April 6, 2022

Here’s Lookin’ At You, Kid

I watched the classic movie “Casablanca” last night. What a storyline. A simple plot, yet very complicated at the same time. What would YOU do if you had been Rick Blaine—hiding important documents from the Nazis, papers that would allow two people to escape to America?

So I’ve been thinking about ol’ Rick. The girl he adored and wanted to marry had walked out on him in Paris, leaving him standing in the rain at the train station. Very dramatic. Now a morose club owner in Casablanca, he can’t even bear to hear their song; Sam the pianist is forbidden to play it. Then she walks into his club one day, husband by her side. They want those papers Rick is hiding. What’s poor Rick to do?

Rick Blaine is not really a very likable character—even when he helps a young couple down on their luck, his attitude is pretty much, “Okay, I helped you, now get out.”

When I write my stories, it’s always challenging to write flawed heroes. I prefer them to be happy and healthy and pretty much perfect. But we all know that in real life, real people carry real baggage and make real mistakes. To ignore that would be naive. A syrupy, unrealistic story would result. Even fictional heroes are real people (okay, not really, but you know what I mean). Unless they are superheroes, of course, but that’s another genre entirely.

In 1942, the writers of “Casablanca” gave us a hero with many flaws and not all that likeable. The movie won three Oscars. Eighty years later, we are still drawn to the story of poor Rick and his unhappy life. Like Rick, we understand that doing the right thing is not necessarily the thing that will make us happy. But did he make the right choice? Do we?

Here’s looking at you, kid.

 March 3, 2022

Her Name Was Wendy

They found her body in a field. Her young life snuffed out after just fifteen years. Her name was Wendy.

I knew Wendy in junior high. A year older than me, she was a student assistant in my P.E. class. I remember admiring her beautiful red fingernails. She was a quiet girl but friendly enough. She lived just a couple of blocks from me in a middle-class neighborhood filled with ranch-style brick homes.

A year later, she had moved on to high school and I didn’t see her anymore. Suddenly one day her name was in the news. Wendy was missing. She never showed up at school that day. Hadn’t contacted her friends.

For several days the police talked to people—hundreds of them. They sent out search parties. Made a lot of phone calls. Wendy wasn’t the type of kid who would just run off. Something was definitely wrong. There was a massive effort to find her.

And then they found her body seventy miles from her home. In that field.

Her murderer was found and arrested a couple of months later. Was he a creepy old guy who had been stalking her? Was he a serial killer who grabbed her off the street? Was he someone who held a personal grudge against her?

None of the above. He was another kid from our neighborhood. Just eighteen years old. He lived a block away from her, attended the same high school. He had lured her into his house when she passed by on her way to school. He used a ruse about some of her family’s mail being delivered to his house, could he give it to her? After raping and murdering this young girl and dumping her body in a field, he went on about his life. He even joined in on conversations at school about the missing girl. His closest friends had no idea.

Their buddy had taken a beautiful, innocent life.

When you are just fourteen years old, this kind of news can really rattle you. It didn’t seem possible that someone I had known from school was dead. Even more difficult to believe, she had been murdered. Even more difficult than that was comprehending that she had been murdered by another teenager who had probably walked the same streets, played in the same park, went to the same hangout after school for snacks, used the same library…as me.

After all, I walked to school every day, too. What if some innocent-looking guy had said he needed to give me some misdelivered mail?

Cringe-worthy thoughts, those.

I wonder if the horrific incident in my neighborhood set the stage for my interest in crime-solving. Oh, I’m no police officer—I’m not near brave enough to wear that noble hat as several of my family members do. But I find true-crime stories in books and on TV fascinating. I guess that’s why I included a murder in my book “The Walls Have Ears.”

The murderer in my neighborhood spent just fourteen years in prison, by the way. But that’s a story for another day.

My family didn’t talk much about Wendy’s murder even though it happened about a block from our home. Things were kept more hush hush from kids back then. I think in today’s society, families talk about these kinds of things more. Kids seem to be more aware of the wickedness in our world than we were. I wonder…does that make them safer?

 January 3, 2022

My Hero

I’m married to a hero. On this day eight years ago, he performed his sworn duty as he was trained and ended up saving his own life by stopping a deadly threat. He saved the life of all the other police officers on the scene of this threat. He saved the life of our precious daughter, one of those officers.

