Dear Santa (4th of four) -- flash fiction

This is Dee's fourth and final letter written in 2015

Dear Santa,

Happy almost Christmas!

I know you must be as tired as I am. It’s three o’clock in the morning here and I’m at the hospital with Becca and Thurman. You remember, my daughter and her family are staying with me while their fire-damaged house is being repaired.

Thurman was in the middle of responding to a burglary-in-progress when Becca went into labor. He met us at the hospital all out of breath and worried that he’d missed everything. The man’s done this three times already. You’d think he’d know it’s going to take a while.

The nurses say everything is going normally and we should have a new baby girl. Soon, they say. They always say that. I’m seriously considering going home to get some rest.

Before we left I woke Rodney. Rodney, of the umpteen rabbits in the basement. We left him in charge of the kids. I explained the situation. He promised French toast for the kids, rolled over, and went back to sleep. He’s tired, too.

He’s been accepted in culinary school. He’s a little old maybe, but like his father always said, better late, than later. I miss Marvin. He had a way with words. Sometimes the three years since he’s been gone seem like forever. And sometimes when Rodney smiles just a certain way or Becca rolls her eyes, it seems like yesterday that their daddy was holding my hand and telling me things would work out.

We’ve had the tree up for a while, and we’ve been putting a few presents under it as we go along. It’s an endless fascination for the children. They’re good about not bothering the packages. As much as it surprises me, I have to say the Labradors have been good about not bothering them, too. It all looks so pretty – blinking lights, shiny ornaments, and the star on top.

My favorite ornaments are the ones the children made. I’ve still got Rodney's and Becca’s little Rudolph the Reindeers from when they were in the toddler class at church. You know, with the little red pom-pom noses and googly eyes. Then the ones with their school pictures pasted on. Most of the glitter has come off of those. Thank goodness.

And now we’ve got ornaments the grandchildren made.

In fact, we spent most of the morning yesterday around the dining table drawing and cutting and pasting while Rodney tried out a recipe for shepherd’s pie. He likes to get a head start on whatever his next project is. I guess cooking classes are no different.

Jerry – he’s the eight-year-old grandchild – is very creative. I never thought about Spiderman riding in a sleigh, but he looks almost natural. Despite the odd angle of his legs. At least his mask is red. Mostly.

I think five-year-old Maggie is going to be our engineer. She pasted as many strips of paper as I would cut making the longest paper chain I’ve ever seen. And she doesn’t limit her links to traditional colors or designs. I don’t think I have an intact magazine left in the house.

At almost ten, Michael is the wise, elder brother. He worked diligently with a plastic Crèche kit, defending it against any assistance from his younger siblings. He did let Maggie put the Baby Jesus in the manger. And Jerry added a battered pick-up he called Mater. From the Disney film Cars, but I'm sure you already knew that. Sometimes I wonder if movies aren’t too easily available to children these days. What with DVDs and Netflix.

Then again, I do think it’s better for them to watch those at home than for their parents to drop them at the movie theater for the afternoon. At least there’s more parental supervision this way.

Not that they get enough of that at my house. 

Sometime after putting the Baby Jesus in the little plastic manger, Maggie disappeared. None of us missed her until a rabbit emerged from the open basement door. Luckily Thurman had just gotten up. He’s working graveyards. He saw Rocky’s ears perk up. The young Labrador had spotted the rabbit. Thurman shouted “Stay!” stopping all of us in our tracks. Including the rabbit. Thurman got the dogs out the back door and Michael caught the wayward bunny.

Rodney plunged down the stairs, his flour-dusted apron flapping around his legs. There were rabbits everywhere. Maggie sat in the middle of my bed petting my wide-eyed cat Cleo with one hand and a full-grown rabbit with the other.

After the boys lifted rabbits into their cages and Rodney latched the cage doors securely, the smoke alarm went off upstairs.

Poor Rodney. Smoke billowed from the oven. He turned the oven off and the exhaust fan on high while I flapped a tea towel at the smoke alarm. I would like to say tranquility was restored but Becca came in from work and Thurman made Maggie tell her mother what she’d done. The tale was told amid great sobs and the child was put in time-out while her brothers and Uncle Rodney made a trip to the Colonel’s for chicken.

After a late dinner, Thurman went to work and the rest of us went to bed. I'd only gotten a couple hours of sleep when Becca woke me to take her to the hospital. So here I am. Waiting on our new baby girl.

Drive safely Christmas Eve. I’ll be thinking of you.

Your friend,

Dee

P.S. Thurman just came out to tell me it’s a boy. We all thought it was a girl. The doctor said the baby was shy and they couldn’t see the hangy-down bit on the ultrasound. He said it happens sometimes. Wonder if they'll put him in those pretty little pink things they got at the baby shower. 

P.P.S. They named him Marvin.

P.P.P.S. If you’re not busy Saturday, we’re having a few friends in for a post-Christmas dinner and you’re welcome to come. Rodney is fixing rabbit.

Dear Santa (3rd of four) -- Flash Fiction

This is Dee's third letter to Santa originally written in 2015

Dear Santa,

It’s me again. Dee. You know, the 53-year-old widow living with her son, pregnant daughter, son-in-law, two grandsons, a granddaughter, two Black Labs, a cat, and umpteen rabbits.

I’m still sleeping in the basement which used to be very nice. Well, it still would be nice if it weren’t for the rabbits. Rodney assures me that the smell will not saturate the walls and flooring. The floors are quarry tile. Marvin, my late husband, chose the flooring because he thought it would withstand just about anything that could happen to it. Though I doubt he considered the possibility of rabbits.

Friday was the last day of school before Christmas break. I must have been mad to volunteer to watch the kids while Becca and Thurman are at work. Becca plans to work until she starts labor. I’m glad they’re expecting another girl. Then they’ll have two boys and two girls.

They’re having trouble scheduling contractors to repair their house. The holidays, and all that.

Maybe you remember that Thurman is a cop. He planned to take care of the children while Becca works, but he works all kinds of hours. Mostly while the children sleep, so he needs to sleep while they’re awake. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage.

I thought Rodney – my son, the one with the rabbits – would help. He quit his job. Said he just didn’t fit in. He doesn’t mind cooking for all of us and he’s good at it. But Saturday morning and all day yesterday with me and the kids and the critters was enough to get him job-hunting.

