Of the characters I’ve created Angela Delphinium Forrest is my favorite. A woman of a certain age, she is charming, unpredictable, attractive, intelligent and whimsical. She’s a wonderful hostess, be it a planned dinner or a surprise midnight invasion of nosy neighbors. She can whip up cookies for one hundred or a Thanksgiving dinner for twelve at a moment’s notice. She owns the appropriate clothes for any event. On Thanksgiving Day she might be the perfect Pilgrim. In the dead of night, a sleek black cat burglar – with a splash of red at the neck, of course. She may be eccentric, verging on sheer lunacy, but she loves her family, is fiercely protective, and is always up for anything that sounds like trouble.

This lovely lady is, of course, an invention, but she has her roots in three wonderful women I have been fortunate to have in my life; Jean Petersen, Regina Clover, Mary Garrison.

Jean Petersen, my dear mother-in-law, is as lovely today as she was when I first met her almost fifty years ago. She is the perfect mother-in-law – never intrusive, always helpful. Family always comes first for Jean and we rely on her wisdom and support. She is a great cook and the ideal hostess. And she is an intelligent lady who isn’t afraid to speak her mind.

Regina Clover, my mother, died 1986. I still miss her. She had a wicked sense of humor and a keen intelligence. She loved to tease people, my father especially. She accepted what life dealt out with patience and faith and there was rarely a situation where she couldn’t find something to laugh about.  And although my father and brother were the writers in the family, my mother is the person who instilled in me my love of books, especially mysteries.

While Angela became a distillation of all these women, Mary Garrison, my best friend’s mother and something of a second mother to me, was the original inspiration for the character. Mary was a complex mixture of naiveté, gullibility, common sense, intelligence and business savvy. She loved life and people and her family most of all. She was a lady who rolled with the punches and usually found something good somewhere in the chaos. And Mary did indeed dress for every occasion – be it a sweater, skirt and knee socks for going back to school at sixty-something or a complete country western ensemble when visiting out New Mexico.

Mary left us in September. She is missed by so many people. And I’ve been feeling like my muse left with her. I have been having a very hard time writing Angela. But I suddenly realized that Angela, like Mary, Jean and Regina, knows that the secret when encountering stumbling blocks in life is simply to do the next right thing. So starting today, Angela is back in business -wearing a black wool sheath by St. John covered in white dog hair and a Red Sox baseball cap.

I recently became a member of ‘Sisters in Crime’, a service organization dedicated to promote the ongoing advancement, recognition and professional development of women crime writers. And wouldn’t you know it, I had no sooner sent in a check, than I got a writing assignment – an invitation to participate in September’s SinC-up for bloggers. (www.sistersincrime.org/bloghop)  So this week’s little missive actually will be about writing!

I would imagine that all writers are inspired by someone or something they have read – be it a childhood story that so stimulated the imagination that they embarked on wild adventures that they would later write about – or, perhaps, reading a gritty page-turner and realizing that that neighbor down the street who peers out the window with wild eyes through a crack in the curtain is a villain who needs a story.

And I am no exception. There are two authors to whom I’m grateful. The first is Harper Lee who wrote with such poetry that every time I read To Kill a Mockingbird I am once again totally immersed in her beautiful words. The sounds, the smells, the ‘feel’ of Maycomb become so real that I can’t put it down, even at the twentieth reading! I will never write such a book. I spent years trying to find a story in my heart that equaled it when I finally dawned on me that I didn’t need to. It’s been done – perfectly.

But, I also realized what was most important to me about To Kill a Mockingbird.  Harper Lee made me want to write. It took a while, but at the ripe old age of fifty-nine, I finally found stories that I can tell in my own voice – cozy little mysteries. They’re not great American novels, but they are fun, little books that can take you out of yourself for a few hours. And with the stressful lives we all live, I think they serve a valuable purpose.

The second author who inspired me greatly was the one who actually gave me a kick start to write Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My. Her name shall remain unrevealed for two reasons. The first reason is that I’ve forgotten it.

The second reason (and the reason I’ve forgotten it) is that the book she had written was so bad that I couldn’t bring myself to finish it. I complained loudly that “apparently anyone could get published and I wonder who she slept with to do so” or words to that effect. My charming husband, Tom, then said, “Well, why don’t you write one yourself?” And a book was born.

So thank you Miss Lee and Miss Unmemorable for the inspiration to craft words and the incentive to begin the process.

