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Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts

Saturday, June 6, 2026

SERIOUSLY? LONG TIME, NO SEE

I was kinda shocked to see I haven't posted in over a year. 


Hiking in NH with a buddy

What's wrong with me? Am I okay? What's taken me so long?

Yes, I'm okay, and I'm just a human. And as far as what's taken me away from blogging?

I have no single answer for that.

I've not marked the moments of my Writing Life more frequently because, well, Life Life was a bit much at times.

To summarize in no particular order since my last post:

WRITING LIFE:

  • I moderated two crime and mystery panels at the Newburyport Literary Festival,
  • Two short stories were published,
  • I have a novel on submissions with my agent,
  • I interviewed a famous author for a fundraising event,
  • I continue to be on the New England Crime Bake conference committee,
  • I enjoyed getting tipsy with my writer peeps at said conference,
  • Oh, and moderated a panel at the same,
  • I have a major case of agent angst,
  • I interviewed a lovely cozy author for her umpteenth book launch,
  • I enjoyed participating in various author/book events,
  • I've received many wonderful, detailed, heartfelt rejections from very big publishers,
  • I contributed to a play about caregivers,
  • Oh, and my author Facebook page mysteriously and completely disappeared,
  • And I have no idea how or why I pissed off Zuckerberg,

LIFE LIFE:
  • My mom passed away,
  • My oldest son moved to Brazil,
  • Said son married a lovely woman
  • I realized learning Portuguese may be in my future,
  • Daughter got engaged to a man we adore,
  • When middle son says, "You won't have to care for the cat. It belongs to all the roommates," he doesn't mean it,
  • I love hiking in VT and NH mountains and the seashores in MA,
  • My garage is way, way too full of stuff I can't politely name,
  • My husband grew to really love that ornery cat,
  • I learned estate battles are ugly and have weirdly unhealthy histories,
  • I have incredibly wonderful friends,
  • And an amazing husband,
  • I am slowly rekindling my socials. 
I may add or delete some posts, but it's just life in all of its glory. 

Overall, I'm good.

And I hope you are, too.

Saturday, March 15, 2025

WHEN A LITTLE MEANS A LOT

 


It has been a while since I indulged in some arts and crafts but I finally found a worthy project*. Judging by the signs I've been seeing at recent marches and rallies, I'm not alone. Parents across the country are raiding their kids' construction paper and markers. Crayons too.

And many are putting those Amazon boxes to good use, too.

As a writer, I'm fortunate to have my time be my own, yet I want to make my limited time count. But I'm just one person---a speck in a very large world. In today's cyclone of news, how can I make a difference? How can I make my voice heard?

Is being a drop in the bucket a bad thing?

An Aesop Fable tells of a thirsty crow who dropped pebbles into a bucket to raise the level of the water. The twist here is that this is rooted in fact. Take a look at this video of a crow doing just that.

I get emotional at the marches and rallies I've gone to as each has evidenced an All Hands on Deck urgency. Save Our Medicare signs were carried by folks with gray hair. Ukranian flags were waved by young and old next to the Stars and Stripes. I've seen mothers bring their young children. A baby in a stroller held a sign that read, "Nine Months Old and Already Sick of this Shit." A boy in a Harry Potter scarf declared himself "Part of Dumbledor's Army Against Trump." 

Each person was a drop in the bucket. Each raised the level of awareness and each strengthened a building wall of resistance. The signs spanned a spectrum of issues. USAID. Veterans. Education.

It's a bit ironic that one truth out of all of this is that the man in office is turning into the "Unifier in Chief" as he once declared himself. I doubt he envisioned just how he's bringing people together.

I get emotional at these rallies because there is so much at stake. Hundreds of people attended a town hall for our US representative and hundreds more were turned away as the auditorium had reached capacity and overflowed.

And that's the thing about drops in the bucket. 

*Oh, and it's a writer's thing to know that punctuation matters. It's amazing the meanings a tiny apostrophe can give.






Monday, July 29, 2024

Smiles Don't Fade.

Years slip away fast, but the smiles don't fade. My <cough cough> reunion at Vermont Law and Graduate School was wonderful.


























 

Wednesday, January 4, 2023

A REVIEW OF 2022 AND A 2023 WISH

I've decided that 2022 wasn't so bad after all.

