Change is the only constant

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 29 Comments

I interrupt today’s novel-writing to bring you an important message. I am about to move my blog to Substack. You will still be receiving my daily emails, but they will look a little bit different. All of the technology will be much more user-friendly. Making comments will be easier, and maybe, once I’m out of this intense phase of writing, we will find more opportunities to interact.

If you want to download the app, you can do that, but you won’t have to.

My emails will still be free.

If you don’t receive anything from me tomorrow, please check your junk folder. Look for the Gratuitous Dog Photo.

See you on Substack!

Would you buy a used car from this guy?

Birds on a wire

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 28 Comments

You know those word scramble videos, where the words or letters float randomly around the screen until they finally alight and settle in their right order, like birds landing on a wire? Or the place in a puzzle where, after struggling to get any sense of the solution, suddenly in a flash it’s all perfectly clear, and you pop the answers into their spaces, one-two-three?

Well, that’s where I am in the book right now.

I see the pieces of the plot line, and the specific scenes, and they are floating around in my head, not quite finding their right order, but all there, ready to settle into their proper places. This whirling phenomenon is familiar, it is the beginning of the race to the end; the last first step before the book truly takes shape, when I can begin trimming, fitting, cutting, and polishing.

It takes so much effort and fits and starts to get to this place, but it is the good part: the part where rather than struggling to find the line, all I have to do is snatch it up out of the air and lay in its perfectly prepared spot.

Long writing days ahead, but the solution to the puzzle is whirling like those birds

We’re in the home stretch.

Have you pre-ordered?

Emergence

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 12 Comments

After a full day of work, I dragged myself out of my writer’s hole around 9:30 this morning to eat something and breathe some fresh air. Auggie was already racing, and even Eli oozed out the kitchen door for a little walk and some time with his green ball.

On our walk we discovered an enormous tree deep in the woods that had been completely uprooted and lay like a fallen giant. In the process it had taken a few neighboring trees down with it. Some of the daffodils are six inches high and others are popping up everywhere amid the hostas—which are also poking up. The blossoms on one of our big sugar maples have already opened—a record— two tiny blue scilla are blooming at the bottom of the hill where the turkeys gather, and a cluster of snowdrops are thriving among last year’s leaves.

Here in the midwest we’d usually call this False Spring just before Third Winter, but even though we have Lake Michigan to keep us fairly cool for a while longer, I don’t think Actual Spring is far off. At least I hope it isn’t because a heavy snowfall on our blossoming maple tree could bring it down.

It was a short winter for us, but at least we got some snow along the way.

A little bit of drama

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 31 Comments

It was very windy yesterday, and normally I am conscious of the dangers of being among trees in those conditions. But it was sunny and warm, and I was restless from writing, and Auggie was restless from being himself, so we were outside when a big tree came crashing down before our eyes, very close to where we had just been.

It was far enough away that we were not in any danger, but close enough that the wood dust flew into our eyes. We went indoors to find the bedroom doors blown open, and small branches on the floor. Eli, who had refused to come outside, was hiding. After that we waited for sunset, when the wind tends to die down, to go out again.

Life is precarious, so this dog photo isn’t really gratuitous at all. Eli insisted on resting his head on Auggie’s flank. After some pointed stares and couple of noises that were more groans than growls, Auggie permitted it. For a little while.

We have another big dead tree close to the house I had planned to ignore for a while. I guess I’d better call Johanna, our tree climbing, chainsaw-wielding arborist.

Grief

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 19 Comments

I have been thinking a lot about grief lately. It is the only real constant in life, and yet we have to learn to roll with its waves and find the joys that intermingle with it, or else we will simply be immersed.

This morning I discovered by accident that a friend who lives some distance away lost her husband more than a year ago. She never told me, but then, we had lost touch during COVID, and the last time I saw her was when Eli was still a puppy, four years ago. She must have thought I would see the news somehow, but I no longer subscribe to the local paper, and have lost touch with the community, so when I stumbled upon his obituary this morning I was stunned.

There’s nothing I can do to make up for having let her down during this terrible time, and I hope she will forgive me. But please take a lesson from me: don’t let old friendships languish. COVID put us all in a weird rut of isolation. Call someone you’ve been out of touch with. You may never know how much it matters.

Reach out.

Look for joy.

There’s always time for gratitude

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 49 Comments

Spoiler alert: Auggie gave us another scare this week, but instead of the worst possible news, it turns out he is experiencing the aches and pains of a middle-aged athlete.

You know how difficult it can be when you’re waiting for someone’s medical diagnosis. You flip restlessly through a book, if you have one, you play games on your phone, if you do that sort of thing, or you ruminate madly about worst case/best case scenarios. It’s important to find something to do.

As I waited for the surgeon’s diagnosis, there was an odd little stand with a drawer in the exam room. I had been in this room at the hospital before, and it suddenly occurred to me that I had never looked in this drawer. Part of it, maybe, was just knowing it was none of my business. But then it occurred to me that maybe it had something meant to be helpful: a pack of tissues, a roll of lifesavers, hand sanitizer, Gideon’s Bible…so I opened it. It was disappointingly, boringly empty.

I had come equipped to wait, so of course I had paper and pen, and I was very much in need of a distraction. So for some reason it occurred to me to do this. Too bad I didn’t have a packet of candy or something to add. I wonder how long it will take someone to find it—someone else who’s worried, bored, and needs distraction.

Auggie was a good boy, but he’s learned to be nervous about these places. Luckily, happily, joyfully, all was well, and we went home together, armed with a little bottle of pain pills. We played ball when we got there.

Yin and Yang

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 27 Comments

Earlier this week I wrote about busy, athletic Auggie’s very occasional need to snuggle. Eli, too, has a need to snuggle, but for him that means All. The. Time.

Eli is the cuddliest, mildest-tempered, neediest dog I have ever known. I have no doubt this is due to his having been brought home days before the COVID lockdown. We were not able to socialize him properly, and he depended entirely upon our small household for everything. Most of the time he is submissive to Auggie’s leadership, but lately, as Auggie approaches his seventh birthday and begins to slow down a bit, Eli has started asserting himself.

This is mostly noticeable in their rivalry for our attention. When Auggie asks for a scratch or a pat, Eli uses his considerable bulk to wedge himself between us and Auggie. We have to physically push him away to prevent him from blocking Auggie altogether.

So, of course, the night after Auggie cuddled up close, Eli decided it was his turn. He was waiting, all curled up on my pillow when I came to bed, and although he moved politely when asked, he came right back as soon as I had settled, and lay his big head on my shoulder. He sighed deeply, his breath in my ear, and promptly fell asleep. You know the old joke: Where does a 300 pound gorilla sleep? Well, that fairly describes Eli, even though he is only a modest 140 pounds. His father weighs the same, and I attribute both his weight and his demeanor to genetics, even as I carefully monitor his food, and feed him extra vegetables. After our experience with high-energy demanding Auggie, I did ask for a puppy with low drive. We got one.

Eli’s shyness is a handicap. He is terrified of anything he can interpret as thunder, which can be fireworks, a passing jet overhead, the rumble of a garbage truck, or the sliding door of a van. Or, of course, gunshots. We hear gunshots fairly regularly, and it’s legal. But Eli doesn’t care. When our arborist team was here, the sound of logs being thrown into the truck bed were equally terrifying.

I used to follow the advice of dog experts and try to distract him with routine commands, or games, or dancing. I tried everything, and none of it worked. So now I do what I should have been doing all along: I make myself available to calmly snuggle him if he wants, and allow him to hide in his secret places if he prefers that. When he gets an idea in his head, he’s pretty difficult to dissuade, but increasingly, when he’s afraid he just comes and sits with his head in my lap. I’m fine with that, and he is, too.

He is also reactive to other dogs, which we continue to work on with some success. Our trainer described him as “a kid who doesn’t know how to shake hands,” and that description fits, because Eli doesn’t have a single mean bone.

Today, while I played “Boo” with Auggie, Eli trotted nearby, sometimes with his ball, but mostly uninterested in it. For the last 15 minutes or so, he just sat by the door, watching and waiting for us to come inside so he could have his snack and snuggle back into bed. Auggie, indefatigable, did the slow walk of doom back to the house, dropping his green ball disconsolately at the door.

And now, I’m off to work, happy to have them both—yin and yang—nearby for comfort: Eli sound asleep, and Auggie lying by the door, just in case anyone should happen to open it.

In honor of George Washington

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 10 Comments

Today is George Washington’s birthday. He was a flawed human being, but also a great man. I hope we will all take a moment today to recognize his service to Divine Providence, in providing us with a country in which we can argue about his integrity, fight for freedom, and make the changes necessary to ensure that All Men—and Women—Are Created Equal. This country is a project, not a completed act of perfection. We have George Washington to thank for that. We owe it to ourselves and to posterity to ensure that his history—warts and all—is taught and remembered.

Today, may I suggest we all sit down for half an hour and read Washington’s Farewell Address which is a reminder and an admonishment to all Americans.

Just thinking

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 15 Comments

One of the things I love about sunrise is the giddy sense it gives me to contemplate that while it seems the sun is racing into the sky, it is we who are spinning through space at 67,000 mph (or so) while the sun stands still. At the same time, the earth is spinning on its axis, its mass creating the force of gravity to keep everything firmly grounded.

Meanwhile, tiny particles are spinning in their own miniature cosmos forming everything around us, even ourselves.

This morning the heavy fog was frozen on the branches of the trees, and an icy mist still hung in the air. The sun rose neon pink, turning the mists purple. All the invisible forces, large and small, at every moment, come together to make it possible for a human being—and her dogs— to sit here and think.

You don’t believe in miracles?

Souvenirs

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 23 Comments

(Today I am reprinting an excerpt from my first book of essays, Reflections on a Life in Exile.)

My mother outlived my father by several years, and when she died, my sister and I faced the sisyphean task of cleaning out their house. This included going through my father’s shop in the basement and in the garage, where he did everything from making wooden lamp bases on his lathes, to machining new parts for his car, to carrying out scientific experiments. I’m fairly certain that he never threw anything away. Nothing.

For my sister and me, each decision to keep or discard bore an emotional weight that devastated us both. It took some months, and we were weary in heart and soul both during the task, and for a long while after. Frankly, it would have been much easier for us if my parents had followed the modern art of “tidying-up”. But if they had, so much would have been lost.

