My Detective Red Shaw novels are at Beaverdale Books, 2629 Beaver Avenue, Des Moines.* (There were hints.)
Tell Alice B.J. sent you.
* Since not everyone lives in Des Moines, of course, the books are on Amazon, too.
Crossword puzzles used to consume much of my time, especially on Sunday mornings when the tough ones show up in The Denver Post. I did them in pen, no erasing. They sometimes ended in inky messes, where my mistakes were easy to see, but no one ever looked. On occasion, they were perfect.
Pencils are for those who know their limits.
I beat my addiction to crosswords and got hooked on Sudoku. The easiest ones became boring, and the evil ones just too damn hard. I did those in ink, too.
Sunday mornings nowadays are given over to more worthwhile pursuits, like writing and bicycling. This morning I decided to publish excerpts from my two Detective Red Shaw novels and then write this little post. The excerpts are from Blood Solutions, which grew out of my experience as a crossword-puzzle proofreader (someone had to do it), and North of Grand, some of which I figured out while riding my bicycle.
Now, back to a short story that needs finishing.
Woke up this morning
to the obnoxious beeps
of a garbage truck in reverse
that turned out to be
emanating from a new
but defective coffee maker
that almost always drips
some of my favorite dark roast
outside of the coffee pot*
so it sizzles on the warming plate
before making its way
to the countertop
in a hot, brown puddle.
Raise your hand if you believe a tree that falls in the forest makes noise even if no one hears it.
Now, raise your hand if you believe that writing a poem is worth the effort even if no one reads it.
This is an excerpt from a work in progress that I read aloud to a group of local writers a few nights ago. I’m not sure what to make of their reactions. The story is about a couple who have three daughters and then adopt an orphaned nephew, about how he was orphaned, and about how the main characters adapt (or fail to adapt) to their new lives. The husband is telling the story. That’s about all the context I gave the group. You’ll be jumping in well after the story begins. What I usually most want to know is if you would keep on reading. Feel free to comment if you’re so inclined.
My mother always told me I was too broody for my own good. That was her term. I used to think she’d made it up until I looked it up in Merriam-Webster’s. She meant it in the non-chicken sense, I’m sure, although I suspect she first used it on the farm in her own youth to describe the hens that provided fresh, brown eggs for the family. With me, she meant it in the formal sense of being contemplative, with the emphasis on the second syllable, I suspect. Moody.
It was the same way I had come to think of Olivia in our short acquaintance. (I realize it’s a stretch to call it an acquaintance, but there you have it.) What else could an artist be but broody and soulful and deep, with passion lurking just below the calm, mirror-smooth surface? I had seen her smile only briefly when she plucked Billy from the restaurant. I wanted to see her do it again.
I slept until 9 a.m. and I knew it would be a good two hours later that morning before Margret and the kids would arrive. She would do her best to avoid the height of the morning rush hour traffic, so I had until at least 11 to indulge myself. Emilie had already taken up her spot by the pool.
This wasn’t the first time I’d let my fantasy life get the better of me, I have to confess. I don’t know if I really thought I could go through with it this time, or if I really thought I could do it without getting caught, or if I really even thought about it at all. I suspect I didn’t. One thing I have learned is that in fantasy there are no hurt feelings, no unwanted pregnancies, and no diseases. No recriminations, no ruined careers or lives, and very little remorse. It’s too bad fantasy sometimes become reality and it’s hard to know where the line is. I showered, put on some shorts, a T-shirt and my old huaraches, and took off in the Renegade.
Olivia’s was the last shop in a long section of them along the main drag. It was just before the commercial center of the village turned into residential and then, quickly, countryside. I stopped in Monroe’s Bookstore to look distractedly over the magazine rack before picking up a Trib. Next stop was across the street at The Mug on The Alley, where I ordered two regular Large Decafs to go. Right next door stood Portraits by O. I walked in with the Trib under my arm and the two coffees carefully balanced in one hand. A little bell rang as I closed the door, and immediately I heard the voice from the day before, calling down the stairs to my left. It was Billy.