Many opinions this time of year revolve around how exhausting the past year was for them. Adjusting to new normals nudged folks out of their comfort zones, or some might say cocoons. Working remotely had been pretty terrific for many of us. We didn't have to know if the pandemic was over or if we could simply exist maskless in a place of benign neglect.

I've been on the slow-to-adapt side of the New Normal Bell Curve. Yes, I'm fully vaxxed and boosted, but being a writer has its benefits, and not having to wear hard pants or heeled shoes are two of them. Zoom has been another great tool, but life is more than seeing other humans sixteen to a screen.

In April I hit two amazing goals. The best was the release of my short story, Currents, in the Mystery Writers of America's anthology, Crime Hits Home. The thrill of seeing my name alongside crime-writing greats like Walter Mosely, Sara Paretsky, Naomi Hirahara, and more as crime fiction's top authors hasn't faded. Nope. Not one bit.

The second April goal? Fitting into said hard pants for the book launch at the iconic Mysterious Bookshop. Yep. April was a banner month.

I watched my fellow writers inch back into in-person events over the summer. Masks became optional. Heartfelt hugs returned. As wonderful as these things were, I found my writer's brain had taken a vacation to points unknown. My productivity for new work tanked but I found I was able to focus on revisions of a WIP and submissions. 

The lead-up to November brought all things Crime Bake to priority status. This three-day conference for writers of crime and mystery has been an anchor of the New England writing community for over twenty years. From dreamers with an idea or unpublished manuscript to seasoned pros with dozens of titles and awards to their names, it's truly a must-go event and I'm proud of being its co-chair even if I whine a bit about the time commitment involved. (Truth be said: running a conference during that pesky COVID uncertainty is not easy.) My interview of NYT best-selling author William Martin with co-chair Paula Munier was an absolute highlight. Yes. I wore heels and lived to tell the tale.

December brought the publication of a non-fiction piece in Mystery Reader's International's Legal Mysteries compilation of essays and columns edited by Janet Rudolph. I was happy to leverage my doctorate in law, my writing chops, and my passion for giving to the larger community into this piece. 

This past year wasn't all about writing. I'm the parent of three amazing kids who have grown into adults despite my habit of referring to them as kids. Each has set their own course and I try really hard not to over-parent but to be as supportive as possible. This support has come with the following conversation:

Middle Son approached me one day last summer. "Mom, can you watch my dog when I travel?" 

"Of course!" I said with too much enthusiasm and commitment thinking this would be at most a two-week stint. "How long will you be gone?"

"About a year."

<Gulp>

It appears that two weeks was not enough time to pedal a bike from Boston to Key West to California with a planned hike on the PCT. Silly me for being so naive.

So, my husband and I are the proud keepers of a very adorable Beagle named Pop. Our two cats are not as pleased, but if 2022 taught me anything, it was to just roll with it.

This is my round-up for 2022 and I'm looking at 2023 with guarded optimism. 

I wish you and yours all the best.












Thursday, April 1, 2021

Remembering an Infamous Man

Often, our personal memories of famous (or infamous) folks are more vivid and impactful than those provided to use by the news.

Such is the case of G. Gordon Liddy.

For those of you too young to know his name, Liddy became famous because of his role in the Watergate scandal during the Nixon administration. Some call him the “mastermind” behind the break-in that culminated in Nixon resigning.

Liddy spent more than four years in prison. He later said he’d do it all again for his president.

His loyalty to a difficult president and his participation of illegal acts made him a pariah to some. My mom never lost her empathy for him.

Mom and Liddy’s wife, Fran, went to the College of New Rochelle together. They were friendly and Mom lived in Fran’s mother’s home when Mom started her career as a teacher at an elementary school in Poughkeepsie, New York. They kept in touch as Fran married and started her family. Mom recalls the boys as being “good swimmers” and “each one of them was athletic.”

When Liddy ran for a seat in the New York congress, Mom held a cocktail party for him. She remembered her guests were more interested in drinking than listening to a fledgling politician, but Liddy was a good sport and kept his introductory remarks short and his humor sharp. If his later years evidenced anything, it was that he was passionate about what he believed in and didn’t shy away from taking action he felt compelled to take. “He had a dry wit that softened his imposing manner,” she recalled.

Why write these memories? I’ve written about Liddy’s involvement in a devastating chapter in


my family’s life. An arsonist burned down our family barn. Although not the lead prosecutor on the case, Liddy helped our family as much as he could.

