A book I can’t stop thinking about

I often recommend books, but I don’t write full reviews. A couple of sentences, and I’m onto the next thing. This isn’t a proper review, but the novel moved me in a powerful way, and I believe it deserves more than a passing note.

The book is Small Mercies by Dennis Lehane. The setting is Boston … the summer of 1974, when a judge’s order to desegregate schools meant busing students between predominantly white and black neighborhoods would begin in September.  

The key character is Mary Pat Fennessy, an angry, 40-something single mom from the housing projects of Southie, a tight-knit community of Irish Americans. She has already lost a son to drugs, and now her 17-year-old daughter doesn’t come home one night. On that same night, a young black man was killed under mysterious circumstances.

Mary Pat starts to put the mystery together, and her daughter, still missing, is central to the crime. As Mary Pat investigates, she seeks revenge and has some rather unpleasant encounters with the Irish mob.

These people are vile, racist and profane, and it’s sometimes hard to read. No one is hiding their prejudices in this story. Mary Pat is awful and filled with rage but actually quite funny. You want to hate her, but there’s something more to Mary Pat than you realize at first, and she goes after some seriously bad guys.  

This is not your ordinary crime thriller. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s easy to hate these people, but you begin to see how hate is a disease that gets passed down from generation to generation, and you realize with great sadness the damage it does to everyone, and like Mary Pat, you ultimately figure it has to stop somewhere.

An exceptional book. That’s all I can say.

Number 37

In other news, I finished number 37. It’s interesting for me to see how my art has evolved. I started with just abstract designs drawn freehand, because I’m not good are drawing real things freehand. But then I started adding images and linking them together with abstract lines. I’d say the newer stuff is more mural-like.

Most images I draw freehand even if they are a bit crude, but others are simply beyond my skill level. In this piece, I printed out a clipart illustration of a lobster, traced it and transferred it by putting the pencil side down and retracing the lines. It transfers just enough of the pencil marks to give me an image I can work with. Same for the taco, although I did some of the filling freehand.

Finally, I have a brilliant quote to share. A friend from my Army days found me through the blog, and we have been corresponding. It has been so great to catch up after all these years. She is also a cancer survivor, and her ordeal makes mine look like look like a walk in the park.

In her last email, she wrote this:

“Sometimes I think: I lived from cancer–how can I justify my luck when others die. What can I do? But maybe we only owe the world community a little niceness, vaccinations, and not buying any assault weapons.”

It’s good to have smart friends.

Travels with crazy

With apologies to John Steinbeck, I’m calling this post Travels with Crazy. I’d like to say I’m not the crazy one, but yeah, it’s me.

Narrow mountain roads terrify me. Well, all mountain roads terrify me. Maybe all roads.

I think it’s a control thing, because I’m way less terrified if I am driving. My husband, Dale, prefers to drive as we scoot about California in our retirement travels. He is not a bad driver, but I’m constantly worried he’s going to do the big dumb thing, and we’re both going to fly off the edge and die.

I don’t like edges.

He does not appreciate my feedback, even the unspoken suggestions such as the air brake – when I, the passenger, mimic squeezing the brake with my right foot because, well, it feels like we’re going too fast.  

Then there’s the passive-aggressive, “Are you OK?” Yes, damn it, he’s fine. Quit asking.

All this as an introduction to one of our upcoming adventures. Dale has a hankering to visit Death Valley in the summer. He thinks that’s when you’re going to see it and feel it as it is meant to be experienced, and I just figure I’ll be that much closer to death.

I booked us for a couple of nights in July at The Inn at Death Valley, which looks stunning. I have no problems hanging out there. Possibly with a cocktail by the pool. Ah, but then there’s the road trip.

Google maps suggests the quickest route from our home is via 395 through the Sierras. And that’s at nearly eight hours. Oh, and 395 has been described as one of the most dangerous highways in California. Beautiful but dangerous, just like some of the women I used to work with.

