Be Kind

Dec 162020
 

This is the winter of our discontent.

We find ourselves under a cloud this year, separated from those we love, locked away, almost stretched beyond our abilities. Some of us are sick, all of us are weary. The miracle that might release us into the world —the vaccine—is some months away. Meanwhile, we have bumpy times ahead. I know two people who just tested positive for the virus. Vigilance is required.

I would not presume to diminish the physical toll COVID has taken on both its victims and the people who treat them. But I also worry about the mental and emotional toll the virus has taken on so many of us, beginning with the frontline workers and first responders who have seen so many people die. One hundred times as many as died on 9/11. It boggles the mind.

I understand the frustration this pandemic has taken—and the fear. I don’t understand the misplaced anger, the willful disregard of the health and safety of others, the dismissal of efforts to try, however imperfectly, to protect. It’s not just that such reactions fly in the face of reason and common sense. They negate empathy.

Empathy—a concern for the feelings and well-being of others—is presumed to be at the heart of this season. We collect coats and toys. We hand envelopes to service workers and donate to our charities in the glow of love and joy and the spirit of giving. If I thought my wishes counted for anything, I would wish that empathy invade each and every one of us in the next week and refuse to leave, so that we might think about, to sympathize with, even to feel with and for our fellow beings. It shouldn’t matter whether they are working in an emergency room or suffering alone, separated from loved ones temporarily or permanently, coping with too much responsibility or too little, carrying their wounds visibly or hidden away.

What to do? Not to state the obvious, but let’s be kind. To ourselves, to those around us, to people we don’t know, maybe even to people we don’t like, insofar as that’s possible. It’s within our control to be generous. At the end of the day, kindness is the the best possible gift we could give. Who knows? It could even become a habit.

Four New Mysteries to Savor

Oct 182020
 

I’m a mystery writer and I’m a mystery reader, too. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy other genres. I love world-building science fiction (NK Jemisin) and literary fiction (Anne Patchett) as well as select biographies.

My reading list, though, mainly consists of mysteries. While I like to encounter new writers, I have my favorite writers whose reputations are secure, whose skills are legendary, and whose stories never fail to entertain. I take my inspiration from these favorites. Among those at the very top of their game are the four below, all of whom have released new books in the last few months.

A PRIVATE CATHEDRAL by James Lee Burke

Burke is author of the mesmerizing Dave Robicheaux series. Set in Louisiana, the novels are odes to the raw splendor of the region and the raw brutality of life on the edges. Robicheaux is an on-again, off-again cop, a barely reformed drunk who shares with his imbibing buddy Clete Purcell, a fatalistic view of the world that directs their often-vicious response to injustice. In A PRIVATE CATHEDRAL, Burke has placed his story in the vague recent past, which handily fudges the issue of how old Robicheaux, a Vietnam war veteran, might actually be in 2020. It works. The book is bittersweet, the descriptive passages achingly beautiful, the action merciless, violent and swift-moving. The experience is heart-pounding.

THE GOOD DAUGHTER by Karin Slaughter

I’ve read a number of books by Karin Slaughter—I’m a fan of her Will Trent procedurals that feature a troubled cop working for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. This novel feels quite different. Her trademark gritty realism is on display, along with a no-filter depiction of violence found in many of her novels. And yes, it is, in part, a who-done-it. At the same time, the story of two physically and emotionally wounded sisters at odds with each other, their father, and the world reads like Ann Patchett or Barbara Kingsolver. Which is to say, this book contains more than a few moving passages mixed in with the nuts and bolts of a crime procedural. Highly recommended—and it would make a terrific film.

ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE by Louise Penny

Penny, the popular Canadian writer, usually sets her Armand Gamache series in Canada’s Eastern Townships region in a fictional town called Three Pines. Gamache, formerly Chief Inspector of Quebec’s Sûreté, is a learned man prone to philosophical reflection although capable of decisive action when necessary. The small, tightly-knit community is his refuge and his strength. This time, Penny sends Gamache and his indomitable wide, Reine, to Paris to visit their children, grandchildren and Gamache’s foster father, Stephen. There, he and his son-in-law, also a cop, uncover a dangerous scheme that draws in the entire family. Gamache’s wit, skill, and courage are as formidable as ever, particularly when his loved ones are threatened.

