thought about it.  William Inge, who wrote Picnic, Splendor in the Grass, Bus Stop, Come Back Little Sheba, and The Dark at the Top of the Stairs,  (wow, right?) said that forcing art through the commerce sieve and vice versa was hunky-dory.  His actual quote is:  "Literature flourishes best when it is half trade and half an art." I agree, but only when my book actually gets finished and then published and I get paid.  Until those moments, the bedfellows continue to kick each other and bellow and be total nightmares. And let's not overlook the fact that Bill Inge killed himself.  Damn, I just made myself feel like sitting in this coffee shop and crying. He was so brilliant, and he suffered so from depression and from hiding his sexuality from the pigs and bigots of his day.  Well, you'd never know it from what I just wrote here, but I'm actually feeling happy and springy, in spite of sieves and stubborn books and tragic playwrights.  Here, everybody, have a double latte and a chocolate truffle.

Hank Phillippi Ryan

The ducks are back! But you know that..Flo and Eddy have been baffled by the ice on their backyard pond, but other than that, it's a sure sign it's spring. My tulips and crocuses are pushing their way out of the still-frozen earth, and I saw a whole flock of robins in our neighbor's yard. (It was almost scary, you know? Cue Tippi Hendren.)  Right now I am somewhere in the air between Boston and Indianapolis,  gave a speech in Indy to a wonderful group who wanted to know all about e-publishing.  (Gee, I wish I knew. Don't we all?)  Yes, there's a new book (cross fingers please, everyone) which I am editing now. (It's easier to cut than add, right?)  Looking forward to the MWA symposium in two weeks, then the gala Malice Domestic convention where DRIVE TIME is up for an Agatha for Best Mystery of 2010. (Yes, our NancyP is up for one, too, sigh, but she's sold more books than I have, I bet, so don't I need the teapot?)  Is it time to send my winter clothes to the dry cleaners? Ah, I'll think about that later. 

In Which I am Kind of a Dodo

By Cornelia Read

 

Okay, I am a dodo. Not even kind of.

I have been driving around all week doing stuff with cool relatives--like, I think about a thousand miles on my car--and I ALSO think I left my brain in Queens at the groovy Korean baths-and-massages place called Spa Castle.

These are the outdoor pools, which are amazing. The indoor pools and the multitude of saunas and the bazillion groovy people who will give you all kinds of amazing massages are also amazing. Have I just said "amazing" three times in a row? Yes. Sigh. I amaze myself.

Anyway, should you ever find yourself ANYWHERE near Queens, you should totally go. They also have spa castles in the Pocono mountains and apparently in Texas. So there is no excuse NOT to go. Seriously.

I mean, they even have a nap room. And who doesn't love a nap room? I've wanted to have a room to nap in since kindergarten--especially one that has really comfy lounge chairs to stretch out on, with buttons to make the backs go up and down automatically. Which Spa Castle has.

I think every job should come with naptime--little cots and blankies we can all lie down on, with juice and graham crackers afterwards. So this is right up my alley. Why should the best things in life end in kindergarten? No reason. At all.

My stepmom most awesomely treated me to most of a day at this place, including a full body scrub and a half-hour foot massage. Life is good. And then we had Indian food at this incredible diner in Jackson Heights, and I got two grocery bags full of groovy Indian stuff like lime pickle and "Mango Mood Candy" and lychee-nut-flavored Jell-O mix from Pakistan*

and incense which "specially formulated to worship God and to create a peaceful atmosphere for everyday activities," plus two whole grocery bags full of other groovy stuff for just under twenty bucks. What's not to love?

And, okay, sadly I also got a speeding ticket on the Merritt Parkway for doing 85 in a 55, but the cop was very nice and didn't bust me for not having my new insurance card OR the fact that my registration was up several days earlier OR the fact that I have been living in New Hampshire for nigh on two years now and still have a California driver's license.** 

So! Another reason to hope I can move back to New York City sometime soon, which is that I would sell my car and not have these sorts of extremely expensive reality checks, because they do NOT pull you over when you're going too fast on a subway to give you tickets for things like not having your subway insurance and registration in order. Which is a really fabulous convenience, in my book.

