Dear Santa -- 3rd of 4

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If you missed Dee's first letter click Dear Santa No. 1 or her second one click Dear Santa No. 2.

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 dogs, 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. Well, 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 her 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 and Jerry crying.

   As big as Bruno is, I doubt that he’d ever felt the need to be fierce. He must have felt threatened then 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. Such screeching and honking, you’ve never heard. What good those idiot drivers thought they’d do honking at a dog and a boy, I can’t imagine.

   Mac the 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 

For the final Dear Santa letter in this series click here.

Dear Santa -- 2nd of 4

Image from rackandshelf.com

If you have not read Dee's first letter to Santa click Dear Santa No. 1

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.

   My daughter, 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 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. Those 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 his mother.

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

Sincerely,

Dee

for Dee's next letter to Santa click here.

The Theory of Everything -- A Review

   Last night I saw “Theory of Everything,” the biopic about Stephen Hawking. I have been a big fan of Hawking ever since . . . actually I can’t remember exactly. He was doing some kind of lecture on PBS many years ago. I’ve been interested in all things Space since I was in the Fourth Grade, so he and his work fit right in with my interests.

   I read A Brief History of Time then On the Shoulders of Giants, and A Briefer History of Time. His books are eminently readable and understandable. More important to me is his humor which shines through in all three of these works. And in his public appearances.

   The movie is wonderful. Not maudlin or cloying. Nor treacly, if there is such a word and Microsoft Word accepts it so I won’t look it up in a real hard copy dictionary. My daughter cried, but I did not. Which is something, because I’m rather famous for my tears in sad movies. This is NOT a sad movie.

And I have followed Hawking for so long that his physical limitations seem quite beside the point. The point is that he is brilliant, he lives his life on his own terms, and, thanks to modern technology, he is able to share his wit and ideas with the world.

   The movie not only resists the urge to play on our sympathies, but it does not downplay his atheism or the unconventional relationships with the people in his life. Or theirs with each other.

   And I love the way it plays his unrestrained and sometimes reckless physical activities. It reminds me of a couple of guys I used to work with many years ago.

   One was someone whom I considered to be old. He was in his forties while I was under 21. I don’t know how long he’d been in a wheel chair. Nor do I know why he couldn’t walk. Again it seemed quite beside the point. He had two children and he would take them to the “internationally famous Oklahoma City Zoo.” On their way they’d stop at a local grocery and get lettuce leaves that the produce guy trimmed away before putting the heads out for sale. At the zoo, the sidewalk along the west side of the old elephant enclosure ran fairly steeply downhill. He’d throw a handful of lettuce over the fence to the elephants. Then, with his younger daughter in his lap, he’d race the elephants to the bottom of the hill where he’d throw them more lettuce. His wife would push him back up the hill and they’d do it all over again.

   The other guy I worked with who was also in a wheelchair was my age, so naturally we had a lot more in common. One day he came in to work with his arm in a cast and sling. What happened? He and one of his buddies who used a wheelchair were racing on the front porch at his house and he fell off. So, in my experience, a rowdy guy in a wheelchair ain’t unusual. And I loved that the movie portrays Hawking that way.

   Eddie Redmayne plays Hawking in the film. He’s superb. It’s his smile. And the twinkle in his eyes. I mean they work it so he looks very like Hawking. But it’s the expressions. The nonverbal responses to his world. You don’t have to guess what he's feeling having been told he has only two years to live when he's just beginning his life as an adult. What he feels being in love, having babies. Facing the loss of his ability to communicate those grand ideas in his head. Transferring his dependence on his wife to his nurse. Letting his wife go. Getting to meet the queen. The wonder of the universe.

   And there’s no chewing the scenery, wailing, or moaning. Such melodrama has no place here.

   What did I learn about him that I did not already know? That he turned down a knighthood. Gosh, and he could have been right up there with Sir Elton, Sir Paul, and Sir Mick.

Here's a cool picture

NASA image -- Stephen Hawking in Zero Gravity flight

Cities of the Plain -- A Review

Image from  thisismoney.co.uk

   Cormac McCarthy writes like I would like to write. Spare and strong. And this from the person who always says she doesn’t like Hemingway. By-the-bye, I do like Hemingway’s short fiction. And I can’t read McCarthy one after the other without the respite of other books. Even if you know nothing about the books before you start them, you soon get a sense of the despair and desolation that reviewers talk about. The sense that these people and their way of life are passing away.

