Writers Plot

A DIFFERENT POV (OR, GETTING INTO SOMEONE'S HEAD)

Posted by Sheila Connolly (Sarah didn't get to go)

By now everyone will have straggled back from the holiday weekend, dazed with sun (yes! the sun shone in Massachusetts!), sounds (loud), and summer. People no doubt ate and drank too much and generally overdid things, in honor of our national holiday, and here we are facing another week, sigh.

The weekend was also noteworthy for the reopening of the head of the Statue of Liberty to tourists. And I felt both sad and smug, because I was there once...and that was before.

I suppose most children who grew up in the greater New York area, as I did, were treated to the obligatory tour of the City and its monuments at one time or another, whether on a school trip or with relatives. My youthful excursions included most of the city museums, the zoos (Central Park and Bronx), one foray to Shea Stadium (the Mets won), Broadway, and the major high-dollar department stores, courtesy of my grandmother. Also a few name restaurants, on the promise that I would behave as a perfect young lady (which I managed to do, because I liked nice restaurants even then). I even skated at Rockefeller Center a couple of times.

But never the Statue of Liberty, and when I saw it, in 1997 as a chaperone on one of my daughter's class trips, I realized why: there was a lot of climbing involved. Literally hundreds of steps, and when I was there, the elevator went only to the observation level, and what fun was that? And my mother and grandmother, the designated tour guides, did not do walking or climbing. If there were not taxis, we did not go there.

My daughter attended school in a relatively affluent community in the Philadelphia suburbs, and the school district in those days sponsored some major annual field trips–New York City, Williamsburg, Washington DC. There were so many parents who wanted to attend as chaperones that they had to hold a lottery for each trip each year. I was lucky enough to be included on the first two trips.

The New York trip was over-ambitious. Imagine three busloads of 12-year-old kids, plus a lot of half-awake parents. We boarded in the school parking lot before dawn, in order to arrive in time for the first ferry to Liberty Island. (My daughter reminds me that the kiddies were warned not to buy anything from the vendors at Battery Park, an order they of course ignored.) We rode the ferry, climbed the monument (more on that later), descended; docked briefly and admired the restored buildings at Ellis Island (we did not get off); returned to Battery Park to eat lunch; reboarded the buses to see the UN (general consensus from the students: boring; I bought a great cookbook there); reboarded yet again to travel to the Natural History Museum–where we had, if I recall correctly, approximately 37 minutes to see the whole museum, including filling out scavenger hunt forms so kindly provided by the teachers. Can you guess that we were running late by then? Then we walked a few blocks to a surprisingly decent restaurant (considering that we were shepherding a group of 100 school kids), ate, and reboarded the buses for the ride home. I think we arrived before midnight, but the memories are a little blurry.

But back to Lady Liberty. This was 12 years ago, in my youth (ha!), and I was determined to climb the thing, as high as they would let me (the arm and torch had been closed for years by then), and that of course meant convincing my little clutch of students that they all really wanted to do it too. I must have been persuasive, because we all did make the climb.

And it was worth it. We were blessed with a gorgeous spring day, so the views were spectacular. I was struck by how small the head is inside (maybe it was all those giggling school children that made it seem small?), and how odd it was to say to myself, I am standing in the head of the Statue of Liberty. I mean, you know exactly where you are at that moment, right? And so would at least half the people in the world, if you called them all and told them where you were right that minute.

On the way out, I laid a hand on the copper shell. It was so thin! It's a single sheet of metal. I mean, here is this monument that stands over 100 feet tall, and it's just a frame with a minimal metal skin draped over it. It makes her seem so fragile.

When the Twin Towers fell, we dragged out the pictures, and the towers were everywhere in them. It makes the pictures a little hard to look at now. But at the same time, every time I see the Statue of Liberty, in a movie or on a commercial, I say to myself "I was there." So I'm glad she's open again, if only to a few hardy souls who are willing to brave long lines and narrow winding stairs for a chance to stand there for just a few minutes.

ROTTEN TO THE CORE!

Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, dear new book,
Happy birthday to you!

Please welcome the second book in the Orchard Mystery series, Rotten to the Core (available in bookstores Tuesday, July 7th).

What's the body of an
organic farming activist
doing in Meg's orchard?
She never even met the
man. But when someone
tries to poison her with the
same pesticide, things get personal.

I know times are hard, but
look at it this way: a
paperback book costs less than a fast-food meal, and it lasts a lot longer!

Sheila

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

Posted by Sheila Connolly and Sarah Atwell, both of whom have dirt under their fingernails now.

I may have mentioned that I planted a vegetable garden this year.  Yeah, yeah, most people did that eons ago.  Heck, I did that eons ago, although the last serious effort was in student housing in California, where you could lay claim to a plot in the community garden.  I enjoyed that a lot–until the moles ate it.  They sneak up from below and eat the roots first, the furry little...creeps.

