A Tale of Two Tales by Nancy L. Eady

 Meet Max. 

Max is a pound puppy that came to live with us on December 27, 2022, when he was three months old. 

At seventeen months, he is now an adolescent puppy.  (Most dogs are considered an adult at two years.)  As you can see, he has grown considerably. 

If you look up “happy-go-lucky” in a pictorial dictionary, Max’s image should appear. He likes being a good dog until something more exciting, like a counter to surf or a trash bag to sort through, comes along. 

The other day, I was at work while my husband and daughter were at home. When I checked in with Mark to see how his day was going, he mentioned that Max had gotten into a mud puddle in the back yard, and Kayla had to wash him. Facts communicated; end of story. 

Compare his version to the following telephone colloquy between me and my daughter, Kayla, earlier that afternoon. 

Kayla:  Is there any medication for getting angry? 

Me [not prepared for the pop quiz]:  I don’t think so. Why? 

Kayla:  Because I’m pretty sure our neighbors will never hire me to clean their houses after hearing me scream at Max today. [Note:  She wants to start her own cleaning business.]

Me:  What happened? 

Kayla:  I let Max outside and he wouldn’t come when I called. 

Me:  Oh? 

Kayla:  When he didn’t come, I walked out into the yard, and he thought we were playing chase. He ran around the yard six times, stopping to drink from a mud puddle each time, and I kept scolding him for it. Then I got tired of waiting for him and turned my back to walk a different direction in the yard for a second, and when I turned back around, he looked like a chocolate lab. 

Me:  Oh? 

Kayla:  Yes. I turned back around and he had run and splashed through the mud puddle and got mud all over him. It smelled bad, so I think there was something in the puddle besides just mud. I was so mad, I started screaming at him. 

Me:  Oh? [I realize my end of this conversation is less than scintillating, but so far, I had not been called upon to offer advice, fix anything, comment on anything or do anything other than listen.]

Kayla:  And then he ran inside, ran all over the house, and got mud everywhere. 

Me:  Does Dad know? 

Kayla:  Yes. 

Me:  What did he say? 

Kayla:  He left. He had been waiting on me to go to Sam’s Club with him, but when he saw Max, he said he couldn’t wait any longer. 

Me [admiring Dad’s perspicacity]:  Did you wash him? 

Kayla:  It took two hours. The mud was caked on his underside so badly that I had to rinse him seven or eight times before I could even get to his hair to put the shampoo on. He kept shaking the dirty water off him too, and now my bathroom is covered in an inch of brown water. He made me so mad I had to leave him in the bathroom while I went to sit in the hall for twenty minutes to calm down.

Me: [ignoring the physical impossibilities of a two-hour dog bath and an inch of standing water confined solely to the bathroom, and pondering the amount of damage Max could do to a bathroom in twenty minutes, unsupervised]:  Is he clean? 

Kayla:  Yes, but I don’t know how he’ll get dry. He kept shaking the water off so I couldn’t dry him. Now I’ve locked him in his carrier so the blankets in there are wet too. I’m leaving him there until I finish mopping the whole house. 

Me [not sure what else to say]:  I’m sure he’ll dry off soon, but I have to get back to work. 

End of story. 

One story; two tales. A facet of writing is knowing when to use which version:  short and succinct, or dramatic, laden with details. How do you decide? 

TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION by Nancy L. Eady

The challenge a mystery writer (or any writer) faces is to tell a believable story from the writer’s imagination.  Real life, however, is much different. Here, we face outlandish situations people have difficulty believing are real. I have several of those in my past; as I relate them, ask yourself if you would believe these stories if they were in a work of fiction. I do promise you they are 100% true.

