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a letter to Gabriel

Published October 28, 2017 by The Merida Review


A) I hate facebook. I hate writing messages on facebook. Do you use email? Cause that would be way better for me.

B) My computer has been acting weird. The curser jumps around when you’re trying to type. I will look up and can’t find where I’ve been typing at. I have to stare at it all the time. Sometimes it erases whole paragraphs before I can stop my fingers. It’s maddening, and it has slowed down everything I do.

C) And we (I have a partner in this) are starting business #3 so I’ve been crazy busy and way stressed out. (I sure could use you around to sit and drink wine with. It would be heaven.) Business #1 is writing books, but that doesn’t make any money. Or very little money. Business #2 is selling used books, which is going well, really, but it hasn’t been long enough to really make money at it. I am at the breaking even point. Give me a year or two. I just need to hang in there till it starts making enough profit to support me. And so, Business #3. Krystal, who is my granddaughter, suggested that we start an Etsy business. I sew and she does crafts. She makes refrigerator magnets. Do you know Etsy? It’s a site where people sell stuff they make, or that’s what it’s supposed to be. I’ve been making purses, experimenting with different kinds. I don’t know how it’s going to go. We haven’t actually started an Etsy page yet, we’ve been selling to friends and we’ve signed up to do a craft show the beginning of December, so I’ve been sewing and sewing, trying to get enough stuff to fill up a table at the craft show.

One thing I’ve discovered is that when you’re making things to sell, you pay WAY more attention to details. My topstitching has gotten really good, I am way more precise than I was. I see things I didn’t see before. So if nothing else, my sewing has gotten WAY better. And I’ve learned how to make all sorts of things I wouldn’t have, I’m experimenting with techniques and doing things over and over till I get them right.

But I don’t know how to price things. I’ve been doubling what my expenses are, the fabric and the zippers or magnetic snaps, and the interfacing. I try to add up everything that goes into a project and then double it for my price. So things that are hard (I love smocking! But it takes forever!) I’m not making any more money for. I guess I need to start selling things before I worry about how much I get for them. I’d like to make dolls to sell, but I take so long with the dolls. I only make them for me.

So that’s what I’ve been doing lately. Well there’s the band, too. We’re getting ready to record again, so I’m trying to come up with some songs. Finish up all the half written things. We’re supposed to play at an outdoor festival tonight and I found a costume at a charity shop, it’s an Indian outfit (not cowboys and indians, but India Indian), but it’s too cold out to wear it. We’re supposed to dress up since it’s Halloween. I walked the dogs this morning and it was rainy and cold and YUCK. My fingers were too cold to play guitar by the time I got home again. I don’t have high hopes for this festival. The things we do for art.

Gosh, I almost cried when I heard your voice. I miss you so much! I miss the whole gang. You must think I’m a real loser because I didn’t write back for so long. I kept wanting to have a lot of time so I could write everything I’m thinking and I never have much time, so I finally decided it was time to sit down and do it anyways now.

I am fine. The dogs are fine. The cat is a little devil (I mean she’s fine, too). Xtobo is starting to show her age. Sometimes she’s cranky for no reason, so I assume she doesn’t feel good. Lucy is her little happy self. She sleeps a lot. She’s NEVER cranky. And I have a new dog you’ve never seen. He’s a pug mix and his name is Archie Goodwin, for a character in a mystery series I like. Of course I only call him Archie Goodwin when he’s in trouble. He’s just Archie the rest of the time. He’s still a puppy, really, maybe about a year old. Someone was moving, a friend of a friend, and they couldn’t take their dog and somehow I ended up with it. You know how that goes. He’s a really nice dog, though, so I’m not sorry.

I haven’t been writing very much lately because I’ve been sewing so much. I’m not sure how much I like that. I enjoy sewing, but I don’t want it to take over my life. On the other hand, though, if it keeps me from having to work at Walmart, I’d much rather sew.

I thought about actually writing you a letter and sticking it in the mail, but I know how you hate trying to read my handwriting. And it would take forever to get to you in Mexico. So I hope this is ok.

I miss you! I miss you! I miss you! I miss you!!!!!



Has anyone seen Nero Wolfe lately?

