I loved it when my parents took us to the movies, especially the Disney films. However, when it was a grown-up  movie, I had trouble staying awake. My head nodded, my eyes blurred, and I zonked out. After all, it was way past my bedtime. Once when I was just about to fall asleep, my father leaned over and whispered, “You better stay awake. If you go to sleep, we’ll just leave you here.” Horrified, I totally believed him and spent the rest of the movie devising ways to keep myself awake. Always the prankster, I imagine my dad peeked at me and laughingly told his buddies the next day how I’d swung my feet, popped myself on the forehead, and tried to hold my eyes open. Waking up in a cold, dark theater in the middle of the night was my worst nightmare. I envisioned myself wandering around the empty seats and living for days on stale popcorn and water from the fountain. I imagined my parents meeting friends on the street later and this conversation:

“How ya doing?”  “Fine, how about you?” “All good.” “Say, I see your two boys there; I thought you had a girl.” “No, just the two boys now.” “Hmm. I thought there was a girl, sorta between the boys?” “Ohhh, you must mean Marlis.” “Yes, Marlis. That was her name. I do remember her- fiesty little girl.” “Well, Marlis isn’t with us anymore.” “Oh, that’s too bad…what was it? Polio?” “Oh no, not polio. She fell asleep at the movies.” “Oh, I see. Well, you can’t have that, now can you?” “No, we couldn’t abide with that.” “Well, you have a nice day.”  “Thanks, you too. Say hello to the missus.” “Will do.”

I was pleased when we started going to the drive-in theaters, because the car always came home. I could fall asleep and no one cared. After all, we always went on “Buck Night,”so we all got in for a dollar and no money was wasted by a kid falling asleep.

I remember children sitting at long wooden tables, where we colored and printed our names. We played circle games, sang, and recited nursery rhymes. But mostly, I remember Miss Jane. I thought she was a big woman, but I guess everyone appears big when you’re three feet tall. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and silvery-gray hair pulled back into a loose bun. She had soft hands and always smelled like spring flowers.

In the game, she pulled me against her soft middle, my nose pressed into the fabric of her dress. She wrapped her arms around me and whispered, “Who is speaking, Marlis? Now listen carefully – it’s one of your classmates.”  Once more the chosen child recited the proper words, but I didn’t care who it was, I just loved being held close to Miss Jane’s bosomy softness, inhaling her sweet fragrance. After some coaxing, I’d mutter “Donnie? Jerry? Woody? PR?” I think I missed on purpose; I loved being in Miss Jane’s warm embrace.  In my family, the women showed affection with a swift peck on the cheek, and the men showed no affection at all. In retrospect, maybe it was my first hug and I wanted it to last forever.  For a few blissful minutes the universe was just Miss Jane and me. After a while, my teacher would gently turn me around. “Oh look, Marlis, it’s Austin!” I’d return to my place among the other children, filled with peace, and love, and all the sweetness of Miss Jane. The only picture I have is this one I clipped years ago from a newspaper honoring the teachers of yester-years in our town.

To this day, I’m a hugger. I hug my family, friends, and even my dog. I’ve been known to hug strangers at bookfairs when they speak kindly of my books.  Somehow, I think it all started with Miss Jane. May God bless the Miss Janes of the world.

But most of all, I hope they remember going to church on Christmas Eve, singing carols, lighting small candles, and their spectacular united glow in the darkened church.  And how we lit the Christ candle on the dinner table and remembered the baby Jesus in the manger before the table blessing.

I pray their childhood Christmas memories fill them with an essence of family and love. After all, God’s mighty gift to us was all about His family and His love.

Happy New Year and may “God bless us every one!”

When Why Johnny Died was published, followed by Death of a Hoosier Schoolmaster and The Curriculum Murders, I visited libraries and bookstores all over the country in shameless self-promotion. Readers invariably commented on how they enjoyed Roxie. I explained there really was a Roxie, but her name was Sandy. One book club asked if I could bring Roxie along when they took me to dinner. I invited her, but she declined and had me convey the fact that she was very shy. (Imagine me rolling my eyes here.)

We retired on the same day and since then have met once a month for a day of shopping and lunch. During these times, we buy new clothes, browse antique shops, flea markets, used clothing stores, eat a lovely lunch, and end up at Wal-Mart where she makes me sniff every new candle scent. I always drive and Sandy always pushes the cart. I look forward to these long days with her, days when we laugh easily and often.

