Listen Up: Patty Has a Word with Roz

This was Roz’s idea, for us to interview each other. So now that she’s in the hot seat, we’ll see if she still thinks it’s fun. Of course I’ve yet to do anything with Rozzie that hasn’t been fun (and just to set the record straight, our long-ago fun included far more Dairy Queen sundaes than rum slushes, contrary to what she reported in last month’s blog).

So now for some more fun! Let’s see what my BFF has to say for herself:

How hard was it to leave your homeland and move to America?

It was very hard to leave my family behind, but I was always fascinated by America and all things American (still am). I do, however, miss a good steak and kidney pie.

Who was your first celebrity crush?

Steve McQueen. I had a poster of him in my bedroom riding that darn motorcycle of his. Geesh! He was so cool.

How do you feel about birthdays?

Extremely grateful. I celebrated my last one at lunch with dear friends, including this little guy, Mr. Duke Brooks.

What frightens you the most?

Some of my fellow mankind. I’m also not crazy about flying, especially over the ocean.

Which do you prefer writing, blog posts or books—and why?

Definitely writing books.  For one thing, I have a partner, and she’s pretty awesome. Finding relevant blog subjects can be pretty daunting.

Which of the Val & Kit books is your favorite—and why?

A hard question, since I really love all our books. But if that gun wielded at you last month was turned on me, then I would answer the same way: Death in Door County. It was the first book where we went “on location,” and it was such a blast to write about places we actually visited. A case in point is Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant & Butik: good food, amazing company, and goats grazing on the roof.

Since it is June, the month we celebrate fathers, what do you most cherish about yours?

Everything. I have a picture of him on my desk taken when he was in his twenties, long before I was born. It reminds me how witty and handsome he was. I cherish how much laughter he brought to my life.

Roz's father, John Burgess

Listen In: Roz Has a Word with Patty

I have known Patty for over forty years. During that time we've discussed everything, even though in the early years some of it was fueled by her famous rum slushes. But time goes by, and stuff needs to be updated. So, when looking for a candidate to interview, I could think of no better person (plus my landscaper doesn't speak English, and the cat won't sit still . . . )

Here come six burning questions:

What advice would you give today to the 20-year-old Patty?

Was she ever really that young? Well, as a matter of fact, she was married already and only a year away from becoming a mother. And since she proceeded to see all her dreams come true, I probably wouldn’t bother trying to advise her. But if you put a gun to my head (which in our genre is not that unlikely), I’d tell her to own who she is and not worry what others think of her. Well—very well—into her 60s, she seems to have finally learned that.

If you had to get out of your house permanently and in a hurry, what one item would you take with you?

My computer, because it holds most of my pictures and writings. And although I back it up regularly, most of the backup is in my office with my computer! (Really must explore that Cloud one day . . . )

If you could interview one living person, who would it be and why?

Well, after YOU—which is next month’s blog post—I would say my 94-year-old mother, a veritable fount of wisdom and family history. But I already interviewed her and need only transcribe the tapes from our decade-ago drive from Palm Desert to San Francisco. SO, I guess I would choose to interview Herman Wouk, my favorite living author. I know he has a thing or two he could teach me.

Betty Phelps Obermeier also taught her daughter, Patty, to crochet.

If you could live anywhere, and take your loved ones with you, where would it be?

Hmmm . . . that’s a tough one because there are so many places I love, none more so than where I live right now. So I might as well make it easy on myself and have all of them move to Door County, Wisconsin! (That means you’d have to start packing, too, Rozzie!)

We both know what the joy of writing is, but what's the most frustrating thing about it?

Definitely finding mistakes after multiple proofreadings. This explains why I love our beta readers and proofreaders so much. It takes many, many eyes. I mean, have you seen the challenges on Facebook where you’re asked to read something with more than half the letters missing? How our eyes see what they are supposed to see? Still, that’s not how we want to present our books to our readers!

What's your favorite book in The Val & Kit Mystery Series, and why?

Ah, the toughest question yet. Truly, it’s whichever book I’m reading at the moment. (And yes, unlike all the actors who say they never watch themselves on the screen, I do read and reread our books. Still looking for missing letters! And still enjoying our girls and their antics J! ) But if you wielded that gun again, I’d probably say Death in Door County. Always, it’s the humor I like best, but also there’s an extra dose of intrigue, and it spans generations of family and friends. What could be better? Oh, and I love the setting J

Roz Meets Her New Neighbors

My neighbors moved out about two months ago, and their house remains empty. In the two years they had lived next door to me, I spoke to them only twice: once on the day they moved in and again on the day they moved out. That wasn’t planned. I just happened to catch them coming, and literally going. But they seemed nice—a mother, father, two rambunctious young boys, and a dog with a deep, gravelly bark. The rambunctiousness of the boys I had witnessed many times, and heard from my side of the fence that separated our small yards. To be fair, their dog barked only when I was dog-sitting, and the pooch under my charge, and on my side of the fence, was generally the instigator. It was a typical canine a canine to determine which dog could bark the loudest, and brought to a conclusion by me waving a box of Milk-Bones in the air.