When he used to come home after his shift, I would often ask him, “Who were you a hero for today?” He would tell me what he had done that day, downplaying the hero aspect. I would always remind him that he was a hero to those people – the woman whose abusive husband was taken to jail, the young man he talked out of taking his own life, the son who needed to go to rehab to get off the junk. And many, many, many other scenarios, of course. Twenty-seven years’ worth of scenarios. He was a hero to so many.

But on that night, eight years ago today, he was a hero to me.

 October 22, 2021

The Man With the Cap

The older gentleman sat across from me in the waiting room. He seemed like a kind man. Quiet. Probably a nice grandpa—or great-grandpa, more likely. He was reading the brochure from the little table next to him. It slipped out of his hands once and he gingerly bent over to retrieve it.

Then I noticed his cap. And his jacket. Both loudly proclaimed him to be a Vietnam veteran. My heart immediately went out to him. He served our country in that terrible conflict when he was a young man. After all, we’re talking fifty years ago. Fifty.

I wasn’t old enough to understand much about war during the Vietnam conflict. But I do remember, quite vividly, the first time I grasped the true cost of war in human lives. It was when my parents were watching the evening news. Walter Cronkite, I suppose, but I don’t remember for sure. On the screen flashed the number of war casualties in Vietnam up to that point. The number, whatever it was, was staggering to me as a youngster. That many of our soldiers had DIED? It seemed unbelievable to me. Obviously it was significant to me since I remember the event so vividly even now. Remember how stunned I was.

But the older gentleman at the doctor’s office was not counted among that number. He came home, unlike the 58,479 other Americans who didn’t (that number was emblazoned on his cap). But did this man’s fellow Americans appreciate his service, did they throw a parade in his honor? Not likely. Vietnam soldiers not only had to live through the horrors of the war but then were mistreated when they arrived home. As if they caused the war. As if they actually wanted to be there. The heat, the stench. Bad food, terrible living conditions. Kill or be killed. Seeing their friends get blown up, not knowing if they were next. So many of the returning soldiers became alcohol and drug abusers, many developed severe mental conditions. Or, tragically, ended their own lives.

So why does this man—and so many others—continue to wear Vietnam veteran clothing for fifty years? Doesn’t he just want to forget about it? At some point in the last fifty years, didn’t he decide he wanted to put it behind him? Or at least not think about it so much that it’s on his clothing every day? I want to understand, but I don’t.

Were our country’s beloved sons so traumatized by the war in Vietnam that it became their identity? For the rest of their lives that’s who they are? Or do they feel guilty that they survived when so many of their friends did not, so they have to remind themselves every day that those friends were real people who deserve to be remembered as long as the veteran is alive? I’m no psychologist, but I do care about people. I care about that nice gentleman at the doctor’s office who thinks about the terrible events of fifty years ago every day when he puts on his cap. I wish life were different for him and for so many others. I pray he finds true peace, if not in this life, then most certainly in the next.

Please note: I certainly don’t mean to overlook the sacrifices of our veterans of any conflict, or even downplay the service of the many thousands who signed up but were never called upon to face conflict. Your service to our country is invaluable, and I thank you wholeheartedly. Especially on this upcoming Veterans Day—and the 364 other days of the year—thank you!

I’m just thinking about the Vietnam vets specifically right now.

Because the man at the doctor’s office wants the world to know he was there.

September 2, 2021

The Body

Earlier this summer I had dinner in a large metropolitan city with my hubs. After dinner, we walked around the city taking in the sights. Suddenly the high-rise buildings around us were echoing the wail of emergency vehicles. We continued to stroll toward our destination, which happened to go right by whatever emergency the first responders were called to. The sidewalk was not blocked so we were able to pass by. That’s when we saw what had called them to this location.

 A dead body.

The man was lying on the steps of a busy retail area as if he were asleep or possibly passed out. But neither of those were true because the emergency personnel were not taking any steps to help him or wake him. They had, in fact, formed a perimeter around the body, waiting, presumably, for the coroner to arrive (which did happen a few minutes later). I found myself not knowing whether to look or keep my eyes straight ahead as we passed. What is proper when one passes a dead body on the street? By my quick glance, I could tell he wasn’t very old, maybe 40. And there was no apparent cause of death—at least not apparent to my untrained eye. I was sad for the man, laid out on the street for anyone to see. I didn’t want to gawk, but I was curious, full of questions.

Who was he? Why was he here at this place at this time? And, of course, how did he die? WHY did he die? Was he alone or was someone with him—someone who was now sitting in one of those police cars crying his/her eyes out? Of course, I’ll never know the answers to these questions. And, really, it’s none of my business. 