We have driven part of 395 before, and I was pretty scared, especially when you’re blinded by the sun. Then there’s all the twisty turns, and I just have to close my eyes.

Dale’s like, oh, cool, look over there!

No, no, I cry. Keep your eyes on the road!

Alternatives include I-5 to Bakersfield at about 10 hours or Route 99 through Fresno at just over nine. That’s if you believe Google maps, and there’s no construction, traffic or accidents.

At first I thought we could take 395, and I would pre-medicate. But then if something horrible happens, I would not be able to save us. I think it’s prudent for both parties to be cognizant and ready to drive at all times. Right? Or is that the crazy talking?

Then I thought, perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if we broke it up. Maybe spend the night in Mammoth, which I understand can be quite trafficky. That also assumes you add the day at each end of the trip. Dale said maybe on the way there, but he’s ready to make a run for it and get home in one day. Mostly to see the cat, but that’s another issue.

The alternative routes are longer, but they seem safer and less stressful to me. I don’t think the suns shines on the freeway like it does in the mountains. And we could spend a night in Bakersfield. Dale gave me the stink eye on that one, but hey, Merle Haggard, Buck Owens … it was good enough for them.

Then I’m thinking, I don’t know, do cars hold up in the heat? How much extra water would be have to carry in case we get stuck somewhere and wait days or weeks to be rescued? Should we update our wills?

Aside from the logistics, we’d both like to go. We’ve been discussing the trip, and Dale has been quite understanding. The man knows crazy when he sees it. While he’s not riddled with irrational fear, he’s not enthusiastic about a marathon drive, either. So, he has his own doubts.

That’s where we are. Still time to commit, still time to cancel. Call me crazy, but it seems like we’ve been here before.

A change of pace

My bum wrists are acting up, so I’m taking a break from golf, even though golf has never been the culprit. Just experimenting a bit to see what makes them feel better. I have a doctor’s appointment in June, so the question is will I last that long without even hitting a few balls?

So far, reading a heavy book hurts more than golf. I’m switching to my Kindle until these wrists are under control.

On the bright side, not playing golf gives me so much time back. It’s like, where did all these hours come from? I’m somewhat a slave to routine, but I’m finding the change of pace is good for the soul. Doing different things makes me think about different things and helps me gain a little perspective in how I spend my precious retirement hours.

I’m walking a lot. This is another experiment to find the best balance of distance and frequency. So far, I think I’m better off keeping the distance to three or four miles but walking every day. I never have pain when I walk, but if I overdo it, the leg on my sciatica side hurts at night and messes with my sleep.

I can sort of see the beginning of the end of my dream to do a long-distance walk. I don’t think my body will hold up. But I can still do a lot, so I’m not complaining.

The NY Times recently featured a recipe for chocolate overnight oatmeal. I made it their way first and then tweaked it to my liking. The taste of chia seeds was fine, but I didn’t like the texture. Same for dates. I adore dates, but they were gummy in this oatmeal.

The chocolate is another variable. I used cocoa powder the first time, and it was delish, but then I saw a bag of cacao powder hanging around the pantry and decided to use that. They are equally yummy. I believe the only difference between the two is the degree of processing.

For one serving, here’s my modification:

In a mason jar, add ½ cup old-fashioned oats, ¾ cup milk, 1 tablespoon of cocoa or cacao powder, 2 tablespoons of maple syrup and ½ teaspoon of vanilla extract. Cover tightly, shake well and refrigerate overnight. I like to add 1 tablespoon of grated coconut.

I had low expectations, but I love this oatmeal.

Speaking of low expectations, I was pleased Trump was found liable in the E. Jean Carroll case. For some people, it was a long shot, but I’ll share a conversation I had after playing golf with my women’s league a few weeks ago.