Not that I’m complaining. I know it’s temporary. Lots of grandparents don’t get to spend time with their grandchildren. Marvin would have loved the full house. Dogs, kids, and all. He was a dear, sweet man, but I don’t know how he would have felt about the rabbits.

Michael – that’s the oldest grandson – he’s almost ten and plays the violin. Luckily most days are nice enough he can practice outside on the deck. I don’t know what the neighbors think. Jerry – the next grand – is eight and has just started the violin which means he’s still playing on a tissue box with a paper towel tube for a neck. Learning to hold it properly, they say. Thank goodness for small mercies.

And Maggie, dear little Maggie. She’s five and very bright. She wants to know everything. But if I hear “Why, Grandma?” one more time, I’m going to lock myself in with the rabbits until New Years.

Cleo, my cat, hasn’t been upstairs since I rescued her from the dogs that first day. Truth be told, Becca rescued both of us. Not that the dogs are bad dogs. No one could expect a dog to overlook being attacked by a hissing, spitting monster.

If the kids slept as much as the dogs do, I’d be more rested. After Maggie’s nap, we went to the park. We had to walk the dogs anyway. I took Buddy. He’s like me. He appreciates peace and quiet. Michael was in charge of his little sister and I figured Jerry could keep up with Rocky. Maybe tire them both out.

At less than a year old Rocky is bigger than most grown dogs. But he’s still a rowdy pup. He tries to mind. You can tell. The way he looks at you knowing he won’t get permission to do whatever it is he longs for.

Our parks are well-used, especially on sunny days. Meredith, who lives two streets over was there with her daughter Meghan and their great lug of a dog named Bruno. Meghan is most likely on your “good child” list. I’m sure Bruno is good, too. He looks like a cross between a St. Bernard and a Great Dane – too much hair and too big.

Louise Fenton was there with her little Dachshund Mac. Louise always looks so nice, full make-up and coiffed, just to walk her dog.

When I stopped to talk to her, I guess Mac thought Buddy was too close to his Mistress and she needed protecting. He screamed and went for Buddy. (I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a dog make a sound like that.)

Buddy and I were shocked. Rocky apparently thought the Dachshund was attacking us – which I fully believed, myself. He came across the playground at a dead run, dragging Jerry behind him. He charged under the swing Maggie was in and tipped her out onto the ground. Jerry lost hold of Rocky’s leash when he crashed into Michael who was trying to catch Maggie.

Poor Buddy pulled back on his leash trying to stay away from Mac. I guess with Rocky bearing down on him, that Dachshund felt the need to run. His leash was around Louise’s ankles when he ran between Bruno’s legs. And then Louise was on the ground with me standing over her holding tight to Buddy’s leash so he wouldn’t join Rocky in the chase.

Bruno pulled free from Meredith and knocked poor little Meghan down. Now, there were two little girls crying. And Jerry was screaming at Rocky.

As big as Bruno is, I doubt that he’d ever felt the need to be fierce. He must have felt threatened or he’d never have attacked Buddy.

There I was hanging on to Buddy’s leash for dear life. Because I wouldn’t let go, Buddy couldn’t get away from Bruno. He had to fight back. But I knew if I let go, I’d have no control of either dog.

You’re never supposed to get in the middle of a dog fight. I knew that, but what could I do? I jerked on Buddy’s leash and pulled him away enough to thrust my hip in Bruno’s face and get between them. The minute I got between them, they stopped fighting.

Forgetting that he wanted to defend Buddy from Mac (the crazed Dachshund) Rocky ran away from the commotion toward the street with Jerry hot after him. Such screeching and honking, you’ve never heard. I can’t imagine what good those idiot drivers thought they’d do honking at a dog and a boy plunging into the street. Luckily, the cars got stopped before they ran down my grandson and his dog.

That Dachshund sat there as calm as could be watching the whole thing. Like none of it had anything to do with him.

Hope your day went better than mine. I think I may have pulled something in my right side.

Tomorrow is bound to be better.

Hopefully yours,

Dee 

Dear Santa (2nd of four) -- Flash Fiction

Here's Dee's second Letter to Santa originally written in 2015.

Dear Santa,

   It’s me again. Dee, the woman from the Thanksgiving Day parade. My son moved home and my daughter’s having a baby, remember? Well, Becca's not having a baby right now, but maybe by the time you get this letter.

Becca and her husband Thurman had a setback. Thurman’s a policeman. Very nice man. Becca’s a loan officer at the credit union. Anyway, their house caught fire. Thank goodness no one was hurt and the house didn’t burn to the ground. But there was extensive smoke and water damage, so it looks like it’ll be after Christmas before they can move back in.

Marvin – you remember my husband that died three years ago on Black Friday? I do miss that man. He had no idea how much we’d need the basement. The kids being grown and gone by the time he got around to it. I just thank goodness he put in the bedrooms and bath. My cat Cleo and I are in the front bedroom down there. Rodney – you remember my son? The one with the rabbits? He’s in the back bedroom.

I let Becca and Thurman have my bedroom upstairs and their two boys have the other upstairs bedroom. Maggie, my five-year-old granddaughter, is sleeping in my sewing room on the futon. That’s upstairs, too. So Becca’s family is all upstairs.

And their two Labradors.

Cleo wasn’t best pleased when the dogs moved in. We had quite a rodeo. They didn’t know much about cats. I guess Cleo decided to indoctrinate them right from the get-go. She bowed up and hissed and spit at Buddy. He’s the old dog. Poor thing. He wasn’t sure how to act, but then she slapped him – claws out – right across the muzzle. He wasn’t having that at all. And the chase was on.

Becca may be pregnant out to here, but she reacted immediately, plunging headlong after Buddy. The younger dog Rocky cowered against Thurman’s legs and tripped him when he tried to help Becca. Their two boys laughed to high heaven and Maggie screamed like she was the one being chased.

I was so shocked, I just stood there watching the cat, the dog, and the pregnant girl. Through the living room into the dining room, then the kitchen and back into the living room. Cleo must have recognized me as some kind of King’s X. Her second time around she ran right up me. Thank goodness Becca grabbed Buddy’s collar before he climbed up me, too.

Cleo’s staying pretty much in the basement now. We have to keep the door closed to the storeroom where the rabbits are. I don’t know if she’d hurt them, but she certainly paid them a lot of attention, so I’d rather be safe than sorry.

You know, even with Rodney changing their litter every day, it’s pretty ripe down there. I asked him what he plans to do with those rabbits. He said he’s not sure.