But I knew it was likely that somewhere was a family who would be receiving some bad news very soon. I was sad for them. His parents were probably overjoyed the day he was born. Maybe he had a little sister who annoyed him but he’d do anything for. Maybe he had a brother he liked to wrestle with. He probably had a lot of friends growing up, maybe played baseball or soccer. He probably fell in love at some point; some girl was probably giddy to get a call from him for a date and eventually walked down the aisle toward his beaming face. Maybe he had a child or several children who looked up to him as if he could do anything. And now, this was his end.

It’s possible we had passed the man on the street earlier, when he was alive and well, and didn’t even notice him. He was just one more person on a bustling city street.  

A person with just minutes to live. 

 August 9, 2021

Lucky in Love?

I had a major milestone in my life last week. Forty years married to the same guy. Now I realize telling you that immediately gives away my age. I’m obviously not in my 30s or 40s. Even if I had married in my teens, you’d know I was almost 60. Truth is, though, I am 61. There, we got that out of the way.

At the ripe old age of 21 I selected the person I would walk beside “till death do us part.” Our celebration of this milestone included going through old memorabilia together: photos, guest lists, flower receipts, the cake topper and cutting knife. Old candles that melted together many years ago. One thing really struck me as I read the “diary” I kept of our honeymoon. By “diary” I mean a little 3x4 notebook where I wrote such deep comments as “Thur. Woke up. Had lunch at Mac’s. Rode the Go-carts.” It all seems so very…immature. Because I was. We were. At 21 and almost 21 years of age, we were practically kids. How can you make such a huge life choice at such a young age? How can you even begin to understand the gravity of such a decision? This will be the person you eat dinner with every night. Work out a budget with. The one you willing move across the country with, leaving behind all your other friends and family members. The one you bring other human beings into the world with, for heaven’s sake. And the one you will grow old with. Presumably, one of us will sit at the deathbed of the other.

Well, that went downhill fast. I was talking about a celebration, after all.

I know that so many people have not had the blessing of being with their soulmate for 40 years. Many, many marriages end too soon, long before that deathbed I mentioned. I have many friends who have experienced the pain of divorce, which is, in a way, a different kind of deathbed. Death of the dreams shared on their wedding day, the plans they made for a long life together, dreams that are suddenly gone.

So why did I get to be one of the lucky ones? That the choice I made at that immature age of 21…stuck, shall we say? I’m not perfect. He’s not perfect. We had no magic wand that our friends did not have. The experts always say, “marriage is hard work.” Well, we haven’t worked any harder at it than other people.

So again, I ask. Why am I one of the lucky ones?

I honestly don’t know. I just know I am very blessed indeed.

 July 24, 2021

Saying Goodbye

I used to have this friend, let’s call him Z. He had been in my life for a while, and we had become very close. He had some difficult issues to work through, but my husband and I took him into our home and just kept loving him and helping however we could. Most of the time, though, he was just a lot of fun and kept us laughing. We had a lot of good times together. But then he got older and needed more help, which made me really glad we had invited him to live with us. No one else would have loved him like we did. We didn’t want to see him go, but we didn’t want him to suffer either.

Zeus was the best dog ever.

We had to take him to the vet last week to say goodbye. It was a terrible, terrible, terrible day. When we came back to our quiet, empty house afterward, my husband and I got trash bags and started picking up all of his things: toys, food dishes, water dishes, beds. Spoiled guy had beds all over the house. We listed and quickly sold his kennel. We’ve vacuumed several times, mopped his doggy slobbers off the floor.

But we missed the back door. How did we miss that? Today, I noticed them: nose prints on the glass. How many times over the years did we clean off those nose prints? How many times did they annoy me? Too many to count. Zeus had much to say to anybody he could see through that glass door: joggers, dogs, kids on bikes, squirrels, birds. But today, when I knew he’d never leave us nose prints again, I almost didn’t clean them off. It was the last remnant we had of him.

He really is gone.

 June 15, 2021

Whatever Happened to Old Glory?

We see the posts on social media: A delivery driver is caught on a doorbell camera picking up a fallen American flag and folding it reverently, a little boy salutes a passing honor guard, a widow is handed the folded flag that draped her soldier husband’s coffin.

I love those posts. They can bring a tear to my eyes.

But then I drive around my own city. I see flags flying for many different sports teams and groups and causes. I’m certainly not against supporting your cause; we fly specialty flags at our house as well. But what bothers me a bit is the lack of houses flying Old Glory. Where is the patriotism in our country? Don’t we love America as much as we love our causes?