The help he gave Mom and our family during that difficult time was enough to engender Mom’s lifelong sympathy for him. Be he good or bad, she wasn’t going to abandon him. During his four years in prison, she corresponded with him, recalling that his responses were “sparsely written” but appreciative of her connection.

When Fran died, her funeral was to be held in Poughkeepsie. A blizzard made travel difficult, but Mom made it to the church, only to find it locked. The priest said the storm had kept the family from traveling from Washington. Mom sent her condolences, but always regretted not being able to say her final good-byes in person. “I wanted Gordon to know I tried.”

When I told Mom of his passing, she said, “I’m truly saddened. I hope his death was peaceful.” She wasn’t going to forgive his wrongs, but she wasn’t going to take away from his good, either.

Of all the reactions I’ve read about his life, I think Mom’s recollection of him is the most kind.

 

 

Friday, March 19, 2021

THE MOST NERVOUS SPOUSES OF ALL

My crime-writing friends often joke about their search histories being stuff of NSA nightmares or of the sidelong glances received when overheard in public sussing out gory scene details.

Then, there are the nervous smiles from our spouses.

One friend couldn't decide on which poison to use to kill a pesky antagonist. Arsenic? Too common. Cyanide? Too traceable and the bitter taste a dead giveaway that could stop a victim from drinking a lethal dose. After sounding ideas off her husband, she gave him an iced lemonade made without any sugar to see how much he would drink before stopping.

He took a sip, put down the glass, and asked, "We're happy in our marriage, right?"

Long live the long-suffering spouse of a writer.

I thought my husband and I were beyond such misunderstandings or fear. After a year of 24/7/365 togetherness, all fears and worries should have been dispelled, or at least thoroughly aired out.

A Zoom writers' group proved me wrong.

We start each session with a prompt and write for five minutes. I've posted a few of the responses in this blog and it's always fun to see the different ways we continue from a single beginning. This time, the prompt read:

The last few nights she had a recurring dream about ...

I continued with:

"...killing him.

The delicious thought wrapped her in layers of warmth. No more leg twitches. No more snorts and grunts. No more stale flatulence.

She'd be free.

The wave of happiness receded with wakefulness. "Damn it," she said as she pulled on her robe.

Night after night. Happy. Wake. Happy. Wake.

She couldn't take anymore.

Then the dreams invaded her days. She couldn't stop the thoughts. Her only respite came in planning actions. Gun? Too messy. Poison? Where to buy? Accident? How? When? Where?

The thoughts wrapped her in happiness.

Then...he didn't wake up. She nudged him. 

She took the pillow from his head. 

Nothing.

"No! No! No! It can't be!"

She woke to a snort.

He rolled over. "Morning," he said.

"Morning, Love. Coffee?"

We read our responses aloud to one another, laughed at our follies, and continued on with our session. Afterward, my husband appeared at my office door. He gave me a nervous smile. "That's not the first time you killed a husband in your writing."

I scoffed. "I haven't! That was the first."

He then listed other times my characters' husbands or significant others met untimely ends. His memory stretched back into years.  

"We're happy in our marriage, right?" 

Monday, June 15, 2020

The Uncomfortable Complicity of Silence

We are encouraged to say something if we see something. I did and found my voice.

Elder abuse is a hidden epidemic, one that will spread as the stress of financial hardships resulting from widespread unemployment and economic turmoil grows. It has no cure and the only known preventative is in the actions society takes. I learned it was essential not only to understand what I was seeing, but to have the courage to speak up.

National Council on Aging, NCOA, (www.ncoa.org) reports that approximately 1 in 10 Americans aged 60+ have experienced some form of elder abuse, with estimates as high as 5 million elders abused each year. Elder abuse is broadly defined to include all types–such as neglect, physical, emotional, and verbal abuse–one study estimates that only .07% of cases are reported to authorities.

When narrowed down to financial abuse and exploitation, the statistics are even more grim with the American Association of Retired Persons (www.aarp.org) stating that 1 in 44 cases are reported. Of those, few were prosecuted and even fewer resulted in conviction.

I held a natural reticence toward silence when I considered something was a private matter or a family affair. Husbands and wives quarrel. Parents reprimand children. Without physical harm, I did not understand my duty to report.

In elder financial exploitation, a bias exists to blame the victim. Granny should have read the fine print better or she freely chose that her child should have a new car or fancy vacation. It’s none of our business to question her decisions or to question the sudden apparent wealth of her child. By blaming the victim, we absolve ourselves of taking action.