We don’t really need anything. The insurance gave Becca and Thurman some money to replace some of the necessities. They’d already bought most of their Christmas presents and were hiding them at his mother’s house. So come Christmas Eve, the kids will still have a nice visit from you.

Thurman’s mother has a nice house. They’d have stayed with her, but she’s the nervous sort and they were afraid the three kids would be too much for her.

We went to the thrift store and got a bassinet, some linens, and clothes for the baby when she gets here. It’s a girl, did I tell you? They’re going to name her Sylvia after Thurman's mother. I guess that's okay.

I know you’re busy – and heaven knows I am too – so will sign off for now.

Sincerely,

Dee

Letters to Santa (1st of four) -- Flash Fiction

In 2015 I wrote this series of four letters to Santa -- all flash fiction.

They will be reposted on consecutive days. Enjoy.

Dear Santa,

    I saw you in the Thanksgiving Day parade yesterday. You looked right at me. I was between 14^th and 15^th Streets. In front of the Silver Spoon. You have such kind eyes. 

You probably think I’m too old to be writing to Santa. Maybe I am. But 53 isn’t so very old.

Anyway, my husband Marvin died three years ago today. Ironic isn’t it, him dying on Black Friday.

Rodney’s moved back in. He’s my son. Thirty-two years old. His wife served him with papers last Monday. Pretty cold-hearted to do that Thanksgiving Week, don’t you think? Still, it is nice to have the boy home again. He made the Thanksgiving turkey. The whole dinner, actually – green bean casserole, dressing, stuffed celery. And three pies. Apple, pumpkin, and pecan. Marvin always liked pumpkin. My favorite is strawberry-rhubarb, but never mind.

I thought Jennifer was a nice young woman. She just didn’t appreciate Rodney’s financial ventures. Adventures, more like. Not long after they married, he went in with a friend raising ostriches. You know, the birds. Turns out the people already in the business were selling breeding stock and dreams of wealth. They convinced people that there would be a market for the meat and hides. It never developed and Rodney got stuck with the birds. Those birds will eat anything. One of them knocked my sunglasses off and swallowed them before I could pick them up. I covered the vet bill since it was sort of my fault.

I’m glad the zoo agreed to take them. Abandoning them in the national forest just didn’t seem right.

Then Rodney bought gold when it was at its height. And there was that land in New Mexico. The photos were beautiful. Mountain scenery. But no access and no water. I’m not sure what he intended to do with it.

But the boy’s always worked. It’s not like he spent her money on any of these, shall we say, investments. I think she objected to the way he works, too. He can’t seem to stay with a job very long. He was at that investments counselling place the longest. Good money, but his heart just wasn’t in it.

I don’t think the girl was pleased with him raising rabbits either. He brought the rabbits to my house when he came home – two does and their litters. I’m not sure how many babies there are, but their eyes are open and they’ve got hair. Or is it fur? They are so cute.

I know my Home Owners’ Association probably has some rule against keeping rabbits, but he’s got them in the basement so nobody will ever know. I’m glad Marvin had the foresight to finish that basement.

We do have some good news. My daughter Becca is expecting. A little girl, due in a couple of weeks give or take. You know how that goes. Anyway, hopefully by Christmas. That’ll make four for her.

It's just as well that Rodney and Jennifer didn’t have any children. Under the circumstances.

You may think I’m crazy, but I’m going to mail this. I’m not really expecting any response. I would have written to Marvin, but that seemed wrong somehow, him being dead and all. I just needed someone to talk to.

Very truly yours,

Dee

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood -- A Review

Tom Hanks and the real Mr. Rogers

This is absolutely the best movie I have seen in years. It is beautiful. It is a great relief to know that the real world is not limited to what we see in the news or in too many movies or on television. Like the real Mr. Rogers, this movie helps. 

First of all, let's be clear about this: This is NOT a children's movie. It celebrates imagination. It has music and lyrics, but it is not escapist entertainment. There is violence seen and unseen, but it is not a shock-and-awe noise fest. There is goodness and light, but as with real goodness and light, there is pain and shadow.

It is also not a biopic about Mr. Rogers. That's why Tom Hanks has been nominated for a Golden Globe as Best Supporting Actor. That and the fact that he does a really good job being Mr. Rogers.

Oh dear, oh dear. There is so much I would tell you about this movie. But, it truly is best if you see it for yourself. The writers Micah Fitzerman-Blue and Noah Harpster and director Marielle Heller have given us the great gift of a movie that is innovative, relevant, inspiring. It uses silences, music, thoughtfully slow-speed pacing, and our own memories to move us through anger to hope. Hollywood can make an artistically sound movie.

This is Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. And just like the real Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood you venture into reality through the Neighborhood of Make Believe. Pittsburgh, PA is beautifully portrayed by scale models, as is New York City, and, of course, Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. There's Mr. Rogers' house. Remember it? The little one at the end of the street. Just as it was when you visited it as a child. Or, if you are like me, when you visited it with your child.

The movie begins "Hello, Neighbor." Mr. Rogers introduces us to his neighbor Lloyd Vogel.

This is Lloyd Vogel's story. He is an investigative reporter for Esquire magazine. (Which by-the-bye, you'll get to see how a magazine is made. This is, after all, Mr. Rogers' neighborhood. Remember when he took us to a graham cracker factory and showed us how graham crackers were made. And one time it was crayons. And blue jeans. And even zip-up cardigans like he always wore. But I digress.)

Yes, Lloyd Vogel is well-played by Matthew Rhys. He's a hard-bitten reporter looking for the truth about his subject. The real truth. The sordid underbelly truth. Having grown up in a dysfunctional family (Didn't we all, in our own family's way?) Vogel comes to his perceptions logically.  

But Lloyd Vogel's editor gives him an assignment -- profile Mr. Rogers for a series Esquire is running on American heroes. I would tell you why she chose to assign Mr. Rogers to Lloyd, but better you should discover it in the movie. It does make for some very funny moments as the cynical reporter tries to deal with the real Mr. Rogers. Oh the looks on Lloyd's face!

 And evocative moments when Mr. Rogers speaks to us, individually.

What's new in his life that sets Lloyd Vogel on this path with Mr. Rogers? Besides the work assignment, that is. His father comes back into his life. If that's not enough, Lloyd has a new baby. A new baby to whom Lloyd is giving an equal opportunity to grow up in a dysfunctional family. 

