Author Archives: kzmclain

Friday Book Whimsy: If the Creek Don’t Rise

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I enjoy reading debut novels. It’s like rolling the dice; they can be really, really badly written. Sometimes, however, a book will present a new voice, one that is unique and interesting. Leah Weiss, the author of If the Creek Don’t Rise, is a new author to keep an eye on. Her writing is beautiful.

Beautiful writing about a beautiful and troubling area of the United States – the Appalachian Mountains in North Carolina in the 1970s.

Young Sadie Blue is no sooner married when her new-husband Roy Tupkin begins beating the hell out of her just for the fun of it. A mere girl, pregnant with his child, she doesn’t quite know what to do or where to turn. She is surrounded by adverse poverty and by people who have never been more than a few miles from their home. Crippled by ignorance, drug and alcohol abuse, and a reliance on a belief in magic (the area’s “healer” walks around with a crow living in her hair), her family and friends are of little help.

Enter the new school marm who is not from around these-here parts, who takes Sadie under her wing and tries to help her and others. Every time she turns around, however, she is met with obstacles and mistrust and ignorance.

The story is told from 10 different viewpoints, and I frankly found it utterly confusing. The storylines are related, it’s true. It’s also true that the author does a very good job of giving each narrator a unique voice. Nevertheless, 10? Really?

Sadie knows the only way she will survive is to get rid of her husband, who is basically evil incarnate. The twists and turns of the novel are interesting, as is the seemingly realistic dialogue. The dialogue, in fact, seemed so realistic that I often had a hard time understanding what the characters were saying.

The novel has no “good guys” and “bad guys” (well, except for Roy Tupkin). Instead, each character has an interesting blend of characteristics, thereby eliminating caricatures. The ending was completely unexpected and left me squirming a bit.

If the Creek Don’t Rise is not a cheerful look at the hills of North Carolina. It is grim and depressing. I recommend it with that caveat.

Here is a link to the book.

Thursday Thoughts

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Religion from Roomba
In my blog post yesterday, I talked about the newest member of our family – Rosie Roomba. I neglected to show you a photo…..

Even as I was writing the post, Rosie was busy vacuuming our bedroom floor. When she finished, I went to check out the results…..

You have all heard of the people who see images of the Virgin Mary on their toast or in their mashed potatoes. Well, I think Rosie might be giving me spiritual messages. Can you see the cross clearly imaged into the carpeting? Hmmmm. Well, at least she’s not leaving me Satanic images.

I Spy
I probably go to my neighborhood King Soopers nearly every, sometimes a couple of times a day. While I always have good intentions, I rarely (and I mean RARELY) remember to bring my own bags, despite the fact that they are almost always in my trunk. That, my friends, simply means I’m too lazy to walk back to my car to get them. Anyway, yesterday I was making at the grocery store, and for a change, I had my own bag. It was sitting in my cart. I went through self-check, something I nearly always do. I had scanned the first item and laid it in the bagging area when the scanner (in her friendly female voice) asked me Do you have your own bag Dummy? Well, the truth is she didn’t say dummy, but she did ask me – FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER – if I had my own bag. I’m pretty sure King Soopers has joined ranks with Google, Amazon, Facebook, and Comcast and is spying on me. How else would she know that I had my bag with me? I wish I could use their spying tactics to make the world a better place.

Slimy Business
When Kaiya is anywhere around, there is likely at least TALK about making slime. And, much to her delight, her cousin Grace (who was one of the visiting dignitaries from AZ this past week) is a slime connoisseur. So, not surprisingly, this happened….

Aunt Bec was there to provide supervision. Cole and Faith are steadfastly sticking to Play Doh, thank you very much.

The Heat is On
I never thought these words would come out of my mouth, but I’m about ready to have the temperatures cool down a bit. Today — when it was supposed to be a bit cooler — my car thermometer showed an outdoor temperature of 63 degrees. Day before yesterday, it hit 81. But just wait. The first cold and snowy day, you will hear Nana’s Whimsies complaining!

Ciao.

Meet George Jetson

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When I was young, I loved all of the Hanna Barbera cartoons: The Flintstones, Yogi Bear, Quick Draw McGraw, Magilla Gorilla. In fact, I know all of the characters to this day, their sidekicks, and could sing the theme songs for most of the programs if you held my feet to the fire. My favorite by far was The Jetsons, a story about a family that lives sometime in the future and somewhere in outer space. The animated program ran in prime time in the early 60s, and then again in the mid- to late 80s. Apparently television writers didn’t feel the need for originality like they do now. Ha.

