Column: This little light of mine

I saw an item in a holiday roundup piece in The Boston Globe that brought me right back to my childhood.

Every December in the 1960s, my parents would drive my sister and me the 40 miles to The Hub from our home in southeastern Massachusetts, to see “the lights” in the big city and the Enchanted Village display at the Jordan Marsh store.

Now I was reading that the display lives on at Jordan’s Furniture in the town of Avon.

I sighed, remembering the magic. Well, the downright enchantment of the animated characters in the cozy holiday tableaus. . . .

I just loved it. The experience kept my imagination fired up for weeks.

Driving around our town and looking at residential displays in our town did not have the same effect on me, not surprisingly. Still, I did enjoy it and it was part of our Christmas traditions. Certain streets were known for putting on a show—which usually entailed big-bulb, multicolored lights outlining the houses and any trees in the front yard, plus the requisite Santa and reindeers frolicking across the lawn.

Did the neighbors agree among themselves to be a holiday destination? Or were these displays the result of cutthroat competition? I was too young to understand any backstage machinations.

Once we had seen, and critiqued, the local light shows, my mother would cart us off to the National Shrine of Our Lady of La Salette in the nearby city of Attleboro. (I was pleased to see in the Globe article that this display continues.) I don’t remember my father ever going with us. Maybe he was home watching hockey?

I delighted in seeing the outdoor religious displays and grottos decorated for the sacred day, but I especially looked forward to getting hot chocolate in the cafeteria at the end of the trek. (Our trek invariably involved some praying along the way. I got thirsty.)

Despite their interest in Christmas light displays, my parents did not go overboard on decorating. We always had a well-lighted tree with a lot of tinsel, and some years there were bright, giant plastic candles skirting the front stairs. Sometimes (I’m guessing it depended on Dad’s mood), the living room picture window would be ringed with colorful bulbs. That’s about it.

I too am restrained in my decorating. There are no huge, inflatable singing elves on my front lawn. But I am still all about the lights during the holiday season. They bring me joy and are a big part of my seasonal celebrations. They also help me to enjoy winter more.

Lights keep the darkness, literal and metaphorical, at bay.

My husband, Paul, and I don’t have a Christmas tree because we have cats. Enough said. However, we decorate the seven-foot fig tree in the living room with the treasured ornaments we’ve collected in 37 years of marriage, plus a couple strands of blue fairy lights.

I waited too long to buy the lights one year and all I could find was blue. But I like them.

Two years ago, I decided I wanted to put battery-operated candles in the living room front windows. Then last year I decided four weren’t enough. I needed more—in the dining room, Paul’s study and the kitchen.

This year, the wreath on the porch lights up.

We also have a lantern with a cardinal (my favorite bird) motif that friends gave us a few years ago. Last week I found a light-up townhouse tin at Target filled with British shortbread cookies.

Around 3:45 p.m. each day, I walk around with a tiny remote control, flicking on candles. Then I turn on the tree, the wreath, the lantern and the tin house. Aah. If Paul has a fire going in the woodstove, all the better.

It may be gloomy and dark outside, but it’s bright inside.

Around 8 p.m., everything goes off. Then, the next morning, at 5, I light up the house again for a couple of hours.

We’ll leave the ornaments on until Epiphany, January 6th, but keep using the lights until the spring equinox in March. When it finally arrives I am finally ready to put them away.

In the meantime, I am enjoying, and appreciating, my lights.

There’s a lot to be said for the communal experience of viewing the Enchanted Village, the La Salette shrine, or “Gardens Aglow” at the Coastal Maine Botantical Gardens (also mentioned in the article).

I just hope my modest lights give a glimmer of hope and peace to passersby.

This column originally had a different ending. In it, I was heading off to bake some of Jordan Marsh’s famous blueberry muffins. But minutes after I finished writing and closed the file, the lights flickered and went off.

We were without power for eight and a half hours. I put on my battery-operated candles and lit some wax ones. Paul and I were sure we were in for a long siege of cold and dark, and were overjoyed when we were awash in light once again early in the evening.

I was grateful, knowing so many were still without. I turned on the Christmas tree, and said a prayer of thanks. For the lights.