I don’t spend much time sitting in my yard, but several days ago, when the Houston weather was at its most perfect (a brief period when it doesn’t feel like you are on the surface of the actual sun), I was enjoying my deck. And that’s when I noticed my new neighbors moving in, but so quietly, I was lucky to have even spotted them.

On the corner of the roof there is a missing triangular piece of wood trim. A perfect spot to build a new house—or in this case, a nest. There was a dove visible at the front entrance of the hidey-hole. Behind him or her I could see what looked like bird furniture (i.e., small branches and sticks). The dove seemed to be ignoring me, and I gave him or her the same courtesy. But come on, we both had one eye on each other.

Not long later Dove #2 appeared, carefully walking along the top of the fence that was the route to the nest. In its mouth was a piece of lumber for the new construction. As soon as it reached its new address, it moved inside and out of view, and then Dove #1 took off. Pretty soon, Dove #2 took up the surveillance at what could possibly be the proposed bay window. #2 remained there until its partner returned with another piece of building material. I watched them for over an hour, so impressed with their efficiency and work ethic.

I’ve now taken to having my morning coffee out on the deck. My new neighbors are still building. As neighbors go, they are quite perfect. We still don’t make eye contact, but I believe they are okay with me.

It occurs to me that I’ve spent more time with my new neighbors (admittedly from afar) than I ever did with the old human ones. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. But whereas I’ve never been a bird watcher and really know nothing about birds, I’m so enjoying this new couple. In fact, I’m their biggest fan!

Spring Break Plans, 1979

First step: getting it past Mom.

“I don’t know why you have to go all the way to Mexico for spring break.”

“Mom, Padre Island is part of Texas; it’s nowhere near Mexico.” I wasn’t totally sure if that was true, but I’d consult a map later and find out.

“No, Valerie, I think you will find that most people there speak Spanish.”

“Well, so does Lupita Collazo who works at the dry cleaner, and she was born in Des Moines. And by the way, where is Daddy?” I had counted on my father being home for this conversation since I was sure he’d let me go.

“I sent your father to get the car washed. And furthermore, Door County is very nice. Why not go there?”

“Door County? You mean the place we go nearly every other weekend? Plus, it’s like five min—” I stopped myself from continuing since the five-minutes-away argument would not further my cause. “And besides,” I hurried on, “Kit’s grandparents don’t have a condo in Door County, and they want—no, they need—us there.”

“Valerie, I don’t even know what a condo is.”

“Of course you do; it’s an apartment in a building, and all the owners share—”

“Oh, don’t go trying to blind me with real estate nonsense. Next thing you know, you’ll be calling yourself a Realtor.”

“Well, that’s the last thing I want.” I stormed out of the kitchen and went to my bedroom, where I began pulling pink curlers the size of Coke cans out of my hair.

But Jean Caldwell was not done. “The Ozarks are nice; Mrs. Bramwell told me her daughter is going there,” she continued, following me even though I had slammed my door hard.

“Really?” I pulled a curler loose and flung it onto my bed. “Cynthia Bramwell is going with her church group, The Pioneers for Christian something or other—”

“All of whom speak English, by the way.” She was sitting behind me on my bed and had picked up a copy of People magazine that displayed Rod Stewart on the cover. I snatched it away and threw it over the bed. Much as I loved Rod, he had nothing to add to this conversation.

“When’s daddy getting back, anyway?” I turned to face my dressing-table mirror. “How long does it take to get the car washed?”

“Oh, it takes a long time.” In the mirror, I could see her face had taken on the jubilant look of a kidnapper who was confident the police would never discover her lair, and the victim she was holding hostage was days from discovery. “I told him to get the deluxe package; he’ll be hours.”

“Ok, Mom. How about this? Why don’t you call Kit’s mom?”

“I did already. Surprisingly, she didn’t know anything about this little jaunt you and your pal have dreamed up.”

“But she doesn’t care, right?”

