To the Mother of Us All

May her children remember her and care for her every day.

A Very Belated Appreciation

When Gone Girl came out in 2012 and was greeted with yelps of praise throughout the mystery world and beyond, I was, at that point, overdosed on mystery, having put in two terms as a reader of mysteries for the Edgar nominations, as well as having produced seven (one never published) mysteries of my own. I was also at the beginning of the very long bout of research and writing that would eventually produce my non-mystery Civil War novel And the Crows Took Their Eyes. 

So I ignored the hullaballoo raised over Flynn's novel. I continued to ignore it when it was made into a movie--even as more and more people talked about it. I soon realized I was adding to the list of things many people do that I've never done-- never bowled, never watched Seinfeld, never had a mani-pedi, never read Gone Girl.

But at some point in the past year, I seem to have acquired a copy of the book.  Whether it was a loan from a friend (Louise? Allegra?) or a copy picked up at the library book sale, I no longer remember. But it still didn't tempt me. It's been languishing on my TBR pile while I've been doing a lot of re-reading--a safe bet in perilous times. I've also been busy editing for my class and for a client--a mystery novel, as it happens. 

So what compelled me finally to pick up Gone Girl, wipe off the accumulated dust, and start reading? I have no idea. But I began it Thursday afternoon and finished it 24 hours later --breaking only to meet my online class, eat meals, and not much else. 

The book grabbed me so hard that I spent yesterday afternoon in a kind of a trance, feverishly reading to see how it all worked out.

The plotting is brilliant--and fiendish. The characters are multi-layered, compelling, relatable, funny, terrifying, and everything in between--and beyond.

It's a masterful piece of work--not unlike the title character. But most of you probably knew that.

And These

The Best Picnic

Meema and I had a picnic on the deck. There were muffins.

But you need lots of stuff for a picnic. 

I told Meema Wait! I will be right back and I went and got stuff.

I got my magazines and my rock collection and my little cars.

It was the best picnic ever.

I love being outside.

But when I finished my muffin, I decided it was time to go back in. Meema will bring my stuff because that's what she does. Besides, she has big hands and can carry more. 

I think next time, I will bring out all my animal friends. Meema will like that a lot.

The Great Reset--Two Scenarios

It's no news that we are a divided nation. But now, even a simple thing like wearing a mask or not has beome a political statement. And several scenarios are emerging. 

Scenario A: Open up everything! Crowd the streets. (And the rallies--don't forget the rallies!) Throw off those masks and gloves! Get up in the face of that old lady wearing a mask and shuffling along those madated pathways in the grocery store. Cough on her lettuce. What pussies some people are! Let the sick and the poor die. Too bad about the nursing homes and the prisons and the ICE concentration camps-- those people are nothing but a drain on society anyway. 

Silence and ignore those science guys who are warning about a second wave.  Force poor people to work by declaring businesses open, thus denying unemployment benefits. Limit testing. Control release of data. Hey, control development of a vaccine and limit who can afford it. Chip away at the social safety net till it’s gone. Make healthcare expensive and difficult to obtain. 

The weak, who consume resources without contributing, will die—those troublesome people of color in greater numbers, perhaps. Only the strongest of the underclass will survive—the better to serve the wealthy. And business will thrive.

Scenario B: Stay cautious--the pandemic hasn't peaked. And there may be a second wave. Continue social distancing.  Cut your own hair. Get to know your kids. Realize that it’s time to expand Medicare to universal coverage. Realize that no matter how wealthy and insured you may be, it’s the uninsured and undiagnosed who don’t seek help who will be fixing your meals, handling your groceries, doing your hair and your nails.

Realize that it’s past time to raise minimum wages.  Who do you need right now? The nurse or EMT, the cleaner, the grocery clerk, all the people who keep essential services running. Or the CEOs who make obscene amounts of money while keeping their hands clean?

Use the time to get in touch with forgotten skills like raising your own food, making do with less, cooking, reading.

Notice the changes in air quality that have occured as mankind is forced to stop polluting. Consider what healing the planet could mean, as we heal ourselves.

Margaret Mead was once asked what anthropologists see as an early sign of civilization and she replied, “A healed femur.” A broken femur, that leg bone from hip to knee, would mean certain death unless the injured one had caregivers to bring food and water and to protect the invalid from other harm. 

Civilized man, in Mead’s view, cares for the weak. 

Our response to this pandemic will measure how deeply the veneer of civiliztion goes.

Glorious May

Josie Plays in the Branch

On Saturday it was warm enough that I could play in the branch! There is a very special place with a waterfall that Daddy made.

I get in carefully because the rocks are slippery.

I am looking for my ball. I will drop it in and it will swoosh down very fast.  

Daddy and I will catch it.

Then I will throw it back so  it can swoosh down again. It is a good game and Daddy never gets tired of it.

Also I look for rocks. There are lots of them in the water.

I pick up the little ones. I am making a collection.

When they  were little, Daddy and Uncle Ethan and Cousin Coop all played here. I'm glad they didn't get all the little rocks but left some for me.

Silent Sunday

Bubby Bush

The Sweet Shrub is in bloom, its pineappleish scent reminding me to look for it. It grows wild across the road from the pond and the dark maroon flowers are easy to overlook. But not the scent.

Calycanthus floridus, aka sweet shrub or Carolina Allspice is also known as Bubby Bush because, I'm told, at one time mountain women going to church or a play party would place a few of the fragrant blooms in their bosom--between their 'bubbies.'  Thus, Bubby Bush. More about this native shrub HERE.

May Day

Late Tuesday afternoon was so beautiful and such a perfect temperature that John and I took a chilled bottle of white wine down to the pond to enjoy the wisteria's last shout.

It was around five and the light had that luminescent 'Golden Hour' quality.

Though the blossoms were fading, the wisteria's fragrance was strong, enveloping us in a sweet cloud.

The long shadows of a golden afternoon.

As I typed the title of the post, I thought of how MAYDAY is a recognized cry of distress (from the French m'aidez - help me.) And I thought, not for the first time, how this pandemic could be seen as a cry for help from the earth--as mankind's pollution is increasingly shut down, the earth begins to recover.

And how nice it would be if we learn something from this timeout--the importance of the unseen workers we all depend on, the inequalities inherent in our political system, what things in our lives are necessary and what is excess . . . and the simple fact that we're all in this together.