The overarching theme of the movie is Forgiveness, perhaps one of the hardest feelings to achieve. And feelings were what Mr. Rogers' life's work was spent helping us learn to deal with.

Feel free to sing along!

     "What do you do with the mad that you feel
     When you feel so mad you could bite?
     When the whole wide world seems oh, so wrong...
     And nothing you do seems very right?"

Or

     "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

     A beautiful day for a neighbor
     Would you be mine?
     Could you be mine?
     Won't you be my neighbor?"

Mr. Rogers, we love you, just the way you were.

Leadership: An Essay

Our World, Our Home

There are some books worth reading more than once. At least they're worth it to me. One is Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series. I know, I know. I've mentioned it before. It's a fourteen volume fantasy series, the volumes ranging from 681 pages to 912 pages with so many named characters and so many invented terms that each is followed by an extensive appendix of names and terms. It's not everyone's cup of tea.

Here is basically what it is. It is an epic telling a Good vs. Evil story. It has heroes, both male and female. It has villains, both male and female. It is a world of discrete nations and many distinct and identifiable cultures with their various concepts of honor and appropriate behavior. This world and the Wheel of Time were established by the Creator. The world and the Wheel of Time were endangered by The Dark One once before. He was defeated and imprisoned by a previous Dragon. Now in this new age, The Dark one is breaking out of his prison and again threatening the world and the Wheel of Time. The Wheel of Time has spun out a new hero, The Dragon Reborn. He must bring the disparate factions of the world together to meet The Dark One and his forces of evil at Tarmon Gai'don, the final battle. If the good guys lose it will mean the end of the world and the end of the Wheel of Time. The ultimate end of all.

There are small slices and great swaths of wisdom throughout the books. Wisdom that easily applies to our world and the age we live in.

The White Tower is an institution of powerful women led by their Amyrlin Seat. During the course of the story, it is taken over by a tyrannical Amyrlin and is divided. The rebel faction chooses their own Amyrlin, Egwene al'Vere. Her story arc rises to its climax in Book 12,  The Gathering Storm.

Egwene unites the White Tower and is raised Amyrlin Seat of the unified Tower. As Amyrlin she chastises the loyalist members of the Hall of the Tower.

     "You are a disgrace. The White Tower--the pride of the Light, the power for stability and
       truth since the Age of Legends--has nearly been shattered because of you," she says.

Egwene continues,
     "Elaida [the former Amyrlin] was a madwoman, and you all know it! You knew it
       these last few months as she worked unwittingly to destroy us. Light many of you
       probably knew it when you raised her in the first place!

    "There have been foolish Amyrlins before, but none have come as close to tearing down
      the entire Tower! You are a check upon the Amyrlin. You are to keep her from doing
      things like this!

     "You dare call yourself the Hall of the Tower? [the Aes Sedai's legislative body]  You
       who were cowed? You who were too frightened to do what was needed? You who
       were too caught up in your own squabbles and politicking to see what was needed?"

In the United States, we too, have a government that depends on its constitutional checks and balances to assure good leadership. Our leaders do not rule, they must "Lead by presence instead of force, uniting instead of dividing." -- Siuan Sanche Sedai, supporter of Egwene Sedai, Amyrlin Seat.

Our Congress has the same responsibilities as the Hall of the Tower. And we, as citizens, are responsible to hold our representatives to account.

A Day in Court -- Nonfiction

Jefferson County Courthouse

The courthouse is rather impressive, doncha think. You can see why the locals call it the Taj Mahal.

As you may recall from a post back in March Luck of the Draw, I was summoned to serve as a juror in our local County Court. As it turned out, I called the court as ordered and my number was well within the range stated by the recorded message. Lucky me.

The summons required that we be there by 8 a.m. explaining that the courthouse opens at 7:30.

They warned that parking would be limited due to ongoing repair work and recommended that we take public transportation -- a welcome excuse to ride the light rail. Checking the light rail's schedule online. I planned leave home at 6:45 to be at the station by 7 then catch the train at 7:15 and arrive at the courthouse by 7:24. So about 40 minutes. The courthouse is maybe 20 minutes from my house, if I drove. But this was to be an adventure. I wanted nothing so mundane as driving my car when I could take the light rail.

Having been retired for a number of years I'd gotten used to not wearing business attire and makeup which means I'd forgotten how long it takes to "get ready" to go. I thought I'd gotten up in plenty of time.

After worrying about what to wear, I'd settled on black pants and a teal, long-sleeved shirt. Dark enough to be serious, but not severe. And my Washington, D.C. shoes.

I bought those shoes almost six years ago to wear on a vacation trip to D.C. I wanted them to wear when I visited some of the churches. They're black sandals made by New Balance so they're intended for walking and D.C. is definitely a walking town. In addition to NOT being sneakers, they're almost closed-toed, so they meet my standard for "respectful." Long story short -- I forgot to take them on that vacation.

Well, I ran out of time to get ready, so my husband kindly put my breakfast in a plastic container. I put my mascara and lipstick in my purse and off I went. The sun was just coming up while I waited for the train. It was a beautiful morning, clear and cold.

At the courthouse, there were hundreds of people in line waiting to get into the jury gathering room. Hundreds! All with their summons in one hand and various bags and books and the necessaries we arm ourselves with for planned days of waiting. The people were all ages, all ethnicities, and many different levels of physical fitness including a man with a walker and on oxygen.


I needn't have worried about what I was wearing. Or makeup. There were people dressed to the nines -- men in suits, women in dresses and heels and professionally coiffed. There were men and women in jeans and t-shirts or sweatshirts. Footwear ran the gamut from shiny dress shoes to sneakers to well-worn work boots.




No flip flops, but even being March in Colorado with patches of snow left from the last storm, there could have been. Coloradans are a hardy lot. (This was the view looking toward the foothills from the courthouse that day.)

                                                                              

The people around me knew as little about what we were doing as I did. We didn't know what kinds of trials were held in this court. Or how many were on the docket for this jury pool. Or what kind of food would be available in the cafeteria. (I was just relieved to hear there was a cafeteria in the courthouse.) But we all agreed we probably had little chance of being chosen for a jury.

As we filed into the gathering room, we turned in the portion of the summons which we had completed with our names, addresses, if we had family in law-enforcement, if we had ever served on a jury, and if we ourselves had ever been involved in a court case.

There, they explained how it all works. They use three-person juries for civil cases, six-person juries for more complex civil cases and some criminal cases, and twelve-person juries for more serious criminal cases.

