Have a Marlis Day!

Sandy and I taught on the 7th grade team for many years. She taught science while I taught language arts. If I had a question, I went to Sandy; she always knew the answer. Her quirky sense of humor kept me laughing on days when the system failed us and our students. A great lover of mysteries, she introduced me to her favorite authors and soon I loved them too. After immersing myself in the mystery genre, I decided to write one of my own, set in our school. Heaven only knows schools are loaded with means, motives, and opportunities for  murder. After settling on a plot, I developed Margo Brown, teacher and amateur sleuth. Of course, Margo needed a partner in crime solving and I wanted her to be like Sandy. I asked her if I could model Margo’s sidekick, Roxie, after her. She agreed and Roxie became real to me. She had that same raspy voice and West Virginia drawl as Sandy. She also loved science, paranormal activities, dinosaurs, sci-fi movies, bizarre outfits and jewelry. Nothing scared Roxie and she was ready to battle the toughest enemy, twice saving Margo’s life during their daring and sometimes zany investigations.

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.

What a surprise to see Meadowlark Lemon at the KY Book Fair in Frankfort last weekend. He was polite, well-dressed, and soft spoken. Nothing like the clowning, noisy superstar who played with the Harlem Globetrotters when I was a kid. He’s written a book, Trust Your Next Shot,  about his remarkable life, and people stood in line for a signed copy. My husband asked him if he played college ball. He said, ”I didn’t have time – I went from high school to the Globetrotters.” I stood in awe of this gentle man who entertained millions with his antics and basketball skills.

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.

 We moved to the farm for the summer following my first birthday in March. I have no memories of my first pet, this little blind chicken, but I clearly remember what happened soon after this picture was taken:  the day I understood language. It was there during that summer, so I must have been 14-16 months old. My brother, Johnny, and I were playing in the  yard and came to a fence. I couldn’t climb it and he said, “I’ll help you, sissy.” My heart soared. I understood what he said for the first time. I still remember the thrill I felt the day I understood language. I know some of you won’t believe this, but from that day on, I recorded memories. I haven’t researched what linguists declare to be true, but I know from my own experience that language is a gift and comes to young children all at once – not one word at a time. None of us could be placed in Russia or China and 18 months later suddenly understand everything people around us were saying, but it happens to toddlers. Ask parents of any eighteen-month-old child and they will affirm, “He/she can’t talk yet, but understands everything we say.” They will go on to explain how when discussing a ride in the car, the child will pick up her jacket, or find his shoes. Or run to the window if you  mention a squirrel at the bird feeder. Speech comes later, maybe at two or two and a half, but memories begin when we understand what those around us say.

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

The Lifeguard

My daughter and I packed the van and headed for our annual trek to Destin, Florida,  with our three kids, ages 9-11. It’s an eleven-hour drive but no one cares. We left at six and moved into our condo on the beautiful wind-swept beach by five, even with stops for breakfast and lunch. We always have our first dinner at The Back Porch, a nearby rustic beachfront restaurant, and watch parasailers glide past. A few isolated showers interrupted our afternoons but left us plenty of time for romping in the waves with the kids. They snorkled, surfed on boogie boards, built sandcastles, and dug their own spa. Mornings found us shopping at the many gift shops and outlets. Lunches always included fresh seafood and the long afternoons on the beach stretched on until dusk, when we moved to the pool until dark. Stephanie and I rented beach chairs and an umbrella, where we read on our Kindles. It’s a peaceful beach, with sugar-white sand and emerald water. I especially love to watch the troupes of pelicans gliding by in formation. One evening we went crab hunting until a storm chased us back inside. Another evening we were thrilled to watch baby sea turtles climb out of their nest and make their way to the sea by moonlight. This was the highlight of our trip. 

I dropped off a copy of my newest book, Back to Baileys Chase, at Destin Beach Club, the condo where  the main characters Sparky and Grey stayed on their vacation. I thought their guests might enjoy reading it. I sent a copy last winter to the Destin Middle School and the fifth-grade teachers read it to their classes. They invited me to come and speak to their classes, but had no funds to pay authors’ expenses, so I declined. I offered to come when I returned to Destin, but it didn’t work out since they don’t start school until Aug. 22. Maybe we’ll work something out later. We’re already booked for next year; maybe they’ll start earlier.

In the book, (chapter 12) Sparky and Grey have a magical adventure on the beach and warn the lifeguard of a shark lurking near the pier where children are swimming. I included photos of the lifeguard and the pool where the girls swam. (Try to imagine the legs belonging to the Bailey girls.)

Sparky and Grey in Pool

Destin Beach Club

Kindergarten

I recently attended my grandson’s sixth birthday party, complete with pool, slip & slide, pinata, and helium balloons. It brought to mind my own sixth birthday party. My foot had been injured in a bike accident and caused me to miss six weeks of kindergarten. I missed my friends, so my mother invited my little classmates to our home for my birthday on March 24th. It was my first birthday party! Mom put a flowered tablecloth on the dining room table and decorated it with crepe paper streamers and balloons (not helium.) I remember being so excited when my little friends arrived and hopping around on my good foot while my injured one wore a white bandage.  Mom served vanilla ice cream and homemade cake with pink frosting. There was no digital camera or flash bulb to capture me blowing out my six candles.

We played “Pin the Tail on the Donkey” and dropped wooden clothespins into a milk bottle. Mom had hidden peanuts all over the house and the children loved finding them. Do children today know what clothespins are? Would they recognize a glass milk bottle? Heaven forbid exposing children to peanuts! Luckily, no one died that day.

I loved opening the gifts, of course. Several little girls brought me hair ribbons, which were fashionable for my age group and pleasing to my hair- sylist mother. I don’t remember any other gifts except the one that caused all the excitement. One little girl, whose mother was to be our first grade teacher in the fall, brought six colored baby chicks. When I opened the box they peeped and ran in all directions while the children sqealed with delight. Yes, they were colored by someone who didn’t think the chicks would mind being dipped into dye. They were pink, blue, yellow, green, lavender, and red fuzz balls with legs. Sorry to say, they only lived a few days. My farm grandmother, who raised chickens, was horrified with the whole business.

Waiting for Jennifer's Mother

The only picture I have is this one of me and a little girl named Jennifer sitting on the back porch steps squinting into the sun, while we waited for her mother to pick her up. The others had gone. I’m sure Mom was too busy chasing the chickens around and trying to control the children to think of taking a picture until it was almost over. I wonder where Jennifer is now. I hope she’s happy.

P.S. Click on the word “Comments” above if you want to know more about the foot injury.