M.J. Compton's Blog

The Ever-Moving Diner

Years ago, my husband took me to brunch at a particular diner in downtown because he thought I would like the name. Let’s just say it was because I was writing my werewolf books at the time.

The diner moved to Wolf Street here in the city. I never made it to that location, but when they took over the former hotdog stand near where I was working, I was in seventh heaven. The. Best. Hamburgers. Ever. The counter people got to know me and my order very well.

Then one day, no one answered the phone.

This went on for a week or so. No sign on the restaurant (I looked). About a month later, someone did answer the phone and told me they were relocating, I should try the new place. Um, no. Wouldn’t work for my lunch hour.

I passed by their “new” location several times over a couple of years, always on my way to or from somewhere when stopping for a meal wasn’t feasible. Then I saw on social media that location was closing and they were moving closer to where I live. Hallelujah! I just couldn’t forget those hamburgers.

They spent several months remodeling the new site. I kept trying to get there, but life. Until I managed to book my car inspection at a time that would allow me to stop in have lunch. Except when I got there, there was a sign on the door. They were abandoning yet another building and moving back to their “original” location in one of the northern suburbs.

My husband thinks they’re criminals. I don’t know what to think. They seem to building hop every two to three years.

Boy do I miss those burgers.

PS: Starting this month, I will be blogging every other week. Hope to continue to see you here!

Finally! A New Book Release!

Years in the making! It’s finally available for sale! I’m very excited about the first full-length novel in my Write Place Retreat series. Snowed In: Heat Rises will release on Thursday, 9/4/25 whereever ebooks are sold. Links to purchase are on my website: www.mjcompton.com. The paperback version is also available.

A snowstorm, a scandal, and a secret identity blow into a writing retreat…

Disheartened romance author Meade Godwin has two goals: finish the last book of his contract then break free of his greedy ex-wife’s financial demands. He doesn’t need a cranky injured chef with a penchant for sharp knives distracting him. Especially one who is a fan of the pen name he plans to retire.

Justine Macko may have lost her restaurant due to her former fiancé’s shady business schemes, but cooking at a writing retreat in the remote Adirondack Mountains is exactly what she needs to reclaim her kitchen mojo. She’s not going to let a little bad weather or a secretive writer with questionable taste buds stop her.

Until her past tracks her down.

My Current Relationship…With Food

Since I retired from my corporate Day Job, my relationship with food has changed, especially when it comes to lunch. Lunch was frequently provided at work. Or I brown-bagged it. Or I ran out to grab something to eat at my desk. There were several places nearby that accommodated that strategy. I knew many of them because I have worked and lived in the general area for many years. I’m not going to lie. I love to eat.

My world is different now. I write all morning, then break for lunch, which is usually some form of leftovers. Once in a while I’ll make something special (grilled cheese or jambalaya) or buy ingredients for a sandwich, but leftovers are easier. I don’t leave my house unless I have to.

But here’s the thing. I have found myself scheduling my outside appointments around lunch. Eye doctor appointment? Eleven in the morning, but not on Monday, because most places are closed on Monday. I can stop to grab take out on my way home any other weekday. Classes starting at one? Oh, good! One of my favorite places is nearby and opens at 11:30AM, so I can go there, eat lunch, then attend my class. Blood work? I found a lab in a nearby strip mall that also houses my favorite Chinese place. I scheduled my car inspection so I could eat lunch at a particular diner–but that didn’t work out (and is a separate blog). Do you see a pattern here?

At least I’m saving gas and wear-and-tear on the car.

Creepy Poetry For 6th Graders

When I was a child, my mom used to read poetry to us, especially from an orange book that had been a sixth grade school book published in 1927. My sister took it when her son was young and read to him from it; I “inherited” it when my children were young. (My daughter has called dibs on it.) We have no idea where Mom got it. It was published and used in schools before she was born.

When my mother was in rehab (and later comfort care) after her stroke, I took the book with me when I visited her. I read to her from it. Even when she was “out of it” while I read, she would mouth along the words with me. And later, when she was more alert, I showed her the book and she got very excited. “We used to read that together.” So I read it to her again.

The problem was that most of the poems she would read to us were really depressing. If they weren’t depressing, they had a gruesome slant. I never realized just how much until I was trying to be sensitive to her condition. And yet these are what she read to us when we were children.

Joyce Kilmer’s “The House With Nobody In It” isn’t too bad. Neither is “The Pirate Don Durk of Dowdee,” and “A Nautical Ballad” was turned into a rollicking children’s song, but these are few and far between.