 

 

I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Column: Looking back on a well-read year

I’m always thinking about books—what I’m reading, what’s new and exciting, what I’m going to dive into next. At this time of year, my obsession really ramps up. There are all those “Best of the Year” lists. I’m making lists of presents. And I’m reflecting on my own year of reading.

I’ve read 56 books so far this year. I was surprised by the number because it usually takes me a week to finish a book, so I should only have read 49 by now. I guess I raced through a few, because I’m anticipating I’ll read 59 by the end of the year, unless I get run over by a truck before then.

Of course, it’s not about the numbers. I keep a list to remind me of what I’ve read. It comes in handy when writing a column such as this, for example.

My top book of the year is Killers of the Flower Moon, by David Grann. I kept seeing it on paperback bestseller lists (it was published in 2017)—it took me a bit to realize that was because the movie adaptation was coming out. I do love powerful narrative nonfiction. Yes, this book reads like a novel. Unfortunately, the tragic story Grann tells of the brutal murders of members of the Osage nation in the early years of the 20th century is true. I read it in October and I’m still thinking about it.

Some of my favorite authors had new books out this year. Paul Doiron’s excellent adventure featuring game warden Mike Bowditch, Dead Man’s Wake, is set right here in Central Maine. I read The Body in the Sea, this year’s offering in the Brittany series by Jean-Luc Bannalec, while on vacation on Penobscot Bay, which seemed appropriate. I was delighted with its references to Georges Simenon’s The Yellow Dog, as the fictional detective Maigret is one of my all-time favorites.

The septuagenarian sleuths of the Thursday Murder Club were back in The Last Devil to Die. Author Richard Osman artfully combines comedy and tragedy in a good story with fun characters. Looking at my list, I see this is one I read in just four days.

William Kent Krueger wrote the first in his Cork O’Connor mystery series, Iron Lake, in 1998, but I just got around to reading it. I went right on to the second, and the third is in the “to be read” pile. It’s always exciting to start a new series. I’ve got something like 16 books to go—plus Krueger has also written several standalone novels. I do like the feeling that my virtual pantry of reading is well-stocked.

I hate not knowing what I’m going to read next. Fortunately, that rarely happens.

Anyway, I became interested in the series because it’s set in the rugged terrain of rural Minnesota and because O’Connor is part Anishinaabe. The indigenous people of his community are an essential, and compelling, element of the series. I recommended Krueger’s books to my husband, Paul, and was pleased when he read and enjoyed Iron Lake as well.

I revisited a few old favorites this year, which I consider a perk of being retired. As a school librarian for 32 years, I needed to keep up with the latest young adult titles, as well as my own literary interests. I’ve long considered Ross Macdonald’s The Zebra-Striped Hearse to be one of the best-plotted novels ever, and I felt the need as a writer to not just reread it (for possibly the fourth time), but to analyze it. Written in 1962, the story ranges from Malibu to California’s Central Valley to Mexico to Lake Tahoe, as gumshoe Lew Archer tracks a young missing heiress. It twists and turns right to the very end.

A real surprise came when I decided to start rereading all of P.D. James, from the beginning. I have long regarded her as a true master of the mystery genre, but I’ve always focused on her deft use of settings and her literary style. So I was surprised to realize that her second book, A Mind to Murder, is so very cleverly plotted. I can’t remember when I read it the first time (sometime in the 1980s?) but I was surprised by the satisfying twist right at the end that leaves a little egg on detective Adam Dalgliesh’s face. I was also impressed by her elegant use of the “sleuth’s reward” (when they get to relax a bit after the case is closed). It is basically one line but says all that needs to be said.

Besides traditional mysteries, I also like psychological thrillers. This year I enjoyed The Soulmate by Sally Hepworth, Zero Days, by Ruth Ware, None of This is True, by Lisa Jewell, and The Manor House, by Gilly Macmillan.

The first book I finished in 2023 was The Widowmaker by Hannah Morrissey. Though it was well-written, I didn’t like it as much as her first book, the fantastic The Transcriber.

Well, as I finish up 2023, I am reading Morrissey’s latest, When I’m Dead. So far it’s terrific—a combination police procedural and thriller.