The word souvenir comes from the French: a thing that makes you remember. And, perhaps that is what exhausted us so much: every little item we found had a memory attached. My mother’s battered ancient fruitcake tin, where she kept her needles, pins, and thread, and which was always hidden under her chair in the living room. My father’s homemade work aprons that had so often been our gifts to him on father’s day or his birthday.; his navy insignia; his little leather notebooks where he kept lists of books he wanted to read, recordings he wanted to buy, the names, ranks, stations, and bunk numbers of everyone on his ship during World War II,  poems he wanted to remember, a recipe for applejack eggnog.  Even my grandmother’s things were still enmeshed in the collection: her vanity set; her hair ornaments; her love letters. My sister dissolved into tears one evening when we had finished. “I feel as if I am throwing Mom and Daddy away.”

But the reality is that we couldn’t keep it all. So painstakingly, emotionally, and exasperatedly, we combed through the house as if it were an archeological dig. And, in a way, I suppose, it was.

Among the things I found was a dirty metal file box with little plastic drawers for sorting diodes, resistors, and transistors and other early electronic parts. The box had stood on my father’s workbench for as long as I can remember. At the top was my name, printed out in the same style as the labels on each drawer.

I remember the day my name came to be on that box. I was about three, and my father had received a new gadget in the mail: a label maker that used long flat spools of plastic to impress letters on. It was an exciting thing. I remember my father showing me what it did by painstakingly printing out the letters of my name, and then pasting the result at the top of the box.

Seeing that box on his workbench, years after his death, brought me fully back to that moment. I remembered the smell of cut metal and wood, the difficulty of seeing the top of the bench unless I were given a little stool to stand on. I remember my pride in seeing my name on the top of that box, and mostly, I remember being loved as clearly as if I had been embraced.

There is a–by now–somewhat aging trend in the world of home interiors known as “tidying up”. The process, which is a method of decluttering and living a minimalist life, has an almost spiritual quality, in that it claims it will change your life, and its adherents have the tone and enthusiasms of Nineteenth Century evangelists.

Dad's diode case

There is a vaguely moralistic and superior tone taken by these doyens of home organization. They are the new Puritans. No one needs stuff. No one needs other people’s stuff. It is clutter. It clutters your home and your life. In this age of materialism, when we all have bulging closets, attics, basements, and enough stuff to create another entirely separate household, people’s interest in the process is perfectly understandable.

But, had my father not kept his old things–radio parts that were no longer needed by any working radio–my memory of the label-making would have been lost to me, for there would have been no material thing in the world to remind me of it. That moment would have been lost to me forever.

This is the value of things, perhaps, even, of clutter. It is memories that make us who we are; which haunt us; which enrich and warm us; which remind us of how to be better. And the things, they are the memory triggers. They bring back the moments we might have forgotten in the depths of time: of my mother in her kitchen, or cutting off a button thread with her teeth; of my grandmother combing her hair, of picking her up at the bus station and sitting next to her in the car, touching the softness of her fur coat; my father listening to opera at high volume while he worked on his car. These are moments that form us; that make us ourselves.

I will admit that I have kept too many things. We jokingly refer to our garage as “the home for wayward chairs.” I have much of my parents’ good mahogany furniture, their wing chairs and their china cupboard. I have my grandmother’s vanity. I have all my father’s designs, and the paperwork for his one hundred twenty-something patents. It is a lot, and it can be overwhelming sometimes.

But I’ll take clutter any day. It is the price of remembering how it felt to be a little girl who was loved by her father.

Tidying up, indeed.

Featured

Miscellaneous

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 32 Comments

I am preoccupied with novel writing, so my thoughts are uncollected this morning.

My friend, Julie, she of Christmas tree adventure fame, called me this morning to cancel our belated joint birthday celebration for tonight. She hasn’t been feeling well, but she always cheers me. Her young grandson has signed up for school band and decided to take up the trumpet. When asked why he chose that particular instrument he explained that it was because it only had three buttons.

She also sent me this gallows edition of the cheerful birdseed snowman her daughter had given her. It’s become so morbid she’s decided it will have to be cut down, no matter how delicious the birds find it.

I don’t generally feed birds with or without moribund snowmen, mostly because the turkeys kept sitting on the birdfeeders and breaking them. But the deer have been visiting regularly in hope of finding the seeds I put out during last month’s extreme cold. I feel a bit guilty, but I try to hold firm on my only in extreme conditions policy. My late father always said deer were “vectors for disease”, which is completely true, but they are so innocently beautiful, it’s difficult to remember. Auggie and Eli help keep me in mind of ticks, however. Two dogs of my acquaintance have been diagnosed with Lyme disease recently, and we don’t need that.

Turkeys—despite their unconstructive birdfeeder habits—do make themselves useful in their consumption of ticks. I also encourage possums—but only morally, as I am unaware of any particular method of enticing them, aside from seeds, which seem likely to deter tick consumption. Are there possum houses?

I am pro-possum. This guy likes to stand on his hind legs and look in the bedroom windows. He is unfazed by German Shepherd Frenzy.

The weekend approaches, and with our Friday night newly free, I suppose we will fall upon the tried and true drinks by the fire and dogs on the feet. If we feel ambitious and the wind doesn’t come up, we will venture outside with our cognac snifters and have a bonfire.

The dogs will love that.

I leave you with some gratuitous dog footprints: the peculiar paw pattern of a standard dachshund. No, not Frank, but Oscar, the wire-haired dachshund. My family are dachshund people on all sides.

My sister’s wire-haired dachshund, Oscar.
My niece’s standard dachshund, Frank, on a recent rainy day. He is unchanged by success.

The day after Valentine’s Day

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 45 Comments

We woke to three inches of new snow, coating the branches in the magical way that reawakens childhood. There’s a fire in the fireplace, and a big snoring Eli on the couch. It feels very cozy and pleasant, and much more like February in Wisconsin.

I think the pandemic created a sense of the loss of time passing, and maybe that’s why I began assembling little Valentine gifts every year for my friends. They are never anything important, just a little token whose preparations feel festive. This year I read somewhere about a grandfather who always gave the writer candy tied up in a handkerchief, and the story was accompanied by an embroidered Valentine handkerchief that could be purchased for a ridiculous price. I wasn’t going to pay $40 for a handkerchief, but it gave me the idea.

So I began a hunt for vintage embroidered handkerchiefs. Soon they started arriving in little envelopes from all over the country, some with handwritten thanks. I paused over the note from one woman who wrote that she had been collecting handkerchiefs all her life, but now, as she was older, she wanted them to go to people who would enjoy them, rather than leaving them to her children who would just toss them out.

They were all white, with pink or red decorations. Some of the embroidery was by hand, and some was not, some were trimmed with lace. The combination of the different designs made a cheering jumble. They were all beautifully ironed, and some still had their original labels. I bought red and pink foil-wrapped chocolate hearts; foil-wrapped chocolate lips in pink, purple, and gold; a big spool of red satin ribbon; little white boxes; and heart stickers.

I suppose it’s all a little silly, but in the end, we are all children at heart. And who doesn’t miss the fun of valentines and a snack of Hawaiian Punch and cookies?

Incidentally, the grownup version of Hawaiian Punch is Ina Garten’s Cosmopolitan. Mix 2 cups vodka; 1 cup triple sec or Cointreau; 1 cup cranberry juice; 1/2 cup of fresh lime juice. Chill. Serve on the rocks in frozen glasses. No need to wait for next year’s Valentine’s Day. But be warned: too many Cosmopolitans can lead to the writing of terrible poetry.

A not-for-breakfast post

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 47 Comments

Last night, Auggie and Eli’s good friend, Scary Lisa1, and I went to a pet first aid class. It was something I’d been meaning to do for a very long time, but simultaneously dreaded. I am not squeamish as such, but I have too much imagination, and at some points in the class my eyes filled with tears thinking about my sweet boys being in the described situations.

I did learn important things, though, and although I have most emergency necessities available around the house, I am inspired to put together additional first aid kits for the cottage and both cars. In case you’re interested, the list is below. You should also add a mylar blanket and towels.

If you have big dogs like Auggie and Eli, in addition to the oral syringe, you should keep a turkey baster on hand to administer sufficient doses of Hydrogen peroxide in case you need to induce vomiting (which you should never do until a veterinarian who knows what has been ingested tells you to). I’ve had to do this twice, and it is heartbreaking, but lifesaving.

Speaking of poisoning, here is the ASPCA poison hotline (yes, I hate the ads, too). They will charge $75, but if your own vet is unavailable, they are a valid option, with veterinarians on hand.

Here are some important notes: Your pet can take Benedryl (diphenhydramine) if stung or having an allergic reaction, BUT only plain Benedryl—not Children’s Benedryl, which has the poisonous-to-animals artificial sweetener Xylitol, and not Benedryl with Tylenol (acetaminophen). Both ibuprofen and acetaminophen are poisonous to animals, too. The dosage is easy to remember: 1 mg of plain Benedryl per pound of animal.

We practiced CPR and artificial respiration on a canine version of Reusci Anne, and we all had large stuffed animals at our desks to practice muzzling and bandaging. These last were handy for hugging when a discussion of evisceration got stressful. It was not exactly a fun night, but I’m glad I attended.

My biggest dilemma is how I would get Eli into the car if I were alone and he were unconscious. I am thinking about asking our carpenter to modify a toboggan. Too weird?

Here are Eli and Scary Lisa once he’s reminded himself that he loves her.

  1. Scary Lisa has known Eli since the moment we brought him home, and they love one another. But, because Eli is a COVID puppy and was not properly socialized, sometimes he forgets who she is and runs from her. Once he remembers, he’s on her lap. Lisa is not otherwise scary. All our dogs have loved her. ↩︎

Would “dangling with a chain saw” make a good book title?

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 30 Comments

Our property is almost entirely wooded, and the trees have a way of creating their own little ecosystem. It can be warm and sunny elsewhere, but when you turn in our driveway the shade envelopes you, dropping the temperature, delaying the melting of ice and snow, and, in the summer, providing sanctuary to far too many flying insects.

The shade in our house is so ubiquitous that I have chosen the color schemes to maintain a warm coziness, lest the leaves turn everything inside green in summer. In winter, the bright sunlight is a welcome change.

Maintaining this property is a bit like managing a park, and sometimes it means making some hard decisions. This week we are having to take down a healthy sugar maple—which truly pains me—but it was leaning perilously over the house, and after our recent heavy snow and ice, it became clear that it was us or the tree.

Enter Johanna. She runs a small tree care company, and recently won a state championship for her climbing and cutting skills. She is not someone we call for the minor things, but I trust her implicitly with the big stuff. Her calm cheerfulness is warm and reassuring, even as she is dangling from a rope and holding a chain saw.

