Beach House in the Burbs

We live in Georgia, work in the shadow of Kennesaw Mountain--home of Kennesaw Mountain National Battlefield Park, site of the Civil War Battle of Kennesaw--learned the story (at the least the white Southern version) of the War of Northern Aggression before we could speak. But a Civil War trench, right in our own backyard? Doesn't seem likely. We own a of residential lot, left over from Chris's days as a remodeling contractor/builder. We've had it on the market for a while, not really expecting it to sell in this economy, but as our agent says, "it doesn't hurt anything to keep a sign in the yard." Well, we got a contract this week. A very nice surprise. A bigger surprise was one of the special stipulations on the contract. If a Civil War trench exists on the property, the buyers don't have to close. The picture that jumped into my mind when I read that was of Indiana Jones-type archeologists trooping through the wooded lot, then suddenly dropping into a tr...

... OK, not into a bar. It's not a joke. Chris walked into the alternations shop the other day, wearing a cap because his bald head gets cold, to pick up a pair of pants he'd had hemmed. He looked quite handsome in his cap, apparently, because Sandy, the owner, said, "You a very handsome man. You need more hats." So, along with his pants, she handed him a large shopping bag full of a bizarre collection of hats and scarves. I know because he brought them all home. Inside the bag were such treasures as a pink and white baseball cap with an after-market elastic chin strap sewn on, a black straw hat with bright red band, a couple of straw driving caps, two fluffy burgundy hats that you'd have to be really cold to wear out in public. Picture Phyllis Diller-style hats. There were at least a dozen. As I tried on hat after cap, I noticed that they smelled like little old lady, in a good way. A way that reminds me of my great-grandmother and maybe a little of my grandmothe...

The secret sign in front of our house inviting stray cats in for care and feeding has now apparently been translated into dog. We took to calling him Monster because of his bizarre shape. He seemed so huge lying down, then when he stood up he was revealed as a rottweiler body and head laid over a bassett hound chassis. He appeared to have been put together by a mad scientist, a sort of veterinary Frankenstein, or a committee that had to work with only the parts of dogs no one else wanted. But his sunny disposition soon allowed us to overlook his physical oddities--like the front foot that pointed off to the left as if he was constantly signaling for a turn. Friday morning, after he spent the night in our now barren vegetable patch, I put him in the backyard. Did I mention I was still in my pajamas? He promptly trotted down the few steps to the the pool deck and before I could catch him walked his large, weighty self out onto the center of the pool cover, which is just a heavy-duty tarp...

Over the past week the response I've gotten most often to "My dad wrecked his Harley," isn't, "How is he?" but, instead is, "Your dad has a Harley? Cool." Because he is going to be okay, I can live with this response. And it made me realize I don't know anyone else whose 71-year-old father has a Harley that he rides regularly. (Or at least used to ride regularly. He's still not sure whether it's totaled or not.) He rides it so regularly, in fact, that he owns assless chaps and a reflective, nearly glow-in-the-dark Harley vest. He chipped his sternum in the accident, a break that takes a long time to heal because there's no setting it, and he can't stop breathing to hold it still. But his doctor says he'll be fine because he works out. My father, who was a couch potato of the highest order for at least as long as my mother's known him and they were high-school sweethearts, started going to the gym after he retired. Before...

For Eli's 15th birthday we ordered up snow! It was a gorgeous, windy, cold day. My nephews, Eli the birthday boy, and his younger brother Jake, enjoying the snow. It's always such a great surprise when it actually snows--especially in March.

I'm a member of Sisters in Crime . No, it's not a pack of gun-totin' women out to rob, maim and kill. It's a professional organization that promotes women mystery writers. We had our local (Atlanta) chapter meeting this week with Chris Roerden as our speaker. But, more than that, I got to host Chris overnight in my home! What a treat! Chris has been a book editor for years, and has edited some award winners. She's also written an Agatha-Award-winning book herself, the editing guide "Don't Murder Your Mystery." She's now written "Don't Sabotage Your Submission," which expands on the editing principles in "Don't Murder Your Mystery," and applies them to other genres. "Don't Murder Your Mystery" is a great book (I haven't read "Sabotage" yet.), and I give it lots of credit for helping get my manuscript in good enough shape to land an agent. But the real treat for me was having Chris and her fr...

"A dead cat! She brought me her dead cat," Susan, my forensic anthropology professor sister, said. "Wow! Your students must really love you," I said, after a bite of chicken vegetable soup. "Yeah, they do. Next week she's bringing me her dead ferret. Will you pass the cornbread, please?"