Meet George Jetson
Daughter Judy
His Son Elroy
Jane, his wife.– Hoyt Curtin

Baby Boomers, you know you are singing the theme song along with me. The song became a hit in 1986, which just goes to show you what the state of music was back in those days.  Take that, Madonna.

One of the main characters was the Jetson’s maid, a robot named Rosie. Though the Jetsons did most of their work by pressing buttons that made things happen in space-agy ways, Rosie did the rest. She not only cooked and cleaned, but provided family counseling as well.

Enter the 21st century.

A few years ago, Jll was given a Roomba as a gift from her sister. Almost immediately, Jll began singing the praises of this contraption, proclaiming that it changed her life. At least her cleaning life. With four children and a full-time job, every extra minute helps.

Roomba, for the uninitiated, is a robotic vacuum cleaner made by a company called iRobot. Once it is charged up, you turn it on and it makes its way around your house, vacuuming as it goes. It seems to follow no particular pattern, but travels around willy nilly. Eventually, it is supposed to vacuum the entire house.

So when Bill and I began seeing light at the end of the hardwood laying tunnel, I began seriously considering the purchase of a Roomba. Because, you see, I don’t vacuum. You have read my past blog posts in which I have proclaimed myself to be a horrible housekeeper, and this fact is further proof. A Roomba seemed the perfect answer.

One of the things I noticed is that Jll referred to her Roomba as Candy. It surprised me somewhat because Jll simply doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would name her appliances. After four kids, one would think she would never want to name another thing in her life. Nevertheless, she would talk about what a great job Candy did the night before, or tell the kids put the chairs on the table so that Candy can do her job.

What I quickly learned after purchase of my Roomba is that when you fill out the warranty, one of the questions asked is the name given the appliance. Yep. I’m telling the truth. iRobot expects you to name your robotic vacuum cleaner.

So what did I name her? Rosie, of course. There wasn’t another alternative, really.

These days, Bill and I spend our mornings sitting in the living room watching Rosie do her job. It’s mesmerizing, really. She stops short of the step leading into our living room. She disappears underneath the sofa and reemerges on the other side like a big black beetle. She moves from room to room unless you block her path. She doesn’t however, provide family counseling. Perhaps the next generation of Roombas.

The first night after our purchase, we turned the switch on Rosie and let her go do her thing. We went to bed, and listened to her not-so-quiet efforts downstairs. All at once, we heard a crash. Bill went to check it out. When he returned, he explained that she had knocked over some TV trays.

“To tell you the truth,” he added, “she’s kind of creepy.”

And, to tell you the truth, she kind of is. But she cleans my floor. Good ol’ Rosie picks up the dust and dirt like a cleaning champ.

Now, iRobot, get to work on those hover cars.

Continuing Education

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I recently made a decision to make a change in my life. Am I going to give more to charity following last week’s Mass readings on the Beatitudes? No. Do I plan to audit some college-level classes so that I can have a better understanding of economics or at least learn enough about world geography to figure out where Greenland is? Nope, that’s not my big change either. Am I going to eat healthier, exercise more, cuss less? Au contraire. I will leave all of those for January 1 when I’m deciding upon the resolutions I plan to make in 2018 and quickly forget by February 1.

The big change I have made is that I’m teaching myself to drink whiskey. I’m actually quite serious about it. Perhaps that’s why my new year’s resolutions fail. Being healthier is boring. Expanding my alcoholic consumption options is fun.

You might wonder why I made this decision to enter the whiskey-drinking training program. I blame it on Frank and Erin Reagan. Blue Bloods.

I will admit that Blue Bloods is one of my favorite television programs. My 23-year-old niece Brooke confessed that she had never seen that television show when I was explaining my new endeavor to her. No surprise there, as I would guess the average age of Blue Bloods viewers to be 62. I’m nearly 64, so I’m skewing the age upwards.

Anyway, Frank Reagan (played by Tom Sellick) and his television daughter Erin (played by Tom Brady’s ex-girlfriend, and mother of his child Bridget Moynahan) sit down in Police Commissioner Reagan’s study every Sunday after they gather for the family meal and pour themselves a whiskey. Likely a single-malt Scotch, but I can’t say that for sure. They never pour it over ice. Frank drinks the whiskey accompanied by a considerable amount of sighing. Tom Sellick is a masterful sigher. I have begun sighing as well.

And every week, I wish I drank whiskey. Usually by time I watch Blue Bloods, I’m drinking Sleepytime tea, but my heart wants to be drinking whiskey. Recently one of the characters went to a bar and ordered Irish whiskey with one ice cube. That did it. My training program began the next day.