She has colleagues who manage the ropes, feed the chipper, and help to make sure she is safe, but she does the climbing. Her team will be here for at least three days, felling the tree, cleaning up the storm damage, and cabling another big sugar maple to ensure its stability.

Whenever she is here I am distracted by a compulsion to watch her work. It isn’t something you see every day, and, frankly, her courage dazzles me. So, today may not be a very productive day, but it will certainly be an entertaining one.

Remembering Abraham Lincoln

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 46 Comments

Today is Abraham Lincoln’s birthday. It bothers me that we have lumped Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthday’s into one generic Presidents’ Day. They were not generic men; each in their particular ways were fathers of new eras in the American experiment. It bothers me still further, that at a recent trip to an elementary school, even the third graders didn’t know who Lincoln was, or recognize that distinctive profile. It’s a subject simple enough for kindergarteners, but we seem to assume that children are incapable of learning things these days.

As a former teacher—and lifelong admirer of President Lincoln—I consider the abandonment of history a disgrace to our schools. Not to mention the abandonment of grammar, literature, and civics and…just reading. If you don’t believe me, look at the statistics. I’ll wait.

Children are sponges. They love knowing things, and their brains are programmed to memorize facts. It’s what human beings are meant to do. The education establishment dismisses memorization as mere rote learning—as if memorizing is somehow wrong. But I see memorization both as a gift and as the proper preparation for thinking. And at any rate, it would be a nice start.

I saw this close-up and personally when I was helping my grandson with his algebra this fall. How do you factor if you haven’t (in second grade) memorized the multiplication tables? It’s a form of rote learning that forms the facility for all the mathematics that follows.

Literature, too, is aided by youthful memorization. Children may not be ready to grasp the depths of meaning or the literary allusions in a memorized poem. But they internalize everything. Once memorized, the poem belongs to them in their own personal library to be recalled at will, or to arise unbidden at an apposite moment. And because it is theirs, their understanding gradually develops as they mature. They internalize the rhythms, too, and those old lines roll up like waves in the unconscious, building a sense for the language and its music. These things form good writers and appreciative readers, and create a common cultural underpinning that bonds us as human beings.

And history—that rhythm of ascent and failure that we repeat as civilizations and as individuals—begins with facts. Who did that? When was that? What happened first? What happened next? It’s only armed with these facts that we can form any opinions of what we think. You can’t think about history without knowing its essential details. And if we don’t know essential details, what do we have to remember?

The millennia-old tradition of education was that children go to grammar school to memorize—history, grammar, languages, literature, scientific and mathematical facts—until the age of twelve. At twelve, having reached the age of reason, they begin their true education. But that education is based upon the foundation of everything built before.

On this day in 1809, a great man of American history was born in a log cabin in Kentucky. He was a poor farmer’s son, and his life grew terribly hard when his beloved mother, Nancy Hanks, died at age 34 of poisoned milk. But his step-mother, the determined Sarah, encouraged him to read, and insisted that he educate himself. And read he did—whatever he could find—after a grueling day of manual labor, by the fire light. His speeches and letters reflect how deeply he internalized the great literature of his time, how influenced he was by the Psalms, by Shakespeare, by Milton, by the ancient Greeks. He walked miles to borrow—and return—books. He read widely and deeply, and he memorized. Today, if we have any sense, we look back and honor him for his righteousness, his valor, his humanity, and his martyrdom to the cause of freedom. He was an honorable man, worthy of being honored.

I didn’t use a book to look this up this morning. I learned it in elementary school.

It makes me sad that so many Americans did not.

North of the Tension Line

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 45 Comments

Welcome to my new followers from “Morning Shots”. Funny how one mention leads to so many new visitors. It’s been fun to watch.

This newsletter is not very much like that one. In contrast, this is a politics-free zone. It’s not because we don’t care or don’t have views, but because we all need a respite from the “hamster wheel of crazy”. I relish the civility and kindness of my readers, and I know they enjoy the calm.

I am a novelist and essayist, (you can find and order my books wherever you like to shop) but I use this newsletter to warm up for my day’s work. The topics are whatever catches my attention, and even I don’t always know what will happen when I sit down to write. Recent posts have been about day to day life: writing, friendship, making sauerbraten, animals—we have lots of turkeys—and the regular appearance of gratuitous dog photos.

I don’t write about the momentous. I write about the small beauties that enrich our days. In a world of celebrity culture, I turn away from red carpets and controversy, and focus on the richness of ordinary observations; the ephemeral moments of joy, love, and creativity. Daily life is filled with extraordinary gifts far surpassing the rush, flash and pop that are just distractions from what matters.

Those small things are the momentous ones.

I hope you will browse here and find something that interests you. I enjoy and look forward to your comments.

–JFR

***

And now for your gratuitous dog photos:

Eli is good company, and remarkably snuggly. He is also a fierce protector.
When I bore them, they amuse themselves. Auggie, left; Eli, right.

Who needs cake?

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 76 Comments

My friends, Evelyn and Rose, are twin sisters, age 93. I have known them all my life. They have their share of challenges, as do we all, but they are utterly undiminished by age in any meaningful sense, and carry on with rare gallantry.

Today, for my birthday, they sent me not one, but two bottles of Veuve Clicquot, all beautifully packaged in a big box with excelsior that feels like a beautiful and elegant difference from plastic bubble wrap.

I think it will be a a very happy night. Or possibly afternoon.

When I wrote to say thank you, Evelyn said, “We know what you like.”

It’s nice to have friends.

An excerpt from my new novel: Throwing Bears for George…

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 42 Comments

Now available for pre-order wherever you buy your books

***

Eddie was accustomed to listening to his customers’ problems. He rarely told his own. In fact, most of the time he would have said he didn’t have any. But Dirk had a quality of empathy that resonated around him, and after pouring a generous scotch for him, Eddie found himself talking, for the first time, of Danni.

“I guess, the thing is, I don’t know why I’m thinking about her now, after all this time. I mean, my life is pretty good. I’m happy. But I screwed up, you know? And I can’t help wondering where she is, and whether she’s happy. Probably married to someone else with a couple of kids by now.…” His voice trailed off.

Dirk was silent, considering, before he spoke.

“Well, if you go looking, there are only two things that can happen, really: A) You find her, and realize you still love her, or B) You find her, and you wonder what in Hell you were thinking. There are variations of both A and B, of course, but those, essentially, are the primary options, and then the road branches out from there. The question is: Do you want a new kind of regret, or are you content with the regret you already have.”

“What do you mean?”

“ Well, think about it: Sometimes, the old, familiar griefs are a kind of comfort. You can fantasize about how wonderful she was because you never had any of the normal struggles of a long-term relationship. You never got bored with one another. She never said anything cruelly cutting to you. She never nagged, or rolled her eyes. She never had annoying habits. You can have a beautiful and romantic dream of your perfect lost love. Because that’s all it really is: a dream. If you act to find her, then you will have to cope with reality, with all its flaws and joys.”

“On the other hand, what is life, but stepping off into the unknown to see what will happen? Maybe you owe it to yourself to find out.”

They were both silent. Eddie, usually a whirlwind of activity behind the bar, now stood still, his gaze fixed at something he wasn’t seeing. Dirk stared into his glass.

There was the sound of a car door slamming in the parking lot, and they were jolted out of their reveries by the impending arrival of others.  Dirk was the first to speak. 

“The thing is, you always get grief in life, and you don’t get to choose what kind, how much, or how serious it is. This way, what you have now is a sad longing. But you could choose to give that up to get a reality-based grief. One way or another, it’s all grief in the end.”

They could hear another car drive up, and the sound of cheerful voices in the parking lot. 

“What about happiness? You get that, too.”

Dirk shrugged. “Maybe. Some people do. But there’s no guarantee of that. Grief is the only thing you can really count on.”

Eddie stared at him curiously. “I didn’t take you for being so dark.”

“Oh, I’m not. At least, I don’t think of myself that way. But I am a realist. Grief comes. It’s inevitable if you’ve lived at all. But I’ve known plenty of people who have never been happy, and never will be.”

He smiled a small, almost mischievous smile. “I, however, am not one of them.”

Ask to preorder at your favorite bookstore.

Paying attention

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 25 Comments

What would a year of your life be worth? Is there any amount of money you would accept to shorten your time on earth? What if the money offered would give you everything you dream of having? What if it would save the life of a child? When the payment came due, and your time was up, what would you pay to have it back?

This is a version of the Faustian bargain, although Faust wanted youth and love, not money, and the price he paid was eternal damnation. Most jobs are not the Inferno (although I bet we all have stories). But it is, in concentrated form, a question we all grapple with in one way or another when we work. It is the question I asked every single morning when I stood at my picture window, dressed for the office or the classroom, and looked out at the sun rising through the trees. My office was on the bluffs above Lake Michigan, and sometimes, before I pulled into the parking lot, I would stop to watch the sun and the mists rising over the water, hear the gulls crying, and feel what I now realize was a form of grief. But then I got out of the car and went into the building and went to work. And that was not a bad thing.

Most of us have to work for a living. If we are lucky we find work that is meaningful, that makes the world better in some way. But for most of us, even the best job takes time away from things we care about.

I have been very lucky these past few years, because now my work is my writing, and I can do it in my own house with my husband nearby and my dogs on my feet. I choose what and when to write, and sometimes I play hooky. But that’s because I have the freedom to make choices about my priorities.

It is a luxury I appreciate every single day. I do not look back on my years at a job as wasted. I do sometimes look back with regret, but I also know that each step I took was a step toward who I am. Besides, anyone with no regrets hasn’t been trying hard enough.

The theologian Frederick Buechner wrote something I try to think of every day:

One life on this earth is all we get, whether it is enough or not enough. And the obvious conclusion would seem to be that, at the very least, we are fools if we do not live it as fully, and bravely, and beautifully as we can.

No one has a perfect life. No one has a life without grief or loss. But I think happiness is about gathering in the small beauties all around us Right. Now. 

Today will not come again.

My Brother’s Keeper; Exhibit B

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 20 Comments

A few weeks ago, I wrote about a turkey I saw helping another turkey. Some readers were skeptical—which I might be, too, if I hadn’t seen it myself—about whether animals demonstrate altruism.

But increasingly, after centuries of human conceit about our moral superiority, science is being forced to acknowledge that animals do demonstrate care for their communities, sometimes even for other species. Today’s New York Times story about a male elephant seal rescuing a drowning pup is another example of an animal’s taking action that was not necessarily in its own interest.