Our group is a mix politically, as everything is, so we try to be careful about delicate conversations. I was talking with K. about how we wanted Trump held accountable when another woman sat down, overhearing the tail end of the discussion. She was incredulous. After all this time? How could this so-called victim remember anything? Come on!

K. was quiet and then looked up. She said, “I was sexually assaulted 30 years ago, and I remember it like it was yesterday.”

Well, there you go. Mouths open, mouths closed.

By the way, this is irrelevant and possibly offensive, but I liked E. Jean’s hair and the way she dressed. Although I am not nearly as chic, I had a similar style when I was working. Pleated skirts, tights. Heeled Mary Jane’s. Fitted jackets. She made me want to wear skirts again. And bangs! I don’t think I’ll go there, but they looked great on her.

The reality of spring

Spring always disappoints me. By this time, I’m ready for the warmer weather, but the cold and rain can’t quite quit us. My neighbor, high on life and all that, likes to say rain is wonderful! This is the way it’s supposed to be! Relish the cold – it will be hot soon enough!

OK, Earth Girl, message received, but I’m still pissed.

It rained Tuesday, but I walked anyway. I’m trying to increase my mileage as a test to see if my body will hold up for a long-distance walk of some sort. I thought I’d build up slowly (months) and eventually try to walk 10 miles three days in a row. What do you think walkers? Good plan? Bad plan?

I’m on a mission now, and I was like, rain, you can’t stop me! It actually wasn’t so bad.

Yesterday was golf, and it was cold and miserable. I played very badly. My body just won’t move properly when I’m freezing. I’m never happy about bad golf, but I have evolved. I’m no longer embarrassed. Sometimes I play great golf, and sometimes I play horrible golf. What you see is what you get.

Today is another rainy one, so in the spirit of accepting the reality of spring, I decided to make the most of it. A little Covid vaccination to kick things off. We got our second benevolent booster in the morning, but after that, I was a free agent. I went to the library and loaded up on books.

I paused as I walked across the library parking lot and reflected on the reality of nature’s cool wetness fucking up my glasses.

The “Lucky Day” stack had Life on the Mississippi: An Epic American Adventure by Rinker Buck. His previous book, The Oregon Trail, was great, so I have high hopes for this one.

As a crime fiction aficionado, I have been remiss in my Don Winslow reading. He is among the best. I absolutely loved his earlier works but am afraid to read the border trilogy, which deals with the war on drugs. I’m not sure I can get through the violence. I decided to try The Force, which is about the NYPD.

I love the library for many reasons, but I especially love the no-risk element for a book I’m uncertain about.  Oh, and I’m on the waiting list for Small Mercies, Dennis Lehane’s new book. He’s another great crime writer if you haven’t read him yet. Mystic River is maybe his most famous, probably due to the movie, but I would start with A Drink Before the War.

Then I came home and consoled myself with a tuna melt. I made it in a gratin dish without the bread, and it was just delicious. I do pride myself on eating very little processed food and was disappointed to learn canned tuna is considered a processed food. I thought, well, if I’m going to die, a tuna melt is not a bad way to go.

That said, I am going to pay more attention to labels. I thought ice cream was better than, say, candy, since ice cream is a real food, except they add all kinds of shit to it, so it’s not exactly pristine, either. I’m not going to get fanatic about what I eat, but I do want to know what’s fueling the engine. I might still go for death food, but I’ll think of it as informed consent.

After that, I went out into the garage and worked on my art for a bit. That usually makes me feel good.

I really need to clean the bathroom, but it’s not high on my list. I have all those new books, and I’m thinking it’s time to get started.

Requiem for a tent

The tent is going back. After painful thoughtful introspection, we realized we’re both less tolerant of bugs, rain, heat, bears, snakes, outdoor plumbing and other unpleasant elements we used to find charming. The other reason is getting a camp site reservation in California is difficult if not impossible.

I know it can be done, but it takes a more dedicated soul than I to plan six months ahead and set the alarm so you’re up the second the sites go live. And then do that for weeks until you land a spot.