So there were a few moves, and a number of inhospitable yards (um, sun is required to grow things, right?), and then we ended up in Massachusetts and I found myself writing a mystery series about a woman struggling to transform herself from a municipal financial analyst into a small farmer overnight.  I don't pretend that it is easy.  In solidarity for my heroine Meg, I decided I should put my money where my mouth is and plant something (in addition to the two apple trees in my front yard).

My lot (all one-quarter acre of it, largely occupied by house, stable, driveway, sidewalks, etc.) gets little sun, thanks to some trees that are probably as old as the Victorian house (and are threatening to fall down, but try to find a tree company who wants to tackle giant dying maples, especially those where public utility wires are intertwined).  So I spent some time observing, and trying to find a spot that received at least a few hours of sun daily (that is, if the sun ever shines again in Massachusetts, which right now is debatable).  I located the optimal place.  I measured.  I came up with a plan.

Soil was the next problem.  We are not exactly on the beach, but the soil on the lot is mainly sand, in between a lot of smooth pebbles, with a few tree roots thrown in.  In other words, not much will grow in it, which means I had to add soil.  Which meant I had to build a raised bed to fill with soil.  At that point my husband conveniently left the country for three weeks.

But I am a determined Yankee (when I'm not an Irish dreamer), so I persevered.  I ordered lumber and had it delivered (I chose to go with a garden bed the same size as the lumber, so I wouldn't have to cut anything–I don't do power saws).  I cleared the space of what pathetic stringy grass there was.  Then I had to level it, because it sloped a bit (four inches over 16 feet, if you really want to know).  Then I built my box, level and square.  Go me!  And I set in it place and I anchored it with lengths of 2x4s hammered into the ground and screwed to the box.  That thing is not going anywhere.

Then dirt.  I ordered dirt:  four cubic yards of primo topsoil, already mixed with manure.  It was delivered–in a heap on my front walk.  Small problem:  no way a dump truck could get anywhere near the garden bed.  That meant I had to schlep the dirt, one wheelbarrow at a time, from the front of the property to the back of the property.  Great exercise, all that shoveling and shoving.  And I accomplished it (although there's still a lot of dirt sitting on the sidewalk, but I'm working on that).

Then, per the instructive class I took a while back from Frank the Organic Farmer, I carefully mounded my bed (for drainage and for access down the middle).  I was ready.

Like all good newbie gardeners, I ordered a whole bunch of catalogs and pored over them.  As a new convert to local and heirloom foods, I stuck to organic catalogs and those which preserve seeds at risk of disappearing forever.  I also discovered I wanted all the weird-looking plants, like conical cabbages and spiral cauliflower.  What I didn't want was food that I could buy at my supermarket, or even at the local farmers market or farm stand.

And I wanted to plant potatoes.  A decade ago, when I was visiting Ireland with my daughter, we stayed at a bed and breakfast in Leap, Co. Cork, the town nearest to the townland where my grandfather was born, population 250 on a good day.  The B&B had a wonderful view of Glandore Harbour (and it turned out that the owner's mother-in-law had known one of my great-uncles, who kept a horse in what is now the recording studio behind the pub Connolly's), and my daughter and I would usually take a walk along the harbor at the end of the day before dinner (we would feed the swans along the way).  Once, in living memory, there were twelve families in the cove where only two live now, and we would walk by what I first thought was an old shed–until I looked more closely at it and realized that it had been a tiny cottage, and there were potato hills outside the door, even 50 years after abandonment.

So the Irish side of me had to plant potatoes.  Now, I have never grown a potato in my life, and I had no idea what to expect.  I dutifully ordered some (yeah, I know, I could get the same bleeping things at the market, but that didn't seem right) and followed instructions and planted them.  And waited.  And while I was waiting, I looked at my compost pile (another earnest project conceived last fall, because we have no leaf pick-up around here, and no way to drag all the leaves those aforementioned giant maple trees produce each year to the town dump ten miles away), where last year's leaves are still sitting in wet clumps.  Of course I also deposit my organic garbage there, and lo and behold, a plant sprouted and grew–fast.  I looked upon it:  could that be a potato?  It could indeed.  I carefully transplanted it into the "real" garden.  It survived, and it thrived.  It was two feet tall when the "store-bought" potatoes finally made their appearance in the garden.

I'm happy to say the ones I planted have sort of caught up and appear to be doing well.  But...the chunks I discarded in the compost heap are doing a lot better.  Let me add that the compost heap GETS NO SUN AT ALL!  Apparently nobody told the potatoes, so I guess I have to go with the flow and encourage those, which are trying so hard to survive.