This past fall I saw another incident of turkey community action. The turkeys were on their daily march back to our woods to roost. The big toms were in front, and there were several groups of hens, surrounded by eleven scrambling poults—I counted—following about forty feet behind. Herding cats has nothing on herding turkey poults.

Our ravine is a water conservancy, which means there are some fairly deep holes that are usually dry, but fill with leaves in autumn. They seem like solid ground, but you can sink pretty deeply (and turn your ankle) if you accidentally step in the wrong place.

As I watched—seeing the babies is rare— the poults, one by one, managed to just barely avoid the biggest hole, scattering around it. Holding my breath, I could see what was about to happen: one took the wrong line, and promptly disappeared deep into the leaves. Its frantic peeping was terrible to hear.

Instantly the line stopped, and the toms turned and raced back to the sound of the crying poult. Soon the whole flock was surrounding the area—not in an orderly way at all—but homing in on the baby. I turned my head at exactly the wrong moment—dogs, you know—but suddenly the peeping stopped, and when I looked back, the adults were reassembling into the line, and I counted: one, two, three…all eleven poults were there. Counting turkeys can be tricky, so I counted three times. Everyone moved back into line, and on to the assembly grounds to carry on with their evening routine.

I still don’t know how they got the poult out of the hole.

It’s completely normal for parents to risk all for their offspring, and in this case, the poult was likely genetically linked to the adults who sped to its rescue. But to see the entire flock work together like that was another lesson to me. We humans have to learn a thing or two, and meanwhile, maybe we should stop being so smug about ourselves.

The toms think they’re pretty important. They’re not wrong.

Book Club

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 48 Comments

I had a little meeting with a local book club yesterday. They are all old friends, and did more talking than I did, and mostly on topics unrelated, but I’m not in a position to criticize digressions.

I almost always enjoy meetings with my readers, because by definition we have something in common, and people who don’t like my books generally don’t come to hear me speak. There was one notable exception: a book club on Washington Island shortly after my first novel came out.

It was a luncheon meeting, just before Easter, and after a pleasant lunch we all sat down for the meeting. One woman spent the entire discussion rapidly paging through the book to find things she didn’t like. She found many. Another pointed out that the map in the front was inaccurate. Another remarked how unrealistic the book was, since in her thirty years of living on the Island, she had never been invited to sit in the ferry’s pilot house. I wish I had had the nerve to say I could see why. Nor did I point out that my book was a work of fiction, only loosely based on reality. Until then, I hadn’t imagined it would be necessary.

It was an excruciating hour, and I was longing for a stiff drink. As the ladies filed out, I sat, somewhat shell-shocked. One leaned over to whisper as she went out.

“I liked it.”

Afterward, in need of some fresh air, I headed down to the ferry office to pick up a package. As I was leaving, there were some guys down at the dock calling and waving at me. “He’s mad at you for not telling him you were here,” the crewman joked, pointing at the captain. I went over to chat with them, relieved to see some friendly faces. “We’re heading out. Want to come for the ride?”

So we did a little round trip on the ferry, while I sat in the pilot house with the crew, entertaining them with the story of the book club meeting. They were able to identify everyone who was there by my descriptions, laughed about the surliness of the book-paging woman, and told stories of her rudeness. The conversation progressed to some fascinating stories about life on the Island. By the time we returned, I was in a much better mood.

So, I did say I don’t mind digressions. But my actual point is: if you live within a reasonable drive of Milwaukee, and would like to host a book talk, you can contact me here.

But only if you like my books.

Letting go; Holding on

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 30 Comments

I’m keeping my nails ridiculously short these days. It’s partly because I am playing the piano again, and partly because getting my nails done bores me. I am at the point in life when I don’t want to waste my time. And I am not trying to impress anybody.

There is a fairly thin line between feeling free to do what you want and letting yourself go. It’s a much thinner line for women than for men. Gray-haired men look distinguished. Gray-haired women usually just look old. I have a friend who decided to stop coloring her hair, and she looks fabulous. Not everyone does.

Most days, when I am at home writing, I still do my hair, wear mascara, and make an effort to look nice. I partly do it so my husband isn’t horrified (not that he would ever say so, even if he was). But I mostly do it for myself. I feel crummy all day if I don’t make some effort, even if it’s not all that noticeable to anyone else.

I have two particular women I always keep in mind as examples. One is someone I knew quite well. She was a friend of my mother’s who lived to be 108. Her name was Blanche, and I got to know her as an adult when we were both docents at a tiny art museum. Even though we worked together, I never dared call her by her first name; it would have been disrespectful. She was an alert and intelligent nonagenarian, and every time I saw her—even at her own home—she was nicely dressed, wearing a touch of makeup and a little bit of jewelry, and looking nicely pulled together. She was never overdone. But she took care.

The other is someone I never even met. Some years ago I was invited to speak at the opening of a museum exhibit. I only knew the curator and some of the museum staff, so after I did my part, I had the pleasure of carrying a glass of champagne while I wandered alone in a gallery of Dutch masters. This, I confess, is just about my favorite thing to do in the world, and I rarely miss an opportunity to hang out at the National Gallery. It soothes me.

But, as usual, I digress.

On my rambles, I noticed an elderly lady being shown around the gallery by one of the museum staff. He was attentive. She was clearly interested. She looked carefully. She asked questions. She spent more than the polite amount of time with the paintings. She was slim, white-haired, and elegantly dressed in black. She projected both strength and grace, while also being impeccably stylish. I asked who she was. She was Roberta McCain, John McCain’s mother.

Later, as I waited for a cab, I watched as one of the valets brought up a tiny hatchback. He handed the keys to Mrs. McCain, and she drove off alone. I don’t know exactly how old she was then, but she, too, lived to be 108.

I think often of these two women: one a small-town girl in Wisconsin, the other the daughter of an oil tycoon, wife of an admiral, and mother of a war hero and senator. What was their secret? Genetics, no doubt, were a factor. But wealth clearly was not. Nor was a life without worry. What kept them going? Faith? Curiosity? Generosity? Friendship? Or just plain stubbornness?

I can’t help thinking that there is a connection between longevity, having interests in larger things, and a willingness to make an effort. And so, I continue to try. I think it is a signal to yourself that you are worthwhile, and that you are not idling somewhere in a back room. You are prepared to meet the world. You are in the world. That matters a lot, I think.

But I also wonder whether art museums are a wellspring of long life. It’s a theory I am happy to test. Any time.

Sunday, muddy Sunday

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 29 Comments

Every year I ask for a blizzard for my birthday, which is this week. So far, I have only gotten two, and I think the odds are long for any kind of cold weather this year. The snow is almost gone, it’s warm and damp and muddy, and it’s my least favorite kind of weather.

Despite my best efforts, the dogs track in mud, and if I’m not meticulous, leave splatters on the walls and cabinets. If I forget to close the doors to the bedroom, they leave mud on the bed. There are old beach towels spread everywhere in varying stages of dirt and dampness, and it takes time and effort to diminish the squalor.

On top of everything else, it’s too warm for a fire in the fireplace, which doesn’t draw well above 45F.

Complaining about the weather is a human pass time, I suppose, but it annoys me, particularly when I do it myself.

The dogs, blissfully uninterested in the weather—unless it’s raining, in which case they are frustrated when I won’t make it stop—are sound asleep nearby. A pair of red-tailed hawks are on the hunt in the woods, and I do not see a single squirrel or small bird anywhere.
There are worse things in life than bad weather, so we will count our blessings, instead.

Time for more coffee.

Eli’s excellent adventure

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 31 Comments

Every morning for many years, our dogs went together into the woods for what we referred to as their morning ramble. Everyone went along: First Reggie and Pete; then Moses and Pete; then Moses, Auggie, and Pete; Then Auggie, Eli, and Pete. They would be gone—usually within sight—for ten or fifteen minutes, and then all return together on the run, jostling happily back into the kitchen smelling of fresh air, or sometimes of some foul thing they had all rolled in, and expecting their treats.

Then one day, it stopped. Why? Because, as we belatedly realized, the rambler was Pete. He was the hound dog, the one with the scenting nose and the wandering impulse. Pete was also the pack leader, even in his dotage. The Germans also seemed to have an instinct to protect him, following him like body guards. For whatever reason, it was a daily ritual. And their rambling was a very good thing. Everyone went off independently, but still together, to smell smells and stake territory, and make their own decisions. I very firmly believe that dogs who have this kind of independence develop a depth of understanding that builds capabilities and personality. Argue if you want.

Eli is a particularly unrambly dog. He likes to stay close to home, preferably on the bed or couch. He doesn’t like loud noises. He thinks airplanes are thunder, and runs to hide. He hears distant gunshots and runs to hide. He hears construction noises in the distance and runs to hide. He only shows his shepherd side when strange animals or people approach. Then he stands his ground quite terrifyingly.

So, this morning, after he had interrupted me four times to go out, and I had brought him to the door four times while he simply stood at the door step and looked out, I put on my shoes, walked out six feet, and when he followed me, I turned around and walked back in, leaving him to scratch plaintively at the door. I ignored him and went back to my work.

But from the library windows, I could see, to my surprise, Eli, alone, down in the woods, and moving purposefully away from the house. I stood up to watch and followed him from window to window, room to room, as he went deep into the brush, sniffing, looking, investigating logs and holes. I didn’t want to interrupt him, but I didn’t want to lose him, either.

But after ten minutes or so, he paused and put his nose into the air. And then, having made his decision (“‘I smell something,’ said the Poky Little Puppy.”1) he turned and galloped up the hill to the house. Not fearfully, just a happy-to-be-going-home gallop.

I have no idea what inspired this, but I am happy when he’s happy. Maybe he will find it was an experience worth repeating. I hope so.

  1. The Poky Little Puppy is a children’s book written by Janette Sebring Lowrey and illustrated by Gustaf Tenggren. It was one of the famous Golden Books series, and is still in print 82 years after its first publication. ↩︎

In which: I am annoyed

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 49 Comments

I believe I have mentioned here that we had a sort of appliance armageddon in November and December. Since not all of them were amenable to repair, we have some new ones. Aside from the fact that they do actually function, none of them are improvements.

The new dishwasher—which is the equivalent model to the old one— is missing some of the handy features of the other one. The racks are different and less adjustable, and the buttons have fewer choices. It also cost a lot more than the last one, and had to be specially rigged by the installers in order to fit in the same space.