Since I didn’t start six months ago and don’t hop out of bed like I used to, I spent the last several days shuffling through the leftovers. The interface is frustrating, and I came up empty-handed. I even tried the far-flung places you’d think no one would visit, the ones where the mosquitos have names like El Hefe, and they’re booked solid for the foreseeable future.

This little exercise pushed us closer to finding our retirement travel mojo … which is surprisingly difficult for some of us. Dale and I have decided we mostly want to focus on seeing the natural beauty of California and other not-too-distant places, but we’re not going to rough it anymore. Sometimes a simple motel in a nearby town and sometimes a resort. Maybe even privately run glamping sites, where you stay in an Air Stream or something like that.

We’ll be spending more money, for sure, but I think we should be able to keep the costs reasonable. I guess reasonable is a sliding scale. What seems reasonable to me now was shockingly outrageous only a few years ago. But the truth is, like many retirees, we are not spending down our savings. It’s a good problem to have, and we’re ready to kick it up a notch.

I’ve planned a few trips, including Yosemite and Death Valley (yes, in the summer). All from the comforts of a resort. With a bed. A pool. Air conditioning. Restaurants. It was shockingly easy to make a reservation once you decide to throw money at it.

In other news, we had our second Shingles vaccine, and it kicked our butts. We’re both better now, but it was a rough night. I had the chills, and we were both quite achy and miserable. But at least we checked that one off the list.

Camping? Maybe.

The weather has been beautiful, and I’ve been taking full advantage. No job and plenty of time to play! Between golf, walking and swimming, it’s hard to make room for my indoors stuff such as reading, cooking and art. Just so you know, hunting through recipes eats up a lot of time.

I’m not complaining. This is not a bad problem to have. I’m always puzzled when people think we don’t do anything in retirement. Best I can tell, most of us have plenty to keep us amused, and I like to think there’s always room for more.

Or is there?

We used to enjoy camping. Sometimes in a tent and sometimes in a small trailer. But shortly after I retired, we got rid of both and have been hoteling it ever since.

Maybe it was the nice weather or perhaps a bit of folly, but I started daydreaming about peaceful quality time in the wilderness with my loving husband of 44 years and asked him if he still thought about camping. He said yes, and I was pleased, but be forewarned, it goes downhill from here.

We’re car campers and like a somewhat boxy tent we can stand up in with plenty of room for a queen-sized air mattress. I refuse to leave the tent at night to pee, so I have this thing called a luggable loo. It’s a five-gallon bucket with a toilet seat. You buy liners with gel that dries everything up and then dispose of it in the morning.

It works great, but Dale is quite fussy about the location of my loo. It can’t be in the main part of the tent, and not all tents have two rooms. Our old one was perfect, but when it wore out, we couldn’t find a suitable replacement. I’ve been looking since the beginning of the pandemic and finally found a tent at REI that I thought would work.

Last weekend, we headed over to REI and bought it.

On the way home, I said, “I’m kind of excited.” He said, “I guess.”

I’m like, what? I spent years looking for a tent, and that’s the best you can cough up?

I willed myself to relax, figuring he’d get with the program soon enough. However, I said, let’s not take it out of the bag until we’re absolutely positively sure we want to camp. It’s OK if we don’t. We just need to be honest with each other. We left it on the dining room table with the receipt in case it has to go back.

After a couple of days, I asked him what he thought about the whole idea. He finally confessed he does want to camp, but he doesn’t want to give up hotels, either. Well, that’s easy enough. I assured him we can do both. However, I said don’t take the tent out of the bag just yet.

I began to research locations and asked him if he had any preferences. Mountains? Beach? He said whatever. Not exactly the big bold clue I was looking for. I was on my own.