Lucky me. And I get to go to court Wednesday to be yelled at for going 92 in a 65 last November. O joy, o rapture. O checkbook... 

And other than that, and driving around to a couple of colleges and going on a little walking tour of the neighborhood in Manhattan in which I hope someday to live, I have been really really really rethinking the second draft of my fourth novel lots and lots and lots. And I lost a friend of mine's apartment keys. And didn't pay for my daughter's guitar lessons in time. And, um... well, let's just say that my biorhythm for grownup-ness is at an all-time low, and also Mercury is in Retrograde again.***

So, anyway, I was saying I am a bear of not very much brain this week. And therefore I invite everyone to anagram themselves in the comments, just for the hell of it.

...

I typed in "Cornelia Ludlam Fabyan Read" and got "Manfully adorable radiance," which totally doesn't suck.****

I hope everyone has had and will have a great week!

*Okay, actually the box says "Ahmed Foods Artificially Flavoured Lychee Jelly Crystals," since I don't think there is actually a Jell-O factory in Pakistan. But I could be way wrong on that. Everything else on the box is pretty much in Urdu. Unfortunately, so are the directions for making the actual Jelly. Sigh.

**Basically, anything to do with cars and paperwork is stuff that proves to me once more that I am really, really bad at being a grownup.

*** For the non-Californians, this means that everything that can possibly go wrong will implode at the lamest possible moment for all concerned, especially if said wrongness has to do with timing, traveling, computers, or any other kinds of mean nasty ugly thing on the Group W bench, there. For a couple of weeks or so. And you might want to double up on the condoms, too.

****I am so totally stealing the asterisk thing from my writing-group pal Daisy James, even though she totally does it better than I do.

A Southern Pilgrimage

Barbara O'Neal: I met Lynne Bryant at the Pikes Peak Writers Conference last spring.  We sat in the lobby of the hotel in that state of informational overload one gets at a conference of any sort.  We started chatting, politely, about our work.  When she told me about her story, a white woman and a black woman in the modern South, I admit I bristled a bit.  I am one of the 6 people on the planet who did not love The Help, and for very personal reasons—I was married interracially for 20 years, and all my inlaws had "gone North" to St. Louis from Mississippi after WWII, and they were "the help." In the book, I did not see the women I adored, my lady-like, minor royalty mother-in-law (who was one of my favorite humans on all the earth for every minute I was allowed to know her) and all of her (equally dignified and honorable and well-tended sisters) in it.  I did not see the good black men I loved in it.  It was Stockett's tale and she's allowed to tell it her way, but it was a long way from the one I knew.

       I told Lynne pretty much that very thing.  She defended her work in a soft-spoken and intelligent way; said her book was about women, trying to heal.  Her honorable earnest responses prompted me to ask her if she'd send me the book when it was going out for quotes.  (I don't know why she didn't just smack me for my arrogance, but luckily she didn't.)

         She sent me the book.  I read it.  I loved it. It's the sometimes prickly story of women in the old South and the new, and the delicate dance between them.  It's a good story, and I hope lots of readers pick it up, so I invited her here today. 

 

I am visiting my home state of Mississippi this week for a Catfish Alley book tour and it is Pilgrimage season! For those who are unfamiliar with the Southern pilgrimage, it's a tour of antebellum homes—or homes built before the Civil War. This year marks the 71st anniversary of the Pilgrimage tour in my hometown of Columbus.

It is quite the Southern experience to attend a pilgrimage tour. One is escorted through the stately homes and gardens by soft-voiced Southern female docents of all ages dressed in hoopskirts, and warbling on in exaggerated diphthongs about the Rococo furniture and the interesting, sometimes mythical, details about such things as jib windows that doubled as doors to keep the tax man at bay since houses were taxed on the number of doors the house had, or how the great columns of the house are now home to millions of honeybees, forming their sweet combs in the center of the tall white cylinders.