I had a bottle of Jameson in my liquor cabinet in our AZ home because it had been used when I made Irish cream. (I blogged about it here.) I carefully poured a scant inch in my glass and added one ice cube. I sighed, just in case that was part of the deal, and took a sip. Not bad. Not bad at all……

I drank the entire inch of Jameson and added another inch and another ice cube and sipped at my new drink until it was gone. I stopped training for the day, as my stomach was getting warm and my head was getting light.

I actually did some research on Google because, as you know, you can find anything on Google. A history of whiskey was easy to find, as were suggestions on how to start teaching yourself how to like whiskey. I’m serious. See above. Anything on Google. The article suggested starting with Canadian blends or Irish whiskey, moving to Bourbons (which apparently have their own rules), and working up to Scotch. I was at the Crown Royal stage.

Last week when our AZ family arrived to celebrate Thanksgiving, I told them about my training program. Have you tried Makers Mark? my nephew Christopher immediately asked. I explained that I was still in the Canadian blend/Irish whiskey phase. Apparently he believed my training program was moving too slowly as he showed up the next day with a bottle of Makers Mark bourbon. I love people who encourage continuing education.

I poured myself a scant inch (well, perhaps a bit more than that) and added an ice cube. Not bad. Not bad at all……

By the way, the apron sleeve was crooked before I had my first drink. I promise.

It will be a long time, however, before I reach for the Black Label. I’m only in training, as you know. But for the time being, I’m pushing my Tanqueray gin to the back of the liquor cabinet and moving the Crown Royal and Makers Mark towards the front.

It’s good to continue one’s education, don’t ya know.

Sounds of Silence

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All of the Thanksgiving out-of-towers began scattering Saturday. They dribbled and drabbled away in different directions. It was a splendid holiday, because being with family always is.

As usual, when the last person left (it happened to be our niece Brooke, who caught a midnight flight home to AZ), it felt the same as it always does. First, a big PHEW because we all made it without a single unpleasant incident. Then came the stillness, a silence that is partially a relief but mostly bittersweet. And then Bill and I collapsed in our new recliners and sat numbly and watched the end of the National Dog Show, which I had recorded on Thanksgiving. (Good job Brussels Griffon.)

And by the way, a big shout-out to Brooke, who gamely spent Saturday night with her aunt and uncle watching Dalmatians and Afghan Hounds and Portuguese Water Spaniels prancing around the ring with nary a snicker (Brooke, that is; not the dogs). This, after spending the afternoon in downtown Denver with Jen and I and not complaining one little bit when I suggested this photo op…..

One of the things I always do on Thanksgiving is put up my angel tree in our living room. Every year when I contemplate the activity, I begin my annual lamenting about how difficult that tree is to assemble and how it requires Bill’s help. He is always willing to drag the thing up the stairs and put it together without complaint, but it is a pain in the neck and I know he grits his teeth and does it because it means a lot to me. So as usual, I stated to everyone who would listen that one of these years, I am going to buy a new tree that I can put up by myself. This year people answered. First, my daughter-in-law Lauren said, “Kris, why don’t you just go somewhere this afternoon and buy a new tree?” Hmmmm. Then my sister Bec told me that she owns a very easy-to-assemble pre-lit Christmas tree that she put up herself.

Boom.

So my two sisters and I went to Home Depot Friday after lunch, walked over to a tree that was pre-lit, easy to assemble, and extremely affordable. Before you know it, I had a new Christmas tree, just like that. What will I complain about next year?

I had the tree up in no time. Generally, the grandkids help decorate. This year, the grandkids were scattered, but my great-niece Faith was on the job like a dog on a bone. While it’s true I had to do a bit of ornament rearranging after she left, I appreciated her decorating expertise…..

In the glory days of my youth, I did a lot of Christmas decorating. Since we leave for AZ on Christmas Day, I spend Christmas Eve day being the Grinch before his heart grew three sizes. Therefore, decorating is much more restricted. Still, I put some holiday touches in my newly-remodeled family room, put some pretty wreaths on my doors (thanks to my sister-in-law Sami, and put out some Christmas candles.

My Christmas goal for today is to go through all of the Amazon packages I have been receiving throughout this past week and make sure that everything I’ve ordered has arrived. Then the real fun begins – giftwrapping.

And the smell of roasted turkey has barely dissipated.

Saturday Smile: Gathering the Flock

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The Thanksgiving holiday is winding down, and Bill and I say goodbye to a lot of our loved ones who have been visiting. Some are returning to Vermont, most are returning to AZ. Lots of love and hopes and prayers for safe travels to them all.

And now we move on to Christmas, which greets us with abundant cheer. In the meantime, here is a snapshot of our Thanksgiving holiday…..

Have a great weekend.