The way I figured it, we had a cold winter and the snow is starting to melt, so I thought June was too early for the mountains. The beach was perfect. These northern California beaches are beautiful and kind of cold, but it’s not like we’re out frolicking in the water, and you don’t have to worry about bears or snow.

I presented him with a list of beaches, and he said, “The beach? It’s pretty damp this time of year. We won’t enjoy being in a tent.”

After I accused him of being Big Bird – the one who waits while all the work is being done and then comes in and craps all over everything, I realized he’s probably right. I said I need more time to think.

Um, don’t take the tent out of the bag just yet.

So, the tent was $599. If we camp three times a year, we’ve pretty much recouped our costs if you compare it to a hotel room. I could probably find ideal tent camping spots for each of the summer months – July, August and September. Nothing wrong with being fair-weather campers.

We get outside in nature. We change our routine. We eat great camping food. We snuggle in our zip-together sleeping bags. All is good.

I’m thinking we will keep the tent. And we will find some lovely places to camp with reasonably predictable weather. As I continue to research options, I explained all this to Dale, who happily agreed. I’m feeling pretty good about the whole thing, but I said, let’s think about this for a few more days. Give Big Bird time to reveal his true thoughts.

Lord, what we do for relationships. I think it gets harder as we age, but that’s me. Anyway, we have reached consensus. I see camping in our future, but just so you know, the tent is still in the bag.

Easygoing

A few weeks ago, I got wind of an art exhibition for veterans in my county. I debated whether to apply, partly because I’m not sure critics would view my stuff as “real art.” Anyway, I did apply for the exhibit, which is in May. They accepted me, but then I was miserable for a month worrying and fretting about how others might react to my embellished wood scraps.

I tried to tell myself, do the thing that scares you and all that, but life is already pretty scary, and I don’t need to pile it on. It’s not a popular sentiment, but these days I’m all about making things easier. I fought the good fight and made it to retirement. I used to think big deal. Now, I think, hell yeah, big deal.

Retirement, they say, comes in phases. I’m in the easygoing phase and am doing my best to bypass the harder-than-it has-to-be-phase.

Although I rarely quit anything, I mean, do it until it hurts, I withdrew from the exhibit and feel great about the decision. Art is just a thing I do, no more, no less. I enjoy sharing it with you, but I don’t need to beat the streets seeking new audiences.   

Number 36

I was working on Number 36 whilst churning through all this, and I was so grumpy, trying to make it better. Normally, my mantra, is hey, it was just a piece of scrap wood, now it’s something else. So what if it’s not perfect? But thinking about judges and shit messed me up. I simply need to hang out in my garage and do what speaks to me.

So, number 36. What can I say? I love cats.  

Speaking of easygoing, I hate buying new stuff, but I do appreciate tools that make jobs less of a chore. The weather is starting to get really nice, so I took it upon myself to clean up the patio furniture. I used a brush and garden hose to get some of the dirt off, and then it was all over. You see the difference, clean versus dirty, and what can you do but keep going?

I was worried about my back and wrists, which are both sensitive. I called to Dale, who was conveniently absent for the ritual washing of the patio furniture. I asked about a power washer. Would this clean up without a brush if I had such a tool? He said yes, and I said let’s go.

Off we went to Ace, where we killed it with a credit card and dragged it home. It was pretty easy to set up and worked like a champ. I probably saved my back and my wrists and maybe Dale’s life, because you know, cleaning patio furniture – so not his thing.

Then there’s the lawn. We have a small patch of lawn in the backyard. It used to be thin and scraggly, and we I mowed it with a little push mower. Then late last fall, we had a yard makeover and got new sod. This is the real deal. Thick and hardy.

Here’s the agreement I made. I will mow and blow, but that’s it. Nothing else. Nada. Either we throw money at it, or it’s Dale’s job. Mostly that means we threw money at it and have a service that takes care of the rest. Just another marriage-saver tip from Retirement Confidential.