Check out mystery writer, Patricia Gligor, at http://pat-writersforum.blosgpot.com.    See www.sistersincrime.org/bloghop

Saturday I officially became a really old person. My brand new Medicare card is in my wallet, my knees hurt when I go up stairs, I have a pair of reading glassein every room, and I don’t know what photo bombing is. I knew I’d arrived when my six year old granddaughter was explaining that she went real bowling, not Wii bowling, and condescendingly explained that Wii was a game.

I’m writing this as I wait  twenty-five minutes for my Clairol’s Age Defy hair coloring to work. It is busy correcting the seven signs of aging hair. Who knew? I thought getting gray was my only problem.  But now I know that I must also worry that my once youthful tresses are apparently lackluster, coarse, frizzy, unruly, dry, and breakable.

Cosmetics manufacturers certainly know what they’re doing. They are acutely aware that baby boomers do not want to age gracefully. And so most of the various creams and lotions – and there are quite a few in my bathroom cabinet – have ‘age defying’ somewhere on the label. And if it’s not ‘age defying’, it’s ‘lifting’ or ‘firming’. If I had just thought to pickle myself in my twenties, maybe I wouldn’t have to use all this stuff.

Where did I go wrong? My mother used Pond’s cold cream and a smidge of lanolin for moisturizer and her skin was absolutely beautiful.

Oops! Time to see just how much age I have defied using this special coloring. Well, would you look at that? I appear to be ten years younger. Oh wait, let me put my glasses on. Oh dear. As Emily Litella would say, “Nevermind.”

*For you youngsters out there, Emily Litella was a brilliant, if often mistaken, spokeswoman for many SNL causes.

I try to be a good hostess. I like to go the extra mile and make sure my guests have a memorable experience. So when Lynda and Paillen, family from Minnesota, came to stay this week I wanted to do something special.

Tuesday morning we met my sister, Chris, and had an uneventful Metro ride downtown, got off at the Archives, made a Starbucks stop, and walked to the Mall for some museum visiting. While walking on 7th Street right outside the National Gallery of Art I thought I might try a little Performance Art to add some spice to the morning.

I was pondering what I might perform – maybe becoming one of those living statues, perhaps ‘Tourist holding Starbucks cup on corner of 7th and Constitution’ – when my right foot decided for me. It caught on an uneven piece of sidewalk and I proceeded to fly forward. When I tried to correct, this not being the particular piece I wanted to perform, my left foot got into the swing of things and it, too, caught on the same uneven piece of sidewalk. So I just went with it. Uttering an impressive string of barnyard invective, I soared through the air like Dustin Pedroia diving into first base.

This performance was a bit more physical than I had anticipated, so I lay there a few moments before sitting up to an outstanding reaction. Chris, Lynda and Paillen were awed. Tourists on the street were riveted. And the Museum staff! What can I say? They came in droves to see what the heck was going on.

Luckily, I had used my chin to keep my knees and elbows from harm. I sat there surrounded by loved ones and strangers and proceeded to give my head the once over. Things seemed okay until I took my hand away and found that it was covered in a rather impressive amount of blood. At this point, I wasn’t so much about the art anymore as about keeping the blood off my suede jacket (which I did) and not throwing up.

A really sweet young man from the Museum called an ambulance and brought me a new cup of tea. In no time at all an ambulance pulled up and two nice EMTs made sure I was in one piece more or less and that the cut on my chin, while having bled like Victoria Falls, was really quite small and seemed to be closing nicely. They recommended a stitch or two at the mention of which I promptly got rather faint. Medical professionals take fainting VERY seriously. My family does not. Luckily my sister was there to back me up that this was just a normal family trait and a little fresh air would fix me up in no time. Bleeding under control, Band-Aid in place, I breathed in the cool D.C. air and felt marginally better.

During my ambulance stay, a little police lady from the Museum was taking information from Lynda. I did not get her name, so I will call her Mabel. Mabel did not say it in so many words, but she was all in favor of lawsuits against the Museum and the City. She had Lynda take pictures of everything. She took down my information. And when I said I thought I was all right to continue our day, she almost insisted I see the Museum nurse. “You want to document this. You never know!” So I did.

By means of golf cart, then wheelchair, I was taken into the bowels of the National Gallery of Art to visit the nurse. My comrades were escorted by a Sergeant through the gallery and met me downstairs. After documenting my little project and hearing exactly the same thing from the nurse that I heard from the EMTs and having the same reaction, I was wheeled out of the Museum and put in a taxi.

I did not go home. I am a trooper. And besides, I was a bit low on sugar and needed a coke. So we taxied around the corner to the beautiful American Indian Museum and had a bite to eat and some Advil. After which we proceeded to go about our day and very much enjoyed the wonderful displays.