And it’s giving me a sense of closure for a year well-read. My own little “armchair sleuth’s reward,” perhaps?

 

 

I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Column: Remembering Mom, as I grow older

I was walking my leashed dog in the park recently with my husband, Paul, when two joggers suddenly raced down the path in front of us. Martha, a lab-pit bull mix, may be 15 years old, but she is strong and a little bit crazy. She jumped toward the runners and nearly pulled me down.

I screamed.

And immediately channeled my mother.

For several years before she passed away in 2009, at age 88, Mom had balance issues. She felt unsteady even when using a walker, and, slowly, her world became smaller and smaller. On her last visit to Maine, she was reluctant to leave our summer rental, even to visit a favorite restaurant.

I do not want to go down that road.

So I felt chagrined about letting out that yell. What exactly was I afraid of? I’m not concerned about my balance, but I had two full knee replacements in 2022. I guess I’m wary as a result. I know I can’t break my titanium implants, but I have this persistent thought that a stiff wind or a spooked dog could take me down. No woman in their 60s wants to fall hard. The repercussions can be severe.

Still, as a person who gardens regularly, walks daily and swims several times a week, I’d like to think I’m in pretty good shape and have no legitimate reason to fear ending up flat on my face in the park.

That is exactly the kind of thing I’d say to my mother, back in the day, as I exhorted her to work on her balance and not let her apprehensions get the best of her. It never worked.

Here’s what happened. Mom finally got this great doctor, a gerontologist. When Mom ended up in the hospital with a minor, treatable issue, the physician saw her chance. She spoke to my sister and me. Mom had a back condition that could be corrected with a routine operation. Afterwards, she would likely be able to walk more normally again.

The three of us talked Mom into it. The procedure went smoothly, and Mom was discharged to a nursing home for rehab. There she developed sepsis. She died in the hospital a few days later. Near the end, my sister and I had to wear full protective gear in order to be with her. It was a sobering experience.

I have never seen this incident as a reason to avoid operations; I would have run to the hospital to have my knees replaced, if I could have attained any speed in my previous, arthritic condition. No. What happened was ironic, but also tragic. Mom was otherwise healthy and was at the top of her game mentally.

Before I grew old myself and acquired two faux knees, that good health was what I always focused on with Mom. Until the balance issue arose, she was a model for growing old well.

She was strong and resilient. My father died at age 50, and Mom never remarried. She was alone for years, handling, solo, the stresses of life. She worked, at least part-time, well into her 60s. At that time, she took several group trips abroad. In her seventies, Mom was one of several family caregivers helping to keep her oldest sister living at home.

Mom mowed her lawn and took care of her one-acre property until she moved to live with my sister and brother-in-law at age 80. 

In her new community, she became an active participant in the senior center. She made a good friend there, which is a rare thing for older people to do. She also had a male friend we called her boyfriend, although they never dated.

Now, that was something I would have loved to see.

Mom enjoyed spending time on my sister’s sailboat and visiting Paul and me in Maine. For a number of years, Mom joined us on camping trips at Lily Bay on Moosehead Lake. She had her own tent, which she would share with one of our two dogs. The only camping trips we’d taken as a family when I was young were in a motor home, so this was a big adventure for her.

I watched Mom enter her 80s with pride, like several of her sisters had before her. I was in my 40s, so I was starting to feel “older” myself and began to think seriously about healthy living. I appreciated that Mom kept physically and socially active. Even when she began to decline due to her back problem, she remained dedicated to doing word search puzzles, determined to keep mental deterioration at bay. Mom enjoyed reading and maintained her keen sense of humor.

There are many times when I want to talk to my mother about life’s travails. At my age, that often relates to the process of getting older. I wouldn’t mind some inspiration about navigating this course, much in the way I used to harangue her.

Then again, I can always remember her at the picnic table at Lily Bay, a big grin on her face. I can remember our shopping trips together on Black Friday. I can imagine her snorting with laughter at my story of screaming in the park when Martha almost knocked me down as those joggers approached.

I can especially imagine her asking, “Do you think they heard you?”