The new grass had time to grow over the winter, but I hadn’t mowed it yet. When the rain finally stopped, I got out the push mower and almost collapsed. I couldn’t get it through the grass. I did do it, but I had to use my whole body and stop several times to catch my breath. I thought, well, the grass is just thicker because of the rain.

A week later it was a bit easier to mow but still awful. I told Dale I thought we should get a small electric mower. He said nah, it would probably get easier. He reminded me of my father, who used to smoke and drop ashes on the floor, suggesting it was good for the carpet.

I said, OK, will you please try it once and see what you think? And that was when we decided to buy an electric lawn mower. It’s small thing, light as a feather and whips through that grass with ease.

Key word. Ease.  

A hint of spring is in the air

We went to Napa for a one-nighter, and it was lovely, but I don’t think we’ll do it that way again. We stayed in downtown Napa, which was not cheap. The restaurants didn’t excite us, so we ate overpriced burgers at the rooftop bar in our hotel.

One highlight was the Silver Oak winery, which is quite famous for their cabernet sauvignon. The whole experience was ridiculously expensive but thoroughly enjoyable. We now have a special bottle to go with next year’s Christmas roast beef.

The other highlight was the spice shop at Oxbow Market. I’ve been on the hunt for fennel pollen, and they had it. I wanted it specifically for this recipe. I hope you can get through the Washington Post firewall to access it. Or email me, and I’ll send you a PDF.

Anyway, this rigatoni dish with sausage and fennel caused quite the fuss when the Bidens both ordered it at a restaurant. Some people have a thing about not ordering the same food off the menu. Dale and I order whatever we want, and actually, we often order the same thing. I didn’t see what the big deal was.

But I made the dish, and it was exceptional. This was the first time I’ve used tomato passata – pureed strained tomatoes sold in a bottle. Also the first time for fennel pollen, but we love fennel, so I wasn’t scared. The clerk double-bagged it, and yet my purse smelled like fennel for days. It was fantastic.

I would buy fennel pollen air freshener.

As for other wine country trips, maybe I’d stay in Santa Rosa next time and do tastings in Sonoma. We still haven’t been to Paso Robles, so that’s on the docket. Of course, we live in great wine country, so there’s no shortage of options.

I’ve been trying to avoid politics, but sometimes it’s in me, and it got to come out. Please feel free to move along while I share a few of my left-coast perspectives.

Early yesterday I read about Disney snookering DeSantis and thought it couldn’t get any better than that.

While I do understand Disney is no saint, as I understand it, DeSantis wanted to punish them for supporting LGBTQ rights after he passed the “don’t say gay” law. The governor hand-picked a board of conservatives and fundamentalist Christians to control much of the Disney World footprint in Florida. But Disney quietly did things by the book with public meetings and notices, all toward essentially stripping the new board of its power.

DeSantis and his folks didn’t even see it coming. I’m sure some sort of battle will ensue. There’s probably no moral high ground. In the end, it seems most things boil down to profits. However … Disney spoke up in support of the LGBTQ community, so I’m calling it a win for progressive values. And a loss for DeSantis, who in many ways, is scarier than Trump.

Which brings me to my earlier question … can it get any better than this? Well, it could, but I’m delighted Trump has been indicted or as he wrote on his social media platform, INDICATED. In the grand scheme of things, do I think this is the worst of his bad deeds? No, but at least we now have some evidence no one is above the law. He may very well be found innocent, and that’s fine, but at least he’ll go to trial like everyone else accused of such crimes.

To say he has a get out of jail free card just because he was president is unAmerican. You want to be a patriot? I don’t know – maybe you could join the military or pay your taxes.

As for indications, I hope this is the first of many.

Then, on top of it all, the sun came out! We got a blockbuster year of rain and snow to put a dent in the drought, and now we’re headed for some lovely weather. To celebrate, I thought I’d buy a six-pack of Bud Light. You can have all the fancy wines in the world, but nothing says spring like Bud Light.  