Alas, the story does not end here. At about quarter to five we were milling around the gift shop and discussing our dinner plans with my son and his girlfriend when Chris said, “You’re dripping.” And sure enough I was. This was enough to make me woozy again. There are no chairs on the second floor of the American Indian Museum. Nor are there any bandages of any sort. But there is a ladies room with a very long counter on which I ended up laying while my caretakers searched out Band-Aids and paper towels. Lynda remembered that she had some very pretty polka dot and striped bandages in her bag. As Paillen was the only one who could look at the cut, she was in charge of applying direct pressure and finally covering to my little wound. My sister was in charge of walking around the ladies room repeating, “I can’t look”.

I finally felt like I could get up without keeling over. I had just swung my legs over the counter and eased to the floor when Chris changed her mantra to, “I’m going to faint.” And she wasn’t kidding. She was absolutely white as a sheet. We laid her down on the marble bed and I called my son and told him that, perhaps, this was not the best night to dine downtown.

We limped to the subway, a bedraggled troop of overwrought women, one holding brown paper towels under her chin while continuing to apply direct pressure. We caught the Metro home. When I walked in my husband looked at me and said, “You tripped and fell, didn’t you.” I got no sympathy. He added that I’m a klutz, the implication being that I should be more careful. The cut closed up quite nicely. I didn’t need stitches. My chin is an impressive purple and black, just right for Halloween.

But I am giving up Performance Art. It’s a young woman’s job. Next time company comes they will have to make do with homemade Manicotti and a nice Chianti.

How many songs roll through your head in a week? And how do they get there? You know, the little ditty you just can’t get rid of. This morning while I was brushing my teeth I was singing Sesame Street in my mind. Why? I have no little ones here with me. I don’t watch Sesame Street and can’t recall hearing it lately.

Baker Street I could understand. I like Baker Street – kudos to Gerry Rafferty for writing it – and I was talking about it the other day. Having Baker Street run through my mind would make sense. But Sesame Street? No offense to BurpaErnie, as my son used to call them, but I don’t particularly care for the tune. But there it was, “Can you tell me how to get, how to get, to Sesame Street.”

It seems like it’s almost always songs I don’t like much. I once had Benny and the Jets stuck in my head for almost a month. Not one of Sir Elton’s finest, in my opinion. My mother had told me that the best way to rid yourself of an unwanted melody is to sing the entire ditty out loud. So I spent about a week singing, “Hey kids, dum de dum de li di, dum di dum di dum dum, B-B-B-Benny and the Jets” every chance I could get. I must have sounded like a broken juke box. and since I didn’t know the words, so I couldn’t get rid of the song.

When I sit down at the computer to play solitaire, as we writers tend to do when we’re supposed to be writing, I almost always chant the juvenile little ditty, “Yank my doodle, it’s a dandy.” Why? Why I ask myself.

As I am sure you’ve guessed by now, I am low on material for my blog. I am going on vacation this week and fully expect rest and relaxation to fill me with brilliant ideas to share when I get back. In the meantime, I Elmo seems to be singing the Hallelujah chorus. HELP!

This weekend my sister and I will be taking off from BWI for our annual pilgrimage to St. Paul, Minnesota. And I will be doing this cold turkey! I’m out of valium and I draw the one at getting ploxed at nine-thirty on a Friday morning.

Each July we volunteer for this trial by airline to visit our beloved nephew and his family. They live in Thailand for ten months of the year and come home to Minnesota to visit parents and other assorted relatives for a rather short summer vacation. And as they spend about twenty-four hours in each direction in travel time with three young girls, it’s hardly fair for old Aunties to insist they make another trek to good old Washington, DC. So old Aunties just bite the bullet and get on a damned plane.

Flying has become quite the ordeal, hasn’t it? After I spent an afternoon making calls to all parties involved in this adventure to make sure that the principals were all available for that week-end – nobody wants to fly to St. Paul only to find that St. Paul relations are elsewhere – I searched out the best itinerary and bought tickets on-line and sent the information to my sister. She called immediately to say, “We’re flying out of BWI and back into Dulles? Is that right?” No, of course, it isn’t right. It’s just what I booked. I then spent another hour getting the mix-up straight with Delta, who were very helpful, actually.

Next come the logistics of getting to and from the airport and the hours of thought I need to put into packing. Why I need to put hours of thought into this, I have no idea. I just do. It’s only four days and I end up wearing the same two tops the entire time. But one needs to be prepared. Perhaps one will be invited to a ball at the governor’s mansion. It could happen.

The airport experience is a trip in itself; the check-in, the security line, getting the right shoes back on my feet, a quick Bloody Mary because I don’t care anymore if it’s early morning, two hours shoved into a sardine tin next to a man who grumbles in his sleep, and Voila! We’ve arrived. Piece of apple pie. Can’t wait until next year. I think I’ll walk.