“She’ll be right down,” I heard him say. Groggily? Maybe. It was hard to tell.
“No hurry,” I said back up the stairs. I looked around. Simply framed portraits covered most of two sides of the little room in the front of the shop, which was no more than ten feet by ten feet if you didn’t count the staircase. There were high school senior pretty girls and handsome young men, older couples in anniversary photos, children in all sorts of traditional poses, baseball teams, softball teams, soccer players. A doorway to the right led down a hallway, where I supposed the studio awaited. The back wall, behind a counter that held a small computer monitor and a clutter of papers, sported what I took to be the digital, manipulated interpretations of what O saw through her lens.
I heard footsteps on the stairs and slowly took my eyes from one of the more disturbing images. I turned to find Olivia watching me from the staircase. “Can I help you with something?” she asked.
“Oh, hi. You’re Billy’s wife, right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Olivia.”
“Right,” I said. “We met yesterday at Carlito’s.”
“Oh, sure,” she said, taking the last two steps into the room. No smile. “You’re not really his old friend at all, are you?”
“No, I’m not. How could you tell?”
“I know all of Billy’s old friends. Both of them,” she said.
“Both of them?”
“Sando and Mikey. The other guys you were drinking with.”
So she had paid attention, at least a little bit. “Yeah, sort of. Say, I noticed your sign and just wanted to see what your shop was like. I’ve done a little graphics work myself. In advertising.”
She looked insulted. “I don’t do commercial work,” she said. “Mostly portraits. Some straight, some of them I digitize and do things with.”
I turned back to the digital wall and took another look. I could see what she meant by “things.”
# # #
Late one winter evening…
So the love of my life and I went to a winter solstice celebration at Saint Brigit’s, because of course WTF else does one do the longest dark night of the year?
And it was a beautiful thing, with the singin’ and the music and the dark and the light and the bonfire at the end and I imagined meeting Niall Noígíallach in a stone hovel in Donegal.
And feelin’ holier than we’ve felt in months, with a full moon lightin’ the way, we made our way to a local establishment and bellied up to the bar…
…and I asked the young man behind the bar what he had in the way of an Irish whiskey as I saw none on the shelves behind him…
…and he says to me, he says, “We don’t have Irish whiskey, but we have 47 craft beers and a list of other spirits that you don’t really want and what can I getcha ta eat?”
Now there was a time I’d have stood up and left, but we made the best of a bad situation and drank some bourbon with milk stout and bitters and orange peels and whatnot and had a nice solstice evening after all was said and done.
And what did you do on the last Friday evening before Christmas in 2018?
Snarkmeisters and others have had a whale of a good time mocking PETA‘s latest effort to change public discourse and appetites, but the group reinforces an important concept here:
Words matter, and as our understanding of social justice evolves, our language evolves along with it. Here’s how to remove speciesism from your daily conversations. pic.twitter.com/o67EbBA7H4— PETA: Bringing Home the Bagels Since 1980 (@peta) December 4, 2018
Words do matter. So does the evolution of language.
Words express what we think, or in some cases what we want people to think we think. As language evolves, it reflects changes in our culture, in technology, in how we think or don’t think about religion and justice and politics and pretty much everything else. Our use of language reveals what we think about other humans and about animals, as well. What we think about them and how we treat them are closely related.
Speaking like you always have is easy. So is mocking those who advocate for change that you don’t like or that you don’t think is necessary. So is dismissing certain words and phrases as “politically correct,” a stale, overused term that we all would be better off without. (Evolve, dammit!)
Surely PETA expects mockery and denigration. Just as certainly, they know how to use words to provoke discussion and to make people think. May we continue to evolve toward a civilized society once our present backslide is over. It will require some thinking and careful choosing of words, and maybe a little less barking past each other.