I politely demurred and kept my silence until I realized the perpetrator banked on that, making me complicit in the crimes.

There is a price to the elder for our silence. NCOA stated elder victims have a 300% higher risk of death when compared to those who have not been mistreated. Then there is the price of the concerned person who breaks the silence and dares to question the bonds of trust within a family. I know this because I am paying the price of breaking my silence. By honoring the trust of a beloved elder, I betrayed the trust of a family member by seeking help.

At its core, trust is a slippery weapon when used against the elder. Age or illness may have diminished their abilities, but trust and judgment remain as their tools for retaining independence and relevance. The World Health Organization recognizes an “expectation of trust” exists between the older person and their abuser. The elder writes checks or signs documents with trust, even as their eyesight may fail them or their ability to decipher terms wanes. Two-thirds of abusers are those who the elder naturally trust the most.

The New England Journal of Medicine reports, "Perpetrators are most likely to be adult children or spouses, and they are more likely to be male, to have a history of past or current substance abuse, to have mental or physical health problems, to have a history of trouble with the police, to be socially isolated, to be unemployed or have financial problems, and to be experiencing major stress . . . Most studies indicate that older women are more likely than older men to be victims of abuse.” (emphasis added)

The urge to protect the abuser is my beloved elder’s greatest hurdle. Like other elder victims, she is embarrassed and will not admit to harm in fear of the consequences the perpetrator may face. Age has made her increasingly dependent on others and often the abuser is the person she most relies upon for her support. By taking action against the abuser, she risks increased isolation.

Laws, created to protect, necessitate the elder to bear witness against the perpetrator, leading to few Orders of Protection and abysmally low conviction rates. Legal standards to prove duress or fear are not calibrated to the frail.

I did not challenge my own silence when learning of a single instance of misappropriation. Yet, repeated instances exposed her inner turmoil and caused my concern. The family did not want to see abuse and challenged my intrusion. The authorities supported me and encouraged her to break her own silence, even while acknowledging the devilish difficultly in prosecution.

With the weakening of our economy, incidences of elder financial exploitation will inevitably rise. As employment weakens, it may be the elder with the only secure source of income through their Social Security, investments, or retirement plan. They are ripe for harm. We need to help elders by recognizing the patterns of abuse that evidence financial exploitation.

There is a time in life when the child becomes the caregiver, the overseer and the protector. As a parent or guardian, we would never let a child be bullied, abused, or hurt. As the tables turn, we must offer that same code of protection to our aging population. It is our time to speak up and ensure our elders are safe and protected.

 


Friday, April 10, 2020

Navigating Life in the World of The Other


I have at times been The Other and other times been The Tribe.

My past careers have been in law, investments, and banking. I have been that “pretty blonde” in a sea of suits before the dawn being seen as a novelty was wrong. Even as early as high school, I felt the sting of exclusion because I strove for something outside of a lane some believed my gender defined. The fight to be considered equal and worthy continues, but it’s different now.

Our public discourse is acquiring language for The Other to engage with The Tribe. In tandem with this growth, our society is developing a platform to discuss exclusion. Sometimes that discussion happens in the safe space among friends and like-minded people, other times it happens in the Wild West of public forums. By definition, inclusion means stepping outside of our comfort zone to see more, hear more, and experience more. The conversations can be heated, but are an essential part of a society’s growth. We must have these conversations and controversies to educate one another and ourselves, and to find the stepping stones upon which we can move forward.

At times, I still feel the cold shoulder of being The Other. I also must acknowledge that I am The Tribe.

I am the chapter president of an organization founded on the concept of merit and ability over habit and ignorance. Thirty years ago, Sisters in Crime was founded by women crime and mystery authors to garner the fair share of reviewers and publishers’ attention in a field dominated by men. Hallmarks of exclusion were noted and the mission statement was recently amended to articulate a vision that further erased the lines of gender and color. A code of conduct was added for its members.

In discussions about chapter membership, I realized I was The Tribe. I was on the inside. Conversations included words like “inclusion,” “diversity,” “outreach,” “ageism,” and “gender identity.”

Our chapter co-sponsors an annual regional writers’ conference. I was heartened when a suggestion to include a choice of pronoun ribbons upon registration was enthusiastically supported by other committee members. Attendees could self-identify. They could choose to be addressed in forms of “he,” “she,” or “they.” This was part of our organizations’ efforts to create an environment of inclusion, acceptance, and safety.