Back in the early 1990s, my husband and I visited Boston in June to attend my great-aunt’s 90^th birthday party. We flew in from Alabama and rented a car at the airport. We ended up with a neon green Kia Sportage, an early SUV with a high, boxy profile. On Sunday, with the party over we headed to the airport. Since we had some time to kill, and Mark had never seen Boston, we drove around the city. When we spied a narrow alley with an interesting graveyard, we turned into the alley. Suddenly, a twenty-piece marching band, complete with trumpets, trombones, woodwinds, and drums, swung out of the graveyard in front of us. Someone at the end of the band swung the gate shut. The alley was too narrow to turn around in, so we trailed behind the band like the grand marshals in a parade. A homeless man, a bottle shaped paper bag in his hand, walked out in front of the band and marched in front, waving one of the best parade waves I’ve ever seen. At the end of the alley, we came out on a major thoroughfare crowded with tourists. A police officer stood at the intersection to direct traffic. The homeless man wandered away, the band reached the street, and the police officer’s eyes met ours With a quirky smile, and a look that said, “Tourists!”, he raised his hands like he was parting the Red Sea and urged the band to either side of the roadway. He waved us through the band and off the parade route. Once we were safely on the way to the airport, Mark pulled over so we could finish laughing, too.

Then there was the time we took our first dog, Shadow, to the local football field. She had never run loose before. It was completely fenced in, so we didn’t have to worry about losing her. We all enjoyed it, but finally it was time to go. Mark started calling Shadow to him. He was walking straight at her, and she knew if she didn’t obey, she’d be in trouble. She started turning her head around to look everywhere but straight in front of her, saying through her actions, “I hear you, but I can’t see you.” It didn’t win her any more time at the ball field, but it was a clever try.

Fast forward to the last Bouchercon that was held in New Orleans. It was my first Bouchercon, and I was excited to be there, while my husband tagged along because he liked New Orleans. While I attended the various Bouchercon meetings, he drove around sight-seeing and ended up at the Metairie cemetery, where he met Lewis, the resident backhoe operator there. Lewis gave him a free tour of the cemetery, letting Mark ride the backhoe with him and showing him where all the “famous” graves were.

So, what’s your verdict? Are those incidents stranger than fiction, or would you believe them if they occurred in a book?

My Writing Place by Nancy L. Eady

Writers are creatures of habit. We all have our favorite places where we like to sit and write, places where our minds are free to pour out ideas and words via a keyboard (or pen and paper if you are old school.) While ideally such a place would be a room separate from the rest of the house, I don’t have that luxury. Besides, I don’t like forcing myself away from everybody else in the family. Not to mention the fact that it’s impossible to squirrel myself away in a safe place with no interruptions—it’s only a matter of minutes before either my husband, my daughter or either of the two dogs needs me for something.

My writing place is the corner of the leather love seat closest to our TV. I have a black end table with drawers in it to my right along with a lamp and craft light I can use. My writing partner, Daisy, loves to curl up besides me on my left while I’m sitting in my spot. She’s a very forgiving critic. She loves the sound of my voice should I choose to read something out loud to her.

You would think the television in the family room is distracting, but when I’m “in the zone” with my writing, I block everything out. Talking to me is useless at that point. My ears receive the impression of sound, but it can take five minutes or longer before my brain understands that someone was trying to communicate with me.

Other writers prefer absolute peace and quiet, while still others are gifted enough to write prolifically anywhere. The choices for writing places are as individual as the tales each writer spins.

Some day, I may graduate to the point where I do my writing in a separate room free from any distractions. But until then, my writing corner does very well.

Where are your favorite places to write?

The World Through the Eyes of a Puppy by Nancy L. Eady

Last Saturday, I did something reckless. My family has had five different canine members over the years, but the last time we adopted a canine under the age of 2 was 1995. Saturday, though, with clearance from my family, I stopped by the Lake Martin Humane Shelter. Among the many faces greeting me was this one:

It was National Pet Adoption Weekend or something similar, so I snatched her up. There were several points in her favor. She had a blue and a brown eye and we just lost a dog with those same eye colors, while the black and white markings on her chest reminded me of the second dog we ever owned. And her white-tipped tail, which is just too cute, is completely her own. None of our other dogs had one. 

So, for the first time in over 20 years, we are raising a puppy. We’ve named her Daisy Duke. The shelter called her Evie, which wasn’t a bad name, but Evie Eady just didn’t sound right. She has never been in a house before, so there is a lot to learn.