If you want a conclusion to all this, here's what I've got: (1) Be prepared for the unexpected; (2) you can't always get what you want; and (3) good things can come from unlikely places.

HEARING VOICES

Posted by Sheila Connolly (Sarah Atwell has no Irish in her, more's the pity)

Recently I had the opportunity to hear Patrick Tracey speak about his book, Stalking Irish Madness, at a local bookstore.  I read a review of it a few months ago and made a mental bookmark:  this was something I wanted to read.  I also knew the bookstore where he would be speaking (Front Street Bookshop in Scituate Harbor) and I knew it would be an intimate setting with a chance of some real interaction with the author, so I made sure I was there.

Tracey's family has a long and difficult history with schizophrenia:  his great-great-grandmother had it, his grandmother had it, and two of his sisters have it.  As you might guess, he is interested in any possible genetic link or predisposition to this devastating disease, which strikes in adulthood and which at best is manageable, but is not curable.  But there's another level of complexity:  the Irish seem to have a long history of the disease, and one has to wonder, is it biological?  Cultural?  Since my father's family was Irish, it is interesting to me.

I won't go into a lot of detail, but it's possible that the Irish concentration is based on several factors that came together in an unfortunate way.  One is maternal malnutrition, and Ireland has suffered a long series of famines (not just the Great Famine, although that was perhaps the greatest catalyst for Irish emigration).  Another is the advanced age of a lot of Irish fathers.  You see, under the past few centuries of landholding (I can't even say ownership, because for a long time that wasn't permitted to the Irish), it was important to keep the small plots intact, and generally they were passed on to the eldest son–after the father died.  You can imagine there were some long waits.  Now, a middle-aged Irish bachelor with a farm could have his pick of young women in the neighborhood, but his genetic materials may already have suffered.  A third factor is substance abuse.  I won't buy into the offensive stereotype that the Irish are heavy drinkers; I have a theory that Irish pubs evolved so men would have someplace to escape from the two-room smoke-filled cottage with six squalling children.  But it may be the combination of these factors, and probably others not yet determined, that gave the Irish a statistically higher chance of displaying the signs of schizophrenia.

The primary symptom is hearing voices.  And of course, as a writer I have to consider that, because isn't that what writers do?  The problem for a schizophrenic arises when the voices (usually plural) start telling him or her what to do–and it's evil.  One of the more interesting recent developments in therapeutic treatment has been to try to teach schizophrenics to listen to their voices–in effect, giving them permission to acknowledge them.  For far too long, well-meaning parents and therapists have tried to downplay the voices, telling the sufferers to ignore them or pretend they're not there.  Funny thing:  recent medical scanning techniques have shown that when a schizophrenic is "hearing voices", the same area of his or her brain lights up as when he or she is listening to "real" voices.  Yes, these voices are very real to the person on the receiving end.

So telling the patients to ignore them puts them in a terrible position.  They are forced to believe that they are defective.  They have been told that it's a form of moral weakness–in effect, to "just get over it."  They learn strategies to hide what they hear, and they struggle not to respond out loud so they won't be labeled as crazy.  And it doesn't work.  In fact, preliminary studies have shown that if a schizophrenic can actually enter into a dialogue with the voices, acknowledge their reality, they do a much better job of managing and controlling them.  Interesting, isn't it?

The Irish have a long history of writers.  Even when it wasn't possible to publish in Irish, there was a tradition of the traveling seanchaí–the itinerant story-teller who would go from place to place and repeat the old stories which might otherwise have been lost, in exchange for a meal and a place to sleep.  So the spoken word, and the written word, have long been treasured in Ireland.  And how much of that is related to hearing those voices?  Is it really binary–you've either got it or you don't–or is there some grey (or more colorful) middle ground where you hear whispers and can harness that and weave something from it?

Tracey doesn't have all the answers.  He's not a scientist or a doctor, and this is his first book.  But the story is one he felt compelled to write, to explain what happened to his bright and talented older sisters that scrambled their minds.  He's old enough that he figures he's safe from the disease itself, but both he and his "normal" siblings have struggled with substance abuse issues.  Which makes the book all the more compelling.  It's not a dry analysis of a modern medical problem; it's one man's effort to understand this difficult thread that has run through his life, and through the lives of many people before him, most notably the Irish.

I can't point to any madness in my Irish family.  There were a few drinking problems, including one great-uncle who loved to sing, and who late in life married his cousin from next door–who was deaf.  I was told about this by one of his former neighbors in Ireland, who fifty years after Great-Uncle Patrick's death still remembered him fondly.  And I think that's one more piece of the puzzle–the Irish looked after their own, and they were forgiving of the foibles of their relatives and friends, the ones who were off "talking to the fairies"–or just listening to the voices in their heads.