Some people were baffled by the ribbons but donned them anyway. Others shrugged and didn’t wear them, but engaged in conversations with those who did. Igniting conversations was exactly the point. I welcomed the chance to talk about and learn from the experiences of others. Conversations included examples of being the only one of color in a room, of being the only white when traveling, of being the only one celebrating, or not, a religious holiday. The list goes on. The Other.

It is gratifying that more circumstances of exclusion are being identified and discussed. The many facets of exclusion, tribalism, and “other-ism” are being recognized as pervasive, insidious, and destructive. Exclusion is one form of harassment and ignorance another. Neither gets a pass when the goal is to include and respect an individual.

One attendee wrote this: “I am exploring my gender identity . . . I was very happy when I came to [the conference] this year and saw the pronoun badges. Thank you! With some trepidation I wore the ‘they/them’ badge -- my first small step to some public expression, but in a place where I felt safe.”

Isn’t that what we all want? To feel safe among a crowd of strangers?

In one of the moments that marks growth as well as pain, two incidents required public statements be made by the conference committee to condemn harassment. With our acquired language and awareness, we were able to identify, understand, and condemn the equating of sexual orientation with criminality, and be at the forefront of the discussion of this issue. Sadly, the other incident only served to highlight that attitudinal change is difficult and slow. A presentation allowed certain statements to go unaddressed. Some said the comments were sexist, other claimed them to be misogynistic, others heard nothing wrong, others shrugged that such comments have always been made, so what’s the big deal?

I’ve struggled with how to conclude this opinion piece. I write this as me, and not in any official capacity. I can only observe that harsh public discourse is an inevitable symptom of growth, as is an individual’s discomfort for being called out on behavior once considered acceptable. Private statements can also be caustic, but more often than not, those who may be reticent to express support publicly are relieved to do so privately.

We are learning whether our education comes informally in private or public conversations or formally in workshops and educational forums with a curriculum designed to help us hear and see our way to inclusion.

A reality none of us can evade is that at one time or another, you, too, will be The Other.

Thursday, April 2, 2020

BRINGING IT ALL HOME

I went grocery shopping today.

Big deal, right? Yeah. It was a much bigger deal than I expected it to be.


My husband and I were early in preparing to shelter in place. We expected not to go out for a month or more and had planned accordingly. We were forced out into the world due to an oversight. Delivery would take days. We decided only one of us should go. 

I raised my hand. If we had to go out for one thing, we'd replenish what we needed and I am the meal planner of the family. Besides, I wanted a bit of an adventure. I am lucky to live in a small town with a major grocery store. Shopping mid-week, I figured I'd have the place pretty much to myself.

We tripled checked the list the night before. We YouTubed and Googled best practices for staying virus free. Some of the steps were a bit over the top, but safety is safety, and knowing we were starting the clock again for any exposure, we were willing to take precautions to keep our peace of mind. 

Planning made me feel like a special agent. Gloves. Mask. Dirty area. Decontamination process. My adventure was beginning!

The store created special early morning hours for seniors and I wondered how they would enforce that. It's been years since I had to skulk past a bouncer, but this time I wanted to be carded. 

My first shock: At 6:00AM, the store lot was nearly full. It seemed like people had even parked their cars in a social distance way leaving a space between each.

My first disappointments: I was not carded and I could not bring in my reusable shopping bags.

A sign said to keep six floor tiles apart. Employees in gloves, some in masks, counted people in and out of the store. Red tape marked where folks should stand in line. One employee wiped down each cart.

By the time I passed half-full refrigerated cases, my sense of fun had begun to wilt. I was no longer shocked or disappointed. A prevailing feeling of numbness crept in as I walked inside a movie set of dystopian life.There was still plenty of food, but the choices had thinned. Many shelves were empty. I did not sense tension among shoppers as I had during an earlier shopping trip when news of the virus was just breaking. People were resolute. Everyone wore gloves. Those who wore masks or scarves seemed to make an extra effort to put a smile in their eyes. I know I did.

I took note of who was there. I checked my normal impatience at the door and shuffled at least six tiles behind everyone. A stooped rail of a man peered at his list, then up at a shelf, and back. Heavy scrawled letters on the wrinkled paper confused him. I had visions of his wife at home, taking care to write as clearly as she could, knowing the choices would be bewildering to him.