We would be called by name and follow a bailiff  to our assigned courtroom. If we were then NOT chosen for the jury, we would be told whether to return to the gathering room or we would be released and could go home. Whether or not we were chosen for a jury, this would meet our responsibility for jury service for this calendar year.

My name was called next to last of the first 20. Then in the courtroom I was in the first group of twelve to be installed in the jury box. Six of us would be impaneled. If they decided not to keep six from this initial twelve, they'd call up more from our original 20.

They explained that this would be a criminal case which gave me pause. The prosecution and the defense, each then described to us various scenarios involving whether or not we thought we could tell if someone was drunk or under the influence of drugs by their behavior or speech

My husband had said "they don't want smart people on the jury." I pooh-poohed that. But maybe he right. The first to be excused was a high school science teacher. Then a woman who said she had an in-law who drank too much and she could tell when he was drunk. Then a nineteen-year-old who said he'd been arrested for Driving Under the Influence and he didn't think he'd been treated fairly by the court.

Then there was a member of the ski patrol. Being from Oklahoma, the ski patrol seemed quite exotic. They provide medical and rescue services to injured skiers. He had some kind of medical certification. He explained that it was necessary to determine if alcohol or other drugs were involved before providing emergency medical care to an injured skier. He was excused.

It became clear pretty early on that whatever the case was, it involved alcohol or other drugs. I was one of the chosen to serve -- three women and three men. At 71, I was the oldest and the only retiree.

The youngest was a 21-year-old woman who worked at a department store and had the most amazing fingernails. Quite long and each had sparkly bits and ornaments. Beautiful, but how in the world could she put lotion in all those nooks and crannies in her ears. Colorado is so dry, ears get crusty without moisturizer.

The rest were a mix of business people.

Our case was Driving Under the Influence. The defendant had refused the proffered blood test and relinquished his driver's license for a year. They had not offered him a breathalyzer test. The prosecution's only witness was the arresting officer. The officer's descriptions of what had happened and where seemed unlikely, given that it was rush hour and we jurors were very familiar with that stretch of I-70. There's no way the officer could have seen the traffic pattern he described from where he was getting on the highway. The defendant's explanation of what happened and his witness's testimony were much more reasonable. I don't know why the prosecution had pursued the case.









Not guilty. Case closed. Back to the light rail. That's Green Mountain behind the light rail station and my house is just on the other side of the mountain.

November 22, 1963 -- a birthday remembered

It was Friday, November 22, 1963. My 16th birthday. 

After school, Daddy was going to take me from Edmond into Oklahoma City to pick up my best friend Vicky. I was three months into my first year in high school, the first time in six years that Vicky and I had not lived across the creek from each other and been in the same classes at the same schools.

We had been best friends since my family moved to Oklahoma City from my parents' very small hometown about thirty miles away. Of course that was a long time ago so thirty miles took an hour by car -- no Interstate Highways. It was a long way in other ways, too. No cell phones. In fact, telephone calls between towns were long distance and expensive. No internet for nearly instantaneous communication. Snail mail, which we called mail, usually took three days from that small town to The City.

I came to Valley Brook Elementary School as a member in good standing of the Baby Boomer Generation which meant there were too many of us kids and not enough teachers. So five of us Fifth Graders were chosen to move up to the Sixth Grade classroom -- three boys and two girls. Being the new kid, I didn't know anyone yet. Neither class knew me from Adam Allfox. It didn't help that the regular Fifth Graders wouldn't have anything to do with us because we were too smart or something. The Sixth Graders wouldn't have anything to do with us for what to them was a much more obvious reason, we were "too immature." So we five were pretty much on our own socially. Vicky and I were the two girls. Plus, Vicky was really nice and she could do the splits and cartwheels! Instant best friends.

By the time we moved up to Junior High School, the Oklahoma City schools were adhering to President Kennedy's program to turn out more scientists. The Cold War had taken on Space Race attributes following the Soviet Union's successful launch of Sputnik. Consequently, we were all tested and those who tested well in math and science were put on accelerated educational tracks.

When we moved to Edmond, their schools were not putting students in advanced classes. I again needed to make new friends. But because I'd already had the normal math and science classes for Tenth Graders, I was put into classes with upperclassmen. Add to that, I had pierced ears and all my hems were well above the knee. Neither fashion had yet arrived at Edmond High School.

After lunch that Friday, November 22nd, when I came into my English Class, a particularly aggressive classmate who regularly made fun of me told me, "Someone shot Kennedy."

I thought he was just being mean, but the principal came on the intercom and announced that President Kennedy had been shot in Dallas and was in the hospital. Then in Physical Education Class an announcement came over the intercom that a priest had been called in. I knew it was for Last Rites. They thought he was dying.

Vicky's father, a Master Sergeant in the Air Force, was based at Tinker Air Force Base, a few miles from where we'd lived in Oklahoma City. He'd flown missions during the Berlin Air Lift over Soviet controlled ground. We knew that what he was doing was very dangerous. We also knew what number Tinker was on the Soviet's missile target list.

We'd held our breath during the face-off between President Kennedy and Premier Khrushchev over missiles in Cuba. Plans were made about how to get back with our families if "something" happened while we were at school and they were at work or home.

Magazines at the grocery store check-out had recipes for Jello salads and blue prints for backyard bomb shelters. Official bomb shelters were marked by yellow and black signs on doorways into school basements and government office building basements. They were stocked with big olive drab cans of water and nonperishable food.

The Cold War and its attendant threat of becoming hot was a daily reality. But no shots had yet been fired on American soil.

In 1963 TV shows were not commonly interrupted by news stories and the term "Breaking News" was not used. On the afternoon of November 22, 1963, Walter Cronkite interrupted the soap opera As the World Turns with the news of President Kennedy's assassination.
Click here to watch https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=walter+cronkite+jfk

That Friday no one knew who killed President Kennedy. Then when they did identify the killer, we still didn't know why. As if that were not horrendous enough, the murderer was killed two days later, live on TV. Had the killer and his killer been the opening salvo of World War III?

Pearl Harbor ended my parents' generation's Age of Innocence. My generation's tenuous hold on innocence was destroyed by two murders in Dallas.

Vicky spent the weekend with us. We had cake and went to the movies. I don't remember what kind of cake or what the movie was. Our world had changed. Cake and movies were not important.