On May 22nd, 1968 my brother, Tim Clover, was killed in Viet Nam. A long dark night began for our family. It was only our deep, abiding love for our parents, for his widow and son, and for each other that saw our family through until morning finally dawned, slowly creeping over the horizon, lighting our way once again.

Tim was truly special – our only boy, handsome, charismatic, highly intelligent. He was a poet and a dreamer who hated the war. And he was my best friend from the day I was born until the day he was lost. Although I wrote this eulogy years ago, time hasn’t erased the sense of loss. My life is a good one. I have a wonderful husband and family, close friends, and beautiful grand-children. But I will miss Tim always.

Tim

Glancing out the window I catch a glimpse of the last sunlight of day brightening, almost artificially, the Western sky, thrusting me back to the remembrance of the last light of my day long years ago. An interminable dark night followed before a slow dawn. The pain is sometimes as acute now as it was then, only now it last seconds, minutes, instead of hours and long nights.

Could it be almost fifteen years already? When in that time did I lose the lovely silliness of childhood? When did I become so inhibited that I ceased sitting on curbs for lack of chairs or mimicking the caged gorilla to make him talk to me? At what point was I unable to utter the beautiful little fantasies and half-truths that fall trippingly from every child’s tongue?

Fifteen years! A long time and, yet, not so long. Not long enough to heal the wound, but long enough to make other matters equally or more important. Long enough to become a woman, wife, and mother, but not long enough for the soul to catch up with the body. In many ways, I will always remain an insecure teen-ager waiting for her brother’s approval.

The scenes my mind conjures up are so agonizingly real, but without them my life would be sorely empty. His voice, his mannerisms, his face are only shadows of memory. His uncanny insight into my mind and mine into his, the need now for fumbling words where once none were needed, the total empathy of brother and sister that I now miss are the substance of the memory brought back so abruptly to me in a second’s glance at a fading sky.

He was a part of me since my earliest memory, the person most closely entwined with my childhood and youth. He consoled me and wept with me in those horrendous teen-age years that unmercifully coincided with the sixties, that time of turbulence so unfathomable for a girl of seventeen. This is a eulogy for a beloved brother who was lost in that turbulence. Long may he rest now in peace.

Kids learn a lot of good things playing sports. My son, Matt, played baseball. This is a wonderful sport for teaching patience, concentration, team work, and how to win graciously or lose with dignity. But sometimes, some more interesting lessons can be learned!

In 1999, Matt’s team had won the local championship and was headed to the regional play-offs hoping to get to the Babe Ruth World Series in Abbeville, Louisiana. The usual etiquette had been for the host team’s families to house the players for the tournament. And we had been assured it was all taken care of.

Imagine our surprise when we got to Hamilton New Jersey to find that no such accommodation had been made. Good sportsmanship requires me to believe that this was a genuine mistake on Hamilton’s (our chief rival) part. Others may think differently.

At any rate, there we were with fifteen boys with no place to lay their heads. The scramble began to find a motel that had room for the team, the coaching staff, and the parents. Luckily, there was such a place to be had just across Route 1 in Pennsylvania. The only catch being that this motel was attached to a ‘gentleman’s club’. A glance at the clientele might have you looking up ‘gentleman’ in the dictionary, but the rooms were clean and we were close to the ball field.

An interesting thing about Route 1 in Pennsylvania is that you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a sex shop or a gentleman’s club. There are just tons of them. Every block seems to have at least one or the other.

Well, our boys learned quite a few things that week other than the value of hard work and good sportsmanship. They learned that working girls sometimes rent hotel rooms by the hour, that adults who have had too much to drink sometimes go skinny dipping in hotel pools and don’t seem to mind a couple of idiot kids jumping in with them, and that if you really annoy your coach by climbing onto the roof in the middle of the night, he will bang on your door and get you up at six a.m. for an impromptu practice.

Despite the odd week, our team won the tournament and they got to Louisiana for the Babe Ruth World Series where they acquitted themselves well coming in third. And I think the added attractions just made it all more memorable.

Matt’s team had made it to the Regional finals in Hamilton New Jersey. Now, when whatever home team is hosting these tournaments they usually find housing for all the players with host team families. We had been told that all the players had accommodation. So off we went to Hamilton with our merry band of fifteen teenage boys.

When we arrived we were greeted with the information that, oops!, sorry no place to put them. So there was a mad scramble to find a hotel that could put up all the boys

One of things I like about writing is being someone else for a while. I can be eccentric, or angry, or charming and it all works out for the best. I like to take a situation and imagine how each of my characters would handle it. I have three main characters, sisters Daisy and Rose who own a gift boutique together and their mother Angela who interferes.