It took a minute, but he made his choice and moved on.

I almost reached for the sole remaining paper towel roll. A knotted hand reached out for it. I stepped back and continued checking off items on my list.

Every-other register was open and a line formed to retain social distance. Employees helped manage the cue and give instructions for checking out safely. While I waited, I realized how fortunate I was. I could buy food. I felt safe. I wondered about too many people who did not have the options I almost took for granted in my zest for adventure.

I followed the new rules and loaded up my car, switching out one pair of nitrile gloves for a clean pair.

Then I put my face in my hands and cried.










Sunday, March 29, 2020

I Am CO-LIVID

My plate was already full. I suspended posting here as I devoted my energies to organizations I adore and to writing. Something had to give, so my sporadic posts of random thoughts gave way.

Then COVID hit.

Shanghai
You might think by my posting this now, that I'm only just tuning in. You're wrong. I was once a biopharmaceutical recruiter. My clients were spread across the U.S., but many were in China. My connections and travels there made me fascinated with that country. I wrote about talent trends for Bloomberg/Businessweek and Nature. I've continued to stay aware of news involving China, especially if it involved new therapies or illnesses.

In December, I heard mentions of an outbreak. I didn't pay attention to it as our news often mentions exotic illnesses in foreign countries. I felt that China's experience with SARS would make them adept at a response. No worries.

The Great Wall
In January, I was stunned to hear a city of 11 million people was shut down. I knew then that we were in for trouble. I waited to see what the U.S. response would be. If a soccer-mom-turned-suspense-author-living-in-a-small-town knew enough that early and definitive actions were needed, I assumed our leaders knew that as well. My husband and I began to share our concerns. Our periscopes went up.

In February, around Valentine's Day, my husband shared a website created by a friend of his. The website was not an extremist prepper site. It was written in my language. Measured. Factual. Serious. Balanced. We spent an hour or more reviewing boots-on-the-ground videos from Wuhan. The videos have since disappeared, but they were enough to have us begin gathering supplies the next day.

Bread and chicken were already sold out. I watched a mom, toddler and kids in tow, consider a twenty pound bag of rice then hoist a fifty pound bag into her cart. I marveled at the signs that admonished us to take only one bag per customer. A man, wearing nitrile gloves, joked about the coming Armageddon.

Still, I thought if regular folks were taking action, surely our country was far ahead of us. Our country shows signs of waking up now. It is the end of March. Our illness and death numbers today will look quaint in merely a week's time.

I cannot express how angry I am. I am heartbroken. I am frustrated. I am incredulous. I am livid.

Make that, I am CO-liVID.

There are enough voices of disgust in our current leadership and I don't like to add to the noise, regardless of how deserving a good rant may be. During the same period of time I was taking action, leaders in our country did not. This article from the U.K. points out the folly of their stillness.

I have family who have contracted and recovered from COVID-19. Their tales are sobering.

Today, a friend in New York posted the deaths of three of his friends to the virus.

Three. In one day.

The hollowness I feel about the wave of preventable deaths is at risk of being filled with ugly emotions. I do not want to blame or denigrate those who trusted and followed leadership when facts and science would have led them elsewhere. Banning together during a crisis will make us stronger and it is the stuff of what makes America great.

The buck does stop somewhere, even if the occupant refuses responsibility.

My author events have been canceled or gone digital. I'm helping our elderly moms understand the wonders of video chatting. I am checking in on friends and family and offering what little help I can, even if it's just a shared laugh.

This post helped me vent my rage and provided a salve to feeling impotent. Maybe virtually banning together might help you feel less isolated. I've started a hashtag on Twitter. #COliVID. Vent. Consider it your primal scream.

And, please, stay safe. I care about you.









Monday, July 8, 2019

The Perfect Victim

As an author of crime novels and mysteries will tell you, constructing the perfect crime is terrific fun. Creating a conniving villain even better. The more innocent the victim, the more anger we feel at the crime.

When the victim is the perfect victim, our anger spikes to the next level.