   The first book of McCarthy’s Border Trilogy is All the Pretty Horses which introduces us to 16-year-old John Grady Cole who’s lost his grandfather and the ranch home he’s grown up on. It begins in 1949. Rather than move into town he crosses the border into Mexico and comes of age.

   In The Crossing we meet Billy Parham, the son of a rancher, at the beginning of and during World War II. Again we have a young man losing his family and his way of life. He can’t even get into the military and go off to war, the standard border between the way life was and the way it will be for most Americans during that time.

   In Cities of the Plain we’ve come to the last of the three books. Here John Grady and Billy are working on Mac McGovern’s ranch in the early 1950’s. A ranch destined to be bought by the government.

   McCarthy’s Border Trilogy is magnificent just as is the country where it takes place. Great distances filled with sky and earth, hot or cold sunshine and vast night. There aren’t that many people and the people who are there are as spare and hard as the country, as are their language and their relationships.

   This is a conversation between John Grady and Mac McGovern, the rancher he works for.

   John Grady listened to him going down the hall to his room. When he came back he sat down and placed a gold ring on the table.

   That’s been in my dresser drawer for three years. It aint doin nobody any good there and it never will. We talked about everthing and we talked about that ring. She didnt want it put in the ground. I want you to take it.

   Sir I dont think I can do that.

   Yes you can. I’ve already thought of everthing you could possibly say on the subject so rather than go over it item by item let’s just save the aggravation and you put it in your pocket and come Tuesday you put it on that girl’s finger.

   McCarthy is a poet when he describes this country.

The stars in flood above her. The lower edges of the firmament sawed out into the black shapes of the mountains and the lights of the cities burning on the plain like stars pooled in a lake. She sang to herself softly as she went a song from long ago. The dawn was two hours away. The town one.

   McCarthy knows his people and he loves them. He recognizes the philosophers among the poor and resilient. John Grady comes to a blind musician to ask him to act as godfather for the woman he wants to wed. The old man tells him a story explaining why a dying man in great wisdom, chose his most hated enemy to be his son’s godfather. The story begins this way.

He knew that our enemies by contrast seem always with us. The greater our hatred the more persistent the memory of them so that a truly terrible enemy becomes deathless. So that a man who has done you great injury or injustice makes himself a guest in your house forever. Perhaps only forgiveness can dislodge him.

   The enemy who became godfather to the man’s son found that he must dedicate his entire life to the son. Because there could never be forgiveness, the enemy could not ‘dislodge’ the man. A friend who had loved him could more easily have thought of his dead friend in comfort and sadness and eased himself under the burden of such a responsibility.

   The Border Trilogy are not comfortable books to read. Like the country, they are beautiful and threaten death. The people who inhabit these books are tough. Their lives are broken and battered by sudden and unforgiving violence. They do not so much survive as endure.

   Do not let your obs-comp grammar ways get between you and these books. There are still people like these – unassuming but not subservient, under-educated but not unknowing, not especially civilized but enlightened. And some are still cowboys.

Dear Santa -- 1st of 4

image from twinset.us

Dear Santa,

    I saw you yesterday in the Thanksgiving Day parade. 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, today being Black Friday.

Rodney’s moved back in. He’s my son. Thirty-two years old. His wife served him with papers 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 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 doesn’t seem right.

   Then he 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 with him – 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 downstairs so nobody will ever know. I’m glad Marvin finished the 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 don’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

For Dee's next letter to Santa click here Dear Santa No. 2

The Ophelia Cut -- a review

The Ophelia Cut is number 14 in John Lescroart’s series of murder mysteries featuring attorney Dismas Hardy, homicide detective Abe Glitsky, bartender Moses McGuire, and their various and sundry families, friends, partners, underlings, and bosses. Not to mention each book’s featured villain and multiple side-bar bad guys.

To prepare to write this review I read some other reviews. And that reminds me NEVER read a review by anyone with the word “critic” in their title.

Huffington Post’s Jackie K. Cooper, identified as a film critic spends a good deal of his review saying how much Lescroart’s readers look forward to his next novel, especially the Dismas Hardy ones. Then he pans it. Saying the first four-fifths of the book are great but the ending is “something completely unsuspected. Unfortunately it is also completely unsatisfactory.” Insert your favorite expletive here.

The ending is unexpected. (I would not have chosen to use the word ‘unsuspected.’ Perhaps it was Mr. Cooper’s auto-correct acting out.) And though I would not say it is "satisfactory," it is the right ending.