N. Scott Momaday, The Bear -- A Review of Beauty

N. Scott Momaday: Words from a Bear

Sometimes something absolutely beautiful comes on TV when you most need to see it. Last night PBS's American Masters series was N. Scott Momaday: Words From a Bear. You can stream it online at https://www.pbs.org/video/n-scott-momaday-word-from-a-bear-odljy7/. If you do, please watch it on the largest screen you have available. The views of Scott's world are the American West and his imagination. 

Momaday is Kiowa. He was born in Oklahoma's red earth country and raised in the red rock canyons of Arizona and the Jemez Pueblo in mesa country of New Mexico.  Momaday grew up immersed in his father’s Kiowa traditions and those of the Navajo, Apache, and Pueblo. His was a world of vast spaces and timelessness.

PBS describes Scott as a "Pulitzer Prize-winning author and poet, best known for House Made of Dawn and a formative voice of the Native American Renaissance in art and literature." (You can read my review of the book at https://bit.ly/37kI3UM.)

House Made of Dawn was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for fiction fifty years ago and I had the great good fortune of meeting him almost that long ago.

I was a single mom working full time and taking night classes at Central State University in Edmond, Oklahoma. I took two and, some semesters, three classes to meet a degree requirement. But always one night a week I spent a bit of time outside my daily pressure cooker life -- in Dr. Norman Russell's poetry class. He very kindly arranged for me to continue taking his class after I took it that first semester, changing its title and number to side-step academia's practical order.

In his class we talked poetry. We read poetry. We shared the poetry we had written during the week. We discussed and argued, though always civilly, what made poetry speak to us. Rhymed, free verse, traditional, experimental. How to say what we meant to say. Which words were strong enough to touch our reader, strong enough to touch the universe. The universe both inside and outside of ourselves.

Dr. Russell was an eminent scientist in the world of botany. His day job was teaching science classes to college students. Don't get me wrong. He enjoyed teaching. He loved botany. And he loved our night class of would-be poets. We were not all working toward a degree. We were a mix of generations and professions and life experiences and goals.

He was a Native American, a Cherokee. And, most-importantly to me, Dr. Russell was a poet. A kind and generous poet. Red Shuttleworth (a much awarded Western Poet in his own right) said of Dr. Russell in a 2011 tribute, "Norman H. Russell bushwhacked a trail for many Native American poets.  He was the first Indian to publish poetry widely."

Sometimes Dr. Russell had a poet friend come and read to us. One of those poet friends was N. Scott Momaday. I doubt Momaday remembers me at all, but I remember him. I remember him as a big guy with a wonderful reading voice. I don't think I realized that he was famous. That wasn't important anyway. I just liked that he talked poetry to us as one of us.

Now I'm really glad he was famous, because that got us this beautiful film, N. Scott Momaday: Words From a Bear. This film gives us Momaday's world in his own voice. 

Again, here's the link https://www.pbs.org/video/n-scott-momaday-word-from-a-bear-odljy7/ 

Enjoy.

On Courage -- An Essay

Lady Liberty is a symbol of many things to many people. For me she is the symbol of the best promises of the people of the United States as codified in our Constitution. Promises we have not yet completely achieved, but promises nonetheless. Promises of welcome. Of safety. Of power. Of freedom. Each of these, to me, requires great courage.

Welcome -- It takes courage to open our door to people we don't yet know. It takes courage to trust that the door will be open to those who leave the lands and families and neighbors they do know.

Safety -- It takes courage to build a government that will protect the lives and liberties of ALL the people here now and who will be here in the years to come.

Power -- This may take the most courage of all. The courage to use our power to care for ourselves, our families, our neighbors. The courage to exercise our power against those who would limit it to any of us. Those of us who have not historically had power must have the courage to stand up and demand the power we should have. And we must all always have the courage to accept the responsibility that goes with power.

Freedom -- Maybe this doesn't require courage so much as it requires honesty. We have to be honest with ourselves about the consequences of what we think, say, and do. Are we willing to allow our own treasured freedoms to the other people in our country, in our world? Are we honest about our goals, our methods to reach those goals, and whether or not those goals will be for good purpose? Greed and ambition cannot be allowed to corrupt that good purpose.

The promises of Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness for all, as stated in our Declaration of Independence and codified in our Constitution, have not yet been realized. But we must continue to work toward keeping and protecting those promises.

This is a dangerous time in the United States. We have people at the top of our government who do not believe in these promises. They measure our republic's value by how much money and power they can take for themselves. True courage cannot exist when motivated by greed and ambition.

The current witnesses in the Impeachment Hearings are courageous. They know what they risk by testifying. And I'm not talking about just their positions as long-time government employees or the inevitable avalanche of hate mail and email. Their lives are literally at risk. There are plenty of damaged people out there who will see themselves as heroes serving "their leader" by killing these witnesses.

Trump's inflammatory speech and behavior not only endanger the witnesses against him, but the people who defend him. There are damaged people out there on the other side of the political spectrum who will see themselves as heroes by killing Trump and/or his defenders.

Many of the people who would be caught in that crossfire are government employees protecting Trump and his allies, not because they necessarily agree with them but because it is their job. Or it could be someone who shares opinions in the coffee shop or has bumper stickers or cuts someone off in traffic.

In times like this when there is so much dissension, there are those who will irrationally lash out against anyone for any reason or no reason at all.

The constitutionally mandated impeachment process must go forward. Thoughts and prayers alone will not protect our nation or our people. We must all have the courage to support our Congressional members whether we agree with them or not.

So, if we hear or see something threatening, we must have the courage to say something. Even if we are many miles away from Washington, D.C., and many degrees of separation away from any political side. And even if the people being threatened have no direct say in what's happening in D.C.

The Importance of Books in My Life in Real Time

Marie Yovanovitch being sworn November 15, 2019

I finished reading Educated by Tara Westover very early Wednesday, November 13 after having stayed up way too late the night before reading it. Reading threw me behind in my preparations for a party I was having Wednesday afternoon. What kind of person reads instead of doing what they're supposed to be doing? To quote from the play Camelot, C'est moi!

Educated (which, by-the-bye, is an excellent book) was one of the books I read taking a break from rereading the eleventh book in Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series. I'd also reread Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse 5 for the Introduction to Literature class that my daughter is teaching.

The party was over and I was tired. The problem being, I needed to find another book to read. I took How Language Began to bed with me that night. It is a good book, too. Nonfiction. An academic study of the evolution of human language. I read it off and on Thursday, then took it to bed with me again last night.