What is the perfect victim? For the criminal, a perfect victim is someone who:
  • refuses to admit a crime has been committed. This can stem from a spectrum of reasons from fear of reprisal from the criminal, to embarrassment that they are a victim, to loyalty or a sense of responsibility to the criminal.
  • is confused and doesn't know a crime has been committed 
  • will not bear witness against the criminal regardless of the evidence 
  • forgives the criminal...even after repeated crimes
  • feels helpless and dependent upon the criminal
  • is easily intimidated into silence.
and most importantly...
  • has something that the criminal desperately wants, needs, and feels entitled to...money, a home, art...any number of things...up to and including something as hard to define as a family legacy.
Right about now, readers should be scratching their heads. How could a person be so weak as to let bad things happen to him or her and remain silent?

Right about now, you might be thinking I'm not talking about fiction. You'd be right. Real crimes happen to real people in real life. I'm hurting and I'm mad.

The sad answer is that the perfect victims are the elderly.

And the criminal? Again, sadly, in 60% of the cases, the criminal is a family member.

The perfect crime? Financial abuse.

No family is immune. Fame and wealth are often the bait for the criminal rather than an inoculation against it as the families of Peter Max and Stan Lee discovered. For our aging population, awareness of the crime should decrease it, but Forbes calls financial abuse of the elderly a hidden epidemic.

Financial abuse doesn't get the attention it deserves. The first reason is denial. We would never be the target nor permit a loved one to become a target. Right? Our aging parents would never dream they would fall victim to a phony charity, fake bill, or other solicitation. But when a family member places a stack of documents in front of them for their signature, any number of reasons contribute to that fate-filled signature. Misplaced trust is the most common. We deny the reality that a trusted family member could be a self-serving, self-centered ass who feels entitled to whatever they can take.

The second reason is that it's so darned personal. Families don't like to see a crime. Instead, they see siblings who don't get along or parents who had "favorites." Maybe "Poor Johnny" received a loan he never repaid. I know plenty of families where the details of the First Bank of Mom and Dad are quietly forgotten long after the debt grew cold. Forget about a paper trail or documents. Trust has a funny way of working against the people we most want to protect.

It's the victims that make my heart bleed. Their love for the criminal blinds them, and many parents place their needs below the needs of their children. The victims are the ones who worked hard and grew a tidy nest egg. They are the ones who instilled in their kids the values of honesty, generosity, and humility only to be repaid by lies, selfishness, and arrogance. 

There is much written about elder abuse and I urge you to learn and talk about it. Learn the signs. Ask questions. Get help. The criminal wins when their crimes go undiscovered, or worse...unreported.

And maybe...just maybe...a small victory would be making one victim a little less perfect.



















https://www.nextavenue.org/financial-elder-abuse-boomers-parents/

Wednesday, June 19, 2019

Promptly Late Again

Five minutes. One writing prompt. Five different responses. 




What would you write? I find I usually pull a thread of something I had heard or experienced in the week leading up to the group meeting. This week, the news was filled with Jon Stewart shaming lawmakers to take action on the 911 First Responders bill. You'll see his influence in my response.

What did we write to?

"Where did everyone go?" I shouted...


======================

From Maggie:

"Where did everyone go?" I shouted...but they were all there...kind of.

Grace sat in the back of Doug's pick up truck, parked in the usual spot between the trees in the cherry orchard.

Hot boxing was new to her and seemed weirdly intimate.  Inhale deep from the joint, then cup your hand and blow directly into your partner's mouth.  Getting high wasn't unique at these parties, but this went to a whole new level.  The effect was akin to hallucination but fairly short lived...thankfully.  


Grace peered out of the flatbed and saw her crew swirling around.  She fell back and drifted off.

===============

From Donna:

“Where did everyone go?” I shouted. But they all promised they would stay to the bitter end! “I can’t do this alone it is too scary!”

As I stood there wondering what to do next the front door creaked open and a hand came out, wrinkled and deeply veined, it wrapped itself finger by finger around the outside knob of the door. I gasped, sweat streaming down my back, “Give me my cat back! You mean old witch! She didn’t do any harm to your stupid cockatoo! Your bird attacked my sweet little kitten. Your bird is the killer!”

The hand moved opening the door wider, now I can see a skinny arm and a bush of long straggly grey hair. Whoosh, out flew a cockatoo heading …

All is good!

===============

From Cyd:

"Where'd everyone go?" I shouted, but

no one answered. Why did they leave so suddenly?

I jumped off Mariana to let her get a drink and that's when I saw it. A huge water lizard in the sand. Hissing with its wide jaws as it moved toward us.

My big beautiful doe began snorting. She grunted, jumped, spit, and made other sounds I'd never heard before. Seeing her step between me and the monster made me angry. 

