Mystery Dinners

During a long weekend house party at Wit’s End, Lady Agatha receives a ransom note from the notorious Cat Burglar (that is, someone who is stealing cats) that her precious Princess Sticky Wicket has been catnapped and is being held for £1 million. Once Lady Agatha determines that the cat is not just sleeping, she panics, runs around, drops things, shrieks, and eventually attempts to contact her late husband’s cousin, Detective Chief Superintendent Neville Chumply at Scotland Yard … but the phone line is down, due to the “storm of the century.” The roads are similarly useless, having been made impassable by the downing of trees planted during the reign of King Englebert the Warbler. So, though help cannot arrive, neither can the guests leave … and one of those guests is the Cat Burglar!

In early 2011, I produced “Catnapped” as the first Mystery Dinner Party for my friends. Through the years, I have developed characters and storylines for a dozen or so mysteries, including ones that took place at the Abbey of St. Grwst in England in 1107 (the theft of inks required for illuminating manuscripts), the Dry Tortugas in 1952 (piracy, espionage, and a hurricane), rafting down the Amazon in 2012 (collecting endangered butterflies for profit), the California gold fields in 1852 (political corruption and corporate malfeasance), and a corporate retreat center on the moon in 2112 (embezzlement). Only one play, “Over & Under,” was scripted. All the others required my friends to expand on the backstories and plot I provided to advance the story throughout the evening and identify the villain.

All the characters are women. All the crimes are non-violent. All my friends have amazing skills with costuming, dialogue, and imagination. And speaking of imagination … in addition to sorting out whodunit, all the players have a task to perform during the evening. For “Dixie Speedway” (Marietta Speedway, 1955), everyone had to tell a story about herself as a little girl that included these four elements: 1) your daddy, 2) Nehi Grape Soda, 3) a magnolia tree, and 4) a car. In “Loose Lips,” (Hoboken, NJ aircraft factory, 1943), they played charades. “Girl Band” (Hollywood Hills, 1978) required them to tell a story about their high school prom that included at least two of these elements: 1) your crush on the DJ, 2) how you made it home that night, 3) what you did for the first time that night, 4) demonstrate your hottest prom-night dance moves.

I have three plays written and ready to go when Covid releases its grip. “Vortices” takes place in 1986 in Sedona, Arizona. Someone is creating and selling fake crystal wands, thereby perverting the True Spirit of Wimmin’s Religion. Does the villain want to demonstrate that no one can tell the difference between a “real” crystal from the Druid’s traditional homeland in England and a “fake” from the Crystal Cave in Chihuahua, Mexico? Or, is she just in it for the money? “Burp” takes place at a Tupperware Party in 1958 in the Main Line suburb of Ardmore, Pennsylvania. One of the pampered women in attendance was — and maybe still is — a member of the Communist Party of the USA. A deep-undercover FBI agent is hunting her. For “White Mountain Express,” it’s a Friday night in September 2017 and six women are staying at the White Mountain Wellness Center, partaking in a program designed to improve their understanding of healthful eating, mindfulness, and movement. The resort, which can accommodate 40 guests, is struggling financially; it’s reputation battered by critical reviews. Someone is driving down the value of WMWC by posting false negative reviews in social media. Who? Why?

I love creating these stories and watching my friends embrace the silliness in becoming someone else for an evening. Here are a few photos from these thoroughly entertaining evenings.

My New Life

Though I stopped working in June, I have only begun to feel retired and to understand that this new life is my new reality.  As I was leaving behind work, colleagues, and a paycheck, Sheila was applying for jobs to replace hers, which was ending.  Her company lost their contract in New Mexico and she and all her colleagues scrambled for a place with either one of the companies that won the new contract or with their current employer in another state.

In August we learned that Sheila would be promoted and transferred to Atlanta, effective September 9.  I had made plans before all the uncertainty set in to spend September in Vermont at a women’s fitness facility.  We managed to make those commitments mesh and began our life in Atlanta together in early October.