The new microwave is also the latest and greatest version of the old one. But it doesn’t have a one minute button—which I used all the time—or the butter softening/melting feature that I loved so much. How many sticks? How soft? How melted? What are you defrosting? Press 1 for meat; 2 for chicken; 3 for fish. None of that. The machine, with its super fantastico intelligent programming decides. It’s usually wrong. The other day the turkey sausages came out like hockey pucks. Maybe it’s a bit too powerful. I’ll get used to it, I guess. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to spend my increasingly limited brain power thinking about appliances. I want my appliances to do my bidding, not their own. Adding insult to injury, it beeps five times instead of once, a particular pet peeve of mine. (See also: “Electronic Narcissism” in my book of essays But Still They Sing.)

Which brings me to the source for which I reserve most of my animus: the new television we so jauntily installed in the library. It’s a small television, but we thought it might be nice to be able to watch while all snuggled into our coziest room, with the bar cart nearby and the fire going. We were delighted when all we had to do was hold our phones up to the QR codes to install our streaming services. Very cool, we thought.

Lately, my husband has been getting up excessively early, frequently adjusting his bedtime to right after dinner. This leaves me a little bit at a loss. I’m usually too tired to read. Practicing piano would disturb him, and I don’t want to go to bed yet. A perfect time to sit in the library with large dogs and watch something on television.

I was settled in the other night watching a two hour program, when suddenly the television turned off. Nothing I did could turn it back on. Having twigged the eco-settings on the bedroom television, which automatically dims the picture, I had already turned all that off. I changed the batteries in the remote. I reset the wireless. Nothing. Finally I packed it in and went to bed. But my husband found it running in the middle of the night.

“You left the television on.”

“I sooooo did not.”

Last night, same scenario. I wasn’t watching anything I was particularly invested in, but I was beginning to think we would have to embark upon an endeavor that reflects what my husband calls “the asymmetry of power”. You know: when you have a problem with a product and have to contact the enormous monopolistic corporation that has eliminated service from its mission statement. My sister has spent the past three days engaged in such an exercise, which mostly consists of listening to repetitive and annoying hold music while someone on the other end files their nails for hours at a time. But I digress.

One of the most useful aspects of the internet, I find, is being able to look up problems and see whether you’re the only one experiencing it. So this morning I did this, and what did I find? “LG TV keeps turning itself off.”

Apparently, in their (asymmetrical) wisdom, the LG corporation has decided that after a certain period of time without interaction with the remote, the television should turn itself off. The settings say this happens after four hours. I can attest to its being much less than that. Nevertheless, I found the button and turned it off.

Happy Ending. Sort of. But I have questions. What makes electronics companies think we need someone else to turn our devices off? Isn’t that why we have a remote? With a timer we can set? What if I’m watching a David Lean movie? Or a Wagnerian opera? Maybe I don’t want to be interrupted. Why I can’t I turn it right back on? Why do they hide these settings so you have to dig around in the depths of the system like a turkey looking for bug? Why aren’t these “features” listed openly in the manual? Why does it seem we have become the servants rather than the other way around? I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because all these companies know they have us over a barrel, and we will choose to serve in order to have our conveniences. It’s a very strange turn around.

Capitalism isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Thinking makes it so

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 19 Comments

Who’s your audience? It’s a question asked of writers all the time. Agents want to know. Publishers want to know. Even book club readers want to know. Most writers know how to gauge our answers to meet our business needs. Of course, to be published, a book needs to meet customer demand. But, to be honest, most of the time that’s only a guess based on what has sold before, and demand can also be created by marketing teams and media campaigns.

So, while I am delighted to have my books published, I don’t think about any of that when I’m writing. I really only write for an audience of one: me.


I write the kinds of books I want to read, and to be honest, while I do read for information, I mostly read for comfort and companionship. When I had high-pressure, stressful day jobs, I didn’t want to come home to read high-pressure, stressful books. I taught in the inner city. I didn’t want to read about suffering, murder, crime, drug use, and lost opportunities. I lived with that every day. When I moved into an executive position, I still spent a great deal of time thinking about human misery and how to help alleviate it. Again, I was often in the inner city, visiting schools, homeless shelters, prisons, half-way houses, and addiction centers. I also had many uplifting experiences in the fine arts world, to be sure. But what hung with me was always the human traumas that went on before my eyes every day.

I don’t think I’m alone in that. Many people have intense, exhausting, high stress jobs. And some of them find catharsis in reading about intense things, perhaps because at the end of a well-written book, there can be a release of the built-up strains.

But that’s not for me. I want to go to a world where there is a group of characters who feel like friends I can hang out with. I want to look deeply at the small miracles of daily life. I want to feel enmeshed and revived by the creativity and joy of an ordinary day. And so, both in the novels I write, and in my books of essays, I linger on the hope, the joy, the beautiful and all the ways in which frustrations, unkindness, and misery can be diminished—although never eliminated—by the way we focus our attention.

And so, when I’m writing, my incentive is the pleasure I take in joining the worlds I’ve created. I write (mostly) about characters I want to be with, who live in a world I enjoy being in. Maybe that’s selfish. I don’t know.

But honestly, I don’t know any other way to write; I don’t think I could write a horror story if I had to. “Write what you know” is the old adage, and I really don’t think there’s any better advice. Luckily, based on my readers’ comments, the kinds of books I like are also liked by other people. And that’s a pretty good system, I think.

So now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to go hang out with some old friends.

Cheers.

***

Turkey in the Sky Addendum

Many of you couldn’t find the turkey in the photos yesterday. That’s because I don’t have a good zoom lens. But here’s the best I can do.

Today’s Gratuitous Dog Photo

He’s snoring.
Featured

My brother’s keeper

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 36 Comments

We’re in the teeth of winter now. The actual temperature is -5F but the wind chill is -15F to -25F, which means the wind sweeps away your body heat at a rapid clip, and flesh freezes in mere minutes. In this bitter cold both animals and humans are suffering. Although we got our power back, not everyone did, and outside in this dangerous weather, there are people working hard to protect the rest of us, restoring power and operating community shelters.

I’m watching the turkeys this morning from my warm, comfortable vantage point on top of the hill, looking down into the woods. We have a flock1 of nineteen this year, somewhat smaller than usual, but always fascinating.

After the deer had finished their morning graze, the turkeys came down from their roosts and spread themselves among the three spots where we have put out seed. As I watched, I saw my one-footed friend—who has been with us for several years now—sit down by himself in the snow, fifteen feet removed from the rest of the flock as they fed. He knew he could not compete with the rough and tumble of the flock’s drive for food. My heart broke for him, because even though the others do seem to look out for him generally, the nature of turkeys seems querulous and wholly intent on individual survival. I told myself he would be able to eat when the rest had finished, but wished I could go out to give him his own little stash. He looked cold and lonely.

As I watched, one of the other turkeys broke off from the flock and walked over to him, nudging him gently. He got up, and together they walked to the pile of seeds, and, shielded by his friend, the injured turkey joined the others and began to feed. For the remainder of breakfast time, the limpy guy ate with all the others.

If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.

The turkeys are still here, and have been joined by squirrels, junkos, and chickadees. I know from long observation that today, instead of marching off on their usual trek, the turkeys will stay close by, puffing up their down coats, and sitting on logs somewhere out of the wind, preferably under bushes or brush piles. And they will all have eaten enough to fuel their bodies against the cold.

So, who wants to discuss how animals don’t practice altruism?

  1. For domestic turkeys the correct term for a group is rafter. I have been informed, however, that wild turkeys are in flocks. Don’t ask me. ↩︎

You can’t be dry in the dark

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 39 Comments

Yesterday was a curiously lost day. It was a little bit worrying to realize how much I depend upon technology, and how lost I was without it.

It was a busy day for us, however. There were branches hanging heavily with snow needing to be brushed off or beaten with a broom to keep them from breaking. There was the driveway to clear, along with the two foot high barricade of ice from the snowplow. And there were fallen branches to remove and add to the growing bonfire pile, all to the cheerful accompaniment of playful dogs.

But once we had done what could be done, we came inside to a strangely silent house.

At one point, cold, but too grubby and unshowered to go anywhere other than the hardware store, I just drove around, charging my phone and listening to music, while my exhausted husband napped. The snow was beautiful in the sunshine.

Later, despite my hair—which made me look as if I’d just been released from the local asylum—we went to a nearby restaurant for wifi, and by mutual consent, put Dry January on the ash heap of history. We met our favorite neighbors there, by chance. They had also been caught in the clutches of Dry January, and had thrown it over the night before, when their tree took out everyone’s power line. We traded anxieties about frozen pipes, spoiled food, and what to do if there was still no power on Sunday. They, too, have a pair of big sweet dogs, which we agreed tends to make you unpopular with hotel management. Our conversation was interrupted by several recorded phone calls from the power company, dangling hope with laughable vagueness.

Nevertheless, on the way home, parked alongside the road to our house was an armada of utility trucks, and the big tree that had been leaning perilously on the main lines was gone. The dogs greeted us as if we’d been gone a month, even though it had been little more than an hour. The house was ridiculously dark and growing cold, so we settled into a very early bed, with dogs and the gas fireplace to keep us warm, buckets of snow on the hearth, downloaded movies, and a decanter of Irish whisky.

This morning, the heat is on; hot coffee was waiting when I got up at 3:30; and my computer is up and running. In a little while I will reload the dishwasher and finish restoring the kitchen to its normal cheerful order. Most important: we will be able to watch the Packers game this afternoon.

As with so many life experiences, we have come away with an important lesson learned.

January is no time to give up alcohol.

***

Gratuitous Dog Photo

Eli kept his big coat on all day.

It’s a Blizzard

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 29 Comments

Or close enough.

We woke to steadily falling snow. The wind is whistling through the eaves like the sound effects in a particularly corny old movie, and the predicted snow totals have risen to a minimum of nine inches. We already have at least six, and it’s supposed to snow all day.

The dogs are in the kitchen, lying on their tummies to better savor their breakfasts of turkey bacon and eggs. There is a fire here, and fresh tulips on the mantel. My cup of coffee steams nearby.

People are stranded on the local highways, and I am betting the blowing snow makes the rural roads impassable. Semis are unable to make their way up minor slopes on the freeways. I hope they will all be merely inconvenienced.

I had planned to run out this morning on a minor errand, but that seems unnecessary. I cancelled the electrician, thinking that standing on a ladder working on light posts seemed unpromising in this weather. He seemed to agree.

Very soon I will need to bestir myself to accompany the dogs on a morning walk. Eli will not go without me, but I don’t mind. I have boots and a good parka, and sufficient inner child to find it fun.