Published May 8, 2017 by The Merida Review

Have the Nero Wolfe books really been out of print for 20 years? I’ve been trying to find out, and the last ones I see listed for sale anywhere were printed in the 90s. How can this be?

I pride myself on having a complete set, but somehow when I moved from Mexico to Ohio, a few of them went astray. Or are hiding here, in the total confusion of my makeshift bookshelves – getting some decent shelves are high on the list, and organizing my books! I’ve been reading through them all, in order – I do this occasionally – and am on the final 10, and I can’t find Trio for Blunt Instruments anywhere! I’ve crawled around on the floor, looking through all the piles and etc, I’ve balanced on the couch to check the uppermost regions, and can’t find it. Fer de Lance was gone, too, but I was able to borrow a copy.

My poor books are falling apart as I read them, covers snapping off (they’re just paperbacks and I don’t think the 10 year stay in hot, hot, humid Merida did them any favors), so I’ve been keeping an eye out for replacements at library sales, flea markets, etc, and there aren’t any! Thus the research into when the books were most recently published.

I find this quite alarming. How are new readers going to discover Nero and Archie and Fritz, etc, if there are no books out there? We are in agreement, right? New readers SHOULD be discovering these books, correct? I mean, yeah, the books aren’t perfect, they have a few flaws, but I think the assets outweigh the defects many times over. Right?

Meanwhile, I’m only one book away from Trio for Blunt Instruments, and can’t decide whether to suspend my Nero Wolfe-athon until I find one, or just skip over it. This is driving me absolutely crazy. I could spend $10 on ABE or Amazon buying one, I guess. (Also alarming is that there aren’t THAT many used copies available.

Perhaps we need to start a Save Nero Wolfe movement. Take this as a rallying cry. Bring him back! Publish those books again! So people can buy them and donate them to library sales or sell them at garage sales and I can rebuild my poor, falling apart, incomplete collection. I’m not getting any younger, you know.

Some thoughts on shopping at small businesses

Published January 20, 2016 by The Merida Review

which I didn’t really understand till I had a small business of my own….

For most people, shopping is all about price and selection. They like stores that are open long hours and have giant parking lots. Small businesses can’t offer that. Many mom and pop shops are run solely be mom and pop. They stock what they can afford to stock and because their orders are small, they don’t get much in the way of discounts from suppliers. Their competitors offer items for cheaper than they can buy them. They work all the hours they can manage, but they can’t afford a staff. If they do have a staff they have to pay worker’s compensation and such. The only people who start businesses today are fools, but there are always some starry eyed dreamers to step in and replace businesses who’ve failed before them. The odds aren’t good, but there is always someone driving through a blighted downtown area thinking to themselves, wouldn’t that be a nice location for a little gift shop? Or book shop. Or coffee shop. A yarn shop. A train shop. Whatever.

Towns should roll out the red carpet for these foolish entrepreneurs. Residents should line up at the doors. And a few do. Most people, however, offer odds on how many months the newcomer will stay in business. Opening a store is expensive. Keeping the store open is even more expensive, and a business needs years to break even, let alone to make a profit.

Oh sure, we hear success stories.

Perhaps, you are someone who’s complained about the empty downtown storefronts, or even wished for interesting little shops. Perhaps you’ve come to realize that shopping at the mall, or shopping in chain stores doesn’t really satisfy your soul.

Every fall, our small town paper runs an editorial telling us to shop locally and support our local businesses. They never tell us why and they never tell us how. In fact, throughout the rest of the year, they don’t particularly support small business. Mom and pop stores can’t afford to advertise much, after all. And newspapers need advertising revenue.

Why, indeed, shop locally? What do we get out of it? It’s inconvenient. It costs more. It’s harder to find the things we want.

Some stores close with a whimper. Others are institutions you thought you could always depend on, and they are failing because they can’t compete with the chains, with the internet. So many businesses closed without us noticing, with us enchanted by the Targets and the Barnes and Nobles, that perhaps some of us haven’t noticed yet that we’ve lost anything.

Every week I make a grocery list and I shop at 3 stores. I start with the smallest store first and buy everything I can there. Then I go to a larger, locally owned supermarket. About once a month I trek over to the big chain grocery store and stock up on the things I have to buy there and can’t get anywhere local. I go to a lot of trouble to shop locally. I probably pay more for individual items, but I have a grocery budget and I stop when I get to my limit, so in the end I’m just as far ahead.