Today Sandy battles a fierce enemy, a disease so dastardly I won’t pen its name. After surgery and aggressive chemo we thought the dragon had died, but it returned mandating more surgery and chemo treatments. Through all this, Sandy keeps her sense of humor and positive outlook on life. I visit her and take books, ice cream, and pickled beets (her favorite.) I look forward to spring when her treatments will be complete and we can resume our monthly adventures.

My daughter has always been creative, but with her busy work schedule and shuffling her kids off to games and practices, I was surprised when she decided to start a home baking business. First she made cupcakes, custom designed for parties and showers. Then she decided to try her hand at cake pops. I had never heard of cake pops but am now a big fan.

She crumbles cake, then stirs in icing. She rolls this mixture into balls, chills, inserts sticks, dips in chocolate, lets cool, then decorates. How awesome. Although I’m showing you her Halloween pops, she can design them for any season or party. Everything is edible, but the best part of all is that they taste exactly like Hostess Ding-Dongs.

Imagine the eyes of children and adults when she displayed about fifty of these into a pumpkin at a church supper. So, if you need any special, hand-made goodies, let me know and I’ll introduce you to my talented daughter.

As usual, one of my favorite authors, Ann B. Ross, was there with her “Miss Julia” books. I’ve read and loved all of her books except the newest one, which I’ll download on my Kindle. She’s always so gracious and modest about her writing. If you haven’t read any of her books, you’ve missed a lot of fun.

As I meandered past the tables of the 180 authors and their books, I was pleased to see Kim Edwards with her new book, The Lake of Dreams. My book club read and enjoyed her first book, The Memory Keeper’s Daughter. I bought one of her new books and am reading it now.

I finally made my way to my table and signed over sixty books for youngsters like Emily from Frankfort. I told her she reminded me of Sparky Bailey, one of the main characters in the novels. My table mate was Judy Spegal, a retired teacher and first-time author from Kentucky. We had a lovely day together, meeting people and signing books. When she left, she kissed my cheek. I love that southern hospitality.

Ben & His Mom

I met Ben and his mom at the Printers’ Row Book Expo in Chicago in June. Two weeks ago, they invited me to visit Ben’s school in Western Springs, IL. It took us six hours to make the drive, but it was well worth the effort. This quaint suburb of Chicago is one of the loveliest towns I’ve ever visited. A commuter train runs down the middle of  Main Street in this cozy community of 12,ooo.  We drove down street after tree-lined street of stately two-story homes complete with friendly front porches and wide, shaded front lawns. Perhaps the sunshine on the colorful treetops lent the heavenly glow to the town.

After checking into our hotel, we followed the walking trail through the park, where the townspeople picnic and watch their children play baseball, soccer, football, and ice hockey. Within walking distance of our hotel, we dined at one of the best seafood restaurants in the world. It reminded me of being on a cruise ship.

The next day Ben and his mom met me at the front door of the school and introduced me to the librarian, who assembled the third, fourth, and fifth graders into the auditorium. I talked to the children about my writing, their writing, favorite books in general, and the importance of reading. The fifth grade teachers had been reading The Secret of Bailey’s Chase aloud, so the older students had questions for me when I visited their rooms. Immediately after school, the annual book fair began and I was invited to read from my books. I signed books for many young readers that day, and I don’t know when I’ve ever met such polite and articulate children. I’m already receiving emails as they read my books, and I welcome and answer them all. I hope they know how smitten I am with them and their heavenly town.

First Best Friend

I remember the day Bennye Jo and her family moved in next door. Mom went over to meet the new neighbors and came back with a little girl in tow. “Her name’s Bennye Jo,” she told me, “and she’s two.” I looked her over and felt much older at three. Little did I know that the next eight years of my life would pass with Bennye Jo at my side. I was the captain; she was my first mate. I was Tarzan; she was Jane. We played house on my back porch, sold lemonade on the street, read comics on a big quilt on the lawn between our homes, and rode our bikes to the library and city pool.

In the photo, I had come home from first grade for lunch and was ready to return to school. Since Bennye was in kindergarten, she had already changed into play clothes for an afternoon at home. I didn’t care; I enjoyed my seniority and was learning to read. When I moved from Vincennes at eleven, my first best friend, Bennye Jo, was replaced with my new best friend, whose name was Penny Jo. Even I paused with the irony.
I drew from my early childhood adventures when I wrote the Bailey’s Chase novels. Sparky and Grey lived in the house where I spent my childhood, visited the same library, went to the same Girl Scout camp, and the same school field trip. Meeting a ghost there was my idea!