“Well, she’d have no problem with her daughter joining the Black Panthers. Doesn’t mean I have to allow it.”

That was probably true, so I went in a different direction. “How about calling Kit’s grandparents? After all, they’re the ones we’d be staying—”

“I did. I spoke to a young woman who unfortunately only converses in Spanish, so as you can imagine, we didn’t get very far—”

“Okay.” I vigorously nodded. “That makes sense. It must be their maid, or the housekeeper. See, Mom? They have a housekeeper—”

“That doesn’t impress me, Valerie.”

“Okay, how about this? Her grandparents are old. In their sixties, probably. Do you really think they’re going to let anything bad happen to their granddaughter?”

“Well, if they are old, as you so charmingly put it, Kit could probably outsmart them—”

“And do what? Mom, this is 1979. What terrible thing do you think is going to happen?”

She gave a wicked smile, and I knew her mind was whirling with any number of dastardly deeds Kit and I were surely going to fall prey to. But then, like a sign from God Himself—who, let’s face it, must have invented spring break for a reason—we heard the front door open. And seconds later, my father stood at the bedroom door.

“Daddy!” I yelled, as if he’d just come home from the wars and I hadn’t seen him for a decade.

“What’s this?”

“You’re home early,” my mother said, not hiding her disappointment.

“Yes. The line was too long. I’ll go back tomorrow. And the car, by the way, does not need cleaning.”

“Well, your daughter wants to go to Mexico for spring break with that Kit friend of hers. I told her no, but she—”

“Sounds fun,” my darling, dearest, smartest, winner of The Father of the Decade award said. And there was more. “Jean, didn’t you go to Mexico once? Without your parents? When you weren’t much older than Valerie?”

Yesssssssss!!!!!!

The Missed Leap

“Mommy, did Daddy propose to you when you got married?” ten-year-old Emily asked me. We were driving home from her swim meet that her father had missed, yet again.

“Of course he did; why do you ask?”

“Because did you know that in a leap year a lady can ask a man to marry her?”

“A lady could ask a man any time she wants; she doesn’t have to wait for leap year.”

“No, it’s the law. Grandma told me. But did you ever ask another man to marry you?”

In 1984 I was twenty-two and sporting my recently acquired engagement ring given to me unceremoniously by David Pankowski. The diamond was a lot smaller than Kit thought it should be, and my mother claimed there was a large flaw in the stone (apparently visible only to her eagle eyes). But I loved it, and even though David had made no such request, I promised him I would never take it off.

Six months later, I broke my promise. I was in an elevator on the way out of my dentist’s office, when the car stopped on the fifth floor and Tom Haskins stepped in.

“Valerie!” he said, with great delight. “Are you tailing me?”

“Well, if I am, I’m not very good at it. Aren’t people supposed to stay out of sight if they’re tailing someone?”

He stepped in and stood close to me, shoulder to shoulder. Both of us faced the elevator doors. His reflection in the metal showed him to be smiling, and that was when I slipped my left hand into my coat pocket. With great dexterity, I slid my engagement ring off my finger.

“So, didn’t I just see you a few weeks ago?” he asked.

“Actually it was five and a half months ago.” Dammit, why go into half months?

“You’re kidding.”

“No. You were on your way to sign a lease to open a travel agency.”

His smile grew wider as he nodded. “Riiiight. And you were . . . let’s see . . . shopping for . . . ice skates?”

“Actually, I was looking for bridesmaid dresses. But close enough.”

“You had some big event planned, as I recall.”

 “Bridesmaid dresses mean anything? I was planning my wedding.”

“Oh.” Tom Haskins, who would later become my boss and one of my best friends, turned toward me. I turned, too, and even though there was plenty of space in the elevator, our faces were so close that if we had been actors in a French film, we might have kissed. “How’d it go?” Luckily, the elevator stopped, and as the doors slid open, Tom gestured gallantly with his right arm for me to exit.

“It hasn’t happened yet. Six weeks to go.”

“Ah.” He looked around the spacious lobby. “Got time for coffee? That place over there is pretty good.” He indicated a tiny coffee shop, and ten minutes later we were sitting at a table with mugs in front of us. “So where’s the ring?” He shrugged off his camel-hair coat, revealing an elegant dark suit jacket underneath.

“It’s being cleaned,” I lied, and if this didn’t make any sense, he didn’t question it.

I first met him when my older brother, Buddy, started bringing the teenage Tom to our house on a regular basis. Smart and funny, he teased me with no mercy, and I lapped it up. Later, we cemented our friendship, mainly during the summer before my senior year of high school when I was a part-time waitress and he was my best customer.