I don’t go so far as to buy things I don’t need or want just to support local shops. But you can generally find something you can buy on a regular basis at a certain place.

You have to take the time to do some exploring. You need to wander through places and look. Maybe one new shop a week? Sometimes the person behind the counter is too solicitous. Sometimes crochety. Sometimes downright bitchy. Small business owners have to work days when they’re sick, when their cats die, when their car wouldn’t start and the repair shop said it’s not worth fixing, better just haul it to the junkyard. They have to work because they are often times the only staff, and the store won’t be open if they don’t come in. Lots of times people who start businesses don’t have much in the way of people skills to begin with. You, as the customer, have to work with that. You can at least give them a couple chances to see if a shopping relationship blossoms.

Sometimes shop owners get a little surly after being criticised by browsers. You have to earn their trust.

Once I bought a pile of books at a little bookshop and the owner was in tears when I gave her my check. She said, “You don’t know what a bad week this has been.” I was buying a lot, spending a couple hundred dollars, but then books are my weakness. This was several years ago. She is still in business, and she took me out to lunch last time I was in her store.

Let’s say you want a cd that’s a bestseller. Certainly you can find that at a locally owned business. If you want one that’s more obscure, perhaps you can have it special ordered for you, but I’ve not had good results with this. I work my way up the food chain (er, store chain) and yes, I order things from Amazon when I can’t find them elsewhere. But I try to support my local shops first. I’m not going to stop buying music I like because I can’t buy it at a mom & pop shop, however. I do try the special ordering thing a few times before I give it up, though.

There are basically 4 tiers of store types. The tiny one person or one couple operations, the bigger locally owned businesses with a few or several employees, the locally owned franchises of nationally known businesses, and then the stores that are owned by people or companies far far away. I figure the smaller the business, the more they need me, so I try to shop there first. Then I work my way up. Even when I’m supporting a store owned by some rich guy, I figure it’s better to support the local rich guy than the non local one. The local rich guy will bank in town, pay taxes in town, and hopefully spend a lot of his big bucks locally. Maybe he even supports some of the tiny businesses. Who knows? The out of town ones definitely don’t.

My little support isn’t enough to keep any business out of bankruptcy, but there are other people out there who think like me, and if there are enough of us, we can fill up those empty downtown storefronts and keep our cities thriving.

On ghosts, orchids and martinis

Published January 11, 2016 by The Merida Review

I am not scientific. I’m not detail oriented. My projects are hit or miss affairs. All passion and mistakes.

I have a small greenhouse. I am pretty sure we spent more to build this greenhouse than we could afford, and definitely more than my talent justifies. I can keep plants alive, usually. I can sometimes get them to bloom. I don’t even aspire to anything beyond that.

I have a motley assortment of plants, some donated, some that I don’t even like, that just won’t die, of nice things I couldn’t really afford, of plants that I am somehow wildly successful with. I can never tell ahead of time which ones those will be.

My greenhouse is on the second floor of our house, because it’s the only place we had room to build one. Having it up there creates its own set of problems; we have way more light than we need. Our floor was supposed to be totally waterproof and yet we’ve noticed some dark spots on the kitchen ceiling below. It can get so hot in there it’ll kill all the plants, so I leave the door open, and then we can’t raise the humidity. And yet I walk in there and I am in a different world. I feel my shoulders relax when I stand in there. It’s fall right now and things are still really really clean since I’ve just brought the plants back in, and it is just so, so beautiful. I am at peace in there. It’s not something you can explain to outsiders. There is nothing so decadently wonderful when you are stressed, as a cold, strong martini taken up to the greenhouse. You can look for bugs. You should look for bugs. Bug hunting is the best stress reliever there is! And it needs to be done, doesn’t it? Why not do it with a martini in your hand? (If you find bugs, the martini helps you cope.)

I bought my first orchid at the grocery store. I didn’t kill it. That was all it took. I plunged into orchids with both arms outstretched, with my heart wide open, with my rose colored glasses turned up full strength.