Suppose these ladies are on their way home from a funeral. They drove separately and are about ten minutes apart as they pass through a speed trap. What would each lady do?

Angela Forrest after being pulled over would first let her dog, Percy, out of the car to answer a call of nature. She would then tell the police officer that she’s so sorry she may have been a little distracted. She is on her way home from a dear friend’s funeral and her mind was elsewhere. She would go on to say that she hoped he is wearing sunscreen, especially on his neck, because he certainly doesn’t want sun spots later on in life, and he could use a little Biz in the laundry to get the tiny ketchup stain off his shirt. Finally she would scoop up Percy who had chosen the officer’s leg to have a good time with, give him her calling card, and invite him for dinner. She would then get back in the car and drive away, the policeman never having had the chance to get a word in.

Daisy Forrest Greene, on the other hand, would probably not be so diplomatic. She isn’t the greatest fan of the police, her ex-husband, rat-bastard extraordinaire Bill Greene, being a Maryland state policeman. I’m pretty sure Daisy would roll down her window, give the officer a ‘look’ and say, “What!” After being asked if she realized that she had been speeding, she would answer that, of course she was and you would be too if you had just had to sit through the longest, most boring wake of your entire life. One hundred and fifty people in a hot room overwhelmed with the smell of lilies talking about a nasty old woman who was ninety-nine years old if she was a day and the only reason these people were there was on the off chance that she left them something in her will. Finally she would hand him her license and registration after a bit of digging in her purse and tell him to get a move on if he was giving her a ticket because she had a vodka and tonic waiting at home with her name on it. Incorrectly, but fortunately for her, he would think that she was Detective Greene’s wife, not his ex, and give her a warning. She would sigh, shake her head and speed off.

And then there is Rose Forrest. A bit less volatile, Rose would give the officer an alluring smile as she hands him her license and registration that happen to be right at hand, tosses her hair back as she says, “I’m so sorry. The day was so lovely, I guess I got a little carried away. It’s so good to be alive.” A tear would trickle down her cheek and she would mention that she was just returning from attending a close relations funeral. She could also absolutely understand if he needed to give her a ticket. She really should be more careful and will in the future. At which point, the poor sap, already worn down by Angela and Daisy, simply gives in to the inevitable and tells her he’s very sorry about her loss and please take care.

Of course, none of these is even remotely resembles how I would handle this sort of thing in real life. What would actually happen is I would have purse panic looking for my license, become nearly hysterical as I fumble in the glove box for the registration, answer politely if all too honestly all his questions – yes, of course I know I was doing 60 in a 40 zone and no, I have not been drinking unless you count the 14 cups of tea I had waiting for my mother to say good-bye to all of her friends. At this point I no doubt would burst out crying. And not looking too alluring with a red runny nose, I would get a big fat ticket and be sent on my way.

Have you ever thought that you were, perhaps, an Invisible Person? Are you, like I seem to be, the Invisible Customer, the Invisible Patient, the Invisible Voice Crying in the Wilderness? I’d like to think I’m not the only person in the world who seems to be constantly overlooked. Well, I know I’m not because my sister is also quite often invisible.
An instance of this rather annoying condition – my husband and I recently contributed to Maryland Public Television and requested a thank-you gift. Tom has been looking forward to listening to endless hours of 1950’s pop music. I have not, but that’s not really the issue. The issue is that it’s been almost two months now and we have no music.
I called this morning to find out where the heck our CDs were. After being put on hold three times as the woman who answered tried to figure out just who I was and what I had requested I was told that, oh dear, it seems that our little contribution was incorrectly entered into whatever database they use. Silence.
Silly question from me. When can I expect my music? Well, if they have one in the studio – about two weeks from next Tuesday. Is it me or is this rather odd? Perhaps, they only mail things on Tuesday.  At any rate, Invisible Person that I am, I got a rather vague apology and no promise of any particular help. I mentioned that this was not a great way to do business and got a rather soggy, “Sorry.”

And my husband just walked in the door and gave me a second Invisible Instance – just today. He’d been to the eye doctor. He has been seeing this doctor for several years now, in fact, ever since he opened the practice. The receptionist asked my husband a long list of questions which he answered (with a degree of irritability, not understanding why he was telling her things she must already know). When she came to the last one – “How did you hear about us?” – he realized that she thought he was a new patient. She hadn’t found his file. Really!? Invisibility strikes again.