Everyones’ first months of retirement are unsettled.  What do we do with all the unscheduled hours?  How do we replace the effortless socialization of meetings and hallway conversations?  Can we manage financially?  And then there is the question of identity.  Who am I when I am not what I do?  I experienced all of that plus the upheaval in Sheila’s career.

But now, in a big house in a mock-chateau subdivision in upscale Marietta, Georgia, I am finding my own way into the rest of my life.  I unpacked the last moving box today and guessed at where the napkins rings should go; guessing, really, where I might imagine I put them when it is time to look for them.  I watered the house plants and decided to repot the African Violet.  I put the redwood shavings in the dog houses that Cooper and Lily disdain but I think are necessary for their comfort.  I hung the halloween dish towels on the handles of the double ovens, glad that I had discovered them in that last box on October 31 rather than November 1.  I checked the schedule at my recently joined YMCA for a water aerobics class at a reasonable hour and set an alarm to give myself plenty of time to deal with the epic Atlanta traffic.  On my way home from the Y this afternoon, I’ll stop at the grocery store to pick up a propane tank so that I can start grilling again and I’ll figure out what to do about dinner.  Sheila will come home and tell me about her day while we eat.  She’ll ask about mine and I’ll feel a little less self-conscious today than I did yesterday as I describe the small accomplishments of my new life.

50 Shades of Greeen

We spent last weekend with friends at their lake-front home. Given the state of the drought in New Mexico, it’s a meadow-front home this year. The water that would fill the lake was released downstream. I didn’t mind the altered view at all, in part because at dusk a herd of female and juvenile elk moved out of the tree-line and onto the meadow. Bill set up the telescope on the deck and we watched the slow, grazing procession. The elks’ daily trek brings them from the Jicarilla Apache reservation onto New Mexico Parks & Recreation land, making them as safe from trophy hunters as any wild animal can be in the American West.

Off and on during the weekend we talked about retirement – Alane’s and Bill’s, and mine. They cut their final ties to work last year. I will finish up in July 2014, if all goes according to plan. For them, their retirement is ideal. They live in their northern New Mexico home from April to November, and move to their house in Sun City West, Arizona for the rest of the year. Two very different lifestyles, both of which they love. When I try to imagine myself in either place, I falter on my own Goldilocks conundrum. Sun City is too social and busy and their rural retreat is too remote and quiet. I need to figure out what is just right.

Sheila would like to live outside the city – and I think I would, too. But not too far out. I would like to rest my eyes on fields, trees, and 50 shades of green. But I want organic grocery shopping in town. I want to hear birdsong more often than I hear traffic. But I want a library close by. I want to watch storms roll over the hills and hear the thunder echo through the valley. But I want medical services within 30 minutes of home.

One thing we’re considering is scheduling vacations over the next couple of years in places we might like to settle. Huge swaths of America are already ruled-out, which limits our choices in a good way. We are not living north of the 37th Parallel, which is roughly at the northern edge of Arizona, New Mexico, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Tennessee, and North Carolina. It cuts California in half right around San Francisco. While I could settle in Portland or Seattle or actually any East or West Coast northern maritime region, Sheila, with her Mediterranean nature, would need to be on Prozac to survive the chilly, gray, rainy climate.

Cultural activities—and more importantly—cultural attitudes matter to us, too. Any community that says with pride that it is the “buckle of the bible belt” won’t work for us. I’d like a college nearby, for the performing arts and drop-in classes. A local historical society would be good for me. A cineplex, a mall, a Thai restaurant close enough to go to without having to pack a bag seem important, too.

So, just at the moment we think that a semi-southern small town or the far-suburban edges of mid-size city might work. We’ll plan a few vacations to explore our choices.


I learned last week that a friend’s mother has cancer. She is quite elderly and the prognosis is not good. I was told of her illness via a text message and I expressed my sorrow for her and my friend by text, too. With that exchange, I started thinking about the ways in my lifetime we learned of deaths and our customs for delivering our condolences.