After years of study, I don’t think there’s anything on earth more beautiful than a cattleya in bloom. I tell myself I shouldn’t be so common and I try to like odd, offbeat little orchids, but when a catt comes into bloom, I turn to mush inside. I have a fragrant one in bloom right now, I moved it to my bedside table. I take pictures and show them to other people, but I don’t need to share my actual orchids with them. No one understands what goes into getting them to bloom.The kind of people who come to my greenhouse are happy with a geranium in bloom. Why waste the real thing?

I keep buying them and buying them, and they are just the ugliest things the rest of the year, but I watch them and wait, and when those new branches come out I look down in the center every day hoping for a bud to come bursting out. Like I say, I just blunder through gardening, without being in actual control. I battle the forces with my little store of moderate understanding and makeshift supplies, and every now and then the stars and the moon align, and the heavens shift, and I get an actual blossom and 7/8 of the time when I get the blossom, I’m home free! It’ll bloom. There is an even deeper need for martinis when a cattleya bud withers. Another whole year wasted. (They take that long to forgive.)

Other orchids bloom faithfully, and I appreciate them (I have lots of photos!) but for me, there is nothing like a cattleya.

I need to introduce my mother to you here. My mother was a very difficult person. She was always right. She was so right she didn’t feel the need to listen to anyone else’s ideas. Early on I developed the habit of leaping before I looked, because if I asked her what she thought of an idea, it was always wrong. Because it was my idea. I became a difficult child, but hey, you have to cope somehow. I felt as though I were smothering under her rule. I felt this desperate need to express myself somehow. I made mistakes, and every mistake proved to my mother anew that she was right and I was wrong.

I left home when I was 17, and I didn’t look back. I didn’t go very far, but I needed my own space. It naturally didn’t come easily, but I built a life for myself, a home, a family. I didn’t cut her off, but I kept her at a distance. It was the only way I could survive.

Her last 30 years, after my dad died, she was depressed and shut-in and afraid the rest of the world would do something evil if she let anyone get close to her. I lived only 20 miles away so I was the one she turned to for everything. The older she got the worse it was. Dementia, paranoia, obsessive compulsiveness. Added on to her heart condition, diabetes, and many other health things. I was the one who had to make decisions and then face her wrath because she wasn’t able to understand why I did the stuff I did. It had always been a difficult relationship and in the end it was pretty awful. I had to put her against her will in assisted living facility. I had to sell her house to pay for it. Lots of martinis needed.

I am a book person. I love books; I am obsessed by them. I have shelves stuffed with them. Nero Wolfe introduced me to orchids. I don’t think it was the orchids themselves, so much as it was the sacred time he spent in his greenhouse, in a world of his own. When I bought my first orchid, I was amazed I was able to keep it alive. I had always grown plants, had always had window sills crowded with greenery, a grow light in my basement, glass shelves built in front of windows. The greenhouse wasn’t that big a step. Orchids began to obsess me. I think cattleyas make me feel like I am a real success. I am not a gifted grower.

My first cattleya success was a plant purchased, belive it or not, at a flea market. On my budget, I had to buy tiny plants and wait 5 years or so till they were blooming size (some I’m still waiting on and I’ve lost track of how old they are). I go to lots of flea markets and auctions because my day job (the one that has to support the greenhouse) is to buy and sell old books (a natural progression from reading them). At one I spotted two big catts, and I bought them. The booth proprieters (I have no idea what kind of things they really sold), had orchids at home and had to sell some to make some space. These were two big healthy plants. They used peanut shells in their potting mix. I’ve never run across these people again, (and I’ve looked!) but those two plants were just gorgeous when they bloomed, and if I did find them, I’d give them both a big kiss for letting me own such wonderful things.

A few years back things were getting really stressful with my mom. I did my best to keep my real life going the way it was supposed to, the bookstore, my plants, my family, the band I was in, but I got pretty stretched out. To make things worse, I had this feeling like my dad was always watching over my shoulder to see how well I was taking care of my mom. He died years and years ago, so it was his ghost I imagined, I guess. It was actually pretty comforting. My mom and dad were so close that my sister and I always felt we were unneeded. Like they loved each other so much there wasn’t enough left for anyone else. My mom wasn’t an easy person before he died, but afterwards her whole world fell apart. At this point in the story, however, she had an infection and was on some medication that made her so ill she had to be hospitalized. She was in a skilled nursing section of a nursing home, and she was cantankerous and uncooperative, and the nurses hated dealing with her, and I would slink in apologetically to visit. And then hold imaginary conversations with my dad in the car on my way home.