Anyhow, I find that this dread disease seems to attack me more and more often. I think I’m actually fading because it couldn’t be that the current customer service mentality is not so much about service, as it is about getting you off the phone, could it? For any of you who also have this affliction, I wish you well and you’ll receive the gift for your generous donation seven to ten days from next Tuesday.

So many people have been kind enough to ask how we are getting along with the whole insurance debacle that I feel I should publish a little update.

This week we ended up getting Eileen private pay insurance. This will give us some breathing room to see if we can work through the system or not.

After a week spent on the phone and in the Affordable Care Office set up in the Prince George’s County Social Services office, my feeling is that we will not be able to unless we go to Annapolis and sit on Anthony Brown’s desk and make him notice us.

Unbelievably, even the poor saps who work in that office have no more access to the powers that be than you or I. After spending almost two hours waiting last Wednesday we finally met with a really nice guy named Ronald. He understood our problem, could not fix it there, and spent an hour to get through to customer service, only to be cut off once he connected. And he wasn’t even able get the same person back on the line! It’s enough to scream.

Some have asked if this has caused me to change my political affiliation – it has not. I figure you don’t disown your children because of mistakes, even disastrous ones. You just end up being bitterly disappointed and you don’t vote for them for Governor.

On a cheerier note – MDHMH sent a correction letter. They realized that Eileen is the Ward and that I am the Guardian. Will wonders never cease?

PS: A dear friend has given me a ‘special number’ that she called and got immediate help. This may work for us, but because of other circumstances to do with Medicaid, we haven’t used this magic bullet. I’m saving it though, just in case.

So many people have been kind enough to ask how we are getting along with the whole insurance debacle that I feel I should publish a little update.

This week we ended up getting Eileen private pay insurance. This will give us some breathing room to see if we can work through the system or not.

After a week spent on the phone and in the Affordable Care Office set up in the Prince George’s County Social Services office, my feeling is that we will not be able to unless we go to Annapolis and sit on Anthony Brown’s desk and make him notice us.

Unbelievably, even the poor saps who work in that office have no more access to the powers that be than you or I. After spending almost two hours waiting last Wednesday we finally met with a really nice guy named Ronald. He understood our problem, could not fix it there, and spent an hour to get through to customer service, only to be cut off once he connected. And he wasn’t even able get the same person back on the line! It’s enough to scream.

Some have asked if this has caused me to change my political affiliation – it has not. I figure you don’t disown your children because of mistakes, even disastrous ones. You just end up being bitterly disappointed and you don’t vote for them for Governor.

On a cheerier note – MDHMH sent a correction letter. They realized that Eileen is the Ward and that I am the Guardian. Will wonders never cease?

PS: A dear friend has given me a ‘special number’ that she called and got immediate help. This may work for us, but because of other circumstances to do with Medicaid, we haven’t used this magic bullet. I’m saving it though, just in case.

Just an amusing little anecdote today about the wonderful Maryland health system and our ward.

For those of you who may not know, two years ago Tom and I became the ‘guardians’ of his adult cousin, Eileen, when her mother died. Eileen has myriad developmental problems and some mental health issues as well. She is just able to live by herself in the house she grew up in with the help a home health aide. We have power of attorney. Tom handles all of her finances and I handle health issues and groceries. Eileen pretty much depends on us for everything.

Now between a massive screw-up (no other word for it) with her old employer and its new COBRA administrator and the massive screw-up (again, no other word for it) that is the Affordable Health Care Act in Maryland, Eileen is at this moment without insurance.

So far, you say, not very amusing. It’s coming.

I said above ‘no other word for it’, but I am wrong. My dear husband has found many other words for it. I’ve never heard most of them. Not that I am particularly conversant with that particular speech form. I’ve never been a sailor. But I have seen a lot of movies. I’ve heard a lot of language in those movies. And I think those writers could up their vocabulary a notch or two by speaking to my husband about Healthcare in Maryland.

However, just when things looked pretty darned bleak and what we both needed was a really good laugh, we got a letter in the mail from the Maryland Department of Mental Health. It was a request to fill out a survey on our recent dealings with the agency. God bless their little pea-picking hearts, the letter was addressed to Eileen – the parent/guardian/caretaker of Penny Petersen. And we thought these agencies had no sense of humor.

The letter did the trick. Tom laughed. I laughed. My daughter laughed. My sister laughed. True, this is not much of a story and perhaps you had to be there, but after a day spent at Social Services trying in vain to correct the whole insurance fiasco, that silly letter turned out to be a life saver.

Just an amusing little anecdote today about the wonderful Maryland health system and our ward.