I may have to spread the 160 pounds of bird seed I bought yesterday a bit sooner than planned. I saw the deer chewing on brush yesterday, and things will be harder now. Another child’s adventure.

The local weather guy says we may or may not meet the specific criteria for a blizzard, but why quibble?

Seems like a perfect day to stay home and design new cocktails for Roger.
If you know, you know.

***

Pertinent (as opposed to gratuitous) Dog Photos

Winter Joy

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 36 Comments

I don’t know why you’d live in Wisconsin if you didn’t like winter. Because I must say that the recent—and upcoming—storms have brought me a great deal of happiness. I know winter-hate is a thing, but I don’t really understand why. First, it’s beautiful. Second, there are no bugs. Third, NO BUGS. Fourth—but most important—it transforms the whole world into a different universe. In other words, it’s the closest thing I know to magic in real life.

Today we woke up to a couple more inches. It is a warmish snowfall, so it clings to the trees and rooftops, and everything is beautiful. We’re expecting hoping for nine more inches tomorrow. Ohyayohyayohyay….Then, next week, we are expecting the usual January cold to set in, with temps around ten below zero (Fahrenheit, for my international readers).

There is much to do. I have more than a hundred pounds of bird seed to buy to help the turkeys, deer, squirrels, songbirds, possums (and anyone else who’s interested) keep warm, and then it has to be hauled down the hill in the snow, one twenty-five pound bag at a time. As I have noted previously, I do not normally feed wild animals, but in weather like this, I think it’s inhumane not to try to help. And, for that matter, it’s a good time to send an extra check to the homeless shelters, where human need is heavy.

There must be a trip to the grocery store for all the things, little and big, that you might ordinarily run out to the store for on a daily basis. Going somewhere to just get out of the house isn’t really a thing in this weather, and it’s nice to have a pot of soup, or stew, or chili on the stove. I like to have ingredients for all of that on hand. Also, I can almost always finagle expired apples from the produce manager, and these are like crack for wildlife.

I have to make sure we have lots of logs for the fireplace. There’s no point in having a fireplace if you don’t enjoy it in this kind of weather. We have to make sure the gas tanks are full for both cars and the snowblower. Normally, my dogs don’t wear clothes, but in a polar vortex everything changes. I need to make sure the dogs’ winter gear is handy and ready to use. Paw balm is important, but boots are useless. They tear them right off. I’ve not yet figured out how to protect a German Shepherd’s sensitive and delicate ears, which they cannot bear to have covered, or even touched by strangers. I just have to watch the timer carefully when they go out. Flesh freezes fast.

Also, and I realize this is purely idiosyncratic: I have to buy spring flowers. Nothing is more delightful than fresh flowers in a winter storm.

As I look at this list, I can imagine someone thinking: that does not sound like fun. I understand. And it is inconvenient. But there is anticipation, and a delightful camaraderie as you go about town on your preparations. So long as you can be inside (which is essential), there is little danger in a storm like this, and our state is blessed with a power grid that is both healthy and resilient. People grouse cheerfully, and feel a sense of common cause in their mutual intrepidness. This is Wisconsin, after all, and we all feel just a bit smug about it.

Yesterday, as we cleaned up from yesterday’s storm and heard predictions of more to come, the heavy clouds were a deep snow-laden blue, foretelling the accuracy of the forecasts. The bare trees were deep purple and maroon in the demi-light, and they were outlined by the snow clinging to their trunks and branches. Everywhere was the sound of plows and snowblowers, and occasionally a scraping shovel. The deer were out browsing all night, causing frequent alarms from my vigilant shepherds. This morning, as the last flakes fall, the sun is breaking through. The turkeys were in full display, and spent more time than usual in their morning confab before setting off in their military line formation. Most of the birds are hiding, but the crows and the woodpeckers are busily conversing.

It’s been long-delayed, but winter is finally here.

It is pure joy.

Double Dog Birthday

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 64 Comments

Today was the day we celebrated the birthdays of both Pete and Moses. The date for Moses was precise, but the date for Pete was an approximation. So we made it more festive by putting them together. We remember them with love and joy. (These dog photos are not gratuitous.)

Band of Squirrels

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 24 Comments

We live in the woods, and partly because our property is contiguous with other large wooded areas, we have diverse wildlife. It is endlessly fascinating. I spend more time looking out at the activities beyond our windows than I do watching television.

But I’ve never really paid much attention to squirrels. We have approximately eleven million gray squirrels, and a rapidly increasing population of red squirrels, whose aggressive habits chase other mammals from the territory, and cause destruction to human property. You can hear them scold if you dare to walk beneath any of their trees. They are smaller than gray squirrels, but they box above their weight. All together, squirrels are the most common animals on our property, and I take them for granted. They are not mysterious and fascinating like raccoons or possums; or innocently beautiful, like deer; or showy and cantankerous like turkeys. They’re just squirrels. Always there. Always busy. Almost always solitary except during mating season. Not particularly interesting.

And yet, I recently learned that squirrel intelligence is superior to that of dogs, and this has given me a lot to think about. It certainly explains how in the dog vs. squirrel chase category, squirrels are definitely winning.

Anyway, this is not meant to be a treatise about squirrel species. It is the observation of—if not friendship—camaraderie—and, perhaps, of something more important.

I first saw a pair of gray squirrels running together in the summer months. At the time—and without paying close attention—I marveled over How. Many. Squirrels we had this year. It was like a squirrel invasion. (A circumstance due, probably, to the sudden diminution of the coyote population.) Every morning, they were running together, one after the other: racing across the lawn, spiraling up trees, and looking, to my wandering and inattentive gaze, as if they were either rivals or a mating pair. I didn’t think about them, or pay particular attention. But they were always there.

Only recently did it suddenly occur to me that they were still always there, and it wasn’t just a pair. It was a group of four. And it had always been—I realized—a group of four. There were lots of other squirrels around, but here was this…clan…running together in the clearing down the hill, foraging together, and racing across the grass to a particular tree, where they would run up the trunk and disappear.

Their relationship is as constant as that of the turkeys, and as I look back I realize how much their antics have been a fixture of my mornings, if only in the background of my awareness. The other squirrels nearby did not interact with them, unless it was to run off a competitor. But I think it was the other squirrels who must have been run off most often in the face of this four-squirrel brigade.

I can only guess that they are siblings, but who knows. They seem to have broken the usual squirrel pattern of solitary nut-gathering, but maybe these behaviors have been happening all along and I wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe it is an adaptation, a move to provide a common defense against the aggression of the red squirrels. Not being an authority on squirrels means I have the fun of speculation. Do they feel affection for one another? Do they feel a blood connection? Or is this merely a business/military relationship?

I have one clue—based on pure observation without anthropomorphizing. Last year, I passed a newly-dead squirrel by the side of the road, and beside it, I could see a living squirrel, frantically patting the dead body as if attempting to revive it. I wanted to stop, but there was nothing to be done. Was I going to comfort the living squirrel? Help it bury its dead? I watched for a second or two in the rearview mirror and went on in a somber mood.

It is pouring rain in the precursor to a winter storm, and the rain is just now—finally—changing to heavy, wet flakes. As I sit in my cozy library, fire crackling, coffee nearby, I see the four friends, utterly indifferent to the weather, running together up the tree, down the tree, to another tree, and jumping from branch to branch, tree to tree overhead. They don’t seem to be working, but playing. Maybe to keep warm, or maybe because the hard work of food gathering is seasonal. Or maybe because it’s good squirrel fun. I’d certainly do it if I could. Although maybe not in this weather.

I wish them safety in the coming storm.

***

Gratuitous Dog Photo

Eli doesn’t want to be out in the damp, but he watches Dad and Auggie closely from my office window.

The Empty Calendar

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 11 Comments

There is a phenomenon I experience which may or may not be common among writers. It is the cultivation of an empty calendar.

This means that when I am trying to get the wheels turning with my writing, I cannot have appointments. I cannot have repairmen coming to the house. (Yes, I know, but in my experience, they’re all men.) I can’t have the cleaning lady. I can’t schedule lunches. I can’t schedule coffees. I only very reluctantly schedule dental appointments and haircuts, but this is mostly only so I don’t lose all my teeth and depress myself looking in the mirror.

This does not mean that I can never do these things. But it means that I can only do them spontaneously—the social things, anyway—after the day’s work is finished and I have exhausted my capacity for further writing. If I schedule something, it haunts me, and even when I try not to allow it, the little voice that plans what to wear and when I should leave interferes with the freedom of mind I need.

Like today, for instance, I have no intention of getting out of my pajamas until I am finished with my work. If I knew I had to go somewhere for lunch, it would ruin my morning. Because by 8 am I would be thinking: I have to stop at 10 so I can wash my hair, and figure out where my black jeans are, and is that new paisley blouse clean. Then I would have to stop, locate the jeans, and most likely dig the blouse out of the hamper to throw it in the fifteen minute cycle of the washer, and set the timer so I remember to put it in the dryer… And by then my concentration is ruined and the day is lost.

This can make friendships difficult, and I’m not sure everyone completely understands. I’m not even sure I understand. But at times like this, I tend to go dark, and although I will respond to texts or emails, and eventually return calls, I don’t cheerfully answer calls. Usually my phone isn’t even anywhere near me.

And I try never to schedule anything. Particularly not on Mondays.

On the other hand, on most writing days, by noon I am ready to venture forth, and I spend a happy afternoon rambling around doing errands, wandering the aisles of the grocery store, then coming home and arranging the new flowers and making something for dinner. If someone is available for a spontaneous something, that’s a bonus. But it’s not essential.

The end result of all this is a somewhat messy house, a somewhat frowsy personal appearance, a long list of needed repairs, and trying the patience of my very lovely friends.

It’s not ideal, but I have learned that writing a book requires several kinds of ruthlessness. And this is only one.

The Long-awaited Nervous Breakdown

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 32 Comments

Yesterday I never got out of my pajamas. I walked the dogs in my down coat, so no one could have known it was covering pajamas. I knew, however, and it made me inexplicably happy.

I took a very long scented bath.

I did not put on mascara.

I did not write.

I also did not drink. (Oh, Dry January, get thee behind me.)

I did not cook, other than the avocado toast with poached eggs which we all ate for breakfast. (Except the dogs, who do not like avocado, but just had their poached eggs on toast with rice and ground beef and pumpkin and goat yogurt. They were happy.)

I lay around and read a book.

I searched online for vintage houses in unlikely places and concluded that people who watch HGTV should be prohibited from remodeling any house built before 1970.