One day in the greenhouse, there was a huge bud on one of my big gorgeous flea market cattleyas. I was sure it hadn’t been there before. Like I said before, I keep them under close surveylance. It was like a miracle. I thought my dad had something to do with it to help me get through. It bloomed a few days later and it was so, so wonderful. I can’t tell you how it brightened up my life. The thought then occurred to me that if I was a normal daughter of a normal mother, I would be taking that plant to brighten up her hospital room. Sometimes I get depressed thinking how it’s not fair that I never had a normal mother. The what did I do to deserve this kind of thing. My first reaction was that there was no way I would ever give my best orchid to my mother. The second reaction was guilt that I was the kind of person to have the first reaction. That night I had the little devil on one shoulder and the little angel on the other kind of dilemma with one telling me how I would act if I were a good person and the other telling me what I wanted to hear. And then the feeling of my dad standing in the corner watching it all. He won, of course. I couldn’t let my dad down. He was a good guy.

I took the orchid. I put it on her bedside table. I said, here Mother this is a plant that just bloomed I thought would cheer up your room. She didn’t even really look at it.

I think it was called Show Business. I remember it as pink. It really was spectacular. That I know. As I drove home I didn’t have any conversation with my dad. I didn’t have anything to say to him. I figured I’d never see that orchid again. The flower would fall off and they’d throw it away. My mother would try to get out of bed and knock it over and break it. They wouldn’t water it and it had no natural light and no humidity and it would wither away. Someone would swipe it.

The next day when I went in to visit, my mother was actually in a good mood. She actually mentioned my orchid and said that it was really nice. A nurse came in and smiled and made a big fuss about it. Evidentally ever since I took it in, people had been remarking on it and treating my mom like she was something special. She liked that. She actually was nice back to them. She was actually getting better care because of that orchid sitting there. I apologized to my dad on the way home. He was right. It was worth it. It was a good thing.

But my greenhouse seemed very empty. It’s not as though I am the kind of gardener who has a vast collection of blooming plants (or even two) to give away left and right. I felt sorry for myself even as I told myself I was doing a good thing. But magic happened twice. The other big plant sprouted a bud. It was December. They aren’t supposed to bloom in December. The second orchid was called Hazel Somebody’s Sunset. Pink and purple with yellow in its throat. I’ve managed to find my photo of that one. A fuzzy polaroid, but proof, in case anyone needs it.

Now it is 4 or 5 years later, and I am looking back skeptically on the ghost thing, kind of embarrassed to admit out loud that I thought that my dead dad was helping me get through a difficult time, even though I would like very much to believe that after we’re dead, something of us sticks around, and is able to help people out. But I am looking at this logically now. I was really stressed out then, really scared, and really did not want to be the person in charge of an uncooperative (and that is putting it mildly) mother. I was seeing things I wanted to see. I was reading things into situations with a simple logical answer.

And yet.

My mother didn’t get better. Things got worse and worse and worse until she finally died. It was the dementia. They couldn’t tell up front exactly what was wrong and what would happen with her. I hoped it was alzheimer’s, because she would forget who I was, and not blame everything on me. I am not sure how I hung in there, but I did. I’m ok now. But here is the ending of this story, the final bit of weirdness in the whole thing: Like I said, I am pretty well able to keep plants alive. Show Business bloomed again for me the next year. It looked gorgeous and healthy. My mind wandered a bit during this time and perhaps my plants didn’t get the best of care. But that one orchid, after she died, began looking frail and within a few months was totally dead. My other plants were ok. Explain that to me.

So now, like I say, I have this deep purple cattleya blooming. We’ve moved on. It still turns my insides to mush. The greenhouse is still a place where I step through into another world, but there aren’t any ghosts anywhere. I am still a third rate orchid grower. I would never want an expert to come in and see how I do things. I don’t mind. I can cope. I won’t invite you up to my bedroom to look at my lovely, lovely catt, but hey, I can send pictures.

And that’s my story.