For those of you who may not know, two years ago Tom and I became the ‘guardians’ of his adult cousin, Eileen, when her mother died. Eileen has myriad developmental problems and some mental health issues as well. She is just able to live by herself in the house she grew up in with the help a home health aide. We have power of attorney. Tom handles all of her finances and I handle health issues and groceries. Eileen pretty much depends on us for everything.

Now between a massive screw-up (no other word for it) with her old employer and its new COBRA administrator and the massive screw-up (again, no other word for it) that is the Affordable Health Care Act in Maryland, Eileen is at this moment without insurance.

So far, you say, not very amusing. It’s coming.

I said above ‘no other word for it’, but I am wrong. My dear husband has found many other words for it. I’ve never heard most of them. Not that I am particularly conversant with that particular speech form. I’ve never been a sailor. But I have seen a lot of movies. I’ve heard a lot of language in those movies. And I think those writers could up their vocabulary a notch or two by speaking to my husband about Healthcare in Maryland.

However, just when things looked pretty darned bleak and what we both needed was a really good laugh, we got a letter in the mail from the Maryland Department of Mental Health. It was a request to fill out a survey on our recent dealings with the agency. God bless their little pea-picking hearts, the letter was addressed to Eileen – the parent/guardian/caretaker of Penny Petersen. And we thought these agencies had no sense of humor. 

The letter did the trick. Tom laughed. I laughed. My daughter laughed. My sister laughed. True, this is not much of a story and perhaps you had to be there, but after a day spent at Social Services trying in vain to correct the whole insurance fiasco, that silly letter turned out to be a life saver.

Writing can be difficult to say the least. That blank page thing is not an exaggeration. Blank pages are pretty damned scary. And my male tunnel vision approach is not working out as planned.

Yesterday I woke up determined to get a two page synopsis of my new book written. To the uninitiated I know this sounds like a piece of custard tart – Mary met John, they fell in love, they discovered a body, the dog ate the evidence, the killer attacked the dog, Mary saved John from a burning building and they caught the maniac. All lived happily ever after, except the maniac who disapproved of the prison’s Friday lunch menu.

But I find trying to reduce 65,000 words to a measly 800 or so while keeping some semblance of an orderly plot, and making it interesting and reflective of my writing style is really, really hard. But I was determined not to give in to all of the distractions around me and get it done! (Oh my goodness, my nails really need a manicure.)

I had already done the grunt work. I had reread my notes, scanned the book, and made an outline to follow. I was reviewing said notes and deciphering my chicken scratch (my handwriting leaves something to be desired, such as legibility) when the phone rang. I needed to answer it because we were expecting – no, expecting is too strong a word – we were hoping for a call from the insurance company about our ward’s health insurance. So I answered it. Shouldn’t have. It was as you might have guessed a salesperson on a mission. (Just a minute, I need another cup of tea.)

Back to the writing board, tea in hand. I had just figured out what “D&R wanr behind” written in the margin meant when I remembered that I had not yet done my aerobic arm exercise – my New Year’s resolution. Four minutes dancing with weights to ‘I Will Survive” and I was back to business.

Four hours, five cups of tea, three more phone calls, a snack, another snack, a minute dusting the computer, a call to my daughter, and a quick load of laundry later and it was done. 64,879 words encapsulated in a brief 639 word précis. It wasn’t bad. A little humor, strong plot line, characters clearly identified. This was okay. Culprit caught and put in jail. But it seemed like something was missing. I read it again – slowly. OMG, I forgot the murder! Tunnel vision where art thou?

As the new year begins I am trying to get back into a rhythm of some sort regarding, I was going to say my writing, but my life would be more accurate.

Too much has been going on in the extended family and very little of it good. A death and two serious illnesses have taken their toll on all of us. I have been distracted to say the least. I find myself staring out the window a lot, walking in aimless circles, eating a lot of junk food, and generally wasting entire days unable to focus.

But it’s 2014, time to pull myself up by my bootstraps – I am not entirely sure what bootstraps are, but I’m pretty sure that pulling them up is a good thing – and getting on with life, writing, and – heaven help me – a healthier, or at least less fattening, diet.

First step – I will be positive.  After all 2013 wasn’t all bad. I did get my book published. Last week I went to Barnes and Noble in Alexandria and signed some books for the store. Just like a real author! I’m going to a cozy mystery conference in May. This is all good stuff.

And second – I’m getting organized. I can hear a lot of laughing out loud, but I’m determined. I will develop tunnel vision. I will be like many men I know and completely ignore anything that is not right in front of me.