What I love about Lescroart’s novels is the continuing lives of his characters. I started his books with the first of his Dismas Hardy stories, Dead Irish, published in 1989. I didn’t read it then because I’d not heard of John Lescroart until a retired police detective recommended I read him. That was almost three years ago while I was writing my own novel Murder on Ceres (available at http://bit.ly/murderonceres.)

In Dead Irish we first meet Hardy, a has-been, tending bar for his Vietnam War buddy Moses McGuire, and drinking in San Francisco. Hardy had lost his baby boy, his wife, and his career as a lawyer. The book introduces us to Hardy’s best friend from when he was a member of San Francisco’s finest before getting his law degree. Abe Glitsky is the half-Black half-Jewish cop, big enough and serious enough to intimidate the scariest bad guy. And there’s Lou the Greek’s, a dive across from the Hall of Justice open from six a.m. to two a.m. serving alcohol and food to the legal community from cops to judges, clients to social workers, and everybody over, around, and in between. If I ever get to San Fran I want to visit City Lights Bookstore and Lou the Greek’s.

In The Ophelia Cut Hardy is described as “sixty years old.” This makes me happy. He’s almost as old as I am. We both remember the late sixties and early seventies.

It’s some thirty years since the Dead Irish story, twelve books follow these characters’ ongoing lives. I feel like I’ve known them a long time. There are marriages, births, deaths. Each book is complete in itself, beginning and ending a case, but the characters go on.

In The Ophelia Cut, Moses McGuire’s daughter is brutalized by a man who ends up dead and Mose is arrested. But did he do it? The dead man was a truly bad man with any number of associates who would be happy to have him dead. No matter. It falls to Hardy to defend Mose in court.

And we come to the ending that the film critic didn’t like. Let me just say I cried. Not at the shocking part. At that part I was shocked. It was later that I wept.

I am not in the habit of crying over murder mysteries. A visit to the Oklahoma City National Memorial, yes. The Vietnam Veterans Memorial, yes. The movie Old Yeller, yes.

But murder mysteries? I don’t remember ever doing it before. Generally speaking the characters and stories are too distant from me as a reader. I do not know them intimately.

Harry Bosch’s daughter grew up, but Harry doesn’t change. I never knew Miss Marple as a young woman. Even Commissario Brunetti does not change, although in Donna Leon’s novels justice is sometimes ill served (which I find appalling but that possibility is real enough to keep me reading her next one.) These characters are not real people to me. Dismas Hardy and the people around him are.

The Ophelia Cut is John Lescroart’s best so far. My only regret is that I can read Lescroart’s books faster than he can write them and there is only one more, The Keeper – so far. 

One Side of The Phone Call -- Flash Fiction -- An homage to Bob Newhart

image from shutterstock.com

  Hi, Dad. I just wanted to call and let you know we’re all okay.

  Falstaff? Yes, yes. He’s fine. He misses you.

  Yes, he does look a lot like a bear. That’s kinda why I called. We had a bear on the deck.

  No, no. A real bear. I guess it smelled the hot dogs.

  No, I got Falstaff into the house. He was pretty excited, but he scared the bear when he broke through the sliding glass door.

  Oh yeah. It left. So. How’s the weather there?

  Oh, yes. It is Hawaii. I know. Warm in the day and rain every afternoon. Yeah. We had rain here, too. A good thing. Helped put out the fire.

  Oh, you know. When the bear got scared he knocked over the grill.

  Called them. Sure did. They got here pretty quick.

  Yeah. The deck’s gone, but they saved most of the house.

  Fluffy? Yeah. They got her out. She was hiding in the cabinet under the sink.

  No, no. The kitchen’s okay.

  Yeah. We’re pretty much camping in the front bedroom.

  The fish? No, they couldn’t get them out. But they’re okay. That corner of the living room is okay, but your big screen . . . . Well, it’s gone.

  No, no. You stay there. Enjoy the rest of your vacation. We’re fine. The police said they’d drive by. Keep out looters.

  No. We can’t really lock the house, but Falstaff and I will be here. And Fluffy. Ha ha. Not that she’s much help defending the castle.

  Yeah. You probably can get a flight out today. You’ll need to take a shuttle from the airport. I can’t come get you.

  Well, you know . . . . The car . . . . 
  Yeah, both of them.

  See you soon.

  Yeah, I love you, too.