Remember all the American flags we saw after 9/11? We felt unified as a country. Life felt a little uncertain in those days, but we knew we were in it together. United. Strong. Can’t you still hear the chants? USA! USA! USA!

Veterans also love our flag. They fight for the right to display it when their HOA says they can’t. They wear flag pins and flag hats and are so proud to be an American. Many of them even put their lives on the line for our country.

We took a vacation out of the country some years ago and our resort had a whole ring of national flags across the front of the building, which was very nice. But Old Glory was right there equal with all the others. That didn’t sit well with me. In my mind, she’s supposed to be flying higher than every other flag! No other country is her equal!

I love seeing all of the patriotic items for sale in these weeks leading up to the Fourth of July. Red, white, and blue everything! Flags everywhere! How do we keep that kind of patriotism going on the FIFTH of July?

Just askin.

May 24, 2021

ARE SOME TOPICS TOO HOT TO HANDLE?

When I’m in the final stages of developing a story, I automatically begin thinking of the next one. This was true as I was wrapping up the final details of “To See Behind Walls” in the spring of 2020. I can’t help myself; I get pretty excited about where my next story will take us—you and me. 

My hubs and I had visited the state of Kentucky several years prior to that time and loved driving the winding backroads through rolling hills and billions of trees. Then we would get a break in the trees and see a pasture full of beautiful horses. There were times our GPS didn’t even know where we were, let alone what road we were on. I knew that’s where my next story would be set. The rolling hills of Kentucky. But I would add an element of diversity, maybe have a couple of best friends who were of different races. I’ve touched on prejudice and racism a little bit in previous books, but it would be more front and center in this one.

Then our country pretty much exploded after the death of George Floyd. Racism was the hottest topic everywhere you turned. Everyone had opinions and everyone was sharing them. Feelings were hurt. The news channels were full of “experts” saying this or that. Riots broke out in many cities. School curricula were changed. Sensitivity training ramped up everywhere. What’s okay to say, what’s not okay to say. You need to think this way or that way.

Suddenly I wasn’t so sure about my storyline. I would never, ever want to offend anyone with my writing. Maybe someone would be hurt or offended by how I portrayed a character. I stalled. I procrastinated. I was unsure.

But something (or someONE) kept nudging me, telling me it would be okay. Bottom line is, my characters in “The Writing’s on the Wall” are real, fairly likable people. Flawed, yes, but that just makes them real. One race is not flawed more than another. I am confident that no one would read my story and feel like I portrayed any race in an unfair manner. There are good and bad people of any ethnicity or race or origin. 

It’s when we start having expectations of how someone will turn out, what path he or she will take, based solely on skin color or socio-economic status, that’s when we get into trouble. Each person in this world gets to decide for him- or herself what path to take. Yes, we all have baggage, some more than others, of course. But we shouldn’t just assume something about someone based on their baggage or tax bracket or skin color. 

Don’t just assume the writing’s on the wall.

Cuz that would tie a knot in my tail. See, I’ve learned a thing or two about the south.

THE ADVENURE BEGINS

It all started with a trip to a family reunion a couple of years ago. We had some time on our hands before we were to meet up with the others, so my husband, Bill, said we should drive past a house he had lived in when he was five years old. I had heard a lot about this home from him and his siblings but had never seen it myself. The house we pulled up to was a beautiful Dutch Colonial home, and I loved it immediately. As we were sitting in the car and Bill was sharing stories from his time living there, out walked its current inhabitants going for a walk. Bill got out and introduced himself and told them he had lived in their home as a child. As the three of them began telling stories about different areas of the house—a screened-in porch upstairs, living quarters above the garage, a big open stairway, etc.—I was struck with the thought of how many stories one house might have. Different families, different generations, different lives altogether. But those four walls witness it all. Somebody needs to write this story, I thought to myself.

So I did.

After “If These Walls Could Talk” was published in the fall of 2018, I decided to keep on with the stories. I moved the setting to Brooklyn, NY, in a very different culture from the first story.

After Brooklyn, I imagined the stories in a mountain community in Colorado. Then on to a floating house in Seattle. And my next story will come to you from the hills of Kentucky.

Each of my books is unique. One has a murder, one has a historical element. Different types of houses, different cultures. But they all are centered around a home and the people who live there.

I’d love to hear what you think of my stories! Write to me today at denatwinem@gmail.com.