WHAT'S TALENT GOT TO DO WITH IT?

Posted by Sheila Connolly (and the ever-present Sarah Atwell)

I'm a big American Idol fan.  I've been watching since the beginning (although I haven't actually voted, unlike tens of millions of other viewers).  The whole phenomenon is interesting because viewers are asked to decide, week to week, who is "best" among the singers. 

What the heck is "best"?  The judges try to steer us in various directions–one participant is "pitchy," another is "karaoke," yet another is "safe."  All the judges have opinions–and they don't always match up.  Nor does the voting public necessarily agree with the judges.

Which leaves me wondering, just what is talent?  In theory none of the finalists advance to the competition round unless they have some talent (we can ignore a few of the comic-relief candidates, who usually can at least carry a tune).  After all, we watched the judges screen tens of thousands of wannabes crammed in stadiums and auditoriums for the privilege of making fools of themselves on national television (and that's the lucky ones–the rest we never see).  It never ceases to amaze me how many people think they can sing when they're flat-out lousy.  Okay, their mother and their boy/girlfriends love them and encourage them, but can't they hear themselves?  In this age of easy recording (even on your cell phone, for heaven's sake!), did it never occur to them to record themselves and listen?  There's an infinite capacity for self-delusion operating out there, and even after eight seasons of AI, the clueless are still coming out of the woodwork.

This year's finale was particularly interesting.  I'll confess I was a big Adam Lambert fan, ambiguous sexuality, eyeliner and all.  Damn, the kid can sing!  And isn't that what matters?  I don't care what he does off-screen, as long as he continues to be amazing on-screen.  In the end he was paired with What's-His-Name.  Oh, right, Kris Allen–the nice young person who looks like the boy who cuts your lawn or bags your groceries.  Pleasant and ultimately forgettable.  Except that he won–much to his surprise.  Apparently the viewing public (or at least the voting public) prefers safe to edgy.  They're more comfortable with the boy next door.

Hang in there–I'm getting to how all this relates to writing, really I am.  I am sure that the AI finalists have worked hard at their craft (or at least most of them–there always seem to be a few who decided to try out on a whim and surprise themselves and everyone else by advancing).  They have taken years of music lessons.  They have participated in their high school musicals or open mike nights.  Some have even had a few professional gigs or have a garage band.  They care passionately about singing, and about reaching more than a dozen people (and probably about making a lot of money and about being recognized on the street and about hosting the Grammy Awards in a couple of years).  In short, they are doing all the right things.  But that doesn't guarantee anything–just look at those other thousands of competitors who never made it past the door.

And that's a lot like trying to become a writer.  We all write for many of the same reasons:  we love writing, we want to reach people, we want fame and recognition and maybe a few bucks.  We do whatever we can to hone our craft–classes, both live and on-line; entering contests; "auditioning" for agents and editors whenever we can.  And practicing endlessly, all while trying to keep that flicker of hope alive–"I do have talent, I can make it."

And some do.  But a lot don't.  So where does talent fit in there?  In a singer, it should be obvious (to anyone other than the singer him- or herself) that he or she has a voice.  It may be raw, it may need training, but it's there.  If it isn't there, you can't be a singer, at least for the public.  With writers it's less clear.  Most writers do have a "voice," but that voice may appeal to only some people, some of the time.  If it appeals to enough people, you get an agent and a contract and a book and sales.  If it doesn't, you get a pat on the head and you're told, nice but not for me.  And if you're lacking your own true voice, all the training and studying and practicing you want are not going to get you where you want to go.

So are we deluded too?  We want to write, and we want to believe in ourselves.  We keep trying, over and over, in the face of criticism and rejection.  We break our own hearts trying.  But only a few make it into print, out of the many who try.

Okay, so it's not all or nothing.  There are different levels to aspire to.  There are the superstars, the multi-million sellers, the ones who get the five-figure contracts up front.  And then there are the midlist writers, the ones who turn out a book or two a year and have a small but faithful following.  If they're lucky, their publisher will let them keep doing that.  Unfortunately, in these difficult economic times, publishers are looking for better return on their dollar, so those midlist contracts are harder and harder to come by (at least for now).  If the superstars are the ones who fill concert halls, the midlist crowd are the ones who staff traveling roadshows of Broadway revivals.

And every now and then there are the ones who don't make it to the top, but who go on to surprise everybody.  Maybe winning isn't all it's cracked up to be; maybe slow and steady can pay off too.

Talent:  what is it, and do you know it if you see it?  And, oh, isn't it glorious when you do?