Examples of poems I was hesitant to read to a dying woman:

“The Wreck of the Hesperus” (a sea captain whose arrogance results in his young daughter’s death)“The Spider and the Fly” (entrapment and murder–although it’s supposed to be allegorical)“The Yarn of the Nancy Bell” (Cannibalism)“The Village Blacksmith” (mourns his dead wife)“The Duel” (toys fight until their deaths)“Strictly Germ-Proof” (everyone should be the same and if you’re different, we’ll operate on you to “fix” you.)

Yes. This was the poetry of my youth. And my children’s youth. We aren’t any worse off for it, but I just felt weird reading some of these to my dying mother.

Here, Kitty-Kitty

I have been taking classes at a nearby center that offers a wide range of activities. I started out with tarot, because I have always been fascinated by the practice and have dabbled around the edges of it for years. I wanted to learn more. I signed up and found a warm, welcoming group of women who, after two semesters of tarot, convinced me to try the Spirit Circle they all attended, which was led by same instructor/facilitator.

I missed my first session due to COVID. But I enjoyed the next two sessions so much, I signed up for the next flight of classes (each “flight” is only 3 weeks, so this is not a huge time suck or long-term commitment). One week, the facilitator told us to bring in pictures of our pets for the next session. I haven’t had a pet since 1990, but I had photos of my cat, so I printed one off and took it with me.

We started out taking turns going around the circle, sharing things about the pets in the photos we brought. One woman, two or three people away from me, was talking about the cat she had to have put down and how guilty she felt about it (I related very strongly to that), when the facilitor asked, “Well, he was diabetic, wasn’t he?” The woman, taken aback, said, “No.”  Facilitator: “Well someone’s pet had diabetes.” I raised my hand. She had no way of knowing this, so I was kind of in a “wow!” frame of mind. I mean, I may have blogged about it at some time in the past, but it would be the distant past and probably not easy to find on line.

We continued with the circle. When my turn arrived, I told the story of how I had adopted the cat. The faciltator said, “He loved those treats that come in a can or a tube.” Again, I was startled. Yes, my cat loved his Pounce treats. And Pounce treats no longer come in a can or tube, but in pouches. My cat would knock the can off the shelf whenever he wanted a treat, especially with certain people, like my brother. My brother would walk in the door, the cat would roll the can to him, begging for a treat.

I miss my cat a lot, even after 35 years. The facilitator told me he is still around me. I didn’t say anything, but this may explain the flickers of shadow I sometimes see on the edge of my vision or the sudden jostle of my mattress as if someone sat–or jumped–on the bed.

Have you ever had an experience like this? If so, please share it with me at mj@mjcompton.com

 

Spying on the Neighbor

Okay, this is really about spying on my neighbors’ lawn, not the people. A couple of years ago, they had a new privacy fence put in. I got to see the layout of their backyard from my office window for the period of time between taking down the old fence and putting up the new. About a week after the new fence went up, they had to cut away a bottom section of one of the planks…so their cats can wander the neighborhood.

The back of their yard has some kind of pointy, column-like evergreen hedge forming a barrier between their property and the house behind them. I’d like to replace my privacy fence with a hedge like that.

But the best part of their landscaping is some bush or shrub that I cannot identify. It is green year round, but from my office window (two houses away) it does not appear to be an evergreen. I love this plant because it is very fluid. The slightest breeze sets it to dancing like a drugged-up disco dancer. One day in February, I looked out my window–and it was no where to be seen. I was bereft.

The neighborhood already lost a couple of goregous Norway maples (I think that’s what they were) due to another property owner cutting them down. Their brilliant red-orange leaves were a high point of autumn. I wept when I saw them being taken down. I digress.

A few days later, the shrub reappeared. It seems the weight of the snow had compressed it. Sure enough, the same thing happened after the next significant snowfall. The snow melted, the plant popped back up, rejoicing in every stray breeze it can find.

I thought about knocking on this neighbor’s door (I do not know them) and asking what kind of plant it is. I considered asking the neighbor between our houses to find out for me. Then I realized knowing what kind of bush it is will make no difference. It’s not as if I can plant one in my own yard to enjoy. I couldn’t see it from my office. And even if I did plant one in my back yard to enjoy in warmer weather while on my patio, my plant-blind husband would weed-wack it into oblivion. Then I couldn’t enjoy it, and I’d be angry.

So I will continue to sit at my desk, delight in the dance, and attempt to capture its joy in haiku.