Rachel explains the honeybees in the columns at Waverly

Some of the homes have been in the same families for generations, some proclaim to be haunted with Southern children or tragically bereft Southern women flitting about at night and moaning, lending a decidedly Gothic spin to the whole affair.

 

A young docent poses with her great-grandmother 

My sister and I joined the tourists yesterday on a gorgeous balmy spring day to visit two of the former cotton plantation homes out in the countryside several miles outside of the city of Columbus. The first home, Waverly, built in 1852, and known for its fabulous self-supporting curved staircase, was in its heyday a complete self-sustaining community, which most plantations were, complete with gardens, orchards, a brick kiln, cotton gin, ice house, and swimming pool.

Waverly, built in 1852

Waverly was abandoned after the last member of the family died around 1913, and was rescued in the 1960s by the Snow family. The home boasts an unusual architecture with a four story octagonal cupola that rises from the center and has windows all the way around that can be opened to provide flow of air throughout the house, meaning that air conditioning is not required in the summer—quite a feat in the sweltering one hundred degree, one hundred percent humidity Mississippi summer. As the saying goes: "It's hot as hell, but it's great for the cotton."

The Waverly Cupola and Staircase

The second home we toured is called Bryn Bella. In its day, Bryn Bella was a 5,500 acre cotton plantation that was home to 400 people, most of whom were slaves.

Bryn Bella, built in 1848

 

 

The docents held court in each room, explaining what was known of the history of the home and property and the current owners' choice in furnishings—beautiful period antiques, since the house was mostly empty when they bought it five years ago. The voices of the women who managed the plantation home during the Civil War were echoed in the stories: "Hide the silver in the swamp!" the neighbor lady was heard to cry from her balcony to her slaves. "Sherman is coming!" According to the ancient gentleman who regaled us with stories in the parlor of Bryn Bella, the home barely escaped being burned because one of Nathan Bedford Forrest's captains met Sherman's forces outside of Westpoint—a nearby city—and "whipped them."

Docent holding court at Bryn Bella

Being a part of this type of event in my hometown as often as I can renews my Southern soul and reminds me why I write. Being in the South is a sensual feast. From the humid wisteria-scented air, to the deeply satisfying flavor of salty bacon, freshly cut from a side of bacon hanging in the smokehouse out back behind the "big house." From the feast of color, both inside the house and out, the soft Southern voices soothing my ears with their familiar tones, to the visual reminders of a life that was dependent on the back-breaking work of an entire race of people subjugated into slavery to sustain a system that could only be successful with their efforts, but from which they received no reward. The South is fraught with contrasts; the kind of extremes that nurture the heart of a writer the same way the black dirt of the Mississippi prairie nurtured the endless fields of ripening cotton all those years ago when these homes were the central dwelling place for the masters and mistresses of the plantation.

Me on the porch at Bryn Bella

 

About Lynne: I was born and raised in rural Mississippi, where my maternal grandparents farmed cotton and my mother is one of their fifteen children. I grew up during the era of the Civil Rights Movement and came of age during the volatile integration of Mississippi's schools. I attended nursing school at Mississippi University for Women, and then went on to complete both a masters in nursing from Ole Miss and a PhD in nursing from the University of Colorado. I now teach nursing full-time in Colorado, but the home of my heart will always be Mississippi.

I came to writing later in life, finally allowing myself to unleash a love of storytelling and a lifetime of struggling to understand the complex race relations in Mississippi. My stories tackle issues most Southerners can identify with, and, like me, have struggled to understand. My debut novel, Catfish Alley, will be released by NAL/Penguin in spring 2011. Contemporary stories defined by the context of Southern history continue to intrigue me as I work on my second novel. Writing is my way to wrestle with what I can't explain and I am compelled to do that through the voices and stories of the American South.

 

For more on my Southern sense of place, please visit me at www.lynne-bryant.com.