COUNTRY CLUB MEDICINE

Posted by Sheila Connolly (Sarah Atwell is perfectly health, thank you very much)

Medical care in this country is in a mess, no question, and something from on my own recent experience underlined this for me.

I am blessed with good health, so I have had little interaction with the medical community.  The only time I've ever spent in a hospital (if you don't count my birth and a couple of days when I was two) was to have a baby.  I've never had any major illnesses or injuries.  My worst problem is hay fever, and I've been dealing with that most of my life–no big problem.

So overall I ask very little from the medical community.  I even have excellent insurance coverage, through my husband's employer (the federal government).  What's more, I keep myself tuned up:  regular check-ups, annual mammograms.  I get my teeth cleaned twice a year.  I am very lucky and I know it.

But since moving to Massachusetts, six years ago, I've had some interesting encounters.  Newly arrived, we asked for recommendations for doctors who were accepting new patients–not that many.  My husband and I found one we liked.  Our first doctor was a great guy, just starting out.  Sure, he was young, but he listened to you, knew you by name, asked questions.  All good.  Sad to say, his medical career was affected when his wife had a debilitating stroke before she was 30.  That's not something you factor into your career planning.  He kept working (while struggling to find support for his wife at home), and my husband and I followed him through three different practices before he just upped and walked away, we don't know where.  The last practice wouldn't say, and suggested a few other general physicians who were accepting new patients.

We met.  I liked her.  Again, she's just starting out.  She's Filipino in origin, and female–I don't know if that makes things more difficult for her.  But she's upbeat, intelligent, and calls everybody "sweetie."  When we first signed on with her, she was working in one of the many group practices associated with our local hospital (not one of the big, important Boston-area hospitals, but perhaps the best in this corner of the state).  What we found was that this was for her definitely a "starter" position–the umbrella group parked her in an office in an industrial park, just to see how she did.  Apparently it's standard practice for that group.

Apparently she did just fine, so after a year or two there they "promoted" her to a better office.  And therein lies the tale.  Medicine ain't what it used to be, folks.

For a start, this office (again, a small group) is located in a new development embedded in a golf course. You know, one of those places that tries to look like an old-timey town?  There's a bank, an art gallery, a flower shop, and a dynamite café with excellent croissants.  The doctors' offices are discreetly nestled upstairs, with a small sign around to the side.  Inside, there is sunshine and fresh flowers and pretty views of pine trees (and all the busy gardeners manicuring the green lawns).  Okay, she's definitely moved up in the world.

The physician's assistant arrived first, clutching a laptop, which she parked in the cradle waiting in the examination room.  What, no clip-board, no paper trails, I asked?  Nope, she replied, we do it all electronically now.  But what if there's a power failure?  No problem–we have our own generator.  Welcome to the new world.  I have to say that the blood pressure thingy (I refuse to try to spell the technical term) was still manual (and my blood pressure is just fine), but she used a cool blood oxygen monitor that clipped on my finger.  That was a first.  My blood oxygen is good too.

Then my doctor arrived, on time (how rare is that?).  This was just a check-up, so I reported that, no, I had no new or special problems; yes, I'm still taking all the same medications, and they seem to be working.  She listened to my heart and my breathing, but I never took my clothes off.  She was out of there within ten minutes, and I left clutching the paperwork to have my blood drawn at some later date.

I came away both impressed and troubled.  I mean, this looks like a fine practice, and I have no complaints about the medical attention I've received.  They report lab results promptly, and refill prescriptions over the phone.  The staff is courteous, and the place is immaculate.  So why do I feel unsettled? I suppose because it all feels kind of fairy-tale-ish.  What is wrong with this picture?  Aren't emergency rooms across the country swamped with people with what should be minor ailments, simply because they can't afford health insurance, even for their children?  If the emergency rooms are open at all?  Maybe it's some lingering Puritan ethic:  I'm healthy and I'm insured, so why should I be enjoying this bucolic setting, followed by a cappuccino and pastry?  I felt guilty.  And I also felt (in hindsight)  that maybe the money could be directed to something a bit more useful.

This country's medical system needs fixing.  It will cost money, but don't we owe it to our citizens (and everybody else) to keep them healthy?  We all benefit in the long run.  Wouldn't you rather pay for promoting and maintaining good health, than for treating emergency situations that shouldn't have been allowed to go on so long?  So let's see if we can get it done.  Our President is pushing for this, and maybe if we all get behind it and urge our elected representatives to get behind it, something will happen this time around.

    *     *     *

A quick update on last week's church fire:  the steeple has been removed and is now lying next to the church, but looks to be in surprisingly good condition.

A DAY TO REMEMBER

Posted by Sheila Connolly (Sarah Atwell missed the whole thing)

Memorial Day, in a small Massachusetts town.  Families, veterans, Boy Scouts, are gathering for the annual parade.  And the Congregational Church in the middle of town catches fire.