 

 

I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Column: Haunted by a surgical mishap, but all the stronger for it

My nurse du jour was wearing a T-shirt with a cute little pumpkin on it.

It was a cheery note on an otherwise dismal day. This was Halloween, 2021, but there would be no candy for me.

In fact, there would be no food or drink whatsoever. I was in the critical care unit, on day two of a weeklong fast. If I was lucky.

I’d undergone a hiatal hernia repair, which had gone well. However, when the assisting surgeon put a scope down my esophagus for a final check, she nicked it.

The lead surgeon repaired the cut, but I’d have to be watched for a week. I couldn’t swallow anything, as that could impair the healing process. If I passed a diagnostic test at the end of the week, I could eat again. Gruel, maybe?

I was a very unhappy patient, but I kept it to myself. It was true that I didn’t really have the energy to be snarky.

But it was also true that I was afraid. I’d never been in the hospital overnight before. I’d never felt so close to death. I have always feared being confined. Growing up in the 1960s, when polio was still a threat, I had nightmares about iron lungs. Now here I was with a tube in my nose, hooked up to a multitude of monitors and IVs. Stuck with my thoughts and worst imaginings.

With no chocolate or sweet coffee drinks to distract me.

Two years later, Halloween week brings back all of these memories. I suspect it will for many years to come.

Now I can be grateful that I survived the surgical misstep. The outcome could have been tragic. I will admit that it took me awhile to reach that understanding. For quite awhile, I was just angry about the whole thing.

I also have come to realize that I could endure a significant ordeal and not break. Well, I did have a few very low moments that week, as my husband, Paul, can attest. But I made it through.

I even managed to ask Paul each day what he was eating.

Meanwhile, I dreamed I was drinking a large iced green tea from Panera and munching down popcorn shrimp.

I discovered that food defined my day. What was I doing instead of eating breakfast? I felt lucky to be distracted by the nursing shift change, the arrival of the doctors on rounds and a CNA wielding a thermometer.

To give my day structure, I read nonfiction in the morning and fiction later in the day. Paul would visit in the early afternoon and then around supper time. I streamed “Vera” episodes on my iPad, but I didn’t otherwise watch TV.

We were still in the midst of the pandemic, though, so I made sure I didn’t miss Dr. Nirav Shah’s weekly briefing.

There was bath time and, eventually, physical therapy (walking up and down the hall with my IV tower). There was a constant stream of staff coming through to check my vitals or refill whatever was going into me. I found that I didn’t have to worry about intrusive thoughts because I was busy, and when I wasn’t, I was dozing off until someone else came into the room.

I couldn’t get any decent rest, which surprised me. But as one of my nurses said, “Don’t expect to get any sleep in a hospital!”

As the week wore on, I was able to be thankful. For Paul, standing by me and holding down the fort at home. For the friends and relatives who reached out with cards and messages of support. For the nursing staff, of course. When a sweet and gentle CNA offered to wash my feet, I nearly cried.

Initially, I had expected to stay in the hospital only one night after the hernia repair. So I had brought a little notebook to jot down my thoughts. Here’s one: “I just upped my pain meds.” I rather enjoyed jabbing that little pain-relief button. But after the first couple of days I didn’t need the meds and the nurses took them away.

I noted on day three that I’d had a better night because I had Tylenol and Ativan in my drip. Having a tube in my nose really dulled my appetite, I wrote, although thirst continued to be a problem.

Finally it was Thursday, day six. I wrote, “Big day tomorrow. Please, lord, let it go well. Thank you.”

I did pass my test, but it was a long Saturday morning waiting to hear if I’d be going home. I’d been moved to a regular unit in the middle of the night. The nurses there were sure I couldn’t go home because how would I eat? At that point, I was receiving nourishment through a “PICC” line threaded through my upper torso.

But the word finally came through. I could go home and eat an extremely soft diet.

Strained soup and Cream of Wheat—and glasses of lovely water. Hallelujah.

Though my experience still haunts me, I know I’m a better person because of it. All of us, I believe, have a core of strength within us that we may not realize until we’re put to the test.

That’s not such a bad thought for me to reflect upon each time November rolls around.