But today, it would not do. I have the Impeachment Hearings running on TV. An academic study of linguistics just does not give me the escape I need to make it through this testimony.

I've lived through some pretty frightening times -- President Kennedy's murder, the horrible things that happened during the Civil Rights Movement, the Vietnam War, Nixon's Impeachment Hearings, the Oklahoma City Bombing, 9-11, the Iraq War, the Afghanistan War, Trump's campaign rhetoric (which continues to this day), and his presidency. These are but the highlights of low times as I see them. Too much of these on TV in real time. Again it is scary, because of the possibility of someone or several someones to decide to take matters in their own hands. And it would all be live on TV.

Books can take me away from all this.

The Wheel of Time series is my blankie. It is fourteen volumes of escapism. WOT takes me to a world described with a fullness and consistency that I do not find in our real world. It's many characters are heroic, though flawed or they're mighty and villainous. Good guys and bad guys. And we know from the getgo which is which.

Anyway, the obvious goto would be to read the next WOT book -- Book Twelve, The Gathering Storm by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson. I couldn't find my copy of it. It's bound to be somewhere in this house. The bookshelves in the basement, the stacks of books in my office, in the bedroom, in the living room. Somewhere. But ....

So I bought Book Twelve and downloaded it to my tablet.

In Brandon Sanderson's Foreword to the book, he writes "In November 2007, I received a phone call that would change my life forever. Harriet McDougal ... called and asked me if I would complete the last book of The Wheel of Time." He goes on to recall his experience on September 16, 2007.

I remember my own experience of September 16, 2007.

I was driving home with my not-quite 18-year-old daughter. We were running at 65 miles per hour north on I-35 from Oklahoma City. The radio was tuned to National Public Radio's evening news program All Things Considered. The route, the speed, the radio program were all perfectly normal and unremarkable. 

Suddenly my daughter started screaming and beating the dashboard. Understandably alarmed, I pulled to the side of the road to find out what happened. She was crying and repeating "He died." Not tears of sorrow, but more of fury.

"Who?"

"Robert Jordan! He died! He hasn't finished! He hasn't finished!"

Yep, Robert Jordan died September 16, 2007, after publication of the first eleven books of his Wheel of Time books. But the epic story was not finished. Characters were left in terrible straits. The nations of the world were divided and at war with each other. The ultimate bad guy was about to break free from his prison. And the final battle would require that all peoples fight together or the Wheel of Time could be irrevocably broken. It would be the ultimate end of times.

I didn't recall ever having heard of Robert Jordan or his epic fantasy.

My son, being ever the pragmatist, had not started reading J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter series until the final installment was safely published. Jordan's dying seemed reason enough for me not to ever start WOT.

Jordan was diagnosed with a terminal heart disease in December 2005. He had made preparations in case he died -- extensive notes "... so if the worst actually happens, someone could finish A Memory of Light and have it end the way I want it to end."

With Brandon Sanderson on board to finish the twelfth book, I decided to give the series a try. That final book turned out to be three books and I must say Sanderson did a superb job. So, yes, I am working my way through the fourteen book series for the fourth time.

And I am surviving the chaos of our real times for the umpteenth time. So far.

The Luck of the Draw -- Nonfiction

Three or four times a year, I buy a Powerball ticket. Just one. And I don't pay the extra dollar for the "Multiplier." I figure if my ticket is the right ticket, $448 Million, or whatever, is sufficient. No need to be greedy.

Back in February I got that official looking bit of mail. The highlighted words "LEGAL DOCUMENT: JURY SUMMONS" was what made it look official. There's nothing like correspondence from the IRS or a summons to court to make a person nervous.

I've been in Colorado for seven years now and this is my first call to jury duty.

In Colorado, prospective jurors are randomly chosen from a pool that includes voter records, driver's license and non-driver ID records, and state income tax forms. I guess if you don't vote, drive, or pay income tax, you don't have to serve. I, personally, don't know anyone over 18 who would not qualify to get such a summons. Amazingly, some people never get called.

It's the luck of the draw.

Most people's experiences of courtroom activities are limited to television cop shows. I suppose, in a way, I'm more experienced with real life courtrooms than most of my fellow citizens. Many years ago I was a reporter for a small-town newspaper. I did feature stories, obituaries, edited the Women's Page, some photography. I did pretty much whatever my editor wanted me to, including covering the Federal and District Courts.

It was a pretty small town -- but big enough to have a daily newspaper, three banks, a McDonald's, and a Walmart. And, being the county seat, meant it was home to the Federal Court and County Court Houses. Plus, since it was in Oklahoma there were umpteen gas stations and churches.

I covered all kinds of trials -- fraud, breaking and entering, rape, murder -- but the one that got my by-line on the front page and most excited my editor was an Alienation of Affection suit. What! you say. One woman was suing another woman for stealing her man?

Yep, the local Presbyterian minister's wife was suing the local Episcopal priest's wife for stealing her husband. Apparently the affair had been grist for the local rumor mill for weeks, but without something formal and official, the local newspaper couldn't print it. Oh, yes and the offending woman was the daughter of one of the local bankers. Such scandal!

But, I digress.

The above jury summons came with instructions and information. Call this telephone number. "If your number is within the range of numbers stated,  you will need to report for jury duty." There's a long list of conditions and situations the court will accept to excuse you from service.

There are also provisions for punishment if you fail to obey a juror summons. Up to $750 and/or imprisonment for up to six months.

I have no condition or situation that I can legitimately claim for exemption from jury duty. Actually, I don't necessarily want to be excused. I feel that, like voting, jury duty is a civic responsibility to be accepted respectfully and done diligently.

So the Powerball drawing was last Wednesday. Of the six numbers necessary to win so many millions of dollars, I only had one number right. Then Friday I called the courthouse to check my number with the range of numbers and -- guess what -- I only had one number for that too, but it was easily "within the range of numbers stated." Yep, I win.

Now to stress.

The summons said they're doing repair work on the parking area so parking will be limited and they recommend taking public transportation. Cool. I love the light rail. My husband and I drove over to the courthouse yesterday while it was closed to see how close the light rail station is to the courthouse's front door. It's an easy block and a half or so. And if it rains I have an umbrella.

What should I wear? I've given up wearing make-up in favor of painting my hair. A splash of pink to go with a pink t-shirt. Or a rainbow of colors to go with my John Lennon t-shirt. Green for St. Pat's Day. You know.