Of course, this will happen as soon as I finish writing this blog, making dinner, and then spending tomorrow on the phone with the fine people from Affordable Health Care, COBRA, CareFirst and probably a few others in order to straighten out the mess someone – and we have no idea who – has made of Eileen’s health insurance. So really, I will get organized when hell freezes over or when I throw the phone out the window, whichever comes first. This is my plan and I’m sticking to it.

In the meantime, I am stuck on a key part of my new mystery. But after tomorrow’s marathon phoning I may change the whole plot anyway to a woman driven mad by insurance companies who gets her revenge by locking all of the people who run these companies in a room with a non-stop recording telling them to “Press 1” now, but never letting them do it!

Well, I managed to do it again. As usual, my brain appeared to be elsewhere when I was shopping and I completely miscounted the cream cheese. This is absolute proof that my brain has a limited ability to function when asked to do one thing at a time. This should not have been hard. For the first time in forty-two years I was not cooking a big family dinner on Christmas Eve. The only assignment I had was to make a dessert for Christmas dinner at Tom’s sister’s.

Maybe it was because it was the first time in forty-two years that Tom and I were going to be alone on Christmas Eve. This was a bit of a hurdle for us. We’ve always hosted dinner on Christmas Eve. It started with dinner for my side of the family and grew through the years to include just about anybody. One year we had a very handsome policeman drop by to be stared at by three giggly teenage girls.

At any rate to get back to the matter at hand, I decided to make a pear tart. The pear tart that I make is quite delicious, if I do say so myself. But the cookie crust is a little tricky. It’s easy to overcook it. So I baked the crust Christmas Eve and planned to fill it Christmas morning giving myself plenty of time to make another one if necessary.  But it wasn’t necessary. The crust was perfect. A little crispy, just brown enough, good enough to eat.

Cookie crust the way it should be

So Christmas morning in an effort to fight off the blues I was feeling not having my kids there, I looked at this crust and smiled. Then I got busy making the filling. Well, not exactly making it. But very busy looking for the cream cheese which is the basis of it. I know I had some. I had made a list. I went to the store and remembered to bring the list. And, best of all, I actually read the list and got what was on it. So the cream cheese had to be there. Didn’t it?



Christmas dessert

Luckily it was early in the day when I searched for the cream cheese. Strangely enough, while I did not have any actual cream cheese, I did have all the ingredients for a Bundt cake, including heavy cream and cake flour. And it was pretty darned good, but not as good as a Pear Tart!

I would like to thank all of you who came by the Bowie Grille on Saturday to help me officially launch Roses and Daisies and Death, Oh My. The day was a great success. Not only was I surrounded by family, but neighbors and old friends and new friends managed to find time only weeks before Christmas to share the day with me. I can’t tell you how much it meant to have you all there. Thank you so much.

And because Christmas is only days away I am going to tell a little Christmas story about the year we put angel hair on the tree. Sounds pretty, doesn’t it?

Now, my father was a nut about Christmas. We had no money to speak of and really didn’t get much in the way of gifts, but that didn’t matter. It just meant so much to him, from decorating the tree to arranging the gifts under it, to hanging our socks at the end of our beds, that we could have gotten socks and underwear and we’d think we had gone to heaven.

He was very big into decorating the tree. It was an art. The tree itself usually looked like one Charlie Brown might have rejected, but we loved it anyway. Lights were strung with care. Ornament placement was crucial. Tinsel was put on strand by strand.

It was an exciting night. We’d have a bath and put on our new pajamas. My mother made all of our clothes and we always had new pajamas for Christmas. By this time, Dad had wired the tree to the wall (we had cats and they tended to climb) and had gotten the lights on. Then it was our turn to put on the ornaments and finish up with tinsel.

But this particular year, tinsel was edged out by Angel Hair. Some marketing genius placed it front and center in the Christmas decorations aisle. And my Dad bought it. It looked great – elegant, wispy clouds of gossamer fluff. We were thrilled. Putting tinsel on strand by strand can be tedious for an adult. For little kids it was a royal pain. This stuff didn’t need that kind of precision. My brother, Tim, and my sister, Chris, and I took it out of its package and started strewing. Then we started itching. And then we started crying.

The marketing genius had forgotten to mark clearly on the label that Angel Hair was made of spun fiberglass and, in the wrong hands – well, any hands really – it cut like little knives and itched like the devil.

So the new pajamas came off and we once again hopped into the tub while Dad took the angel hair off the tree with a few choice words and threw it in the trash. We went to bed still itching.

I look back fondly on that night. I have no idea why. Maybe it’s the lesson that we learned – never tinker with tradition. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve forgotten most of those past Christmas’s and this is the one I remember. Whichever, for about a minute and a half we had a tree fit for heaven, even though it ended up, probably with the marketing genius, in another place entirely.