“So, this Pankowski guy. What’s he like?” Tom asked.

“He’s wonderful.” This from the woman who was hiding her fiancé’s ring in her pocket. “And your wife . . .  Sorry, I’ve forgotten her name. She’s good?” I did know perfectly well that his wife’s name was Claire, that she was five foot three, born in Wyoming, and had a degree in music theory. Plus, she was gorgeous. Still, she was a complete stranger to me.

“We’re separated right now.” He took a sip of coffee and sighed, like he’d just discovered his lottery ticket had no winning numbers.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Tom, I didn’t . . . Buddy never mentioned—”

“No big deal.” Tom smiled, like he’d just buy another ticket. “She‘s going her way, I’m going mine. I never should have said yes in the first place.”

“You mean to the separation?” I put my ring-free hand on his arm, ready to dispense something wise and comforting. “Sometimes, it’s probably best to just let—”

“I mean the proposal. She asked me, caught me at a weak moment.”

“Wow. She asked you?” I pondered that for a moment, marveling at the chutzpah of the gorgeous Wyomingite.

“And by the way, Caldwell, you do realize this is a leap year, right?”

“Yes; so?”

“So, if you don’t do it now, you’ll have to wait another four years.” He had a naughty grin on his face, reminding me of the teenager I had found so irresistible. But I took my time answering, not willing to be led into a giant leap. “Okay, I’m assuming you’re running for election. Talk to me again in four years.”

He threw back his head and laughed his hearty laugh, taking a cigar out of a holder from his inside pocket. “You’re a piece of work, Caldwell. I hope Pankowski realizes how damn lucky he is.”

“So, Mommy,” Emily begged. “Did you?”

“Propose?” I mused. “Almost. Maybe I should have. Probably I should have.”

“Mommmm! Aren’t you listening? I asked if you remembered to buy corn chips.”

Let’s Try This One More Time: Roz’s 2016 Resolutions

Since I can’t remember, or find, last year’s list of resolutions, I have no idea if I kept them. So, here are my new resolutions for 2016.

Make More Lists

This is big news for 3M and their fabulous Post-it Notes. In 2015, any flat surface in my house was covered with assorted sticky notes, some of which I couldn’t even decipher when I did a survey of what had to be done. From my unreadable scribbles, was I supposed to WALK the dog, or WAKE him? Send Patty a CARD or a CAKE? Join the PEACE CORPS or buy PEAS for a CASSEROLE? Or was that a CAROUSEL . . . who takes peas on a carousel?

Work on Handwriting

I may, or may not, have missed several deadlines due to my scratchy penmanship. I’m not a doctor, for heaven’s sake, so unreadable writing is inexcusable. Gotta work on that.

Buy More Pens

In that kitchen catch-all drawer where assorted items with no other home are relegated, I have at least 20 pens jumbled in with hundreds of giant paper clips, a few thousand wrapped peppermints given away at restaurants, and a large assortment of dull knives (that should really be chucked out, but I may get a knife sharpener one of these days). However, finding one pen with enough ink to scratch out CALL INSURANCE COMPANY or BUY SHOE POLISH is a chore. Must buy new pens and throw out those with no ink.

Buy Shoe Polish

At my father’s insistence, when I was a kid, I polished my school shoes every night (Corinthian Brown leather). This might be considered child abuse nowadays, but what kid wears brown leather shoes every day, much less polishes them? Thank you, Skechers, Nike, Adidas, and all the rest of you that make walking so pleasurable.

Walk More

During 2015, my neighborhood was elevated and house prices shot up when a Starbucks opened within walking distance of my house. So, my current exercise plan consists mainly of walking the ten minutes or so to the barista and taking a half-hour break to sip caffé mocha and read a book before making the journey back home. Works for me.

Read More New Books

My Kindle currently houses close to 70 books. I want—I need—to branch out a bit from my favorite authors and try some new ones. Instead, I find myself rereading books I enjoyed, some of them many years ago. But seriously, can a person read The Winds of War or The Stand too many times?

Stop Telling Lies

Okay, so I don’t really walk to Starbucks. So far I’ve arrived there only by car. Once there, rather than read a book, I get stuck on Facebook reading posts from people who are complete strangers to me. And I currently don’t own any leather shoes that require a touch-up with Corinthian Brown shoe polish. But hey, I just found a pen that works, so time to start making more lists.

We wish you all a happy and prosperous new year, and if you have a list of goals, we hope you achieve them!