THE SEARCHER by Tara French

Tara French is an Irish-American writer who gained recognition with her Dublin Murder Squad series. In her newest book, she moves the action out into the countryside and adds a twist. Cal Hooper is a retired Chicago homicide detective who’s moved to find peace and perhaps a good pub following an acrimonious divorce and a disheartening epiphany about his work. His hardscrabble North Carolina upbringing should bind him to the scrappy locals, but theirs is an insular community and they keep their secrets. French unspools her story without haste, yet the throb of inevitability never leaves. Hooper realizes early on that this story won’t have a happy ending. As it turns out, though, it’s the necessary one. Sometimes that’s the best you can get.

 

 

Musings on a Late Summer/Early Autumn Day

Sep 202020
 

It’s a beautiful day, one of the most beautiful days we’ve had recently. Soft breeze, sunny skies, puffy clouds. We were supposed to get a week of this, but the wildfires that have devastated the west coast reached us and blanketed the area with haze for several days. Today, though, we can open our windows and breathe deeply and I am grateful for that.

Perfect.

Fall used to be my favorite time of year. I enjoyed the relief from the summer heat. The season brings with it crisp air, soft light, vibrant shades of gold and auburn, the smell of a wood-burning fireplace, or the unexpected warmth of the afternoon sun. A chance in later years to break out my favorite uniform, jeans, a turtleneck sweater, a jacket, low boots.

I’ve struggled to hold onto the joy I used to feel this time of year. Nineteen years ago, my husband was killed on 9/11. That certainly wiped out any possibility of autumnal pleasure for quite a while. And just as I was coming back to appreciating the change of seasons, my beloved younger sister succumbed quickly and unexpectedly to a virulent and advanced form of pancreatic cancer that killed her within a couple of months. We all hung out together. Then it was the two of us. Now it’s down to one.

I still talk to one or both of them every day, but of course, it’s a one-sided conversation.

I went into 2020 determined to heal but, well, COVID. So many plans for my road to recovery have been knocked off the board.

Everyone’s in this position, though, aren’t they? My neighbor across the street has an eight-month old grandchild living in Germany she saw just once, right after he was born. Another friend was unable to attend her father’s funeral.

I’m luckier than many, although I don’t like to think in those terms. But I have advantages. I have a house, I am more or less retired (unless you count writing) and I live in a neighborhood I don’t mind being stuck in. Plenty of trees, plenty of room, plenty of people of all ages and ethnicities. Plenty of dogs, too. COVID puppies are the new normal around here. My dog Molly seems to enjoy the company.

Autumn is when I brought her home fifteen years ago. My sister and I traveled to a farm in Virginia to return with this tiny white puppy with apricot ears. She threw up twice in the car and decided she needed to relieve herself as we sped along a congested I-95 during a downpour. Naturally, we pulled over. What does a two-month-old puppy the length of my forearm do in such conditions, unused to her new leash, her new human, and the enormous semi-trailers rumbling by like metal monsters? She sought refuge underneath the car. As she was unresponsive to tugs and soothing words, I lay on my stomach and slithered underneath the car to fetch her. As I emerged, soaking and triumphant, she peed on me.

They say dogs have owners and cats have staff. I suspect Molly had a bit of each, as well as a lifetime of love and attention ahead of her.

I’m back home now. I’ve gone around the side of my house to look at the fence I painted the other day. Just a small fence, maybe three feet across. My husband put it up twenty-five years ago to separate our tiny back garden from the air conditioning unit. To my mind, it was perfect, a little piece of nonconformity in our architecturally homogenous neighborhood. I have no idea if it was sanctioned by the management company; we never asked.

When I went to take a look at it recently, I saw the planks were rotted away at the bottom. The railing was crooked—warped, or had it always been like that? The whole fence was off-kilter. I tried to straighten it out, but time had welded it into its cock-eyed position.

I did what I could, though, just as I’ve been doing what I can for a year now. My husband and sister were the stronger, more handy people in our once-upon-a-time trio, more talented in the kitchen as well. Loss and semi-isolation have forced me into something of a learning curve. I sweep and shovel and hammer and cook and bike and walk and write and think. I water plants and paint fences. I make my dog’s life as easy as possible. I wave at my neighbors and Zoom with my friends. I laugh at silly jokes and read more than ever. I also yell and curse and pound the walls.

It is what it is. And in this moment, for this moment, it’s perfect.

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