Column: Mystery writer Martha Grimes and other masters

I did some volunteering for the Lithgow Public Library book sale this past summer. My job was to help sort and arrange the books for sale, a delight for a retired librarian. What fun it was to unpack a box and see that the donor had very similar tastes to mine—or reading interests that were completely different.

In the course of this work, I came across several paperbacks by the author Martha Grimes. I’d read several installments of Grimes’ cozy mystery series when she began publishing in the early 1980s. I remembered how I enjoyed the main characters, Detective Inspector Richard Jury and the amateur sleuth and closet aristocrat, Melrose Plant. Though Grimes is American, she set her stories in England, and many had storylines tied to pubs. For an Anglophile and mystery lover like me, they were absolutely delicious.

Why had I given up the series? I was going to have to do something about that.

Of course, it would have to be added to the list. My overstuffed “To Be Read” list, I mean.

Because I am a devotee of traditional mysteries (who also enjoys nonfiction and psychological thrillers) my list is always a messy, sorry sight. My favorite authors come out with a book a year (and I follow at least 10 avidly), plus there are all the other books I want to read. So it was that after I decided in June to reread the Jury books (because I only had the faintest recollection of where I’d left off), I didn’t get around to starting until October.

I was so glad I did. I just finished the first in the series The Man with a Load of Mischief, and thoroughly enjoyed it.  I get such a feeling of satisfaction when I sink into a good mystery and it’s been that way for me for a long time.

Yes, I was one of those girls obsessed with Nancy Drew. I also loved the Hardy Boys and the Dana Girls. I had a rather strange devotion to the works of Helen Fuller Orton, who wrote mysteries in the 1950s which already were dated when I was reading them. Then again, Nancy drove around in a “roadster,” so I guess even then the mystery was the priority for me.

Soon I was on to Agatha Christie. Not surprisingly, the first Christie I read was Halloween Party, which begins at a children’s holiday event. I did read young adult books (then a new genre) as a teen, but I devoured the classic “Maigret” novels by Georges Simenon, and Ross MacDonald’s noir series featuring private eye Lew Archer.

The latter was one of my father’s favorites. He was a big mystery reader. My parents subscribed to the Detective Book Club, which provided monthly omnibuses of three mysteries, all bound in plain tan bindings. If there were any descriptions of the books originally included with the shipments, they had been tossed before I got to them, so it was a mystery in itself what the stories were about. It didn’t matter to this voracious reader, and I encountered some interesting authors that way.

I discovered P.D. James in college, while working at a library (shelving books was so interesting!) and she and Ruth Randell were my favorites during my young adult years and beyond.

I regularly reread James, who I think truly transcends the genre. But by now I’ve got quite a list of authors I would describe as favorites.

In the top tier are Louise Penny’s novels featuring Chief Inspector Armand Gamache of the Sûreté du Québec, Maine’s own Paul Doiron and Briton Ann Cleeves. I not only read Cleeves’ three series, I also enjoy the “Vera” and “Shetland” TV adaptations.

Other authors I follow include Elly Griffiths (her Ruth Galloway series and her stand-alones), Alexander McCall Smith’s “Number One Ladies Detective Agency,” and Donna Leon’s tales of Commissario Guido Brunetti, set in Venice.

Richard Osman’s “The Thursday Murder Club,” series, which features septuagenarian friends solving dastardly crimes, is both poignant and great fun.

I love three series set in France. Martin Walker’s “Bruno, Chief of Police” (set in the Dordogne); Jean-Luc Bannalec’s Brittany mysteries and M.L. Longworth’s cozies centered around Aix-en-Provence are all wonderful, all capable of sending me on mental mini-vacations to the land of espresso, croissants and vin rouge.

I do enjoy reading series set in foreign locales, although Doiron’s Mike Bowditch has certainly opened my eyes to the people and places of Maine all around me. I like to follow the protagonist’s life from book to book in the various series. And I enjoy the “ensemble casting” these authors employ.

I’m reading the latest “Bruno,” for example, and the book opens with the policeman watching a historic battle reenactment with all his friends. Having them all accounted for right away made me absurdly happy.

While I like to challenge myself with meaty nonfiction and get my brain buzzing with thrillers, series mysteries keep me on an even keel, even if they get intense with drug running, terrorism and international intrigue.