Patty’s daybed next to her desk has served the same catch-all purpose as Roz’s kitchen drawer. \
That will change with her 2016 resolution. Or not.

The Christmas Letter

“I want you to proofread something,” Kit said, as soon as she opened her front door. She looked excited.

“Me? Oh. Okay,” I replied, once I was inside her foyer and bending over to remove my fake UGGs that appeared to have sprung a leak. “I can do that . . . wait . . . what?”

But Kit had already grabbed my arm and was yanking me toward her husband’s den. “You’re going to love it,” she squealed, as we hurried down the hallway.

“Huh! Did you say proofread? What do you mean proofread?  What is it?”

“It’s exciting, Valley Girl.”

I purposely slowed down. When Kit assures me I will love something, there are many possibilities, but almost always, “loving” is not one of them. 

“Here it is.” She plunked me down at the desk in front of the computer and hit the space bar. A document appeared, the title beckoning me from the top of the screen.

Kit and Larry James’s Christmas Letter

I read the words slowly and turned to face her. “Is this a joke?”

She looked offended, pulled a chair forward, and sat close to me. “Of course it’s not a joke. It’s a real Christmas letter.”

“I see that. I can read. But . . . why?”

“Why what? People love getting these things.”

“Yes, of course people do, but you’re not one of them—”

“That’s not true at all.  I thoroughly enjoyed reading Mandy Hollander’s letter last year—”

“Her name is Tandy, and she sent it from prison, where she’s spending time for grand larceny.”

“Right. Who knew there was so much going on in prison? But I read it. I treasured it—”

“You used the back of it to write a grocery list.”

“Val, are you going to help me or not?  I’m asking a simple favor. Just read the damn thing and see if I’ve made any grammatical errors.”

I sighed deeply and again began to read slowly.

Dear family and friends,

The year began with a big bang. Larry won some golf tournament in Arizona.

“Okay, wait,” I said. “Couldn’t you at least name the actual tournament?”

“Is that important?”

“I think it would be nice.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll find out. Continue reading.”

I sighed again. “Okay, let’s see what other gems followed the big bang.”

Our son, Sam, took a hotshot job in Houston, where he’s making buckets of money.

“Let’s stop right there. Buckets of money: really? It sounds crass, and why do you even have to mention his salary at all? Isn’t Sam involved in the Houston rodeo—?”

“He’s on a planning committee, not roping calves.”

“It sounds interesting. You should mention that.”

“A rodeo is more interesting than investment banking? Move on, Valerie; get to the good stuff.”

I assumed the good stuff was going to be about her, and I wasn’t wrong.

Earlier in the year I took a course at Le Cordon Bleu to gain a diploma in the culinary arts. It was a thrilling experience—”

“Wait.” I turned to face her. “Didn’t you quit before the course ended?”

“Kind of. Their so-called chef couldn’t boil water—”

“So you never actually got a diploma?”

“I suppose you could say that, but I did get a letter from them.”

“Saying what?”

“They thanked me for my contribution to the class.”

“So that would be a no. No diploma.”

“If you want to look at it that way—”

“Never mind. I’ll keep reading.”

In April the Women’s League of Chicago asked me to be the keynote speaker at their annual fund-raising League of Faith.

“Okay, are you just making stuff up?  Because I certainly don’t remember any keynote speaking.”

“No, I didn’t actually attend. You know I hate that kind of pompous stuff.” (I didn’t know that at all.) “But the point is, they asked me. And I did send them a big fat check.”

I sat back in my chair. “Kit, I think you’re missing the whole point of a Christmas letter. You’re supposed to say what you did, not what you nearly did, or what you agreed to do and then changed your mind about. And you certainly shouldn’t brag about diplomas you didn’t stick around long enough to receive.”

“Geez, you are so picky. So what should I write? Surely something of interest actually happened this year.”

Another sigh from me. “Are you freakin’ kidding me? Does Palm Desert Killing ring any bells?”

She leaned back in her seat. “Do ya think? Does it sound believable?”

“Hello, Kitty Kat; it happened. It’s the truth. Who’s not gonna believe it?”

“How should I start?”

“At the very beginning. How you received that weird letter from your sister. How we flew out to California—need I go on?”

“Maybe you’re right.”  She sounded reluctant and needed convincing.

“Maybe we could get two smart women to write a book?” I offered. Then we both laughed. 

“Naaah.”

Whether you send out a Christmas letter or not, we love hearing from our readers. And please consider this our letter to thank each and every one of you for your support throughout the year. Merry Christmas to you and your families. We wish you happy and safe Holidays.