In the fall we moved back to town. I still couldn’t talk but have many memories of those early days. I clearly remember the day this second picture was taken. Mom had taken Johnny and me to a photographer’s studio. He was three and I was seventeen months old. (Mom dated the picture on the back.) The photographer instructed Johnny to put his arm around me and he protested. “No, I don’t want to,” he wailed. There was a scene and I recall feeling hurt that he didn’t want to put his arm around me and wondered why. As the picture shows, he finally succumbed either to dire threats or bribes. No one considered my tiny self-esteem being injured by his rejection and I couldn’t articulate it yet. Mom said my first speech was very “Dutchy” and I stamped my foot in frustration when she couldn’t understand me. Everyone agrees I’ve  made up for my early lack of speech, but when I think about it  I’m still overwhelmed by the gift of language. It’s nothing short of a miracle and it happened to all of us.

Me at 8

I met Abbie at Girl Scout camp the summer I was eight. As if being funny, bright, adventurous, and daring weren’t enough, Abbie was all blue eyes, dark curls, fun, and mischief. We bonded that summer and broke all rules of Camp Wildwood regarding creek wading, tree climbing, and general decorum for little girls. When school started I sorely missed her, finding myself surrounded by regular girls and their talk of piano, tap, and ballet lessons. I knew if Abbie went to my school, things would be different; we’d write plays and be pirates or bank robbers. Every summer we found each other on the first day of camp and, probably much to the distress of the prevailing adults, created our own games, turning the camp into our own mystical kingdom. Too soon, childhood faded away and my family moved from Vincennes. Summers with Abbie were fond memories and I found new friends, but no one ever equaled Abbie’s wit and personality. Later, I heard she went off to college, then moved to California. I completely lost track of her as I went about my life.

Many years later, when my first book was published, I attended a mystery conference. Someone noticed my nametag and murmured, “Hmm, you’re from Indiana. Ever hear of Abigail Padgett? She’s from Indiana and she’s my favorite mystery writer.” I was stunned. My Abbie was a mystery writer? In retrospect, I don’t know why it surprised me so much; it was the perfect profession for someone with her imagination. I immediately began a search for her name and books. I ordered all of them and smiled to see she had used my name for one of her characters. Interestingly, I had used her name in my second book, which was almost finished. Through the magic of the Internet, Abbie and I were soon reunited via email and sent messages back and forth until all the “catching up” was sufficiently done. She told me of plans to teach a summer course on mystery writing at Harvard and would be driving cross country – coming right through Indiana. (summer 2002)  Of course, she stayed with me, and we revisited the haunts of our youth and even did a joint book signing at our old scout camp. In my latest book, Back to Bailey’s Chase, I set a chapter at Camp Wildwood and gave the two young protagonists, Sparky and Grey Bailey, some of the same adventures Abbie and I shared as children.

Since then, we’ve read each other’s newest books on our Kindles, sent notes periodically, and left comments on each other’s blogs. Last weekend, Abbie sent a message that she was researching a new book and planned to be in Vincennes on Monday. Did I want to meet at Bobe’s for pizza? (If you grew up in this area, you grew up on Bobe’s pizza and no other pizza touches its golden glory.) On Monday evening, I met Abbie at the legendary pizzeria, and we spent 3 hrs filling in the gaps of the last nine years. We giggled, shared secrets, swapped titles of favorite books and movies, told spooky stories, and expressed regrets that our friends had all gotten old. She boasted she could still dance, and I had to tell her I could still back-flip off the diving board. (However, neither of us are brave enough to wear sleeveless tops or shorts.) Abbie shared about her newest book and asked about mine. When I told her I had “sorta retired” she couldn’t believe it. I reminded her I had five books in print and planned to keep marketing and selling them. She said to stop writing was like death. How could I?

Bobe’s Pizza needed to close and these two old friends were tired, so I followed Abbie to her car and wished her a safe trip home. We hugged and I told her I knew she had a best-seller in her and I meant it. She’s a brilliant and talented writer.  She shrugged modestly.  I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. I hope so.

Abbie at 8

Abbie and Me