I annoyed friends and husband with texted listings of vintage houses in unlikely places. Husband promised to send postcards.

I did not mop the floor.

I did not take down the small tree in the library.

I did not run to the local co-op for any missing pantry item.

I achieved Genius level in a NYTimes word puzzle. Even the venerable NYT has succumbed to grade inflation.

I actually did not nap, but I snuggled my big dogs while they dozed in the sunshine. Auggie purred. Eli snored.

I watched British Antiques Roadshow on the new tv in the library.

I bored myself, which, I think, is something we all need now and then.

This morning I had a full hour more of essential REM sleep than previously, even though I thought I was awake all night.

Oh. And I woke up with a new idea for the book.

Things to Remember for Next Christmas

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 14 Comments

You won’t get any work done.

If you can’t find a tree, don’t panic. It’s Wisconsin.

Open car doors when attaching tree to roof.

Buy favorite champagne early.

Always drink champagne before shopping for tree.

Get lots of fresh air.

Balsams smell amazing, but don’t last as long as frasiers.

Go to at least one concert.

Buy and wrap presents early. HAHAHAHAHA

Listen to husband when he says tree looks great without ornaments.

Taking down the tree is a miserable job. But worth it.

Chex Mix.

No more excuses

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 28 Comments

It’s back to work day, an idea our French family members find ridiculous. January 2nd?? The day after New Year’s? It’s too soon!

They’re not wrong.

I suppose I should take down the Christmas tree, which has reached the death rattle phase of balsams. One touch and all the needles fall off the branch.

But I won’t.

Back to work day means back to writing the novel day. No excuses. Not even the fire hazard in the living room. Because somehow I have to discover the link between the beginning of the book and the end.

I recently encountered two different films in which the characters tell the author what to write. In one, people look at one another over the author’s head in a mutual understanding that he is quite mad. But, I must tell you, that is precisely the process: the characters do take over. It’s apparently a common—if not universal—experience of novelists, which, honestly, I find reassuring. So far as I can tell, I may be slightly silly, but not actually insane. At least, not yet.

So, today will be spent listening as much as writing.

Meanwhile, the owls are saying their good nights to one another, and the sunrise is brilliant orange against the blue night sky. I can just see the silhouettes of the roosting turkeys. Auggie snores nearby on the couch. Eli has gone back to bed without me.

My cleared desk awaits.

Off to work.

***

Your gratuitous dog photo

Brown Thumb

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 11 Comments

I suppose I should begin by saying that although my gardens thrive, I am terrible with houseplants. I am so terrible, in fact, that my husband makes little “Help me” voices when I bring one home. My friend, Julie, after yet another botanical demise, recently told me that she would never give me a plant again. But a few years ago, I was inspired by my niece’s spectacular living room trees, and was determined to try once more.

So I bought two of the same variety, and remarkably, after three years, they are not dead. One, in fact, is a beautiful, lush, tree. The other is a pathetic stick with a couple of leaves sticking out.

They live in our sunny bedroom, and in the summer I put them out on the patio to soak up the sun and rain. From the first summer, the one immediately thrived and grew. The other languished. I tried switching their positions outside—no mean task because they are in big, heavy pots—but it made no difference. I brought them in for the winter, and the healthy one kept getting healthier, and the listless one continued its malingering.

Last summer, though, things took a turn. The healthy one grew spectacularly. The wan one kept falling over because it somehow collected water in the pot, and no matter what I did the soil kept turning into a marshy soup. Since they were only about five feet from one another, theoretically receiving the same rainfall and not under a drain pipe or anything, it was puzzling. And since we were mostly at the lake, I lost track, and the poor thing nearly drowned.

By the time I was paying attention again, plant one was spectacular, but plant two was in dire straits. I stood it up, added rocks and more soil, and brought them both inside. They both got fertilizer—probably at the wrong time of year—and as life became busy, I resumed my pattern of neglect.

About three weeks ago, I noticed that plant two had three teeny leaves growing valiantly from its spiral trunk. I was doubtful, so every day I have double-checked. They continue to grow, and so far, seem determined to persist. I am being careful to pay attention, not to over or under water, and I switched positions of the two plants so the desperate one gets the benefit of whatever the healthy one had last winter. The healthy one is…healthy. It’s getting so big, I’m not quite sure what to do with it.

But maybe now the pathetic one will grow, too. My New Year’s resolution is for it to match its boisterous friend.

Hoping for advice, I asked my niece about her beautiful living room trees. They died.

Silence

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 20 Comments

It is quiet in the house. Auggie snoozes on the couch nearby. Eli has discovered the new bed in his favorite corner of the living room. The fireplace has one log burning, and above it I have lit my favorite scented candle. Outside, the sky has the specifically blue clouds that foretell snow. A hawk is flying low, on the hunt, and now, a very faint, fine snow has begun to fall.

Yesterday, I took a long nap, and didn’t feel any urgent need to get up to do anything. We went shopping, bought a television that actually works to fit in the bookcase, and braved the frantic grocery store to buy smoked salmon and shrimp for our New Year’s Eve. The dogs came with us in the car, and enjoyed the scents from open windows.

Today I will make soup, take another nap, and reclaim my office in preparation for my work. Later, we will talk of the future, and drink champagne.

This will be a busy year of work.

I feel ready.

This is an illustrative, rather than gratuitous, dog photo.

Last day

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 24 Comments

Our adventure with our eldest grandson began August 26th, and now we’re down to our last day. We had a quite splendid Christmas holiday together with his little brother and mom. As my daughter said, we are lucky to be a family who all like one another. Not everyone has that.

This morning we are going out to breakfast at a place our grandson likes, and the afternoon will be spent doing laundry and packing, and resting for the thirty-plus hour trip home. The boys’ dad is planning a big welcome home party for New Year’s Eve. I hope the boys can stay awake for it.

Tomorrow morning we will take them to the airport, and when we come home, the house will have an emptiness that even Auggie and Eli can’t fill. I’m not quite sure how it will feel. But it will take me a few days to recover from the mad energy of boys.

And then will begin the slow un-Christmasing of the house, which, depending, can be either depressing, or a fresh new beginning.

I used to have a cleaning lady who took down the Christmas tree for me. Oh, how I miss her.

And now for your gratuitous dog photo.

Winding down

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 24 Comments

The French retreat officially happens on Saturday morning, so we have three days left. Tomorrow is the family birthday party for our grandson, so I have things to do, but my enthusiasm for big extravaganzas is at low ebb. We are keeping it simple: birthday cake, champagne, and sparkling cider. AFTER dinner.

The weather is making it a challenge to keep the house clean. There’s been nothing but rain and mud for weeks now. There are splashes of mud on the wall in the back hall, and the little corners of the toe moulding need to be cleaned wherever the dogs have walked. I had hoped to convince myself to let this go, but I can’t.

We will not discuss the bedspread.

Knowing my boys, they will want to come pick up the cake (notice I did not bake it myself) and buy fresh flowers, and maybe even use the last of the Christmas cookie dough to cut out cookies. Tomorrow grandpa will take them to the bounce place to get everyone out of my hair.

I have loved having everyone here, but I am tired, and need the long, uneventful days that are my ordinary life. Next week my real work begins, and in contrast, the full days of writing will feel like a vacation.

But there are a few more days of happy chaos to come.

One thing: I think we can be fairly certain no one at the party will strip to the waist to play hide and seek in the dark.

Moses: In Memoriam

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 30 Comments

Four years ago today was one of the worst days of my life. We were flying home from seeing our new granddaughter when Moses went over to our dogsitter, put his head on her arm, gave a deep sigh, and died. He was seven years old, and the canine love of my life.

In the photos I can see him grow from a tiny fierce-eyed puppy to a loyal, intelligent, and fearless companion. It’s also clear from the photos that Pete was the boss. I miss them both.

You can read the story of my love for Moses in my latest book, But Still They Sing.

Rejoice!

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 35 Comments

Merry Christmas to all of you, and to all you love. This dog photo is not gratuitous.

Auggie and Eli send their greetings.

The Circus

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 17 Comments

It’s nice not to be in charge. This is why being a non-custodial grandparent is so much fun. You don’t have to be responsible. You can be funny. And silly. And a little crazy. You can speak with affectionate irony, and not be worn down with worrying about whether they turned in their homework, washed the slime out of their water bottles, and picked up their damn backpacks off the hall floor.

So, it’s good to have the boys’ mom around to do the enforcement. I can get back to being the fun one.

And we did have fun yesterday, even at the grocery store. The boys were barely reined in racehorses pulling at the bit. Naturally, they were in charge of the shopping cart, which is potentially disastrous, but people were in a mood to smile indulgently when I apologized and rolled my eyes, calling out “Say excuse me!” to the boys and “I’m so sorry,” to innocent passersby. The boys were polite nevertheless, and, if I may say it, so adorable it was impossible to be annoyed.

The eleven year old is particularly endearing at this stage, with his straight dark hair falling across his big brown eyes, and his shy, accented English. He’s not careful, like his brother, and at the stage of boyhood perfection: childish, wide-eyed, charming, and full of mischief. Very much like a puppy. When they’re together, the fourteen year old reverts to that phase, too, and together we become like a small traveling circus, with me as Ringmaster.

There were so many carts and people. As I moved rapidly through produce, grabbing the last few things I wanted, I looked around for them, and there they were on the far side of the section, waiting for me, and happily waving their arms to draw my attention. Their happy faces filled me with joy, and I forgot to be tired.

Children really do make Christmas.

I’ve joked a lot about having a week-long nervous breakdown when they’ve gone. But I’m going to miss them.

Le jour de gloire est arrivée

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 23 Comments

Well, tomorrow.

What we affectionately refer to as the French invasion begins tomorrow, when our daughter and younger grandson arrive for Christmas. Today there will be a certain amount of bustle as beds are changed, the house is cleaned, flowers are refreshed and we stock up on coffee for our daughter, and bake Christmas cookies for boys.

Also the dog hair must be vacuumed from the back seat of the big car. And Eli, who is responding to the warm winter in true long-hair fashion (he is half long-hair), is blowing his coat. He will need to be taken out to the orchard and brushed. Brushing him near the house makes visitors suspect we’ve had some kind of massacre of enormous bunnies.

I still cannot find the fragile glass icicle ornaments I pack away so carefully each year. Most annoying. They add such a magical shimmer to the tree. And, of course, our appliance debacle continued yesterday, on our first cold day in weeks, when our five year old furnace motor found a dark spot. Whatever that means. I am hoping the new part arrives today.