I should have known something was going on when I went out to collect the paper at seven and a small plane was circling overhead.  A series of fire engines went past on the main road a block away.  Then a strange siren I had never heard went off a few times.  My husband, in the midst of his weekly run, actually detoured back past the house to tell me the church was on fire.  When he had run past it initially, there was one lone pumper with a piddling stream of water trying to fight it.  Our local fire department needed help, and they got it–from (ten) other town fire departments.

When I learned what was going on, I made sure I had my camera and batteries (and I might have combed my hair) and headed straight for town, only a few blocks away.

Why?  I'm not a church member, and I don't have a long history in this town (six years now).  But I write about a small New England town, and so many of those are distinguished by the soaring white steeple overlooking the green in the center of town–it's an iconic image from our nation's history.  What if I wanted to write about a fire there?

That sounds ghoulish, and before you condemn me as a sensation-seeker of the worst kind, let me tell you that no one was seriously injured in the fire, much less killed; it was caused by an electrical problem, not arson; the church was saved, with the exception of the roof and some of the back parts; the church was fully insured, and in fact had recently received a nice six-figure bequest for renovations in the will of a long-time member, so there will be money to repair the church.  Big sighs of relief all around.

But as a dramatic community event, how could I stay away? I'll admit that the idea of setting fire to my fictional "Granford" church (which, I'm told, is one of the most photographed in New England–people driving along the highway stop to take a picture of the church on the hill–and some of my ancestors gave the land it stands on) makes me queasy. Whatever your feelings about modern organized religion, historically the church was the heart of the town, a place where people came together to celebrate the happy landmarks of life, or to honor the departed.  There are a lot of memories and a lot of ghosts in any church, regardless of the denomination.

So whatever damages a church, particularly an historic one, tears at the heart of the community, and the Middleboro fire was no exception.  It was an incongruously beautiful day, bright and sunny, the best that a Massachusetts spring has to offer–except for the smoke in the air.  I will admit I have never witnessed a major fire (at least up close–although I did once see from afar a high-rise fire in San Francisco, where the glass from the shattering windows fell like sparkling snow in slow motion), and this one offered all the drama you could want.  Flames shooting from the soaring steeple (luckily reinforced a decade or so ago, so it didn't fall).  Firemen on spindly ladders, maneuvering firehoses that spewed torrents of water.  I have no idea how one or two men can control such force; the water pouring out of the doors at ground level looked like a waterfall. Noise:  all that rushing water is loud!  Smells:  old wood burning (the church was built in 1841, with balloon construction, which means the walls are hollow bottom to top and provide the perfect conduit for fire) doesn't smell toxic, it smells like a campfire–very incongruous.  Strange sights:  a clump of idiot pigeons kept trying to land on the steeple, even while it was burning.

News crews were there in droves, and we kept seeing the footage of the fire over and over for the rest of the day.  And for hours people kept arriving to watch, gathering on the broad lawn in front of the town hall just across the street.  They may have come for the parade, but they ended up seeing something very different.

My Orchard series is very much about community–what it means to be part of a place, how we connect with its people.  Clearly that spirit exists in the real world. In a day of strip malls and sprawling residential development, it still means something to live in a place with a true center, where people come together.  And if I end up writing about it, that's the part I want to use–not the loss of something crucial, but the survival.

CEMETERIES

Posted by Sheila Connolly (with Sarah Atwell as consultant)

It's hard to believe that the ladies of Writers Plot have been blogging together for over two years now.  I checked, because I wanted to make sure I hadn't written about cemeteries too much–I believe I have restrained myself admirably.  But it's Memorial Day–and it's also my birthday, so I'll write what I want to!

I won't bore you with the details of my early fascination with cemeteries, although it has been steady (a high-school friend and I used to bicycle our way to various local cemeteries, then sit and picnic there–okay, we were weird kids.).  My grandmother and mother introduced me to a few of the "family" plots, and I'm glad we saw them together.  It's a sort of passing of the torch, and I'm inflicting the same tradition on my daughter, who is bearing up quite well.  In fact, my mother used to joke that her dowry consisted mainly of five family cemetery plots.  I'm still looking for a couple of them, but I haven't given up yet.

It's not that I'm a ghoul–I'm a historian.  Most people aren't aware that cemeteries are a repository of documents, an archive in stone.  The Daughters of the American Revolution agree, and absent any written evidence, will accept photos of tombstones as proof of kinship or relationship.  Of course, a stone can be unreliable:  witness the variations of spelling within a single family plot, especially among the earlier examples.  Apparently people weren't quite so hung up on spell-checking in the 18th century.