If that ugly beast draws a drop of blood from my tall-leg's white coat, I will kill it. Kill it with my small hands. I was afraid before but now I would lose my life protecting hers.

I will be like my spirit animal. The tall-leg. 

=================

From Bette:

“Where did everyone go?” I shouted but… There was no one there to answer. What the heck? “Hello!” I( had been to the loo for a quick pee, and – Where did they go?

Smoke! I smell smoke. The house is on fire. I ran to the nearest slider, and tugged, but it wouldn’t open. I tugged, saw the board set there to keep out an intruder and knew to go to a different door. The front door was open and I went through it. “Hey! Where is everybody?”

Nothing. What the heck? “Hello!” I heard laughter. Where? Down by the barn. But it was dark, and there were brambles. I tripped along, slipped on a rock and fell on my butt. Guys! Where are you?

Peels of laughter. “Ah! Don’t touch it!”

==================

From Connie:

"Where did everyone go?" I shouted, but ...

no sound came out. I moved, but my fingers didn't twitch nor legs flayed. I filled my lungs to scream, but my chest didn't rise.

That's when a fear crept inside me. 

I had been at my company's fancy breakfast. The city laid out before me on an amazingly clear day. I thought I had been in the buffet line, reaching for the eggs Benedict.

I was.

I had been.

Then nothing.

"Where did everyone go?"

But I was falling. Then nothing. 

Then...

I wasn't moving. I had become nothing. I had become one.

Everything had become me and I had become them.

Not them.

One.

I was one.

Memories blended in a timeless way I had never known.

But I remembered one standing Twin Tower as I fell.

Saturday, May 4, 2019

Inspirations or Triggers?


This image made me smile before it made me cry.

I spent a rainy afternoon haunting antique stores near my coastal Massachusetts home. Yard sales and forsythia dotted the roads. Young folks were loading up on the stuff old folks were getting rid of. I mused about the generational transfer of wealth and mentally listed the items in my garage waiting for my kids to hurry up and furnish their apartments already.

I was already in a nostalgic frame of mind when I spied this picture. It's simple enough. Just a black ink print on now yellowed paper. In the corner, it's signed, "Townsend 71," and I took that to mean some gent named Townsend created this image in 1971.


I lived for ski weeks at Stratton Mountain
and Otis Ridge.
Memories of weekends at my family's ski chalet in Vermont came flooding back. The chalet already had a life filled with memories before my family purchased it. Skiing in Vermont in the 60's and 70's had a certain vibe to it. Kinda cool. Kinda kitsch. Kinda insider-y. Kinda counter-cultural. The chalet came furnished with all sorts of keen and groovy stuff that was just keen and groovy enough that our family did little more to it than bring fresh sheets and towels. 

My mom and dad were never happier than when we gathered there. The little girl in that painting was me, gripping ski poles that were too long and hand-me-downs, leather already cracked and stressed, but usable. I learned to ski on our weekends in Vermont and know I looked exactly like that picture -- coat flapping, ponytail askew -- as I concentrated on my stem chrisities. When we grew up and lives took root elsewhere, the little brown house became the site of family gatherings and reunions. 

I didn't realize that those memories were like clay in a kiln, being baked into unyielding shapes. I was one kiln. My siblings others. Somewhere inside, a fissure happened, invisible to the naked eye, but lurking in the baked clay so that when the memories were pinged, the vibration was not resonant and pure, but marred by a tinny sound. 

I was at the chalet when I learned my father died. His passing exposed the fractures in my family's fabric. Once the site of family joy, the Vermont house is now the locus of strife. My mom and dad had wishes that all the generations would gather there for years to come.

The picture brought me back to a time when that could have been...to a time of shared dreams and goals, and love. 

My smile dissolved and vision became blurry. I thought I was holding up pretty well and adapting to a new dynamic. People grow and change. Sometimes we grow together. Other times apart. It's just a part of life.

The little girl skiing with such concentration was met at the end of the day with a hot cocoa loaded with marshmallows. She thought of her day as every kid thinks of their day -- that it would be like that forever. 

Life changed. I almost bought that picture. It would have looked great at the chalet, hanging above the long, too-cool black pleather couch that we all loved to hate and was so much like the one in the shop. The couch is long gone and my garage is already full of things waiting for a future. 

I wondered about the artifacts that were inspirations to some, triggers to others.

So, I left it there. 

And moved on.