In other words, if it’s Bud Light, you must indict.

The upside of losing

I’m a wee bit obsessive about games and hold myself to a high standard. Fear of failure is a real affliction, and I’m not sure I have that, but I do dread losing at anything, and it seems to have gotten worse since I retired. Not getting those wins at work, so I work hard at my play time just to see if I measure up.

Seriously, it’s a curse. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I look at the light outside to see if I can guess what time it is. And yes, I feel good when I get it right.

I especially dread playing bad golf. More so since I retired. When I was working, I could explain it away by saying I don’t get to play enough. That excuse doesn’t fly anymore.

It’s not that I mind other people playing better or winning. But I’m mad at myself for not being as good and just want to go off alone to sulk. On the bright side, maybe I’m finally starting to reverse the trend. Last week our women’s league played on a muddy course saturated by rains, and it was tough. My partners and I agreed ahead of time we would laugh at bad shots.

Let’s just say we laughed a lot. I posted one of my worst scores since I learned to play the game more than 25 years ago. When we got to the parking lot, one of the women said, let’s have a drink for making it through that! She had a little flask and plastic glasses and poured us each a tiny shot of butterscotch liquor (which is delicious). We drank it right there by our cars.

Then I joined the group inside rather than exiting the scene with my head hung low, and we had a pretty good time laughing about how horribly we played. I have to say it was a much better way to end a bad round than my usual pity-fest.

The very next morning, as I was playing Wordle in bed, I lost a game and broke my 159-day streak. I thought I’d be devastated, but I surprised myself. I actually felt relieved. Perhaps the universe was sending me a message. Play for fun – not everything has to be a test.

I wouldn’t say I have a pathological diagnosis, and you probably don’t either, but for some of us, the fear of failure can be greater than the excitement of winning. And it holds us back.

Retirement is as good a time as any to try to recover at least a smidgeon of that wild abandon we had before life knocked us around. However, I don’t want it all back, because I seriously did some dumb shit when I wasn’t scared of anything.

After seeing the upside of losing, I feel kind of free. More relaxed. I’ve always dreaded a complete collapse of my golf game, and it happened. It wasn’t all that bad. The experience helped me understand it’s one thing to fear losing. The trick is to shrug it off and work harder at losing the fear.

Readin’ in the rain

I will always remember the fall of 2017 because I had just retired and read all of Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch books in order. Such a simple pleasure but hunkering down at home to read after a lifetime of work felt like a precious gift.

That was before the pandemic, before we discovered the dark side of hunkering down. But this staying at home thing … I still sort of like it. To commemorate the miserable rain-soaked winter of 2023, I am burning through all 19 of John Lescroart’s Dismas Hardy books in order. I would describe them as legal suspense with family intrigue, hardboiled criminal investigations and some courtroom drama.

Oh, and the setting is San Francisco.

Early on, I tried to take breaks and read other books in between, but I finally gave up and committed to the blitz. I’ll start number 16 later today and have the rest on hand, courtesy of our local library. I should be done before the rain clears later this week. No one can stop me now.

I’ll be sad when it’s over, the book marathon not the rain, but at least I can diversify my reading material again. However, I do think my compulsive nature rather enjoys the singular focus of one good series at a time. I’ve become immersed in this fictional world, and it’s been a pleasurable escape from the real one. I may just do this again with a new series.

Number 35

On the local art scene, I finally finished number 35. I’m not sure why, but this piece was a bit of a slog. I was so happy to spray on that last coat of lacquer and immediately went to work on number 36. I’m already way more excited about him than I was poor number 35, who never felt the love.

So, today marks 24 years since I was diagnosed with stage 3 primary peritoneal cancer, which is virtually the same as ovarian. I am in a small group of long-term survivors who have been free of disease since their initial treatment. I don’t know why I’ve been so lucky, but I share this information from time to time because somebody somewhere needs to know good outcomes are possible.