Grimes’ Jury novels are pure cozies, though, which for me equals pure escapism.

With all that is going on in the real world right now, that’s exactly what I need.

Column: A mystery novel, a health crisis and the path to origami

My path to creating 1,000 origami cranes began in an unlikely place: a Japanese mystery novel.

I read A Death in Tokyo, by Keigo Higashino, at the end of August. In this police procedural, a character has made cranes and dropped them off at Shinto shrines. I was familiar with the concept of making 1,000 cranes to appeal for peace, but I didn’t realize people also undertook the project to support the healing of friends and family members.

In May, the husband of a good friend (my oldest friend) was diagnosed with stage three lung cancer. Surgery and chemo were in his future. I was floored. What could I do to help? Since they live in Massachusetts, my expressions of support have been through the mail, both snail and electronic. My hands might itch to make a casserole, but it wasn’t happening.

Wait a minute. I could make cranes.

Well, in theory, anyway. My previous few attempts at folding had not ended well. Once, I attended a festive little workshop called “Holiday Origami.” I came away with a pathetic “piano,” on which no carols would ever be played.

I did not let this experience deter me. That had been in the 1990s. Now, I had YouTube. I would teach myself how to make origami cranes.

I also had Amazon, from which I ordered a box of 500 sheets of beautiful washi paper.

I had to try several different videos before I found one that suited me. I set up my iPad on the porch and watched two hands fold. Triangle, triangle. Hey, I can do that. Then came one of those origami moves that do not exist anywhere outside of origami. Fold part of the triangle over to form a square.

Mastering that took the rest of the hour I had allotted for origami that evening.

The next day, I resumed my training. Oh, now I have to turn the paper over and make another square. Folding on the opposite side must have employed the opposite side of my brain, which rebelled. It took me the rest of the hour to complete the square.

The next three folds were straightforward. Now I had a triangle with two “legs.” These appendages had to be folded up into a higher fold. The exact procedure was not visible in the video, so it was trial and error time. Eventually, I got it.

I finally could pull out the wings, tail and neck and fold down the head. I had a crane.

A homely crane, but it was all mine.

I was on my way. I refused to think of how long it was going to take me to make 1,000 cranes at the rate of two a day—which was being optimistic at that point. But I did, after about a week of daily folding, become more adept. Soon I was able to make five a day.

I noticed that the folding had become automatic. My mind turned off, like I was meditating. It was very relaxing. In fact, if I did let a thought about the folding intrude, I was sure to make a mistake. I believe I was taming what Buddhists call “monkey mind.”

In fact, the other day my smart phone informed me that my resting heart rate had dropped over the past 21 days. That was almost exactly the amount of time I’d been making paper cranes.

I relaxed about making mistakes, too. I just started over, or even just thought, “It’s good enough.” The Japanese have a concept called “wabi-sabi,” which I understand to be an acceptance and appreciation of the imperfect. Some of my cranes are prettier (in my mind) than others, but they were all made with love.

Meanwhile, I remembered that I needed to buy more origami paper. A friend is a mentor to a young man with Down syndrome, a talented artist. This young man has created origami paper based on his artwork. Proceeds are going to an organization that has benefited him.

I ordered my package. When I let my friend know, he promptly came over with seven more (free) packages. I felt my heart swell—it seemed like the tiny little circle of kindness I had begun by folding cranes was expanding by the minute. When I was able to pass one of the packages to another friend for her teenage daughter to use for her own projects, I felt the circle push out a little further.

My cranes, though dedicated to a friend’s healing, were bringing peace—to me. I felt calm as I made them, and the good vibes continued throughout the day. I was—hopefully— helping a friend, and friends were helping me. 

I also felt good about mastering a skill.

Once, I attended a Ukrainian egg-decorating workshop. I dropped an egg. The instructor muttered that I was “high maintenance.”

Now, even if I have to say so myself, I am one of the least high-maintenance people I know. Clumsy—well, there you have me.

So I am grateful that I can make origami paper cranes, each one a prayer that a friend will make it through a serious health challenge. I’m happy to report that, so far, so good.