I had forgotten how much energy a 7-month-old puppy can have. The only time in the past seven days I have seen her absolutely zonked out was Saturday, after we gave her the first bath she’s received at our house and her first encounter with a hose and shampoo. Apparently, it was a traumatic experience, although it can’t possibly be as traumatic as the first bath we gave Tyra, the dog we adopted in 2003. We gave Tyra a bath in the spare bathroom the day we got her. From that day until the day she died twelve years later, she never once volunteered to set foot in either of our tiled bathrooms. Daisy has shown no signs of being ready to eschew the outdoors with the same determination; she’s still trying to go out the door to the garage—which I’m trying to teach her is the “no-go” door—whenever we come near it.

She studies everything around her.  Some things were easy for her to understand, like the water bowl and the food bowl.  We have another dog, Darwin, who is 10.  So she also has quickly learned that she has her own bowl and shouldn’t come near brother’s bowl. Other things are more difficult. She saw our big Dyson vacuum cleaner in action for the first time today. She decided discretion was the better part of valor and felt it wise to keep a safe distance from it. Twice on Saturday she knocked wooden things over that made a big “clunk” sound on the floor, which immediately sent her dive-bombing into my side for safety. The TV is new to her, too. Most of the time she ignores it, but last night we noticed that she jumped on the couch beside my husband and stared fascinated at the YouTube display of a blue grass group performing. When we moved on to something else, she lost interest. We’re the ones still trying to figure that one out.

She escaped three times Monday because we weren’t quick enough to shut the “no-go” door from the house to the garage, and the outside garage door was open. She’s a quick little canine. I managed to grab her three houses down with the help of one of my neighbors, but my daughter ended up chasing her four blocks uphill to the local police station. Daisy didn’t understand why that was wrong, either.

Darwin is not sure what to think of her. She so wants to play with him and he either doesn’t want to or can’t figure out how. She’s a fourth of his size.

You may indeed wonder what any of this has to do with writing, but a relationship exists. Trying to figure out the world as she sees it makes me see the world around me differently.And isn’t that what every writer hopes to do for her readers?

What books have you read that changed the way you see the world, even for a moment?

Lost and Found

How many times have you finished the laundry, folded your clothes, and come up a sock short? You backtrack and examine the washer and dryer, but one sock has mysteriously vanished. You frown and consider the possibility that house elves really do exist and yours have cold feet.

One family in Portland, Oregon solved the mystery of missing socks in their home. Their three year old Great Dane became very ill and subsequently the veterinarian pulled out 43 1/2 socks from the dog’s stomach! The article didn’t say where the other half of the sock went.

Last winter after an ill-considered snowball fight when I wasn’t wearing gloves, I noticed my wedding ring was missing. I looked everywhere—the front yard, the car, through pockets in my clothes and coats, even in drawers in the house, but no luck.

After a few months I had given up hope of ever again seeing my old but cherished ring. One day as I was walking through the living room, a sparkle from under a side table next to the couch caught my eye. I bent over to see what it was and, EUREKA, I found my ring along with a few dust bunnies. But how in the world did it end up there?

Some homeowners have found treasures as well as creepy things in their attics. They probably never expected to discover a Vincent Van Gogh masterpiece, cash in a bag from WWII, an original Huckleberry Finn manuscript, a mummy, or (scarily) a man stalking his ex-girlfriend.

Sometimes during renovations of very old houses people find objects like charms, bottles, dried cats, skulls, shoes, and clothes hidden in walls, ceilings, floors, or chimneys. It’s speculated that these hidden tokens follow ancient traditions to ward off evil spirits, bring good luck, or aid in fertility.

Shoes are the most common items discovered. If you happen to find old shoes (really old shoes, not PF Flyers or penny loafers) hidden in your house, Northampton Museums and Art Gallery maintains a Concealed Shoe Index and would like to add your find to their collection.

Have you lost or found anything unusual in your house?