When I was young, people would place a wreath on the front door of the deceased’s house to signal that the residents of the home were in mourning. I remember my father wearing a black band on his coat sleeve when his father died. At the end of 7th grade, my friend Libby moved to Laos with her diplomat father and French mother and grandmother. Several months after they left, I received a stiff card, bordered in black, printed in French, that announced her grandmother’s death. The Philadelphia Inquirer called us when my father died to get details for his obituary. I subscribe to a magazine that includes brief articles on the passing of women who have been active in — and loved by — their communities. Over the years, I have received word of family, friends, and acquaintances passing by personal visits, letters, telegrams, phone calls, and emails. I see memorial messages on Facebook now.

In the past, when I heard of a death in my community, I went to the family’s home or wrote a note or sent a sympathy card. I’ve made phone calls, brought casseroles, written eulogies, boarded pets, attended wakes, viewings, visitations, funerals, and celebrations of life.

I thought when I began to consider this subject that I might fall into the notion that there are right ways to honor death; and that our modern, technological ways are not the right ways. My grandmother might have thought that a telephone call or a printed sympathy card was unfeeling and inappropriate. My mother was even more Victorian than her mother, and I am sure that text and Facebook condolences would have appalled her.

But I believe that however we learn of someone’s passing, and however we acknowledge and commemorate it, the support we bring with our attention, affection, and assistance is what matters. Not the manner of our communication, but the message that we care and that our world has dimmed a bit by the loss.


It’s my Friday off and I’m at Flying Star for breakfast. I decided this would be a good time to study the paperwork I received from the U.S. Defense Threat Reduction Agency (DTRA) and the U.S. Department of Justice (DOJ) Radiation Exposure Compensation Act department for my claim on my father’s behalf. He was a Navy officer and an atomic veteran who passed away from cancer in 1976.

Daddy was in the Navy’s Civil Engineer Corps and he was attached to the task-force for the atomic bomb tests called Operation Crossroads at the Bikini Atoll in 1946. He and his Seabees built structures on the islands. A favorite cocktail party tale of his had to do with building an “officer’s club” on the atoll. The admiral asked when they’d be toasting the success of the test and Daddy promised to be pouring scotch within 24 hours of the blast. I’m afraid he did.

The June issue of the AARP Bulletin had an article about a woman who received compensation for her late father’s exposure to radiation during atmospheric nuclear tests in the 1950s. I knew that my father’s cancer might be the result of his exposure at Bikini, but this was the first indication I had that the government acknowledged its role in the illnesses and deaths of vets and civilian workers exposed to ionizing radiation.

The DTRA and DOJ paperwork is, as you might expect, overwhelming. Nothing as simple as: was he there, did he die of cancer, are you his heir? Actually, those are the questions, but proving the answers is going to require that I ferret out his Navy serial number, unit assignment during Operation Crossroads, medical records (including diagnostic tests and pathology reports, physician & hospital records), my parents’ birth and death certificates, their marriage license, my half-sister’s birth and death certificates, and my birth certificate and copies of my marriage licenses and divorce decrees. It’s a good thing I’m a crackerjack researcher.

If I succeed with my search, and the DOJ and DTRA agree that Daddy’s exposure and cancer are qualifying events, I will get a nice windfall. Not really compensation for his death at age 63, though, to him or my mother or me.


A friend asked me, “What gives you pleasure?” At the time of her asking, I was gloomy because of yet another example of my inability to understand why people will stab each other in the back, throw each other under the bus, stir up shit. I felt like I was back in high school. My friend was, kindly, suggesting that I get out of the dumps and on with life.

Rather than immediately considering my pleasure index, I spent a few hours plotting clever revenge scenarios. When the fun of that wore off, I started trying to identify what pleases me, as my friend had suggested. It was harder than I expected to get started, but once the first brick tumbled, I was able to come up with a satisfactory list

I started looking at pleasure on Friday evening, while on a recumbent bike at the gym. Sheila was on the bike next to mine, beating herself at solitaire on her phone. I had the set called Favorites playing on my iPod. I realized I was enjoying myself as I listened to the Black Eyed Peas singing “Let’s Get It Started.” So maybe music was a pleasure for me. One style of music, though? No, the Favorites playlist includes George Gershwin, Jimi Hendrix, Bally Sagoo, Gary Clarke, Jr., and Gary Glitter among many, many others. So then I wondered why music makes me feel good. This led me to another discovery.