Worse, people have been known to inscribe erroneous information on tombstones, most likely because they themselves weren't sure of birth dates.  Major confession:  when my grandmother died in 1993, we had a family debate about what birth date to put on her stone.  You see, she had been orphaned early and had no official birth record (that we have ever found), and it seems that every time she filled out a formal document–marriage license, Social Security application and the like–she changed the year.  We think she was born in 1899, but by the end of her life she preferred 1904.  So what did we put on the stone?  1904, because it was her choice, and we were honoring her.  Yes, we lied, on a very permanent record.

Tombstones often tell us a lot about people.  In keeping with the Memorial Day theme, let me tell you about my favorite great-great-grandfather, Silas A. Barton, buried in Waltham, Massachusetts.  Obviously I never knew him–he died in 1914.  But among all my known ancestors, he left the broadest and possibly the most interesting trail.  We think he was born in Ware, MA (no documentation), and also lived in Vermont for a bit, and later Stoneham, Lynn and Waltham.  He was one of the founders of the General Electric Company and worked for them in Boston for a few years.

Silas was the youngest of four brothers, and they all served in the Civil War.  But Silas was only 16 when he signed up (he needed his father's signature to get into the army), and while his brothers fought in some of the major battles of the War, Silas spent his entire military career of three years at Fort Independence in Boston Harbor, keeping New England safe (he did a good job, didn't he?).  He never saw a battle.  However, his military service was one of the defining points of his life.  He was heavily involved in Grand Army of the Republic activities after the War, in Lynn and Waltham, and even assisted in planning a huge regatta on the Charles River.  His obituary refers to him as "Colonel" Barton, which is an honorary title.  On his tombstone, the only personal information included is:  "Corp. Co. D, 1st Battalion, H.A. [Heavy Artillery] Mass. Vols."  That service shaped the adult man he became.

All right, enough of the heavy stuff.  I also have fun in some cemeteries, because there are all sorts of weird and wonderful tombstones.  For example, the Victorians for a time experimented with metal markers, with a faux-stone finish.  You can usually spot them a mile away because they share a bluish-grey color, and because they last very, very well, so they're still crisp and sharp.  [Short research detour:  they're made of zinc, although called "white bronze."  They were popular from the 1870s through the early 20th century.  Many of the manufacturers also made monumental statues, primarily of firemen and soldiers–if you look, you can probably find some local monuments that feature them.]  They're also endearing because they're kind of mix-and-match.  You chose your basic shape, and then you could add the decoration of your choice–swags, ships, garlands.  And of course your personal data were added too.  All the bits and pieces were bolted on.  Wonder why these never became truly popular?  They've outlasted quite a few contemporary stone monuments.  There was, however, one short-coming:  you couldn't make them too large, because then they started to collapse under their own weight.

And then there are the whimsical markers–those covered with flowers, or stones carved to resemble trees or logs, which I love.  I offer you a couple of particularly charming examples.  The Boynton plot in South Hadley has a central ivy-clad tree (or stump).  The plot perimeter is defined by smaller stumps, while the personal markers within are little piles of stones with scrolls.  The Dickinson tree is a bit less formal, with the pertinent information "tacked" onto the bark–and a delightful bird peeping out of a knothole.

I could go on, but I won't.  My point:  a visit to a cemetery does not need to be a sad event; it can be a celebration of those who came before us, who shaped us personally, and our towns, and even our country.  Those buried there deserve to be remembered.

JUST LISTEN

Posted by Sheila Connolly (well, maybe Sarah Atwell helped)

I spent half an hour this past weekend doing nothing.  It's been a busy spring so far, what with book deadlines and an extended Malice trip, and edits, and friends of my daughters dropping in out of the blue.  So Saturday I took myself out to our screened Victorian porch, plopped myself down in one of the wicker chairs there, and did nothing for a while.

Well, not exactly.  I didn't take a book or magazine, or anything else to occupy my attention.  What I did do was listen.

We have a small lot near some major roads and the center of town, so it's not exactly silent.  There's car noise, of course, including that from the state highway half a mile away (in summer, sometimes we get congregations of bikers gathering, which can be a bit loud, but they haven't appeared yet).  I haven't paid a lot of attention lately, but it looks like spring may actually be happening in Massachusetts (don't say it too loud or it will snow tomorrow), and, surprise, the birds are back.

I am not a naturalist.  I like animals, particularly in their own habitat, and I can identify a short list of birds–the obvious ones like robins and mourning doves, and goldfinches (because, duh, they're gold).  I don't get anything exotic in my yard, even with a double birdfeeder, unless you count the wood duck that raised a nest full of young in one of our large maple trees without attracting my notice, until the little ones took off for their first flight and they all disappeared for good.  Yeah, you can tell I'm real observant.