Meanwhile, only three days of school left for our long-term visiting grandson. Last night he meticulously wrote thank-you notes to all his teachers, and together we put bows and gift tags on his Christmas gifts. He will return home with his family before the new year.

All the bustle is fun and carries the requisite note of Christmas cheer. But there is cooking to be done, and wrapping, and still a few elements of shopping. Ah, and all the bed linens to be washed.

Speaking of cheer, there is one other note of preparation for the coming festivities: A case of champagne and the big bottle of whiskey.

By the end of the night, grandma may require a wee dram.

In any case, she will have earned it.

Update:

My husband, upon reading the above: “You have started calling yourself ‘Grandma’ and referring to yourself in the third person?…Also, where’s this whiskey?”

A doll’s…house

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 20 Comments

I have an heirloom dollhouse that I have been saving for my two great nieces. I sent it with my niece and her husband when they stopped to visit us on their cross-country move from Seattle to Philadelphia. At the time, one of her daughters was about three, and she was newly pregnant with the second, so we agreed that they would save the dollhouse for a time when the girls were old enough to appreciate it.

This is the year.

It’s a big dollhouse, made of wood, with wallpapered rooms and big muntined windows. I think it dates to the early 1950s. I was not the first little girl to play with it. It had belonged to my father’s cousin, and then to her daughter.

I thought it would be nice to include a set of the right sized dolls. I had no idea how difficult this would turn out to be.

I tried the hand-made website; and the auction website; I visited the very few actual toy stores. Nothing quite right. They had dolls, but they were either hideously plastic or one step up from corn husks. Nothing that simply had a nice face and reasonably-shaped body.

So, reluctantly, I turned to the Seattle guys. They do have dollhouse dolls. But you know how the algorithms are. Even if you reject something it keeps showing up in your feed. There is no Boolean method of saying “But not that”. And there is a series of dolls that, at first glance, seemed nice. The dolls come in different ethnicities and ages. But the longer you look at them, the weirder they become.

Do you see what I mean?

I showed them to my friend at lunch to see if she noticed. Maybe it was just me. But, no. She started laughing. “What is with their crotches?”

Exactly. And once you see it, you cannot unsee it. And it doesn’t really make any sense, either. I mean…never mind.

My friend texted me later with a suggestion of some animal family dolls she came across. One great niece will get a kangaroo family, and one will get a giraffe family. They will have to co-inhabit.

Close enough.

Accidental Christmas Tree

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 39 Comments

I have mentioned my friend from sixth grade before. We met at age eleven, and our friendship was cemented soon after. Our math teacher commented on our report cards that we giggled too much in class. We have a deep mutual commitment which has lasted these many years, and although we are very different personalities, we seem to share a general tendency toward lunacy.

We don’t live in the same town, but close enough, and I was on my way to her house yesterday to see her Christmas decorations, have some lunch, and, because she really is a good friend, drop off some papers pertaining to a small dilemma (See: accounting; loathe.) I was a tiny bit late, so I was tooling along the country roads at a nice clip. 1

However, as I turned down her familiar rural road, I noticed that the rickety farm market and petting zoo that has been there for decades was selling Christmas trees. I slowed, and saw there were some good-sized trees. For the next mile I debated whether I should buy the tree myself rather than going on a family outing. It was too far to come on a school night, and the place wouldn’t be open after dark anyway. And honestly, after a basketball game all an eighth-grader can think about is eating.

So after a pleasant few hours of lunch, conversation, and admiration of decorations (my friend has, among other things, a magnificent hand-carved Italian creche with bespoke lighting), we turned to the subject of trees. “Want to come?”

She did.

It was a balmy December day, almost 50 degrees, which in Wisconsin means mud. We pulled into the dirt drive of the place. There were no other customers, but an eclectic collection of barnyard animals in pens all around: turkeys, various sorts of chickens, a donkey, a sheep, several types of goats, emus, and at least one vociferous pig.

A guy with a shovel looked up from where he was standing.

“Are you open? We’ve come to look at Christmas trees.”

“Nah,” the guy answered cheerfully. “I’d rather shovel pig s*&t.”

He set down his shovel and came to speak with us. “I have to tell ya: Did you see that trailer driving off?”

We confessed that we had not.

“That was the boss. He’s gone down to the other field with a load of manure. His wife has cancer, and it’s her treatment day, no one else is here, and I’m not allowed to touch the electronic stuff. So, you’d have to pay cash. That’s all I’m allowed to do.”

I did not have cash.

“But,” he continued, “you can go up to the quickie mart on the corner where they have an ATM.”

I agreed that we could do this, but suggested we look first so we knew how much we would need. So we tromped down the drive through the mud, I in my new black suede boots, to look at the trees.

Balsams have been hard to come by, lately. I like frasiers; they’re very pretty trees, but there’s nothing like the scent of a balsam. There was a blight a few years back, and it takes years to replenish. But here was a lot full of them.

We picked our way through various forms of manure. “Watch out for the poop!” became the mantra.

We found a tree. Just eight feet. It had a sparse side that could be turned toward the window, but it was the right combination of fullness and height. Just as we were calculating the purchase price with tax in preparation for our trip to the cash machine, the farmer returned with an empty trailer, and we were spared a trip to the quickie mart. Total cost: $66.

The checkout was a strange little place, with a greenhouse/gift shop that had a slightly creepy Miss Havisham vibe, but we soon escaped outside, where the tree was netted, and ready to go.

“I can’t put the tree on the car,” the farmhand informed us. “Liability.”

An emu lurked preternaturally in the distant trees.

My friend and I looked at each other. “We only have to go a mile,” she said. “Tom is home, and he’ll have something.”

“I got twine,” said our man, helpfully.

This is probably the moment to point out that we’d had champagne with lunch.

The tree was very light and I settled it on the roof of the car and opened the windows. Our friend handed us twine and without touching anything, explained how to weave the twine among the branches for extra security. Having never done this before, I was happy to have expert advice. We bumbled along for fifteen minutes or so, because I really didn’t want to have to ask Tom for another in a lifetime of favors.

It wasn’t until we were finished and ready to go that the farmer reappeared, and started to laugh. “I think you’ve forgotten something.”

We looked at each other, then at the car, and light dawned. We’d tied the car doors shut.

The farmer chortled. “I’ll get the scissors.”

“No,” Julie said. “We can just crawl in from the back.”

Now, I have a small car, as anyone who has seen photos of my German Shepherds’ sweetly bent ears can attest. But I am reasonably agile, and the whole thing seemed simple enough. I climbed in the back, and as I contemplated my move, I realized that the space was more limited than I had anticipated. Fully aware of my audience, and possibly somewhat compromised in my judgment, I crawled into the front, only to find myself stuck with my feet in the air, my head on the front seat.

I started to laugh, and could not stop. I lay helplessly, unable to move and barely able to breathe. Tears ran backwards down my face.

My friend was in the back seat doing the same. I could hear male snorts outside.

“Move the seat back,” called the farmer. But that meant getting myself in a position where I could reach the button on the outside of the seat. Finally able to move, I wriggled my way to find the button, and then found it impossible to get my legs under the steering wheel. My knee landed on the horn. There was another lengthy bout of deranged laughter.

When we drove away, securely entwined, we all wished one another a Merry Christmas.

Julie, unwilling to copy my methods, sat in the back. “Well,” she said, “we just killed thousands of cancer cells.”

A mile down the road, Tom waited on the driveway with scissors to cut us out, and a ball of twine to re-tie the tree.

Our plans for a post-basketball family event would have to be something else.

We went out for sushi instead.

  1. Sidebar: I tend to amble when the dogs are in the car because I don’t want to toss them around, but when I’m alone, I like a good corner. This has softened my views on round-abouts of which Wisconsin has far too many for no particular reason. But they can be fun. ↩︎

Read the Beginning of J.F. Riordan’s new novel, *A Small Earnest Question*

Featured / J. F. Riordan / 6 Comments
Book Four in the Award-winning North of the Tension Line series

The telephone rang in the sleek, city office of Victor Eldridge. As he reached to answer the pain came again with a deep, resounding blow that made it difficult to breathe. He braced his hands against his desk, waiting for it to pass as it always did. The ringing phone, mixed in the wake of his agony, was almost beyond bearing.

Victor Eldridge was not a religious man, but what he experienced now was as much of a prayer as he would ever utter. Please, let this be the end of it. Please let the pain stop.

He did not care how.

The ringing and the pain faded at the same moment, and it seemed as if the room echoed with both. He stayed frozen in position, his breathing shallow.

He straightened slowly and leaned back in his chair. There. His breath became deeper and he could feel his heartbeat slowing to its normal pace. His reason returning from the chaos of suffering, he began to think. He had much to do but very little time. The pain was gone. For now. But he knew it would come again.

And again.

***

keep reading on Kindle.

Checking in

/ J. F. Riordan / 58 Comments

You should have received a different kind of email from me this morning. If you did not it’s because the site is verifying the emails on my list to ensure that they’re legit, and not some AI Nigerian hoping to procreate in our computers.

Feel free to let me know here whether you got it, but in any case, fear not, all the rough places will soon be plain.

Support Your Local Author

/ J. F. Riordan / 34 Comments

I have two full days with nothing on my calendar, and a substantial but unfinished manuscript, which means it’s time to read through the new book on paper. Every once in a while I need to step back from writing and read what I have so far as an actual book. That way I can see the plot line and get a sense of how the story flows. There’s always a lot of literal cutting and pasting, which I often prefer to do the old fashioned way. One dog nose, phone call, or other interruption and it’s too easy for computer cuts to disappear into the ether.

So, while I attend to my work, I thought it might be a good time to remind you that you can catch up on my series by purchasing the first four novels now, or, should you prefer, pick up a little children’s book, My Dog Pete (available exclusively at the link) to add to someone’s Easter basket. It’s on Kindle, too.

You don’t have to buy my novels or essays from the guys in Seattle. Let’s face it: civilization needs local bookstores, and if we want them, we need to patronize them. Some of my favorite bookstores include Honest Dog Books, Books & Company, Boswell Book Company, and Politics and Prose. You can also order at Barnes & Noble, Target, or WalMart.

Or maybe you can find the time to follow me on Goodreads—where my numbers are pathetically few—or to leave a nice review wherever you buy books.

And, of course, you can also pre-order the one I’m working on now—the fifth in the series— if you haven’t already. You have, right?

Now available for pre-order wherever you buy your books.

If you have a favorite bookstore, leave a link in your comments, so others can find it.

Thank you!