I like remembering the past and anticipating the future.

Music takes me back — to the first time I heard the song or, for songs I haven’t heard before, to a sense memory of how songs like that song make me feel. Rhythm is big for me. The strong beat in “Rumour Has It” turned me on to Adele last year. The insistent rise and fall of the clarinet in “Rhapsody in Blue” made me buy my first non-rock LP when I was 13. The piano coming in on the snare’s ride in Brubeck’s “Take Five” had me hanging out at the smokey, divey One Step Down on M Street when I was 18. So, music is transport to the past. And my past was generally pretty pleasant. Or, for those times when it wasn’t, I’ve made my peace with it.

Music doesn’t really figure in my thinking about the future. For me, there has always been music; there will always be music. What pleases me about the future is planning. Planning trips, planning gardens, planning parties, planning anything. I like figuring things out. I like planning more, usually, than I like doing. For travel, the destination is fine; getting there is a pain — scheduling, choosing, calculating is terrific. When I was much younger and had bouts of insomnia, I would put myself to sleep by planning a house I would build someday. Site selection and orientation, square footage, shortest possible drain runs, height of crawl space, pitch of roof, number of 2x4s! I could usually fall asleep counting 10d nails.

But, remembering the present tense in my friend’s question, I wonder what is giving me pleasure now?

I’ll head the list with music and planning. Then: moving my body, holding Sheila’s hand, improving clumsy sentences, entertaining my friends with stories, eating tomatoes I grew, petting my dogs and smelling their sun-warmed coats, and almost every minute of every day. Just the little things, the very consequential little things that really make up my life. Certainly not the stuff we think is big and important, like work, politics, economics. Those might be the outcome of life, but they aren’t the planning … or the music.

Question of the Day

Why is medicine so expensive and communication so cheap? 

First consider research, technology development, manufacturing, training, service delivery. Think about factories, distribution, satellites, IT, call centers, retail outlets. Then consider that time spent in the ER, with a few tests and a small handful of medical personnel, can cost $1000 per hour, while our three DVR-equipped Dish-fed TVs, phone landline, two iPhones with massive amounts of capacity, and whole-house wireless internet connectivity costs about $0.42 per hour.

Just sayin’

Uncommon Blessings

The cleaning ladies are here this morning. Three cheerful, careful women come every other Friday to clean our house. They know Sheila likes butterflies, so one day they brought us a dead, but otherwise perfect, yellow swallowtail butterfly that that they found on the sidewalk. They give us tamales at Christmas. They do the windows and floors, and laugh at our comical dogs. I give them two hours of my salary for their six woman-hours of work, plus a holiday bonus that grows every year. I think it’s a great deal and I believe they are okay with it, too.

On Mondays, the Poop Lady comes with her scoop and bucket to clean up our back yard. A month’s worth of her visits is roughly the equivalent of 90 minutes of my salary.

I get my shirts laundered — that’s about six minutes of salary each.

All those services plus painting the bedroom, replacing the furnace filter, waxing my eyebrows, polishing my toenails — all things I could do myself but don’t have to, because of the increasingly uncommon blessing of money to spare.


Do you remember that for a few days after 9/11 planes were not allowed to fly over the U.S.? I stood in my backyard in Denver a day or two after the attack and listened to the absence of airplanes. Everything was strange and raw in those first days but the quiet in the sky was eerie. It added to my sense that everyone was holding their breath.

I’m in the den in Albuquerque this morning. It isn’t so hot yet that we have to close up the house and turn on the air conditioning. I can hear through the open windows the normal sounds of our neighborhood. In the past 10 minutes or so I’ve heard birds, cars, sirens, dogs, wind chimes, children’s voices, and planes.

The next time you step outside, listen for planes. I imagine that in any urban area, and many not-so-urban areas, you will hear them. You may have to make an effort, though; not to hear them but to know that jets or props are what you are hearing. They are part of the background now. White noise.