Thursday Thoughts: Wednesday Edition

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Not only are my thoughts a day early, but they will be short and simple.

Gathering Family
More family arrived yesterday. My nephew Christopher, his wife Heather, and their four children (Grace, Noah, Asher, and Faith) walked into our door around 6 o’clock. They were a bit worse for wear, as they had left their home in Gilbert, AZ, at 3 o’clock yesterday morning and driven for 15 hours. They were all happy to be out of the car, hungry and tired. And in surprisingly good spirits. I had put a brisket in the crockpot early in the morning, and Bill shredded it and made it ready for beef sandwiches. The kids were surprisingly good considering just how long they had been cooped up in the car.

Sing Around the Campfire
The above-mentioned kids were yearning for snow. They won’t get it, however, something about which they are sad and about which I am thrilled. Playing outside and all that jazz. But last night was plenty chilly and they happily sat around the firepit, bundled up and wishing their Great-Aunt Kris had thought about s’mores…..

See Ya Tomorrow
Every year during the few days before Thanksgiving, I talk about doing my “last shop.” I always have great hopes that I will remember everything and won’t have to go back. I guess I’m not the only one, however, because when Bec and I stopped at the store yesterday afternoon, the cashier (a man I don’t know) said, “Well, I’ll probably see you tomorrow.” And yes, he probably will.

Ciao.

I’m 10 Years Old Again

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One of things I like about looking at pictures when you’re young and also meeting back with old friends you haven’t seen in a long time is, for me, it’s a glimpse of who I was. – Lea Thompson

Social media has its downfalls, there’s no question about that. Whining, bullying, criticizing, mean-spirited jibes, all can happen on a large scale via Facebook or Instagram, for example. On the other hand, I have developed relationships – and yes, I’ll call them relationships – via Facebook with people with whom I was only marginally connected in real life. Co-workers, high school acquaintances and so forth.

Let me tell you a story, one that will likely only be interesting to me. Please indulge me.

I lived the first 18 years of my life in the same house in Columbus, Nebraska. There were quite a few kids my age that lived in the neighborhood. A couple of girls next door, more next to that house, and more in the house next to that one. Catty corner from our back yard lived a family with a daughter about my age, maybe a year or two older.

She and I were very good friends. My sister Jen hung out with us too, but for the most part, it was Kathy and me. Privacy fences weren’t particularly popular back in those days, at least not in our neighborhood. So I could get to her house by running down the dirt path next to our unattached garage, through her backyard and into her breezeway, where I could knock on the door. Many times, however, especially in the summer, I would stand on my back porch and simply give her our mutually-agreed-upon beckoning call: Eee-Ah-Kee, Kathy, shouted at the top of my lungs.

If she heard – and she mostly did – she would respond in like manner. This meant we were both available to play together. We played dolls. We played tag and Red Rover and all of the games that kids played back then. Her mother was an extremely competent seamstress, and Kathy’s Barbie doll was considerably better dressed than mine in her store-bought duds. I also remember that Kathy’s mom and dad square danced. I knew nearly nothing about square dancing except that her mom had beautiful square dancing dresses that she made, because see above: an excellent seamstress. I loved those dresses.

Anyway, we went to different schools – she to public and I to Catholic. So once we got into junior high and busy with various activities, we sort of grew apart. So it’s safe to say that I haven’t spoken to her for 50 years or so. I’ve thought about her, however. As I’ve watched my grandkids play with their neighborhood friends, I’ve recalled my childhood friend. I, in fact, have looked for her on Facebook to no avail. Since she didn’t show up using the name by which I knew her, I figured she had either married and had a different last name, or wasn’t on Facebook. Every so often, I would check again.

The other morning, I got a Facebook Messenger notification from a name I didn’t recognize. I could only see part of the message and was afraid to click on it because I’m paranoid about being hacked. The part I saw was Is this the Krissy who lived…. And the rest of the message was hidden. Bill concurred with my reluctance to click on the message. I didn’t recognize the name, and I couldn’t image who would call me Krissy. I really don’t recall ever being called Krissy.

But being me, it drove me crazy. I looked up the person on Facebook, and she didn’t look familiar. I wasn’t smart enough to click on the “About” key, because if I had, I would have responded in a heartbeat.

Finally, my curiosity got the best of me, and I clicked on the message. There she was – my old friend from the neighborhood. I quickly responded, and we had the nicest series of messages back and forth, catching up via social media. She even reminded me that we buried “treasures” on that same path down which I would run to get to her house. Don’t you wish we could go dig them up? she asked me. Yes, indeed I do. I wonder what 7 year old girls would bury.

They say you can’t go home again, so it’s kind of nice when home comes to find you.