My husband says anything that won't offend the judge. So, maybe painted hair is out and, as for clothing, sad to say, I don't think I own anything that would offend a judge. Still, should I wear pants or a dress? A blazer with the pants or maybe a sweater? Floral or paisley for the dress or black? And shoes! Probably shouldn't wear sneakers -- even though I'll be walking that block and a half from the light rail station -- or flip-flops.

What about food? We're supposed to plan on being there from 8 til 5. Is there a snack bar that sells food in the courthouse? I don't know. I've only been in the courthouse twice and neither time was I concerned for food. Or coffee! Will they have coffee available?

I don't know what kinds of cases they try in the court I've been summoned to. I know I can't serve on a capital case, because I do not support the death penalty and could not vote to convict if that were a possible sentence. Anything else, I could do.

You know what else I don't know? Out of all the people summoned to serve I don't even know if I'll  be chosen for a trial. Guess I'll find out tomorrow.

If I'm not chosen, that'll be okay. If I am, that'll be okay, too.

Luck of the draw.

My 2018 in Books

Nebula NGC 6302

This beautiful photo by the Hubble Space Telescope is of a nebula sometimes called the Butterfly Nebula. This vision from 3,800 light years away. From so far away and so long ago. These cosmic wings are the perfect metaphor for the flight of 2018.

I'm a writer and many years can be measured in what I've written. But not last year. I have not been writing like I have in years past. 2018's flight must be measured in the books I read.

Not all the books I read in 2018. I can't remember them all. And I didn't make notes -- which I should have done, because at my stage in life I've read so many and forgotten so many that sometimes I realize two chapters in that I DID read that one and I don't have time to read it again when there are so many out there that I haven't read once.

Sometimes I do remember that I've read them before, but I wonder if I would still think they are as good as I thought the first time through. This year I reread John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany. For years I've said it's my favorite book ever. I read it again, because I recommended it to a friend and she didn't like it. I still like it, though maybe it's not my all-time favorite anymore.


In June I went to Washington, D.C. for a History Vacation with my son and his two sons. Thinking I would read to them in the evening after full days of exploring the city and the histories it tells, I took Tuck Everlasting. I hadn't read the children's book by Natalie Babbitt published in 1975, the year after my son's birth. So I read it before we went to D.C. and took it with me but never opened it again while we were there. The book's premise is that immortality isn't a wonderful thing at all. "You don't have to live forever, you just have to live.” Our days were too full of living.

While in D.C., as my souvenir, I bought The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson. It's nonfiction -- a history of three families who went north during the Great Migration and the Second Great Migration. It was the time when African Americans moved in great numbers out of the Southern United States into the Midwest, Northeast and West, a period of time from about World War I until after World War II. Being white and having grown up in the South, I knew nothing about the Great Migration. Like a lot of African American people in the South, I always thought of the North as being sort of a promised land, where people were treated equally and fairly regardless of their color. Boy, did I have my eyes opened.

As it turns out, The Warmth of Other Suns was good preparation for Michelle Obama's Becoming, my first book in 2019. ( For my review of  Becoming Click here.) Her grandparents had come North in the Great Migration.

A retired librarian friend of mine (Everyone who loves reading should have librarian friends!) introduced me to Elizabeth George's Inspector Lynley mysteries. Mysteries are my goto for fiction and, of course, I'd seen the TV productions on PBS's Masterpiece Mystery. But I gotta tell you, Sergeant Barbara Havers is even better in the books than she is in the TV series.

There were other nonfiction books -- I wouldn't go a whole year without David McCullough. 2018 was the year of "The Great Bridge." I know, I know -- it was published in 1972, but I didn't run into it until last year. It's the story of the building of The Brooklyn Bridge, the very one that still carries six lanes of traffic across the East River from Manhattan to Brooklyn. Before the bridge was built, crossing the river depended on ferries.

McCullough's book follows the bridge's building from the suspension-bridge-builder John Augustus Roebling's efforts to sell the concept of bridging the East River and the start of construction in 1869  just four years after the end of the Civil War, to its completion in 1883. With a main span of 1,595.5 feet (486.3 m) and a height of 276.5 ft (84.3 m) above mean high water, it was the world's first steel-wire suspension bridge. It originally carried horse-drawn vehicles and elevated railway lines. This is an epic story about the problems they encountered and solved -- steel cables long enough and strong enough, laborers afflicted with the bends, political conflicts between the then separate cities of Brooklyn and Manhattan (New York City), and the ever present problems of financing any public project of any size faces.

It was a good year for nonfiction. September found me at the Jaipur Literature Festival in Boulder. JLF, a wealth of writers of every form, from all over the world -- an editor of the Oxford English Dictionary, a Nobel nominee playwright, poets, novelists, journalists, historians, and much more. And they sell books. "Oh, no, don't throw me into that briar patch!"

I met Wade Davis, Explorer in Residence at the National Geographic Society. I bought his River Notes: A Natural and Human History of the Colorado and read it. Since I've moved to Colorado, I've become hyperaware of the importance of water in the Western United States, the Colorado being the major source of water for seven southwestern states so it was perfect. It's very well-done, as dense with information and as engaging as are his lectures.

Astrophysicist Priyamvada Natarajan, Yale professor of astronomy and physics was there. She writes science so people like me can understand. Her Mapping the Heavens follows astronomy/cosmology from myth to string theory. Brilliant!

And then ... I went to Houston in October and heard Barbara Kingsolver read.  So of course I bought two more of her books, her most recent Unsheltered for a friend and Flight Behavior from 2012 for myself.

Flight Behavior takes on Climate Change and personal growth. Her main character Dellarobia Turnbow is an intelligent young mother, trapped in her own lack of education and her too early marriage to the wrong man. Climate Change has brought migrating monarch butterflies to her wrong valley in Tennessee instead of their right valley in Mexico. Change is inevitable.

Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible may be my favorite novel now. I read it back in 2014. Check out my review of it.

I ended 2018 with another John Irving novel, Avenue of Mysteries. Irving writes books for writers. His main characters are often writers who think about things writers think about. In Avenue of Mysteries, the main character Juan Diego gives good advice to writers -- "Characters in novels are more understandable, more consistent, more predictable. No good novel is a mess; many so-called real lives are messy."

Certainly not an exhaustive list of the books I read in 2018, but these are the ones that I particularly remember. I hope your 2018 in books was as enjoyable as was my own.