***

Post Script: I went away on a writing retreat this past weekend. When I returned, the bush, my happy dancing bush, had been replaced by more pointy, column-like evergreens. My heart aches. I hate that my neighbors all feel free to take down trees that bring me so much joy.

General Ramble and a Recipe

As you may know, I’m taking a hiatus from social media. This blog (and my newsletter–see link above) are the best way to stay abreast with what’s happening with me. And there is plenty happening.

I’ve re-released my Service for Sanctuary shift books:

Betrayed by MoonBeware of the MoonBesieged by the Moon

Right now, they’re all in Kindle Unlimited (the ebook version) but paperbacks are available everywhere.

I found a new-to-me source for covers that is very reasonable priced–and base in Ukraine, so I’m helping people there by purchasing product from them.

One of my “goals” for the year is to cook something once a week. I used to love cooking, but have fallen out of the habit in recent years.

On a recent cold, blustery weekend, I made meat loaf, roasted potatoes, and peas and carrots. The next night, I made Tennessee Onions to eat with the leftovers. OMG. I had made the casserole one other time, using a recipe I got from the NY Times (and unless you subscribe, you can’t open the link if I post it here, so I won’t), and I really liked it. But while I was trying to locate it, I stumbled across many different versions. I decided to try this one the second time around. This one is it. Perfection. My keeper.

And you know what else? The leftovers are really good inside a toasted cheese sandwich, too.

Wine Not?

A few months ago, I stopped at the liquor store on my way home from visiting my mom. I purchased a couple bottles of wine for a writing retreat scheduled that weekend. Then I went to the gas station to fill up my car. I hate leaving my house, so I try to do all of my errands at one time.

I left the gas station and was heading home when it happened. I was in the right lane of a four-lane street. Someone decided to make a left turn out of a parking lot and wanted to be in my lane–where I was. They even had the audacity to honk their horn at me. I slammed on my brakes. The bag of wine slid to the floor. I heard glass shatter. A moment or two later I smelled the Menage a Trois Silk red blend.

I was tempted to follow the idiot and throw the broken bottle at them, but I “behaved.”

I got home. The mag of Relax Riesling was undamaged, but I had a real mess with the red. I had to toss my wine shopping bag because of the glass. The front passenger floor of my car was soaked. I attempted to clean it out myself, which was an exercise in futility. So I put the wine-drenched floor mat into a garbage bag and drove to a popular chain car wash.

I explained the situation to the person on duty when I ordered the inside of my car to be detailed. I was very concerned about being stopped and the cops smelling wine. So I spent a lot of money I hadn’t planned to spend getting the interior of my vehicle cleaned.

A couple of days later, I was heading out to a class and decided to put the floor mats down, assuming they’d dried from their cleaning. And three of them had. But the car wash people had taken the wine-soaked mat and returned it to the garbage bag  in which I had delivered it to them. You know, the one with spilled wine in it? And plastic, so it couldn’t dry? Yeah. That bag.

I was really nice when I called the car wash and spoke to the manager. He had me come right in, personally recleaned the mat, tossed the wine-spattered bag, and gave me coupons for future use.

The next day, as I was loading my car for the retreat, I put the newly cleaned mat down and noticed that even though I had paid to have the interior detailed, no one had cleaned the wine splash from the side of the console. Fortunately, I was able to get it.

So I lost two chunks of time, not to mention over $100 (car wash, detailing, bottle of wine) because some idiot didn’t think the rules of the road applied to them.

My Favorite Tupperware of All Time

Over the years, especially the early years of setting up my own household, I’ve purchased a lot of Tupperware. I still use several pieces. Several more are in my basement, and I periodically wish they were still in my kitchen cupboards because they would be handy to have.

Hands down, my absolute favorite Tupperware piece is my grater.

I love that I can grate food into the bowl, then snap on the lid to keep it fresh in the refrigerator. How clever is that?

Joygerms: Make them Contagious

Many years ago, when I first started working in TV, I became aware of a local advertising agency/public relations firm, Joan of Art. Joan White, the owner, was always upbeat, smiling, and trying to bring people together. I fondly recall a “Rabbit Rabbit” gathering for advertising types at a nearby bar.

A few years later, she founded something she called Joygerms Unlimited, and started referring to herself as Joygerm Joan. Several years after that, she created National Joygerm Day. She chose January 8th, her mother’s birthday, for the annual event.

Yes, this is a thing. So mark your calendars for January 8 to “smile, hug, or crack a joke.”

There’s nothing wrong with joy, and the world can always use more.