But if you just stop to listen (and maybe shut your eyes), it's amazing how many bird calls you hear.  At least I think they're birds.  For all I know they're squirrels or tree frogs, but they're all making noise like mad (oh, that's right–this is mating season).  They're bickering, they're playing–they're having a grand old (noisy) time out there.

On the aforesaid Malice trip, which involved a whole bunch of states and more than a week on the road, I betook myself to Atlantic City (I bet you're all waiting with bated breath to see how I try to connect my suburban back yard with Atlantic City!  Read on, dear reader.).  I spent quite a few of my formative years in New Jersey, long before the advent of the casinos, but I had never seen AC, before or after.  I was staying with an old friend who had to work during the day, so I took myself off to the coast.

I am not now, nor have I ever been, a gambler, unless you count trying to get a writing career off the ground.  I have visited more than one casino, in various states, and lost less than ten dollars total in my life on slot machines.  I did want to see a "big" one, just to get the feel of it, so I dipped my toe into Caesar's and Bally's. I came away unmoved. 

However...I listened.  I stopped in the midst of the floor (trying to avoid the well-populated smoking section and areas downwind) and let my senses absorb the ambience.  There were layers:  a predictable top layer of cheesy music, the ever-present cacophony of the machines themselves (bells, clicks, whirrs, whatever), and there was the buzz of human voices.  I narrowed my range and focused on the voices:  among the gamblers, Asian, Russian, plenty of English with various accents; among the employees, a lot of Spanish.  The sound alone was, in its way, enveloping.  Heaven help you if you opened your eyes and added all the flashing lights and complete absence of any features that might suggest an escape route back to the real world.

To tie all this up with a bow:  I have what I call my writer mode.  Sometimes I find myself in a place and have to say to myself, 'be quiet and just listen.'  Pay attention.  Don't just walk through life, but see the small details that add richness and complexity.  Capture the moment, and hold it–and get it down on paper, if you can.

MARILYN FRENCH 1929-2009

Posted by Sheila Connolly (Sarah Atwell is too young to remember)

  Marilyn French died last week.  I hope most of you (women) readers aren't scratching your heads and saying, "who?"  According to the obituary in The New York Times, French was a "Champion of Feminism"; her debut novel "propelled her into a leading role in the modern feminist movement."  That book was "The Women's Room."

It all seems so long ago, doesn't it?  The book came out in 1977, the paperback version in 1978.  Since I was still a penniless student then, I didn't read it until it came out in paperback.  I still have that copy–yellowed, its spine bowed, its cover barely hanging on.

Why did the book matter?  Why did it strike a chord with so many people (over 20 million copies sold)?  French told the fictionalized story of a woman who had done the right things (married, had children) and who had come to find her life meaningless; who at the age of thirty-eight (in 1968) had decided to take charge of her life and found herself a graduate student at Harvard.  Remember those years?  1968 was such a pivotal point in our generation's history.  And when I read the book (for the first of many times), I was in graduate school at Harvard–and she was so on point about the rampant sexism there.  Subtle, pervasive, and undeniably real. 

French may be best known for the following quote from the book:  "When your body has to deal all day with shit and string beans, your mind does too."  Google "shit and string beans" and you'll find a long list of feminist tracts.  But for some reason that quote has always stuck in my mind.  Ordinary daily life is made up of a whole lot of shit and string beans, and you have to claw your way out of them.

Sad to say, at that time I also identified with the "before" narrator–the good girl who followed the rules.  I didn't plan to marry and pop out a lot of babies, or not right away, but remember if you can that those were the days when women at the Seven Sisters colleges were applying in droves to medical school and law school–where women made up less than 5% of admissions at both.  Hard to imagine now, isn't it?  Attending a women's college in the 1960s was heady–OMG, there are other bright, ambitious women like me?  I don't have to hide my brains because the boys (men?) won't like me?  Okay, laugh if you will, but that was the prevailing mood back in the day.  (Damn, I'm making myself feel old.)  I want to believe it's changed.  I've raised a daughter, and she attended a women's college, and their first priority was NOT finding a date for Saturday night. Maybe French's book played some small role in that.  I hope so.

In case you haven't noticed, most writers in the traditional mystery genre are women.  More than that, we're women of a particular cohort–women who had a foot in each era, the before and after of that particular wave of feminism.  Therefore it shouldn't surprise us that many of us write about women who overcome the odds against them.  Our heroines are not necessarily "strong" women–they admit freely that they need friends and, yes, lovers.  But they work out their problems (which all too often include a murder) on their own, using their own intelligence and skills. And they don't question their ability to succeed where the trained professionals (the police, the FBI) have failed.  They know the right questions to ask, and who to ask.  And they aren't afraid to do it.